by M. Z. Kelly
Natalie gave us her opinion. “I heard Bert did the squirt before he went tits up. You ask me, it was a payback.”
“What kind of payback?”
Mo chugged half her drink, then explained, “Baby sis means that some slapper wasn’t happy about making Bert a happy boy.”
“You think he might have forced someone to…to service him?”
“Bert tried to shag anything that walked, including yours truly,” Natalie said.
“You didn’t…”
“’Course not. I got me standards and I’m still with Izzy.”
Izzy Cluck was Natalie’s boyfriend. He’d recently opened a magic shop in Hollywood, and their relationship seemed solid.
“You ask me,” Mo said, after smacking her lips together in approval of her drink, “it mighta had something to do with money. Every time I seen Bert, he was arguing with somebody ‘bout finances, including his producer. You might want to lean on him.”
“Who is that?”
Mo scratched her blonde wig. “I think his name is Waggoner or somethin’ like that. He’s a big shot in TV land.”
“Carlyle Waggoner,” Natalie confirmed. “They say he’s behind half the shows on the telly and has more money than Jimmy Buffet.”
“You must mean Warren Buffet.”
“Whatever. I also saw him and Bert going at it a time or two. I think they had a difference of opinion ‘bout the TV show.”
I scribbled Waggoner’s name on a scrap of paper and said, “We’ll be sure to talk to him.”
We went on, chatting about the case for a few minutes before I asked Natalie about Bernie.
“I took him to his physical therapy earlier today. Marlo, she’s the trainer, thinks he’ll be able to come home in the next week or so.”
“Did she think he’d be able to return to work?”
“Probably light duty, but you’ll have to ask Noah and Lieutenant potty-mouth ‘bout that.”
“Speaking of Noah,” Mo said, “what’s the latest with you two?”
Noah Fraser was a veterinarian at the hospital where Bernie had been treated. We’d been involved in a relationship for several weeks, but things had recently been put on hold. Noah had been injured during the Iraq War and had lost a leg. He hadn’t bothered to tell me he’d been engaged at the time, or that his wounds and ensuing depression had ended the engagement. He’d recently confided in me that his injuries and experiences during the war had made him question whether or not he could be involved with someone who worked in a dangerous occupation. He’d also insinuated that my drive to find my love-dad’s killer bordered on obsession.
“We’re what you might call in limbo,” I told Mo. “We have lots of issues to work out.”
Her dark eyes swung over to Natalie. “Seems like we got us what you would call a reoccurring pattern here.”
Natalie agreed. “You seem to attract men who have a lot of issues, Kate. Maybe you should find yourself a virgin, like Hermes Krump.”
I laughed. Krump was a lawyer who had pulled off a minor miracle by winning our mobile home eviction hearing. He’d physically and emotionally fallen apart before somehow pulling himself together and appearing in court, where he’d won our case.
“I don’t think Krump’s my type,” I said.
“Just give the bloke some penis pills, put a bag over his head, and you’re all set.”
I sipped my drink. “Somehow, being involved with a man who wears a bag doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Speaking of Krump,” Mo said, “Nana said she’s gonna ask him to represent her on the will that’s being contested by Claude’s family.”
Our elderly former landlord, Nana Hannah, had inherited a fortune after her husband, Claude, had dropped dead on her wedding day. She’d refused to sign a prenup and had inherited his entire estate, much to the chagrin of her dead husband’s ghoulish relatives. When Nana wasn’t spending her inheritance or hosting a TV show featuring celebrities talking about their sex lives, she made a habit of showing up unexpectedly and annoying the hell out of me.
Natalie ordered us another round of drinks over my protest. After the server left, I said, “All I know is that Nana’s got her work cut out for her if Krump’s involved.” I remembered that the novice lawyer was so nervous that he’d peed his pants before our eviction hearing. I added, “I’m not sure he can hold himself together in court.”
“Nana wants me and baby sis to be there at the hearing for moral support,” Mo said.
“And keep Krump in diapers,” Natalie added.
I sighed. “Better you both than me. I don’t think I’m up to another go-around with Krump.”
Mo and Natalie exchanged glances, before Mo said to me, “You seem a little down. What’s the latest on trying to find your bio-dad?”
“Leo and I went by to see Pearl today, but got called away to the Prince murder before we could talk to him.”
“You really think he’s your daddy?” Natalie asked.
“I really don’t know. All I do know was that Pearl was friends with Oz back when my love-dad was murdered, and Oz’s last words were about Pearl.”
Mo regarded me. “If he is your daddy, it would mean that you’re a half-sister.”
“Black is beautiful,” Natalie said to me. “And you’re one of the most beautiful people I know.”
I felt my eyes misting up and hugged her. “Thank you.”
We spent another twenty minutes finishing our second drink and speculating about Pearl possibly being my father. Natalie then summed up her thoughts. “If he is your bio-dad, it means he’s got a big secret.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Whoever was behind the killing of your love-dad must also have a whole lotta dirt on Pearl. Otherwise, why would he hide out in plain sight all these years and not tell you the truth?”
