Wndyry Plus subscribers can binge all episodes of Hollywood and Crime: The Cotton Club murder early and ad-free. Join WNDYRY Plus in the WNDYRY app or on Apple podcast. Laine Jacobs was ready for a seismic shift in her life. She'd risen to the top, distributing pure white Columbian powder in Miami, but the thrill of the climb had fated. It was July 1982. Lanie cradled her two-month-old baby boy. His big brown eyes, wide and innocent, stared back at her. A year ago, Lainey got hit with an unexpected urge. She wanted a baby. She got one, along with husband number 6, Joe Amir. Easy on the eyes, thick dark hair, a crooked smile. But the marriage quickly fizzled. Lanie was left with Dax, her sweet little boy. Having a kid, though, didn't stop her from being restless. She handed Dax off to his nanny Miriam, then patted across her backyard toward the pool. Milan Bella Chausis waited for her in a lounge chair. He sipped champagne flanked by his two bodyguards. Lanie poured herself a glass, then sat down next to the notorious drug lord. Almost two years of working with Milan had created a familiar rhythm. Not even her pregnancy and brief marriage interfered with their arrangement.

She and Milan still slept together when it suited them. Laine found him both alluring and dangerous, but she knew how to handle him. He trusted her implicitly. Why wouldn't he? Their business had skyrocketed in the past year, especially in California. Laine had been flying to Los Angeles, ensuring new distributors were on top of their game. She saw an opportunity to grow the company and laid out a plan for their West Coast expansion. Milan John, eager to increase profits, agreed. Laine, however, had one condition. To make sure everything runs smoothly, it makes sense for me to move to LA, permanently. Laine He couldn't read his expression.

I don't like you being so far away.

He squeezed her hand.

But I agree. It's a smart move, and we'll have our coast-to-coast empire.

Laney She exhaled, a weight lifting from her shoulders. But there was something she hadn't revealed to Milan, the real reason she wanted to move West. Her trips to LA had opened her eyes to a new world, the mansions, the lifestyles of the stars, and the power brokers who called the shots. A seductive world built on carefully crafted illusions. It lit a spark inside her. Maybe movies weren't so different from the game she already played. She was a cocaine mogul. Couldn't she be a movie mogul? Laine reached for the bottle of champagne and refilled their glasses. She raised hers and toast it to Hollywood Endings.

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.

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I'm Marsha Clarke, host of Informance Lawyer X. Join me as we tell the shocking true story of a lawyer who wasn't just representing some of Australia's most dangerous gangland criminals. She was informing on them to the police. Informance, Lawyer X is available exclusively on WNDYRY Plus. Join WNDRI Plus for access to this and more Exhibit C True Crime podcasts. From WNDRI, I'm Tracey Patty, along with my co-host, Josh Lucas. And this is Hollywood in Crime: The Cotton Club murder. In our last episode, the bullet riddled body of variety show producer, Roy Radon, was found just outside of Los Angeles. He had been missing for almost a month. Detectives from the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department learned that Radon was last seen with a mysterious woman who was a known coke dealer, Lanie Jacobs. But so far, they have more questions than answers about who wanted him dead. This is episode 2, The Limo Driver.

It's early July, 1983, Los Angeles Sheriff's Department headquarters, downtown. Just over three weeks since Roy Radon's body was found. Detective Carlos Avila and his partner, Willy Ahn, sit in a stuffy conference room. Ahn is setting up a reel to real tape player. Since the investigation started, they've been chasing down different leads. Detectives discovered Roy's godfather, Johnny Stipelli, was a member of the Genovese crime family, and Radin owed him 750 grand after Stipelli invested in his shows. Maybe the mob was getting antsy for their money. Then there was the charity scandal. Radin struck deals with local police and firefighter unions, promote his shows, and get a cut of the profits for their charities. Allegations flew, he kept more than his share. This sparked an investigation by the New York attorney general in 1975. The legal battles hounded him up until his death. But both the mob connection and the charity scandal proved to be dead ends. Detectives couldn't find any motive that would lead to murder. Their best suspect is still Laney Jacobs, a drug dealer who was one of the last people to see Roy alive. Avila looked into her last known address, a house in Sherman Oaks.

