Kiss & Tell Page 13

  “Did you happen to see anyone inside my car while I was in the house?” Charlene asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Officer.” He looked at the dog. “Can I go? Myles is getting impatient.”

  Charlene looked down and saw the dog sitting at attention.

  “Did the police question you about the incident that happened here a couple of nights ago?”

  “Yes. I gave them my report. I wasn’t home so I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  She knew she could easily verify this from the crime report.

  “Why don’t we go get that wallet, Ted?”

  After verifying the man was who he said he was, Charlene headed to the department.

  Chapter 14

  “Well, that was a waste of time.” Officer Nick Berry put the car into drive.

  “You didn’t really think Anderson’s lawyer would give us anything did you?” Berry’s partner, officer Brad Clayton, responded.

  “Then why did Baker send us there?”

  “Dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s. It’s called going through the motions of a homicide investigation. At least we got something from Anderson’s colleagues.”

  “Yeah, but confirmation won’t be easy.”

  The officers had discovered that Anderson’s favorite hang-out was O’Brien’s on Wilshire, a small, low key pub that would conceal Anderson’s identity.

  As they neared the bar, Berry cracked the window and lit a cigarette, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and blowing smoke outside.

  “So, are you going to be okay with this?”

  “Okay with what?” Berry asked, already knowing.

  “Don’t give me that, Nick. Are you going to be okay working for Taylor?”

  “Actually, we’re working for Baker. But to answer your question, am I pissed off I didn’t get the promotion? Hell, yes. Do I have more mouths to feed at home? Hell, yes. But this is my job.”

  Clayton nodded. “You know that smoke really annoys me,” he added, after swallowing a mouthful of Greek salad.

  “I know, but it helps me calm down. I got no sleep last night. Are you almost done with that? We’re here.”

  “Almost.”

  “Why can’t you just have McDonalds like the rest of us? You think you’ll live longer?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Berry pulled the car into the vacant parking lot and shut down the engine. He looked at his partner. “So, what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you think you got overlooked again for a reason?”

  “Why, because I’m gay? Let’s not get into this. Let’s go.”

  By mid-morning, the bar parking lot was sparsely occupied. They were met by the soft sounds of Irish jukebox music and an older gentleman standing behind the counter with a bar towel slung over his shoulder. He stood only about a foot above the bar and wore a green and white striped, button down shirt.

  “Good morning, Officers.”

  The men approached the bar. As the senior, Berry took the lead.

  “We’re looking for the manager.”

  “You’re looking at him. Sam O’Brien.” The man stretched out his hand and the officers shook it. “What can I do for you?”

  If the man was uneasy at the sight of cops in his bar, he didn’t show it.

  “Ken Anderson.”

  The man nodded, his lips puckered in a remorseful grimace. “We knew him as Rick. He was a good customer.” Then he turned to a young woman, who wore the same striped shirt, mopping the floor around the pool table. “Kathleen, can you take over?”

  He turned back to the officers. “We can talk in my office.”

  The manager led them past the pool table, down a long, narrow hallway into a comfortable looking office with glimmering hardwood flooring and leather furniture.

  “Come on in.”

  The cops sat down while the bar owner sat behind a mahogany desk.

  “I’ve been wondering when you’d get around to stopping in.”

  Berry spoke while Clayton took notes. “When was the last time you saw Anderson?”

  “Ken was in here Friday night. I had no idea who he was, but when I saw his picture on the TV the next morning, I knew it was him.”

  The officers looked at each other. “You didn’t think you should notify the police?”

  The bar owner shrugged. “Figured you’d get around to seeing me. I can’t believe he’d been coming in here for so long and I didn’t even know who he was. He told me his name was Rick, but I guess that’s why he came here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I didn’t recognize him, and I doubt any of my clientele would either. He’s married into one of the richest families in America and came in here with a new women each time. If he wanted to remain anonymous, this was the place to do it.”

  “Who was he with on Friday?”

  The owner shook his head and smiled. “That’s the strange part. That’s the first time he’s ever been here alone.”

  “You recognize any of these girls?” Clayton handed the manager pictures of Jessica Philips, Sandra Philips, and Ashley Stanley.

  The bartender examined them closely and shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t really seem like Ken’s type.” He handed the picture back. “Did one of them kill him?”

  Berry ignored the question. “On this particular night, how did he act?”

  “Same as always, quiet. The only change was that he didn’t have a woman with him.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him?”

  “Sure, I’m a bartender.” The man smiled. “That’s what we do.” He leaned back in his chair. “Ken liked his liquor, always the good stuff from the top shelf. He didn’t talk much, especially when there were sports on the TV. I think he gambled a lot. He’d hide himself in the corner, drink and watch sports until closing time, and then stumble out with his arm around a different babe.”

  “Did you notice any marks on his face Friday, like maybe he’d been in a fight?”

  “Didn’t really notice, but then again the lighting isn’t so good in that section so his face was hidden.”

