Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  Rae takes in the image for a long moment, then sets it down on the stack. "It's all so…tragic."

  I couldn't agree more. Gayle, Roland, Loretta, all those innocent people.

  Gone. Either asphyxiated or burned to death. The shrieks of agony fill my head, bouncing me back to that smoke-filled casino and I lift my hands to my forehead, pressing, pressing, pressing, until pain penetrates my skull. Anything to drown out the memory of those screams. My body tenses, my torso seizing. It's happening. That warning that my grief will rear its ugly and abusive head.

  I know how this goes. If I keep moving forward, keep my mind focused on the next thing, I'll be okay.

  "Next photo," I say.

  The three subsequent images are of random people on the beach. My guess is that Simon wanted the ocean, but got the beachgoers with it.

  I shuffle through the beach shots and come to what I recognize as Myles's hotel suite. Not the presidential—they saved that one for VIPs—but one of the ambassador suites. The ambassador suites were not quite as well appointed as the presidential, but had a separate bedroom, a small living room and dining area, and more than enough room to host a small gathering.

  I know because I'd attended plenty of dinner or cocktail parties in that room. What's puzzling is that I don't remember this particular party, and to my knowledge Simon never went alone. Not that I would have minded if he had gone alone. Over the years, for various reasons, we'd often attended events unaccompanied. Not in La Paradisio.

  That I know of.

  Simon, Simon, Simon. What have you done to me?

  That niggling thought combined with what I'd learned yesterday about Simon’s lie by omission sends me spiraling.

  "Looks like a party," Rae says.

  It sure does. “It wasn't uncommon for Myles to host something. This particular one I don't remember."

  “Well, jeez, Rose. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember what I did last week."

  God bless her, she’s trying. But I refuse to be patronized. I meet her gaze for a long moment as I get my thoughts in order. "I'd remember this." I tap the date stamp on the photo. "This was the day before the fire. Everything from that weekend is seared into my brain. The fire did that. It’s a blessing in that I remember everything I did with Gayle, but at the same time—"

  “A curse.”

  “Yes.” I point at the photo. “I walked three miles with Gayle on the beach that morning, then had breakfast—Swedish pancakes with a side of fruit—on our balcony before changing into a bathing suit that I had bought at the hotel boutique the day before and hand-washed in our sink. We sat on the beach all morning and then ate a Montecristo for lunch. I split it with Gayle because I had pancakes for breakfast and worried that I'd get fat." I circle my fingers next to my head. "It's an endless loop in my brain. Everything we did that day and the next, leading up to the fire."

  "And you don't remember a party in Myles's room."

  “There was no party that day. Believe me."

  Which means my husband went by himself. More than likely when he told me he’d been in the casino. It's yet another thing, on top of learning about his secret meeting with Jeremy and the police, that nags at me. No. It's more than a nag, it's a million tiny stabs to my skin. I suppose that's what sudden doubt feels like. Simon was part of my life. He was my life. And now I’m left to wonder if I even knew him.

  "Well," Rae says, "this may not be what it seems. Could he have loaned the camera to George?"

  "Never. He spent thousands on cameras and lenses and setting up a darkroom in the basement. He'd invested a small fortune on photography. He'd allow Gayle to take photos of us, but only with him present. No one was allowed to take his camera. He simply didn't trust anyone with his equipment. I often joked that if he had to choose between the camera and me, he'd send me packing."

  "And you're sure this was his roll of film? Taken with his camera? I mean, could somebody else have taken these pictures with their own camera and given Simon the film? Maybe he was going to have it developed for someone else?"

  I shake my head. "No." I slide three of the photos aside and point to the one of all of us at lunch. “He took these. This is definitely Simon's film."

  I move to the next photo. "Oh, now this is interesting."

  "What?"

