Transcript of The Cotton Club Murder | La Rubia | 1

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The California Sun beats down on Cazwell Canyon Road, about 65 miles north of Los Angeles. It's 10:30 AM Friday, June 10th, 1983. A pickup truck bounces down the dirt track, leaving a trail of rising dust. The truck comes to a stop where the road dead ends. A landscape of gnarled trees and scrub brush stretches out in every direction. The area is part of the Angeles National Forest and spreads over 700,000 in acres. When Glenn Fisher steps outside the truck, his shirt is already soaked with sweat. It's almost 91 degrees, but he's used to working outdoors. Fisher is a second-generation beekeeper. After weeks of searching, he hopes he's found the perfect location to store his bee hives. The area is filled with buck wheat and sage. The bees would have plenty of food to produce quality honey. And it's so remote. It's unlikely people could disturb the sensitive hives. So far, so good. Fisher turns toward the truck. A forest ranger sits behind the wheel. He tells her there's a clearing he wants to check out. And then heads toward a nearby path. He walks several feet and glances down. There's broken glass scattered on the ground.

A flash of metal catches his eye. He crouches down, squinting. Looks like bullet casings. Maybe somebody used the area for target practice. Fisher is disappointed. The beehives and gunshots aren't a good mix. He moves towards some dry brush when a foul odor hits him. Maybe a dead cow. Could have strayed from a ranch and then encountered a bear. Curiosity yanks him forward despite his creeping unease. He keeps walking until he catch a sight of an odd shape sticking out of the dusty soil. Fisher inches closer than recoils. It's no cow. This is a human or what's left of it. He can see a skeletal hand jutting out of the ground with its index and middle finger extended. Fisher makes out a pair of shriveled legs underneath some fated blue fabric. It looks like a man's suit. At the top, where the collar is, a remnants of a head. Jesus, he thinks. Fisher stares, disbelief twisting his face. But it's real. With a surge of adrenaline, he bolts towards the truck. There's a dead man back there, he shouts to the stunned ranger. They need to call the police right away. Without another word, they climb into the truck and speed to the ranger station two miles away.

Instead of finding a haven for his bees, Fisher has found a dead man in a suit, one hand, clawing at the sky. It was just the beginning of a twisted Hollywood mystery.

Kill List is a true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those who lives were in danger.

Follow Kill List wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C True Crumb shows like Morbid early and ad-free right now by joining WNDYRY Plus. Each morning, it's a new opportunity, a chance to start fresh. A first from NPR makes each morning an opportunity to learn and to understand. And choose to join the world every morning with Up First, a podcast that hands you everything going on across the globe and down the street, all in 15 minutes or less. Start your day informed and a new with Up First by subscribing wherever you get your podcasts. From WNDRI, I'm Tracy Pattyn, along with my co-host, Josh Lucas. And this is Hollywood in Crime: The Cotton Club murder. It was the early 1980s. Hollywood glittered with money, movies, and a dark secret: cocaine. In this world of excess, Roy Radon craved wealth, power, and Fame as a movie producer. He thought he was on his way until Gunshots ended his life. The story unfolded like a Hollywood thriller with a cast worthy of the Silver Screen. There was Robert Evans, a famous producer, driven to make a comeback. But what price was he willing to pay to be back on top?

And there was the woman at the center of it all, Lanie Jacobs. She had her own Hollywood aspirations, but also a dark past. Was Laine a pawn in a dangerous game, or was she pulling the strings behind Raiden's death? His murder would be forever linked to the film they were so desperate to make, The Cotton Club. The trail would go cold until it was ignited by another murder. It would take more than five years of dogged investigation and undercover police work to find out who killed Roy Radin and why. This six-part series reveals the hidden demons that shaped Roy Radin, Lanie Jacobs, and Robert Evans. It's a story story about three people bound by a shared dream, yet divided by their desperate ambition. The prize meant everything, and the cost was someone's life. This is episode one. La Rubia.

