by Ava Barry
Alexa herself was a somewhat polarizing force in the field of investigative journalism, which was still by and large an old boys’ club. At twenty-three, Alexa had infiltrated a New Mexican drug cartel with ties to two Republican state senators, and when her senior editor pressured her to sit on the story until the senators’ families could be moved to safety, she went ahead and sold it to a different newspaper. It had gone on to reach the Pulitzer shortlist.
A few years later she shaved her head and went to Israel, posing as a young man and fighting alongside the Jewish Resistance Movement. No one ever suspected that she might be a woman, or even American. Alexa was half Mexican and half Jewish, giving her a fairly ambiguous look that could be attributed to a wide variety of countries. Her strong facial features and thick eyebrows lent a certain androgyny to her appearance, which she used in her favor.
Her career continued along a highly unorthodox path, and she refused to be limited by her gender or background in a field mostly dominated by white men. She pissed off her superiors and challenged people who threatened to stifle her, but she was able to impress the right number of people to rise through the ranks. There were countless awards and accolades, but Alexa further infuriated the powers that be by gracefully rejecting a nomination for the Goldsmith Prize, citing various ways in which the nominations were unfairly biased, then went on to suggest a list of journalists worthy of consideration.
All of those things seemed like childish acts of rebellion compared to what happened in Burma, which is what finally ended Alexa’s career.
Anyone who’s done their homework will immediately link Burma in 2007 with two things: the oil shortage and Alexa Levine. When the local government raised the price of fuel in Burma, setting off a massive series of protests throughout the country, Alexa turned her attention elsewhere. Although she had a desk at the Los Angeles Times, she flew out to Washington, DC, to find out why the Washington Post had been sitting on a story about the events of the crisis, when two of their reporters had gone out to Burma to see things firsthand.
After that, it becomes a matter of national security, and most of the details are kept in some locked vault on the other side of the country. But after Alexa was turned away by the Post, she flew out to Burma, impersonated an American senator from Massachusetts, and discovered that the Post had been bribed or threatened to keep their mouths shut about an international crisis partially engineered by American oil conglomerates. Two senators had financial stakes in the debacle, including the woman Alexa had impersonated.
She returned home, intending to leak the story, but was met at the airport by federal marshals. The rest is cloudy. Her editors didn’t stick up for her, that much is common knowledge, and editors are always supposed to stick by their reporters. She went on trial for the crime of impersonating a politician, and she spent some time in jail, but ultimately got off lightly on a plea bargain.
And then she disappeared.
Right after she disappeared, speculation was rife about what might have happened. She was killed—or, at least, that was the most popular theory. Taken out by government agents for threatening national security. The Bush administration was embarrassed, even though the story never went to print.
I followed the whole thing religiously, and I still held out hope that she might have gone underground to work on an important story. Other possibilities were more likely, like that Alexa had gotten tired of fighting everyone and disappeared to have a family. I secretly hoped that wasn’t true, because there weren’t enough powerful female journalists willing to fight the corporate hierarchy.
Hearing that she was back in Los Angeles and coming to work at the Lens was sort of like finding out that Orson Welles was still alive and he was going to be signing books at Barnes & Noble. I couldn’t figure out why she would accept a position as editor in chief of the Lens, or how our dingy little zine would have even contacted her. Our magazine had gained a reputation for covering historical and cultural news, but with the direction that Brian was pushing, I didn’t see why Alexa would be interested. The previous year, the story that pulled in the most traffic on our website was about a Puerto Rican drag queen who dressed up as Beethoven for Pride and deejayed a set of baroque music.
I mulled the thought over as I headed home. If Brian was going to be my boss forever, I would be tempted to quit the Lens, but if Alexa was taking over, I definitely had a change of heart.
FIVE
That evening, Thierry and I met at the little Gower Gulch strip mall. I had spent hours researching Leland’s list of Bens, but so far, I hadn’t figured out which one had been at Windhall on Friday night. After deliberating the pros and cons of contacting Theo, I had fired off a quick email from my work account, asking him if he was in town, and whether or not he would be willing to grant me an interview. I didn’t really expect to hear back from him. I also knew that without a solid lead or something to bring to the pitch meeting, there was no chance of salvaging my job. The magician was probably my last shot.
The magician wasn’t the first person Thierry had unearthed for my benefit. Throughout our entire friendship, he had occasionally come across weirdos and fanatics who claimed to have information on Theo. Years before, I’d let myself get optimistic about meeting them, but now I sat through their spiels and rants with something less than enthusiasm. Regardless of the dubious authenticity of their claims, however, I’d gotten into the habit of bringing cash to the meetings, on the off chance they had something I wanted to buy.
Thierry was dressed up for the occasion, which meant that he was decked out in cowboy duds. He was wearing a black suede jacket with studs and embroidery along the shoulders, and a pair of black corduroy pants. I’d known Thierry long enough to know that the getup had nothing to do with the Western-themed location; Thierry had always been obsessed with cowboy garb and had a closet full of Western-inspired clothing. When I walked up to him, he was admiring his ten-gallon hat in the rearview mirror of a Subaru.
