Kiss & Tell Page 15

  “Where were you two nights ago?”

  “Why don’t you ask your friends?”

  “Uh?” Charlene was confused.

  Bianchi went on, with a wave of the hand. “Never mind. I was here, working most of the night. Went out for a sandwich and came back. That’s what happens when you own your own business. Twenty-four seven.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  Bianchi smiled, waving his hands around the room. “Take a look around, Detective, these guys are always here. Io sono sempre al lavoro. Ask any of them.”

  Bianchi, as usual, had an alibi. He gave them a complimentary pizza to take with them. But Charlene wasn’t hungry.

  How did Bianchi know her father so well? Was the man that much of a stranger to her?

  As they were leaving, Bianchi called out, “And, Detective, say hi to your friends outside for me. STRONZOS!” He flicked his chin in disgust.

  This was the second reference to Charlene’s ‘friends’. What did he mean? Was he talking about the other cops on the force?

  ~ * ~

  After seeing Larry to his car and watching him drive away, Charlene crossed the street to where she had parked.

  She opened her door and was stepping in when she felt a firm tug on her arm. She turned but was too slow as two men in black suits grabbed her by the shoulders and aggressively pulled her around the corner of the building. Charlene tried to pull away and reach for her gun, but the men overpowered her.

  She was physically moved to the alley and shoved into a white, government-issued van, the door sliding closed behind her.

  She sat in a seat facing the back of the van, across from an older gentleman in a freshly pressed suit with glasses perched on the end of his nose and a receding hairline. The van was idling and a man with short black hair and dark glasses sat behind the wheel. He did not turn around or look in the rearview mirror.

  Charlene turned back to the man across from her. He was reading a black notebook and then looked up at Charlene, his small, alert eyes studying her, his thin lips unsmiling.

  “Relax, Detective Taylor, this will only take a minute.”

  As he reached into his jacket pocket, Charlene flinched. He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and set it on Charlene’s lap. She took the wallet and read the credentials.

  “FBI?”

  “That’s right,” he replied, taking his wallet back. “We’ve been investigating Bianchi for six months, and you’re about to blow our whole operation. We have that whole place wired and a twenty-four hour detail on Bianchi.” He pointed to the pizza shop. “And we’re close, just waiting for a mistake.”

  Charlene looked out the tinted windows. Two agents stood at the door. She looked towards the building facing the pizzeria, envisioning a surveillance team, cameras hidden behind the closed blinds and a room full of sweaty, coffee-breath agents who’d been cooped up in a tiny room for months.

  “Do you have anything on him?”

  He shook his head. “Bianchi’s smart. He likes meeting in open spaces, realizing too much could be captured within walls. Now, Detective, you know I can’t go into detail about this sting, but I’ll answer a few questions just to keep you away from Bianchi.” He picked up a file and read from some papers. “The day before Ken Anderson’s murder, he paid his debt. We watched, listened, and recorded the whole conversation. Of course, he said he was paying off a pizza tab and no amount of money was mentioned. Bianchi didn’t kill him. In fact, he was nowhere near Anderson on the night of the murder, and none of his colleagues were either. I can’t tell you where they were as that’s confidential. Stay away from Bianchi. This is our case.”

  “Can I have the tape?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  She was about to protest when he knocked on the window, and the door slid open. The two agents grabbed Charlene, pulled the detective out, and jumped inside. The van quickly sped away.

  Charlene snarled as the vehicle disappeared. She dropped her shoulders in exhaustion, a perfect ending to a perfect day. Maybe she could catch the end of the Dodgers game at the bar.

  So those were the ‘friends’ Bianchi had been referring to. The mobster knew he was being wire tapped.

  As she was getting into her car, a text message appeared on her iPhone. “See JC ASAP!”

  So much for a cold beer.

  ~ * ~

  Because she already had all of the necessary paper work in her car, Charlene sat in the parking lot at 210 West Temple Street and wrote out her daily reports, noting everything they had on the investigation. Her iPhone buzzed, telling her once again to “See JC ASAP.”

