Dr. Marsha Wentworth nods and studies Kane after the orderly leaves. The inmate, now in his late fifties, shows all the classic symptoms of Parkinson’s Dementia. His hands shake and his arms tremble.
The psychiatrist has also seen his loss of balance and coordination, his shuffling gait, and his difficulties with speaking and swallowing. His face and jaw have a rigid, mask-like appearance. The prisoner is incontinent and wears an adult diaper under his prison-issued uniform.
“I’ll be doing an assessment of your condition for your upcoming parole hearing,” Dr. Wentworth says. “The authorities are considering what’s called a medically incapacitated parole, due to your deteriorating health.”
The lack of response is consistent with the inmate’s past performances.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. Kane?”
Nathan Kane’s brooding caramel eyes don’t make contact with the psychiatrist. Spittle slips down his chin. He watches with amused detachment as the young woman takes a tissue and wipes his face like a mother would clean up after a child.
The scent of the doctor’s perfume drifts through the office, displacing the usual stench of stale food, body odor, and cleaning fluids that make the prison smell like rotting, rancid fruit. Kane’s eyes hold on the psychiatrist’s diamond ring, before sliding away. He takes in her slender attractive legs.
What would it be like? He sees himself pushing the woman up on her desk, pulling her legs apart. He fucks her as she flails around and tries to hit the panic alarm. The bitch wouldn’t have a chance. After he takes his time with her, he imagines smashing her face into her desk until not even her mother would recognize her.
Kane senses that the psychiatrist is studying him as the violent thoughts swirl through his mind like a drug he craves. His gaze drifts to the floor. He consciously makes his arms and hands shake, just as he has practiced for months. He has the act down so well that he sometimes exhibits the symptoms even when no one is around.
“I want you to know something,” the psychiatrist says, scribbling away in the patient’s chart. Her tone has changed. It is controlled; coldly professional. There isn’t a hint of the compassion he’s felt on other visits. She stops writing. Her frame pitches forward and she makes a futile effort at eye contact. “I’m considering recommending against your parole, Mr. Kane.”
He wants to reach up, grab the shrink by the throat, clamp his arms around her neck and slowly squeeze the life out of her. He imagines toying with the bitch, letting her regain consciousness over and over before her life force finally slips away.
It takes every effort he has to remain silent, watching in a controlled, detached way, as he continues demonstrating the symptoms he’s mastered.
“I believe your medical condition is being exaggerated,” the psychiatrist continues. “I’ve studied your charts; the reports of the doctors over the years. The most recent report from your private physician doesn’t support the level of cognitive impairment that would normally be expected at this stage in the development of the disease.” The psychiatrist leans in closer, tries again to meet the dark eyes beneath his heavy brow. “I think you’re exaggerating your symptoms, Mr. Kane.”
Fucking bitch! How does she know? How could this woman, who is young enough to be his daughter, know when he’s convinced all the others?
Despite his best efforts, he can’t keep his eyes from sliding up to her for the briefest instant. He wonders if she has any idea who she is dealing with; how many people he has murdered. He knows a half dozen ways to kill her before she has a chance to call for help.
His gaze drifts back to the floor and he buries his feelings. It’s not the time. Not when he is so close. There has to be a way to get the woman to cooperate.
The psychiatrist turns her back to him, writes in his medical chart. “I’ll do one more assessment in a couple of days and then make my final decision.”
Half an hour later, after more tests, and more one-way discussion about his level of impairment, the orderly walks Nathan Kane back to his cell.
Kane is fortunate. The medical ward is undergoing expansion and renovation. Most of the other inmates have been moved out of the wing. He’s been temporarily given a room by himself.
At eighteen hundred hours, the shift at the prison changes. Kane waits until after midnight, when Bobby Jenson comes on duty and makes his rounds.
Jenson is in his early thirties, with a receding hairline and a series of needle marks around the cubital vein of his arm. The orderly had tried to cover the marks by wearing long sleeves. But in the summer, the prison was hot, and the flesh-toned makeup he used to conceal the needle tracks failed him.
