Kiss & Tell Page 11

  “No matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of the memories, the nightmares. When I close my eyes, all I see is Ken. The fear is constant.”

  “You’ll get through this, Sandra. I promise.” But Charlene couldn’t believe her own words.

  “Do you own a gun, Sandra?”

  Sandra hesitated slightly before answering, “No.”

  Charlene put her hand on Sandra’s knee. “Thank you for your time, Sandra, and your honesty.”

  Larry was already in the car when Charlene left the hotel. He had his notepad out and was flipping through it.

  “What did you get?” Charlene asked.

  “A whole lotta nothin’. A lot of nervous fidgetin’, anxious and apprehensive looks, easy to see the impact this situation has on Stanley. She’s taking it hard.”

  “I got the same thing from Sandra.”

  “Stanley said she was playin’ in her competitive women’s softball league last night. The game started at eight and lasted a couple of hours. I’ll follow up on that. She admitted knowin’ Anderson professionally, as her professor, but outside of that she didn’t have any contact with him.” He hesitated. “Jessica Philips was boppin’ the Professor.” Larry smiled at his discovery, as if it was a mind blowing proclamation.

  “Sandra told me the same thing. The affair was supposed to be a secret, but I wonder who else knew about it?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. It would explain Anderson’s presence in the house. Could have been a lovers’ tiff?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, but I’m not feeling it.”

  “Yeah, I agree. I don’t see Jessica Philips as a possible suspect. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I always suspected more than a teacher-student relationship,” Charlene admitted. “We have to find out what else Jessica Philips is hiding.”

  Charlene opened her phone and called Officer Berry.

  “Are you guys still at UCLA?”

  “Just leaving.”

  “Try to retrieve Ken Anderson and Jessica Philips’ class lists, and interview some of the other students. See if anyone knew if Jessica was dating anyone. We’re heading there now, so we might run into you.”

  Charlene hung up and looked at Larry. “You know, this doesn’t just give Sandra motive.”

  “I know, I know.” Larry looked disturbed. “If Beverly Anderson knew about her husband’s affair, then she too had motive.”

  “And what about Carl Minor? Would he tolerate a cheating son-in-law?”

  ~ * ~

  The UCLA Department of Psychology was housed in Franz Hall, a three building facility located on the east side of campus. The detectives entered by Westholme Avenue, badged their way past the campus security guards and parked in the designated visitors’ parking lot number two, close enough to cross campus on foot.

  They stopped by the dean’s office to show the search warrants and receive the key to Anderson’s office. After showing their badges, the receptionist, a cheerfully overweight woman with a trained smile, indicated that the dean was away on holidays and wouldn’t be returning until Monday. When asked about his home number, the detectives were politely told that the dean was in Bermuda. The secretary called campus safety to escort them to Anderson’s office.

  As they walked to the professor’s office, located on the third floor of the old building, the campus security guard went on about always dreaming of being a cop, but a hearing impairment disqualified him from applying.

  They followed the guard up three flights of stairs to the office. They had brought along their investigative kits, and campus security left the detectives, ensuring they would lock up when they left.

  Charlene and Larry slid on protective gloves and tossed the room. There was no safe, so all of Anderson’s papers were scattered chaotically.

  Even though it wasn’t the crime scene, vital details could be in the office to lead the investigation. Who had visited Anderson? What was he into?

  They dusted the entire room, starting with the doorknobs and moving to the desk drawer handles. They collected all the papers and threw them in a bag. It would be easier to investigate everything with a few more sets of eyes at the office.

  “Look at this, Taylor.” Larry held up a pocket-sized black book.

  She approached him curiously. “What is it?”

  “Looks like the professor’s little black book. The pages are filled with women’s names. Jessica and Sandra Philips are both here under ‘P’.”

  “So he considered Sandra’s rape as a notch on his bed post?” Charlene was disgusted, but she wondered how many of those names were added after his marriage. Then she had a thought. “Is Ashley Stanley in there?”

