Kiss & Tell Page 16

  “We’ll need all of that stuff to have it analyzed,” the agent said.

  “Already done,” Charlene answered.

  The agent smiled. “You’ve been busy, Detective.” He turned back to the rest of the group. “Okay, sounds like this guy might have killed Martin Taylor too. If that’s the case, it will change the profile.”

  Charlene smiled and looked at her captain, but he refused to make eye contact with her.

  The lights were turned back on.

  “We should have a profile by the end of the day. In the meantime, let’s send some people to the funeral to videotape. I want faces and license plates. Who knows, maybe the killer will want to watch.”

  The meeting was adjourned and everyone dismissed. Charlene retrieved the evidence from her locker and handed it over to the Feds.

  Darren was having a conversation with Larry when she got back to her desk.

  “How was that?” Larry asked, with Darren looking very eager and curious.

  “About what you would expect.”

  “Do they know who it is yet?” Larry asked sarcastically, obviously not a fan of the FBI.

  “Anything new?” Darren asked earnestly.

  “Darren, don’t you have something for us?”

  When he left, she caught Larry grinning ear-to-ear. “What?” she asked.

  “I think Brady is in love. He came over here to see what you were up to. Watch yourself, Taylor.”

  Charlene rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “So what about Bianchi?”

  “What about him?”

  “Larry, I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with him, but we need to take a closer look.”

  Before he could answer, Charlene picked up her phone and called Dennis Watson who worked Vice Division and specifically organized crime. Watson was a former veteran undercover cop before being promoted to an office job.

  “Dennis, it’s Charlene Taylor in Homicide. I need everything you have on Alberto Bianchi and I need it ASAP.”

  “He has a list of KAs. You want those too?”

  “Send everything on his known associates. Thanks.”

  “So, even after our visit to Bianchi last night, you still think he’s guilty?” Larry asked after she had hung up.

  She didn’t tell him about her encounter with the FBI, or the phone call this morning.

  “I wouldn’t call him a rock solid lead but I think he’s worth looking at. I have my doubts. I think the rose petals in Anderson’s shirt were staged.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I believe they were put there with the intent of deflecting our investigation away from any logical suspect. They want us to look at Bianchi. But that’s just my hunch.”

  “What else can I do?” Darren had returned and dropped a thick sheaf of papers on Larry’s desk.

  “What’s that?” Charlene asked, looking at the stack of papers.

  “Everything I could get on the Philips’ rape. Twelve pages.”

  “Twelve pages! Jesus, Darren, all I wanted was a brief description from the lead investigator.”

  “But…”

  “Never mind.”

  “Brady, call the Chicago Gun Club and ask for Instructor Fred Spooner. Find out what you can on one of his former students, Sandra Philips,” Larry said.

  “Yes, Sir.” Darren saluted sarcastically and turned.

  “And here, Brady,” Larry said, flinging a book in the air. The officer caught it skillfully.

  “Find out what you can about Anderson’s women. Who they are and where they were on the night of his murder. Check alibis, bios, and their present relationships.”

  Darren opened it, skimming from front to back. “But there’s gotta be over a hundred names in here!”

  “Is that a problem?” Larry asked, raising his voice.

  “No, Sir.” Darren turned and headed to the table that had been set up for their team.

  Larry looked at Charlene and smiled. “That should keep him busy for a while.”

  Charlene returned the smile. “The Dean at UCLA is supposed to be back today.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Larry stood up.

  “I just want to review the file Berry and Clayton put together first.”

  Larry nodded. “Okay, I gotta take a leak anyway.”

  When he left, Charlene plugged some information into the computer and then searched everything from the file, made by her officers, to the material found in Anderson’s office.

  She didn’t want to make eye contact, but Charlene could feel Darren staring at her from across the room. Was he still pissed about his assignment?

  Berry and Clayton had conducted an extensive, thorough search and had compiled facts on everything, from phone records and bank statements to a personal profile of the victim.

