by MZ Kelly
I hugged my sides, biting my tongue. From what I knew about Harper, he had no respect for women, and I didn’t want to inflame things further.
“I don’t mean to take exception to what you’ve told us,” Pearl went on, “but the CEO of Excite Entertainment, Monica Benson…”
Harper's laughter cut Pearl off. While the emaciated producer chortled uncontrollably, we all looked at one another.
Natalie gave a little shrug. “Maybe his happy sack is swollen. I have an aunt who told me before her husband died, it was like carryin’ ‘round two bowlin’ balls.”
Thankfully, the famous producer was laughing so hard that he didn’t hear her.
“Benson used to work for me,” Harper finally said. “She left my employment on less than amicable terms. The bitch would say anything to get back at me. She’s a whore.”
The irritation in Pearl’s voice was evident as he continued. “Nevertheless, Ms. Benson told us that you had an arrangement with Mr. Diamond. He supplied the scripts, the cast, and all the support services for the films, and you supplied the money. According to some figures I pulled together, four of the movies you produced in the past three years have grossed in excess of ten million dollars.”
Harper’s voice became shrill and angry. “I don’t know where you get your figures, but if a couple of companies earned a few dollars, then so be it.”
“Your companies,” I said, unable to keep quiet one minute longer.
“Watch your mouth,” Harper snarled.
That was no longer possible. “Approximately six weeks ago, Cassie Reynolds worked on the movie Summer School at Excite Entertainment studios. Were you there?”
His eyes bore into me. “I don’t have to account for my whereabouts to you or anyone else. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“I’m beginning to get a good idea,” I said. “Tell me something, do you have any idea who Cassie Reynolds was, or what happened to her father thirty years ago?”
A thin smile parted the producer’s lips. “There are many things that I know. His smile grew wider. “Secrets that you could never imagine.”
It was clear we weren’t getting anywhere, so I decided to prod the nasty little producer and see if he’d give up anything. “Were you and Roger Diamond involved in the murder of Cassie Reynolds?”
Harper’s voice became an icy scream. “Sometimes people go away. You could go away.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Harper? Because threatening a police officer is a crime.”
Pearl tried to deflect the confrontation. “Kate, I don’t think…”
Behind us, doors were flung open, and people came running. Harper must have set off an alarm. I ripped off my surgical mask. “Tell me, Mr. Harper, why were you on the set of Cassie Reynolds’ movie?”
Harper was on his feet, screaming obscenities. Behind me, I heard someone yell, “Don’t let him in there!”
I continued. “Did you have something to do with the murder of Cassie Reynolds and Roger Diamond?”
The producer’s voice became a shrill scream.
“Or do you just go to dirty movies to watch people fuck?”
Harper had his hands balled into fists. He began swinging his arms wildly through the air, at the same time gasping for breath.
Harper screamed, “I’ll have you licking the piss off my bathroom floor.”
Natalie ripped off her mask and said, “You’re crazier than a shithouse rat.”
Something or someone rushed past me. Voices shouted. I turned back to Harper in time to see Bernie land on the screaming little man, pushing him down to the sofa. There was a garbled cry for help as Bernie stood over Harper, his muzzle poised on the famous producer’s throat.
Peter Jacobs was at my side, drawing his gun. It was aimed at Bernie. I pushed Jacobs away and sprang forward, calling Bernie off. My partner snarled, but came to my side. I took his leash, controlling him.
A few minutes later, Harper had been led away, screaming. Pearl, Natalie, and I were unceremoniously ushered off the grounds of Eastlake by Jacobs and four other armed men. Despite the debacle, the land shark stopped at the gate and asked Natalie for a date.
Natalie wagged a finger and rebuffed Jacobs as only she can. “If you ever wave that peashooter at my friend’s dog again, I’ll kick your ass from here to Malibu. Go wipe the old coffin dodger’s chocolate box before you have to find a way to earn an honest living.”
We stopped on the sidewalk near our cars. I turned to my friends and said, “Well, I think that went pretty well.”
