A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery)

by Anna Burke

  “So, what happened to him?” Tommy asked anxiously.

  “Well, she wasn’t sure, exactly. He recovered and the young man came back a few days later to pick up the beastly man. By then, they were all glad to see him go. He was not only big and ugly man, but nasty, too.”

  “So, did she remember the name of the young guy with him?” Tommy asked.

  “No. I asked her that too. They all thought he looked like that friend of OJ’s, Kato Kailin. A slick wheeler-dealer type with blond hair, and an Aloha shirt, complete with open-neck and gold chain. His name didn’t stand out so she couldn’t remember it.”

  “Her description fits the young Bobby Simmons to a tee. Sounds exactly as you described him, Tommy. He was holding out on us about Mr. P and the doc, if they called him in to help that night. I wish I’d pressed him harder, or gotten Art’s men to pick him up. He knew a lot more than he told us about what happened to Kelly. We must have put the fear of God into him with our visit to the soup kitchen, asking all those questions.”

  Tommy and Jerry had also traced Dr. Maxwell Samman to an address in the Hollywood Hills, to a house he did not own. The house was owned by none other than Mr. P, or more correctly, by Mr. P’s recording company. The place was a well-known party house. Dozens of cars were parked there at times, including paparazzi on the hunt for shots of celebrities who frequented parties held there. The police had been called to the address on numerous occasions. The owner and partygoers were cited for violations of noise ordinances, disturbing the peace and public drunkenness, as well as infractions of public safety and traffic ordinances tied to the wanton disregard for parking restrictions in the area. Despite all the trouble over the years, the doc had never been arrested and there were no prints, mug shots or DNA on file for the wily culprit. None for Mr. P, either.

  Jessica was riled up after everyone left Saturday night. She had agreed to play it cool too but really, really wanted to do something. She even toyed with the idea of storming into Mr. P’s office and confronting him once again. What good would that do? Except maybe get her killed.

  The hospital might have a record of the doc’s blood type. Laura agreed with Frank and the other detectives that they ought to quit poking around for the time being. Nevertheless, she volunteered to check the hospital records to see if she could retrieve information about Maxwell Samman’s blood type. A match to the sample on Kelly’s shirt might add a little fuel to whatever fire was keeping Art’s team from putting the case back in cold storage. It might be enough to subpoena DNA samples from the man.

  It was late, but she decided to call Frank anyway. She wanted to give him the news about Maxwell Samman, and that house in the Hollywood Hills. He had declined to attend the latest gathering of the cat pack, spending time with his kids instead. He would give up his Sunday with them for that trip to San Diego, and the interview with Arnold Dunne. He offered to pass on information about the doc’s name, the porn studio, and the party house to Art so she didn’t have to call. That was actually a good thing. Apparently, Art Greenwald, like Frank Fontana and George Hernandez, was in utter disbelief at the trouble Jessica had managed to get into in so short a time. She was spared another lecture.

  She didn’t need it. She was already scared by the lengths to which Mr. P had gone to stop Chester Davis, and to put the fear of God into her. That bullet in Bobby Simmons’ head, so soon after their little chat with him about Kelly, was also unnerving.

  Terrified, she was also infuriated that he was pumping the world full of filth. Worse, was the fact that he was making a bundle off of it, and mowing people down in the process. Surely, there had to be somebody who knew the man for what he really was, and who was as angry as she was about it.

  As Jessica readied herself for bed, she picked up her phone and found a missed call from a number she didn’t recognize. A voice mail message revealed the identity of the caller, but not much else.

  “This is Kim Reed, Ms. Huntington, please call me.”

  The image of the mod-looking, black-haired girl came back to her. Silent and motionless as they rode down the elevator together. Jessica had identified the female figure in that tattoo she wore. Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of culture, learning and art, was set out in bold colors running from shoulder to elbow. Kim Reed had to be a thoughtful young woman to have chosen so stunning a figure to emblazon her body. Perhaps she was the key to putting this whole ordeal behind them.

