by M. Z. Kelly
We moved to the front door and realized Gloria Stallings had already opened it. After introductions and telling her that we were there about her daughter, Stallings let us inside.
The only thing Gloria Stallings appeared to share with Cassie were her blue eyes, but hers were hollow and lifeless. Mousy reddish blonde hair that came from a bottle crowned an aging face that showed the ravages of alcohol abuse. She looked nothing like the woman from the photograph in the Hollywood Reporter from 1983.
“What about Cassie?” Stallings said before we had a chance to sit down.
It was obvious that she had no idea her daughter was dead. There had been a mixture of fear and denial in her voice.
The living room had a dirty flower-print sofa and an assortment of other inexpensive furnishings. I took Stallings by the hand and we moved to the sofa. The next worse thing to losing a child is the death notification about a child to a parent.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, meeting her eyes. “I wish there was some less painful way to say this. Cassie is dead.”
We spent the next hour trying to console what was inconsolable. Gloria Stallings’s mood alternated from hysteria to despondency as we explained what we knew about her daughter’s murder. Between her mood swings we were able to fill in some blanks about her and Cassie’s life.
“After I got pregnant,” Stallings said in a calmer moment, “I wanted out of Hollywood. I didn’t have any means to support Cassie, so she went to live with my sister in Pasadena. She basically raised my daughter before she passed away when Cassie was eighteen.” Sadness again swept over the woman. “We didn’t have much of a relationship.”
“Did you know how Cassie was supporting herself?” Pearl asked.
Stallings shook her head. Pearl looked at us. A silent agreement was sealed. For now, we wouldn’t bring up Cassie Reynolds’s life as a prostitute to her grieving mother.
“Did Cassie ever mention a couple of men she knew, named Maurice Simpson and Roger Diamond?” Natalie asked softly.
“No. I’ve never heard of them.”
Pearl held up the photograph from the Hollywood Reporter. “This picture was taken a few months before John Carmichael went missing. At the time he and Conrad Harper were working on a film called, Days of Destiny. The movie was never finished. As you probably know, Mr. Carmichael disappeared a few months later.”
Stallings studied the clipping. “I vaguely remember that day ... such a long time ago ... I was pregnant ...” More tears flowed.
“Can you tell us about the relationship John and Mr. Harper shared?” Natalie asked when the tears abated.
“I didn’t see Harper much, but I think he was helping John with financing. John was always looking for partners, trying to scrape together enough money for his projects.” Stalling’s red-rimmed eyes were glassy, distant. “He thought he was going to be famous someday.” She handed the clipping back to Pearl. “What’s this got to do with Cassie?”
“We think there may be a connection between what happened to John Carmichael and Cassie,” I said.
“I don’t understand. What kind of connection?”
Pearl leaned closer to Stallings. There was sympathy in his voice. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. A few months after the photograph was taken, Mr. Carmichael disappeared and was never seen again. Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
Stallings shrugged and found a clean tissue. “I have no idea.” She blew her nose. “Maybe he was murdered or just decided to go away.”
I looked at Pearl, back at Cassie’s mother. “Why would he decide to go away?”
“He was unhappy when I told him I was pregnant.”
“You think he might have disappeared to avoid paying child support?”
“No, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason. I never tried to collect support.”
“You said he might have been murdered. Who do you think would have wanted to harm him?”
A thin smile found her lips. “Besides me, it could have been half a dozen other women.” The smile slipped away. “John was a playboy. He wanted to play the field but not commit to anyone. That was clear to me after I told him that I was pregnant. He said he wanted nothing to do with the baby or with me.”
“Were you angry with him at the time?”
“If you’re asking me if I murdered John, the answer is no. Of course, there was a period when I was angry, but I mostly just wanted to get away. I wanted nothing to do with him ever again.”
I began to feel there was a lot more she wasn’t telling us. “Ms. Stallings, we have reason to believe John Carmichael may have been involved with Conrad Harper and a man named Nathan Kane in importing illegal drugs into the country. Do you know anything about that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember a Mr. Kane.”
I pulled Kane’s mug shot from my purse. She studied the photo as I explained that it was taken over twenty years ago.
“Never saw him before.” She handed the mug back. “All I know is that if John was involved in the drug business, he wasn’t very good at it. He was always broke, trying to scrape together money for rent.”
“Shortly before he disappeared,” I said, “Mr. Carmichael’s secretary said she heard him arguing with a police officer in his office. We have reason to believe his name is Marvin Drake.”
Stallings shook her head again. “I don’t know anything about that. I didn’t go to John’s office or for that matter any of the filming sessions. I don’t think he thought I fit in.”
“Why is that, dear?” Natalie asked.
“His friends were different than me—more interested in the Hollywood scene. I never liked it.” She dabbed her eyes. “John thought I was low class.”
“Did you ever see the actor Wolf Donovan with Mr. Carmichael?” I asked.
Stallings once more shook her head. Her gaze seemed to drift through an invisible window where the memories of the past lived. The tears came again.
After a moment, her thoughts surfaced and she said, “You said you think there’s a connection between what happened to John and Cassie?”