  These were the facts.

  Anderson was born in San Francisco in nineteen seventy-six. He was thirty-six years old, six two, two hundred five pounds, and a graduate of Princeton University in the top fifth percentile of his class. He dropped out of med school after two years and had been a College Psychology Professor for the last eight. He was once married to a woman who lived in San Francisco whom he no longer saw, no children. He owned a nineteen ninety-eight Jaguar. He remarried last year. He was a member of Gold’s Gym and the Beachwood Country Club.

  This is what wasn’t in the bio.

  Anderson was a drunk who loved women and gambling. He was in an unstable marriage, hated by his father-in-law, and in debt to a demanding bookie. He had an affair with his TA, raped her sister, and had a book full of women he either dated or slept with. Charlene could think of a number of reasons and a number of people who would be better off with Anderson dead.

  He was at O’Brien’s on Wilshire on the night of the murder, left the bar alone, and apparently saw no one on the way to the house. He made a call from his cell phone to Jessica Philips and it was connected at 8:57 PM. The call only lasted a few seconds. Less than an hour later, Anderson was shot twice in the chest at Philips’ house and the killer called nine-one-one. Then there were the rose petals, but with the news from the FBI, Charlene didn’t think Bianchi had had the time to commit the murder, although one of his men could have. To Charlene, the petals were a maneuver to throw the cops off. Bianchi was low on the suspect list.

  Jessica and Sandra Philips, Carl Minor, Beverly Anderson, and Alberto Bianchi all had motive and opportunity.

  As she reviewed her notes, Charlene noticed something interesting.

  Why had Anderson, a top professor in the Department of Psychiatry at USC, transferred to UCLA? It meant less pay, a drop in seniority, and half the benefits package.

  Larry returned, drying his hands on his pant legs. Charlene mentioned her suspicions.

  “Apples and oranges, Taylor,” Larry answered. “One school’s private, the other public. USC is located in the slums—the Southern fringe of downtown LA by Exposition Park. UCLA is on the West Side, near Beverly Hills. UCLA is deemed the ‘cooler’ school—more famous and prestigious.”

  “That’s your opinion, Larry.”

  “That’s a good point and one we can bring up with the dean.”

  Charlene still thought there was another reason behind it.

  “Call the Dean at UCLA and tell him we’re on our way.”

  Before they left the precinct, Charlene dropped a couple of bucks in the department coffee-fund jar, confident Larry hadn’t done it.

  Chapter 18

  By midmorning they were in the fast lane, of the Santa Monica, heading towards UCLA.

  “So what do you think of Darren?” Charlene asked.

  “Oh no, Taylor, don’t tell me Brady is getting to you?” Larry had a sneer on his face.

  “He’s kind of cute, you know, in a boyish way.”

  “Brady’s a punk. He’s been in the department for what, a year? He hasn’t made any friends.”

  “He’s the shy, quiet type,” Charlene said.

  “And who tran
sfers from a plush job in Hollywood to this shithole?”

  “Larry, he loves being a cop and wants to be a part of something. What’s his story?” Charlene was aware that cops, even the male ones, loved to gossip.

  Larry shrugged, while keeping both hands on the wheel. “He’s twenty-three, two years in Hollywood, one here. Hollywood dicks never retire. Why would they with a cushy job like that? I think he transferred here for a speedier promotion. I always catch him reading police procedural books, and he’s always signing up for extra courses. Still lives with his parents. Oh yeah, and he has a twenty-four/seven hard-on for you.”

  “Interesting,” Charlene said.

  “Oh no, he’s gotten to you.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  After checking through campus safety, they parked in the Administrative Building parking lot and locked the doors.