  It was too late to call her back tonight. Giving Kim Reed that business card had been another impulsive act on Jessica’s part. It was prompted by her sense that a furtive defiance oozed from the pores of the automaton. Perhaps it was the boldness of that body art. The image was resoundingly reproachful of the luridly self-indulgent world in which Mr. P presided as a perverse overlord, a sham petty deity.

  Excitement fought with foreboding as Jessica tried to sleep. Finally, Jessica got up and pulled out her laptop. Eventually, she dozed off while scanning the collections of several favorite designers. She had searched for something to wear to the opening night at that exhibit paying homage to her father. His accomplishments, his vision and vitality, were soothing counterforcesto the cesspools created by the Mr. P’s of the world. That night she dreamed of Kelly. Adorned in a headdress like that worn by the Hindu goddess, she danced joyously, and sang in that lyrical voice of hers.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Are you insane Ms. Huntington? You walk into the studio and start a fight with Mr. P. That’s after digging up a bunch of dirt about your long-dead friend who was no innocent. In fact, she was a real pain in the ass, just like you, Ms. Huntington. You do not get who you are up against. These guys have been at it a long time. They’re good at what they do. If they overlook some detail when covering their tracks, they hire lawyers like you to clean up after them. I called to beg you to let it go, please. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  There was wretchedness in that young voice that wrenched Jessica to her core. Despite the tough words, the woman was frightened, using anger as her shield. “So, why does that matter to you, Ms. Reed? And how do you know what Kelly was like? My friend was murdered by Mr. P long before he met you. He used her, Kim, then, ran her down like a dog. It sounds like you know all about that.”

  “Please, no more. Just let it go. I know what he’s capable of, better than you can ever imagine. I’m mute around here a lot of the time, but I’m not blind or deaf. I know way more than I care to know about what happened to your friend Kelly.”

  “Then you have to tell somebody so whoever hurt her can be held accountable. Tell me. I can help you. You’re absolutely right that I am a lawyer. I have friends and money. If you need a place to go, I’ll come get you. I’ll take you where you’ll be safe.” If only someone had spoken words like those to Kelly.

  “Then what, are you going to do to get him out of my head? Can you erase the things I’ve seen and done? You can’t help me, nobody can. I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Your friend is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Save yourself.”

  “The way to do that is to stop him, Kim. You’ve got to help me. I can do it.”

  “No, you can’t. He’s the Mr. P, music mogul and studio wizard. Who’s going to believe a gutter rat like me?” she said, sounding more like a ten-year-old than a grown woman as she hung up that phone.

  Jessica tried to call back, but her call went directly to voice mail. She marched around her bedroom, making the bed, cleaning the room, even scrubbing the bathroom top to bottom. Growing more distraught, she was about to call Peter to see if there was some way his security firm could trace the location of that call from Kim. If he could locate her, Jessica would go get her. Her phone rang. Jessica grabbed for it, hoping it was Kim.

  “Jessica, it’s Frank. We’ve got him, Jessica. We’ve got the bastard, or will have him soon. Arnold Dunne has copped a plea. What finally did it was telling him what was in the remaining hypodermics he had. Those came straight from the doc. Man, was he scared and pissed when he lea
rned how close they had come to killing him. Now he can’t stop talking. Not just about Chester Davis, but a ton of his other dealings with Mr. P, and the doc, too. He’s an eyewitness to enough heinous acts to put both men away for a very long time. The other good news is that there are a lot of other folks interested in what Arnold Dunne has to say about Mr. P. LAPD is here, as well as the San Diego County Sherriff’s department, Border Patrol, DEA. Apparently, the FBI has had the weasel in their sights for a while now. They’ve got a team here now, hanging on every word Arnold Dunne has to say, Jessica.”

  “Oh my God, Frank. That is such a relief. I can guess about the DEA, but what’s the interest from the FBI about?”

