Kiss & Tell Read online

  As she picked up speed on the Hollywood Freeway, Charlene passed the Hollywood Bowl, the famous amphitheater that showcased so many memorable live musical performances, before she turned off and entered the Hills.

  Traffic was light but steady as she took her time making the drive up through the Hollywood Hills into a gated community. She listened to a message on her iPhone from her mother checking up on her, but decided not to call back.

  She hung up and steered the long 1999 Crown Vic through the windy Hollywood Hills. She didn’t like the Crown Vic, and cursed that the department still hadn’t made the transfer to the new SUVs, like many of the other LAPD departments.

  The sun was weak as dusk was descending when she reached the peak of the hill. Carl Minor’s house came into view, the last one on the dead-end street. The detective had never actually been inside, but she’d seen photos in magazines and knew that the home had recently made the cover of Architectural Digest. She slowed at the iron-gate where visitors were instructed to buzz for admittance. She found a group of tourists standing outside, snapping photos of the elegant landscaping.

  She identified herself and showed her badge to the camera. The gate gently opened and Charlene entered, followed the long, paved driveway that encircled a lawn of groomed Bermuda grass, and parked in front of the house.

  The chauffer, who’d been at Beverly Anderson’s home the morning Charlene and Larry had made the next of kin notification, was standing outside with a smoke in his mouth and a water hose in his hand, washing down the already shiny limousine. Another of Minor’s hired hands was working in a flower garden the size of half a football field.

  Minor himself was standing outside on the front step. The billionaire was dressed more casually than at their last encounter, his beige shorts and white golf shirt almost making the man look normal. The sixty-seven-year-old’s body showed the results of years of manicures, pedicures, and pampering. He was thick around the waist, but his thin, pale legs showed he was not overweight.

  Charlene smiled, strode confidently up the walkway, and shook Minor’s hand.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” He looked annoyed.

  “I’d like to discuss your son-in-law’s murder.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “He couldn’t make it.”

  Minor checked his watch, looked around his twenty-three-acre property, and nodded with a grunt. They stepped inside.

  “Honey, we’ll be in the study,” he called out, his voice echoing, but Charlene didn’t see Mrs. Minor.

  They crossed the hardwood floor, passing a curved staircase made of varnished oak, into a large, arch-ceilinged room with a grand piano and wall-sized open-shelved bookcases. Although it was not cold, the marble fireplace burned intently.

  Minor closed the double-French doors and offered Charlene a seat. She looked around the large library, filled with old money furnishings, before choosing a Molina brown leather chair. Minor sat across from Charlene, in a tall-back leather armchair.

  A butler appeared from a side door. “Can I get you something, Mr. Minor?”

  “Bourbon, Edgar. Detective?”

  She was off the clock. “Gin and tonic.”

  Minor seemed to nod at Charlene’s request, giving a short sneer.

  The butler nodded and disappeared through a side door as Charlene continued to appreciate the fine architecture of the room. The shelves were stacked with hardback books. A large, burgundy oak desk sat in the middle of the room with a computer resting on the corner. The furniture was all leather, and the floor was stained hardwood.

  The butler returned quickly, holding a silver tray with the drinks. He handed Charlene a tall, thin glass with ice-cubes and a wedge of lime floating on top. Minor grabbed his snifter as the butler opened a wooden box, revealing a row of Cuban cigars. Minor chose one, as the butler clipped the end and lit the tobacco.

  When the butler vanished again, Charlene watched the billionaire’s demeanor, trying to read his body language. He dipped the cigar into his bourbon and took a long, satisfying puff. He clinked the ice cubes in the glass, holding the detective’s stare for a long, tense moment, his small, suspicious gray eyes bearing down on her. With her eyes, Charlene followed the trail made by the ice cubes, as they danced in what looked to be, and what Charlene expected to be, very expensive liquor.

  Charlene sipped with restraint.

  Minor sighed. “What do you want, Detective?”

  “I want to talk about your son-in-law.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Are you sorry he’s dead?”

  Minor stared at Charlene for what felt like minutes. He didn’t speak, and Charlene met the billionaire’s stare. Finally he relented.