  The receptionist wasn’t at her desk so Charlene and Larry showed themselves down the hallway to the dean’s office. Charlene followed Larry, passing the framed pictures, on the hallway walls, of UCLA celebrity Alumni, from James Dean to Rob Reiner to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

  Dean Lawrence Murray was both a dean and a professor in the UCLA Department of Psychology. The fifty-five-year-old was massaging his temples when the detectives rapped on the door. He lifted his head from a stack of paperwork and summoned the detectives inside. His thinning gray hair was combed over a bald spot and he had a knobby nose with tired and worn brown eyes. On his anorexic frame, his brown suit hung limply. His tie was pulled tight.

  “Sorry for the mess, Detectives. I get back from my holiday only to find my best professor is dead. His poor wife and family. Reporters have been calling every twenty minutes, and trying to replace a highly qualified, experienced professor like Ken isn’t an easy task. I’ve had to cancel his classes this week.”

  Charlene couldn’t help notice the dean’s perfect diction.

  “That’s why we’re here, Dean Murray,” Larry said. “I’m Detective Baker, and this is my partner, Detective Taylor.”

  “Please, sit down.” He ushered them to a couple of comfortable, leather chairs in front of his desk. He returned to his seat.

  Larry got right to it. “My partner and I were wondering about Ken Anderson’s transfer from USC. It seemed short notice, almost unexpected.”

  The dean hesitated, looking out the window to where two students were skateboarding across the parking lot. Then he spoke. “Ken’s transfer was a surprise to everyone, including me. Of course, I was delighted to have a professor of Ken’s status here at the school. He’s one of the youngest professors to ever grace our school, and one of the best. I never thought we could afford him, but when he agreed to our terms, we were quite pleased.”

  “What were his reasons for wanting to leave USC?”

  “I never asked, and he never said. It was actually Dean Brown who approached me. Hubert and I are good friends, golf together twice a month. When he came to me with the proposal, I thought it was a dream come true. I assumed it was to be closer to his family.”

  Charlene still didn’t believe this. From what she knew, Anderson wasn’t exactly a family-man and didn’t seem like the kind of person to make a decision for someone else’s benefit. Most things he did had an ulterior motive. And he definitely wouldn’t have done it to be closer to Carl Minor. Plus, why would a degenerate gambler take a pay cut?

  “Dean Murray, did you know Professor Anderson was having an affair with his TA?” Charlene asked.

  The dean pushed back in his seat, his eyes bulging. “I had no idea, Detectives, honest. Trust me, if I had known, there would’ve been severe repercussions. We don’t tolerate that kind of behavior at UCLA.” He was quick to protect the integrity of the school, a defensive note in his voice.

  “Did it not strike you as odd that Anderson would take such a significant pay cut?” Larry asked.

  The dean sighed, starting to look annoyed. “Of course it did, Detective, but as I said, I never questioned it. I was happy to have him. We had a position to fill and he filled it. Quite capably, I might add. I couldn’t have hand-picked a more qualified candidate. Let’s not forget something, Detectives. The Department of Psychology at UCLA is one of the largest in the country. We receive millions of dollars in funding annually, and it’s a world class research institution.”

  “So you didn’t know about his personal problems—a bad marriage, not to mention his abuse of gambling, booze, and women.” Now it was Charlene’s turn to press the matter.

  “Look, Detective Taylor,” the dean said as he rose from his seat. “I try to make it a point of knowing what my professors do with their personal lives, but Ken was different. He was a great professor, and of course you know who his father-in-law is.”

  “Ignorance is bliss,” Charlene interrupted.

  The dean went on. “I don’t hide the fact that I thought the school could benefit from a Carl Minor donation. I kept my nose out of his business, as long as his private life didn’t interfere with his professional career. And it never did…until now.” He seemed to lose his train of thought but caught it quickly. “If you want to know more about Professor Anderson, perhaps you should talk to Dean Brown over at USC. He and Ken were quite close.”

  ~ * ~

  “Our list is growing,” Larry was saying when they jumped into the car. “We’re spending a lot of time in the car when there’s a lot to do. I suggest we split up.”

