“I saw you shaking—in a towel. You’re just so damned determined that you’re an invincible cop that you can’t bear anything that suggests you might have a weakness.”
She felt her anger rising.
“Maybe I...I just don’t know your real qualifications.”
“Maybe I make you feel vulnerable. Whatever it is, Sophie—”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” she snapped.
He stared at her, looking hard, cold and very fierce for a moment. She thought that maybe he’d missed his calling—if he’d been an attorney, he could have probably made mincemeat of a perp in a courtroom in seconds flat.
Then, suddenly, his demeanor changed.
“Marnie said you were the best,” he said softly. “And, hey, we could work on this thing investigating together, you know. I like you.”
She grimaced. “I... I’m over it. Whatever it is you think I’m not over. I am. I swear.”
“You’re shaken about speaking to the dead.”
She was quiet for an instant, and she swallowed hard.
“Maybe. I think I saw the dead once before. And I was ridiculed and sent to a shrink for it.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re not crazy. It’s real.”
“That’s just as crazy—as being crazy!”
“But real. And it has its benefits, really,” he said, and added softly, “Please, just accept Michael Thoreau. Seriously, we can use him.”
She didn’t have to answer. She was startled by another voice.
The ghost of Michael Thoreau had been coming down the walk; he was by the car when he spoke with a cheerful note in his voice.
“You can indeed use me.”
“Lovely,” Sophie said.
“If it helps at all, I think you’re right,” Bruce said. “There’s something about old LA that just might appeal to this killer.”
“Old LA?” Thoreau asked. “Ah, yes, because he’s imitating an old murder. But hey, that area is way older than Hollywood. You know, back in 1908, this was all real new. The big ‘film’ production—what there was!—was happening in NYC. And France. Before Hollywood, France had it all over us. By 1918, Hollywood was already the hot spot. Founding fathers, corruption, bootlegging. Great stuff.”
“Pre-Dahlia,” Bruce reminded him.
“Yep. But cool.”
“Yes, there’s so much out here that’s so beautiful—and so much that’s so ugly right now,” Sophie said. “My instincts—and your instincts—might be wrong. And it might take forever to follow them all through.”
“You’re a good detective, Sophie. You have people skills, which are important as all hell, too. So I trust your instincts.”
“You may not be a cop, but you’ve obviously been around law enforcement—and very bad things. We’ll be damned lucky if our first instincts panned out.”
“We won’t know if we stand here talking about it,” he said.
“You need to unlock the door. I—unlike Mr. Michael Thoreau—need to enter a car properly.”
“She is a wiseass, isn’t she?” Thoreau asked.
“Attitude,” Bruce said.
“Hey! I’m right here,” she said.
Bruce clicked the car open.
* * *
The dog walker was a Mr. Milton Nguyen. He had a gray terrier mix named Scamp. He had been certain that he’d seen Lili Montana walking down the street the day she was killed. “Pretty girl, dark hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt,” he told them.
“Where was she going?” Bruce asked.
“Um—I don’t know. She was just—she was walking that way.”
He pointed north.
“Did she seem to have a car...did she appear to be heading toward anyone or anything specific?” Sophie asked him. She pulled out her phone and found a photo of Lili—alive—that the police had been using. “Do you really think that you saw this young woman?” she asked.
He studied the pictures. “I think, yes. But I could be wrong.”
Sophie thanked him for his help, and gave him one of her cards, asking him to call if he saw anything else that might be suspicious, or if he thought of anything else.
“This is a nice neighborhood. To have bodies dumped in our park... You will catch this killer, right?”
“We’re doing everything humanly possible,” Sophie assured him. She stooped down to pet the little dog.
“You walk this little guy a lot, right?” Bruce asked him.
“I do. He’s my best friend.”
“Have you seen any unusual vehicles around—maybe even around a few times?” Sophie asked.
He was thoughtful. “Well, you know, there’s some idiot with a souped-up dragster who goes by now and then with rap music blaring.”
“Anything else?” Bruce pressed.
“Maybe. A sedan. Black or dark blue. Yeah, I’ve see it a couple of times,” he said excitedly. “No music—goes slow. Real slow, just driving around. First time I saw it, I thought maybe they were lost.”
“You don’t happen to know the make of the car, do you?”
He shook his head. “No hood ornament...and I wasn’t really looking. I just watch for speeders sometimes. Lots of dogs—and kids—around here. A dark sedan. That’s all that I can tell you.”
“If, by any chance, you see that car again, can you let us know right away? Don’t endanger yourself in any way, but if you can see what kind of car it is—” Sophie said.
“Or see the tag,” Bruce added.
“Can you call us right away?” Sophie asked.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Sophie and Bruce thanked him again and headed back to the car.
“What do you think?” Bruce asked Sophie.
“I think he’s a really nice man trying to do his civic duty,” she said.
“It’s possible he saw Lili,” Bruce said.
“Or just an unfamiliar car,” Sophie said.
“The killer checking out the neighborhood?”
“Could be,” Sophie said. “But a dark sedan isn’t much to go on.”
“There are hundreds, if not thousands, of dark sedans in LA.”
“I know. And still... Bruce, do you think—”
“Yes. Whoever did this has a fantasy going—a fantasy of re-creating the past, and getting away with murder, as well. Times changed, the neighborhood changed. The killer—even if he grew up here—would have to see just how the terrain had changed.”
Sophie was quiet for a minute and then said, “You’re right. The whole Black Dahlia thing is the killer’s hang-up—or fantasy. Lili and Brenda might have never heard of the Black Dahlia. Or they might have heard of the case in passing. They were just trying to get famous. The killer is playing a savage role.”