Property records show she put the place up for sale on May 12th, just one day before Radin's murder. Laney's whereabouts are unknown, but they have a tape that might be useful. One of Radon's associates, Mickey Divenko, recorded a call with Lanie right after Radin disappeared. On presses play on the tape recorder, and the recording jumps straight into the conversation.

I don't know what joke this is. I told Jonathan I wasn't the last person with him. He got out and had me dropped off. So I don't think this is very funny. I've had it with him, and you can tell him that this goddamn driver-I can't tell him, Monique, because he's missing. I don't know.

The goddamn driver got me off.

How am I supposed to know? Don't get mad at me. All right, well, I can tell you where I was. I was dropped off at about 9:30. I wasn't with this. I'm not doubting that. I'm not doubting at all. The conversation ends when Lanie abruptly hangs up.

Avila glances at his partner. They both agree that Lainey's story about being dropped off sounds forced. A detective pops his head into the conference room. He tells them that Lanie Jacob's lawyer called. He's dropping by later. Avila has been expecting this. So far, Lanie has refused to talk. Maybe this visit from her lawyer would finally break the deadlock. All Roy Radin ever wanted was to be a somebody in show business. His dream burned brighter than the spotlights on the Broadway stage, and it was because of his father, Broadway Al made in. In the Roaring Twenties, Broadway Al owned a string of New York City nightclubs. Back then, Vaudville ruled the stage. A whirlwind of music, comedy, dance, anything that keep an audience tossing coins. At the center of it was Broadway Al. He took his productions on the road, turning out a hundred shows up and down the East Coast. Roy was born in long after his father's golden age. He still got to watch Big Al's shows, even though they'd lost some of their luster. He ate up stories from Broadway Al's glory Days, the packed houses, famous stars, and dazzling showgirls. If Roy closed his eyes, he could still smell his father's expensive aftershave, even feel the soft fabric on Al's custom pinstriped suits.

Roy wanted to be just like his old man, right down to those fancy threads. When he pictured his future, Roy didn't see algebra playing a big role. So in 1965, he quit school. At 16, he was ready to take on the showbiz life. Roy booked rock shows. Then he tried singing in the Beatnik nightclubs of Greenwich Village. He even did publicity for the Clyde Bady Circus. At 17, Roy was done with dead-end gigs. He wanted to produce his own shows. A wild idea unfolded. His show would be a spectacle, a revival of vaudville that would reclaim its place in the spotlight. He envisioned the lineup, singers belting out old hits, sexy dancers burning up the stage and old-time comedians keeping the laughs rolling. It sounded crazy in this age of rock bands and rebellion, but Roy had a feeling in his gut, one that could lead to in buckets of cash. His grand plan went beyond getting rich. It was a chance to make his dad proud. Hell, even outdo him. The real prize was the entertainment empire he'd soon build. He already had the name, Roy Radin enterprises.

Lanie Jacob stood in front of the five bedroom house she just bought in suburban Sherman Oaks, California. It was spacious and secluded, but still near Hollywood. She could hear kids playing from a neighboring yard, the ideal place to raise her son, and discreetly move millions in cash and cocaine. It was early January, 1983. Lanie had made the move to LA three months ago with her nanny Miriam and her five-month-old baby Dax. As soon as they moved in, security became her top priority. Lanie walked into her garage. A compact, muscular man surrounded by power tools motioned her over. Tali Rogers was a former boxer with the nickname Rock Hard Rogers. Milan had set him up as Laney's drug courier, but he also had a knack for carpentry.

Almost done. All you have to do is open this closet, and there's your secret safe in the back.

Tally demonstrated by sliding open a panel. And the one in my bedroom?

Yes, ma'am. All done. I check the bars and all the windows, too. This place is like Fort Knox.

Laney couldn't help but like Tally. He was easygoing. His Mississippi drawl gave his words a folksy charm, even when discussing business. In no time, they established a smooth routine. Twice a When he was in Milan, that Rogers picked up the drugs from Milan's house in Miami and drove to LA. He transported 10 to 12 kilos worth a cool 900 grand. Rogers got paid 20,000 per round trip. Laney thought he had a sweet deal for essentially being a glorified chauffeur. But if Milan was cool with it, she wouldn't rock the boat. Now that the business hummed along, Lanie could focus on chasing her Hollywood dream. She hadn't exactly figured out her first step, but in this town, it was who you knew that mattered most. Now, it just came down to timing and luck, and Laine was always lucky.