It's just after 2:30 PM on June 10th, 1983, when Detective Carlos Avila and his partner, Willy Ahn, arrive at Caswell Canyon. The two men are with the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. Earlier that morning, they got word about a body dump that a beekeeper stumbled on deep in a remote canyon off the 5 Freeway. The two detectives get out of the car and stretch. Traffic had been the usual bumper to bumper out of LA. The Los Angeles Police Department handles crime within the city, but the body was found near a town called Gorman. Gorman is part of an area that stretches over 3,000 square miles of mountains, waterways, valleys, and small towns. This entire region falls under the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. That means the investigation lands squarely on the shoulders of Sheriff's Homicide Detectives. Avila and Ahn walk towards the crime scene. The area is already buzzing with Sheriff's deputies. Avila gestures towards the body. It's cordoned off with crime scene tape. There's our guy. Not going to be pretty. Carlos Avila is 49, stocky with graying hair. He takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, then catches a familiar smell, a decaying body.

Avila is a seasoned homicide detective with 23 years under his belt. He's no stranger to gruesome crime scenes. He reaches the body first in a dry creek bed. Spent bullet casings litter the ground around the lifeless form. Looks to be the remains of a large man wearing a three-piece blue suit. Avila leans over to get a closer look. One entire side of the victim's face appears blown off. There are jagged tears in the victim's vest and jacket where several buttons are missing. To Avila, it indicates a struggle between the victim and his killer or killers. He fixes his gaze on the hand, protruding from the ground. A sheriff's deputy quips that it must have been offering up a silent prayer. The comment hangs in the air, gallows humor. Detective Ahn swats at a buzzing fly. Guys got good taste. He points to the feet. One is clad in a Gucci loafer. The other shoes, strewn to the side. A tie with a Pierre Cardin logo still visible, dangles in the hot breeze. Avila looks at the remains. Something feels off. The pant pockets, both front and back, have been emptied of their contents. The wrists are bare, where a watch would usually be.

Ahn suggests maybe a robbery gone bad, but Avila doesn't think so. Those Gucci loavers scream Beverly Hills. You don't take someone this far out of town for a quick mugging. An hour later, the medical examiner arrives to collect the for autopsy. Avila and Ahn head to a nearby Sheriff station to file their report. But there's a nagging feeling in Avila's gut. A methodical detective, he lives by the motto, Look slow, look close. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, could unlock the truth. That afternoon, with dust closing in, he returns to the crime scene alone. It's quiet. Just a few deputies packing up to leave. He pulls out a filtering screen, then carefully sifts through the earth where the body was found. A few minutes later, the mesh catches something. He extracts his find, a A low whistle escapes his lips. It's a fragment of a jawbone studded with several teeth. No ID, no witnesses, just a collection of grim souvenirs. The teeth could be the key to unlocking the victim's identity once they get a hit on the missing person's database. For now, without a name, he's John Doe, number 94.

It was Friday, January 7, 1983, four months before Caswell Canyon became a bloody gravesite for John Doe, number 94. Miles away in the sprawl of Los Angeles, a different landscape shimmered. Benedict Canyon was surrounded by lush lawns, manicured gardens, and sprawling mansions. Bentley's and Jaguars lined the driveways. Here, the story was just beginning. Lanie Jacobs threaded her way through a crowded cocktail party in one of those exclusive homes. She leaned against a mirrored wall and took a sip of her Martini. The event was a retirement party for her friend, Carol Johnston's father. He used to be a Hollywood studio bigwig. The guest list was supposed to be brimming with power players. Carol had even promised her an introduction to someone special. Lanie wasn't holding her breath. The room was overflowing with geriatric types. She was going to need a boost to get through this night. Lanie darted into a marble bathroom and locked the door. Then she pulled gold compact from her purse and flipped it open. Inside was a small mound of white powder. Closing her eyes, she held the compact up to her nose and snorted quickly, twice. The world seemed to sharpen.

Lanie lifted her chin. A cool reflection met her gaze in the mirror. Highlighted blonde hair framed her sharp cheekbones, skin smooth as porcelain. Polished elegance clung to her like a second skin. Her good looks had served her well, but she refused to be defined by them. There was a new ambition that burned beneath her glossy surface. Lanie Jacobs wanted to be a movie producer. At 35, the path might not be simple, but her past was filled with calculated risks, and she had something more working for her: an iron will. Lanie adjusted her evening gown and rejoined the crowd. A dark-haired woman with dangley earrings and frost lipstick approached her. It was Carol, the hostess. There was a glint in her eye and a man beside her. Lanie Jacobs, meet Roy Radon. You two are going to get long like a house on fire. Lanie looked up. Roy Radin, dark haired with a beard, towered over her at 6'1. A three-piece pinstriped suit, perfectly tailored, draped his heavyset frame. A fedora hat and his antique cane added theatrical flair. Roy extended his hand. Pleasure to meet you, he boomed. There was a definite New York accent.

