by M. Z. Kelly
I hugged Robin. When I stepped back, I saw that his eyes were red and swollen. “What’s the matter?”
We moved to the sofa as he explained, “It’s Clark. We’ve broken up.” He took a moment, composed himself. “We went to the Wolf Donovan premiere last night, then the party at his estate. Everything seemed okay. But when it was time to leave, Clark told me that he was staying.” His voice trailed off, slowly came back. “I’m worried, Kate. When I asked Clark what was going on, he wouldn’t answer me. I think he might be using again. I also think he and Bon Bon were planning to hook up.”
I touched his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I tried going back to the estate this morning, but they wouldn’t let me in. There’s a bodyguard I saw at Club SUK with Bon Bon. He goes by the name Zen. He said no one there would talk to me. He denied knowing anybody named Clark.”
I remembered the bodyguard, but Clark was an adult and I doubted there was anything I could do. Still, I said, “Let me look into things.”
Robin brushed a tear. “I don’t know what will happen if Clark’s using again. He didn’t go to his twelve-step meeting today.”
“He’s a big boy, Robin. Remember when we talked about Clark’s drug problems when you two first got together? You can’t make choices for him.”
As we talked, I found myself getting angry with Clark. If he’d hooked up with Bon Bon and was using drugs again he’d turned his back on the one person who had helped him get sober; maybe saved his life. The situation made me think about my ex who I’d helped finish law school before he cheated on me.
“Just do me one favor, Robin. If Clark’s using again, cut him loose. You’re too good of a person to put up with the cheating and misery his drug use will bring into your life.”
Robin agreed. He sighed, maybe shrugging off some anxiety. “You should see Donovan’s estate, Sis. The place is like a mad circus.”
“Not surprised. What is the famous actor like?”
“Didn’t get to meet him. Had an entourage wherever he went.”
“What about Bon Bon?”
“Basically your four-hundred pound freak on drugs. When we got to the estate, he took us to The Cavern. It’s a series of underground caves with a river running through it. The place is filled with music, flashing lights, freaks, some having sex in public. I call it Orgy River.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“Makes the rest of Hollywood look pretty tame.”
We shared a bottle of wine as Robin talked for more than an hour. The evening was therapeutic for him. I was glad he could process what happened.
“I guess this means you won’t have to ask Mom and Amanda about coming to the wedding,” Robin said.
“Too late.” I finished my wine and then told him about our lunch. “Mom was fine, but our sister—let’s just say when I mentioned it she said she had other plans.”
“Guess I’m not surprised.”
It was after midnight by the time I tossed Robin some sheets and a blanket for the sofa. Bernie was trotting behind me to the bedroom when I remembered Sara Johnson’s earlier message.
“Tomorrow, little brother. You need to tell me what Dark Dating is all about.”
***
After my late night with Robin, I was looking forward to a nice quiet day at work. Didn’t happen.
Charlie and I tried serving a warrant on a suspect who threatened to jump from her second-story window. After a struggle, we managed to get her in handcuffs. Something flew out of Charlie’s pocket as other officers rushed in to assist.
“This your book?” one of the officers asked, holding the paperback up to Charlie where everyone could see it.
“Give me that.” My partner snatched the book away, stuffed it back in his coat pocket. There was muffled laughter from the officers.
I was so dumbfounded by what I saw that I had trouble forming my words. “What’s…why…a sex diary?”
Charlie was still wheezing from the struggle, trying to ignore the chuckles. “It’s one of them…self-help books…for parents…” He was barely able to get the words out. “I’m gonna talk to Irma…about her boyfriend…thought it might help.”
I motioned to the officers milling about. “You might want to brief these guys. You know how things can get twisted.”
“Yeah. They might think it’s a record…of my hookups…or something.”
I stared at my partner, started to laugh. I then realized he was being serious. Hookups? Charlie probably hadn’t hooked up since his wife left him three years ago.
A half-hour later, as we pulled into the station parking lot, Charlie said, “Got another session with the terrorist.” He made a beeline for his car and I realized he was referring to his dentist. As he drove through the parking lot he honked, his window came down. He shoved a message slip into my hands at the same time my phone rang.
I heard a voice say, “Kate, it’s Wilma.”
I was unsure who was on the line, distracted as I studied the jail kite Charlie had given me.
“I just wanted you to know nothing has turned up on those Carmichael records.”
I realized it was the LAPD records clerk. “Can you keep looking?”
“My supervisor has assigned me to a special project that’s taking up most of my time.” Wilma’s voice lowered. “But I’ll keep looking in my spare time.”
I thanked her, then reminded her of the hair appointment at Sinclair’s Salon.
As I closed my phone, I thought about the jail kite Charlie had given me. It was from Mr. Wiener. I checked my watch. I had two hours before my shift ended. If traffic wasn’t bad I could make it to Men’s Central Jail and back in time to meet Pearl and Natalie after work.
***
An hour later, while Bernie waited in the car, I was being led into the jail by Tom Bouchet, a custody deputy I’d known for years.
I said to Bouchet, “When you’re locked up in here, do you ever feel like you’re one of the prisoners?”