Detective Avila is at his desk, knee-deep in paperwork, when Lanie Jacob's lawyer strides in. Frank Rubino is tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a sharply tailored suit. Avila knows him by reputation. Rubino is a former secret service agent. He's known as a white powder lawyer in Miami for defending so many coke dealers. In fact, a According to an old arrest report, Rubino had already come to Laine's rescue. A few years ago in Miami, a cop found coke, marijuana, and 30 grand in her car after a traffic stop. Rubino challenged the legality of search and got her off. Avila points to a chair next to his desk. Rubino sits down and gets right to it. I want to be clear, Detective, my client has an air-tied alibi for the time of Radin's murder. She was in Los Angeles with a lawyer she knew, Sol Bessherat. Rubino slides a sworn statement across Avila's desk. It details Lainey's alibi. On May 13th, she met Bessherat at the Westwood Marquis bar, just after 10:00 PM. Approximately an hour later, they walked to his home, just a few blocks away. After they arrived, Laine made some phone calls and didn't leave until 05:00 AM.

Avila thinks through the timeline. Radin's murder couldn't have happened before 10:15 PM. Cazwell Canyon was an hour's drive, minimum. Laine's alibi falls neatly within that time frame. Avila locks eyes with Rubino. All well and good, but we'd still like to speak with Ms. Jacobs. She's not answering any questions. You have her alibi. That should suffice. Avila's hands are tied. He can't force a suspect to talk. Rubino stands. It's clear the meeting is over. He exits the office with a curt nod. Avila swivels his chair toward on. Let's order Bessherat's phone record, see if there's anything from that night. A week later, they get the phone logs. Avila scours the pages and notices one timestamp in particular, 12:21 AM, an outgoing call to a New York City area code. A few minutes later, there's an incoming call from the same number. A background check later reveals the name on the account, Robert Evans, the movie producer. A jolt of anticipation shoots through Avila. Why was Lanie Jacobs talking to Evans that 8:00. It's almost 3:30 AM in New York. And Roy Radin, most likely dead. They need to question the Prince of Hollywood himself, Robert Evans.

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I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined. Ghost Story won best documentary podcast at the 2024 AMBI's and is a best true crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple podcast series, essential. Each month, Apple podcast editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series, essential, wondering History has made it ad-free for a limited time only on Apple podcast. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple podcast to hear for yourself.

Roy Radin went from high school dropout at 16 to a millionaire in his early 20s. It started with a favor. He approached Georgie Jessel, an old buddy of his father's and a comedy legend, with a crazy proposition, headline a show with no upfront payment. His sheer audacity won Jessel over, as well as other entertainers who agreed to perform. Then, Roy hustled. He found Billy Bach, billed as the world's smallest saxophonist, even a famous chimp named Jay Fred Mugs. The Roy Radin Variety Show debued, and audiences were hooked. Now, he was on a bus loaded with performers headed for Fall River, Massachusetts, about to play a packed house. It was December first, 1978, and Roy was 29. Next to him sat a reporter from ABC TV who'd been assigned to interview him. The reporter pointed her microphone towards Roy. Why are you in this business? What did you want to bring back by doing this? Well, basically, I always wanted to be in show business. My father was a producer. So as a kid, I grew up with show business people around. I loved it.

What does this give people that television doesn't give them?

Well, the feeling when you go to a theater, that feeling you have between the performer and the audience, that emotion Unfortunately, that's a lost art. Roy stuck to his original vision, using a mix of classic stars like Eddie Fisher, Cab Callaway, Milton Burle, bands like The Drifters, Shirels, and his crowd-pleasing novelty acts. The tour bus arrived at the venue's parking lot. Roy finished his interview and made his way backstage. He watched his emcee step into the spotlight.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Roy Rated's string of Chivana.

