by Tim Ellis
‘So, any chance of a coffee before you guys bring me up to date on the case?’
John Harrity pushed himself up and said, ‘I’ll expect payback.’
Erik grunted. ‘Goes without saying, John. One thing I can do right is make coffee. I’ll put an IOU in my “favours to return before I die” notebook.’
‘You crossed any of those favours off yet?’
‘No, but I’ve been given a second chance to make things right, so I might just get to them – we’ll see.’
John put a steaming coffee mug on Erik’s desk.
‘Thanks,’ he said and took a swallow of the treacle-like liquid. What he really wanted to do was go back to Ruby’s apartment and lie down, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. ‘Pretend I’m a new guy and know nothing, which ain’t too far from the truth.’
Bill Ackerman pushed himself up. He had a thick head of dark hair; had begun to fill out around the jowls and waist; always dressed well in a short-sleeved white shirt and offensive bow tie. ‘We got as far as we got while you and Jan were here, Erik. Ain’t progressed much since then. If I ain’t losing my memory, you went off sick around June 17 last year, so you won’t know about the last three victims . . .’
Mike O’Meara interrupted. ‘Talking of which, a crazy bitch name of Katie Brazil came by here a week ago saying she was the sister of the seventh victim. Asked after you; wanted your address; stood outside the police department for hours pestering everyone who came and went for your address; but eventually she gave up. She ever come knocking on your door?’
Erik thought for a handful of seconds and then shook his head. ‘If she did, I never heard her.’
‘She was asking me about the case; wanted to know what we were doing to find her sister’s killer . . . Well, I soon told her it was none of her business and that she should leave it to the professionals. Last thing we need is to be answerable to the public.’
‘Only natural I suppose,’ Erik said.
Bill continued. ‘So, we’ve had three more murders since you went off sick.’ He pointed to the photographs of each victim and the details that had been written beneath them. ‘Raped, strangled, dumped naked in a park, washed and made up, an item left between their breasts – same as the others.’
Erik stared at the crime scene photographs. ‘Killer still not made any mistakes?’
‘Not that we’ve been able to identify. Nobody saw the bodies being dumped in the parks, so we have no description of a vehicle or a suspect; there’s no pattern to the locations or the dates, except for them being all parks; we checked out what the victims were all doing before they went missing, but none of the information led anywhere; we’ve still not identified where he’s killing them either; we spoke to friends, acquaintances, work colleagues – nothing there either. Ain’t no leads to follow, Erik. It’s easy to see why the Mayor is breaking the Lieutenant’s balls. We got nothing.’
‘And you coming back ain’t gonna change that,’ O’Meara said. ‘You go home and rest, Urban. By the time you drag your butt back here in two weeks’ time the whole thing will be wrapped up prettier than a broads’ legs in nylon stockings.’
Erik struggled to a standing position holding onto his stick. ‘That would please me no end, Mike. It’d certainly be a weight off, for sure. Maybe I could even sleep at nights.’ He drank the rest of his coffee, thanked everyone for their concern and aimed himself at the door.
Katie was right, he thought. Mike and the team weren’t going to solve the case. They were sitting in the police department waiting for the winds of good fortune to blow through.
Outside he hailed a cab.
It was cold for January, maybe ten degrees and it had begun to drizzle. He pulled up the collar of the mohair coat that Ruby had given him. It was slightly too big for the skin and bones he’d become, but he was glad of it all the same.
He told the cab drive where to take him and to wake him up when they got there.
***
The Mission Revival style Herald-Examiner building at 1111 South Broadway was certainly impressive. She recalled reading about Harry Houdini and how 20,000 people had packed the street on April 4, 1923 after he’d been strapped into a straightjacket by Police Chief Louis D Oaks and suspended fifty feet above the sidewalk. Harry had made his escape in five minutes.
With its marble interior, filigree engraving and arches, the two-storey lobby was more like the entrance to an eastern palace than the headquarters of a Los Angeles newspaper.
There were people coming and going, standing and talking, and sitting in seats reading free copies of the newspaper. What were they all doing here? Didn’t they have jobs to go to?
She approached one of the women behind the marble counter.
‘Yes?’
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m here to see Miss Linton.’
‘You and a thousand others. Who are you?’
‘Katie Brazil.’
‘I’m assuming you don’t have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘She won’t see you, not without an appointment.’
‘Could you let her know I’m here?’
‘What would be the point of that? She doesn’t see people without an appointment.’
‘Tell her I’m the sister of the seventh starlet murder victim.’
‘What was your name again?’
‘Katie Brazil.’
‘Take a seat. I’ll call her, but I think you’ll be wasting your time. If she saw everybody who came to see her without an appointment she’d never write any of those grisly stories she writes.’
‘Thank you.’ She wandered to a row of seats beneath an arched window, sat down in an armchair and waited. She’d read enough newspaper articles for one day, so she didn’t pick up a free copy of newspaper.
