A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (36 page)

CHAPTER 32

Saturday, Jessica gathered the cat pack, determined to deliver the news that their investigation into Kelly’s death was over. They were silent and wide-eyed as Jessica detailed recent events. The toll of misdeeds was astonishing: Chester Davis and Bobby Simmons dead, two cars in Jessica’s possession vandalized, and three others torched by the punks who apparently pursued her from LA to Riverside. Or maybe even from Palm Desert to LA and then to Riverside, if it turned out they were also the ones who left that first warning for Jessica on El Paseo. With Arnold Dunne in custody, and the police
on the hunt for Justin Baker, Jessica tried to sound optimistic about the chances of nailing Mr. P.

Two things particularly alarmed members of the cat pack seated in a
circle on the patio, after cooling off in the pool: First, Jessica’s confrontation with Mr. P, in particular the fact the he was so far out ahead of them. Second, that doll left at the Brentwood estate. It was clearly meant to terrorize and disgust by being posed to mimic the way Kelly’s body was found at the scene of her murder.

Jessica reluctantly revealed yet another secret about Kelly
. Kelly was dressed in much the same way as that doll in some of the photos Bobby Simmons had in his possession. That made the creepy doll scene even creepier, if that was possible. His sister’s waywardness distressed Tommy. He confessed that he had no right to criticize her, since he had similarly confusing encounters as a young gay boy.

“Gay culture has the same problems as straight culture when i
t comes to a preference for young and pretty. It’s a cover for pervs looking to exploit the young and dumb, pretty or not. No kid is a match for one of those freaks. Jerry’s helping me work through it, but I’ve got a ton of damage from trusting the wrong guys for the wrong reasons, you know?”

“Tell me about it, Tommy.” Jessica sighed. How did you ever really know who you could or could not trust? She was in her twenties when she fell for Jim Ha
rper. Certainly no fifteen-year-old should have been put in the position Kelly had been placed by the likes of Bobby Simmons or Mr. P. Or, whoever it was that had lured the lovely, mixed-up, young girl into posing for those photos.

“Could anyone have spared
you any of that, Tommy? Could I have done more for you or Kelly to prevent you from getting into those situations?” He thought about it for a bit before replying.

“Probably not
, Jessica. I was so angry, confused and needy.”

“
Kelly was involved with Bobbie Simmons for so long. Some of those photos look like they were taken while she was still in high school or maybe even junior high. She never mentioned him to me. Did she ever say anything to you about him?”

“Not a word.
I thought they hooked up once she started working at the casino. Getting connected to that slime ball might actually make more sense if it happened when she was younger. You know, easily impressed? I could totally see the creep conning her into modeling. That could lead back to Mr. P and the doc, given what we found out. Do you want to tell them, or should I, Jerry?”

“Go ahead, Tommy. You start, then, I’ll jump in.”

Tommy and Jerry had unearthed a studio of another kind owned by Christopher Pogswich: Pure Porn Studio Group. The activities of the small adult film studio were not illegal, and it was a lucrative endeavor. They had released a stream of low budget films with suggestive titles, many of them tawdry twists on the names of mainstream Hollywood hits.

“Here’s what we think is most important,” Jerry interjected
. “California mandates that adult film companies have physicians who certify the health of their
actors
. I’m using that term loosely, of course. In any case, we have a name. The physician of record for the porn studio, since they opened their doors in 1989, has been a Dr. Maxwell Samman.” When he spoke that name, Laura sucked in a breath of air.

“Oh my God, I heard that n
ame, too, or something like it. I went to lunch with one of the women in the grief group I’m in. I knew her before Roger died. She worked at Eisenhower hospital for 30 years until she retired a couple years ago. I don’t know exactly how we got onto the subject, maybe I was trying to avoid talking about Roger and me.” Laura paused for a split second and then went on.

“Anyway, I started out asking about her work in the ER, sort of curious about the records they keep, stuff like that. Then, I told
her why I was interested. The whole story tumbled out. When I described what the doc looked like, she knew immediately who I was talking about.” Laura leaned in speaking excitedly.