  “Did anyone talk to him?”

  The man shook his head. “I tried to approach him but he waved me off. So I knew he was having a bad night.”

  “Who served him?”

  The owner swiveled in his chair and checked the employee schedule. “That’d be Kathleen.”

  Berry nodded to Clayton, who quickly left the room. He turned back to the man behind the desk. “Did you see him leave?”

  “I watched him most of the night, thought he was acting peculiar. So I guess I saw him leave.”

  “Did he leave with anyone? Did anyone follow him out?”

  “No, he left alone.”

  Clayton returned. “Waitress said she remembers serving him, but he never looked up from the table when he ordered.”

  “So that’s all you have for us?” Berry turned back to the manager.

  The expression on the man’s face tensed, tightening. “I don’t really want to get involved.”

  “If you know something, Mr. O’Brien, then withholding information is an obstruction of justice. Punishable by law” Berry said.

  “I know the law, Officer.”

  The bar owner opened his desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of Crown Royal. He poured himself a shot and drank it. Then he removed a package of cigarettes.

  “You mind?” he asked, holding up a cigarette.

  Both cops shook their head, so he lit up and inhaled.

  The cops were getting annoyed. “So are you going to tell us, or are we going downtown?”

  “Alright, alright.” He crushed out the cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “I guess I should have reported it when it happened.”

  “What was it?” Berry moved to the edge of his seat.

  The bar owner looked at a calendar pinned to the wall behind his chair. “I can’t r
emember the exact date, but it was the night the Heat came to town and blew out the Lakers.” The man looked at the cops, as if relaying a silent message from one LA sports fan to another. But neither Berry nor Clayton followed basketball.

  “Go on.”

  “Ken was here with one of his blondes.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “Nah, they all look the same. She was new, but fit Ken’s tastes—blonde, fake breasts, lots of makeup—looked out of it, maybe even a little stoned. I call them the ‘flavor of the month club’.” He smiled, then quickly remembered the relevance of the story and discarded the grin.

  He continued. “Anyway, they sat at the bar, and Ken asked me to turn on the Lakers game. Guess he had some money on it.”

  “How did he do?”

  “The more the Heat increased their lead, the more he drank. The Lakers didn’t even come close to covering the spread.”

  “How much did he lose?”

  The owner shrugged. “He didn’t say. But he buried his head like someone had shot his dog. I told him that he should probably go and I offered to call him a cab.”

  “Did he leave?”

  “Not right away. But he should have.” The owners eyes grew large, a look of terror slashed across his face. “Two guys came in.”

  “Can you remember what they looked like?”

  “Couldn’t forget if I tried.”

  “Describe them.”

  “They were huge and dressed in full black—leather jackets and jeans, dark hair pulled into ponytails, goatees, dark sunglasses, and black shirts unbuttoned to expose hairy chests. They were at least six three, the black cowboy boots making them six five easy. They looked serious.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “I asked them what they wanted and they simply looked at Ken. I didn’t ask questions.”

  “How did Ken react?”

  “Almost as if he’d been expecting them. He got up and walked outside. Just left the girl on the stool. I watched them leave then ran to the window to look out.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “The alley out back. There’s a window that gives a clear view of it.”

  “Take us out there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  The owner led the cops to the back of the bar, exiting through a push-barred back door marked Emergency Exit Only.

  The scent of garbage, vomit, urine, and stale beer permeated the quiet twenty-foot-wide alleyway. A blue dumpster, overloaded with garbage, was pushed up against a spray-paint graffiti brick wall. Garbage and broken liquor bottles lay strewn throughout the alley.

  Berry turned to Clayton. “No witnesses, the perfect location for a beating.”

  “I watched the whole thing from that window.” The owner pointed to a small barred window at the back of the building.

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say they laid a beatin’ on him.”

  The cops noticed dried blood stains on the dirty pavement.

  “Have you ever seen these men again?”

  “No, Sir, and thank God.”

  “Would you be willing to come down to the station and work with a sketch artist to recreate a likeness?”

  “Nick,” Clayton said. “I have a feeling these guys are already in the system.”

  “Maybe come down and view some mug shots then, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Like I said, Officers, I don’t want to get involved.”

  They should probably have told O’Brien that he was under an obligation to do so, but the officers were so excited to have their first real lead that they just thanked him and left.

  Chapter 15

  Charlene grabbed a late lunch at a Greek deli. Before heading to her desk at Robbery-Homicide in the new Police Administration Building on West First Street, she stopped by the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center where Dana was working in the lab.

  She gave Dana the envelope and pictures, and told her that nobody saw the results but her.

  She arrived back at her desk to find a copy of the LA Times spread across it, the front page covered with the Anderson murder investigation. She quickly skimmed the contents and then folded it up and threw it on the desk.

  The reporter, Paul Carter, had about as much information on the murder as the cops had. In fact, he had too much. Carter had a rundown on Jessica Philips’ life, as well as Ken Anderson’s relationship with Carl Minor. Charlene was fuming.