There seemed to be a lot of noise that echoed around the enormous space. Apart from all the conversations taking place, the rustling newspapers and the sounds of traffic filtering in from the constantly opening doors, there was also the clackety-clack of women in stiletto heels. She looked up, recognised Eliza Linton from her newspaper photograph and watched her descend the marble staircase.
Eliza Linton was in her early thirties, slim with dark wavy shoulder-length hair, a high forehead and a stubborn chin. She wore a red and white patterned dress, nylon stockings and red leather pumps with a French heel.
‘Katie Brazil?’
Katie stood up and offered her hand. ‘Yes.’
Linton gripped her hand hard and pumped it up and down as if she was drawing water from a well.
She grimaced.
‘Sorry. I forget sometimes. That was my man handshake. If you shake their hand like a weak woman, that’s how they’ll treat you. You’ll get more respect in this town if you crush their hand like a gorilla would. Of course, if you do, don’t expect them to offer you a date or marriage.’ She laughed like a hyena. ‘Nobody wants a gorilla for a wife.’
She smiled politely. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘First, let me say that I’m sorry about your sister.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, why have you dragged me away from my desk?’
‘I have a proposition for you.’
Linton’s eyes narrowed and her forehead crumpled up. ‘A proposition?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’d rather not discuss it out here.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up to the newsroom then, Katie Brazil.’
Chapter Four
If the elevator had still been out of action, he’d never have made it up to the apartment.
He desperately needed to lie down, but he stood outside his old apartment staring at the door. He still had his key, but he didn’t make any attempt to go inside. And would the key still work? Didn’t she say that the caretaker was changing the lock?
Although Katie had said she didn’t care what people thought, he did. If he moved in with her, there would be no goin
g back. People were quick to judge and even quicker to condemn. It would tarnish her reputation beyond repair, and he wasn’t prepared to do that to her. He shuffled down the corridor to Ruby Lowenstein’s apartment. The spare room at Ruby’s suited him just fine. He had lots of psychological baggage, but no possessions to speak of – no photographs, no keepsakes and no clothes. He didn’t have to clean, cook or worry about paying the bills. If Ruby was happy to have him, then he’d stay as long as it was convenient for both of them.
Ruby had given him a key, but he knocked before he slid it into the keyhole. Although he had his own room, he was still a guest. He’d been staring into the darkness when she and Martha had dragged him back from the edge of the abyss, so he was conscious of not taking advantage of her kindness.
‘You in, Ruby?’ he called.
She didn’t answer.
He went into his room, undressed and climbed between the sheets. There was a small wooden cupboard built into the facing wall that Ruby had put some of her late husband’s clothes in for him – hand-me-downs, which had been designed for a larger man. They were good quality clothes, but they hung on him like material on a wire hanger.
He’d put his Smith & Wesson revolver and detective badge inside the drawer of the bedside cabinet until he was ready to go back to work, which would now be in two weeks according to the Lieutenant. Would he be well enough by then? A feeling of panic overwhelmed him, he found it difficult to breathe and tears welled in his eyes. Would he ever be a detective again? At one time, he’d thought he was a good detective, but the starlet murders had soon made him realise that he wasn’t very good at all. Someone was killing beautiful young women and he’d had no idea how to stop them – still didn’t. Would Katie Brazil make any difference?
***
Eliza Linton’s desk was a working desk. Some people liked clean desks, tidy desks, or organised desks, but Eliza Linton’s desk wasn’t any of those. Her desk boasted two telephones; mountains of files; a mess of paper; letter spikes some that were empty, and others with stacks of notes on them . . . and a baseball bat.
They were in the newsroom. There were other, less messy desks scattered around; metal filing cabinets; a variety of Royal, Imperial and Torpedo typewriters; an overflowing trash can; grimy windows; and dingy lighting. It was a world away from the palatial lobby she’d been sitting in downstairs.
Linton dropped her thin frame into a dark wood Captain’s chair with a coat slung over the back and directed Katie to a hard-backed chair on the other side of the cluttered desk. ‘So, you’ve muscled your way in here, what’s this proposition you have for me?’
‘You have someone inside police headquarters who’s providing you with information on the starlet murders.’
‘Even if that were true, it would be none of your business.’
‘Otherwise, you’d never have been able to arrive at the crime scenes with your photographer before anyone else. What’s the baseball bat for?’
‘Keeping order. It can get a bit noisy and boisterous in here sometimes. I’m still waiting for your proposition.’
‘I want you to stop interfering in the police investigation.’
‘And?’
‘If you do, I’ll give you an exclusive.’
‘An exclusive what?’
‘You’ll be the first person I call when I find out who the killer is.’
‘Are they letting women become detectives now?’
‘I don’t have to wait for men to let me do anything – I decide what I do and when.’
‘A woman after my own heart, but you’re not making much sense.’
‘I’m working with the detective in charge of the investigation.’
‘Sergeant O’Meara?’
‘No, not that clown – Detective Urban.’