  “That suitcase of smut Arnold Dunne was carrying wasn’t the first. He’s a regular distributor for the products Mr. P churns out. I’m not talking about the above-board garbage his adult film studio produces. I’m talking about the illicit material Arnold Dunne had with him at the time of his arrest. It’s sick stuff, mostly child pornography. Turns out Arnold Dunne has had a hand in procuring the girls in some of those videos. The bastard says he’s helped dump them once Mr. P decided it was time to get rid of them. We’re talking about sex trafficking, moving back and forth across the border with drugged-up young girls, Jessica. Most of them were from Mexico, but the traffic also moves the other way. It sounds like that’s another fate Kelly might have faced if she hadn’t been killed that night. The police in San Diego County have already started to round up a few of the characters involved on this side of the border, courtesy of information provided to them by Arnold Dunne. At one of the locations, they found several girls being held for transport out of the country.”

  “Does Mr. P know what’s up?” Jessica was thinking about that phone call from Kim. She had sounded desperate, but the message to Jessica was about backing off, as if Mr. P thought he was still out ahead of the game. Surely, she wouldn’t have called Jessica with another warning to back off if he had any real inkling about the juggernaut heading his way?

  “I don’t know. A warrant has been issued for his arrest, and for the doc, along with separate warrants to search both the music studio and the porn studio locations, the house in the Hollywood Hills, and Mr. P’s beach house in Malibu. The FBI and the LAPD are in the process of coordinating a raid on those places even as we speak. If they do locate them and make an arrest I don’t know who’s going to get the first crack at them, in terms of filing charges. I’m sure he’ll lawyer up, hoping to get back out on the street as soon as he can.”

  “Surely that won’t happen, Frank. No court is going to believe the man poses no threat to the community or that he’s not a flight risk. The guy has his own private jet, for God’s sake. He could take off and head out of here anytime he wants.”

  “Hey you’re singing a song I know all the words to. You never know what sort of case a crafty lawyer might be able to make. Well, actually maybe you do, Attorney Huntington.”

  “Ha! You know I’m not that kind of lawyer, Frank. Can you do me a huge favor?”

  “I can try.”

  “Is there any way you can get the LAPD to pick up Kim Reed, Mr. P’s assistant? She called me last night out of the blue. When I called her this morning, she seemed distraught and barked at me to butt out. She’s scared, Frank, and I’m scared for her. She knows something about Kelly, too. Kim has been up close and personal with the freakish Mr. P. Can you put her into protective custody or hold her for questioning somewhere safe? If we can convince her that Mr. P is going to end up behind bars, she’ll have at least as much to say as Arnold Dunne, and she’ll be even more credible.”

  “Do you know where we can find her?”

  “No. I have a cell phone number for her. There’s probably an address on file for her at Mr. P’s music studio where she works. Can your guys put a trace on the phone, locate her with GPS?”

  “I’ll do what I can to find her, Jessica. Also, I presume somebody has already done it, but I’ll make sure that Mr. P’s plane is grounded.”

  Even as she spoke, Jessica had decided to call Peter. She felt certain there was no time to lose. She would have him track Kim, too, using the GPS in her cell phone.

  “Thanks, Frank. This is such good work. Not just to locate Arnold Dunne before he could get away, but to get him talking like that. Kelly will get some kind of justice out of this, and Chester Davis too.”

  “Hey, you and the rest of our cat pack have helped too. I hate to say it, but I believe stirring things up put Mr. P into panic mode and caused him to screw up, big time. Not that I’m endorsing the risk you took confronting the bastard. There’s a good chance this is finally going to bring down that maniac, once and for all.”

  As she bid Frank goodbye, Jessica hoped that was true, and that it could be done before Mr. P could get to Kim. She would try to get to her first. It was too late for Kelly but maybe not for Kim.

  “Peter, this is Jessica. I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Jessica resumed pacing as she waited for Peter or Frank or someone to get back to her. She tried a couple more times to reach Kim Reed on her cell phone, but with no luck. When her phone rang, a couple hours later, she hoped beyond hope that it was Kim.

  “Jessica, this is Amy Klein. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I need to see you right away at the office on El Paseo.”

