I wasn’t scheduled to be at work until noon the next day, so Natalie and I paid a visit to Pearl Kramer in the morning. As we walked up the pathway to the cottage, Bernie trotted behind us, still favoring his sore leg.
The vet had checked my hairy partner and assured me it was only a sprain, but I still worried. Maybe Bernie was bringing out the maternal side in me.
“Got a fresh pot of coffee on the patio,” Pearl announced, after greeting us.
On the way to the patio, we got a tour of his cottage. Casual furnishings. Overstuffed sofa, chairs. There were also lots of paintings, some his own, and masks.
“I’ve been a mask collector for twenty years,” Pearl said. “Some are primitive, a few are from Africa. Even have an assortment of Mardi Gras masks.”
Natalie pointed out a party mask with a downturned expression. “Looks like a guy I once knew in Liverpool. Nuttier than a squirrel’s cheeks.”
Pearl showed us to the patio where we saw the unfinished painting he was still working on. I saw that some forms were starting to take shape. Modern art?
“Still waiting for the images to find me,” Pearl explained, referencing the painting. He poured us cups of steaming coffee.
We took seats on the patio where I told Pearl and Natalie about Roger Diamond possibly being Joaquin Robinson’s drug connection.
“According to the detectives, the dearly departed was into both porn and drugs. He used his connection to the drug trade to curry favor with celebrities and athletes.”
Pearl’s silver hair glistened in the mid-morning sunlight. “Any speculation about Harper being involved in the drug scene with Diamond?”
“No, but this is where it gets interesting.” I took my cell phone from my purse and handed it to Pearl. He seemed confused until I explained that my phone received e-mail.
He put on his glasses; studied the screen. “Phones with e-mail? What’s next?” I showed him how to scroll down to the message from Avenal State Prison. It read:
Detective Sexton;
Per our conversation I’ve attached the list of inmates either sentenced or transferred to Avenal from 2012 until the present. As I mentioned, we don’t keep logs of telephone calls unless there’s a legal issue, but we do have visitation records if you find someone of interest. Regards,
Patty Washington
Avenal State Prison
Inmate Records Division
Pearl began scrolling through the list of names before removing his glasses and looking over to me. “Nathan Kane?”
I nodded, meeting his gaze.
Natalie was examining the screen over Pearl’s shoulder. “Who is this Kane fellow? The way you’re actin’ he must be some kinda prison rock star.”
“Kane was transferred to Avenal from Folsom in May of 2012,” I said to Pearl. “Ostensibly for medical treatment and because of a downward classification of his risk level.”
Pearl handed the phone back to me. He massaged his brow as I continued, “I called Patty Washington this morning. She checked the visitation records. There’s no record of Harper ever visiting Kane, but…”
“Let me guess,” Pearl said, still kneading his brow. “Roger Diamond?”
“He visited Kane on a regular basis, up until about two weeks ago.”
Natalie was up, pacing. “Okay, I’m startin’ to get a case of the uglies ‘bout this Kane fellow.”
Pearl pulled back his chair and stood up. He freshened his coffee and said, “As I recall, Nathan Kane was sentenced to life in prison for murder and some drug charges back in the nineties. The vic had something to do with organized crime.”
“An east coast operative named Marty Rubin,” I said. “According to the case summary Patty Washington read to me this morning, Rubin was connected to an east coast syndicate that ran drugs from Columbia. The organization was trying to establish a foothold on the west coast and began supplying drugs to the L.A. area.
“Kane controlled almost all the drug traffic at the time and a turf war developed. He wanted to send a message to the syndicate and Rubin ended up floating in a canal over in Venice. The feds got involved, Kane eventually admitted the murder to an informant. He plea-bargained the case in state court to a life term.”
Natalie clapped her hands. “Now we’ve got a gangsta involved in our case. This thing is gettin’ bigger than Paul McCartney’s alimony payments.”
“According to the department’s narcs,” I went on, “Kane is still behind a lot of the drug trade in Hollywood. He’s pulling the strings, using people like Diamond, even while he’s been behind prison walls all these years.”
Pearl walked back to us and sat down. “I’m beginning to think Natalie is right. We’re onto something big, Kate, especially if Harper’s involved in the drug business with Kane.”
“But why would a rich bampot like Harper be involved in the drug trade with somebody like Kane?” Natalie asked. “What’s in it for him?”