Roy thought about how far he'd come. With all the money he'd made, he bought a Tudor-style mansion in the Hamptons. He christened it Ocean Castle, 22,000 square feet and 72 rooms, complete with pool, library, and wine cellar. And he even got married. Success, though, brought its own demons. Fine liquor became a daily indulgence, and Roy treated every meal like his personal buffet. His weight ballooned to 275 pounds. There was another vice he'd grown fond of. In a corner, backstage, Roy reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial. Cocaine. He poured some on the back of his hand and snorted. It was nothing he couldn't handle. With his demanding schedule, he needed the energy boost. But Roy's triumphs, like his cocaine habit, were a fleeting high. He wanted bigger things. Roy had a new dream simmering inside him. If he could churn out hit shows, he could produce hit movies. Roy took another hit of coke, the familiar rush fueling his drive. Hollywood. That would be his next step. He was certain of it.

Mid January, 1983, Los Angeles. Laney was moving one step closer to becoming a movie producer. Two weeks ago at a swanky party in Benedict Canyon, she met Roy Radin. Roy was new here, too, a millionaire variety show producer from the East Coast, and he was angling to get into movies. Since then, Laine and Roy had become fast friends. They both had a fondness for parties and cocaine, and Roy was turning into a lucrative client. Lanie peaked through the front blinds of her house. A black stretch limo waited out front. Despite having a Porsche and a Mercedes, '80s, Lanie loved being chauffeered. Today, shopping in Beverly Hills beckoned, and she was ready to unleash her credit card. She strolled outside and the limo driver hopped out of the car. With a sweeping gesture, he opened the door. Lanie laughed. Gary Keyes had been driving her around a lot since her move to LA. She could tell he had a soft spot for her. She settled back against the seat and kept the partition open. Lanie got a kick listening to Gary's stories about Hollywood. He used to dance on Soul Train, and said he even taught Michael Jackson, the Robot.

This was LA's magic for Lanie, the feeling that everyone was just a heartbeat away from someone famous. Gary's voice shook Laney out of her daydreaming.

You ever think about acting, Ms. Jacobs? I could see you in the movies.

I'm flattered, but no. I've always wanted to work in movies, though. It's my plan to be a producer.

I understand. Everybody comes here with a dream.

Gary said that he drove a lot of famous people around. In fact, the limousine company he worked for was co-owned by one of the biggest movie producers in town, a guy named Robert Evans. Evans was working on a new movie and looking for investors. The Robert Evans? Lanie's mind raced with possibilities. Then, Gary did the for her.

You know what? The next time I drive Mr. Evans, I'm going to mention you. I bet he'd love to meet you.

Lanie resisted the urge to squille in delight. A face-to-face with Robert Evans. Once she had his attention, she'd get exactly what she wanted.

Detective Carlos Avila Avila drives up to the iron gates of Robert Evans' estate in Beverly Hills. It's early July 1983. He rolls down his window. An intercom nestled in a rosebush crackles to life. Detectives Avila and Ahn are here to speak with Mr. Evans. The detective passes through the gate and onto a long driveway lined with fountains and manicured hedges. Avila had reached out to Evans through his attorney, Robert Shapiro. The producer had already been questioned once by the LAPD after Radin vanished. Surprisingly, he'd agreed to speak again. Avila knocks on the massive oak door. Evans Butler answers and welcomes them to Woodland. The Butler leads Avila and on down a short hallway, covered in framed photos of Evans with a roster of movie stars: Warren Bady, Dustin Hoffman, and so many pictures with Jack Nicholson, you'd think he lived here, too. The detectives finally get to a living room with floor to ceiling windows. Sitting on a couch beneath an ornate chandelier is Robert Evans himself. He's wearing an open shirt with large, framed rose-tented glasses. His Bronze tan contrasts with his jet-black dye job. Evans gets up to shake the detective's hands with enthusiasm, like this is a social visit.