  “Now?”

  “As soon as you can get here, yes.”

  “Of course, Amy. Is Paul okay? What’s this about?”

  “Paul’s fine. It’s not that. There’s been a break-in. Your office is a wreck and the police are here asking a lot of questions about what’s missing. It’ll be easier for you to answer those questions.”

  “Oh my God, Amy. I am so sorry. I have a pretty good idea who’s behind this. Tell the police I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”

  “Sure, Jessica. No problem.”

  Jessica grabbed a pair of Tahari slacks and slipped them on. She added a sleeveless silk shell, topped off with a Michael Kors blazer in a lightweight fabric with three-quarter length sleeves. A pair of comfortable ballet flats completed the outfit, hoping she’d be presentable at work on such short notice. She took a swipe at her hair, put on a little makeup, and checked her bag to make sure she had the essentials.

  On Friday, Jessica had gone to pick up her BMW from the dealer, and it looked as good as new. As Jessica hustled out the kitchen door, she scrawled a note for Bernadette on a pad on the counter: “Gone to my office, back in a while, got news!”

  Jessica waved at the security guy who was sitting in his spot out in front of the house. She stopped for a second, rolled down her window, and shouted out her destination. He nodded in acknowledgement, then, typed something on his tablet. Jessica wasn’t sure why she had left that note for Bernadette, or bothered to announce where she was going to the guy from Peter’s firm. She felt uneasy about the call. Amy sounded a little rattled, but who wouldn’t be when confronted by a mess like that on her day off? Talking to the police was no picnic either. She was not relishing the idea of another round with the officers assigned to duty on El Paseo.

  She sped to I-10 and took the Monterey exit, anxious to get to her office as soon as possible, but without breaking the speed limit on Monterey. There had also been a tone of urgency in Amy’s voice that caused Jessica to push the posted limits. Jessica pulled into one of the parking spaces that had recently been set aside for the Palm Desert branch of Canady, Holmes, Winston, and Klein, directly behind the building that housed their offices.

  As she climbed up the stairs and reached the entrance to her office, she stopped for a minute to dig out her cell phone, which had started ringing. The summer heat was oppressive. It added to the stress-induced sweating that followed on the heels of the news delivered by Amy Klein. As she stepped through the doors into the cool air-conditioned space, she took the call from Peter.

  “Jessica, we’ve located the cell phone you asked us to find. It’s nearby, as a matter of fact.�
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  “Nearby, as in here in the desert?” she asked, adjusting to the darker light in the office. Amy was not sitting at her desk in the reception area. She and the police officers must be in the back where Jessica’s office was located.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. And, in one of your favorite places actually, El Paseo.” Jessica sucked in her breath as Amy stepped out from the back, pushed toward the reception area by the doc. On the surface, Amy appeared calm. The woman, usually impeccably groomed, had not fixed her smudged makeup. Nor had she retrieved errant strands of hair that had pulled free from the chignon she wore. Next, Kim Reed appeared, followed by Mr. P, who had something between a grimace and a smile on his face. Jessica considered bolting out the door and down the steps, but they had Amy. It was Jessica, not Amy, who was responsible for the current predicament.

  Without skipping a beat, Jessica picked up the phone conversation “Well, I can assure you, Mr. March, it is not okay. I understand you’re already in the area and feel it’s an emergency, but I cannot possibly drop everything here at my office right this minute. I have people waiting for me.” She paused as though listening to someone on the other end of the line. Peter got it right away.

  “Jessica are you in trouble?”

  “Yes, I know you are a good client. I would be happy to meet with you later. Come to my office in an hour or so, and dinner’s on me.” Jessica paused again briefly, hoping to maintain the charade.

  “I’m on my way, hang on.”

  “Great, Mr. March, that will be fine. I’ll see you soon.” With that, Jessica hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse. She thanked God Peter March recognized that “not okay” meant she was in trouble. That had been the signal used, previously, when she was dealing with Roger Stone’s killer. She never imagined she would have to send it again.