“Yeah, but the guys in lock up get free rent, food, and medical care.” The short balding officer smiled. “You tell me who’s got it better?”
I was led through a series of interior steel doors. It occurred to me that Mr. Wiener was not with the main jail population. “Don’t tell me our guy is in PC?”
“In protective custody since he arrived. Considered a security risk since his attorney filed suit.”
“Let me guess. Claims he was molested?”
“Bingo. He retained Paul Goodwin. I hear he’s asking for several million.”
In a few moments I heard the sound of doors electronically opening and closing. Harold Wiener appeared in the visiting area. He stood, shading his eyes, trying to see into the glass visiting booth that was reflecting the overhead florescent lights.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Harold Wiener said, after coming over and picking up the phone.
I thought I could still smell his sushi bar cologne but knew it must be my imagination working overtime. “This better be worth my time.”
“It will probably get you a promotion.”
“Okay, Mr. Wiener, make my day.”
A crooked smile found his lips. “Everything comes with a price, Detective.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’m not going to let you waste my time. Either tell me what’s on your mind or I’m out of here.” I pulled the straps of my handbag over my shoulder.
The prisoner put his free hand on the glass partition. “Wait. Okay, but I want you to talk to the D.A. Let him know what I’m going to tell you, see if he’ll cut me a deal—either release me on probation or give me credit for time served.” The lopsided grin returned. “If you don’t go to the D.A., I’m going to the press with everything.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“A promise.”
I waited, calculating that I had another five minutes before I needed to leave.
“Joaquin Robinson,” he finally said.
I gave him a blank stare.
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
Wiener did an eye roll, brown eyes making a full orbit over a bulbous nose. “I’m talking about the Joaquin Robinson, Detective.”
I shrugged, had no idea what he was talking about.
“Don’t you watch sports?”
I shook my head, but was beginning to make a connection.
“He’s only the leading scorer for the Southern California Diamonds.”
“The basketball team?”
“Of course.” Wiener lowered his voice and shifted his eyes from side to side although no one else was in the visiting room. “He’s my supplier. He’s dealing crank.”
I mulled over what he said. Robinson was well known, not only for his basketball skills, but for the many products he endorsed. He was probably worth millions. The idea that he would risk everything by dealing drugs to a guy named Harry Wiener seemed ludicrous.
“So tell me, Mr. Wiener, how did you get connected up with a big time player like Robinson? Don’t tell me he’s dealing out of an alley behind Sunset?”
“I got a friend whose brother went to school with Robinson. He gets us tickets sometimes. A couple of months ago, we began hanging around after the games, asking for autographs. A few weeks later Robinson gave us some crank, told us to be sure we kept our mouths shut about where we got it. After that, he started selling to us in the parking garage at Pro Sports Pavilion. He’s got a regular group of guys he supplies—some are players.” Wiener’s smile grew cavernous as he finished his story, exposing every tooth in his mouth. “Robinson is also a user.”
If there was any truth to the story it would be a major scandal. The investigation had to be thorough. The athlete would likely spend millions on his legal defense. “Who else have you told about this?” I asked.
“Nobody.”
I folded my arms, stared at him.
“I swear. I ain’t even told my mother.”
“So if I get the narcs down here are you willing to wear a wire?”
The grin left Wiener’s face. I guess that made him a serious dick.
“I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get out of here,” he said.
I gathered up my purse. “I’ll have someone here tomorrow. In the meantime do everyone, including yourself, a favor. Keep your big mouth shut.”
As I was about to hang up the phone, he said, “How about we meet for a drink after I’m outa here?”
Before I slammed down the receiver, I said, “Not even if you were the last wiener on the planet.”
Chapter Seventeen
After leaving the jail, I called Jimmy Chester, my assigned union representative. I told him about the possible investigation, but said I thought the OIS shooting report would clear me of any wrongdoing during the failed Bautista arrest.
A visual of Jimmy The Rat Chester came to mind. Overbite. Dark, pebble-like eyes. Cheese-sniffing, twitching gray moustache. Pinned back ears.
The rat lived up to his name, telling me that we would just have to see how things developed. Chester did nothing to bolster my spirits.
I was fifteen minutes late for my meeting with Pearl and Natalie at Conrad Harper’s mansion in Holmby Hills, an area of hillside estates west of Hollywood. I spotted my friends as I pulled into a parking lot that had a sign announcing it was reserved for guests of the estate.
Natalie waved her arms as I walked up to her and Pearl, motioning to the grounds. “This place is bigger than Fuckingham Palace. We’re going to need a map to get around.”
“Shouldn’t be necessary,” Pearl said. “Every king has his bodyguards. They usually know the lay of the land.”
As we walked toward the sprawling mansion’s impressive front gates, we noticed a smaller secondary entrance for service staff. That’s where Pearl introduced us to Peter Jacobs, the head of security.
“Peter and I worked together on the force a few years back before he resigned and became head of all this,” Pearl said, motioning to the grounds.
Jacobs shook our hands, lingering a moment before releasing Natalie’s. “Pearl always did have the best-looking partners.”