“I guess we’re not being inconspicuous tonight.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Inconspicuous? What are you talking about?”
“You look like you’re about to call the cows home.”
“Hailey, you know I hate the Hollywood. I’m doing you a favor by coming here, you don’t have to be an asshole.”
I lifted my hands. “Apologies.”
“By the way, you need to get your phone fixed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Half the time I call you, it gets picked up by some Chinese lady,” he said. “She doesn’t speak English, but, boy, she likes to yell.”
“Jesus, I thought they fixed that,” I said. “Never mind, I’m not dealing with it now. Let’s go.”
Gower Gulch was an embarrassing little strip mall, bracketed off between a Starbucks and a Rite Aid, but it had its charms. Since it had once been the hangout of cowboys and ranch hands, the mall was decorated like an old Western outpost, complete with fake cacti, wagon wheels, and an old stagecoach.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Thierry said, adjusting his hat one last time.
“Road? Don’t you mean stagecoach trail?”
“Not another word, Hailey, I am warning you!”
I followed him into a restaurant with a narrow shopfront. Inside, the decor was kitschy Hollywood: a warty candle on every table, glittery drapes on the walls, faded murals depicting cacti, ranch hands, and blowing tumbleweeds. A small stage occupied a corner by the back wall of the restaurant, and an emcee cradled the microphone. He was a slender, gawky man in a crimson jacket with matching pants, and the light glanced off his thick spectacles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just been dazzled by the amazing hands of Raymond Chandelier,” he said. “Let us take a step further into the strange, explore a bit more of the mystique, as we welcome to the stage… Tyko Lightwood!”
A smattering of applause filled the dingy restaurant, and the emcee bowed his way off the stage.
&
nbsp; Thierry edged his way along the back of the restaurant, and I followed him. The emcee was chatting up some of the waitresses, and Thierry approached him, then put a hand on his shoulder. The emcee bowed his head to listen to what Thierry was saying, then nodded and turned to look at me.
“You’re here about Theodore Langley?” he asked. All traces of his self-conscious stage persona had disappeared. He leaned in. “Can we trust you?”
“Trust me with what?”
“This is highly confidential information,” he said. “Will you respect that?”
“You don’t need to worry about my discretion.”
The emcee studied me for a long moment. “This isn’t Club 33 at Disneyland,” he said. “We’re talking about the most famous unsolved murder in Los Angeles. If I don’t feel that you can be respectful, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I struggled not to roll my eyes. “I get it, champ. I’ll keep your secrets, and later we can discuss how Katy Perry is really JonBenét Ramsey, all grown up.”
The emcee squinted at Thierry. “Is he making fun of me? I really can’t tell.”
“Hailey, fuck off!”
I raised my hands in surrender, and the emcee sighed.
“Come with me,” he said, then turned and walked away.
We followed him down a narrow corridor, past the dingy bathrooms, and up a set of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a cramped office, filled with lost jackets and purses, cubbyholes for the staff, cardboard boxes containing cups, napkins, and other restaurant detritus. A slender man sat before a mirror, cleaning makeup from his face. When the door opened, he glanced up to look at us.
“Some friends,” the emcee explained. “I’ve gotta get back onstage.”
After the emcee departed, the man in front of the mirror turned to greet us. He had only cleaned the makeup from half his face, which gave him a skewed appearance. His left eyebrow was still etched in dark pencil, sharply drawn to indicate mystery, and his cheekbones were highlighted in rouge.
“You must be Thierry,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
“Max Hailey,” I said. “Are you Raymond Chandler?”
“Chan-de-lier,” he said, exasperated. “It’s just a stage name. You can call me Ray.”
“So, you have something belonging to Theo Langley?”
Ray leaned back against the table and gave me a dubious look. “What’s your interest in Theo, anyway?”
I showed him my palms. “I’ve always liked dinosaurs.”
“Do you think he killed Eleanor?”
“Did OJ kill Nicole Brown? Of course Theo killed Eleanor. The only reason he got off was because the prosecutor tampered with evidence.”
“I think we’re done here.” Ray turned back to the mirror and continued cleaning his face.
“Whoa, what? You made me drive out to some hack magic show in Hollywood for nothing? Thanks for wasting my time.”
“Your friend has bad manners,” Ray told Thierry.
Thierry rolled his eyes. “Hailey, don’t be a jackass.”
“I grew up poor,” I said. “Dirt poor. I have no sympathy for rich sociopaths like Theo who can hurt women and get away with it. If he didn’t kill her, why did he vanish after the trial? If he were truly innocent, wouldn’t he stick around and try to pick up the pieces of his life? Clear his name?”
“He didn’t do it,” Ray said, then turned around and faced me. “Someone framed him.”