  “Stanley, S… Let’s see.” Larry flipped through the pages. “Stanley, Stanley, Stanley… Nope, not here.”

  They retrieved the rest of the material in the office, locked up, and headed for the precinct.

  Chapter 12

  After visiting Anderson’s office, they spent the next three hours going through the stuff they’d confiscated and writing out their daily reports.

  After work, Charlene took a detour on her way home. She circled Lauren’s neighborhood several times, looking for any indication of a disturbance. She prayed for a sign that would give her probable cause to barge into the house.

  She parked on the side of the road, staring at the house, picturing little Lauren inside the dragon’s layer. How was she coping? What could Charlene do to help?

  The images of Lauren’s bruised body consumed Charlene.

  Ever since that morning, Charlene had been keeping tabs on Lauren and her family and the ongoing social case. Charlene doubted that anything would be done and didn’t see Lauren being removed from the family.

  Charlene would have to think of a way to get her out.

  She got out of the car, walked to the door, and knocked.

  It was opened by Charles Lefebvre, the man who had almost caused her to lose her job. Lefebvre stood at the door with a smug look on his face, showing no ill effects of their run in. Charlene would have liked to wipe it clean.

  “What do you want?” he said. Charlene could tell that he recognized her even out of uniform.

  Just seeing his face stirred something deep within Charlene. “I’d like to see Lauren.”

  “What about?”

  “That’s between us.”

  Lefebvre hesitated, obviously trying to goad Charlene into doing something stupid, but she wasn’t taking the bait.

  “Who is it, honey?” Monica Schwartz’s voice came from behind and then her head appeared over Lefebvre’s shoulder. When she saw Charlene, she didn’t say a word.

  “Officer Taylor!” Lauren’s voice boomed from behind her mother and then the little girl squeezed through two sets of legs to meet Charlene. The six-year-old wrapped her arms around Charlene’s legs and squeezed tightly. “You came back.” Lauren smiled and Charlene could see that her two front adult teeth were starting to come in.

  “I told you I would,” Charlene said. She looked at Schwartz and Lefebvre who were still standing at the door watching.

  “Let’s go, honey.” Schwartz pulled Lefebvre by the shoulder but he didn’t leave immediately, staring at Charlene one last time before shutting the door.

  Charlene bent down and hugged Lauren. “How have you been?”

  “Great,” Lauren squealed. “Mommy bought me a new bike and I can ride it all by myself…no training wheels.” The girl’s contagious smile was ear-to-ear.

  “That’s so great, Lauren. You’re a real star.” Charlene showed Lauren a book she’d brought along. “My mother gave me this book when I was about your age.”

  Lauren took the book and read the cover, her eyes growing wide with excitement. “Beauty and the Beast. Wow!”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Lauren looked at Charlene. “Really?”

  “Yep. You can read about Belle every night before you go to sleep.”

  “Cool, thanks, Officer Taylo
r.”

  Just as Lauren was giving Charlene another hug, the front door opened and Lefebvre said, “Lauren, it’s time for your bath. Your mother has the tub ready.”

  “Okay.” The girl smiled, waved playfully at Charlene, and skipped into the house.

  Lefebvre stepped outside and shut the door. “I don’t ever want to see you back here again. You’ve already done enough to this family.”

  Charlene stepped closer to Lefebvre, right in his face almost nose to nose. She could see sweat seeping out of his pores. Lefebvre squirmed, taking an involuntary step back.

  “Actually, it’s Detective Taylor now.” Charlene smiled. “I’ll be driving by this house every night until you’re either behind bars or dead. If I see one reason to stop, I won’t even hesitate. And this time, I won’t have a partner to stop me.”

  Charlene turned around and headed back to her car. Lefebvre was still on the doorstep when she drove away.