The head of security was fortyish, tall, well-built with brown hair that was fading to red at the temples, thanks to a bad dye job. There was a name for guys like Jacobs who were a testosterone and aftershave cocktail—land shark.
As we walked, the shark’s gaze slid over to Natalie. She was wearing a short blue skirt and a matching knit blouse that showed off her perfect assets. I, on the other hand, was wearing black slacks and a jacket that showed I was a perfectly underdressed cop.
We were each given a plastic security badge, including one for Bernie’s collar, as the land shark did commentary, “Eastlake, as Mr. Harper refers to the property, is the largest private residence west of the Mississippi. The home is over 68,000 square feet and sits on eight acres of some of the most expensive residential real estate in the world. You’ve probably seen the property before on television and in the movies.”
We turned a corner and the Georgian-style estate came into full view.
Natalie summed it up, “I think I just stepped back in time. Looks like somethin’ out of Gone with the Wind.”
Jacobs came over to her side. I think he was inhaling her perfume. “You’re not too far off, Natalie. Mr. Harper borrowed from several east coast residences in the design of the estate.”
Eastlake was fashioned around a huge lake with flowing fountains. There was an island in the center of the water feature with a gazebo and courtyard that I thought I’d seen in pictures of some celebrity weddings. A red brick driveway encircled the lake, winding around the residence. The driveway was flanked by columns that supported trellises of flowering vines. Beyond that, carefully manicured hedges offered a stair-stepped wall of privacy to the home.
When we reached another checkpoint, Jacobs spoke to Pearl, “Mr. Harper is planning to retire for the evening shortly. He’s been in poor health in recent years and has become a bit reclusive.”
Jacob’s then turned, his eyes lingering on Natalie for a moment, before he spoke to all of us. “I’ve explained your presence in general terms. Needless to say, Mr. Harper was less than thrilled about your visit but he does understand that you’re looking into the background of a former employee. Please try to keep your visit brief.”
As we walked into the main portion of the residence, we were awestruck. A corridor, one of many, opened onto several living areas, each with a central fireplace and lavish furnishings.
Each room seemed dwarfed by the previous, until we moved through what we were told was Eastlake’s grand ballroom. The room had a thirty-foot coiffure ceiling, inlaid with carved crests in gold leaf. Each crest contained the name of one of the many films Harper had produced, with a hand-painted scene from each movie.
I read some of the names to Pearl and Natalie as we walked behind Jacobs. “Stolen Moments…War and Love…Valentino…The Glory Makers…Memories of Rotterdam.”
“Impressive,” Pearl said.
Natalie had been rendered speechless until she finally whispered, “I think I just stepped through the looking glass, Alice.”
After moving past dozens of rooms, including a room that held some of the many awards Conrad Harper had received, Jacobs stopped at a door that appeared more functional than formal. “Mr. Harper’s private residence,” he said as he opened the door.
Inside, we found a more austere, functional series of rooms with modular furniture and stainless steel serving carts. The lighting was harsh. An antiseptic, hospital smell hit us.
Before opening another door at the end of the corridor, Jacobs again lectured us. “You will find Mr. Harper in the living area. He is expecting you. Please be sure that you remain several feet away from his person at all times.”
Jacobs reached into a desk drawer, handed us surgical masks. “You need to wear these. Mr. Harper is very health conscious.”
I held up the mask and motioned to my partner. “Don’t think this will work for Bernie.�
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“The dog remains here.” Jacobs motioned to a servant. I handed the leash over then bent down and gave Bernie the settle command. He licked my hand and complied.
As we left Peter Jacobs and Bernie behind and moved through the door, all color was drained from the world. The walls, flooring, and ceilings were white. The staff was dressed in white scrubs. All the furnishings were white, modular, and functional. There was an odor of cleaning solvents mixed with something that had probably been served for dinner.
I turned to the others. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
Natalie’s hazel eyes shined over her mask. “I think we’re about to meet the bleeping wizard.”
We found Conrad Harper sitting on a sofa staring at us as we approached. The diminutive figure wore a beret and a pair of white satin pajamas.
The famous producer was wrapped loosely at the waist in a white blanket that almost matched the color of his skin. He looked nothing like the photographs I had seen of him. Instead of the Wizard, we’d found Yoda.
Despite his diminished state, Harper had a quality that countered his physical appearance—his eyes were unblinking, colorless, predatory.
“Stop.” Harper’s tone was brittle.
Natalie was so startled by the command that she stopped and almost fell over, grabbing my arm for support. “Geeze, almost spackled me panties.”
We were a dozen feet from Harper as Pearl greeted the famous producer. “Thank you for seeing us.” He took a moment to introduce Natalie and me, only referencing us as associates.
“Stay where you are and don’t bother sitting,” Harper spat out.
“Natalie whispered to me, “Maybe the wizard has a giant pebble in his undies.”
That was the understatement of the year.
The producer’s empty eyes shifted, his gaze finding my youthful friend. “What did you say little girl?”
Natalie cast her eyes downward. “Just said your place is right nice—a real cozy home and all.”
“British,” Harper said, spitting the word out like an insult.