  Goddamn leaks!

  She picked up the newspaper and marched into the captain’s office without knocking.

  The captain was also reading the front page article.

  “Captain, I want to put a gag order on everyone connected to this case.”

  He looked up. “I’m sorry, who’s running point on this one? Where’s Baker?”

  “I just got here and haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Well maybe you should discuss these things with your partner before yelling out stupidity. You’re a rookie, Taylor, don’t forget that.”

  She stormed out of the office and took a deep breath, allowing her rage to pass. She opened the paper back up and read the article in its entirety, finding nothing she didn’t already know, which sometimes happened in this city, and then quickly flipped to the sports section to see how the other teams in the Dodgers’ division had fared in last night’s games.

  She found Larry at his desk, where Darren was leaning over the computer.

  Larry was sitting back with his legs up, holding a paper cup of coffee.

  “What’s up?” Charlene asked.

  “My computer was acting up, so I asked officer computer geek to help me out. He had it fixed within minutes. Thanks, Brady.”

  Darren looked at Charlene. “It was nothing really. All I had to do was…”

  “Thanks, Brady,” Larry said again.

  Darren took the hint and returned to his desk.

  When he was gone Larry said, “Those hair fibers found on Anderson didn’t match the samples we pulled from Stanley and the two Philips girls.”

  “Do you think we can get a sample from Beverly Minor?”

  Larry smirked. “Doubtful. Her lawyer won’t allow it and I don’t know if it would have any bearing. She’s his wife, so of course he’d have her hair on him.” He threw a folder on her desk. “Clayton and Berry dropped this off.”

  Charlene opened the folder. It was the complete file on Anderson.

  “Did they find anything?”

  “I just looked through it quickly. They went for coffee.”

  Charlene started to read through it when the officers got back and told her what they found.

  “We’ve established a timeline. After our initial interviews and using LUDs, we’re pretty sure Anderson went to Jessica Philips’ house directly from the bar. We doubt he had any contact with anyone in between. It’s all in the report.”

  LUDs were the local usage details from Anderson’s iPhone records.

  “We also talked to his lawyer, whom he doesn’t share with his wife. Not much there. Anderson didn’t have a will.”

  “Really?” Charlene said.

  Barry shrugged. “He was one of those guys who thought he’d live forever.”

  “I saw something in here about an incident at the bar,” she said.

  The officers told them about Anderson’s run in with two unknown acquaintances. They detailed the physical description.

  Charlene jumped to her feet. “I’ll find out who works that beat to see if these characters are anyone they’re familiar with.”

  “Sit down, Taylor,” Larry said. He turned towards the officers. “Thanks, guys. Take the rest of the night off and meet us back here first thing in the morning.”

  The men left.

  When they were gone, Charlene said, “Larry, let’s go. We need to find out who these guys are.”

  “I already know who they are.” Larry swiveled in his chair and using his computer mouse, dragged a
n ace of spades across the screen.

  “Then who are they?” Charlene asked.

  Larry closed the game. “They work for Alberto Bianchi.”

  Charlene sat back in her seat. “Oh boy!”

  “Let’s sit on it for the night, so we can figure out how to approach it,” Larry said, getting out of his seat and throwing his empty cup in the garbage.

  Charlene didn’t move. A ripple of fear coursed through her veins.

  ~ * ~

  They walked out together. Charlene watched Larry squeeze into a white Honda Civic and pull away. But she had no intention of going home.

  She called ahead to make sure Dana was still there, and then pulled onto South Main Street. It took only minutes to turn off the San Bernardino Freeway and into the designated parking area on the CSULA campus.

  She met Dana inside and followed her into the glassed-in lab.

  “I don’t have much for you, Char.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy used a standard, traditional fifteen by twelve beige manila folder. No chance of a tracing record. It has never been used before, because the two prong metal clasp and eyelet in the flap have not been damaged. No DNA, because it hadn’t been licked.”

  “What about the paper?”

  “Not much better. No fingerprints, standard twenty pound copier paper, no watermark, printed on a traditional laser copier. No luck.”

  Dana handed the material back to Charlene.

  “Thanks, Dana.”

  “How about that drink?”

  “Rain check? I’m not quite done yet for the night.”

  “Do detectives ever have a five o’clock punch-out?” Dana smiled.

  “I wish,” Charlene said.

  There was a brochure on Charlene’s windshield when she got back to her car. The Sigma Nu Fraternity was having a keg party on Friday, five dollar entry, and it promised to be “a night to remember.” She smiled, reminiscing, then crumpled the pamphlet, got in the car, and started it up.

  She exited the campus parking lot and headed for the San Bernardino Freeway. She had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty-five with traffic, to decide how she would approach her next move.

  Charlene was sure that Carl Minor was hiding something, and his bloated ego wouldn’t turn her away.