  She looked around the area and smiled, amazed at how quickly the civic roadway could become abandoned. During regular business hours, the county and federal courts, hall of records, city hall and other civic structures built along Temple Street were alive with bustling civilians. Now all was calm.

  Once the forms were completed, she slid the papers into a colored file folder and sealed it. She entered the building and took the elevator to suite 18000. The secretary was gone and the suite was empty, but Charlene could see the light in Jeffrey Clark’s office. She lightly rapped on the outside of the door and let herself in.

  The district attorney was seated at his desk, typing on a computer. When Charlene stepped in, the DA poked his head over the open laptop. “Have a seat, Detective.”

  “Where’s Detective Baker?” Charlene asked.

  Without looking up from his typing, the DA answered, “He called and said he couldn’t make it. He said you could fill me in.”

  Bastard!

  She sat down close enough to smell his aftershave and watched Clark type.

  The man projected confidence. There was no denying that District Attorney Jeffrey Clark was extremely handsome, even in a city full of gorgeous celebrities. At forty-three, he looked to be in his late twenties. Jet black hair, clean shaven stubble, sizzling hazel eyes, and a strong jaw made up facial features that could melt a woman. He was exceedingly cultured and could work a room like a trendy host—intelligent, funny, with a salesman’s smile. He was tall and lithe, worked out in a gym five days a week, and was a former track star at Harvard. He was always impeccably dressed, and tonight was no different—a charcoal striped suit with a quiet tie. He had been named most eligible bachelor in the state of California for 2010.

  Many cops didn’t like Clark because he was self-absorbed, pushy, with a no-bullshit way of handling cases, and he expected perfection. Because of his initials, JC, most of the force referred to him as Jesus Christ because of his larger than life image.

  Before she had a chance to study Clark’s office, he shut the laptop and sat back in his black, leather, high-back seat. He interlocked his fingers and stared at the detective.

  “What do we have on the Anderson murder?”

  She rose from her seat, handed the closed file to the DA, and sat back down. She watched him open the case and slide the documents out. As he was looking through the papers, Charlene relayed everything they knew so far—the interviews, evidence, suspicions.

  He read the documents while listening to Charlene’s spiel. When she had finished, with Clark still looking over the file, he asked, “Do we have enough on Jessica Philips?”

  Charlene tried not to look shocked. “Jessica Philips?”

  “Yeah, I hear she was having an affair with Anderson, and he had raped her sister, a lot of motive there.” He still hadn’t looked up from the papers.

  “Sir, with all due respect, we have nothing on Philips. Actually, we have nothing on anyone at this point.”

  He laid the papers down on the desk and looked at the detective, his penetrating, dark green eyes smiling at her—casually flirtatious.

  “I want this manner handled quickly, Detective, and I told Detective Baker the same thing.”

  “Well, Mr. Clark, I don’t see how that is possible. We don’t have a murder weapon, a witness, or forensic evidence. We both know that motiv
e isn’t enough to convict a killer.”

  Charlene finally understood. Minor had gotten to Clark. Jeffrey Clark was just the kind of ass-kisser to agree to anything Carl Minor suggested.

  “We will,” he said confidently, holding the folder in the air. “I’ll have my secretary make copies of everything and have it back on your desk by morning. You’re dismissed, Detective,” he said politely, but with authority.

  Chapter 17

  She woke up Monday morning, at six fifteen, feeling drowsy and a little perplexed. Yesterday had been an excruciatingly long day, and the up-and-down emotional rollercoaster of her first case had taken its toll. She’d limited herself to only four drinks last night.

  When she opened her eyes, she was stung by the first light of dawn filtering through the blinds.

  She was slipping into her running clothes when Charlene noticed a white envelope on the floor in front of the front door. The envelope hadn’t been there last night when she’d returned. It wasn’t labeled, and this one was sealed.

