Pale as Death

by Heather Graham

  “Michael Thoreau. His ghost, that is.”

  “Yep, he sees me!” Thoreau said happily. “Amazing. So cool.”

  “Did they say things like that in the forties?” Bruce McFadden asked him.

  Thoreau shrugged. “To be absolutely honest, I’m not sure. I’ve been hanging around forever, so I’ve picked stuff up. For instance, I still love ‘groovy.’”

  “Groovy,” Bruce said.

  “This can’t be happening,” Sophie said.

  The elevator was descending to the lobby. She was startled when Bruce McFadden took her by the shoulders. “Okay, this is new for you, I guess. But, Sophie, it’s real, and there are others in the world who see the dead. When the dead wish to be seen. It can be alarming. I can’t tell you how freaked out I was the first time—it was my mom! She figured she’d raised three sons who could handle anything. Sophie, you’re tough as nails. You will handle it.”

  His eyes were intense. Something inside her was still fighting. It couldn’t be real. Was he trying to help, or feeding into the insanity?

  “Sophie, please,” Michael Thoreau said.

  The elevator door opened.

  Jackson Crow was waiting for them. To Sophie’s astonishment, it seemed that he nodded to the ghost of Thoreau.

  “Three of you! This is heaven!” Thoreau said. “Well, not literally, of course. I am looking forward to that, but first, this copycat killer.”

  Jackson shook hands with Sophie. “Nice to see you, Sophie.”

  “You, too, sir. I’m glad you’re going to be the FBI liaison—but there is an LA field office.”

  “Yes, I’m here as a special consultant. Area FBI will also be on the case. You’ll meet some of them at the station now.”

  “And you’ll let me help?” Thoreau asked.

  “We’ll take all the help we can get,” Crow said.

  So he was real. Her ghost was real.

  And suddenly she liked Crow—and even McFadden—all the more. They were on her team.

  It was just the way she had first met McFadden. Maybe she’d never recovered from being caught so off guard.

  She turned on Michael Thoreau suddenly. “Were you in my apartment yesterday morning? If so, you will not be welcome in any way—”

  “I wasn’t in your apartment,” Thoreau said indignantly. “I knock. You know that. I would never be so rude.”

  “Shall we get going? People are coming into the lobby,” Bruce noted.

  Thankfully, Sophie realized, no one had been there when she’d turned on Thoreau. To anyone watching, it would have appeared she was talking to thin air.

  “Yes, for God’s sake, let’s get going.”

  On the way to the station, Jackson Crow filled them in. “Our unit has our own jet, Sophie, that’s how we move when we choose,” he told her. “And as to what I know...nothing yet. Just that the tip lines went crazy after they were posted in the news.”

  “Did they check out Kenneth Trent yet?” Sophie asked. “As to where he might have been on Sunday night?”

  “According to him, he didn’t leave his office until about five that afternoon,” Bruce said. “This morning, I spoke with his partner. They were both at a movie Sunday night. They have the ticket stubs. We’ll go by and hope that someone remembers the two of them at the concession stand.”

  “And there are two victims now,” Jackson Crow said.

  “So now we find out where Brenda was on Monday night. I spent a lot of yesterday with her friends.”

  “We have the same story from everyone associated with both women,” Bruce said. “Each was excited. They were both scheduled to meet with someone who was going to change their world—make them famous.”

  “That’s what you see a lot of with the original Black Dahlia,” Sophie murmured. “That she wanted to be a star.”

  “Elizabeth Short had a mom and a family in Massachusetts,” Bruce said. “One of the papers brought the mom out here—they were really using her to keep up the numbers for the paper. Some of the news sources tried to blast Short as a call girl or a prostitute—or at least someone willing to sleep with anyone to get where she wanted to go. But according to reliable sources, that just wasn’t true. She had been in love with a serviceman. He was killed. She was out here like other women were out here—chasing the elusive dream.”

  “But neither of these girls really had family—friends who love them, yes, but no family,” Sophie mused. “Surely, women would be smart enough these days not to go with someone...someone they don’t know, someone who could be dangerous,” Sophie said.

  “The lure of stardom is huge—worth a lot of risks—to many people, men and women. But he may change up his game,” Bruce said. “Playing the big producer worked at first. Maybe now—now that we’re going to make sure the public knows what was going on with Lili and Brenda—they won’t be so foolish.”

  Michael Thoreau piped up. “I still say it’s going to help to figure out just who killed Elizabeth Short!”

  “Police then and now have gone over the case for decades,” Sophie reminded him. “There was still no proof.”

  “Maybe we can’t prove it. But maybe we can know,” Thoreau said.

  When they reached the station, the ghost followed them in.

  Sophie and Grant and a squad of eight officers worked directly beneath Captain Lorne Chagall. He was an experienced man with thirty years in the force—he’d made his way up from patrol officer. He was usually in his office at the station, juggling the cases handled by his squad. They all just called him Captain, something that worked well since he spent his leisure time out on his little fishing boat.

