by MZ Kelly
As we walked along a glass wall of tinted windows that overlooked the courtyard, Robin’s drug charges came to mind. “This is more curiosity than anything else on my part, but I’m wondering if you ever saw a connection between any of the players we’ve been talking about and the actor, Wolf Donovan.”
Compton shook his head. “There’s been a lot of speculation about Donovan’s drug connections and sexual escapades over the years. He’s certainly had his share of dealing with the dregs of humanity, but he’s been clever enough to cover his tracks. If you want my opinion, his idiot son has taken up where Donovan left off.”
As we moved through the glass doors into the courthouse, I said, “I talked to John Carmichael’s former secretary yesterday, and she said something of interest. She told me the night before Carmichael disappeared, she heard him arguing with someone in his office.”
Compton stopped at the entrance to the felony arraignment court. “Did she give you a name?”
“She didn’t see who he was arguing with, but later saw a police cruiser parked down the block from his office. She believes it was a cop that was arguing with Carmichael.”
The elderly prosecutor raked a hand across his ruffled silver hair and smiled. “Ever know something you were absolutely sure of in your gut but couldn’t prove?”
I thought about Jack Bautista. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple days and wondered if he was safe. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Why?”
“When I did the work-up on Kane at the time of his prosecution, we went back and reviewed every police report—every scrap of information we could put together on the guy. I kept seeing the same cop’s name come up in a lot of the police reports. Sometimes it was just this guy signing off on reports that closed out investigations without any follow-up. Other times it was the same guy deciding the case didn’t have enough evidence to merit a referral to the DA for prosecution.”
The bailiff opened the courtroom door and motioned to the prosecutor.
“Kane and this guy have a long history,” Compton said. “Maybe he also had some connection to Carmichael. The guy’s name is Marvin Drake.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The drive to Hollywood is invigorating. Nathan Kane listens to Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” as he turns off the freeway. Instead of the nondescript Ford he’s driving, he imagines himself in a convertible, making his way through the city he loves. It’s a grand entrance.
Hollywood—the city of dreams. There are only a couple things he craved while in prison. Marsha Wentworth has temporarily helped him meet both those needs. After killing the psychiatrist, he sanitized the scene and dumped her body in the desert.
But Wentworth was only the appetizer. He’s already decided on the main course—Kate Sexton. The attractive detective will soon have a beautiful, memorable death.
When he reaches Sunset Boulevard, Kane parks and walks through a park. He isn’t about to take the chance of using his cell phone while driving and getting caught. Careless people make stupid mistakes.
An image of the dead shrink skitters through his mind as he punches a number into the throwaway phone. When the call is answered, he asks for an update.
“Bautista’s out of state. He’s in Arizona.”
Kane palms the phone, nearly crushing it. “You let him leave the area without taking care of business?”
“He’s looking for Reynolds’ mother. We’re on top of it.”
Kane swallows his anger. It’s only taken a few weeks for everything to spin out of control due to arrogance, stupidity, and now inaction.
“I thought she was dead,” he says. “Where is she living?”
“She’s a drunk, in and out of the local homeless shelters around Tucson. We’ll find her.”
“Why is it that I have absolutely no confidence in that statement?”
Kane notices there’s a couple within earshot. He walks over to a bench, sits down, and lowers his voice. “What about Sexton?”
“Her brother’s facing a possession for sales charge. She’s been scrambling around behind that and her problems with the department. We’re getting the message across to stay out of things. She’s not worth worrying about.”
Kane doesn’t respond. His anticipation of being with the female cop mushrooms into his consciousness.
“You there?”
“Yeah.” His thoughts resurface, sweat pops on his forehead. “I’m going to take care of that other matter we talked about. He’s the asshole that set everything in motion and will now pay the price. I’ll call you about Bautista tomorrow and the news better be good.”
Back on Sunset, Kane follows the busy highway, passing Rodeo Drive before winding his way past the Los Angeles Country Club. When he reaches Holmby Hills, he parks on a side street. He walks a few blocks until he arrives at Eastlake, Conrad Harper’s estate.
Kane walks past the gaudy gold leaf gates to the parking lot near the employee entrance to the estate. He waits until one of the housekeeping staff who approximates his size and build arrives. The man is lured into a wooded area and butchered. Minutes later, wearing the man’s green pants and shirt, Kane walks up to the employee entrance, runs a plastic card reader over the electronic sensor, and enters the grounds.
He focuses his mind, concentrating on what is ahead of him. The task at hand requires his full attention. Mistakes are not an option when it comes to murdering a very rich and famous person.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The day after I met with Bill Compton, I left Bernie with my mother and went directly to my meeting, or should I say interrogation, with IAD. I’d filled Pearl and Natalie in on what Compton had told me. We agreed that a definitive link between Drake, Harper, and Kane needed to be established to move things forward. No small task.