“Now you’re thinking like a detective, Natalie?” Pearl said.
I set my coffee cup down. “There could be lots of reasons. Maybe Harper took some special interest in the porn business and decided the tax breaks were too good to pass up. Or, it could be that Kane has something on Harper from the past and he’s been using him all these years.”
“Like blackmail?” Natalie asked.
“Maybe. We know from the phone records that Harper started making calls to Avenal in early 2012. The calls have continued on a regular basis since that time. There’s no one else on the inmate list he would have any reason to call.”
I picked up my coffee, took a sip. “Maybe you two could work on the motive issue. We need to know what connection Harper has to Kane and how Diamond might have played into that.”
“We’re on it like gum on a shoe,” Natalie said, beaming.
“And, then there’s the Cassie Reynolds connection,” Pearl said. “The question is still out there. What did Cassie know that got her killed?”
I finished my coffee. “I’m planning to pay Mr. Kane a visit later today. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
***
Bernie and I arrived at the station at noon. Charlie greeted me, fanning out a dozen pink messages like the winning hand in a poker game. “You get more phone calls than Irma.”
I grabbed the messages. “How’s our favorite teenager?”
“Packing.” I glanced up from the messages. Charlie looked like hell. “She’s moving out this weekend.”
“I’m so sorry.” I reached across the desk, touching my partner’s hand in sympathy. He acted like I’d put his fingers in a flame and pulled away.
“Kid’s gotta learn,” Charlie said. “Besides, I think she’s bluffing.”
“I hope you’re right.” I noticed I had a message from Mr. Wiener asking me to contact him. I showed it to Charlie just to relieve the tension. “He must have written it in the middle of the night, had the jail express mail it.”
“Heard the Wiener show was a flop.”
I filled him in on the disaster. I then spent the next fifteen minutes telling him about Conrad Harper’s phone calls to Avenal and Roger Diamond’s visits to the convicted killer.
After listening to the developments, Charlie said, “I think you’d better take a look at your last message. Afraid IAD wants you to call.”
After another one of Charlie’s
watch your back
lectures, I called IAD and was informed Detective’s Blaylock and Preston wanted to meet with me as soon as I could get to their office.
I hung up the phone, felt a pounding in my head. I found some Godiva Chocolate in my desk drawer and wolfed it down before Charlie could jump me for it.
I took Bernie by the leash and said, “Do me a favor, Daddy. Let the captain know that I’m heading downtown to meet with IAD and then going home sick.”
After an hour in stop-and-go traffic, Bernie and I arrived at the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles where IAD was located. The Bradbury was a couple of blocks from the Police Administration Building and was home to something called, The Professional Standards Bureau. The department had recently given the Internal Affairs Division a name change, maybe hoping to improve its image, but everyone still called it IAD.
The Bradbury was one of the oldest commercial buildings in Los Angeles. A central Victorian courtyard that rose almost fifty feet from the first floor, opened to caged elevators and marble stairways with ornate iron railings. The place had a comfortable feel that recalled a simpler era. It seemed out of place for a division that sometimes went out of its way to make life miserable for honest cops trying to do a thankless job.
I took the elevator to the top floor where a secretary led me to an ornate conference room with lots of oak paneling and even a fireplace. I found Blaylock and Preston sitting at an oval table like rigor mortis had set in. Maybe working for IAD caused both stupidity and muscle rigidity. Blaylock stood and motioned for me to take a seat.
I made a point of looking at Preston. When he didn’t make eye contact, I leaned over the table and said, “Done any shopping lately?”
The beefy detective blushed. He glanced at his partner who was giving him a questioning look.
Blaylock reached into a briefcase and shoved an official looking document across the desk at me. “This is formal notice that you will be subject to interrogation proceedings this Friday at 11:00 a.m. in this office. You have the right to representation during the proceedings, if you so desire. The letter explains your other rights.”
I scanned the document, then folded it in half. I cut my eyes to Blaylock who showed no emotion. “Why am I under investigation?”
Preston spoke before his partner could answer, “Possible disciplinary action related to your conduct on October 2nd during the failed arrest of a felon wanted on a murder warrant.” The chubby detective’s grin was a twelve on a ten point shit-eating scale.
“I want the OIS report.”
