Kiss & Tell Read online

  Chapter 21

  When they got back to the department, Charlene quickly glanced at her watch—11 AM. She pulled the car to the curb and kept it idling. Larry stepped out and looked back. “You comin’?”

  “Give me an hour, Larry.”

  Through light, late-morning traffic Charlene made it to 1831 West Washington Boulevard by eleven forty. She’d been avoiding the place, but not for the same reasons most cops avoided cemeteries. Charlene hadn’t been back since the day they’d put her father in the ground.

  She parked outside the gates behind the familiar black Focus. She followed the brick pathway, through the cast iron gate opening and past the sign welcoming people to the Angelus-Rosedale Cemetery.

  The sign in front informed Charlene that the cemetery was founded in 1884, was the first cemetery opened to all races and creeds, and there was a list of notables who were buried on the site, including those in politics, the military and entertainment.

  She followed the paved walkway towards her father’s plot near the back of the sixty-five acre expanse, passing half a dozen pyramid crypts. Her mother was already there, kneeling in front of the monument, pulling weeds and tending to the flowers. Charlene stopped and watched her. She could hear her mother’s quiet sniffles.

  “Hi, Mom,” Charlene whispered, not wanting to startle her.

  Her mother turned and smiled. “Hi, honey.”

  The smile looked tired and forced. Charlene noted how she’d aged in the last month. Her hair showed signs of gray, the crow’s feet around her eyes were prominent, and her heavily lined forehead showed wrinkles of worry and distress.

  Did I cause this?

  Charlene approached the tombstone. She stood beside her mother, both women admiring the monument.

  “He really did love you, Charlene. He was so proud the day you were sworn in as an officer. I’d never seen him happier.”

  Charlene’s eyes moistened, and she blinked hard. She felt her mother’s arm wrap around her, and it didn’t feel awkward.

  “He had a funny way of showing it,” Charlene said.

  Her mother threw her other arm around Charlene, pulling her tight. Charlene could feel her mother’s heartbeat against her own.

  “That was your father. He had trouble showing his affection. But you were his girl.” She hesitated, waiting for Charlene, and then continued. “Remember when he was studying for lieutenant and you spilled coffee all over the manuals?” Brenda smiled with both her mouth and her eyes. “Anyone else and he would have lost it. But not with his little Charlie.”

  Charlene pulled away, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. She remembered.

  “I stopped off and got this,” Charlene said, handing her mother a potted plant she knew nothing about. “The florist said they’re called Fairy Roses, and the sun will actually fade the flowers to bluish white.”

  “They’re beautiful, Charlene.” Her mother accepted the flowers and immediately made a place for them at the head of the monument.

  Charlene watched her mother work—determined, unfazed, with only love. She wished again she could make up the years she’d missed, but knew that she could only start over.

  Still on her knees, her mother turned and looked at Charlene. Charlene could see a smudge of dirt on her mother’s forehead from where she’d rubbed her sweaty brow with a gloved hand.

  “How have you been, Charlene? Really.”

  “I’ve been good.”

  Charlene wasn’t sure if her mother believed her, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes wandered to the holstered Glock on Charlene’s hip and she shook her head.

  “I could never get used to those things,” she mumbled, going back to the gardening.

  Charlene could hear the anxiety in her mother’s voice.

  Charlene knew that her job was slowly killing the woman who’d already lost a husband to police work.

  She could lie. Tell her mother she didn’t like it, was thinking of giving up being a cop and switching careers. But her mother would never believe her. She had always known Charlene was too much like her father. Stubborn to the core and born to be a cop.

  Charlene didn’t say any of those things. She just stood there, speechless.

  Her mother got up and inspected her handy work. Then she looked at Charlene and smiled with damp eyes. She put her hand on Charlene’s cheek then gently squeezed her chin, tracing the deep scar-line. “That scar makes me think of your father. I’m glad you came, Charlene.”

  “Me too, Mom,” Charlene replied.