“She says this guy came into the ER, covered in blood, with a scrape on his head and a gash in his neck. His companion was doing the talking, because the big guy had part of a ball
point pen casing poking out of his throat. He claimed the man had choked while eating dinner and then fell, hitting his head. Someone had tried to perform an emergency tracheotomy. He didn’t say who had done that. This gigantic mangled man was just lying there in the ER, weak and nearly unconscious. While examining him they found he had fractured a couple ribs and one had punctured a lung. So they admitted him to the hospital.” Laura paused longer this time. Like she was trying to remember all she had been told.

“She remembered his name because it wasn’t just his name that sounded fishy to them. According to my friend, his name was salmon
, ‘like the fish.’ A young guy with him gave them cash: no insurance company, no check, no credit card, just a lot of cash to pay for the bloodied goliath’s care. They thought something was suspicious about them, and their story.”

“Why didn’t they report their suspicions to the police?”

“It was really odd, but nobody was accusing anyone of wrongdoing. This nice-looking young man, sucking up to this repulsive older man in such bad shape, had them all wondering. Not so much about foul play. More that something kinky involving sex, money or drugs had gone terribly wrong.”

“So, what happened to him?” Tommy asked anxiously.

“Well, she wasn’t sure, exactly. He recovered and the young man came back a few days later to pick up the beastly man. By then, they were all glad to see him go. He was not only big and ugly man, but nasty, too.”

“So, did she remember the name of the young guy with him?” Tommy asked.

“No. I asked her that too. They all thought he looked like that friend of OJ’s, Kato Kailin. A slick wheeler-dealer type with blond hair, and an Aloha shirt, complete with open-neck and gold chain. His name didn’t stand out so she couldn’t remember it.”

“Her description fits the young Bobby Simmons to a tee. Sounds exactly as you described him
, Tommy. He was holding out on us about Mr. P and the doc, if they called him in to help that night. I wish I’d pressed him harder, or gotten Art’s men to pick him up. He knew a lot more than he told us about what happened to Kelly. We must have put the fear of God into him with our visit to the soup kitchen, asking all those questions.”

Tommy and Jerry had also traced Dr. Maxwell Samman to an address in the Hollywood Hills, to a house he did not own. The house
was
owned by none other than Mr. P, or more correctly, by Mr. P’s recording company. The place was a well-known party house. Dozens of cars were parked there at times, including paparazzi on the hunt for shots of celebrities who frequented parties held there. The police had been called to the address on numerous occasions. The owner and partygoers were cited for violations of noise ordinances, disturbing the peace and public drunkenness, as well as infractions of public safety and traffic ordinances tied to the wanton disregard for parking restrictions in the area. Despite all the trouble over the years, the doc had never been arrested and there were no prints, mug shots or DNA on file for the wily culprit. None for Mr. P, either.

Jessica was riled up
after everyone left Saturday night. She had agreed to play it cool too but really, really wanted to do something. She even toyed with the idea of storming into Mr. P’s office and confronting him once again. What good would that do? Except maybe get her killed.

The hospital might have a rec
ord of the doc’s blood type. Laura agreed with Frank and the other detectives that they ought to quit poking around for the time being. Nevertheless, she volunteered to check the hospital records to see if she could retrieve information about Maxwell Samman’s blood type. A match to the sample on Kelly’s shirt might add a little fuel to whatever fire was keeping Art’s team from putting the case back in cold storage. It might be enough to subpoena DNA samples from the man.

It was late, but she decided to call Frank anyway. She wanted to give him the news about Maxwell Samman, and that house in the Hollywood Hills. He had declined to attend the latest gathering of the cat pack
, spending time with his kids instead. He would give up his Sunday with them for that trip to San Diego, and the interview with Arnold Dunne. He offered to pass on information about the doc’s name, the porn studio, and the party house to Art so she didn’t have to call. That was actually a good thing. Apparently, Art Greenwald, like Frank Fontana and George Hernandez, was in utter disbelief at the trouble Jessica had managed to get into in so short a time. She was spared another lecture.

She didn’t need it. She
was
already scared by the lengths to which Mr. P had gone to stop Chester Davis, and to put the fear of God into her. That bullet in Bobby Simmons’ head, so soon after their little chat with him about Kelly, was also unnerving.