Secrets were eventually exchanged. Heroin was delivered to a post office box. The use of a late night cell phone was bartered.
Everything in prison can be bought. Kane knows how to play the game. Over a dozen years in lockup has given him an expertise at manipulation.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” Jenson says, slipping the phone into the prisoner’s large paw. “This time I need two hundred and the smack delivered to my PO Box no later than next Wednesday.”
Kane wants to reach over and wring the skinny little bastard’s neck. Who does he think he is, trying to extort money from him?
He swallows his anger and nods, sealing the deal. This isn’t the time to try to negotiate anything. His release, planned for years, is in jeopardy. Nothing can stand in the way of him getting out of the fucking shit hole.
Five minutes later, Kane has his connection on the line. “There’s something I need from you. The shrink needs a little convincing.”
The voice he hears is all business. “Tell me what it is, and I’ll see that you get it.”
After his demands are agreed to, Kane lowers his voice. His dark eyes reflect the moonlight from the window above his bed. He picks up the exercise ball from the physical therapy unit and squeezes it so hard that it’s flattened as he speaks. “Just tell me one thing: Is Jack Bautista dead?”
Chapter Four
Two uneventful days after my run-in with Baker and Kennedy, I was beginning to think the talk of an internal affairs investigation was just that—talk. There was no word from IAD, and the Dragnet twins were invisible.
The RHD detectives had probably caught a new case and moved on. A two-week-old prostitution murder likely was low on their pecking order, unless they happened to collar the cop wanted for the crime.
Bautista was also off the radar, lying low, maybe hoping something would turn up to clear him. If that was the case, it was wishful thinking. The evidence against him was solid and, to my knowledge, no other leads had been developed.
On my way to my brother Robin’s hair salon that evening, I ran into Natalie, preparing for a sale at the appliance store. I made an impulsive decision to put my snoop sister on the case. I knew I could trust Natalie, despite her youthful enthusiasm over all things involving law enforcement.
“Let’s have a cuppa on the veranda,” Natalie suggested, referring to a small enclosed patio in the alleyway behind the store. We pulled up chairs. Natalie poured. I asked why Clyde wasn’t at the store.
“Old boy took a nap and woke up with a morning glory. He was a little out of breath when we finished. He’ll need a coupla hours to recover.”
Natalie was probably referring to some kind of bedroom calisthenics. I moved on before she gave me the details, telling her I wanted her help on the Bautista case.
“I’ll be your secret Dibble,” she offered, clapping her hands. “You wanna swear me in? Give me a badge and a gun?”
Natalie Bump with a gun? The thought scared the hell out of me. “That won’t be necessary, but I do need you to keep this to yourself. You can’t even tell Clyde. I don’t want anyone knowing we’re looking into things.”
“My lips are sealed tighter than a virgin’s muff. I’m sworn to silence. Now tell me what kinda snoopin’ you want me to do. I could go undercover if you’
d like. I’ve got this red wig and a push-up bra. I could…”
“No disguises, for now. As I mentioned before, Jack Bautista is wanted for the murder of a prostitute, Cassie Reynolds. Before she was killed, Cassie told Jack that she had information about her father, John Carmichael, who disappeared almost thirty years ago. I need you to research Carmichael. Find out anything you can about his old friends, former business dealings…”
“I’ll dig for the dirt.”
I handed her a slip of paper with Carmichael’s full name and birth date. “He was last seen in Santa Monica on September 16th, 1984.”
Natalie tucked the note in her bra. “That’s positively prehistoric, but you can count on me to ride the radish till the dog barks.”
Huh? I didn’t ask.
***
The evening had turned warm as I drove with Bernie to Robin’s salon, thanks to the Santa Ana winds that blew ozone offshore, heated the city, and sometimes tried to burn it down.
Before running into Natalie, I’d spent half an hour trying on outfits until I’d settled on a blue Lacoste butterfly dress and brown ankle-strap sandals. I had no particular reason to dress up, but who needs a reason?