  “Why don’t we have dinner soon,” her mother suggested.

  “I’d like that, Mom.”

  She kissed her cheek, and Charlene watched her mother walk away. Her pace had slowed, her movements heavy.

  Charlene placed a finger on her chin, rubbing the tiny ‘V’ shaped scar, a memory of her childhood.

  Six years old. A game of cops and robbers. She’d been so excited to find her father hiding under the back porch that she’d tumbled down the wooden staircase and split her chin open. Although there was plenty of blood, Charlene hadn’t cried. Instead, she’d slapped the handcuffs on her dad’s wrists. The memory seemed like yesterday. Her mother, hysterical, had condemned the game.

  Charlene smiled to herself.

  Her father’s sunset black granite stone showed a cross and two roses engraved on the left side, and the black and white etching took up the rest.

  Martin Scott Taylor

  1941-2012

  Husband, Father, Cop

  Charlene stood alone staring at her father’s engraved stone. She’d seen people in movies talking to headstones, as if the deceased could hear their words. But Charlene never believed that. Besides, what would she say? She knew that nothing she could say now would ever make things right. She was too late for reconciliation. She would never have that chance now.

  Without a word, Charlene turned and walked away.

  ~ * ~

  She’d passed Larry on the way in. He was having a smoke outside with half a dozen other cops huddled around a sand jar.

  At her desk, Charlene punched Marcus Lopez’s name into the NCIC database, and did a full background sweep, including arrest and conviction records.

  While she waited, Officers Brady, Berry and Clayton had written statements in hand and were ready to give their oral accounts.

  They started when Larry got in.

  Darren went first. “So far I’ve found nothing from the black book. All the women are accounted for, but nobody admitted to being raped.”

  “Most women won’t come forward,” said Charlene.

  “I also followed that lead you gave me and spoke with Sandra Philips’ shooting instructor. He said that Philips was at the top of her class after only three months of instruction. She was better than men who’d spent a lifetime at lessons. He confirmed that she owns a gun.”

  Larry sat up and turned to Officer Berry. “Find that gun and check with Ballistics. You might need to…”

  “Already been done,” Darren cut him off. He smiled at Charlene. “It’s a .32, perfect weapon for a woman—small enough to fit in a purse, but with enough pop. We took it to the shooting gallery where it was fired and tested the bullets to the ones pulled from Anderson. No match. We also entered the gun and bullets into the database but found no match to any previous crimes. We gave Philips a small fine, registered it, and gave it back.”

  Charlene was impressed at how thorough and disciplined Darren’s procedure had been. She thought about Sandra, the gun, and the perfectly placed bullet holes in Anderson’s chest. She could tell that Larry was thinking the same thing. Knowing that Sandra could shoot with such pinpoint accuracy made her worth looking into further. Anyone could acquire a gun on the streets.

  “Good work, Darren. Stay on the names in the book and let me know if anything else comes up.”

  Larry nodded to Berry and Clayton, who just shook their heads.

  “Nothing in Anderson’s home. No pertinent papers, and the ne
ighbors said they rarely had visitors, no one suspicious. We went through phone records but nothing jumped out.”

  Larry looked at Charlene. “You have anything for them?”

  Charlene shook her head. “Let me make a phone call first.”

  “Go back to your desks and we’ll get back to you,” Larry said.

  As she was dialing the number, Clayton lingered around the desk. She hung up the phone.

  “What is it, Officer?” Larry asked.

  “Detective, I hate to bring this up, but this is our fourth day. We’ve been treading water for three days now. We don’t seem to have any more leads.”

  Charlene knew where he was going. They’d spent more time and resources on this murder than most. Were they starting to feel resentment for being given so much time for this one case because some rich kid had gotten popped, when they have dozens of other cases that deserved time and attention?

  Larry grimaced. “We stay on it as long as the captain says. Something will come up.”

  Clayton nodded and retreated to his desk.

  Charlene opened Sandra’s rape file and saw Detective Adrienne Jackson’s signature at the bottom.