Lanie smiled up at him and extended her hand. Her own voice purred with Southern charm. Likewise, Roy. Carol winked at Lanie. She said Roy was a successful variety show producer on the East Coast. He had just moved to LA, too, and he was looking to expand into movies. Lainey's eyebrow cocked with interest. She didn't say anything about her own agenda. She never liked to reveal the hand she was playing until she was ready. A few minutes later, the two of them were tucked away on an Italian leather sofa talking like old pals. Lanie retrieved her compact and opened it. Radin's eyes lit up. They spoke the same language. Radin launched into explaining his business. He brought together aging crooners, old-time comedians, and entertainers to perform in touring variety shows. Small town crowds ate it up. Now he was looking to expand his empire in movies and TV, and he wanted to partner with the right Hollywood players. A few snorts later, Lainey spun her own tale of success. She was starting fresh in LA, too. Said she was a successful clothing designer with a knack for savvy investing. Lainee wasn't necessarily lying, just omitting some details.

As the crowd thinned, Radin declared it was too early to call it a night. They should go to his hotel. Laney agreed and motioned Carol over to join the after-party. She felt a tug of excitement. She had a feeling Roy Radin had a lot to offer, and Laney, ever the shrewd gambler, was eager to see where the game would lead.

A half hour later, Roy Radin burst through the front door of his hotel suite near West Hollywood. His assistant, Jonathan Lawson, jumped to his feet from the couch. Lanie and Carol glided in behind Roy where introductions followed. Jonathan excused himself and then reappeared with a bottle of Tattenger on ice and a tray of horserves. Roy smiled. Despite being his Assistant for just one year, Jonathan was in perfect sync with Roy's unpredictable demands. But as they clink glasses, Roy felt a prickle of anxiety. He'd painted himself as a picture of success for Laney, and it was true. He had made millions and was confident he'd make more. But the past few years had been a whirlwind of trouble for Roy Radin enterprises. The business wasn't raking in cash like it used to, and the accounting was a tangled mess. Then he'd weathered that nasty scandal back in the Hamptons. The whole thing was a stain on his image and one he desperately needed to disappear. But Roy had lots of irons in the fire. He still had some show tours scheduled and was managing a TV actor named Dimon Wilson. The champagne slid easily down his throat, and Laine had already whipped out more Coke.

Roy felt Jonathan's silent judgment from across the room. He'd promised to cut back on the blow, but there was always time for that later. He took a big snort. Success in LA could be his redemption, and meeting Laney was perfect timing. A new connection, fun and easygoing, and she had plenty of coke. Yes, meeting Lanie Jacobs was a very good omen.

Miami Beach, Friday, July 1979, four and a half years before Roy Radon was murdered. 32-year-old Lanie Jacobs raced out of the offices of Beermont, Sonet, Bayly, and Shohat Attorneys at Law. She worked there as a legal secretary, her days measured by stacks of tedious paperwork and legal transcriptions. The practice was booming, thanks to the city's never-ending drug arrests. Lanie walked to the parking lot and slid into her old VW Beatle. Two pops of the clutch, and it was ready to rumble. One day, she'd have something sleek to drive, maybe a Mercedes or Porsche. She cruised into the heart of the city. Open air cafés buzzed with voices and music. Laine loved Miami, the weather, the nightlife, from Little Havana to Coconut Grove. She moved here 12 years ago after ditching Methodist Junior College back in Georgia. School was never her thing. Most of her high school friends were married with kids by now. She tried marriage a lot. By the time Karen Laney Jacobs was 28, she'd been hitched five times. None of them stuck for long. Trust in love? No, thanks. Her troubled childhood in Alabama had taught her that much. Her father drank and talked with his fist.

