by M. Z. Kelly
Chapter Two
Charlie and I spent the next day serving warrants. The Warrant Task Force could sometimes be exciting, maybe even a little dangerous. But, then, there were days like this one. Lots of knock and talk without much success.
I spent the last few minutes of the shift at my desk across from Charlie with Bernie curled at my feet. I tried to push yesterday’s events at the Pinewood out of my mind. I had moderate success while thumbing through the Dolce and Gabbana winter collection, even though I couldn’t afford even one of their scarves. Then the intercom buzzed.
I looked up in time to see Charlie gulping down the last of half-dozen powdered sugar mini donuts left over from a staff meeting. He motioned for me to answer.
After taking the call, I tossed my partner a napkin. “You look like you swallowed a bag of coke.” While he cleaned up I said, “RHD is here to talk to me about yesterday’s events.”
I tugged on Bernie’s leash and said to him, “Let’s get out of here before Charlie finishes cleaning out the break room fridge.”
I got the daddy death stare. A face wipe followed. He only succeeded in spreading the sugar to his cheeks.
“Geeze. Go clean up, Charlie.”
Bernie and I walked through the squad room. Lots of cubies; rows of desks—an open setting with no privacy. The bullpen was emptying out; cops heading for the local watering holes.
I met with Stan Baker and Alex Kennedy in one of the interview rooms usually reserved for suspects. Bernie settled in a corner. A tape recorder came out. Kennedy, a big guy in his forties with a moustache that hid his upper lip, took a moment to check the batteries.
I was sure that the detectives knew about Drake’s allegations since the captain had broadcast it to half the city. They began with an ice-breaker; small talk about my dog.
“Bernie came over with me from traffic when I got promoted,” I explained. “Lots of attitude. Comes in handy when we do a serve and the subject wants to run. Yesterday was the exception, thanks to a fence around the projects.”
Kennedy made a polite sound, something like “un-huh” but it came off like he was suppressing gas pains. His partner was smiling, probably thinking about my ex’s theatrical performance. I had no doubt that every cop in the department had checked out the DVD.
I recapped yesterday’s events; told them again about the snitch who gave me the tip on Bautista. Then Baker took over. A question later, I knew that the much shorter and younger of the two detectives wanted to bust some chops on his way up the promotion ladder. He was an up-and-comer in a tailored Armani suit.
“Just to be clear on a couple of matters, Detective Sexton…” Baker began, his eyes lingering on my breasts. I’m tall with olive skin and decent features, but I’m also a 36B, so there isn’t much to eyeball in that vicinity. No matter. It didn’t take a genius to know that the nerve endings in a man’s retina run directly to his penis. Baker continued, “When Detective Bautista called you, did he call on your work or personal cell phone?”
“My personal phone. I tried to redial and trace the number. It was a disconnect. He probably removed the SIM card—did a talk and toss.”
I’d given them the number Bautista had used yesterday and was sure that they already knew what I’d just told them. They’d also probably already traced the number through the phone company and reached a dead end.
Baker raised recently threaded eyebrows. “How did he get your personal number, Detective?”
“My number, as I’m sure you know, is part of the LAPD phone tree, used for emergencies. Every officer is required to provide both work and private phone numbers in case of a crisis or natural disaster. I can only assume Bautista had access to the tree.”
“Of course.” The detectives nodded in unison. They exchanged a look, something that reminded me of Jack Webb and his partner in that old TV show, Dragnet.
Baker cleared his throat. “How well did you know Detective Bautista prior to his phone call?”
“Met him twice, once at a gang taskforce meeting a few years back and then at a Christmas party a couple of years ago.”
“Any other contact?” Kennedy chimed in.
“No.” I wasn’t happy about the implication, but proud of my newly acquired impulse control.
Baker leaned over the table. When he spoke, the diminutive detective’s voice was lower. Maybe he practiced his interrogation technique in the shower. “Detective Sexton, are you trying to tell us that you and Jack Bautista had only two prior contacts, despite the fact that a cop wanted for murder and on the run had your personal cell number with him and made a point of calling you?”