  She opened the door and looked out into the hallway. Someone must have slipped the mail under her door either late last night or early this morning.

  Another Celebrity Slayer message?

  She went back inside and shut the door. Because she didn’t have any thin gloves in the apartment, Charlene used hands-free utensils to transport the envelope from the floor to the kitchen counter. Using a steak knife, she slit the envelope open, and with a pair of tweezers, removed the tiny paper. She laid it on the countertop.

  The paper contained an out-of-state phone number and the words ‘Re: Alberto Bianchi’.

  She hesitated for only seconds before picking up the phone and dialing the number.

  The man who answered must have been waiting for her call. “Charlene Taylor?” The voice sounded wide awake for six in the morning.

  “Yes,” Charlene said hesitantly. She didn’t recognize the voice. It wasn’t the Celebrity Slayer. “Who is this?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter. What I know does.”

  “Oh, how cliché.” Charlene rolled her eyes. “What do you know?”

  “I’ve been on the Bianchi task force for the last four years.”

  A Fed. Charlene tried to bring back the images of her encounter last night. The two guards outside the van and the driver, but when she closed her eyes, she couldn’t form faces. “What about it?”

  “I have to tell you this because I don’t think you should remove Bianchi as a suspect on the Anderson murder.”

  “Why not?” Charlene cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, searching hastily for paper and a pen.

  “The night Anderson was killed, Bianchi gave us the slip. We picked him up about an hour later. He was on the other side of the city, so the timing is pressed, but possible.”

  “I thought your boss said Anderson paid his debt?”

  “That’s what he would have you believe.”

  “How did a guy like Bianchi manage to give the FBI the slip?”

  “He’s smart and he has connections. That night we tailed him to a sandwich shop in Century City.”

  “What time was this?” She scribbled notes.

  “It was 9:36 PM.” Charlene was impressed with the agent’s accuracy. “We could tell he was on to us because he continually shifted lanes, and we knew, from our research teams, that his father had trained him to spot a tail. We followed protocol—stayed four cars back, even made vehicle switches every two miles. We have his phone bugged so we heard the call he made to the sandwich shop. We’re good at our jobs, Detective, but that night Bianchi was better.” Charlene could detect the disgust in the man’s voice. “When he went inside the sandwich shop, he must have switched clothes and slipped out the back because ten minutes later a man matching Bianchi’s physical description, wearing Bianchi’s clothes, came out the front.”

  “Did you not see his face?” Charlene couldn’t believe this story.

  “He had his hat pulled down and used the large, take-out paper restaurant bag to shield his face. He got into Bianchi’s car and drove off. About an hour later, we got a look at the driver’s face and pulled him over. About twenty minutes after that, we located Bianchi driving an ’82 silver Dodge truck.”

  “So he had over an hour without a tail?”

  “That’s right. I don’t think that would have given Bianchi enough time to cross the city, kill Anderson, and cross back. We found him in Rancho Park. That’s a pretty good commute in that time span, especially in an old truck.”

  This story just put Bianchi back on the suspect list. “Tell me about the task force.”

  “The inner-agency task force was set up fifteen years ago, when Bianchi first arrived in LA. We knew his father had sent him here for a reason, we just didn’t know what. We put heavy surveillance on his home, work, and three vehicles. But he knows how to conduct his business around the taps. The devices are state of the art, but from our intel we also know he has a man on his payroll who is quite handy at deciphering our work, and we’ve been keeping an eye out for him.”

  “What do you have on Bianchi?”

  The man snorted. “Not much. And trust me it’s not from a lack of trying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The list of Bianchi followers includes the FBI, CIA, and IRS. And now, since the Anderson murder, you can add the LAPD.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  “Because I know you met my boss last night. This whole slip-up has been an embarrassment for the Bureau. They’re trying to cover it up and keep your department away from Bianchi.”

  “Can I call you from time to time to check in?”

  “No. When I hang up, this number will be disconnected.” With that, the man was gone.

