by MZ Kelly
I got my usual from the barista and waited for Pearl and Natalie on the deck that overlooked the city. It was just after ten, the day dawning cool and clear.
“Good mornin’,” Natalie said, pulling up a bench across from me. I waved to Pearl, who was at the counter. She stirred sugar into her tea. “Got me a call from a producer who was at the actors workshop last night. He wants me to be on one of them reality TV shows.”
“What kind of show?”
“Somethin’ called Hollywood Couples. They want me and Clyde to live with some other couples in a big house in the hills for a week, see how many scuffles we can get ourselves into.”
“Bet Clyde’s thrilled with that idea.”
Natalie laughed. “Maybe I’ll get him some boxin’ gloves to go with his pink undies.”
Pearl took a seat next to Natalie, hearing the end of our conversation. He smiled at us. “I’m not even going to ask.”
“Probably a good idea,” I said. I took a moment to tell them about my suspension. After receiving some sympathy, I moved on, filling them in on last night’s conversation with my Dark Dating companion.
“So you really think Donovan’s involved?” Natalie asked.
“I’m sure of it.” I opened the manila folder I’d received in the mail and pushed several police reports across the table. “These were sent to me by my friend in the department’s record division. The reports were misfiled, so it took a while to find them.”
I pointed to the dates on a couple of the reports. “Some of these go back to the early 1980s. A few involve some minor scrapes with the law that Nathan Kane had, but some others involve rather large drug investigations that led nowhere. Each time, just as Bill Compton told me, Marvin Drake was the lead investigator. He closed all the investigations without follow-up.”
I sipped my coffee, then said, “Now for the good part.” I removed another report from the envelope and handed it to them, explaining what I’d learned. “This report involves Wolf Donovan being questioned about heroin and cocaine that was found in a shipping container with some artwork, under his name, in the Port of Los Angeles, back in 1983. The contents were to be delivered to a warehouse in Santa Monica, rented by Nathan Kane. Both Donovan and Kane denied any knowledge of the drugs or how they got into the shipping container. The case was eventually closed for insufficient evidence, under the signature of Marvin Drake.”
Pearl thumbed through the report before removing his reading glasses. “Anything that links Donovan and Harper?”
I shook my head. “No, but we now have a direct link between Donovan and Kane, with Drake killing the investigation. And we know from Bill Compton that Kane and Harper were involved in the drug trade going back to the same era.”
Natalie apparently saw the smile that tipped my hand. “Okay, give it up. You’ve got more sauce in your sizzle.”
I moved the stack of reports aside and showed them a newspaper clipping from April of 1983.
“This is a copy of an article from the Hollywood Reporter. It was filed with one of the early reports on John Carmichael’s disappearance. It talks about his film, Days of Destiny, being suspended due to production costs.”
I placed a second page of the article, which had a photograph, on top of the first. “Notice anyone familiar?”
“John Carmichael and a very young Conrad Harper,” Pearl said, his smile almost as big as mine. “Who’s the woman standing between them?”
“The article doesn’t say, but If I was a betting woman, I’d put money on it being Gloria Stallings, Cassie Reynolds’ mother.”
Pearl and Natalie spent a few minutes reviewing the article and police reports.
When they finished, Pearl said, “I have a friend who works at the UCLA Film Institute. I wonder if he would know anything about Days of Destiny.” He stood and tossed his paper cup in a receptacle. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll make a phone call.”
While Pearl took a walk to use his phone, Natalie and I spent a moment reflecting on where we stood.
“If we’re right about everything,” I said, “it means that Harper, Kane, Drake, and Donovan may have all had a hand in a conspiracy to murder John Carmichael. It’s a conspiracy that’s unraveling behind something Cassie Reynolds found out. I believe Drake framed Jack Bautista for Cassie’s murder, but then he, or maybe all those involved, thought better of it. That’s when Drake tried to kill Jack.”
“They were probably worried that Cassie told him somethin’ and wanted him out of the picture,” Natalie said.
“Then they started to worry about what Jack might have told me. That’s when the threats began, including Robin being set up on drug charges to warn me off the case.”
“No tellin' what’s gonna happen next, especially if Kane is back in the picture,” Natalie said.
“As we get closer to the truth, the danger is going to increase. I want you to be careful, make sure someone is always with you.”