I would have lowered my voice in response, but the only thing I practice in the shower is trying to sing like Beyoncé. “Listen to me, Detective Baker. I’ll say this again but only one more time. I met the suspect twice before the phone call. I don’t really know him and don’t know why he called me. There’s only one thing I do know for sure.”
Baker blinked, smiled, and splayed his hands in a gesture that was meant to be disarming. I took it as surrender. “What’s that, Detective?”
I stood up, stretching out my five foot nine inch frame. I stared down at the arrogant detective and said, “This interview is over.” Impulse control—yes.
***
After filling Daddy Charlie in on my interrogation with junior Jack Webb and his partner, I headed for home. A block from the station, my phone rang.
My car, a green Ford Escort named Olive, lurched and whined, as I answered. I heard my friend Natalie’s sometimes less than proper English accent. “I’m in a bit of a fix, Kate. Fraid I flunked me frigg’n drivin’ test. I could really use a lift.”
I turned onto Fountain Avenue, the sun glimmering off the Hollywood sign. I lowered the visor in my car, downshifted into the rush hour traffic, and said, “Meet you at the DMV in ten.”
Olive did her usual smoke and grind as I turned the corner onto Formosa Avenue. I paid cash for the old girl and usually drive her instead of a pool car so I can get the department’s mileage reimbursement.
After my divorce, I couldn’t get a loan for a newer car thanks to Doug maxing out every credit card we owned, including one from Victoria’s Secret. He probably used the card to keep The Screamer in lace undies. But I try not to be bitter.
I found Natalie Bump at the DMV surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, perverts, and a couple of pimps who were circling for the kill.
Natalie emerged from the testosterone cloud, got in, slammed Olive’s door, and began fuming. “The ruddy wazzock who gave me the drivin’ test wanted me to park between a Mercedes and a Buick. Not bad enough, I gotta drive on the wrong side of the road. I also gotta park in a space only big enough for a Mini Cooper? The whole thing was a load of cack.”
Charlie once described Natalie as a verbal earthquake whose beauty is off the Richter scale. Blonde and hazel with legs that men drool over and turn women green, my friend caused a scene wherever she went. Almost ten years younger than me, she’s the little sister I never had, unless, like my mother, you believe in soul sisters and shared karma.
I tried a little sympathy, but the interview with the Dragnet knuckledraggers was still on my mind. “Sorry. I take it you didn’t pass the test?”
“I slammed on me anchors right there. Left Clyde’s Cadillac in the roadway.” A beat later. “Fraid they towed it away.”
“I’m sure Clyde will understand.”
Natalie rolled her hazel eyes; a seductive orbit. “I’ll just give the old boy’s banger a ride tonight. He’ll forget all about the Caddie.” I laughed as she added, “Did I tell you Clyde’s a double V?”
Maybe her octogenarian husband had some anatomical abnormality? “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Clyde’s a Viagra Virgin. Didn’t do the shuffle and thrust for a decade before he got his script when we got together.” Natalie giggled. “I re-popped the old boy’s cherry.”
Ewww! Clyde Bump on the hump with his twenty-two year old wife. I
tried to kill the visual. Natalie had told me in confidence that she married Clyde while attending an international college exchange program through UCLA. Clyde provided her with legal immigration status and Natalie provided…The visual came back. Think Katy Perry does Jimmy Carter.
Natalie turned to Bernie. He was snorting wind through the open back window. She playfully twisted my partner’s floppy ears and kissed his nose. “Hello sweet pea. Did ya shag a poodle today?”
“Bernie’s been too busy recovering from a tangle with a fat cop to look for love,” I said.
My friend knew all about my canine partner’s predilection to do the jump and hump, as Natalie called it. The wife of Bernie’s trainer told me in confidence that my dog should have been named Murphy because he was a four-legged example of Murphy’s Law in action.