Pearl smiled and nuzzled Bernie. “Tell me something. Does trouble just naturally find you two?”
I checked my clothing before answering and was happy to discover that nothing was ripped during the fiasco. “It is a talent. I’m just not sure where this trouble leaves us.”
I glanced back at the grounds of the estate. Conrad Harper was probably already on the phone with the department, lodging a complaint. If that happened, my problems with IAD would only intensify. I remembered what Harper had said when he lost control. I looked back at Pearl.
“What’s your take on his statement about secrets we could never imagine?”
“When we find that out,” Pearl said, “it just might help us solve a murder or two.”
Chapter Eighteen
“We need to discuss a few issues in preparation for the parole hearing,” Melvin Coben says to his client. The overhead lights are harsh, shining like a beacon on the attorney’s bald head. “There are some things we need to take care of so there are no mistakes.”
“Mistakes are not an option.” Nathan Kane studies the wiry little lawyer he pays a small fortune to keep on retainer.
They are meeting in the medical wing of the prison infirmary. The parole hearing is less than forty-eight hours away. The attorney-client privilege keeps any information discussed confidential. Kane speaks freely, without displaying any of the symptoms of the disease that he hopes will facilitate his bid for freedom.
Coben thumbs through the paperwork in front of him. “We have a solid history documenting your medical condition, including the report from your private physician. The prison psychiatrist, a Dr. Wentworth, is also recommending release based upon a finding of medical incapacitation. Her report minimizes any risk you might present to the community.”
Kane’s dark eyes are fixed on the attorney. “None of that’s a surprise. So what’s the problem?”
The elderly attorney hesitates, twisting his reading glasses between his fingers. A vein pulses in his forehead.
“There’s been an arrest,” Coben says. “The man’s name is Bobby Jenson. He works here in the medical wing as an orderly. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.”
Anger surges through the prisoner. Why did he trust the little bastard? “Yeah, he’s helped me with a couple of small favors.” There’s little question about what the drug addict has been arrested for, but he asks anyway.
“Drug possession. There was a traffic stop. The arresting officer found a large amount of heroin in the car.” Coben puts on his reading glasses, skims the file in front of him. “Jenson is trying to cut a deal for his release. The only reason I know about this is because I’ve got a friend in the local public defender’s office.” The attorney’s gaze lifts. “He wants to give you up as his connection.”
Kane unleashes a torrent of obscenities. He pushes away from the table, feeling the freedom he’s anticipated slipping away.
Coben continues. “The prison authorities don’t know anything about this—yet.”
“Then we’ve got to keep them out of it.”
“That may not be possible. There’s a girlfriend who’s quite vocal. She’s telling Jenson’s attorney that she’s coming straight here to give you up unless a deal is cut for her boyfriend’s release.”
Kane slams a fist on the table. “Take care of it. I need you to buy me forty-eight hours, then I w
ill personally deal with Mr. Jenson and his girlfriend.”
Coben swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his skinny neck. “You want me to pay her off?”
“I want you to buy them both off. I don’t care what it costs. Just see to it that they keep their mouths shut until I’m released.”
The attorney is silent. His vision is fixed on the file in front of him.
“What is it?” Kane demands.
“Even if you are released, if the authorities learn about any of this, your parole will be revoked.” Coben flinches as he gazes up at his client. “You will be rearrested and required to serve the remainder of your sentence.”
Kane smiles, exposing teeth that are long and sharp. “That will never happen.”
When Melvin Coben is gone, Kane is escorted back to his room. That night he lies awake, unable to sleep. Anger flows through his veins like liquid fire.
Bobby Jenson and his stupid girlfriend will die. There’s no doubt about that. He curses in the darkness, wondering what, if anything, is happening with Jack Bautista and the cop who let him escape. He has no way of making contact with anyone now. Everything will have to wait.
The prisoner looks up at the clock above the doorway in his room. He slams a fist into the wall, breaking the skin on his knuckles. While he’s trying to stop the bleeding, an orderly comes into the room and sees the blood.