Terrified, she
was also infuriated that he was pumping the world full of filth. Worse, was the fact that he was making a bundle off of it, and mowing people down in the process. Surely, there had to be somebody who knew the man for what he really was, and who was as angry as she was about it.

As Jessica readied herself for bed, she picked up her phone and found a missed call fro
m a number she didn’t recognize. A voice mail message revealed the identity of the caller, but not much else.

“This is Kim Reed, Ms. Huntington, please call me.”

The image of the mod-looking, black-haired girl came back to her. Silent and motionless as they rode down the elevator together. Jessica had identified the female figure in that tattoo she wore. Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of culture, learning and art, was set out in bold colors running from shoulder to elbow. Kim Reed had to be a thoughtful young woman to have chosen so stunning a figure to emblazon her body. Perhaps she was the key to putting this whole ordeal behind them.

It was too late to call her back tonight
. Giving Kim Reed that business card had been another impulsive act on Jessica’s part. It was prompted by her sense that a furtive defiance oozed from the pores of the automaton. Perhaps it was the boldness of that body art. The image was resoundingly reproachful of the luridly self-indulgent world in which Mr. P presided as a perverse overlord, a sham petty deity.

E
xcitement fought with foreboding as Jessica tried to sleep. Finally, Jessica got up and pulled out her laptop. Eventually, she dozed off while scanning the collections of several favorite designers. She had searched for something to wear to the opening night at that exhibit paying homage to her father. His accomplishments, his vision and vitality, were soothing counterforcesto the cesspools created by the Mr. P’s of the world. That night she dreamed of Kelly. Adorned in a headdress like that worn by the Hindu goddess, she danced joyously, and sang in that lyrical voice of her
s
.

CHAPTER
33

“Are you insane Ms. Huntington? You walk into the studio and start a fight with Mr. P. That’s
after digging up a bunch of dirt about your long-dead friend who was no innocent. In fact, she was a real pain in the ass, just like you, Ms. Huntington. You do not get who you are up against. These guys have been at it a long time. They’re good at what they do. If they overlook some detail when covering their tracks, they hire lawyers like you to clean up after them. I called to beg you to let it go, please. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

There was wretchedness in that young voice that wrenched Jessica to her core. Despite the tough words, the woman was frightened, using anger as her shield. “So, why does that matter to you, Ms. Reed? And how do you know what Kelly was like? My friend was murdered by Mr. P long before he met you. He used her, Kim, then, ran her down like a dog. It sounds like you know all about that.”

“Please, no more. Just let it go. I know what he’s capable of, better than you can ever imagine. I’m mute around here a lot of the time, but I’m not blind or deaf. I know way more than I care to know about what happened to your friend Kelly.”

“Then you have to tell somebody so whoever hurt her can be held accountable. Tell
me
. I
can
help you. You’re absolutely right that I am a lawyer. I have friends and money. If you need a place to go, I’ll come get you. I’ll take you where you’ll be safe.” If only someone had spoken words like those to Kelly.

“Then what, are you going to
do to get him out of my head? Can you erase the things I’ve seen and done? You can’t help me, nobody can. I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Your friend is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Save yourself.”

“
The way to do that is to stop him, Kim. You’ve got to help me. I can do it.”

“No, you can’t. He’s
the
Mr. P, music mogul and studio wizard. Who’s going to believe a gutter rat like me?” she said, sounding more like a ten-year-old than a grown woman as she hung up that phone.

Jessica tried to call back, but her call went dir
ectly to voice mail. She marched around her bedroom, making the bed, cleaning the room, even scrubbing the bathroom top to bottom. Growing more distraught, she was about to call Peter to see if there was some way his security firm could trace the location of that call from Kim. If he could locate her, Jessica would go get her. Her phone rang. Jessica grabbed for it, hoping it was Kim.

“Jessica, it’s Frank. We’ve got him, Jessica. We’ve got the bastard, or will have him soon. Arnold Dunne has copped a plea. What
finally did it was telling him what was in the remaining hypodermics he had. Those came straight from the doc. Man, was he scared and pissed when he learned how close they had come to killing him. Now he can’t stop talking. Not just about Chester Davis, but a ton of his other dealings with Mr. P, and the doc, too. He’s an eyewitness to enough heinous acts to put both men away for a very long time. The other good news is that there are a lot of other folks interested in what Arnold Dunne has to say about Mr. P. LAPD is here, as well as the San Diego County Sherriff’s department, Border Patrol, DEA. Apparently, the FBI has had the weasel in their sights for a while now. They’ve got a team here now, hanging on every word Arnold Dunne has to say, Jessica.”

