Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

  She knew what he’d say if she told him about the party Sam was taking her to later, so she decided not to say anything.

  He shuffled along the hallway.

  She let him out. ‘Goodnight, Erik.’

  He didn’t respond.

  ***

  The full-length black dress she was wearing was sexy and slinky. It displayed yet concealed her figure. She slid her hands into the black velvet elbow gloves, put on the matching fake diamond necklace and bracelet, and picked up her clutch purse that held a small bottle of perfume, a red lipstick, two twenty dollar bills and the .25 automatic Colt 1908 pistol with the pearl grip.

  She then left the apartment and caught the elevator down to the ground floor.

  Sam was leaning against his car waiting for her dressed in a black tuxedo, white shirt and black bow tie. He opened the door for her. ‘You look like a million dollars, Katie.’

  ‘Why thank you, kind Sir,’ she said, sliding into the passenger seat of his red Cadillac. The day was still warm, and he’d left the roof down.

  She spotted Don Carroll parked further along the road in his maroon Plymouth.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked Sam.

  ‘If I told you, would you be any the wiser?’

  ‘Probably not, but it’s always good to know.’

  ‘We’re going to the home of casting director Gottfried Beck who’s having his usual Friday night gathering. He lives on Palisades Beach Road in Santa Monica, which is more commonly called Rolls Royce Row. Most of the Hollywood royalty live there such as Louis B Mayer, his business partner Irving Thalberg, Greta Garbo, Harold Lloyd, Marian Davies, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford to name a few . . . It’s a popular place to live.’

  The journey took forty-five minutes north along interstate 405, but it was a pleasant drive.

  ‘I called a few people with the right connections earlier to make sure they’d be going to the party tonight.’

  ‘Do you want me to put on an act?’

  ‘Just be yourself, but remember these people hold all the power. Laugh at their jokes, flatter them and do as they ask. By tomorrow morning, if they like you, you’ll probably be in a movie with options for another half-dozen.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘It’ll all depend on.’

  Beck’s house looked out over the Pacific Ocean. It had been designed as a Spanish style beach house with twenty rooms, a red tiled roof and a two-storey semi-circular section that projected out towards the swimming pool and the beach. It also boasted five bathrooms fitted with onyx and marble, and a Gatekeeper’s apartment where Beck’s married friends would regularly stay with their mistresses.

  ‘It’s fabulous,’ she said, as Sam parked his car in the grounds.

  ‘Completed four years ago at a cost of nine million. Gottfried knows what he likes. He had one of Hitler’s architects brought over here from Germany to design and supervise the work.’

  ‘He must be very rich?’

  ‘All the top people in Hollywood who work in the movies are rich, Katie.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘Rich by name, rich by nature.’

  They climbed the dozen steps up to the open main door and were handed a flute of champagne each as they entered.

  A man in his late fifties with dark-brown hair, eyebrows and moustache, a grey beard and rimless glasses approached them. ‘Glad you could make it, Sam,’ he said, taking Katie’s free hand, raising it to his lips and kissing the back of it. ‘And who is this delightful creature?’

  She was about to say that she wasn’t a “creature” at all, but Sam spoke first.

  ‘Katie Brazil, Gottfried. A star in the making.’

  Gottfried still had hold of Katie’s hand and twirled her around. ‘I’m sure she’ll generate a lot of interest here tonight. Anyway, welcome to my house. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Gottfried,’ Sam said.

  Gottfried wandered off to speak to other people.

  ‘Why do they do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Speak to you, but not to me?’

  ‘It’s just the way it is.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like the way it is.’

  ‘You made that perfectly clear to Frank Page earlier. I wouldn’t rock the boat here if I were you, Katie. This is a place to make friends, not enemies; to start your career, not end it. These are some of the most powerful men in Hollywood.’

  Another grey-haired man with a paunch came up to them. ‘Hello, Sam.’ He had deep wrinkles between his eyes, a large knobbly nose and big ears.

  ‘Evening, Neville. Let me introduce you to Katie Brazil – a star in the making.’

  Neville looked her up and down and licked his lips.

  ‘Katie, this is Neville Lyons, the Chief Financial Director at Universal.’

  Lyons took Katie’s hand, kissed the back of it and said, ‘Enchanted, my dear. And who’s making her a star tonight?’

  ‘No one yet, we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Owen Stark and see if we can’t get something going.’

  ‘Very kind, Neville.’

  There must have been thirty to forty people there. Some were old and middle-aged men, but most of the guests were young attractive women. She guessed she wasn’t the only new arrival in Los Angeles who wanted to become a movie star.

  She followed Sam around the different rooms. He introduced her to men dressed in tuxedos or suits and some of the women with sexier clothes on than her, but soon they all blurred into a potpourri of faces and names until she didn’t know who was who.

  Then suddenly, Sam wasn’t there by her side anymore.

  Where was he?

  She’d had two flutes of champagne and had begun to feel a bit giddy. She wasn’t used to drinking alcohol, but then two flutes was hardly enough to make her dizzy and woozy.