  I hold it up. Myles and Jackson Harlan, senator from California who would soon become president. The photo is a profile shot of the two men, who appear to be having a conversation. And behind them, with her back to the camera, is a woman. A long-haired redhead whom I instantly recognize, even without seeing her face. Her hair, that silky, deep auburn that she’d made famous, had prompted an endorsement deal from the world’s largest hair color company. They’d even created a shade—Berry Intense—that matched hers.

  “Do you know this man with Myles?”

  She takes a moment to ponder the photo. Her eyebrows hitch. “Is that…the president?"

  "He didn't get elected until the following November."

  "But he was at the Grande that weekend?"

  And here, another deception. "Apparently he was. I just didn’t know it." I point to the redhead in the background. “This is Loretta.”

  33

  Rae

  * * *

  My Spidey sense isn't just tingling, this is an explosion of energy that might blow the top of my skull clear off.

  Jackson Harlan. The happily married soon-to-be-president of the United States was at the Grande partying with Loretta Lonnie the weekend of the fire.

  Coincidence?

  I think not.

  My instinct is to charge ahead. To badger Rose with questions. Did Simon often attend secret parties with presidential candidates? Did they typically spend weekends at the Grande with Harlan? What was the relationship between Loretta and all these men? Were they lovers? Or was she simply a gorgeous starlet meant to puff up their egos?

  I knew from my research that Rose and Simon had been involved in politics and hosted lavish fundraisers for various local and federal politicians. Did that extend to Harlan?

  Only one way to find out. I spin sideways, facing Rose. She continues to study the photo. What she’s looking at or for, I don’t have a clue. Maybe she’s just stalling, trying to get her head together as we travel down the not-so-happy Memory Lane.

  “Rose, were you and Simon Harlan supporters?"

  It takes a full fifteen seconds, but she finally drags her gaze to mine. Her blue eyes are sharp, but the sagging skin underneath tells me how exhausted she is. Maybe it’s unfair of me to push her on this tonight, but she’s not exactly a wuss. I’m convinced she’d tell me if she’d had enough.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Myles, given his varied business interests, made it a point to be involved in politics. After all, one never knew when he'd need a favor from a senator or congressman on some obscure committee."

  The old friends-in-high-places theory. “So Myles introduced you to Harlan?"

  Rose puckers a moment. Up to this point, her memory has been nothing short of amazing. She whips off details of her trips to the Grande like they happened an hour ago. This question seems to stump her and that makes the whole Jackson Harlan connection way more interesting. How the heck does one forget how they met the future president?

  "I believe,” she says, “it was George who introduced us. It was definitely at the Grande. Harlan hadn't yet announced his candidacy. He was the young, handsome junior senator from California and the strategic plan was for him to be the dark horse in the election. He was to let the field of Democrats battle it out and run through their war chests and then he'd swoop in and steal the nomination.”

  This is all insider news to me. I’d like to dig out my notepad, but I don’t want to move. I’ve learned the hard way that the slightest interruption can derail a conversation and for whatever reason, this is firing my journalistic mojo. “Did you campaign for him?"

  “Of course. We lived in Hollywood and he was from California. It helped th
at we agreed with his politics for the most part. We hosted fundraisers, stuffed envelopes." She waves a hand. "Whatever he needed. Between Simon and me, we had a lot of Hollywood connections. I daresay we helped get that man elected."

  "Are you still friendly with him?"

  "No.”

  Really. They put the man in the Oval and now they’re not friends anymore? “Why?”

  I immediately regret blurting that one small word. Not so much asking the question, but the way I did it. Finesse isn’t exactly my strong suit. That’s Rose’s deal. I’m a toddler in a fine china shop, touching everything, picking it up, tossing it around to see what it does.

  “Well,” Rose says, “we're—I'm—not unfriendly. Before Simon died, if we saw Jackson, we’d share a laugh or talk about old times but it's not as if we socialized. Our connection revolved around the election."

  "Did you like him?"

  "He's quite charming. And brilliant."

  Total nonanswer. Unusual for straight-shooting Rose. I'm just not sure if it's intentional. "But did you like him? Is he a nice person?"