Her mother escaped that hell, only to marry and divorce again. When she was 15, Laney got shipped off to her God-fearing grandparents. Their weekends revolved around services, Sunday school, and belting out hymns. They tried to instill the Lord into her, but Laine had more of the devil. She ran around with the fast kids who smoked and drank. She couldn't wait to get out on her own. Lanie pulled up and parked outside her second floor garage apartment. She ran up the rickety stairs and opened the door to her cramped studio. Two hours later, she was transformed. Gone was the buttoned-up office suit. Now she sparked in a Pale Blue bell-bottomed jumpsuit, her dark blonde hair loose, almost ready to conquer Friday night. Lanie Lanie grabbed a tiny vial from her night stand. She unscrewed the cap, snorting a quick hit of cocaine. Coke was a revelation she had discovered in Miami. It ignited her senses. With each hit of magic dust, she could step into any persona she desired. But that wasn't enough. Partying in dead-end jobs had filled Lanie's 20s. Now, at 32, she was ready to kickstart her new plan. Miami was teeming with wealthy Latinos, jet-setters, and a new breed of in-crow.

They were called cocaine cowboys, shadowy figures who smuggled and distributed the white powder. Laine had been working a fresh angle, one that could guarantee the lifestyle she wanted, and she knew who could help her, someone who had a line on more than just good Coke.

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Welcome to the Dark Sanctum.

Listen to Dark Sanctum Season 2, exclusively on WNDYRI Plus. Join WNDYRI Plus in the WNDYRI app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. They say Hollywood is where dreams are made, a seductive city where many flock to get rich, be adored, and capture America's heart. But when the spotlight turns off. Fame, fortune, and lives can disappear in an instant. When TV producer Roy Radin was found dead in a canyon near LA in 1983, there were many questions surrounding his death. The last person seen with him was Lanie Jacobs, a seductive cocaine dealer who desperately wanted to be part of the Hollywood elite. Together, they were trying to break into the movie industry. But things took a dark turn when a million dollars worth of cocaine and cash went missing. From WNDYRI comes a new season of the hit show Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club murder. Follow Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club murder on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcast. You can binge all episodes of The Cotton Club murder early and ad-free right now by joining WNDYRI Plus.

Saturday morning, June 11, 1983. Los Angeles Sheriff's Department headquarters downtown, a massive old stone building near the 101 Freeway. Detective Carlos Avila takes another sip of lukewarm coffee. It's been 24 hours since the unidentified body of a man was discovered in Caswell Canyon. He'd been shot to death. Since then, the LAPD Missing Persons files, coughed up a possible match. Roy Alexander Radin, a 33-year-old theatrical producer from New York, vanished Friday, May 13th. The clothes, the description, everything lines up with the body they found. Their next step is getting dental records from New York, hopefully confirming the victim's identity. Avila turns his attention to the autopsy report. His partner, Willy Ahn, states the findings. Ten round perforation operations to the back of the head, starting at the crown and going down the base. Avila digests the information. Ten perforations didn't necessarily mean 10 separate bullets. The body's poor condition may determine the exact number close to impossible. The report also indicates that the bullets are consistent with that of a large caliber shotgun. One bullet penetrated through the left front side of the skull and exited through the left side of the scalp. That was the fatal wound.

Ahn keeps reading. There are multiple fragments of facial bones, including the maxillary bone and lower jawbone, that are shattered and fragmented. Avula suspects that level of damage could be caused by an explosive device. Ahn offers alternative possibilities, blunt force trauma or another shot to the face. Avula shrugs. For now, answers are elusive, just like the truth behind the victim's identity. But the next day, Sunday, the forensic dental report confirms what they suspected. The victim is Roy Radin. Now, they need to piece together how he ended up dead in a remote canyon.

Miami Beach, Friday, summer 1979. The Miami sunset was a thin line of red over the ocean as Laine pulled into the parking lot of Club Mutiny. This was the best time of night, she thought, when all the excitement lay ahead. A line of people had already formed next to the velvet rope, but Laine knew the bouncer. He grinned and waved her past the crowd. She glided up a staircase and showed the hostess a members-only card embossed with a Winking pirate. Inside the club, a kaleidoscope of lights bounced off mirrors. Bodies pulsated to the disco beat on the dance floor. The mutiny was the place to be. Here, celebrities and socialites mingled with drug lords and exiled politicians, and everyone dressed to kill. It had taken relentless networking, but each night, Lainey edged a little closer to the real Miami power brokers, the ones who controlled the flow of the purest cocaine in North America. And that was what Laine wanted, to be a major player in the high-stakes world of drug smuggling. Nightclubs were Laine's classrooms, filled with men who held the answers she needed, and she wasn't shy about asking questions. What drove the price?