“Oh my God, Frank. That is such a relief. I can guess about the DEA, but what’s the interest from the FBI about?”

“That suitcase of smut Arnold Dunne was carrying wasn’t the first. He’s a regular distributor for the products Mr. P churns out. I’m not talking about the above-board garbage his adult film studio produces. I’m talking about the illicit material Arnold Dunne had with him at the time of his arrest. It’s sick stuff, mostly child pornography. Turns out Arnold Dunne has had a hand in procuring the girls in some of those videos. The bastard says he’s helped dump them once Mr. P decided it was time to get rid of them. We’re talking about sex trafficking, moving back and forth across the border with drugged-up young girls, Jessica. Most of them were from Mexico, but the traffic also moves the other way. It sounds like that’s another fate Kelly might have faced if she hadn’t been killed that night. The police in San Diego County have already started to round up a few of the characters involved on this side of the border, courtesy of information provided to them by Arnold Dunne. At one of the locations, they found several girls being held for transport out of the country.”

“Does Mr. P know what’s up?” Jessica was thinking about that phone call from Kim. She had sounded desperate, but the message to Jessica was about backing off, as if Mr. P thought he wa
s still out ahead of the game. Surely, she wouldn’t have called Jessica with another warning to back off if he had any real inkling about the juggernaut heading his way?

“I don’t know. A warrant has been issued for his arrest, and for the doc, along with separate
warrants to search both the music studio and the porn studio locations, the house in the Hollywood Hills, and Mr. P’s beach house in Malibu. The FBI and the LAPD are in the process of coordinating a raid on those places even as we speak. If they do locate them and make an arrest I don’t know who’s going to get the first crack at them, in terms of filing charges. I’m sure he’ll lawyer up, hoping to get back out on the street as soon as he can.”

“Surely that won’t happen, Frank. No court is going to believe the man poses no threat to the community or that he’s not a flight risk. The guy has his own private jet
, for God’s sake. He could take off and head out of here anytime he wants.”

“Hey you’re singing a song I know all the words to. You never know what sort of case a crafty lawyer might be able to make. Well, actually maybe you do, Attorney Huntington.”

“Ha! You know I’m not that kind of lawyer, Frank. Can you do me a huge favor?”

“I can try.”

“Is there any way you can get the LAPD to pick up Kim Reed, Mr. P’s assistant? She called me last night out of the blue. When I called her this morning, she seemed distraught and barked at me to butt out.  She’s scared, Frank, and I’m scared for her. She knows something about Kelly, too. Kim has been up close and personal with the freakish Mr. P. Can you put her into protective custody or hold her for questioning somewhere safe? If we can convince her that Mr. P is going to end up behind bars, she’ll have at least as much to say as Arnold Dunne, and she’ll be even more credible.”

“Do you know where we can find her?”

“No. I have a cell phone number for her. There’s probably an address on file for her at Mr. P’s music studio where she works. Can your guys put a trace on the phone, locate her with GPS?”

“I’ll do what I can to find her, Jessica. Also, I presume somebody has already done it, but I’ll make sure that
Mr. P’s plane is grounded.”

Even as she spoke, Jessica had decided to call Peter. She felt certain there was no time to lose. She would have
him
track Kim, too, using the GPS in her cell phone.

“Thanks, Frank. This is such good work. Not just to locate Arnold Dunne before he could get away, but to get him talking like that. Kelly will get some kind of justice out of this, and Chester Davis too.”

“Hey, you and the rest of our cat pack have helped too. I hate to say it, but I believe stirring things up put Mr. P into panic mode and caused him to screw up, big time. Not that I’m endorsing the risk you took confronting the bastard. There’s a good chance this is finally going to bring down that maniac, once and for all.”

As she bid Frank goodbye, Jessica hoped that was true, and that it could be done before Mr. P could get to Kim. She would try to get to her first. It was too late for Kelly but maybe not for Kim.

“Peter, this is Jessica. I need your help.”