“Were you in contact with Cassie before she died?” I asked, not wanting to answer her question, just yet.
“Not really. I didn’t approve of the Hollywood scene. That city is dangerous and holds nothing but bad memories for me.” She looked at me. “I think Cassie had some ideas about becoming an actress.”
I arched my brows. “Then you did have contact with her?”
She locked eyes with me for an instant, before looking away. “From time to time.”
“Before Cassie died, she told a policeman that she had information about what happened to her father thirty years ago,” Pearl said.
“You mean, John?”
Pearl’s brow furrowed. He looked at me, then back at Stallings and said, “Yes, Ms. Stallings. That’s why we’ve been asking about John Carmichael. As we said earlier we think there may be some connection between his disappearance and Cassie’s death.”
“If she did know something, she never talked to me about it,” Stallings said. “As far as I know, she never thought much about her father. We never really talked about him.”
I ran a hand over my forehead. The air in the dirty little house was warm and stale. I again sensed Stallings knew much more than she was telling us. It was apparent from the way she told her story that she and Cassie had continued to stay in touch, despite her earlier claims that they didn’t have a relationship.
I walked away for a moment. The only redeeming quality to the dirty little house was a series of photographs of Cassie hanging in the hallway. They were taken from childhood until what looked to be when Cassie was in her late teens.
My eyes fixed for a moment on one of the photographs. I noticed for the first time that Cassie’s eyes were blue with flecks of green. They were beautiful, iridescent.
I walked back to the grieving woman. “Ms. Stallings. I’m going to ask you one more time and I want you to tell us everyt
hing you know. Do you have any idea what Cassie might have known about the disappearance of her father?”
I watched as her watery eyes lifted and moved to the window. “No”, she said, choking on the word. “I can’t imagine what, if anything, Cassie knew.” Her head slumped forward.
I stepped closer, reached down and moved a hand to her chin. I tilted her head up until our eyes met. “I need you to tell me what you’re holding back. Your daughter deserves that. We want to bring whoever murdered Cassie to justice.”
We held on one another’s eyes for a moment. Her head finally nodded.
“Cassie sent me something. I don’t really know what it’s about or why she sent it.” She stood up, almost losing her balance. “Let me get it.”
Natalie followed her into the bedroom. In a moment they returned with Stallings carrying a large white envelope. She handed it to me. “I only glanced through this once. Nothing in it makes any sense to me.”
While Natalie sat with Stallings on the couch, I cleared a place at the table and dumped out the contents of the envelope.
As Pearl and I sifted through the paperwork we realized it was a list of corporations. Each corporation had a corresponding list of production companies, equipment supply houses, and film studios. Some of the corporations also had account information at various bank branches. The first name on the list was Pacific Trading Partners, formed in 1983 by John Carmichael and Conrad Harper. There were close to thirty corporations in total. The list ended with First World Entertainment and Blue Star Productions, the same corporations we had linked to Roger Diamond and Conrad Harper.
I looked at Pearl. “Smoking gun,” I whispered.
He nodded, pointing at the postmark on the envelope. “Three days before Cassie was murdered.”
I left Pearl with the documents and walked back to where Stallings was seated with Natalie.
I said, “Did Cassie say anything about why she was sending you this information?”
“No. There was just one of those sticky yellow note papers inside, asking me to keep the envelope for her. It said she would pick it up next time she saw me.”
“Did Cassie tell you where she got this information?”
Stallings shook her head.
I was annoyed and made no effort to disguise it. “Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?”
“I just thought it was information Cassie needed for taxes or something. I didn’t understand anything in the envelope, never really thought about it again until now.”
I didn’t believe her. Cassie had trusted her mother with information that she had to know would put her life in danger. And her mother had initially attempted to conceal that information from us.
Stallings looked up, probably seeing the disapproval on my face. Her gaze drifted away. “I don’t know anything more about the paperwork. You need to go. Mr. Bishop doesn’t like visitors.”
I blew out a slow breath. Stallings had slammed the door to the past on us and I sensed we weren’t going to learn anything more. Pearl gathered up the envelope and its contents.
“Before we go,” I said, “we need to talk about Mr. Bishop.”
Her eyes came up. A flicker of fear.
“I know he’s been abusing you. Tell me what’s been happening? We can get you help. There are shelters…”
“No…you have to go now...you don’t know...” She began crying again. “Please, just go.”
Harvey Bishop fit the profile of a sadistic, violent predator. He’d probably been abusing her for years.
I wrote my cell number on the back of my business card. “Call me at this number if you decide you want to talk.”
As we closed the door, I heard Stallings begin sobbing again, maybe out of grief or fear, or both.
I moved to the porch and released Bishop’s handcuffs. I stared into the big man’s cold, dark eyes. “If you ever touch her again, I will find out about it and put you down.”
A smile found Bishop’s fat face, exposing gaps in his rotten, stinking teeth. “Go to hell.”
I returned the smile and motioned to his shit shack. “I’m already there.”