How did the product flow through the city? Who pulled the strings in other countries? A flash of her smile and a sultry whisper could coax a secret out of any man. And Laine was a quick study. Laine climbed the stairs to the upper deck of the club. Tucked into a private booth, she spotted a familiar figure in a white linen suit. Danny was a mid-level dealer she'd been cultivating. Her sweet-talking had scored a small-time gig. Danny arranged for some airline pilot to use her home phone number as a contact. She slid into the booth. A mirrored tray with lines of white powder sat on the table. Danny extended it to Lanie, then plucked a gold spoon from his necklace chain. She leaned down and inhaled. He reached into his suit pocket and took out a wad of cash.

Five hundred bucks for doing me that favor.

Lanie felt a spark of excitement. She grabbed the roll and stuffed it in her handbag. I can do more, you know. Danny lowered his head.

I might have something else for you. More money, but a bigger risk.

Lanie said she was all ears.

It's a little errand. A quick trip to the airport.

Where am I flying? He pinched his nose and sniffed, then looked into her eyes.

Who said you'd be flying?

Lanie's pulse quickened. This was the break she'd been waiting for.

It's Monday morning at the Sheriff's Department headquarters. Detectives Avila and Ahn huddle with two colleagues assigned to the Radin Homicide. There's already a file on Radin based on the missing person report. It also includes intel from a private investigator named John O'Grady. He was hired by Radin's mother. At least they're not starting from scratch. The details paint a conflicting picture. Money, success as a theatrical producer, a fancy mansion back east, and an ugly scandal. A young actress claimed she was raped at one of parties. Radin had been charged with possession of cocaine, illegal possession of a handgun, and threatening the woman. He was sentenced to probation and a fine. Another man was eventually charged with her assault. In the month leading up to his death, Radin had been working on a movie deal with a woman named Elaine or Lanie Jacobs. They don't know much about her or this deal. The details get even murkier on the night of his disappearance. Unfortunately, Friday, May 13th, around 8:45 PM, Radin was met by Jacobs at his hotel. They left in a limo and headed to La Scala Restaurant in Beverly Hills, but Radin and Jacobs never arrived.

After that, police tried to track down Jacobs, but she had split town. She briefly talked to the investigators on the phone and said that Radin got out of the limo after an argument. Now, she was nowhere to be found. There was more in the file. Radin had been taking meetings with a producer named Robert Evans. Avila knows who Evans is. He's the guy who produced Chinatown and a string of Hollywood hit movies. A big shot in a town full of big shots. Detective Ahn mentions another detail from the report. Radin's assistant, Jonathan Lawson, claimed that 11 kilos of cocaine and $270,000 in cash had had been stolen from Jacob's residence. Together, it was worth almost a million bucks. Avila raises an high brow. The story just got a lot more interesting. O'grady, the private eye who investigated the case, had his own opinion. He was quoted in the papers as saying, I'm convinced that he's dead through organized crime, trying to infiltrate the motion picture industry. He obviously doesn't know what to make of that. He He comes through the rest of the file. With little evidence of foul play, the missing person's investigation had stalled out.

He asks if there's any word on Lawson's whereabouts. A detective says they've tracked him down in New York City. Lawson says Raiden was running scared the last week of his life. Radin even arranged for a buddy to give him protection the night he vanished. Turns out the guys demand Wilson. Wilson is an actor. He's claimed to Fame was playing the Sun on the '70s TV sitcom Sanford and Sun. According to an interview with LAPD, Raiden was his longtime friend, and recently, he'd become Wilson's manager. The actor had been part of Radon's roadshow tour. Radin's funeral is June 16th in New York. Wilson will probably be out of town. Talk to him as soon as he gets back. Avila smiles thinly. A sitcom actor as a bodyguard? If Wilson was supposed to protect Radin that night, he turned in one hell of a lousy performance.

Summer, 1979. Lanie fiddled with the car radio, then tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Don't overthink it, she muttered. The instructions were simple. Pick up a suitcase from baggage Claim, deliver it to Danny, her first big chance to prove herself. A few minutes later, she arrived at Miami International Airport. Lanie snagged a spot in short-term parking taking. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a claim ticket. On the back was a description of the suitcase. A quick swipe of lipstick, and she stepped out of the car. Then she disappeared into the throng of travelers. Lanie walked casually to the designated carousel. Her tailored skirt and crisp blouse helped her blend seamlessly with other business travelers. She waited, then checked her watch. Any minute now. The conveyor belt sputtered awake, dumping luggage, strolers, and backpacks. Lanie scanned the carousel. After a few minutes, she spotted it, a large dark-brown suit a suitcase. A voice startled her. Need any help, ma'am? It was a porter. She forced a smile, hiding her nerves. No, thank you. I've got it. Lanie reached down and grabbed the suitcase handle. It was heavy. She tried to look nonchalant as she lugged the bag from the terminal past some security guards.