Bernie’s trainer had had used more professional terms in his final report: The canine occasionally exhibits a failure to stay on task which can lead to unintended consequences. After working with Bernie for almost four years, I knew Natalie’s description better suited my partner.
I surrendered to the need to unload about my rotten day, and spent the next five minutes filling Natalie in on the details of my run-in with the RHD detectives over yesterday’s events with Marvin Drake.
Natalie’s eyebrows lifted. “I’d love to help you out with the investigation. Got a pretty fair dose of snoop in me—a good memory for details, too. I can still remember the wart on Hilda Cottingham’s nose in the fifth grade. Looked a bit like Winston Churchill.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, Natalie.” Marvin Drake as a human wart popped into my mind.
“What about this Jack fellow? Any chance you two might wanna play hide the salami?”
I laughed; almost hit a curb.
“Come on now,” Natalie said. “You’ve been on the split-up for almost a year. You must be in need of a shaggin’ now and then.”
I found some composure. “You’re probably right about that, but somehow I can’t see me and Jack…shagging.” Fits of laughter hit me again, but I kept both hands on the wheel.
Natalie’s lecture on the benefits of having the lady garden occasionally watered continued until we passed Grauman’s Theater. She looked over at the parade of costumed characters on the sidewalk. “Looky there, Batman is out of his cave, along with Spiderman, Dorothy, and Freddie Krueger.”
“Better tip ‘em ten bucks if you want a picture or they’ll steal your purse.”
Natalie changed the subject. “You mentioned awhile back that you went to Hollywood High?”
“Class of 2000, Sheik Territory.” I noticed Natalie’s brow knit and explained, “An old movie star named Rudolph Valentino starred in a movie called, The Sheik. His mural’s on the school gym.”
“Thank goodness. I thought for a moment when you said Sheik you were talkin’ about a picture of a condom on the gym.”
“That might have been a good idea, too.”
“So what was it like growing up in Hollywood? Did ya know anyone famous, like maybe Robert Downey, Jr.?”
I shook my head as Olive lurched up La Brea. “Charlie has a saying that Hollywood is really just one big village because all the other villages in the world have sent their idiots to live here.”
“Makes it kinda interesting.”
“And dangerous. My dad worked LAPD as a beat cop when I was a kid, until someone shot and killed him in a local park. The crime was never solved.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Kate. Musta been tough times.”
“Got through it. I’m told that my dad was a big fan of old Hollywood. He borrowed my middle name from the actress, Hedy Lamarr.” I glanced at Natalie. “I was christened, Kate Hedwig Sexton.”
“Yikes.”
“Hedwig is German—Hedy Lamarr’s given name. Made for a few scenes in school when bullies got wind of it.”
“What was your dad like?”
“He was glue—held the family together. Died when I was four and then Mom went off the deep end.” A hundred images of my New Age guru mother shot through my mind. I looked at Natalie. “She’s a local gadfly and part-time psychic.”
“My mum was a different sort,” Natalie said. “She was a model in Paris when she was younger. Left me dad for a rich Italian who owned a shipping company. Never really knew her very well.”
“And your father, what did he do?”
“Drove a truck. Took me with him when I was just a kid. Left me with a load of memories.”
I had the feeling that Natalie got her mother’s beauty and her father’s sense of adventure, along with a colorful vocabulary that defied the typical British reserve.
“You can just drop me at the appliance store,” Natalie said. “I’m thinkin’ ‘bout making a few changes—shaking things up a bit. Thought I’d talk to the salesmen.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said, wondering what Clyde’s beautiful bride had in mind for Clyde’s Appliance Universe.
I live above the store, Natalie offering me the loft after my divorce when she and her new husband moved to the Hollywood Hills. The rent is reasonable and, if I ever need a Maytag repairman, he’s right down the stairway.
Clyde Bump used to own a string of similar stores. Years ago he was a celeb on local television channels, standing there with his thumb out asking viewers to Give Clyde a Ride to his appliance universe. A recession or two and the universe shrank. Clyde now owned the one remaining store.