‘He’s no longer running the investigation. I heard he was on sick leave, has been for six months now, so he won’t be much use to you or me.’
‘Your inside man hasn’t been keeping you up to date, Miss Linton . . .’
‘It’s Mrs Linton. I’m married with three children.’
‘I’m surprised your husband allows you to. I thought a woman’s place was in the home.’
‘He knows what would happen if he tried to stop me. Anyway, we’re not talking about me.’
‘Yes, Detective Urban has been sick, but he’s getting better now. He’ll soon be back at work. In fact, that’s where he is now, catching up on how the investigation has been going during his absence.’
Linton pulled a face. ‘I feel as though I’ve walked in half-way through the movie. You’d better start from the beginning.’
Katie told her about Sherriff Madden at Kettle River; about burying her father, selling the farm; giving up her job; travelling to Los Angeles and meeting with Sergeant O’Meara . . .’
Eliza laughed. ‘That’s Mike all right, but they’re all like that. If you hadn’t noticed men run America, they run this town and they run Hollywood.’
‘Well, after I told Sergeant O’Meara what I thought of his pathetic attitude, I found out where Detective Urban lived and went to speak to him. It took me eleven days . . .’ She told Linton about sleeping in the corridor; about finding the detective close to death staring at a wall full of details about the murders; about Martha and Ruby nursing him back to health; about Erik’s apartment; and about the pinboard.’
‘And you’re a history teacher?’
‘Was a history teacher. Now I’m finding my sister’s killer.’
‘All very laudable, but what makes you think you can find the killer when Los Angeles’ finest detectives have failed?’
‘I never give up.’
‘Sounds like Detective Urban never gave up either, and it nearly cost him his life.’
‘He just needs guidance.’
‘From you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s say I believe you, and let’s also say that I might have a source inside the police department, I’ll still get my exclusive with or without you.’
‘Not if Detective Urban identifies your source and removes him.’
‘Mike O’Meara’s in charge of the investigation, and I can’t see that changing even if Detective Urban does make it back to work.’
‘Urban doesn’t have to be in charge to let it be known that there’s a leak inside the department that needs to be plugged, and then I could offer my exclusive to Mister Barr at the Express.’
‘He wouldn’t know what to do with an exclusive if it sat jiggling in his lap. And you’re suggesting what exactly?’
‘We work together.’
‘I still don’t know how you fit into all of this, Miss Brazil.’
‘Katie.’
‘Calling each other by our first names still doesn’t explain why I should take any notice of you.’
‘I’ve already said, I’m going to find the killer.’
‘How?’
‘By piecing together the past.’
‘Because you’re a historian?’
‘Yes.’
Eliza stood up. ‘Well, thanks for coming in to see me, Katie. I hope you find what you’re looking for in Los Angeles . . .’
Just then the telephone rang.
‘Excuse me.’ She picked the telephone up and listened intently before putting the earpiece back on its hook, then she sat down. ‘So, what you’re proposing is that we work together to find the starlet killer?’
‘Yes. Instead of relying on your inside man, you’ll be part of the investigation.’
‘They won’t let me anywhere near the police department.’
‘That’s not where the real investigation will be taking place.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember the details of the murders that Detective Urban was staring at when I found him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, they’re now up on the pinboard in my apartment.’
‘Your apartment?’
‘Detective Urban was behind with his rent. So
I paid the arrears, six months up front and had my name put on the agreement instead of his.’
‘Where’s Urban staying now?’
‘At Ruby’s for the time being, but he can move into my spare room anytime he feels up to it.’
‘You know what people will say?’
‘I don’t care what people say.’
‘And Detective Urban has agreed to you being in charge of the investigation?’
‘What choice does he have? The first victim – Hildegard Zinn – was murdered on February 10 last year. Since then, the killer has murdered another seven women and Los Angeles’ finest still have no idea who they’re looking for. Detective Urban went off on sick leave six months ago. During that time there’s been three more murders and Sergeant O’Meara hasn’t turned up one clue, or identified one suspect. I’m surprised the Lieutenant has allowed Los Angeles’ finest to sit on their hands doing nothing for so long.’
‘If I agree to your proposition, I’m not working for you.’
‘We’ll be equal partners with Detective Urban.’
‘And I get to keep my source.’
‘As long as neither of us is holding back any information from the other. You’ll have access to all of my information at the apartment, but it’s a two-way street.’
‘Agreed. And you don’t tell me what to print?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Just as long as you give me advance warning about what you are going to print, you don’t undermine the investigation and you don’t write about me?’
‘I can live with that. Don’t you want to be a household name?’
‘No. I’m here to find Annie’s killer. I won’t be able to do that if people know who I am.’
‘All right, then we have a deal.’ Linton thrust her hand across the desk. ‘We work together, share information and I get the exclusive.’
Katie pushed her hand forward and then pulled it back. ‘The woman’s handshake, not the man’s – if it’s all the same to you?’
Eliza smiled.
They shook hands.
‘Who was on the telephone?’ Katie asked.