Back at her car, she popped the trunk and heed the suitcase in, then looked around. No one there. Laney unlocked the latches. A gasp escaped her mouth. The bag was packed with tightly-wrapped bricks of cocaine. She'd never seen that much. Lanie exhaled when Miami International Airport was in her distant rear view. 20 minutes later, she was cruising by the ocean with enough coke to land her in prison for a long time. She shuddered at the thought. Laney pulled into a parking lot near the beach. She spotted Danny leaning against his sleet jaguar. He strolled over to her VW while she opened the trunk. He unlocked the suitcase and checked the contents.

Any problems?

Lanie shook her head. None whatsoever. Silently, he handed her a leather briefcase. Lanie snapped open the flap. Inside were rows of crisp $100 bills. Her breath caught in her throat. Danny smiled.

I'm feeling generous. 50 grand for your services.

He promised there was more where that came from if she was game. Lanie didn't hesitate. No more typing up endless legal briefs, no more 9:00 to 5:00. Laine had a new calling, and it paid in cold, hard cash. She was swapping her title as a legal secretary for a new one, Coke Dealer.

I'm Jake Warren, and in our first season of Finding, I set out on a very personal quest to find the woman who saved my mom's life. You can listen to Finding Natasha right now, exclusively on WNDYRI+. In season 2, I found myself caught up in a new journey to help someone I've never even met. But a couple of years ago, I came across a social media post by a person named Loti. It read in part, Free It's three years ago today that I attempted to jump off this bridge, but this wasn't my time to go. A gentleman named Andy saved my life.

I still haven't found him.

This is a story that I came across purely by chance, but it instantly moved me, and it's taking me to a place where I've had to consider some deeper issues around mental health. This is season 2 of Finding, and this time, if all goes to plan, we'll be finding Andy. You can listen to Finding Andy and Finding Natasha exclusively and add WNDYRY on WNDRI Plus. Join WNDRI Plus in the WNDRI app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.

Two sheriff's detectives arrive at the gated home of actor, Demond Wilson, in Truesdale Estates, a tony neighborhood in Beverly Hills. It's June 19, 1983, nine days since Roy Radin's body was found. His funeral was held just three days ago in New York. The LAPD investigation into Radin's disappearance revealed that Wilson was the actor's manager and good friend. Close enough friends for Radin to share that he was scared and needed a bodyguard. The detectives are hoping Wilson can shed light on Radin's final night. An assistant meets them in the drive away and escorts them inside to the living room. A few seconds later, Dimon Wilson walks in with a confident swagger. At 36, he still possesses an easy charm that made him so popular on his hit show, Sanford and Son. One of the detectives sets up a tape recorder. The officer asks Wilson to take them back to Friday, May 13th.

What time did you go over to the park? It was about 2:45. My secretary dropped me off. What was the end result of that meeting at the hotel? He asked me to have dinner with him. He said, I got to meet some producers. I don't want you to act like you're with me. I want you to see me. On the 13th, when he invited to dinner, did he indicate who was going to dinner for him and how he was going to get there? He said that someone was picking him up. He didn't say who. No, sir. Not to me.

Okay, ultimately-Wilson lights a cigarette and casually mentions that his secretary, Amelia, joined him for dinner that night.

After Amelia came, what did you do then? We got in my Mercedes. Where did you go? We drove around. I stopped at the gas station, got a pack of cigarettes, Maritz. We drove back around again, nothing. So I drove back around and parked in the same spot, and the limousine pulled out. I saw a lady get out with a lot of flashy stuff.

The detective leans in.

Can you describe the woman for it? I cannot. I just saw a glitter from that distance. I don't know. Do you know a girl named Elaine Jacobs? Have you ever heard that name? Have Have you ever met her? No, sir. Have you ever mentioned her name to you? No, sir.

The detective pauses. If Wilson's account is accurate, Radin might have been hesitant to share the full picture.