  A grey-haired man came up beside her and took her by the elbow. ‘Katie,’ he said and smiled.

  She saw that he had something black stuck in his teeth.

  ‘How would you like to have a conversation with Bill Stark and myself about launching your career?’

  ‘Who are you again?’

  ‘Neville Lyons.’

  ‘I remember – you’re a financial officer?’

  ‘You have a good memory. I’m the money man.’

  ‘And what does Owen Stark do?’

  ‘He’s a producer.’

  ‘What’s a producer?’

  ‘They produce films.’

  He was leading her up the stairs.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The projection room.’

  ‘To see a movie?’

  ‘You’re going to be in a movie.’

  ‘Another screen test?’

  ‘Yes, only this one is slightly more involved.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have a script to prepare?’

  ‘No. This movie allows for lots of free expression and adlibbing.’

  He led her into a large bedroom with a Queen-sized bed against the far wall. The other furniture had been moved to allow lighting equipment and a camera on a tripod to be positioned around the bed, which was obviously where all the action was expected to take place.

  ‘Is this the projection room?’

  ‘Yes, Katie.’

  A fat man with short dark-hair, dark-rimmed glasses and a sagging double chin walked towards her. ‘Is this her?’

  ‘Yes,’ Neville said. ‘Katie, let me introduce you to Owen Stark.’

  ‘The producer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Stark’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Not bad.’

  She held out her hand.

  He didn’t take it. ‘You know why you’re here. Take your clothes off and lie on the bed.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You heard me.’ He spun her round, unzipped the back of her dress and removed the cross straps with a degree of skill that had eluded her earlier when she’d been dressing.
Her lovely satin dress crumpled to the floor.

  She stood there with only her silk French knickers, garter belt and stockings on. The dress didn’t allow for a brassiere.

  Owen Stark licked his lips, rubbed his crotch and grabbed her breasts as if they were lumps of meat dangling on hooks in a slaughterhouse. ‘Nice tits. Ready to become a star, Katie?’

  She was about to slip her hand into her purse for the pistol, but Owen Stark grabbed the black sequinned bag and flung it to the floor.

  ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he said, grabbing her arms, shoving her backwards onto the bed and undoing his trousers. He glanced at Neville Lyons. ‘I’ll go in through the front door this time, Nev. You can force the back door open.’

  ‘Suits me fine, Owen.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday, January 24, 1948

  There was a knock on his bedroom door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Ruby.’

  There were only the two of them in the apartment. Who else could it have been? ‘What is it, Ruby?’

  ‘A telephone call for you.’

  He swung his legs over the side of the metal sprung bed and shrugged into the dead Shimon Lowenstein’s blue patterned dressing gown. He checked his watch. It was five to seven on a Saturday morning. Who could be calling him at this hour? ‘Did they say who it was?’

  ‘Lieutenant O’Callaghan.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruby. I’ll be right out.’ What was the Lieutenant doing ringing him at this time of the morning . . . And on a Saturday as well?

  He opened the door, picked up the telephone that was sitting on the hall table and said, ‘Detective Urban.’

  ‘There’s been another murder, Urban.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Sir.’

  ‘Being sorry doesn’t cut it anymore. Get over to Mona Park at 2291 East 121st Street in Compton.’

  ‘I thought I had another week of sick leave left, Lieutenant?’

  ‘That was then, this is now. Make sure this woman is the last one, Urban. If there are any more, you and I will both find ourselves out of a job.’

  ‘Understood, Sir. What about Sergeant O’Meara?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m on my way, Sir.’

  The line went dead.

  He would have liked another week of sick leave, but it wasn’t going to happen. And Mike O’Meara had paid the price for not catching the killer. Would he be the next to go?

  He called Marilyn’s number.

  ‘Marilyn Rackham.’

  ‘It’s Erik. Sorry to wake you at this time . . .’

  ‘Good morning, Erik. I’ve been up for a while.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’m afraid I have bad news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s been another murder and the Lieutenant has cancelled my sick leave. I have to go to the crime scene now.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Lieutenant know you’re sick?’

  ‘He knows, but he’s under pressure from the Mayor, so he’s putting me under pressure to find the killer.’

  ‘Surely there are other detectives?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s my case, my investigation and my responsibility. I need to solve this, Marilyn. We can have our picnic on the beach another time.’

  ‘Of course. You have to do what you can to catch this killer. Will I see you today?’

  ‘I’ll try and call you later.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He replaced the earpiece on the hook and went into the bathroom.

  Ruby had made him a cup of tea and two pieces of toast by the time he’d washed and got dressed. ‘To keep you going,’ she said.

  He sat down at the kitchen table and said, ‘Sorry you were woken up so early.’

  She half-laughed. ‘Early! Three o’clock was early. Now, it’s late. When I was a little girl in Germany, this time was early, but that was a long time ago. I don’t sleep so good anymore. Maybe three hours each night.’

  ‘That’s not very much.’