  “In the past, Detective, I had a habit of getting to know my daughter’s acquaintances.”

  “What do you mean, ‘getting to know’?”

  “I had them checked out. You probably think that sounds overprotective, but I have my reasons. I didn’t do that with Ken.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t have time. Christ, they were barely dating when he proposed. But I knew enough not to trust him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Come on, Detective. I’m Carl Minor. I’ve worked damn hard to get to where I am and I won’t let some punk take it away. Maybe it was a gut instinct or a father’s perception, but I never trusted Ken.”

  “Did you tell your daughter this?”

  “Of course I did. But Beverly was in love and having a family was the most important thing to her. I suggested a prenuptial agreement, but it never happened.”

  He set the drink down on an antique end table and turned on the brass lamp.

  “Did your opinion change after the wedding?” Charlene asked.

  “He was my son-in-law and potentially the father of my grandchildren. I left it at that.” He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

  Charlene didn’t say anything, but she didn’t believe him. She took a drink. She waited. She pretended to write some notes down, stalling. She knew Minor wanted to talk.

  “Look, Detective, it’s no secret how I felt about Ken,” he said, an iciness in his voice.

  Charlene looked up as he continued.

  “He was an arrogant, self-absorbed, son-of-a-bitch who cared for no one but himself. The man abused money, alcohol, and women. I tried to talk Beverly out of marrying him. But she was in love, and, as a father, I supported her decision. Even though I knew it was wrong.”

  “What do you mean ‘abused’?”

  “I often saw marks on her. He had a sort of hypnotic control over her that I could never figure out. The man had an addiction to gambling, and it was usually his drinking that augmented the problem.”

  “When was the last time you saw Ken?”

  “I guess it was a week ago.” He leaned back in his seat, in concentration, trying to recreate the event. “He came to me looking for money, again. A sure thing, he’d called it.”

  “How much?” Charlene was scribbling notes, trying to keep up.

  “Fifteen thousand. But I didn’t give it to him,” he said, with no remorse in his voice. “I bailed him out enough times.”

  “Where were you the night Ken was killed?”

  Minor smiled. “I was here, Detective, all night, hosting a get-together with friends.”

  She wrote it down. It would be easy to authenticate his alibi.

  “Who was your son-in-law in debt to?”

  He was about to answer when the door swung open and Minor’s lawyer, Ian Johnson, strode in, sporting a black-tie tuxedo. “Okay, Detective, this interview is over.” He looked at Minor. “Your wife called, and it’s a good thing she did. What are you thinking, Carl?”

  The billionaire said nothing.

  As they were escorting Charlene out of the library, she thought of something.

  “Mr. Minor, how is your daughter holding up?”

  The old man looked at her. “She’s cop
ing. She’s tough, she’s a Minor. This is the best thing that could have happened.”

  “Carl, enough!” the attorney interrupted.

  They opened the door and Charlene stepped out onto the front step, followed by Minor’s attorney. “If you need to talk with my client again, I suggest you contact me first, or there will be repercussions.” He handed Charlene a business card and shut the door.

  Chapter 16

  Her better judgment told her not to go alone. She called Larry, who was pissed, and he insisted on joining her. She didn’t argue.

  Alberto Bianchi was the closest thing LA had to the mafia. No one knew his real name, or his real bio, because no one was still around to confirm it.

  Rumor had it that Bianchi was born in Brooklyn, and when his mother disappeared after his birth, he was adopted by a top man in the NY Mafia. Growing up under the wing and watchful eye of his adopted father, Bartolomeo Bianchi, Alberto quickly inherited the man’s name and was shown the tricks of the trade. With one of the most influential and powerful men in the underworld as an adopted father, Alberto graduated quickly through the tiers of the mob, becoming a top gun. When he became a legal adult, he was shipped to LA to run the Bianchi crime-family’s West Coast business.

  He was a mob son, second generation crook, which meant Alberto Bianchi was established and connected.

  At forty-four, Bianchi was simply known as the man. He had a long rap sheet, but no convictions. He was high on the LAPD priority status, but so far they had come up with zilch.