I parked Olive in front of Sinclair’s, a trendy salon near Melrose and La Brea, owned by one of Robin’s best friends. A green door with the establishment’s name in white neon lettering opened to a long corridor that ended at the modern parlor and day spa.
As I entered the reception area, something heavenly hit me that was reminiscent of lavender and cinnamon. It was after hours, and there was no one around, so I rapped on the closed interior door. A bald Jennifer Lopez answered.
Jennifer, the stage persona of Barry Sinclair, owner of the salon, met me and Bernie with open arms. “Kate, dearest, you are so scrumptious I’m tempted to turn in my evening dress, put on a pair of Levi’s, and try walking like Channing Tatum.”
Barry did a pirouette, modeling the sequined gown. Bernie turned around in a full circle and whined, maybe giving tacit approval to the performance.
“You will be absolutely stunning, Jennifer,” I said. “Just as soon as you grow some hair.”
Seconds later, Beyoncé, Cher, and Lady Gaga all appeared from the back room, in varied states of semi-dress. The male hairdressers surrounded me, hair and makeup a work in progress. I got a once-over and critique of my outfit. It was generally positive.
Only Robin, the typical brother, was a bit critical. “Love the dress, but those sandals… Let’s just say they’re a bit too earthy. Looks like you’re having a shoe drought. Next time, I’d consider a pair of Manolos with spiked heels.”
“Just as soon as I win the lottery,” I said. My brother was wearing a pair of dark stockings and a red D-cup bustier. A top-hat, crowned by something vaguely reminiscent of an antennae, completed the Gaga-on-steroids ensemble.
Robin’s partner, Clark, wore Givenchy. He looked up at me while running a comb through his black wig. “Just ignore him, Kate. You look divine.” He studied me for a moment, then said, “But, next time, why not try a retro-sixties vibe?” Cher’s trademark hair flip and pouty lip routine followed.
“I’ll bet Sonny is around here somewhere,” I said.
“Get real,” Tyler Palmer said, coming out of the back room, dressed like Beyoncé. He slapped a palm against his ample derriere. “I’m a single lady.”
“You’re simply stunning,” I said to Tyler. “But I’m not in the market for a single lady.”
I soon came to realize that I’d stumbled on a dress rehearsal of The Divas. My brother and his friends had part-time gigs as the singing group at local nightclubs.
Robin clapped his hands together. “Let’s finish the hair and makeup, ladies. I’ll give my sis a trim and comb-out, and then we’ll rehearse.”
After my brother’s friends made a noisy retreat to the rear of the salon, I let Bernie off his leash and took a seat in Robin’s chair. My brother can sometimes work hair magic, but my brown ’do has a mind of its own, and runs from frizzy, to electric, to generally unmanageable. Thanks, Mom.
As he shampooed my hair, Robin must have read my anxiety. “You seem a little down, Sis. Man troubles?”
“All troubles begin with men.” I gave him a brief rundown of my week, as Bernie eyeballed the other men sashaying at the back of the salon.
“Maybe it’s time you began circulating. Stop replaying the reruns of Doug’s performance, and start dating again.”
“I only saw the video once, and it was enough to last me a lifetime.” Robin had his scissors out. I told him, “Not too much. I don’t know what I’d do without my frizzies.”
My brother put one hand on his hip and did a mid-air scissor clip with the other. “Do I tell you how to shoot your gun?”
“Point taken.”
“Maybe we should try a Brazilian Blowout one of these days.”
“’Fraid I’m still recuperating from the blowout to my credit.” I rolled my shoulders, trying to toss off the day’s stress. “Guess I’m still in recovery mode. The last year’s been an emotional and financial roller coaster.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I’m getting by. Figure as long as I don’t have to move in with Mom, I’m doing okay.”
“Thank God for small favors. Maybe you do need someone new in your life. Nothing mends a broken heart faster than a love transplant.”
“Don’t suppose you have anyone in mind?”
“Remember Sara Johnson? You met her at the salon’s grand opening last year. She owns that little boutique over on Beverly.”
“Love that place, but I don’t think Sara’s my type.”