SEVEN
I got up early the next morning and drove to Hart Veterinary Hospital to check on Bernie. I found him with his physical therapist, Marlo Stratton. After my furry partner nearly tackled me and gave me lots of big wet kisses, I got an update from Marlo.
“Bernie’s made great progress. He should be good enough to go home in the next few days. After that, he just needs to continue the physical therapy three times a week.”
I held my breath, asking the question that would determine Bernie’s future. “What are your thoughts about him returning to duty?”
Her gaze moved down to my big dog. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like Bernie sensed the importance of the moment. “It’s up to your department, of course, but, providing he’s on light duty for a few weeks, I think he’ll be physically up to the challenges.”
She didn’t go on, and I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying. “What else?”
She regarded me. “I’ve known other police canines that were forced into retirement. These animals are trained for service, Kate. It’s sometimes a difficult adjustment if they aren’t allowed to return to active duty.”
I told her I appreciated her comments. I’d seen the same issues with other service dogs that had retired. In some cases, there was almost a failure to thrive syndrome, a depressive state that left the animal lonely and confused. It was something I brought up to Noah a few minutes later when we met in his office.
He agreed with my concerns and said, “Bernie’s whole purpose is to perform the service he’s been trained for since he was a puppy. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll make sure that goes into my report when he’s released.”
“I appreciate that.” I ran a hand through my dog’s brown and black fur. “I’m not sure how he would even begin to manage staying at home while I went off to work every day.”
Noah’s handsome features became pinched with concern. “Let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it.” He took a moment then asked me about my meeting with Pearl. “Was he able to clarify what Oz said?”
I shook my head. “We got called to the Prince murder in Beverly Hills and I d
idn’t get a chance to talk to him. You’ve probably seen the coverage of the case on TV.”
He brushed a hand through his short, blonde hair and nodded. “I heard an officer was shot in the melee that followed.”
“He’s going to be okay, but the pressure is on us to solve the case, so I’m not sure when I’ll get to talk to Pearl.”
His blue eyes held on me. “I’d like…” He took a breath. “Can we get together for dinner one of these nights? I’m feeling like we’ve drifted apart after I made a mess of everything.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand. “You didn’t mess up anything. You just…you said what you were feeling, and I appreciate that.”
“Maybe we could go to Moonshadows, since you’re staying at the Mission Bell. It’s just down the road. The place has great food and a view to die for.”
The oceanfront restaurant was a Malibu landmark. I stood up, and Bernie came up to my side. “My schedule’s a little crazy, but I’ll give you a call and work something out.”
He came around his desk and hugged me. As we parted, I realized it felt a little awkward. We’d been involved in a close relationship until a couple of weeks ago, and I now wondered what it would take to ever get us back to that same place. It left me feeling depressed and unsure about our future together.
After getting Bernie settled with Marlo Stratton again, I left the hospital and made the short drive to Hollywood Station. The police station was a no-frills one-story brick affair with an adjacent parking lot. It was only a couple blocks from Hollywood Boulevard, where much of the action in one of the most iconic cities in the world went down.
I’d just arrived at work and was coming down the hallway when Leo intercepted me. “Henrietta’s on the warpath. He wants to meet in his office.”
A few minutes later, we settled into the lieutenant’s office, where he made it clear he was under a lot of pressure. “I wanna know where we stand on everything,” Edna barked. Leo and I were at the conference table in his office, along with Darby, Buck, Brie, and our two civilian crime analysts, Selfie Rogers and Molly Wingate. “I don’t have to tell you all that Captain Dumbo and the others are breathing down my fucking neck.”
Since the lieutenant had his own nickname, he’d recently decided to also christen Captain Dembowski with one. It made me wonder if Edna would ever fit in with the high-profile job he’d inherited or the demands that came with the position.
Section One was a specialized unit that was the brainchild of LAPD’s chief of police, Bradley East. It was authorized to handle high-profile crimes, including kidnappings, robberies, and homicides that occurred anywhere in the department’s jurisdiction. The unit was a prototype, and we were told that if it was successful, similar small, specialized taskforces would be developed in other divisions.
The bat cave was the name we’d given to the large office assigned to the lieutenant. It was fitted with the latest in high tech crime fighting equipment: everything from monitors, some with closed circuit connections directly to the Police Administration Building, to computers that were linked to all the state and national criminal databases, and even had direct access to judicial services to bypass any delays in obtaining search warrants. The gadgets and resources were sometimes helpful, but we all knew the real work that went into breaking a case was the heavy lifting that went with actively working leads.
Selfie Rogers, our twenty-something crime analyst, who lately had a fondness for pink, blue, or yellow hair and lots of metallic piercings, began the overview of our case. “As we all know, Bert Alexander Prince, age forty-seven, the matriarch of the TV clan known as ‘The Princes of Beverly Hills’, was found yesterday at approximately five fifteen by a housekeeper. The cause of death was a single twenty-two caliber round to his chest.” She looked at Brie. “I understand the autopsy has already been completed.”
Brie looked exhausted. Even though she was working light duty, with Section One cases being her priority, I could tell the job was taking its toll. “I burned the midnight oil. The fatal round was fired at close range, piercing the victim’s aorta and causing him to bleed out and die immediately. The round was recovered, but not the weapon.”