Avila starts by asking Evans how he knows Roy Radin and Lanie Jacobs. Evans says he didn't know them well. They were really just casual acquaintances. Avila doesn't buy it. Lanie called you the night of Roy Radin's disappearance, May 13th. What did she call you about? Evans cocks his head like he's jogging his memory. Honestly, I don't remember why. Seems like it would be hard to forget a call that came in so late, 3:21 AM East Coast time. You called her back a few minutes later. Evans shifts in his seat. As far as I recall, because it was so late, Lanie told me that she had a big fight with Roy, and he threw her out of the limo. Avila shoots a look at his partner. On the taped call, Lanie said that he got out and had me dropped off. Ahn asks if he's sure that's what she said. Evans says, yes. Avila inquires about the reason for the fight rate. Evans suspects it stemmed from the film he was trying to get made, The Cotton Club. He'd been looking for financing. Raiden's role in exchange for a producer credit was to secure investors. Avila asks for more details.

Roy convinced a business associate to get the Puerto Rican government to invest 35 million. Laine wanted her and Roy to split the profits 50/50. Roy didn't want to do that, but he finally agreed to 50 as a finders fee. I told him, I think it's only fair to give her something. But leave me out. Avila nods. Radin's assistant, Jonathan Lawson, had told them the same story. Laine thought she was going to be a partner and got offered a consolation prize instead. Avila wraps up the interview, then remembers one more question. You never mentioned how you met Laine in the first place. We had the same limo driver, a guy by the name of Gary Keyes. He introduced us. As they get up to leave, Evans walks over to an antique desk. He rumages around some drawers, then pulls out a stack of bound papers. He signs it with a flourish and hands it to Avila. It's the screenplay of Chinatown, one of Evans' hit movies. What the hell is he supposed to do with this, Avila wonders. Use it as a doorstop? Avila is not convinced whether Evans knows more than he's saying. But they need to track down this limo driver, Gary Keyes.

Radin was last seen in a limo, and Laine and Evans shared a driver. Keyes could have taken Roy on his final ride.

February 1983, Hollywood, a month and a half before Roy Radin was murdered. Robert Evans paced inside his office on the Paramount Studio's lot. He'd been working the phone all day, hustling to find investors for his latest film. For the last three years, Evans had been trying to get the Cotton Club off the ground. Set in the Roaring Twenties in Harlem, the story pulsed with gangsters, romance, and fantastic dance routines. Evans knew it would be a box office gold mine. He initially secured a cool eight million from investors at the Cannes Film Festival. But with pre-production eating up around 140 grand a week, that cash was all but gone. Then, Adnan Khashoggi, a wealthy Saudi arms dealer, promised him 12 million, but Khashoggi didn't like the script, so he bailed. Everybody's a critic, thought Evans. He was hemorrhaging money and needed an infusion fast. His limo finally pulled up, and he signaled to his driver, Gary Keyes. Evans watched the iconic white arches of Paramount disappear as the car made a ride on Melrose. Those arches used to symbolize his power. Back in 1967, at 36, Evans was the youngest producer on record to run Paramount pictures.

He oversaw massive hits like Love Story, Rosemary's Baby, The Godfather, and Chinatown. A-list actors lined up to work with him. He dated and married gorgeous women like actress Ali McGraw. After a Paramount shakeup in 1974, he decided to go independent. His movie's Marathon Man and Urban Cowboy scored at the box office. Then came the year that shattered him, 1980. An undercover cocaine sting landed him in trouble. Evans wasn't caught with the drug, but he admitted to discussing the purchase over the phone. That was enough for federal agents to bust him. Evans was offered probation if he agreed to produce an anti-drug PSA. He accepted. The result was a TV special titled Get High on Yourself. The real jail sentence came from Hollywood. This town hated failure, and after his drug arrest, Evans reeked of it. It didn't help that one of his last movies, players bombed. He hadn't worked since his arrest. Now he was 53 and desperate for a comeback. His gnawing anxiety fueled his coke use. Could anyone blame him?

Hard day, Mr. Evans?

Gary Keyes shot him an understanding smile.

Is there ever an easy day in this town?

Keyes laughed, then cleared his throat. Evans sensed a question coming. He was right. The chauffeur asked if there might be any part for him in Evans' new movie. He sighed. Casting a bit role was the last thing on Evans' mind. But Keyes was a nice guy.

Tell you what, you Find me some investors, and I'll set you up in the film.