  Charlene knew very little about Jackson, only that she was relatively new to the Rape Special Sections Unit. She’d seen her around the department and could picture her—stocky, about five three, one hundred thirty-five pounds, never wore makeup, revealing scarred cheeks from adolescent acne. Her fiery red hair was always tied back and her probing green eyes were constantly on edge.

  She’d heard rumors that Jackson was a genuine patrol officer, sometimes too intense for the line of work.

  Charlene picked up her desk phone and was transferred to the RSS Department but a man answered Detective Jackson’s phone.

  “Rape Special Section Unit,” he said.

  Charlene was caught off guard. “Oh, sorry, I was looking for Detective Jackson.”

  “Well, this is her desk phone, but Detective Jackson is off today. Can I take a message?”

  “Sure. This is Detective Taylor in Robbery-Homicide. I was just looking for information on one of her cases. I would like her to contact me ASAP.”

  “Well,” the man stuttered. “Since it’s important, I actually saw Adrienne in the department weight room finishing up a workout. I know for a fact that after each workout she hits the shooting gallery downstairs to fire off a few rounds. You can probably find her there.”

  “Thanks,” Charlene said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  She hung up and got out of her chair. “I’m going to talk with Jackson about the Sandra Philips rape, see if anything stands out.”

  “Good thinking,” Larry replied. “I’m going to look up Marcus Lopez.”

  She crossed the lobby and banged open the steel door, heading down the stairs to the basement.

  Charlene signed in, passed on the gun challenge and grabbed a set of ear protectors. She entered the sound proof galley and stood behind the bulletproof pane glass watching Adrienne Jackson firing off rounds. It was a small gallery, only three lanes, and Jackson was the only shooter today.

  Jackson started with fixed targets, and after dropping a clip on those, set her sights on moving boards. After she had finished off another clip, she turned in time for Charlene to flag her down before starting another round. Jackson motioned for Charlene to come around and join her.

  Charlene left the lobby and headed out into the gallery. She removed the head set.

  “Detective Jackson?” Charlene asked.

  “That’s me,” Jackson said.

  “Detective Taylor, Robbery-Homicide.”

  Jackson had yet to look at Charlene. She was busy reeling in her used targets.

  Charlene couldn’t help but notice the impeccable accuracy displayed by Jackson on both idle and moving targets—perfect chest shots in a circular pattern.

  Charlene whistled. “Nice shooting.”

  Jackson smiled. “Lots of practice.” She ripped the targets off the wire and finally turned to face Charlene. “What can I do for you, Detective?” Jackson’s voice was deep and husky.

  “It’s about one of your cases, the Sandra Philips’ rape. I know you have a lot of cases to deal with, so if you want to go back to your office to get that file, that works for me.”

  “No need. I was wondering when you’d get around to seeing me. I know you’re working the Anderson murder, and Officer Brady had called about Sandra Philips.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  The LAPD sex crimes expert didn’t hesitate. “Dr. Landry at the Good Samaritan called it in. He told us he had just admitted a rape victim to the ER. Since Philips was spending the night, we showed up first thing in the morning. This usually gives the victim time to remember the events clearly.”

  Jackson paused, but when Charlene didn’t say anything, she continued.

  “Nothing we haven’t seen before. But we see some ugly shit around here. Much of Sandra’s bruised face was covered with gauze and bandages. Her upper body was badly damaged—dressed ribs and deep shoulder cuts.”

  She seemed to stop to let what she’d said sink in.

  Charlene was amazed at Jackson’s recollection of the case, since RSSU had so many cases on the go at one time. Charlene thought Jackson was on too much of a roll to say anything to slow her down.

  “At first she wouldn’t talk to us. They rarely do. Like most victims, Philips was showing a clear sign of what we call disassociation. That’s psychological refuge from the memory of a traumatic event. Most victims are too afraid to come forward. But she came around.”

  “So what was your next move after leaving the hospital?” Charlene asked.