  Charlene didn’t argue.

  “Drop me off at the department. While you’re at USC, I’ll chase down our backgrounds and alibis. Cut our time in half. Are you okay with handling the interview on your own?” Larry looked genuinely concerned.

  “I think it’s a good idea.” Charlene always liked being on her own.

  She dropped Larry off and then, knowing she wouldn’t be returning to the precinct, traded in the Crown Vic for her Volvo.

  She followed the directions she’d received, turning onto the campus at entrance six and following Vermont Avenue at 36th Place.

  Charlene had confirmed the meeting by phone, and Dean Brown, an older, distinguished looking gentleman with thick, chalk-white hair, closely spaced blue eyes, and a permanent tan, was waiting at the front of Parking Structure “A”. The sixty-five-year-old kept in good shape and was dressed in a USC Cardinal and Gold V-neck sweater pulled over a white dress shirt, with beige slacks. His smile was genuine, and he wasted little time leading Charlene into the building.

  “When I heard about Ken, I couldn’t believe it,” the dean said as they made the short walk to the Psychology Department, located in the USC College of Letters, Arts & Sciences. Dean Brown moved in a quick, fluid motion, his pace never slowing.

  They entered a building adjoining the Dornsife Cognitive Neuroscience Imaging Center and entered the dean’s office.

  “Please have a seat, Detective,” he gestured. “I just have a call to make.”

  Charlene sat and studied the office. The walls were littered with plaques and pictures from past USC achievements and former student-athletes. Charlene recognized some of the players who were now highly acclaimed professionals. She saw a picture of two African-American men in Trojan jerseys, Marcus Allen and Calvin Watters. Allen was older than Watters and went on to claim success in the NFL, but Watters, who’d been expected to be an NFL stand-out, had disappeared after college. Charlene wondered what ever happened to Watters after his career-ending injury. She knew his older brother was an LAPD detective with a different branch.

  Like UCLA, the USC walls were plastered with famous people—John Wayne, Tom Selleck, John Ritter, Neil Armstrong, and Will Ferrell. A set of new Calloway golf clubs sat in the corner of the office beside an artificial practice putting green. The dean’s desk looked freshly varnished, and a computer and phone were the lone articles resting on top.

  “Now, Detective,” the dean said as he hung up and snapped Charlene back to attention. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have the stuff I requested?�
��

  The dean handed her a folder. “These are all the files we have on Ken when he worked at the school.”

  Charlene quickly opened them and flipped through. The file contained personal information—address, identification, and signed contracts with USC. It also had Anderson’s class schedule, awards and achievements he earned during his tenure, as well as pictures of him with various students from school events. Charlene noted that most were women.

  “As you can see, Detective, Ken was a well-respected, top-notch professor.”

  Something didn’t sit right. She shut the folder and looked at the dean, her lips pursed. “Let’s talk about what’s not in the file.”

  The dean cocked his head and squinted. “What do you mean?”

  “What am I missing? Ken Anderson left a job and took a transfer to another school for less money, fewer benefits, and a drop in seniority. With his lifestyle, Anderson needed money.”

  The dean said nothing, shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked away, gripping the arms of his chair. “Ken did marry Carl Minor’s daughter. There should have been more than enough branches on that money tree.”

  “Come on, Dean Brown, work with me.”

  Again, the dean looked away. The silence lingered, and Charlene decided to let the moment run its course.

  Then the dean rose from his chair. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  He moved to a corner of the room and took down a framed painting, revealing a hidden safe. He quickly turned the knob, entered the code, and opened the safe door. He removed a file and returned to his desk.

  “I was supposed to dispose of this. I knew it would come back someday,” he said, handing the folder across his desk. “I’m now glad I didn’t destroy it. The story needs to be told.”

  Charlene quickly read over the top document. When she finished, she looked back at the dean, a glint in her eyes. “Tell me about it.”