Evans meant it in that moment, but he might not remember in 10 minutes. Such as Hollywood.

There's this rich lady I drive sometimes, real good-looking, sophisticated, too. Moved here from Miami and says she wants to get into the movie business. Her name is Lanie Jacobs. I could set you up.

Evans wasn't sold on some Florida gal having Kashoggi money, but he was running out of options.

Sure thing, kid. Make it happen.

Even if this Lanie Jacobs didn't have a dime, he'd be meeting a pretty face. And in Robert Evans' book, that was never a waste of time.

July 1983. Detectives Avila and Ahn walk through the parking lot of Ascot Limousine. A zine service in West Los Angeles. This is where Gary Keyes works. Keyes is the driver who introduced Lanie Jacobs and Robert Evans. Both detectives are anxious to find out if Keyes might have been behind the wheel the night of Roy Radon's murder. Keyes was polishing the hood of a stretch limo when the detectives found him. They introduced themselves, and he seemed more than willing to talk to them. Did you ever drive a woman named Lanie Jacobs? Avila sees Keyes' expression soften at the mention of Lanie's name.

Oh, yeah. A real classe lady. Beautiful lady. I drove her around many times. I don't know how she got mixed up in this mess.

It's no surprise Keyes knows about Laney's involvement element in the case. Her name has been splashed all over the press. Keyes confirmed that he introduced Laney to Robert Evans so that they could discuss investing in his latest movie, The Cotton Club. Avila nods. That lines up with what Evans told them. Do you remember driving her Friday night, May 13th? Keyes pulls out his appointment book, flipping back to May. He shakes his head. No, he didn't drive Lanie Jacobs that night. But he did drive Lanie's son and nanny to the airport earlier in the day, and he'd seen something that worried him at Lanie's home in Sherman Oaks.

When I got to the house to pick him up, there were these two other men there, and one of them had handcuffs, but he didn't look like cops to me.

Avila and Ahn exchange knowing looks. Lanie's nanny and kid leaving just before she skipped town was no coincidence. And who the hell were these guys with handcuffs. Did they say anything to you?

Just that they'd heard a lot about me. They left me with a bad feeling. On the way to the airport, I even asked the nanny if everything was okay. She said it was, so I dropped it.

Keyes came up empty on names, but offered vague descriptions of the men, one tall and slim in jeans, the other shorter and stalky. Two new unknowns. Maybe one of them was driver the night of Raiden's murder. But Avila knows that finding them will be a long shot. They call it the Happiest Place on the High Desert, home to a tight-knit group of 30-somethings who like to party.

It starts as a Playboy channel fantasy, but this is real life.

Where passion leads to murder, and a killer seeks God's help.

With The Cover-up.

I'm Josh Mankowitz, and this is Deadly Mirage, an all-new podcast from Dateland.

Listen to new episodes for free each week, wherever you get your podcasts. Beverly Hills, March 1983, just before sunset. It's magic hour, as they say in the film business. That time in late afternoon when the natural light is perfect and bathes everything in a beautiful glow. That was definitely Lanie Jacobs. As Gary Keyes drove through the electronic gates at Robert Evans' home, she checked her compact. Hair loose and sexy, her skin, radiant and sun-kissed. And she was about to meet one of the most powerful movie producers in Hollywood wood. She owed keys big time for setting this up. The limo pulled up to Evan's chateau-style home, white and completely covered in ivy. Lainey felt transported to the French countryside. A butler led her to the back patio, surrounded by a wall of trees, where Evans was sipping a late afternoon cocktail. Lainey's pulse quickened. She saw in person what she'd always seen in photos, jet black hair, deep tan, and large frame sunglasses. But it wasn't his look elevating her heart rate. It was the power radiating off him. She caught Evans looking her up and down, too. There was definite chemistry. Robert led Lanie to his office/screening room and asked if he could get her a drink.

She declined. Lanie wanted to talk business, for now, at least. So when will I get to see the next Robert Evans' masterpiece? Evans' attentive gaze seemed more about escort her to the bedroom.

Working on a film about the Cotton Club. It's going to be big, but I need upwards of 50 million to get this thing off the ground.