“Look, I’m a journalist,” I said. “I believe in cold, hard facts. There are a lot of urban legends floating around this city, and most of the time, they don’t lead to anything. Why are you so convinced that he’s innocent?”
“Theo was a magician,” Ray said. “Those sets he built. People still haven’t managed to create anything similar. Hot-air balloons that rose without strings. Smiling, waving people, less than an inch tall. Those sets were from another world.”
“Agreed. And?”
“Someone who devotes his life to beauty isn’t capable of that kind of violence. Theo was an intellectual.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Where’s your evidence?”
Ray sighed and turned to Thierry. “I thought you said he was looking to buy,” he said.
“I make no guarantees on my friend’s behalf,” Thierry said. “I told you he was interested, that’s all.”
“What are you selling?” I cut in.
“I don’t go showing this to just anyone, you know. If you’re interested in buying, I need you to show some respect for the process.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Are you willing to put your convictions aside and look at new evidence?”
I scratched my head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m open-minded and all that.”
Ray crossed the room to a bank of lockers against the wall. He guarded the padlock with his left hand while he spun the dial with his right. After opening the door, he withdrew a metal box the size of a shoebox. He carefully set it on the table next to him and, with a smile and a flourish, lifted the lid.
“What is that?” Thierry asked.
“It’s an old film reel,” I said. “What’s it show?”
“It’s proof that Theo was framed.” Ray removed a set of white gloves from his pocket and took a black metal film canister from the case. It was old footage, I could see that much just from the container that it was in. It was a bit wider than a CD case, flat, small dents in places.
“Can I see the film?”
“No can do, friend. If I take it out of the canister, the oxygen in the air will start to deteriorate the film panels.”
I sighed, exasperated. “How do I know I want to buy unless I actually see the film?”
“You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
“What word? You haven’t even told me what’s on it.”
Ray crossed the room and opened the door to look out into the hallway. Satisfied that we were alone, he returned to the chair in front of the mirror and took a deep breath.
“Theo didn’t kill Eleanor,” he said, “because someone else did. That’s what this film shows. It’s a man, strangling Eleanor.”
“Aw, bullshit.”
“It’s true!” The color rose in his cheeks.
“If that’s on film, it was part of a movie or something. Back in those days, they didn’t waste valuable footage. Plus, nobody left their recording devices on by accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Ray said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Someone filmed this shot and tried to make it look like it was Theo.”
“If you can’t show me the footage, I’m leaving. I’m not going to hand over my money on the strength of your convictions.”
“Fine!” Ray pulled out another set of gloves and handed them to me. “You have to wear these, though.”
I pulled on the gloves. Ray carefully removed the lid from the film canister and handed it to me.
“Be careful,” he said. “This is priceless evidence.”
I could see that the film hadn’t been properly stored, and it had deteriorated quite a bit. There were yellow spots on some of the cells, and the base was brittle and curling in on itself. I held it up to the light, and the first thing I saw was Eleanor. She was smiling, and she was alone. A script rested in her hands.
My breath caught in my throat. I had seen all of her movies, watched them again and again. I’d always had a soft spot for tragedy, the thought that someone else’s family was as fucked up as mine was, and a small part of me was convinced that if I had been able to reach out to Eleanor, I could have stopped everything.
I moved along through the panels slowly, aware that Ray was watching my every move. As I progressed through the cells, Eleanor looked up from the script. A man crossed the room and began gesturing, and Eleanor shrank against the wall. He gestured, then knocked the script from her hands. She threw up her hands over her face, and after a moment’s pause, the man reached for her and wrapped his hands around he
r neck. Before I could make out any identifying features, the film reel ended.
“Well?”
Thierry and Ray were both watching me.
“I need to look through it again,” I said, winding the reel up.
“No, no, that’s all you get. I don’t want to damage the reel.”
“What am I supposed to do with this? Write an article about a decomposing film strip and convince people that Theo is innocent?”
I knew that I sounded like an asshole, but I couldn’t calm myself down. I had spent too much time trying to convince Brian that this story was important, damn it, and I had just been fired, and now I was having a fight with a part-time magician.
“Hailey,” Thierry said quietly. “What’s wrong with you?”
And then I thought of my gran: a memory from when I was nine years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night to hear an argument downstairs, between her and her husband. An image: a pattern of bruises, increasing in size. Pale yellow, brown, and purple. Never where anyone could see, of course, always under her clothes. And she always wore those long-sleeved shirts.
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Give me the reel,” Ray said, taking it from me. “You don’t look so good.”
“I need to see it one more time,” I said. “Just let me borrow it. I’ll take it to my office, make a few copies.”
She never stopped wearing those long-sleeved shirts, buttoned all the way up to the bottom of her neck. I knew why she wore them, of course, even though I was too young to understand that kind of violence.
Ray was shaking his head. “I don’t think you’re the right buyer,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind. You need to leave.”
“Thierry, why did you even bring me here?”
Thierry gave me a wide-eyed look. “Don’t blame me, pal. I told you this guy was a nut.”