  Charlene laid down the phone. This case was moving quickly, with information popping up all over the city.

  She went for a run to clear her head.

  ~ * ~

  Charlene sat at her desk, sucking on a breath mint while reviewing crime scene pictures and the Anderson report.

  “The signed search warrants for Anderson’s house finally came in,” Larry said, dropping a stack of papers on the two desks.

  “Huh,” Charlene said, looking at the papers. “Only took two days.”

  Larry didn’t respond and Charlene wondered if Larry felt as she did—that someone or something was inhibiting the progress of the investigation.

  “Give ’em to Berry and Clayton,” Larry said.

  She found them huddled around the coffee machine and waved them over.

  “Here are the search warrants for Anderson’s home. Carl Minor’s lawyer will probably be there so show him the paper work. Search the entire house and subpoena anything that may be evidence. Get his PC too. You guys know what to look for.”

  They nodded and left. If they were put out by taking orders from a woman, they didn’t show it. Charlene wondered why Larry was giving her so much responsibility.

  Charlene was about to say something when three well-dressed men walked by, followed by the captain.

  “Who are they?” Charlene asked.

  Larry shrugged, lifting his suit jacket from the back of his chair and throwing it on.

  Charlene caught Detective Berkley scampering by and pulled him over.

  “Who are the suits?”

  “The Feds have just joined the Slayer case.”

  Charlene pictured the ‘perfect storm’ brewing from a clash of egos, but remained quiet.

  “Taylor!”

  Charlene was swung around in her chair by the captain. One of the FBI agents was standing behind him.

  “This is Agent Higgins.”

  He swapped the briefcase from his right to left hand and shook Charlene’s.

  The captain continued. “They’d like you to join the multiple homicide briefing.”

  “Why me?” Charlene asked.

  The agent answered. “We’ve been told that the killer has been in contact with you.”
>
  “That’s right.”

  “Then we’d like you to join us and share your insight.”

  “I’ll wait outside,” Larry said, trudging away.

  Charlene followed the men into the conference room, which had now been assigned to the Celebrity Slayer Task Force. About a dozen men and one woman sat around a large cherry-wood conference table. A large screen had been set up in the corner and a laptop hooked up to a projector was on the table.

  The introductions were quickly made, Charlene took a seat, and the light was turned off.

  Special Agent in Charge Myles Cunningham, from the FBI Behavioral Science Regional Unit in Los Angeles, stood, and with the aid of a PowerPoint presentation, began the meeting. When the first victim’s photo came on the screen, it felt like all the air was sucked out of the room.

  “We’re just joining the investigation this morning but we started a profile from what we have so far. There are four kinds of killers and from what we’ve seen so far, and this is only preliminary, he’s a ‘thrill’ killer. We’ve looked quickly at the files and this is what we see.

  “If we look at the evolution of the kills, we see that this UNSUB is gaining confidence. We know that serial killers in general grow, learn from their mistakes and increase their risk-taking. This guy has a narcissistic personality, preoccupied with issues of personal inadequacy, power, prestige and vanity. Most killers don’t stop until they’re caught.”

  “But we’ll need to review the crime scenes, reports, interviews and analysis. Let’s make this clear. It is not our intention to catch this guy. That’s your job. We will simply assist you where to focus your investigation, and then suggest proactive techniques to draw out the killer.”

  He went on to discuss the procedure by which they worked—about stepping into the mind of the killer and putting themselves in the place of the victim. When he had completed his slide show, he looked at Charlene.

  “Detective Taylor, it is my understanding that you have had contact with this guy.”

  “That’s right,” Charlene said and nodded.

  She went on to tell them about the frequent phone calls, as well as the items he had left—the address of a victim, her father’s baseball hat and the pictures in her car. She knew this was the first her captain had heard of it and could feel his eyes trained on her. Charlene did not mention her father’s involvement in the case, or that she had all of his notes in her apartment.