***
It took us almost eight hours to make the drive back to Hollywood. Somewhere outside of Barstow my phone rang. On the advice of Charlie Riggs I’d downloaded some software to my phone that was supposed to prevent hacking and changed my voice mail password.
“Clark is gone again,” Robin said. “He was up all night, trying to detox when he got a call.”
“Bon Bon?” I asked, picking up on the anger in my brother’s voice.
“I think so. He wouldn’t say, but half an hour later he told me he was going out for coffee and never returned.” His voice took on an angry edge. “I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry, Kate. You were right. I should have told him he needed a detox program.”
I was more worried than angry. Based on what we’d learned, I knew that the danger to us all was increasing.
“I need you to do me a favor, Robin. Stay put. I’m going to stop by your house and leave Bernie with you tonight for protection.” He started to protest, but I wouldn’t listen.
When we got to Hollywood, Pearl was kind enough to make the stop and we left Bernie with Robin before heading home. I had almost forgotten about Natalie’s problems with Clyde until she followed me up the stairs to my apartment.
“I won’t be a bit of a problem,” Natalie said as we got ready for bed. “I’m glad I don’t have to listen to Clyde tonight. Snores like an old bull with his dick caught in a washer.”
I was making Natalie’s bed on the couch when she came out of the bathroom. I couldn’t help but laugh at her outfit. She was wearing a pair of short yellow pajamas that bunched up at the rear end and spelled out the word QUACK. It gave her the appearance of being a very pretty, fuzzy yellow duck.
“All right, quit your smilin’ at me sleepers. Clyde got em for me last Valentine’s Day.”
“Very romantic,” I said. I couldn’t keep it in any longer and broke into a spasm of laughter.
Natalie lowered her voice. “If you wanna know the truth, old Clyde used to sleep with a blanket covered with ducks when he was a kid. When we make…”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” I said covering my ears.
Natalie continued over my protest, “Every time we make love he calls it doing the ducky.”
“Stop.” I was still laughing as I closed my bedroom door and said goodnight.
I slept soundly until just after midnight when I heard movement somewhere in the building. At first I thought it might be Natalie, but then realized it was someone moving up the stairway to my apartment.
I reached for the extra gun I always keep in my purse. Then I remembered, I’d left my purse by the sofa in the living room. It was right next to a fuzzy yellow duck that was sound asleep.
Chapter Forty
An hour after the lights go out in Kate Sexton’s apartment, Nathan Kane makes sure they won’t come on again. He leaves his car and walks to the alleyway behind the appliance store.
Inside the utility panel he finds both an alarm system and the electric service for the store. It only takes a minute. He disarms the alarm and kills the electricity.
After picking the lock at the delivery entrance, he moves up the stairway and pulls the blade from his pocket. He runs a finger over the edge, a delicious memory surfacing.
He spent the previous night with the prostitute. It was an eventful evening full of fun and torture before he severed the whore’s head. He left her body in a canyon off Mulholland Drive. The bitch has a scenic resting place, a few miles up in the hills overlooking Hollywood.
Tonight is going to be even more special. He’s been watching the apartment and knows the dog is not with Sexton. This will be a two for one. He’s seen the little blonde bitch with the detective. She has a body to kill for—literally. He plans to take his time with the appetizer while Sexton watches, before moving on to the main course. His mouth waters.
Kan
e stops at the top of the stairway and listens. Silence. This is almost too easy.
He removes the pick, using a tiny flashlight as he works on the lock. Click. He kills the light. The door creaks opens. He pauses, listening again.
There’s the faint sound of movement from somewhere inside. He steps over the threshold. The room is so dark he can’t see anything, but he can’t risk using the light again.
Kane decides to crouch low and touches the gun in his waistband. It’s there for backup. The last thing he wants to do is spoil tonight’s fun with the weapon, but he knows there’s always a risk things could go wrong. He’s calculated the odds and, as always, he has a backup plan.
A few feet into the room, he hears the bedroom door swing open. Sexton’s voice calls out in the darkness. “Who’s there?”
He doesn’t respond at first, but the adrenaline rush overwhelms him. “Your worst nightmare.” He can almost taste the fear in the room.
There’s more movement, then stumbling. He thinks a table has been overturned, maybe a lamp is broken. Another voice calls out. It’s the blonde bitch.
“I’ve got a gun. Don’t move or I’ll blow your love spuds off.”
Kane drops to his knees, crawls forward. The gun comes out. His free hand reaches forward and finds the appetizer, grabbing her leg.
The young bitch yells out in the darkness again, “Hands off me, you dirty dicksplat.”
He hesitates when he hears the click. Then the room explodes. Shots ring out and he turns away, but not before he discharges his weapon in the direction of the explosion.
A few feet away, he hears someone scream in pain and crash to the floor. It’s Sexton. She’s down. Maybe she’s been shot?
A second explosion of gunfire then rips through the room. The world starts to spin. A searing pain slices through his leg.
He has to move fast now. He stumbles back, falling down the stairway. When he reaches the street he can see the blood. It’s pouring down his pant leg. He runs for the car and starts the engine. Before pulling away he turns back and looks toward the building.