I saw Natalie’s usually expressive eyes turn down. She didn’t acknowledge what I said.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You’re startin’ to be able to read me like a tabloid.” My friend swept a hand through her blonde hair. “Actually, old Clyde and me are havin’ a case of the squabbles. It’s not just the changes I want to make to the store he doesn’t like.” Natalie lowered her voice. “Clyde doesn’t think we’re sexually compatible.”
“What? I thought you two were…”
“At first we were, but I’m ‘fraid the honeymoon is over. Clyde says our frequency is too frequent. Says I’m about to bust his banger.”
“Oh.” I’m usually not at a loss for words, but didn’t know what to say. I saw Pearl making his way back up the stairs to the deck.
Natalie continued. “So, I was wonderin’ if I could spend a night or two with you. Try and sort a few things out. I’d just sleep on the sofa. Wouldn’t be any sorta trouble.”
“Of course.” I squeezed her hand. “Anything you need.”
Pearl was back at our table. “If you two have a couple of hours, I think we should head over to UCLA. My friend’s teaching a class, but his secretary is sure that he’ll meet with us on his break.”
I tugged on Bernie’s leash as we stood up and said, “I love old movies.”
***
We found Billy Canfield, the director of the UCLA Film and Television Archives, teaching a community class called “The Stars of Old Hollywood”. He agreed to meet us on his lunch break.
“As I mentioned when I called your secretary,” Pearl said to Canfield after the class, “we’re looking for anything you might have on a film that was being produced in the early eighties called Days of Destiny. The movie was never completed.”
Canfield was a better fit for a motorcycle than a library. Leather jacket. Gray hair tied into a ponytail. Full, bushy beard.
As he punched commands into a computer console in his office, he told us about the classes he taught. We chatted aimlessly for a moment, and I mentioned that my middle name was Hedwig, taken from Hedy Lamarr.
“Your namesake was not only beautiful, but brilliant,” Canfield said. “She starred in dozens of films. First actress to do a nude scene. She also invented a patented device that had military applications. Her personal life was interesting, as well—married six times.”
“Maybe you should continue with your actin’,” Natalie suggested. “You’ve already made a splash as a Cuban crooner.”
I saw the questioning looks from Pearl and Canfield and said, “Don’t ask.” I turned to Natalie. “And my acting career is history.”
Canfield turned his attention back to the computer. “Almost everything that’s produced is catalogued by the American Film Institute. The AFI’s archives go back to the silent film era. If your film has ever been distributed, it should be listed.”
“But Days of Destiny was never completed,” I said. “Would there be a record of an unfinished film?�
��
“It shouldn’t be an issue, as long as the film somehow got into the hands of a studio, or even a private collector.”
Canfield’s fingers continued to dance across the keyboard. In a few moments they stopped. He looked at us. “I’m not getting a hit on the movie by name.”
“Would it possibly be listed by the director or production company?” Pearl asked. “A guy named John Carmichael directed it. It might even be listed as a Conrad Harper production.”
Canfield again worked the keyboard. “Too bad about Harper. He was a true genius.”
A true asshole, I wanted to say.
“Got it,” Canfield announced after a moment. “It was filmed in 1983, but, as you said, never completed. The catalogue shows Harper was the producer.”
“Can we check it out of the library?” Natalie asked. “Got me library card right here in me purse.”
“I’m afraid not,” Canfield said. “The film is in Hutchinson.”
“Where?” I asked.
“It’s an underground film vault in Kansas, really just a big salt mine that absorbs moisture and prevents deterioration of prints and negatives. All the originals of anything anyone wants to preserve are sent there.”
“Can we request a copy?” Pearl asked.
“I can have it express shipped. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”
My phone was ringing as Pearl made the arrangements with Canfield. I told the caller I would be right there and hung up.
“I’ve got to go,” I said. I turned to Natalie. “That was Clyde. He’s at the store and happened to notice the door to my loft was pushed open. My apartment was broken into—burglarized.”
“I’m comin’ with you,” Natalie said.
***
I felt sick when we entered my apartment with Bernie. It had been ransacked, the intruder leaving nothing undisturbed. The biggest mess was in my bedroom, where every drawer had been opened, and the contents tossed onto the floor.
“This is enough to make me bite off an acrylic,” Natalie said. “Almost worse than when Clyde lived here as a bachelor.”
