Kiss & Tell Read online

  “Jim Duggan.”

  Charlene only knew the man through her father. Duggan was a veteran homicide detective with the LAPD Hollywood Division, and he was also the man heading-up the Celebrity Slayer Task Force.

  “Mr. Duggan, this is Charlene Taylor.”

  “Charlene.” She could hear the surprise in his voice. “I’m sorry I never had a chance to talk to you after the funeral. Your father was a good cop, and an even better friend.”

  “Cut the shit, Jim. I just found your file.”

  Duggan was silent.

  “What did you get my father involved in?”

  “Charlene, I don’t know what…”

  “Enough lies!” Charlene screamed into the phone. “Or the next call I make will be to my captain.”

  “Okay, hold on.” There was silence on the line and she could tell Duggan was stalling. “This goes no further.”

  “Agreed.”

  Duggan let out his breath. “I approached your father about a month ago. We had just finished our monthly LAPD detective meeting, and we all agreed we were nowhere on the Slayer case. After the meeting, I called your dad and asked him to meet me at the City Hall Park. That’s when I asked him to assist on the Slayer case.”

  “You bastard! You got him killed!”

  “Look, Charlene, he didn’t have to accept the task.”

  “Bullshit! You and I both know he would never turn down a job. He was a cop for life. It’s what he loved.”

  Again, silence invaded the phone call.

  “When did you talk to him again?”

  “After the next detective meeting. We met again at the park, and he said he had some irons in the fire. He had some real leads but he wasn’t sure they would pan out. That’s the last I heard from him.”

  “He didn’t give any more details?”

  “No. Sorry, Charlene.”

  “Who else knew he was working the case?”

  “As far as I know…nobody.”

  She didn’t have anything else. “Thanks for getting my father killed, Jim.”

  Charlene hung up. Bile caked the corners of her mouth. She wanted to throw the phone but resisted. She heard the front door slam shut, and through the window, saw her mother beginning her evening walk. Had she overheard the conversation?

  She returned to the basement, wanting to load all of her father’s things in her car before her mother and sister returned.

  Before she left the house, she had one more thought. Since her mother hadn’t moved a thing from Charlene’s room since childhood, she ran up the stairs to her old bedroom and grabbed something she knew would be there.

  ~ * ~

  It was after eight when she finally got to the apartment. She hadn’t eaten supper and was famished, but instead she unloaded the car. Once everything was inside, she pulled a beer from the case and tucked the rest in the back of the fridge.

  Entering the large six-by-six walk-in closet, she unhooked all of the hanging clothes, bundled them up, and threw the pile onto her futon. Then she removed everything from the floor of the closet—bags, shoes, sports equipment, and anything else that had been thrown there. The last item to be moved was the chest of drawers containing her undergarments and the rest of her clothing. She slid that out and pushed it against the wall in the living room.

  Once the closet was empty, she began to arrange her father’s files. She started by tacking the city maps to the wall. Then she pulled her father’s old filing cabinet in, along with a desk and folding chair. She rested her laptop on the desk, and then ran an internet line and power bar. She filed away her father’s notes and tacked the crime scene photos and case files to the board.

  Then she added everything she had photocopied from RHD on her father’s murder—reports, pictures, and notes.

  She grabbed a second can of beer and sat down at the desk. She needed to cross-reference her father’s murder case to those of the Celebrity Slayer. She had to find a connection.

  She thought about her father’s murder and a rush of emotion hit her. Why had he been there that night? It had to be about the Slayer case. He’d been killed because he’d been following a lead.

  Who else knew her father was working the case? Larry had shown no clue. But the LAPD was a tight-knit community, and word usually spread quickly.

  His papers were in perfect order and Charlene easily found his note on the meeting. There was no name mentioned, just the fact that he had an 8 PM meeting scheduled in the back alley behind Imperial Palace Chinese Buffet with someone who possibly had some information. Rather vague. Had it been an anonymous?

  She looked at the case file.

  The next morning his car was found parked in a hidden alley near Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. The car was in park, the ignition on and the window down. Post-mortem lividity suggested that his body hadn’t been moved.

  Her father had been extremely intelligent, diligent, and a first class detective. There was no way he could be lured into danger by a stranger and tricked by a complete fool.

  Charlene had the details of the report memorized, and had spent hours at the scene after everything had been cleared, so with a clear head and all of her information, she closed her eyes and pictured what she thought the scene looked like, as if she’d been there.

  Her dad sat in the idling car in the alley, waiting for his informant. He was there to gather information. Out of the shadows, someone approached the car. Martin Taylor either rolled down his window or it had already been down. He trusted the person, maybe even knew him or her. The killer stood outside the vehicle, never getting in or touching the door handle. Words were exchanged, and then the individual drew a gun. Before her father could raise his hands in defense, the killer stuck the weapon inside the car and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him in the chest, killing him instantly.

  Of course, it was all speculative. But that’s how the detective saw it happening, in her own mind.

  Cartridge casings found at the scene, as well as the bullet pulled from her father, were from a .45. Interviews showed that no one had seen or heard anything from the alley. That meant the killer had to have used a silencer. Not many people owned silenced pistols. Ballistics was run through IBIS, the Integrated Ballistics Identification Systems managed by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, but no hits were matched.