I know you're Radin. After the girl got out, she apparently look like to the way she was dressed. She went inside the hotel. Yes, sir. Not to believe it came out. Yes. How did they get in? You saw them get in the limo? Not exactly. Just the group take off, and I said, Fine. And we started following. When they turned right on Fairfax, A car pulled out onto Sunset Boulevard. You turned out it was about four or five car lens behind them. The light caught me right there. At any rate, once you stopped at the signal, you never saw the car again. Watch this.

Wilson exhales a cigarette and blows out a smoke ring.

What does that mean?

Smoke. Disappeared, sir. After losing the limo, Wilson says he went straight to the restaurant. Radin wasn't there. He and his secretary then dined on Veal Piccata and Linguini. A look of disbelief flickers between the detectives. Why was Wilson so unconcerned about Radin's absence?

Let me just say one thing, sir. Roy Radin, he is not the most dependable person in the world. You know the story, the proverbial thing of the boy who cries wolf? You keep saying wolf, wolf, wolf, and then one day people go, Oh, come on. We heard that crack before.

The detectives thank the actor for his time and leave. Wilson's information operation helped, but there are still big gaps from that night. No limo driver ID, no clue about Laney Jacobs, and disbelief that Radin was in any real danger. They're back to square one.

By 1980, the Miami drug trade had rolled out the red carpet for Laney Jacobs. In an exclusive club dominated by macho men, Laney was a star. Men like Danny, who were mid-level coke peddlers, worked for her now. Even the city's most notorious gangsters respected Laney. They christened her La Rubia, Spanish for blonde. La Rubia was distributing at least 10 to 20 kilos of pure Colombian cocaine every week, and she started pocketing millions in the process, a far cry from her secretary days, where she scraped by on 200 bucks a week. All that cash meant a new lifestyle. Laine bought herself a house with a pool. The decor was worthy of a magazine spread. Stark white walls and plush white carpeting set off by black, lacered furniture. Silk pillows lined the sofa, all monogrammed with her initial L. She had a built-in safe under the floor to stash her money and kilos of coke. Her past was a hazy memory of struggle. One thing was clear, she wouldn't go back. Her eyes were wide open to the risks. Murders fueled by drug cartels had unfolded across the city, everywhere from quiet oceanside streets to shopping malls.

Miami's courts were so clogged that 60% of first-degree murder cases had to be settled on lesser charges. Laine was cautious. She had couriers deliver her goods under the radar. Once, a courier arrived in a second-hand vehicle with a TV repair sign. Another time, he delivered $300,000 in a beat-up duffle bag. But even she got into a jam during a routine traffic stop. The officer found Coke, weed, and $30,000 in cash. Lanie hired a slick lawyer who got her off clean. She felt unstoppable. That feeling only intensified when she met Milan Bella Chausis, a kingpin in Miami's drug world. Bella Chausis controlled a hefty chunk of the city's drug trade. He was shrouded in secrecy, always surrounded by thick-necked bodyguards. Everyone feared him. Rumors swirled about murders he'd arranged, bodies he had buried. A drug courier who met him would later say Bella Chausas styled himself after Al Pacino as Scarface. Dripping in gold chains, a collection of Rolexes. He favored Italian loavers, always worn without socks. Laine and Milan clicked. He slipped seamlessly into two roles, her sometime lover and her business partner. Milan provided the pure Colombian cocaine. Laine distributed it. They laundered their expanding profits through a shell company in the Caribbean.

Laine was soon jetting off to make their first deposit, $1.2 million stuffed inside a suitcase, millions stashed away, a life of luxury and no shortage of coke. Laney Jacobs was living the American dream, her way. But La Rubia was just getting started.

It's June 28, 1983, 18 days since the discovery of Roy Radin's body. Detectives Carlos Avila and Willy Ahn stand in front of the Mayflower Hotel in Manhattan. The two detectives have traveled 3,000 miles to interview Roy Radin's assistant, Jonathan Lawson. He'd left LA after reporting Radin missing. Avila and Ahn cross the marble lobby and catch the elevator. A minute later, their door knocking room, 18A. Jonathan Lawson ushers them in. Avila sizes him up. He's 32, tall and lanky blonde hair, neatly dressed in a vest and dresslacks. There are worry lines etched around his eyes. For the detectives, Lawson is crucial to understanding Radin's final months. The three men sit in a small living room suite, and Lawson dives in. He and Radon arrived in LA on June fourth, 1983. He said Radon had been obsessed with breaking into the movies. Just a couple of days after their arrival, Radon met Lanie Jacobs. Lawson rubs his forehead. For the rest of January, they saw each other or spoke every day, either to go out to dinner, hang out, and do drugs. Laine was a party girl. She liked to go out to restaurants and discos. Roy liked to do all those things, too.