As we pulled to the curb in front of the store Natalie said, “What would you think about a combination appliance and lingerie store if I can convince old cheap as chips Clyde? Maybe call it, Laundry ‘n Lace.”
The elderly salesmen high-tailed it to the windows when they saw Natalie swing her long silky legs out of Olive. The glass steamed over as we walked into the store. A gaggle of drooling salesmen came over, asking if they could help my friend with anything.
“You might wanna see if Clyde’s salesmen are willing to model the lingerie,” I said as the sales force lined up in front of us. “I think these guys might have a thing for garters and panties.”
Bernie and I left Natalie to explain her Laundry ‘n Lace concept to her admirers and went upstairs to our apartment. I was tossing overdue bills into a wicker basket, when my phone rang. The voice on the line brought back yesterday’s anxiety.
“Saw you and your lovely friend on the way home and thought I’d touch base,” Jack Bautista said. “By the way, beautiful women like you two deserve a better mode of transportation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Are you stalking me?”
“Just in the neighborhood, looking for a washing machine.”
“Clever. Listen, Jack. I’ve been thinking…”
“I want you off the case, Kate. My problem, not yours. I shouldn’t have called you yesterday. I’m sorry.”
His contrition seemed genuine, but I had a hunch where this was coming from. “Don’t tell me. You talked to Charlie?”
A chuckle. “He got my number from a mutual friend. Said the big dogs are on the prowl. We agreed not to proceed.”
Daddy Charlie was running interference, telling Jack to call me off the case. We agreed not to proceed. Damn him.
“Listen to me,” I said. “I don’t give a damn what you agreed to. You, Charlie, and Marvin Drake can all kiss my ass.”
“We would be lucky to pucker up to a fine ass like yours.”
A decision had been forming in my mind all day. I knew it was the right thing to do, the brass be damned. “I’m going to help you clear your name, Jack.”
“I can’t let you be involved.”
“Not your decision. It’s mine.”
“No thanks, Kate. Take care of yourself and Bernie.”
“Jack!” The line was dead.
Five minutes later, I curled up on the sofa next to Bernie with a glass of wine and a bag of junk food. There’s nothing better than chardonnay and a carb-bomb to drown your sorrows. Bernie raised his head, giving me one of his loo
ks. My partner has a sixth sense, knows when trouble’s brewing.
“Think you’re up for this, buddy?”
A whimper. Maybe it was the wine, but I imagined being at the movies watching one of those old black-and-white flicks from the forties. The scene opened to the back of a subject in a trench coat. The camera panned out and the subject took on a familiar profile.
In my mind I watched as Bernie removed his sun glasses, tipped his hat, and grinned as his image filled the screen. When he spoke, it was in the voice of Sean Connery, cool and sophisticated. “Round up the usual suspects, Kate. We’re on a mission from God.
Chapter Three
Nathan Kane shuffles into the prison medical ward. An orderly holds onto his trembling arm, making sure that he doesn’t fall and cause the institution any liability for mistreatment.
The convicted killer knows that, in California, medical care in prisons is all about the money. Everything is done under close, scripted supervision so that lawyers for the inmates have no grounds to sue.
When they finally arrive at the psychiatrist’s office, the aide settles the prisoner in a chair and says, “All yours Doc. Call me when you’re finished.”
Dr. Marsha Wentworth nods and studies Kane after the orderly leaves. The inmate, now in his late fifties, shows all the classic symptoms of Parkinson’s Dementia. His hands shake and his arms tremble.
The psychiatrist has also seen his loss of balance and coordination, his shuffling gait, and his difficulties with speaking and swallowing. His face and jaw have a rigid, mask-like appearance. The prisoner is incontinent and wears an adult diaper under his prison-issued uniform.
“I’ll be doing an assessment of your condition for your upcoming parole hearing,” Dr. Wentworth says. “The authorities are considering what’s called a medically incapacitated parole due to your deteriorating health.”
The lack of response is consistent with the inmate’s past performances.