  Rose stares off at the refrigerator. "You know, I never gave that much thought. Simon liked him and I thought he'd make a good president. He did make a good president, at least in my opinion. And that's all I cared about. I suppose, when you look at it that way, yes, I liked him. I can’t say I knew him all that well, though.”

  I scoop up the photo of Harlan and Myles and flick my finger against it. “This is interesting. Harlan was secretly at the Grande the day before the fire broke out. And there was a Secret Service agent there at the same time."

  Could the two somehow be connected? Or was it an odd coincidence? Finally, I dig into to my messenger bag hanging on the back of my chair and retrieve my notepad.

  "What is it?" Rose asks.

  "I need to do some research. Do you remember if Harlan had Secret Service protection by then? I know from a story I once wrote that after Robert Kennedy was assassinated, the laws changed on candidates having Secret Service protection. But I think it's only for major candidates and there's a time restriction. It's something like four months before the election. I can't remember.” I jot a note to check the timing for candidate security. “If it is four months, there’s probably not a connection between him being at the hotel at the same time as the agent.”

  “Since the fire happened in July, it would have been a few weeks early for him to have a protection detail with him. I know close to the election, he had agents with him." She points to the photo. "I didn't even know he was at the Grande that weekend. Do you think there's a connection between the counterfeiting investigation and Harlan being there?"

  I shrug. "I don't know. Seems like a stretch."

  Even still, I'll do some research to see when exactly Jackson Harlan was approved for Secret Service protection and if there’s anything about him being at the hotel that weekend. You’d think, with all the press the tragedy got, someone would have published something about a presidential candidate being there. At the very least, he’d have made a statement.

  Unless, of course, he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been there.

  Rose studies me, her blue eyes so focused I’m thinking she’s somehow reading my thoughts. If she asks what I’m thinking, I’ll tell her. Whacky as it is, she’s my partner and I promised her transparency.

  If she asks.

  Right now, I’m not sure what I think and I don’t want to take us somewhere that’ll be a bust. “I’ll poke around about Harlan. See what I can find.”

  Rose nods, and to distract myself from the pressure of her intense eyes, I jot an unnecessary note about Harlan. When Rose goes back to the photos, I ease out a breath and say a silent thanks that she didn’t press me on my thoughts. She’s a smart woman. She has to know what I’m thinking. And these photos of Harlan and Loretta only add to my suspicion.

  We look through the remaining photos, mostly landscapes and various shots of the hotel’s interior— the lobby fountain, the casino sign, a sculpture. Nothing really that will add depth to the story.

  Rose sets the last photo on the stack and lets out a soft sigh. The last few minutes of digging into her past had to be difficult. It’s not just seeing pictures of her dead friends; the questions about Simon seem to be mounting.

  I scoop up the stack of photos and tuck them back in the envelope. "I'm sorry, Rose. That had to be tough."

  "Oddly, it's a bit of relief. I wasn't sure how I would react to whatever I saw in there."

  "Was it that bad?"

  She gives the counter a light smack. "Let's say I'm glad it's done. I do have more questions for George. Tomorrow I'll ring him up for a meeting. If you don't mind, dear, I’ll need to do that alone. He'll be more open with me without you present."

  As much as I'd love to be at that meeting, I get it. "It's the right call. I can finish going through the notes we got from Detective Sanchez while you're gone. We’re missing something, Rose. I’m just not sure what it is.”

  34

  Rose

  * * *

  At precisely 10:00 a.m.—I’m never late—I step up to George's front door and use the brass lion's head door knocker to announce my arrival. George and his wife may be the only people in town who still have one of these giant door knockers. I’m convinced it’s a statement proclaiming them as part of Hollywood’s old guard. He likes to say the door knocker came with the house when they bought it twenty-five years ago. For whatever reason, he'd become enamored with it, and despite doing a major renovation to the façade of the home, kept the original doors along with the matching lions' heads.

  The door swings open and Elizabeth, George's housekeeper, welcomes me inside.