  Martin Taylor’s body was found by a restaurant employee who’d gone to the back to use the dumpster. Charlene wanted to interview that man, because to Charlene, the first witness at a scene was automatically considered a suspect. There were no other witnesses in the report.

  Since his body was found on Sunset, the Hollywood division was handling the case, but Charlene’s precinct was assisting.

  Because Martin Taylor was a cop, the case was a high priority. Her father’s body was immediately autopsied and the car explored for evidence, but nothing was found, so they released the body to give him a proper burial.

  She took a swig of beer, and removing a magnifying glass, studied her father’s crime scene photos in precise detail. Then she cross referenced those pictures with ones taken from the Celebrity Slayer scenes. Nothing jumped out as connecting, but she didn’t expect it to. She had to dig deeper.

  She stared at the photos until her vision blurred.

  After two more beers and an hour of meticulous studying, she flung the magnifying glass on the desk.

  Fuck!

  The murders were premeditated. The killer’s method had been planned with meticulous detail. She still had two more of her father’s folders to go through, but tonight would be pointless. She had nothing left.

  She took the time to file all the information away neatly, storing it in the filing cabinet in an order that she could find quickly, then she shut off the light.

  Book II

  Case #1

  Chapter 8

  She’d just fallen asleep when the ringing of her cell phone woke her. Charlene rolled over and grabbed her iPhone off the floor, reading the time. Her ey
es were glazed and the room was spinning, but she managed to clear her head. 10:15 PM.

  She answered. “Hello?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “We caught our first case, Kid.”

  “What’s up, Larry?” she asked, getting out of bed and rummaging through the bundles of clothes on the floor, bed and chairs. A drum beat a steady rhythm in her head.

  “We have a four-nineteen on Westwood Boulevard.”

  “Is it a celebrity?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What do you mean, kind of?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. We have our work cut out for us.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  As she scribbled the address down, she recognized the area, a peaceful upper class suburb, not exactly the kind of location where the Celebrity Slayer victims had been discovered. But she wasn’t ruling anything out.

  She flicked on the lamp and found the least wrinkled pair of khakis and a button down shirt from the bundle of crumpled clothes on the floor. She strapped on her shoulder holster, put a Colt .38 in an ankle holster, grabbed the keys, and left.

  She opened the door and ran into the hallway where Andy was standing with his arms extended. He was holding a take-out bag from their favorite post-sex Sushi place.

  “Peace offering,” he said.

  “Not tonight, Andy,” Charlene replied, and sprinted past him. “Sorry,” she called back. Charlene stopped at the closest twenty-four-hour coffee shop and grabbed two coffees, and used hers to wash down two Tylenol. Then she opened the glove compartment and popped two Antipoleez breath mints into her mouth. She’d discovered the breath mints in college, the only thing that concealed the odor of alcohol.

  She tuned the radio to KFWB 980 LA News and checked for updates on ongoing cases, including what she could expect at the crime scene. Placing the cherry on the Volvo roof, she sped away. She needed to get to the scene before a mob contaminated it.

  It took eight minutes. The “traffic” on site was dense. She recognized some faces, and was waved through to the doorway.

  Before getting out of the car, she used the rearview mirror to apply lip gloss and a touch of blush.

  She clipped on her ID and directed McHale, a burly cop she hadn’t worked with before, to start the canvas and look out for someone standing around and watching too intently. Killers did sometimes hang around the scene.

  She quickly inspected the crowd. The cars parked in the driveway were a silver Jaguar and a baby blue Ford Fiesta.

  There was a box of latex gloves resting on a stool inside the door of the house, and Charlene slipped on a pair. She pushed her way through and looked for her partner.

  The first detail she noticed was the strong scent of vanilla that hung in the air. She inventoried the room as she moved towards the body.

  Over the victim’s body, the ME was hovering a UV light which was intended to visually enhance evidence, including sub-dermal bruising, and a photographer was removing video equipment from a bag. Charlene looked over the coroner’s shoulder at two perfectly placed bullet holes in the victim’s chest.

  Charlene detailed the vic’s stats—white, male, over six feet, about one hundred eighty pounds, well dressed, handsome with no distinguishing marks—layers of bruising on face and hands. Reasonably fit, with black golf slacks, no tie, and tufts of dark hair at his unbuttoned collar. His pockets were pulled out.

  The coroner looked up at Charlene. “You lead?”

  She nodded, in order to make that true and to get to work immediately. Then Larry came out of a back room with the captain. Great! What had she missed? She focused back on the coroner.

  “Whoever shot this man was either very lucky or a top notch marksman. See here,” he said, using a thermometer as a pointer. “Two bullets in the chest, side by side, while the victim was moving towards the shooter.”

  “Time of death?”

  With his rubber gloved hand, the coroner pulled the victim’s eyelids all the way open. “The corneas haven’t blurred over yet and the blood’s still warm. I’d say he’s been dead less than two hours.”