Lanie's smile faltered. Uh-oh, 50 million. She had money, but not like that. So she went on the charm offensive and turned up her Southern accent. Well, I'm looking to invest, but more to the tune of 5 or 10 million. Evans chuckled and gave her a look that said, Honey, here's how the world really works. But Lanie wasn't about to be dismissed. She thought fast. Her new party buddy, Roy Radin, popped into her head. You know, I recently met someone who deals in that money. Easy. Producer out of New York named Roy Radin. We could all meet. Laine had a feeling that if Radin didn't have 50 million liquid, he'd move heaven and earth to get it. Evans seemed unfazed by her proposal.

Sure I can't get you a cocktail?

Laine nodded. The rum and Coke materialized. So what about Rory Radin, she repeated, watching Evans over the rim of the glass? His eyes lingered on her face.

Absolutely, honey. Let's make it happen.

Laine took a slow sip her cocktail. Evans might think he was calling the shots, but she was already reeling him in.

By the end of the disco decade, Roy Radin was riding high as a successful theatrical producer. But that was before April 11th, 1980, and the weekend that ruined his life. There were earlier signs that things were unraveling. Ocean Castle, his Southampton mansion, had turned into a den of debauchery. The booze flowed, cocaine in every room. A parade of women came and went. And Roy's empire was showing cracks. Back in 1975, rumors flew that he was skimming cash earmarked for police and firefighter charities. The New York attorney general even launched a fraud investigation. As Roy argued it cost a fortune to run his big shows. He kept what he thought was fair. So far, no charges stuck, but the scandal wouldn't go away. Some of his promoters were facing legal action, and lawsuits were piling up. Roy just partied on. Friday 11th arrived with another blowout bash planned at Ocean Castle. One of the guests was a a four-year-old actress named Melanie Holler. She was an occasional playboy model and part of the cast of the TV sitcom Welcome Back, Cotter, the show that launched John Travolta's career. The night spiraled into a haze of drugs and sex.

Then it took a sinister turn. Sometime early Sunday morning, Holler was found slumped over a seat on the Long Island railroad, bloody, bruised, barely coherent. Police recall called. She said she'd been sexually assaulted at Roy Radin's party. Ocean Castle was raided, and Roy was arrested for illegal possession of a firearms and cocaine. The press was all over the story, dragging Roy's name through the mud. A year later, Robert McKeej IV, Holler's date from that weekend, pleaded guilty to second-degree assault. Charges against Roy were dropped, but the scandal torpedoed his Vaudville business. Ticket sales tanked. He spent days in bed watching TV in a fog of gloom. But then, a surge of optimism returned. He remembered the dream he'd put on hold. The timing seemed perfect to transition into the movie business, so he made arrangements to sell Ocean Castle. He filed for divorce. Then, Roy packed up and headed for Hollywood with his loyal assistant, Jonathan Lawson. He prayed the Holler mess wouldn't follow him. Within days of arriving in LA in January of 1983, his luck changed. He met Lanie Jacobs. By September 1983, Detective Avila has been working the Roy Radin Homicide for three months, and there was still no major breakthroughs.

Then Avila learned a crucial piece of information that had slipped through the cracks. In May, just after Radin vanished, a narc informant tipped off the LAPD about a possible murder involving a rental car from a company called L'Express. But without evidence, the lead went cold. Avila knew in his gut that it was connected to Radin's murder, so he tracked down the rental car company. Detectives scoured the limo and found it wiped clean. Not a single trace of fingerprints, hair, or fibers. But the owner of the company told detectives who rented the car, Bill Mincer. Avila finally had a name clearly linked to the limo that drove Roy Radin to his death. Menser even refused the company's driver, said he had his own. Finding Menser became Avila's top priority. On September 19, 1983, Avila catches a lucky break. A cocaine bust had gone down at LAX, and one of the men arrested was Bill Menser. As it turns out, Menser is Avila's favorite of criminal incapable of Lange Lo. With Menser in custody, police obtain a search warrant for his apartment. Avila races to the San Fernando Valley. He pulls into one of the countless beige apartment complexes that line Magnolia Boulevarde.