“When you say close range, are we talking a matter of feet or inches?” Edna asked.
“Probably a foot or two. There was GSR on the victim’s clothing and arms.”
Edna looked at us. “But all the tests on everyone at the house were negative?” After we confirmed what he’d said, he told Brie to continue.
“The autopsy didn’t reveal anything else that was noteworthy. It’s my understanding SID found nothing in the way of prints or other evidence at the scene, either.”
SID was the department’s Scientific Investigation Division, LAPD’s version of a crime scene unit.
“But what about the semen found on the vic’s PJ’s?” Edna said. “Somebody musta been servicing him, which means there would be DNA left behind.”
“We took swabs, and I’ve put a rush on the testing, but it will likely take two or three days before we know if there’s a database match.” Brie lifted up her reading glasses, placing them on top of her head, which was bald from chemotherapy. “There’s also the possibility that whoever was engaged in oral sex with him wasn’t the shooter. It might be that our suspect arrived sometime later and shot Prince.”
“It could also be that he didn’t have a partner,” Darby suggested.
Edna looked at him like he’d just landed on earth from an alien planet. “What are you saying? You think he jerked off?”
Darby shrugged. “Maybe he was on a porn site.” He looked at Brie. “Did SID check his computer?”
“You mean for semen?” Brie asked.
The creases in Darby’s fleshy face deepened and he spat, “No. I’m talking about porn sites. These days you don’t need a partner.”
Buck smiled and seized the opening. “Maybe my partner’s talking from experience.”
“I’m just stating facts,” Darby grumbled, over the laughter. He looked at his partner. “Something they probably don’t teach in Waco or wherever the hell it is you’re from.”
Buck smiled. “You’re right. As far as I know, they don’t offer a class in masturbation. Maybe things are different ‘round here.”
“Let’s keep it fucking civil,” Edna growled before Darby could go off on him.
“I talked to Kathy Maitland with SID just before they finished up at the scene last night,” I said. “There was nothing that appeared significant in the recent browsing history on the computer. She did say there were some financial spreadsheets related to the TV show.”
“Maybe there’s a financial angle to what happened,” Leo suggested.
I agreed that was a possibility. “According to what my friends told me, the Princes are all worth a fortune. We’re going to need someone from Financial Crimes to take a closer look at their business relationships and try to figure out what the spreadsheets show.”
“Your friends,” Darby scoffed. “Anything those two are involved in spells nothing but trouble.” He looked at Edna. “Why is she allowed to work this case when she has a personal relationship with the family?”
“I don’t have a personal relationship with them,” I said.
“Your friends do, and you practically live together.” His murky eyes darted back to Edna and he raised his thin brows.
“Kate can’t help the fact that someone she knows works for the family.” Edna looked at me. “That aside, make sure those two snoops keep their noses out of things.”
I didn’t respond. Despite the fact that I despised Darby, I had to admit there was some truth to his concerns. Natalie and Mo did make a habit of making other people’s business their own. Even so, they sometimes uncovered leads on cases that were otherwise missed. It was something I intended to keep in mind, despite what Edna said.
Molly then took over, handing out reports. Our other crime analyst was in her thirties, with auburn hair and green eyes, about t
he same color as mine. “These are the summaries of the interviews that were conducted yesterday, but, as you know, there didn’t appear to be anything significant that was developed.”
“What about criminal records?” Edna asked. “Anyone have a history of violence or assault?”
“Several people at the house have misdemeanor drug convictions. The victim’s stepdaughter, Paris, had an 11550 conviction. Her past drug problems have been part of the show’s drama. She went into rehab a couple of years ago and is supposedly clean.”
Section 11550 was a Healthy and Safety Code section that made it a crime to be under the influence of a controlled substance. It was a common violation, and, in recent years, due to jail overcrowding, subjects convicted of the crime served little or no time in custody.
“What else?” Edna said. “Anybody have a beef with our vic?”
“We interviewed Prince’s assistant, Danika Kirkland,” I said. “She seemed stunned by what happened and, other than Prince’s ex, she didn’t know who might want to harm him. We also talked to the three sisters and Prince’s son, but didn’t get a whole lot that was useful. We need to go back to Lady Prince today and re-interview her. There’s also the ex-wife, Bailey Nolan, who both Kirkland and the sisters described as a gold digger, jealous of the family’s success. Prince’s son, Bruce, also said that his mother and father had issues, but he didn’t think she was capable of violence.”
“Was Nolan at the house when our vic ate it?”
I shook my head. “No, but as Brie said, it’s possible the shooter left the house right after the crime.”
“Let’s track Nolan down and talk to her today, along with…what the fuck’s her name…” Edna looked at me. “Lady?” I nodded. “Who the hell has a name like that, unless you’re fucking royalty?”
“The Princes of Beverly Hills consider themselves royalty,” Leo said.
“Royal assholes.”
After the lieutenant went on a short rant about celebrities and Hollywood lifestyles, I said, “I almost forgot. There’s also the show’s producer, a man named Carlyle Waggoner. He’s supposedly a big shot with the studios, so we probably need to talk to him.”