He chuckled as he rinsed my hair. “Sara’s recently divorced. I did her hair last week, and she told me something about starting a dating group. Why don’t I have her call you?”
Images of George Clooney on my doorstep ran through my mind before he morphed into Danny DeVito. “Let me think it over.” I caught Robin moving in on my bangs again. “Enough!” I yelled.
He surrendered and got out the blow dryer.
“How are things with Clark?” I asked. “You two seem to be hitting it off well.”
I could see my brother’s blue eyes soften in the mirror. “It’s going so well we’re thinking about making an announcement—we’re planning to get married next spring.”
“Really?” I noticed Robin’s eyes beginning to mist. “That’s terrific. I’m so happy for you.”
“We’re just so right for each other. Clark thinks it’s because I’ve supported him with his recovery. He’s been drug-free for almost a year now.” His voice lowered. “Do you think Mom and Amanda would attend the ceremony?”
Our sister, Amanda, routinely disapproved of all things my brother and I had ever done, especially Robin’s decision to come out three years ago.
Despite my misgivings, I said, “I’ll have lunch with them and ask.” There’s nothing I won’t do for my brother. There was a tear in Robin’s eye as he thanked me.
After some conditioner and a blow dry, my hair had gone from a bird’s nest to something that was still a few strands short of fabulous. But I was happy with the result.
Clark walked up behind me and removed his black wig. Robin’s partner was handsome, with deep blue eyes and thick brown hair that seemed permanently tousled, in a way that most women would die for. I might even consider homicide for that hair.
Clark apparently had overheard our conversation. “Your brother and I thought we should Cher a little of our joy with the rest of the family.”
I groaned. “Should be quite the ceremony if you two dress like this.”
Clark grabbed his wig, tossed it halfway on, and put his arm around Robin. “I got you, babe.”
Robin laughed. “Maybe you should warn Mom and Sis that the ceremony could be unforgettable.”
“Speaking of ceremonies,” Clark interjected, “did you tell Kate about the premiere?”
Robin shook his head. Clark went on. “Your brother and I just happen to be attending the world premiere of the new Wolf Donovan film, Tidal Wave, tomorrow night at Grauman’s.”
Despite my delusion of always appearing cool, my jaw fell. “Wolf Donovan. How did you pull that off?”
Clark tossed a hand through the wig. Cher surfaced. “I just happen to have a few connections to the Oscar award winner.”
“Award winning fat ass is more like it,” Robin said. “Guy hasn’t made a decent film in ten years.”
Clark scoffed. “Sometimes your brother can be such a negative ninny. Donovan is still one of the most popular actors in Hollywood, besides being rich and famous.”
“I saw him on Hollywood Confidential a few weeks ago,” I said. “The interviewer asked him if he was planning on making a comeback. Donovan got angry, said he’d never gone away. He cursed and stormed off the set.”
“Can you say egomaniac?” Robin said. “From what I hear, he’s got such an over-the-top lifestyle, he’ll take any role that comes his way for the right payday. His estate is supposed to be worth over thirty million.”
“So how’d you two get the invite?”
Clark’s beautiful blue eyes glowed. “I met Donovan’s son, Bon Bon, at Club Plum last week. He called me later, said he reserved us seats at the premiere. Also invited us to the after-party at his father’s estate.”
Robin frowned. “Bon Bon was probably looking at Clark like he should be on the dessert menu.”
Clark tossed his fingers through the wig. “Can I help it if I’m pretty?”
“It’s getting deep in here,” I said. Then, in a more serious tone, “Robin’s just being protective.”
Clark shrugged. “Maybe Bon Bon’s attracted to my intellectual prowess.”
Robin stowed his supplies. “From what I hear, Bon Bon is even more of a party animal than his father was in his younger days.”
I made eye contact with my brother. “You two be careful of the drugs. I’ve heard anything goes with Donovan.” I then turned to Clark. “Bon Bon—an interesting choice of names.”
“Word has it that Bon Bon’s sexual appetite involves chocolate.”
I held up a hand. “I don’t think I want to know. Got a visual of my landlord and his wife recently that I’m still trying to forget.”