“If the report is used during your interrogation, you’ll get a copy then,” Blaylock answered. “Not before.”
As I was heading for the door, Blaylock noticed Bernie was limping. “So, what happened to your partner?”
I stopped and turned back to the detective. “Bernie wanted to get laid and came up limp.” I motioned to Preston. “Heard your partner’s an expert on that. Let me know if he wants to give you a fashion show and starts singing soprano in the church choir.”
Melvin Coben sits next to Nathan Kane as they wait for the two parole commissioners to enter the hearing room. The clock on the wall above where the jurists will sit shows that it’s after four. The commissioners are half an hour late.
Kane whispers to his attorney when he’s sure no one is watching, “What the hell’s taking so long?”
“Probably just dealing with some administrative issues,” Coben says. “Prisons run on paperwork, if nothing else.”
Kane hates the little bastard and his excuses. When this is over, he decides, Coben will find himself out of a job. It’s taken months to get his hearing on the parole calendar and now he senses his long sought freedom is in jeopardy. If he dies in prison, Kane will make sure before he’s gone that the attorney will suffer for his incompetence.
Ten minutes later, the doors to the hearing room swing open. Ben Walker and Ann Warren take their seats. The hearing is called back into session.
Walker renders his decision first. “When we adjourned, I stated on the record that I do not consider the prisoner a threat to the health and safety of the community.” He pauses, letting his eyes sweep over Kane and his attorney. “I maintain that position. I state again for the record, based upon the medical issues presented at this hearing, I have no opposition to a compassionate parole release for Mr. Kane.”
Walker leans back in his chair, looks at his counterpart. Kane lets his dark eyes sweep up to the female jurist. Ann Warren looks exhausted, maybe from arguing against his parole. If she denies his release, the bitch will pay with her life.
“I have carefully considered all of the testimony and reports prepared for this hearing,” Warren begins. “I want to again state for the record I have concerns about parole based upon the serious nature of the prisoner’s conviction. However, I am now convinced that the costs of continuing to incarcerate this prisoner, given his serious and deteriorating medical condition, mitigate what would be gained by continuing to house him in a secure setting. I have also studied the extensive medical records in this case. I am persuaded that the defendant’s medical condition makes the risk to public safety minimal.”
Kane senses the jurist is trying to make eye contact before rendering her final decision. He keeps his eyes downcast but moves a shaky hand up to his mouth, concealing the smile he is unable to suppress.
“I concur with Commissioner Walker,” Ann Warren says. “However, while I said there is minimal risk to the public, that does not mean there is no risk.”
A rage explodes in Nathan Kane. What is the bitch saying? If she considers him a risk there will be no release. He will spend the rest of his life in prison.
“I agree that a release on parole should be granted,” Commissioner Warren states, “under the condition that the prisoner is required to wear an electronic monitoring device at all times. Should he tamper with or remove that device it will cause an immediate alert so that his parole can be revoked and he will be returned to this facility.”
Melvin Coben thanks the jurists before they adjourn the hearing and leave the room. He then reaches over, tries to shake his client’s hand. “We did it. You’re free.”
Kane refuses the handshake. He is livid. “What about the monitoring?” he whispers.
“Just a formality. You wear an ankle bracelet for a few months and go about your business. Eventually they’ll remove the monitor and you’re free.”
“Eventually. In the meantime it means they will know my every move, watch everything I do.”
“Yes, but..”
Kane holds up his beefy hand, silencing the attorney. “How soon?” Kane murmurs. “When can I walk out the door?”
“Let me check with the administrative clerk.” He tells the orderly who has come for his client to wait while he speaks with the clerk.
When he returns, Coben bends over to Kane and says, “They will begin processing the release papers immediately. The electronic monitoring is another matter. They probably won’t be able to hook you up until tomorrow morning.”
Kane dismisses Coben. He lets the orderly push his wheelchair through the now empty hearing room. Before he leaves, his eyes move up and sweep over the desert landscape outside the window. He could be in Hollywood by noon tomorrow if all goes as he’d planned. But there are a few other matters to attend to first. Things that no electronic monitoring device will be able to stop.
When they move back into the medical wing, the orderly is handed a note from one of the clerks. He reads the request before abruptly changing directions, moving Kane back out of the medical ward.
“Looks like a busy day for you,” the orderly says. “You’ve got a visitor.