As I sipped coffee and waited for Jimmy Chester at the Bradbury Building, I brushed a hand through my limp hair. I hadn’t slept well, anticipating the meeting. I was wearing a tailored black Armani blazer with matching pants, but felt like I hadn’t pulled everything together. I had no experience choosing an outfit for an interrogation.
Chester arrived ten minutes late, huffing about being tied up in traffic. As we took the elevator to the top floor and walked down the corridor, I noticed the Rat had chosen a tan linen suit, complemented by a pale blue tie. It might have been appropriate for a summer dinner party, but it wasn’t summer, and we weren’t going to a party. We were going to war.
We stopped outside a conference room, where I’d previously met with the IAD detectives.
“Any advice on how I should handle their questions?” I asked.
Chester’s tiny eyes darted in my direction. “We may reach a point when we have to decide whether or not to proceed. I’ll call a recess if that happens.”
My stomach felt queasy. I tossed my coffee in a receptacle and asked, “What are you saying?”
The conference room door opened. Blaylock poked his head outside.
“Be right there,” Chester said to the IAD detective. The door closed, and the Rat turned back to me. He sniffed the air, his voice lowering. “Just follow my lead.”
When we entered the oak-paneled conference room, I was immediately put on the defensive. The two IAD detectives were sitting next to a video camera. They stood and shook hands with Chester, then nodded in my direction.
When I sat down, Blaylock said, “Not there, Detective.” He motioned to another chair. “We’ll need you across from the camera.”
“Suppose I don’t want to star in your movie?” I turned to Chester. “Can we ask them to remove the camera?”
“It’s just for the record.” The Rat turned to the detectives. “We are formally requesting a copy of any recordings.”
“Duly noted,” Preston said, his fleshy face contorting into a smug grin as he flipped the switch on the camera.
I tried to stop myself. I really did. But I ju
st couldn’t resist. I leaned forward and said to Preston, “You seem a little flushed. Might want to loosen your girdle before we begin.”
My adversary killed the camera. His cheeks were the color of Victoria’s Secret’s scarlet fall panty line. He turned to his partner and shrugged.
Chester leaned over to me. Using a hushed tone that everyone could hear, he said, “There’s no sense in stirring things up before we begin.” He turned to the IAD detectives. “Our apologies. Let’s proceed.”
Preston restarted the camera and, per my lawyer’s directive, I formally agreed to answer questions, acknowledging that any refusal to answer could lead to disciplinary action. The air conditioning in the room had been turned off. I removed my blazer as the proceedings continued.
After stating my name, rank, and assignment, I acknowledged that I’d received instruction on the department’s Use of Force policy. After a few questions about the policy, Blaylock began focusing on the day of Jack Bautista’s failed arrest. I explained that I received the tip about Bautista being at the Pinewood and telling Drake about it.
“I advised the captain that we should call the Warrant Task Force for assistance. He insisted that we proceed directly to the apartment building and look for Bautista. That decision went against established protocol.”
Blaylock said, “Could it be that the captain simply wanted to act on the information without delay and get a wanted murder suspect off the streets?”
I tugged at the collar of my blouse. “I’ll say it again. Not calling for backup violated protocol, regardless of how you want to try to explain it away.”
Preston spoke up. “Isn’t it true, Detective, that when you and Captain Drake arrived at the Pinewood Apartments, you intentionally interfered with the arrest of a wanted felon by pushing the captain’s arm away while he was discharging his service weapon?”
I’d been anticipating the question, but, regardless, felt the perspiration popping on my forehead. “My actions were consistent with the department’s Use of Force policy.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“The policy allows an officer to use the level of force that is reasonable and warranted by the circumstances at hand, either to arrest or subdue a resisting subject. It does not authorize an officer to shoot an unarmed suspect.”
“Are you sure that the suspect was unarmed?”
“Absolutely.”
Preston removed a stack of papers from his briefcase and tossed them across the table. “This is the report of the Officer Involved Shooting team. I’ll give you a moment to review it, but I think you’ll find the summary on page eighteen very enlightening.”
This was the moment of truth. I picked up the report. Chester was a mouth breather, badly in need of a breath mint. I felt his hot breath as he looked over my shoulder.
I skimmed the report, thumbing through it until I came to the last page. One word on that page stood out, shooting my anxiety level off the charts.
“Casings?” I said, cutting my eyes to Preston, who was wearing his best shit-eating grin. I tossed the report back across the table. “This is a complete setup.”
Blaylock took over. “You can call it whatever you like, Detective, but it doesn’t alter the fact that the OIS team found two spent nine millimeter cartridges in the exact location where Jack Bautista had been standing when the captain discharged his weapon.”
I pushed back in my chair and exhaled. “If there were any spent casings, they were planted there. Maybe they were left over from the last time you guys shot someone in the back. Jack Bautista did not fire his weapon.”
“And how are you so sure of that?” Preston asked, still grinning.
I mocked his stupid smirk. “Because I was there when everything went down.” I felt Chester tugging on the sleeve of my blouse as I continued. “Jack Bautista was carrying a bag of groceries in his hands. After the incident occurred, my…”
“A moment please,” Chester said to the IAD detectives, interrupting me. He then whispered in my ear, “We don’t want to let them establish that you and Bautista had a relationship.”