  He was a great superior, a man who never micromanaged, but listened intently and gravely, and he imparted wisdom with his years of on-the-street savvy behind him.

  He nodded at them all when they came in.

  “Captain, you’re taking lead on this?”

  “No, Sophie. Grant Vining is lead. He’ll get what he needs from me. And the two of you have any other officers or anything else required as you go along. Anything you want to say or add in, just speak up.

  “Bruce McFadden?” he asked then, reaching across to shake Bruce’s hand.

  “Yes, sir, Captain, glad to meet you,” Bruce said.

  “Glad to have you here. I understand you’re a consultant, but we know about Special Agent Crow and his unique unit. I suppose this case could use all hands on deck.”

  Sophie kept a forced expression of calm as Bruce thanked the captain. She hadn’t actually realized how warm and chummy it had all become between law enforcement agencies—and “consultants” like Bruce McFadden. She was pretty sure that the captain had no real idea that members of the Krewe spoke with the dead, but she had learned that the Krewe had an incredible record for closing cases, and figured the captain was glad to be working with such a unit.

  There was barely time for them to grab paper cups of coffee before the meeting began, headed—as Captain had said it would be—by Detective Grant Vining. He welcomed Jackson and other members of the FBI, and the dozen other officers from their major crime divisions, along with state police and a forensic psychiatrist named Bobby Dougherty.

  Grant Vining went through the discovery of the bodies, including time lines. Dr. Thompson, the medical examiner, was there and reported on the state of the bodies.

  An officer from the hotline reported on the number of tips they had received. They would be doled out to patrolmen who would follow up. While Vining would remain lead detective on the case, they were asking for help from everywhere.

  Henry Atkins was there; his crime scene photos blazed large on a pull-down screen. Henry had gone a step further; he showed the similarity to photos from the original crime scene—that of the Black Dahlia.

  The similarity to their new murders—down to detail—was remarkable.


  “The bag,” Sophie murmured. “He didn’t leave a bag.”

  “No,” Henry agreed. “I was among the first responders. Our man may know that such a thing might have led to some kind of forensic discovery.”

  “And we’re still doing all kinds of tests,” Lee Underwood put in. “But so far, we’ve got cigarette butts that match nothing we have. We haven’t found a thing that would give us any help. We checked Lili Montana’s body for prints, but he was careful. He wore gloves the whole time.”

  Media attention was getting out of hand. Following the meeting, Vining was going to give a press conference, and among what information they did intend to hand out, he would warn young women about being anywhere alone with a stranger. Especially if that stranger promised to be a producer who would help them reach the big time in Hollywood.

  A young officer entered the room, wincing at the sight of the crime scene photos, and went over to Detective Vining. He spoke in a low, urgent voice.

  “Well, we have another similarity,” Vining said to the room. “Lili Montana’s driver’s license just appeared on the desk of a reporter at the newspaper. The Black Dahlia killer, as we all know, sent the paper items belonging to Elizabeth Short, as well. We sent a team to collect the license and the envelope—forensics will get on it right away.”

  “Do we know where it was mailed from?” Sophie asked.

  “Yeah,” Vining said drily. “The mailbox on the corner down the street from this station.”

  The room was silent for a second; they all knew that the killer was taunting them.

  Vining ended the meeting by assigning tasks, and the officers headed out—vigilant, but with little more to go on.

  There would be another door-to-door bout of questioning in the area where the bodies had been found—both sides of the park and beyond. Apartments would be searched in the hopes that there had been some small clue one of the young women had left behind.

  The killer had dropped an envelope within blocks of the police station. They could hope that he had licked the envelope.

  He most probably had not.

  They could hope for fingerprints.

  They would probably find those belonging to the postal employees and workers at the newspaper.

  But somewhere out there, both girls had been seen by others. And Sophie was anxious to follow up—hours of treading the streets didn’t matter—and find out just which of the hundreds of callers had really had something of substance to report.

  “We need to go through the leads,” Sophie said.

  “There are hundreds. It will take our entire team days to follow them through,” Grant told her. “Yes, you can get on them. But you need to get your place fixed.”

  “I will, but please, Grant, let’s get on this now, while the leads are hot. Please. I’ll stay at the hotel another night.”

  “Sophie, we’re cops. There are hundreds of law enforcement people now working this case,” Grant reminded her. “Look, I’m not trying to be an ass, I swear it. You can’t let a case become so much of an obsession—”

  “Another night. Maybe there is something hot,” Bruce said.

  She glanced at him; he was supporting her. She really needed to be grateful.

  Vining shook his head. “All right. But, Sophie—we both want to stay on the force, right? So let’s remember that this is a career choice, yes, but that we’re human beings, too, right?”

  She nodded. “Please, let’s see the leads.”

  As they went through the hundreds of notes taken, Vining glanced at her occasionally to see if there was anything that spurred her. She listened patiently as he went through them, including those that had come in from psychics who had seen Lili or Brenda in their minds, or in a crystal ball.

  “Psychics have helped on other cases, you know,” Vining said grimly.