After a more thorough survey of the disaster, with Bernie following me around and providing whines of support, I said, “It doesn’t look like anything was taken. I even had a small amount of cash in the bedroom dresser that was just tossed onto the floor with everything else.”
“Maybe someone was lookin’ for somethin’ besides money,” Natalie suggested.
“The police reports,” I said, remembering I’d left the reports Wilma Bibby had sent me in Olive’s trunk. I looked out the window. My little car was still parked at the curb where I’d left her, untouched.
For a moment I contemplated making a police report and having the apartment dusted for fingerprints, but decided against it. I already had enough problems with the department. It was unlikely that whoever broke in had left any prints behind. Something else about what had been happening over the last several days then struck me.
I checked the phone in the living room first and then the one in the bedroom. I found what I’d suspected, holding the listening devices up to Natalie.
“This explains why my every move seems to be known by someone almost before it happens.”
My cell phone could have also been monitored. I knew that was possible from working a stalking case a few years back where the suspect hacked into the victim’s calls. I made a mental note to call Riggs or Smith for advice on what to do. They were good friends who would help me out, even if I was on suspension.
Natalie was saying something about bugs when the phone in my living room rang. I threw the listening devices in a drawer and picked up the phone. The voice was muffled but familiar.
“Jack, where are you?”
“Still in Arizona.” I heard the sound of voices in the background and then something that sounded like a loudspeaker.
“I found Cassie Reynolds’ mother. Gloria Stallings has been living off the radar for years, in and out of homeless shelters here in Tucson, but she’s currently staying with a guy named Harvey Bishop.” He gave me the address.
After writing it down, I took a moment to update him on everything. There was a lot of noise in the background again. I then heard someone say something about time being up.
“When are you coming back to Hollywood?” I asked.
There was a jostling sound before he came back on the line.
“Just as soon as they extradite me, Kate. I’m in the Pima County Jail.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I arrived in Tucson late in the day, with Pearl and Natalie. We checked into a hotel that allowed dogs, and Natalie stayed with Bernie while Pearl and I went to the Pima County Jail.
When we got to the jail, we were told that visiting hours were over. I didn’t have a legitimate badge to press the issue, and Pearl had to be back in Hollywood by late the following day, so we decided any discussion with Jack would have to wait.
The next morning we arrived at Gloria Stallings’ house, where Natalie and I were given a twelve gauge salute.
“Get off my property! Now!” Harvey Bishop yelled as he racked his shotgun.
Bernie let out a deep growl. The house was a run-down cinder block affair, half an hour from the city, surrounded by rusted cars and piles of rubbish. It’s what Charlie would’ve called a “Dirt Bag Shack”.
“We just wanna talk to Gloria,” Natalie pleaded, as I restrained Bernie. I was sure that she’d never heard the sound of a twelve gauge being racked. “Then you can go back to livin’ in your shit hole.”
Bishop appeared to be in his sixties. He had a full head of bushy gray hair. Mounds of flesh spilled over his belt buckle.
We were looking at three hundred pounds of bad attitude, with an even badder means to back it up. That’s why Pearl had circled behind the house and dropped quietly in behind Bishop.
“You’ve got three seconds to drop the shotgun, or we’ll see what a Glock 9 will do to that thick head of yours,” Pearl said.
Bishop lowered the gun, but hesitated at waist level.
Natalie wagged a finger at him. “And, if by some miracle you live, you’ll spend the rest of your life droolin’ and watchin’ the shit bag on your wheelchair fill up.”
The gun hit the ground as I looked at my friend.
Natalie shrugged. “Heard that line in some old movie. Seemed like as good a time as any to use it.”
I picked up the shotgun while restraining Bernie from chewing off Bishop’s beefy leg.
Pearl came around as I slapped one end of my cuffs around Bishop’s wrist and the other end to a railing on the porch.
“You can’t handcuff me,” Bishop protested.
I stared into brown eyes that were almost lost in the hair and fat on his face. “Just did. Sit down, shut up, and we’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Make any trouble, and the dog will remove your dick, if he can find it.”
I left Bernie in the yard, giving him the settle command. My big dog took up a position less than ten feet from Bishop, licking his chops as he stared down the beefy hairball.
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. T
he 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’ 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’ 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.” Stallings’ 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?”