It took all my effort to maintain control. I quietly said to Chester, “A phone call does not constitute a relationship. I’ve already provided information about receiving the call in my statements to both RHD and OIS.” I glared at the Rat. He lowered his eyes and nodded for the detectives to continue.
“Please continue with your answer,” Preston said.
“Bautista called my cell phone after the incident occurred. I’m sure he got my number from the department’s emergency phone list. I specifically asked him if he fired at the captain. He said he was armed but was carrying a bag of groceries and did not draw his weapon.”
“Why didn’t you release your dog when the incident occurred?” Blaylock asked.
“I followed my training and policy. Our protocol dictates that we don’t release until the canine is off leash and the command is given.”
“Let’s move to the area of relationships,” Preston said. “Isn’t it true that you and Detective Bautista have been involved in a romantic relationship for several months?”
“What?” I was furious. “No, that’s absolutely untrue.” I turned to Chester, who was avoiding eye contact. I realized he must have known all along what they were going to say.
“Isn’t it also true,” Preston continued, “that when you last attended the department’s Christmas party, you and Jack Bautista engaged in a public display of affection?”
This was unbelievable. “Bautista had too much to drink and tried to kiss me while my husband was at the bar. I told him I wasn’t interested. There was no public display of anything.”
“Did your relationship with Jack Bautista result in the breakup of your marriage?”
“No. Absolutely not!” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from shaking with anger. My blouse felt damp with perspiration. “We did not have a relationship. As everyone in the department knows, my marriage ended because my husband was caught screwing his secretary in an interrogation room, and it was recorded on videotape.”
It was Blaylock’s turn. “Detective Sexton, did you on numerous occasions receive phone calls from Jack Bautista, knowing that there was a warrant for his arrest for homicide?”
I wanted to leap across the table at both men. They were, in effect, saying that Jack Bautista and I were lovers and I was covering up and protecting him. I heard Chester again whispering something in my ear, but was so angry I tuned him out.
“Answer the question,” Preston demanded, taking over for his partner.
I opened my mouth and began, “Jack Bautista and I…”
“Stop!” Chester screeched.
I was so dumbfounded by the wretched little rat’s caterwaul that I stopped talking in mid-sentence. Chester was tugging on my sleeve again, turning bright red. He rose from the table, pulling me up with him.
“We demand a recess,” Chester said.
We found a private conference room across the corridor, where I unloaded on him. “This whole thing has been orchestrated to get me to admit to a relationship that doesn’t exist.” I leaned forward, looking down at Chester. “And you knew about it.” I pushed a hand through my damp hair. “I won’t let them get away with it.”
Chester walked away from me. He paced, remaining silent. When he finally turned back to me, his gaze fixed on me for the first time since we’d met.
“I need to explain something to you, Detective Sexton, and you need to listen very carefully.”
I exhaled and slumped into a chair. I was exhausted and couldn’t imagine spending several more hours going at it with Blaylock and Preston. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“By law, nothing in these proceedings can be used against you in a criminal case.”
“I’m not guilty…”
“I’m not saying you are guilty of anything, but you need to hear me out.” I nodded, biting my tongue. “As I said, what you
tell the detectives can’t be used in a criminal case, but, as I’ve told you before, the law governing peace officer interrogations makes it clear that anything you say can be used administratively for disciplinary proceedings.”
I started to respond, but the moment faded, along with my last ounce of energy. Everything was now clear to me. I didn’t have a chance. I never had a chance. I’d been set up, and it was a matter of time until I was fired.
Chester continued. “If you tell these detectives that you continued to receive phone calls from Jack Bautista, however well-intentioned or innocent your discussions might have been, they will use that as a basis to establish that you had an ongoing relationship with him.” Chester took a step closer to me. “They will use the admission that you were in contact with a wanted felon to terminate your employment.”
I stood up and walked away from him. The room was spinning. I clutched my sides, trying to breathe evenly and keep my emotions in check.
I glanced over at a poster on the wall. It was one of those public relations posters that showed an officer bending down and offering a hand to a little girl who was crying. The caption read To Protect and Serve.
My discussions with Jack Bautista swam through my mind. My first inclination had been to get him to turn himself in. But as we’d continued to talk, I became convinced of his innocence.
I had to admit that I was attracted to Jack, but nothing had happened between us. I had been trying to do the right thing, both by Jack Bautista and Cassie Reynolds. It was the only solace I could find.
I looked at the poster again. I was about the same age as the little girl in the picture when my father was murdered. He had sacrificed everything for the department, including his life. In the end, that sacrifice hadn’t even been acknowledged by putting his badge in a display case for fallen officers.
I felt disgusted, the bitterness catching in my throat. Whatever happened, I was sure of one thing: My motives and actions had been honorable, just like my father’s. We had both done the right thing.
I turned back to my attorney and said, “I guess it’s over.”