  Everyone in LA, including the cops, knew that Bianchi ran an underground gambling ring out of his pizzeria in Lincoln Heights, but couldn’t prove it. The pizza place was a legitimate business on paper and perfect cover. He was one of the largest bookies in the city, with a bad reputation. Murder was not his forte, but Charlene realized that he was not above it to get what he wanted. When opportunities arose for the LAPD, witnesses either disappeared or refused to come forward.

  There were a number of reasons for Charlene to suspect Bianchi—Minor’s confession that Anderson owed money, the bar owner’s testimony of Bianchi’s men attacking Anderson, and the black rose petals found in Anderson’s pocket.

  As she crawled through Lincoln Heights, she got caught in a short delay as the young, handsome, strong men on the LAFD performed a practice run outside of the Fire Station on Pasadena Avenue. She didn’t mind the scenery at all.

  Darkness was falling when Charlene turned onto North Broadway. Larry was waiting on the curb, and he opened Charlene’s door when she pulled up in the LAPD-issued vehicle.

  “What are you doing? I told you I would handle this.”

  “Carl Minor just told me that Anderson owed a gambling debt. Add that to the description of Bianchi’s men roughing Anderson up, equals an automatic meeting with Bianchi.”

  Larry was pulling at his hair. “Carl Minor! What were you doing talking to Carl Minor?” His face looked like it would explode. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Charlene ignored Larry, brushed past him, and headed for the pizzeria. She could hear Larry’s heavy footsteps running to catch her, and Charlene was afraid he might keel over from a heart attack.

  “Okay, wait.” Larry grabbed her by the coat sleeve. “If we’re actually goin’ through with this, then we have to do it right. We’re walkin’ on thin ice here. Let me do the talkin’.”

  Charlene rolled her eyes, but let Larry pass, following him, hoping the bulge from her Glock wasn’t noticeable.

  When she walked in, Charlene recognized the owner immediately, and anticipation buzzed through her blood.

  Bianchi stood behind the counter, with a hairnet pulled over his greased-back hair, and beads of sweat pelting his forehead. The man was well tanned, stood at least six five and easily tipped the scales at two fifty, with little of that being body fat.

  He was kneading a roll of dough when the detectives walked in, and Bianchi met their eyes. He smiled. His affable demeanor did not fool Charlene. This man was one of the cruelest, most feared individuals in the city.

  “Detective Baker, Benvenuti, it’s been a while. Are you here for a slice of LA’s finest?” Because Charlene knew Bianchi was born in Brooklyn, she was aware that his thick Italian accent was faked.

  Charlene looked at Larry who refused to make eye contact. How does Bianchi know Larry?

  “I see you have a new partner. Che bella.” Bianchi kissed the tips of his fingers and blew it into the air.

  They approached the counter.

  Larry dropped his voice to a whisper. “Alberto, we need to talk.”

  “What’s this Alberto thing? What, we strangers now? Call me Al.”

  “We need to talk,” Larry echoed.

  “So talk.” Bianchi now had the dough in the air, impressively spinning the uncooked crust.

  Charlene was waiting to be introduced, but when Larry didn’t move, Charlene said, “Detective Taylor.”

  The mobster stopped playing with the dough, set it on the counter, and walked around the front, cleaning his hands on his grease-stained apron. He checked Charlene up and down. He looked into her eyes, and if it hadn’t been for the gin and tonic in her bloodstream, she might have been edgy.

  “Taylor? You mean Marty’s kid? Well, I’ll be.” He let out a quiet snort and turned to the customers in the room. “Hey guys, this here’s Marty Taylor’s little girl. Sembra come lui.”

  The men nodded. He turned back to Charlene. “Kid, me and your padre go way back. He was a good cop, a good man.”

  Charlene had no idea under what circumstances Bianchi would be acquaintances with her father. It made her stomach sick to think that Martin Taylor had conducted affairs with the mobster. But then again, she hadn’t known her father that well.

  Bianchi turned back to another man who stood behind the counter. “Anthony, take over. Me and the detectives gotta talk.”