“What’s going on here?” the attendant asks.
The prisoner’s muscles twitch and his hands shake. He utters a few words that make no sense. All the symptoms of his disease are on display for the orderly.
Beneath those symptoms lies a more subtle condition, burning like hot coals. Nathan Kane is consumed with rage.
Chapter Nineteen
The morning after our run-in with Conrad Harper, I decided to pay a visit to the Narcotics Enforcement Unit about Mr. Wiener. As I was putting my purse in my desk drawer, Charlie arrived from the break room, sipping a diet soda through a straw.
“You look like you’ve been up all night,” I said, noticing he hadn’t shaved, and his clothes were more rumpled than usual.
Charlie moaned, rubbed his jaw. “You oughta be a detective.”
“How’s the tooth?”
“Haven’t seen it in twenty-four hours. The terrorist took it home to show his wife and kids what a torture device looks like.”
“I don’t understand. If he pulled the tooth, you should be feeling better.”
Charlie sucked air at the bottom of his soda, tossed the can in the trash. “It’s the tooth next to the one he pulled that’s killing me. I’m gonna wrap up a couple of things and then go home, Kate.”
“Take two Vicodin and call me in the morning.”
After Bernie and I strolled across the parking lot, I met up with Chewie Smith and Jimmie Riggs in the Narcotics Enforcement Unit. Their office was located in a portable trailer, adjacent to the main building.
Rumor had it that their odd behavior and unsavory associates, rather than the need for additional space, were the department’s reasons for putting them in the portable building. Smith and Riggs liked the arrangement and sometimes referred to themselves as “trailer trash”.
“It appears Mr. Wiener wasn’t just stiffing you,” Smith said, after I took a seat next to his messy desk. Bernie settled next to me.
“Yeah, he wasn’t just going off half-cocked,” Riggs agreed. His work station was a table a few feet from Smith’s. It was covered with files and lined with several editions of the state penal code.
After I endured more puns, I said, “So there’s some truth to what he said about Joaquin Robinson?”
Riggs, who once played linebacker for the Rams, took the lead. “So far, his story seems legit. We’ve heard rumors about Robinson before, so we’re not entirely surprised. We talked to the DA. He’s willing to cut Mr. Wiener a deal if we present a solid case.”
“That’s a big if,” I said. “Robinson will get the best lawyers money can buy.”
Chewie Smith walked over to a filing cabinet. “That’s why we’re breaking out the little guns.”
The heavyset detective had almost as much hair as his Star Wars namesake. He brought a small box over to Riggs’ desk and opened it, showing me what appeared to be a white button that might ordinarily be sewn into a shirt.
Smith got a nod from his partner, who was working on his laptop. He held the button between his fingers. “Smile! You’re on Butt Cam.”
I watched as Riggs turned the laptop screen in my direction. I heard myself over the computer speakers, saying, “It’s a miniature camera?”
“The technical term is NSD, or Neutral Surveillance Device,” Riggs said, as Smith turned the Butt Cam in my direction. I saw my image on the laptop.
Riggs disagreed. “The code name for this operation will be the ‘Wiener Cam’.”
“The company makes different versions, all designed to be sewn or affixed to clothing,” Smith said. He tossed me a lapel flag pin from another container. “Our compliments, although the flag pin is only for sound recordings. All the NSD devices are configured to download to a secure, wireless Internet site.”
Riggs laid out their intention. “The plan is to sew the Wiener Cam into our favorite felon’s shirt before he meets with his basketball buddy this Thursday night after the big game. We’ll get to see the whole deal go down live and record everything to a flash drive.”
“The game’s at seven-thirty, so we figure the postgame action should heat up around eleven,” Smith said. “You’re welcome to watch the proceedings live and in person right here, if you’re so inclined.”
“I’ll be here.”
There were more Wiener puns on the way out the door. Boys will be boys.
When I got back to my desk, I was told I had an emergency phone call. I prayed it wasn’t from IAD or even someone higher up in the chain of command telling me that Conrad Harper had lodged a complaint about last night’s fiasco.