  ‘The body takes what it needs. Another woman murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Lieutenant thinks you’re the only one who can solve it?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘You’re getting stronger each day.’

  He took a large gulp of tea. ‘I’m not worried about my body,’ he said, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. ‘It’s in here that concerns me.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘You have people watching over you now. There’ll be no back-peddling if we have anything to do with it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that Katie will help you. She seems to have her head screwed on the right way round.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Erik.’

  ‘I will.’

  He stuffed the list of male stylists that Eliza Linton had constructed into his jacket pocket and made his way down to the lobby in the elevator. Going to a crime scene wasn’t what he’d taken his car out of storage for. Was he up to the job anymore? He felt like crying, but he pushed the feelings back. Crying was for old men and women. Since when did a grown man ever show his feelings?

  He unlocked the Mercury, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught first time. He pulled out into the smattering of traffic and headed north up Interstate-110 towards Mona Park, then turned west on El Segundo Boulevard. The drive took him twenty-five minutes.

  Greg Lombardi and Dennis Whipple were already there talking to an old couple with a dog. He also spotted Eliza Linton and her photographer – Russ Lapp. Both had been moved back behind the police line.

  Ray Pinker, the crime lab technician, and Doctor Frederick Newbarr, the County Coroner, were examining the body.

  He walked over to them leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  ‘Are you back in the saddle, Erik?’ Newbarr said.

  ‘As of this morning, Fred. The Lieutenant made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Come back to work, or find yourself another job?’

  ‘Something like that. Anything you can tell me?’

  ‘Only that she’s the same as the others – beaten, raped and strangled.’

  ‘Any idea who she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about you, Ray?’

  ‘I’ve taken samples, but I’m not hopeful they’ll lead anywhere. He washed the body, made up her hair, applied make-up and did her nails. By doing that, as you know, he’s destroyed any evidence there might have been.’

  He looked down at the young naked woman with the peacock feather lying between her breasts and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. This was exactly what had led to his illness. She was dead because of him. As were six of the previous seven. He should have caught the killer after the first woman had been murdered, but he hadn’t. He was to blame. If he’d been a half-decent detective he would have brought the killer to justice already. Maybe he should just tell the Lieutenant he simply wasn’t up to the job, hand in his resignation and find something he was more suited to.

  ‘We wondered if the Lieutenant would call you back in,’ Dennis said, as he and Greg approached.

  Greg grunted. ‘Mike O’Meara’s gone.’

  ‘Gone! As in disappeared?’

  ‘May as well have done. The Lieutenant transferred him to Pomona Valley. Mike will like it there. It’s hot and there’s not a lot to do.’

  He wasn’t really interested in Mike O’Meara. He’d had his chance and blown it. He indicated the couple Dennis and Greg had been questioning. ‘Did they find the body?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Greg said. ‘Henry and Mary Hogan. They were out walking their dog at around six o’clock. It was the dog that found the body. They didn’t see anything or anyone and called it in to central dispatch. We’ve been here about twenty minutes.’

  Fred Newbarr pushed himself up, stretched and rubbed the small of his back. ‘We’re done her
e, Erik.’

  ‘Okay. You can take her away, Fred.’ This murder was the same as the others. There was nothing to gain from hanging onto the body, the killer hadn’t left them any evidence.

  ‘I want you to find out who she is,’ he said to Greg and Dennis.

  Greg looked sceptical and glanced at Dennis, ‘We’ll try.’

  ‘Just so you know, it’s not just my job on the line here. Sitting around the office waiting for divine intervention isn’t acceptable anymore. This guy has killed eight women on our watch. If you don’t come back with her name, don’t come back at all.’

  ‘You get out of bed the wrong side this morning, Erik?’

  ‘You can think that if you want to, Greg. Any confusion about what I want you to do?’

  They shook their heads and wandered off muttering.

  He didn’t care. These dead women were haunting him. If they weren’t haunting them, then they shouldn’t be doing the job.

  ***

  There was a man with a club hammer smashing it repeatedly on an anvil inside her head. She wished he’d stop.

  ‘Hello. Are you up, Katie?’

  She groaned.

  ‘It’s Ruby. I’m here to do the cleaning. Are you all right, dear?’

  ‘I’m ill, Ruby.’

  ‘Ill! It wouldn’t have anything to do with this black satin dress lying in a heap on the floor, would it?’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that it’s my own fault I’m ill?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, dear. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘You’d be saving my life if you did, Ruby.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She cast her mind back to the bedroom in Gottfried Beck’s house. God! She was lucky to get out of there alive, and especially with her honour still intact. There was only a vague recollection of jabbing her foot into Owen Stark’s groin, and then stabbing her nails into Neville Lyons’ eyes.

  While they were both occupied with their injuries, she’d slid off the bed, struggled into her dress, picked up her clutch bag and headed towards the door.

  Her head was swimming and she had trouble focussing. She took the key out of the inside of the lock, left the room, locked the door and dropped the key into a Chinese-looking vase that was standing on top of a fake three-foot Roman column at the top of the staircase.