  Bianchi escorted them to a quiet corner booth in the back of the shop, away from the endless chatter of Italian men conversing loudly, using their hands as props. He removed the hairnet and Charlene noticed that not one strand of hair from his black, gel-stiffened head moved.

  “Would you like a slice of pie, Detective? It’s the best in town,” Bianchi asked, focusing on Charlene.

  She shook her head.

  They sat down at the booth, Larry and Charlene on one side, Bianchi across from them. Bianchi moved first, choosing the side facing the front door. His large bulk took up most of the seat and was squeezed in, looking completely uncomfortable.

  “Al, we need to talk about Ken Anderson.”

  As Larry spoke, Bianchi stared at Charlene. She could feel his black, beady eyes dissecting her, and her nerves tingled.

  “Would you like a drink, Detective?”

  Charlene shook her head.

  “Man,” Bianchi said. “Look at you. The eyes, the nose, even the jaw. Kid, you’re the spittin’ image of your father.”

  “Al, please,” Larry raised his voice and caught a quick stare from Bianchi, cutting him short. The men at the front table stopped talking, staring at the corner booth.

  Charlene froze, wondering if she would need to draw her gun. How fast could she get to it squeezed into the booth?

  Bianchi looked at his customers, raised his hand and nodded imperceptibly as the men went back to their conversation. Larry was sweating immensely.

  “Yes, Detective, let’s talk.” Bianchi finally looked away from Charlene and sat back in the booth, looking fully relaxed. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his apron and offered one to the detectives. Charlene shook her head but Larry popped one into his mouth. Charlene wasn’t sure, under United States regulation, if smoking was permitted inside the restaurant, but Larry lit the cigarette as Bianchi continued.

  “Should I know this Ken Anderson?”

  Charlene produced a photo.

  “Ah, yes. Ken Anderson. The man loved pizza. I believe he always ordered the meat-lovers. He’s a good customer.” He looked at Charle
ne. “Do you talk? I see you over there biting your lip, as if you wanna say somethin’.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke from the corner of his mouth.

  Charlene would have liked nothing better than to reach over the table and grab the over-sized gangster, and probably would have if Larry wasn’t with her.

  “Al, we need information on this Anderson character,” Larry said.

  Bianchi looked at Larry but didn’t respond. Then he looked at Charlene and said, “I want her to ask the questions.”

  She could tell Larry was about to protest so Charlene said, “Look, Mr. Bianchi…”

  “Please, call me Al. All my friends do,” he suggested with a toothy grin.

  Charlene refused. “Mr. Bianchi, we know Ken Anderson was a gambler who owed a lot of money. We also know that a couple of days before his murder, Anderson was seen outside O’Brien’s on Wilshire getting the shit beat out of him by two of your thugs. We suspect that you were looking for a payment.” She almost rose from her seat but felt Larry’s hand on her forearm.

  Bianchi smiled. “Now there’s the Taylor fire. Larry, put that dog on a leash. Lei è pazza!”

  “We also found this in Anderson’s shirt pocket.” Charlene set a picture of the rose petals on the table.

  Bianchi looked at the picture, but didn’t pick it up. He chuckled. “Nice flowers.” He sighed, as if bored. Then he leaned over, face to the table, as if talking to it. “I don’t know anything about being a bookie. I run a respectable, legitimate pizza franchise here, that’s it.”

  Charlene sat back, without realizing she’d been sitting forward. “Look, Alberto, I don’t care about a gambling ring. I’m a homicide detective, in charge of a murder investigation. That’s all I care about.”

  “I like you, Detective, so for your sake, just to help you out, let’s say I did some gambling in my spare time, which I don’t. If this Anderson guy owed me money, which he didn’t because I’m not a bookie, but if he did, I wouldn’t kill the man. Maybe rough him up a little, but you can’t squeeze money out of a dead man.”

  Charlene didn’t believe him, but he had a point. Anderson couldn’t pay a debt if he was dead. Torture, but not death. Anderson’s murder didn’t benefit Bianchi.