  She checked her watch, 10:36 PM. Less than two hours. That was good. The killer was just recently here, maybe leaving evidence and clues that could still be detected. Most of the neighbors would have been home from work and not yet gone to bed.

  Charlene had to move quickly. She noticed minor bruising on the victim’s face, possible signs of a struggle. She found the same on his knuckles.

  “How recent are those marks?” Charlene asked.

  “Some of these are older than others. Some bruises take days to appear, but these look newer than those. Plus, the perp had a gun, unless it had been dislodged and there was a struggle. The cuts on his fingers are pre-mortem, I’d say about four to five hours old.”

  Charlene digested the coroner’s information. A possible fight prior to the murder.

  Charlene needed to ID the victim ASAP and establish a timeline. When the Medical Examiner began dusting the body, Charlene asked, “What are you doing?”

  “The best way to contain the prints is before moving the body.”

  Larry left the captain and approached her. She handed him one of the covered coffee cups. “Wasn’t sure how you took it. Sugar and cream are in the bag.”

  “Black, thanks,” he grunted. “The Dodgers win tonight?”

  She shook her head. “Lost bad.” She nodded at the body. “This ours?”

  Larry nodded.

  Charlene smiled, her lip lodged between her teeth.

  “Found these on the deceased.” He held up a plastic, see-through LAPD evidence bag as he sipped the coffee. The bag was labeled with the case number, date, and time. Charlene quickly scanned the items that came from the victim’s pockets. Black leather wallet, car keys, pack of juicy fruit gum, and some loose change.

  “What do you know so far?” she asked.

  “Not much,” he answered, flipping through his notepad. “Two shots to the chest, close range. We didn’t find any cartridge casings, so unless the killer picked them up, we’re guessing a revolver, not a semi-auto. By the size of the holes in the victim’s chest, I’m guessing nine millimeter. We won’t know for sure until Ballistics check the bullets. But why pick up the casing if you’re going to leave the bullets?”

  Charlene realized that Larry was speaking from over thirty years of experience.

  “What’s with the vanilla?”

  “You smell that too, huh? Scented candles in the bathroom, about a dozen of them lit. The bathtub was overflowing when the first cop on the scene arrived,” Larry said as he took a large gulp of coffee.

  “What’s that about?”

  Larry shrugged. “Recognize the vic?” he asked.

  She moved closer, peeking over the coroner’s shoulder. She’d seen the face before but couldn’t place him. She shook her head.

  “The deceased has been identified as Dr. Ken Anderson, Professor at UCLA.” He stopped and looked at Charlene. The name still didn’t register with her. Then he continued. “Married to Beverly Minor, no children. They live at 414 Melrose Avenue, West Hollywood.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Charlene asked.

  “Not sure. But did you hear what I said? The name?”

  Charlene shrugged.

  “Beverly Minor. Carl Minor’s daughter.”

  “The billionaire?”

  “The same.”

  That name alone justified the captain’s presence at the scene. Now Charlene understood why Dunbar was well dressed and ready to make a statement to the press. And that was why the victim looked so familiar. This case would be high alert.

  “Okay, so why is Beverly Minor’s husband here?”

  “The house belongs to Lloyd Gladstone.”

  “What’s his connection to Anderson? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It shouldn’t. He’s nobody. We already contacted Gladstone who lives in Glendale. He said he’s been renting out the house since he acquired it in ’
98. New tenants this year.”

  “What about the vehicles?” Charlene asked.

  “The Jag belongs to Anderson, and the Fiesta is registered to one of the renters.” He looked at his notepad. “According to Gladstone, the renters are UCLA students, Jessica Philips and Ashley Stanley. No sign of either of them yet, but we’re already running a check and have put out an APB.”

  “Next of kin been notified?” Charlene asked.

  Charlene knew that ninety percent of murders were spousal related and usually had something to do with love or money. Of these murders, fifty-five percent were committed by the wife. But the victim’s wife, Beverly Minor, was already a wealthy woman. Did she have another reason?

  “Not yet,” Larry said.

  “The ME said that some of those bruises could be a few hours old. Let’s use the GPS on Anderson’s phone to see where he’s been.”

  “Good thinking,” said Larry. “He didn’t have a phone on him, so it could be in his car. I’ll send someone to look now.”

  While Larry was attracting the attention of one of the on-site officers, Charlene looked around the living room. The house looked to be furnished in elegant, high-end furniture. If it wasn’t for the empty pizza boxes and school text books scattered about, there would be no reason to believe that college students lived there.

  “Pretty nice for college students,” Charlene remarked when Larry got back.

  “I agree. My first college apartment consisted of duct-tape patched beanbag chairs and dirty mattresses.”

  Larry pulled the wallet from the evidence bag and handed it to Charlene. She studied Anderson’s California State driver’s license and made a mental note of the address.

  Larry continued. “Eighty-three dollars found inside, meaning this wasn’t a robbery gone bad, it was a planned execution.”

  “So who found the body?” Charlene asked.

  “Phone-in.” Again Larry studied his notes. “Anonymous nine-one-one. No words spoken, phone left off the hook. We made the trace and the first officer on the scene found the door open and called it in.”