Avila isn't surprised. In Hollywood, the lines between business and pleasure always blurred. During that period of time, did you have any opportunity to meet some of Lainey's friends? Lawson nods. He pulls a date book off the coffee table and flips through the pages. The week of January 10th, Laine brought by a man that I was introduced to as Tally Rogers. Avila recognizes Tally Rogers's name from the private investigator's file. Did she say who he was to her? She said, This is my friend. He takes care of my business. I didn't ask any questions because I knew what they were doing. I saw the amounts of coke that was being laid out. I came to the conclusion that these people were in the coke business. This lines up with the intel they have on Laney. Drug deals and not movie deals, were her thing. Detective Ahn leans in. Tell us more about this Tally Rogers. Lawson reveals that in February, Rogers moved into the hotel they were staying in. He and Roy hit it off and spent a lot of time partying. Then over the Easter holiday in April, Lanie had 11 kilos of Coke and $270,000 stolen, and Rogers disappeared.

She became suspicious that Roy was involved since he and Rogers had gotten so tight. Avila and on exchange looks. They ask Lawson if it could have been true, but he's adamant. Roy loved to use coke, not deal it. Avila nods. Let's back up. Tell us about this alleged movie deal that Lanie and Roy were working on. In April, Lanie came to the apartment and introduced the whole idea about Robert Evans. He was looking for somebody to finance his movie about the Cotton Club. Roy's thing was to get the money together. Robert Evans, the famous producer. The detectives knew Evans had met with Radin in his final months. Now, the reason why is clear. Avila asks if Lanie was a partner in this deal. Lawson lets out a sarcastic laugh. He says Lanie wanted in, but Roy didn't want her involved. He thought she was just a glorified drug dealer. Avila connects the dots. Radin meets Laine. She turns him on to lots of Coke, introduces him to Evans. But it all goes south after this robbery. Then Radin tries to cut ties with her. Avila turns to Radin's last night alive. In a shaky voice, Lawson recounts an incident right before Lainey and Raiden left for the restaurant.

She wanted me to go to her car and get some Coke. It was parked a couple of miles away. I said, No, I won't do that. She didn't understand why and kept insisting. She got really upset. What did you think would happen? It was a trap. I figured somebody was going to kidnap me or kill me. Avila's eyes narrow. So Lawson thinks he cheated death that night. Maybe. Laney Jacobs dealt drugs. Asking Lawson to get some from her car didn't sound that unusual. Then there was the crime scene. It points to a violent confrontation, not a calculated takedown by a lone woman. And Tali Rogers, the missing drug courier, added another layer to this convoluted story. Laney might be one person of interest, but who else wanted Roy Radin dead?

Follow Hollywood in Crime: The Cotton Club murder on the WNDRI app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining WNDRI Plus in the WNDRI app or on Apple podcast. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondry. Com/survey. This is episode one of six from Hollywood in Crime. The Cotton Club murder. This podcast is based on historical research, but some dialog has been dramatized. In this episode, we use an alias because the real person's identity is unknown. We utilized many resources when researching this story, but ones we found exceptionally helpful are Bad Company: Drugs, Hollywood, and the Cotton Club murder by Steve Wick and the Los Angeles Superior Court Archives and Records Center. Our show was produced by Tracey Rebecca Reynolds and Jim Carpenter for Hollywood and Crime. Our writer is Matt Marinovich. Our managing producer is Sophia Martens, and our coordinating producer is Taylor Sniffon. Our story editor is Mikaela Bligh. Research by Adam Melian. Sound design is by Kyle Randall. Our audio engineers are Sergio Enriquez and Augustine Lim. Audio assembly by Daniel Gonzales. Additional audio assistance from Adrian Tapia.

Fact checking by Will Tavlin. For WNDYRI, our producer is Yasmin Ward, and our senior producer is Laura Donna Palavoda. Executive producers are Erin O'Flaherty, Marsha Louis, and Jenn Sargent.

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