  ~ * ~

  After being caught in evening rush hour, she traipsed through the door at almost eight. The fridge had been freshly stocked, so Charlene grabbed a Bud and flipped on the TV. She cleaned out her jacket pockets and noticed she hadn’t put Anderson’s car keys back in the evidence bag. She threw the keys on the kitchen counter and used the remote to turn on the TV.

  Listening to the nightly news report, she got undressed. As a cop, she was always interested in the kind of attention a case garnered. As expected, the Anderson murder was the lead story. America loved drama, and to Charlene, this case reeked of it.

  The media had already ranked the case with some of the more famous ones LAPD had investigated—Manson, Kennedy, and OJ.

  Ken Anderson’s personal life, his in-laws, led the story, and Jessica Philips’ name was mentioned as a highly involved suspect. They were making Ken Anderson out to have been a saint, and Jessica a killer. But to Larry and Charlene, she wasn’t even a possible suspect.

  Captain Dunbar appeared and gave a brief, candid speech, spouting the regular mumbo-jumbo, “The police are doing all they can to get to the truth.” Then Carl Minor was interviewed to say that he would do all he could to help. Charlene assumed he would also throw some money and clout around.

  She shook her head and flicked off the set. The politics of the case would become a burden and a hurdle.

  She was getting undressed when the phone rang. Charlene contemplated answering. She looked at the sweating bottle in her hand and took another swig. She sat on the futon and clicked on the phone.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  “You again.”

  “You didn’t think I was going away, did you?” He spoke with a voice devoid of emotion.

  “Hoping, more like it.” She took a drink. “Why don’t we meet?”

  “Are you interested, Charlie?”

  “Sorry, I don’t go for little dicks. And don’t call me that.” She could feel her temperature rise.

  “Temper, temper, your doctor wouldn’t want to hear about your short fuse going off again. I saw the guy you attacked. What a shame.” He let out a wicked laugh.

  Charlene felt beads of sweat pierce her upper lip. She bit her bottom lip. How does he know so much?

  “What do you want from me?” Charlene snapped back.

  “You’re going to help me get my message out.”

  “What message?”

  “Now that you’re officially a detective, I think it’s time to play a game. Are you in the mood for a game, Charlie?”

  She composed herself. “So you’ve been watching me.”

  “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

  “You have?” Charlene sounded surprised. She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t. “Why’s that?”

  “Now we’re working on even ground. It’s a fair fight. Now, I can compare the two Taylor detectives.” He let out a low laugh.

  Anger surged up from within her. She’d been unconsciously holding her breath and let it out. She went to a machine she had attached to the phone and turned it on.

  “Are you going to give me a hint?”

  He ignored the question. “You better put on a shirt, Charlie. You look cold.”

  Charlene froze, her heart dropping in her chest. She got up and slowly moved towards the window. She peeked out to the darkened side street, but with no streetlights, her vision was limited. She thought she saw a gaunt figure in the shadows inside a sidewalk phone booth, but couldn’t be certain. There were so few phone booths still remaining that she was always surprised when she passed this one.

  “Do you like what you see?” she asked.

  Charlene furtively removed her gun from the holster. Holding the portable phone to her ear, she tiptoed to the door and into the hall of her apartment building.

  She heard him squeeze out a low laugh, but she could tell that she had triggered something.

  “Oh, Charlie, I really can’t wait until we get closer. I know everything about you. But my favorite part is your tattoo.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He knew everything, even her most secret, intimate details.

  “Tell me, Detective. Is that a sign of freedom—breaking from the chains of your father?”

  She had to keep him on the line. “You seem to know a lot about me. I don’t know a thing about you. For all I know, you’re just some pervert who peeps in women’s windows.”

  She was only two flights of stairs and the corner of the building away from the booth. But she was moving slowly, cautious not to frighten him or give away her position. Charlene was scared herself, but her police mentality, her instincts, kicked in. Her heart pumped.