  “I’m not discounting them. You just haven’t got anything from a psychic that rings true to me yet,” Sophie told him.

  Grant excused himself and began to dole out some of the help line info to others.

  “I’ll follow up on Kenneth Trent’s alibi,” Jackson Crow said.

  “I think he’s innocent,” Bruce said. He looked at Sophie, awaiting her opinion. She didn’t know why, but she trusted his instincts.

  “Maybe you can find out if he had any connection with Brenda, too,” she said. “We do know that he saw Lili the afternoon before her murder.”

  “Right. Thing is, we’re looking for someone who could pull this all off,” Bruce said. “I talked to Kenneth. I just didn’t get that he’d even begin to know how to...to kill so brutally.”

  Sophie continued to leaf through the reports. There had been sightings of Lili Montana and Brenda Sully all over Los Angeles, but finally, one in particular struck Sophie.

  The tip had come from a young woman at a coffee shop. She had spoken to Lili Montana, she claimed, at seven on Sunday night—just hours before she had been killed. Lili had been about to meet a producer, she had said.

  “I think this is for real,” Sophie said.

  “Here’s another tip from a dog walker,” Vining told her. “He claimed to have seen her near where her body was found.”

  Sophie shook her head. “We should see him, yes. But I just don’t think that this perp does his killing near his dump sites.”

  “I can’t figure where—not by where they were found. But think of our geography. God knows where he might have a lair. This city is all mountains, hills and valleys. There are basements, foundations, old maintenance tunnels—just about everywhere.”

  “Still, we’ll talk to the dog walker,” Sophie said. “If he lives nearby, he might have seen a vehicle or something else unusual for the neighborhood.”

  Vining looked especially tired. “Pick out the ones you want, but take a handful. Try to go geographically, save yourself time.”

  “I do want to check out the waitress who called in. I know that people may not become instant best friends with waiters and waitresses, but they often chat,” Sophie said. “And this café where she works—it’s near Olvera Street, the oldest section of the city.”

  “All right,” Vining said. “And here’s another in which the officer on the tip line thought the person sounded both sane and sure—this one is from a convenience store clerk who said that a girl matching Brenda’s description bought a pack of gum from him on Monday. The store is also near Olvera Street.”

  “I’ll like to take these for a start,” Sophie said. “From what I’ve heard from friends and coworkers about both the victims, they would have loved history and the city and...” She shook her head.

  “What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.

  “I talked to Brenda’s friends. She seems like a really nice girl. And I was thinking, from what I know about both women, that the area would have appealed to them—lots of history and fun Hollywood. And, I’m willing to bet, old secrets. But I don’t think it’s so much that the area appealed to them. I think, possibly, that there is something in the area that appeals to the killer.”

  Vining frowned. “I don’t know. It’s also high traffic. Filled with restaurants and museums.”

  “And near a few places where there might well be deep basements and other areas to carry out torture and murder,” Sophie said flatly.

  “I’ll go with Sophie,” Bruce offered.

  Sophie wanted to deny him; she thought she should be working the case with her actual partner.

  But she realized Vining was going to be at the station for a while, going over every tip and clue—no matter how misguided or bizarre—and handing out assignments. There would be endless legwork involved with this case, and as lead detective, it was his responsibility to see that nothing slipped through the cracks.

  Vining was a good partner, and she was grateful to work with him. But she was glad that he hadn’t suggested that she remain a
t the station with him, trying to read between the lines of every tip.

  Sophie just had a feeling about the old section of LA.

  And if she was stuck with McFadden... Well, with or without him, she was eager to start the hunt.

  “Let’s go,” she told Bruce.

  “I’ll be in touch, if I find anything else in this massive pile of communication...I’ll get the info to you. And if our men on the street get anything, I’ll reach you. Keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophie said.

  “I like your Olvera Street, too,” he said. “So, two there...let’s start with the dog walker and head on over to the other section of town. I’ve got the rental car. We’ll use that?” he asked Vining.

  “Blends right in. Yes.”

  Vining gave Bruce a sticker for his vehicle so that he could easily park wherever.

  Bruce McFadden seemed glad of it as they left the station. “Hey, I can even leave the car in the middle of the road, if I need to, with this!”

  “Yep. Great.”

  They had reached his car when he stopped, not opening the door for her—not even unlocking it. He stared at her over the roof.

  “Get over it,” he said. His voice was rock hard.

  “What?” Sophie demanded.

  “Your attitude.”

  She naturally wanted to deny that she had an attitude.

  “I’m over it,” she said.

  “You’re not—but you need to be. Sophie, I came out here to help you because Bryan couldn’t come—and because we both have training and because we all see the dead. Jackson is here for that reason, too. We can use Thoreau. Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. We’ve all been through it. Speaking with the dead goes against everything you’ve learned or been taught your entire life. Accepting it is hard.”

  “I’ve accepted it.”

  “Just not me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know you well enough to like you or dislike you. You’re just not a cop—you’re not even from LA.”

  “Vining and your captain are just fine with me. You know what your problem is?”

  “I’d like to get going.”