  “I looked up Anderson. Handsome, white collar, married, good job at a distinguished school, no prior record. There’s no typical profile on a rapist, that’s what makes this job so challenging. Rapists are not physically identifiable. They may appear friendly, normal, and non-threatening. Many are young, married, and have children. Rapist types and traits however can be categorized. Over seventy percent of rape victims know their attackers, and over seventy-five percent of the rapes reported involve persons of the same race.”

  Charlene quickly cut Jackson off before the detective recited every national rape statistic.

  “What about Anderson?”

  “We called UCLA, but Anderson had called in sick. So Johnson and I drove directly to his house. Anderson’s wife didn’t know where he was. We never found him until his body was discovered. That’s where you come in. Any breaks in the case?”

  “Nothing yet,” Charlene answered.

  “Of course, we continue to follow up with Sandra, as we do all of our victims. Rape has a devastating effect on the mental health of victims. Over thirty-one percent of all rape victims develop rape-related post-traumatic Stress Disorder. More than one in ten…”

  “Thank you for your time, Detective Jackson.” Charlene turned to walk away but Jackson kept talking.

  “You know what surprised me the most, though?”

  Charlene stopped and turned back around. “What’s that?”

  “The person who seemed to be affected the most by the rape, even more than Sandra and her sister, was Philips’ roommate, Ashley Stanley. She was irate over the whole situation. We had to calm her down a couple of times.”

  Charlene processed this news. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “I mean, I thought we were going to have to put her in restraints. She wanted blood.”

  Charlene opened the door but stopped to look back at Jackson. “Very interesting. Thanks for your time, Detective. Even on your day off.”

  Jackson shrugged. “No problem. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

  Charlene got back up to her desk where the CPIC computer had finished printing out Lopez’s lengthy sheet. Larry was reading it out.

  Lopez was born an American citizen to Latino parents, a street punk with a rap sheet a mile long. Raised by his unmarried mother, spent
time in juvenile detention centers, dabbled in shoplifting, loitering, vandalism, assault, and drug trafficking. Like the majority of ill-fated immigrants pouring in from Latin America, he dropped out of school and joined a gang.

  Charlene would have liked this guy for Anderson’s murder, but Lopez had been clean for twelve years, on paper. It looked like he’d put his adolescent years behind him. He had a steady job and was married with twin girls. Why risk that?

  Lopez was twenty-six-years-old and listed at six three, two hundred pounds. His photo showed rugged good looks, dark skinned complexion, long, untamed black hair, a strong, defined jaw, and dark piercing eyes. His white teeth dazzled against his dark complexion.

  Larry jotted down a contact address and waved over Berry and Clayton. “Check this guy out. He had an altercation with Anderson the night before the murder. If your cop alarms go off and you think we need to investigate this guy further, I’ll work on the warrant.”

  Charlene scribbled an address of her own from the Lopez file and grabbed her jacket.

  “Let’s go, Larry?”

  ~ * ~

  They found themselves in the part of the city where East LA rookie cops walk the beat. It was a cruel initiation.

  Charlene checked the address and pulled the cruiser to the curb, parking in front of an old, sign-less white-brick building. Weeds sprang from the cracked pavement and broken liquor bottles littered the sidewalk.

  “What is this place, Taylor?” Larry grunted as he got out of the car.

  “This is where Lopez hung out as a kid.”

  “Looks like a dump.”

  The Lincoln Boys Youth Center was located in Lincoln Heights, east of downtown Los Angeles, situated between a vacated drug store and closed flower shop. Adjacent to the building, two African-American boys, in baggy jeans and tank tops, played basketball on a court built of cracked pavement and chain-hooped nets.

  The detectives let themselves into the quiet, one room office. Phones rang, papers were scattered about, and the office looked like controlled chaos as three employees, one male and two female, ran the operation. A lone chair next to the door was taken by a teenage Hispanic girl with too much makeup, smoking a cigarette.