  “I don’t think so, Detective!” Charlene could hear the anger growing in his tone. She had touched a nerve. This guy was an attention seeker, loved the spotlight. He wanted her to know who he really was. But as quickly as he angered, he just as quickly caught himself and regained his frighteningly calm, reasonable voice. “You’ll soon realize that I’m the man I say I am.” Then the connection was broken.

  She dropped the phone and sprinted down the remaining flight of stairs. She rounded the corner with her pistol drawn and grasped tightly. She sidestepped towards the phone booth hunched in a marksman’s crouch. Fear urged her on, her nerves tingling. Charlene quickly shifted her body and swung out, blocking the front of the opened booth door.

  Empty.

  If someone had been in there, he or she was now gone. The telephone receiver dangled in mid-air, and the remnants of a shattered light bulb lay scattered on the floor. She scanned the area and listened, seeing and hearing nothing.

  How did he know so much? Did she know this guy?

  A car honked, and she raised her gun in time to see a car full of young men, their heads out the window, screaming and cheering at her. Then she realized she was still in only a bra.

  She examined the scene a little longer, taking ten minutes to make sure it was clear, and then holstered her weapon.

  “I need a drink.”

  ~ * ~

  Charlene rolled off him and grabbed the Budweiser from her night table. She took a sip—too warm—and bounced off the bed. Ignoring her underwear, she pulled on one of Andy’s old NYU T-shirts that was way too big for her and headed for the kitchen.

  “Wow, that was amazing,” Andy said. “And I thought I was just coming over for sushi.” He smiled.

  She came back holding a Styrofoam container and sat cross-legged on the bed beside him.

  “I owed you for the other night,” she answered, popping a piece into her mouth.

  “Move in with me,” he said.

  “Not this again.” Charlene scooped a piece of sushi out of the container and slid it into Andy’s open mouth.

  He chewed, swallowed, and then said, “Why not?”

  “Andy, I’m not having this discussion again. I’m not ready, and that’s it.” She got up and headed back to the kitchen.

  “I’m not giving up on us, Charlene. This is going to happen. I want us to have a life together.”

  “
Do as you please, Andy, but I don’t have time for a life. You have to go now. I have work to do.”

  “What kind of work do you do at one in the morning?”

  “Real work.” She opened the fridge and removed a cold bottle.

  “You have real issues, Charlene.” She heard his feet hit the floor. “Every time I bring up our future, you push me away.”

  “So I’ve been told, repeatedly.”

  Andy got dressed and let himself out without saying goodbye. He slammed the door hard.

  Once he was gone, she opened the beer and entered her new, homemade office.

  Her father’s file had been awaiting her. She set the beer on her desk and sat down, opening the three-inch folder. She read over her father’s case—police files, crime scene photos, ballistics reports, and autopsy protocols.

  She checked the witness list. Only one. Ren Cheung was working the late shift at the Imperial Palace Chinese Buffet that night. He’d called it in. Charlene knew that sometimes killers would come forward as witnesses. It gave them a sense of power, and helped them find out how much the police knew. The first witness should be the first suspect.

  She threw the papers back on the desk and took a drink. “This means nothing unless I’m at the scene,” she said to herself.

  She checked her watch, threw on an old pair of faded jeans, grabbed a red sweater off the floor, and headed for the door.

  ~ * ~

  She passed through “Guitar Row,” aptly nicknamed because of the number of guitar stores and music industry-related businesses, before parking in front of the Imperial Palace building, just a few blocks down from the Viper Room, a nightclub once owned by actor Johnny Depp. Imperial Palace was closed, so Charlene pulled a flashlight out of her glove box and walked around to the back alley, which was black and pungent. The stench assaulted her nostrils.

  Without the aid of her iPhone flashlight, Charlene would never have found her way around. Either the killer had a light, or was so familiar with the area that he could maneuver in the dark.

  She scanned the corners of the alley with her light then changed her mind. She returned to her vehicle and brought it around, entering the alley from the east wing, as her father had done. She parked in the exact location where her father’s car had been found.