A few cops stand at the entrance with a guy in handcuffs. Dark hair, bodybuilder type, sporting a Tom Sallek mustache. This has to be Menser. Menser leads Avila upstairs to his apartment. Inside, it's a mess. Stacks of magazines and papers everywhere. A few undershirts and socks hang over the arm of the couch. Avila pulls on his gloves and starts to poke around. He thumbs through a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. One jumps out. It's a purchase slip for a 1982 Cadillac. Then he sees the name of the buyer Lanie Jacobs. Bingo. So Lanie is connected to Menser. The only question is how. Avila thinks back to his conversation with the limo driver, Gary Keyes. East. Keyes saw a couple of guys with handcuffs at Lanie's house the day he drove her son and nanny to the airport. Maybe one of those guys was Menser. Avila pulls out a bag and places the slip inside. He knows Menser is watching. Then he heads to the bedroom and opens the top drawer of a dresser. Pile of junk. But two photographs catch his eye. In one photograph, Mincer is with a guy holding a gun.

In the other, Mincer is with a different guy, also with a gun. Avila holds the photos next to each other. His eyes widen. Both photographs look like they were taken in the same dry desert spot, a place that looks an awful lot like Cazwell Canyon, where Roy's body was found. Avila bags the photos. The next morning, he speeds up Interstate 5. He inches down a rocky road to the scene of Roy's murder and parks. Avila grabs the two photos and walks to the spot where Roy was found. He holds the pictures up and rotates them from left to write, then he freezes. It's a match. Same background, same jagged skyline. Menser has clearly been here before. Avila knows in his gut that he was here the night of the murder. He can't wait to grill Menser. But when Avila finally gets Menser into an interview room, he clams up and demands to see his lawyer. Avila believes it's a matter of time before he changes his mind. With cocaine trafficking charges hanging over his head, Mincer will want to strike a deal. Then, he'll have plenty to say.

Early April 1983, the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Lanie Jacob sat impaciently at a center table wearing a Valentino power suit. It was a game of high stakes, and Lanie dressed to kill. Roy Radin and Robert Evans were directly across from her. This was the meeting she'd been waiting for. When Lanie told Roy about Evans' movie deal, she thought he was going to pass out with excitement. She didn't waste any time arranging this lunch. Lanie gazed over her pastel pink menu. The white bank heads and pristine white table claws popped against the dark green of the walls. The Polo Lounge was the place for stars and power players to make deals. And with Evans in her party of three, they scored a prime seat. Lainey had been anxious about the two men finally meeting. She hoped Roy wouldn't order everything off the damn menu. And would his booming laugh and outrageous stories turn off the sophisticated Evans? But the energy between them buzzed as they bounced ideas off each other. All her worry melted. Roy announced that this meeting was kismet. He'd always been drawn to the 1920s era and been wanting to do a musical about the Cotton Club for years.

Evans flashed made Raiden a smile that could melt an iceberg. He said this Cotton Club project was a gangster flick with a love story twist, and getting it right meant a mountain of cash. Roy leaned forward, a confident grin spreading across his face.

Well, you came to the right guy. I have connections to make that happen.

Lanie could feel how hungry they all were for this deal. Evan's eyes blazed with intensity.

The Cotton Club is just the start. This could lead to a three-picture deal.

Lanie had been quiet for the last couple of minutes, but her heart was pounding like she just did five lines. A contract would still need to be worked out, but the hum drum paperwork could wait. Now was a time to celebrate. Laine was officially in the movie business. 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 add free See 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 wundri. Com/survey. This is episode 2 of 6 from Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club murder. This podcast is based on historical research, but in some cases, we can't know exactly what was said, so certain dialog is dramatized. We use many sources 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 Patty, Rebecca Reynolds, and Jim Carpenter for Hollywood and Crime. Our writer is Dana Rossi.

Our managing producer is Sophia Martens, and our coordinating producer is Taylor Sniffin. 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 Topia. Fact checking by Will Tavlin. Voice acting by Larry Heron. For WNDYRI, our producer is Yasmin Ward, and our senior producer is Laura Donna Palavoda. Executive producers are Erin O'Flaherty, Marshall Louis, and Jenn Sargent.

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