When I took the call, a pleasant voice said, “Ms. Sexton, this is Coventry Surgical Spa. Your mother is ready for discharge. She asked that we contact you.”
I hadn’t talked to my mother since the lunch disaster. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t informed I would be the one to pick her up.”
“Our records indicate that an Amanda Keating was to be the responsible party,” the woman said. “We’ve been trying to locate Ms. Keating but haven’t been successful. Your mother asked us to call you.”
Twenty minutes later, my anger had turned into acceptance, after contemplating various methods of sisterly homicide. Rhonda Blake, the woman who had called me, escorted Bernie and me through the grounds of Coventry Surgical Spa, past cottages with the names Carmel, Aspen, and Santa Fe. I found my mother in a wheelchair, sitting in front of the Monterey Cottage. She looked like a burn victim.
“The surgical dressings will need to remain on for a few days,” Blake explained. “It helps reduce the swelling and recovery time.”
“How are you feeling, Mother?” Her gray eyes moved behind the thin layer of gauze. She appeared heavily medicated.
“It hurts,” Mom said. “They kidnapped me, and I was tortured.”
Before I could ask, Rhonda Blake explained, “Your mother’s got quite the imagination. She’s also been having a reaction to the medication. She just needs some rest.”
After loading Mom and Bernie into Olive, I got her suitcase, walked around and opened the trunk. The parking lot was nearly deserted. Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, I heard tires squealing.
As I turned, a Mercedes with tinted windows skidded around a corner. The engine revved. The car was heading directly for me. I had only seconds to react.
I slammed down the trunk lid and jumped up on my car. The Mercedes screeched past, coming within inches of Olive’s bumper.
As quickly as it appeared, the car roared through the parking lot, disappearing onto the highway. I cursed myself fo
r panicking, not getting a plate number.
“What’s going on?” Mom asked, trying to make eye contact through the swath of bandages and drug haze as I opened Olive’s door and got in.
“Damn it.” I pulled the door closed, seeing the rip in my white silk blouse. I remembered what I’d paid for the top as I answered her. “I guess somebody just dropped off his wife for a little work and was in a hurry to get home.”
My anger over the ripped blouse subsided as Olive popped and rattled through the tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills. It was my second near miss with a black Mercedes in days. The first incident involved the same kind of car nearly running me and Natalie off a cliff in the Hollywood Hills. It was pure speculation, but I wondered if Conrad Harper could somehow be behind both events.
A woman who was having an executive level affair extinguished the thought.
“My name is Margaret Butler,” Mom said.
“What? Mom, you’re hallucinating. It’s the drugs.”
“We’ve been having sex. Dick and I are doing the dirty deed.”
For some reason, an image of my mother and Harold Wiener in bed flashed through my mind. I felt a wave of nausea. “Who is Dick?”
“He’s the president.” I think she was smiling through her bandages. “We’ve been screwing in the Lincoln Bedroom.”
I suddenly made the connection. “Nixon?” The thought was almost as revolting as Mom and Mr. Wiener. “You think you’ve been having sex with Richard Nixon?”
Mom giggled. “He’s quite vigorous. I like it when he talks dirty—”
“STOP!”
I pulled the car to the curb. An image of Cher in that old movie Moonstruck came to mind. In this version of the classic film, instead of Cher slapping Nicolas Cage, it was me imagining myself trying to knock some sense into my mother.
“Listen to me. You are not living in the 1970s. You are not Margaret Butler. And you are not having sex with Richard Nixon. You are my mother and you just had a face lift. Get a grip!”
Mom’s eyes tried to focus beneath the gauzy veil, raising hope that I’d gotten through. She giggled. “Dick likes to wear his socks with the presidential seal when we make love.”
“God help me!”
I drove on, tuning out the sexual play-by-play as Margaret Butler described the intimate details of a love affair that was beyond bizarre. When I finally got her home and into bed, I said, “Maybe you can sleep off the last forty years, then rejoin the human race.”