  "He's out by the pool," she says. "I'll take you."

  It's been months since I visited George's home, and as we walk through the kitchen, I note the new hand-scraped wood floors. The old wood was darker. These are a lighter gray and combined with new white cabinets, they brighten the room considerably.

  Elizabeth opens the patio door for me and I step outside, turning back to offer a smile. “I’ll find my way from here, Elizabeth. Thank you."

  "Yes, ma'am. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, bloody Mary?"

  As a rule, I tend not to imbibe before noon, but based on how this conversation might unfold, a little liquid courage might be in order.

  "A bloody Mary sounds lovely. Thank you."

  George is sitting at an oblong iron table, cell phone to his ear. The patio shade hasn’t been extended, leaving the sun glimmering off the marble tabletop. To my right, a waterfall spills from a rock face built around the far corner of the pool. The sound is annoying and soothing all at the same time. Fascinating.

  I approach George, who’s wearing khaki pants and a casual V-neck pullover that shows off a winter tan. His hair, as usual, is combed straight back and gelled in place. He looks like what he is. A handsome, privileged movie star.

  He spots me and unleashes the magnetic all-teeth smile that made him millions. I don’t doubt he’s happy to see me. We’ve been friends a long time. But George is a Hollywood mainstay and I’ve never been able to separate the entertainer from the person. That smile never changes and it’s maddening.

  "Gordon," he says, "my guest just arrived. Keep me posted."

  He disconnects, then sets the phone on the table in front of him before rising and holding his arms out. "Rose, so good to see you. I'm glad you called. I planned on checking in when you got back.”

  He enfolds me in a gentle hug and his cologne—something earthy—triggers an instant calm within me. Whatever brand it is, I'd like ten gallons. He releases me and backs away, squeezing my arms.

  "I must have read your mind," I say.

  "If you had, you'd know I've been upset about our call the other day. I was worried about you."

  "I appreciate that, George, but really? Telling the boys I got arrested? You had to know the chaos that would create."

  He holds out
his hands. "What would you have me do? I couldn't leave you down there by yourself." He drags one of the heavy iron chairs from under the table. “Please. Sit.”

  I give the chair a casual perusal—no dirt—and lower myself into it, crossing my legs. “You could have let me handle it. They wouldn’t have thrown me in solitary confinement.” I wave it away. “Even if they had detained us, I would have called Phillip. You know that.”

  "I'm sorry. When I got the call from Ernesto, I panicked."

  Oh, please. Panicked? I’ve known this man over thirty years and I’ve never seen him panic. Upset, certainly, but not even when he lost the biggest movie deal of his career did he come anything close to panicked.

  Elizabeth arrives with my cocktail and an extra for George. He’ll probably need it by the time I’m through with him.

  "Thank you." He waits for Elizabeth to enter the house, then eyes me. "A bloody Mary before noon? Should I be afraid?"

  Yes. He should be very afraid. Still, I manage a smile and lift my glass in a toast. "Maybe."

  His glass is midway to his mouth before halting. Clearly he expected me to laugh it off, and a hum of satisfaction streams through me. Amazing how five little letters have given me the opening advantage.

  He takes a long pull of the cocktail, then sets it down on a coaster. "Is everything all right?"

  "Honestly, I'm not sure. It's been an interesting few days."

  "I tried to warn you about that. You can't go down there and start digging up skeletons. The cops are sensitive when it comes to the Grande.”

  "They should be. They've failed spectacularly. All those people died and the case is still unsolved? How does that happen? How on earth do they allow a world-famous actress to die on their island and no one seems to care? It's atrocious."

  At the mention of Loretta’s death, George's gaze snaps to mine. "You didn't bring Loretta up, did you?"

  I'll need to tread lightly here. As disillusioned as I am with Simon, being his wife had perks. One of those perks was being well-informed when it came to the latest Hollywood gossip. Including tips about George, a notorious ladies’ man despite a forty-year marriage and three grown children.