“Let’s go see what the convenience store clerk knows,” Bruce said.
* * *
The clerk was a young man with deep dark eyes and brown skin and a pleasant manner. His father owned the franchise on the store. His name was Amal, and he left another young girl at the counter while he brought them into the office.
“I know that I saw the young woman—the second young woman killed, Brenda Sully. I know that it was her. She was so pretty, dressed up, and so pleasant. She just wanted gum. She said that she needed good breath. She had an extremely important meeting with a producer. She was very chatty. She said it was ‘a little weird, but hey, this is movie land.’ I remember because I thought she would be famous someday. She was so beautiful.”
“What time was it when you saw her?” Sophie said.
“Right about 7:00 p.m. I know, because I was leaving right after,” he said, and grimaced. “I had a hot date. Suzie—the girl out there now—was taking over for me. And right after Miss Sully left, Suzie showed up. She teased me a minute, and then I left, and when I walked out, I checke
d my watch. It was just about seven fifteen then.”
“Did you see where she went? Was she driving?”
“If she had a car, I didn’t see it. I don’t know. Maybe she came in a taxi, maybe she used one of the apps people now call for rides.”
“Maybe,” Bruce said, “she was picked up out front here?”
“She was gone when I came out.”
“Did she say anything else about where she was going—or why the meeting would be weird?” Sophie asked.
He was thoughtful. “We were talking about summer. She asked if I’d ever seen a movie at Hollywood Forever. I have—it’s really cool. If you’ve never been, they show classic movies on the big mausoleum wall. People bring blankets and ice chests and...it’s cool. Kind of like the real old Victorian concept of a cemetery, the living honoring the dead in an odd way—kind of like they keep including the dead in life.”
“I’ve been to the movies at Hollywood Forever,” Sophie assured him. “And I’ve been to a concert there, too. But did she say she was going to the cemetery?”
“Oh, no, she wasn’t. She was just saying that maybe, only in LA, could you do so many weird things—and have film involved with weird things. She was going somewhere else. I don’t remember her exact words, but I know that she wasn’t heading there.”
They talked a while longer. Sophie thanked him sincerely and gave him her card, asking if he would please call if he thought of anything else at all.
“That’s it!”
The ghost of Michael Thoreau had been very quiet so far, but he spoke now before the door to the convenience store had closed behind them.
“She was going somewhere weird,” Sophie said.
“In Los Angeles. Sadly, somewhere weird in LA is almost like a dark sedan in LA,” Bruce added.
“No, but she was talking about movies at a cemetery,” Sophie said.
“And she wasn’t heading there,” Bruce put in.
“But—” Michael Thoreau said.
“Somewhere weird that has to do with those already dead?” Sophie said. “Catacombs, an old church—”
“Deconsecrated church, maybe,” Bruce said. “Or—”
“Graveyard, mortuary,” Sophie said. “Deep underground, away from the living who can hear—”
“Yes,” Bruce added, “where blood could flow and a woman could scream forever...”
“And only those already dead would know!” Michael Thoreau put in. “See? I told you I could really help. Let’s talk to that waitress—and then, my friends, I’m going party hopping. I’ll go haunt some cemeteries!”
6
Wednesday afternoon/evening
Kenneth Trent had been seen at the concession stand with his partner, Frank Oliver. The two had even seen friends in front of the theater—they had been there talking until probably around midnight. Jackson had checked out and confirmed Kenneth Trent’s alibi.
“One man telling the truth. I’m going to question the boyfriends again—past and present,” Jackson told Bruce over the phone.
“We think we’re onto something here.” Bruce went on to tell him about their conversation with Amal, and that they were now off to the see the waitress.
“The women were both seen in this area, a day apart. If we get a similar story at the café...I’ll really believe we might catch a break. The thing is, if we can find his murder room or hole or whatever it is, we’ll have a good shot at finding the killer. At least, we may have a real shot at finding some forensic clues.”
Bruce ended his call, and got into the car where Sophie and Michael were waiting. Sophie ended her own call; she’d given Vining a quick update.
Michael Thoreau spoke up as Sophie steered the car out into traffic. “This is different from the original. Some people think that the killer was angry with the entire Hollywood studio system. And the pornography filmed out here. And the auditions that turned into exploitation, if you know what I mean. Elizabeth Short did want fame—so did these girls. Back in my day, there were all kinds of suspects. The LAPD originally thought they had about twenty-five viable suspects. Some were cleared, and some new ones popped up on the radar. Her father lived out in Vallejo, but he was just about worthless. Let’s see, she really did love men in uniform, so any guy in the military was of interest. One suspect—one I followed up on—was Dr. Walter Bayley. He was a surgeon, he and his wife had a painful divorce—and his wife still lived in the family home, just about a block from the Dahlia’s dump site. His daughter had been friends with Elizabeth’s sister, Virginia. Bayley died in 1948, and his autopsy showed that he was suffering from degenerative brain disease. A few detectives believed that it was definitely him.”
“I’ve read up about the Dahlia case,” Bruce said. “But as you said, this is different.”
“The thing is figuring out how it’s different. A surgeon makes sense—Elizabeth was so cleanly dissected, her organs...removed. So a surgeon makes sense.”
“But,” Sophie said, “someone studying the case now has easy access to the old crime scene photos, autopsy reports and more. So would someone need to know what they were doing—anatomically—or could they pull this off by imitation?”
“They’d likely have to know something,” Bruce said.
“But I don’t believe that the killer had to have been a surgeon or even a doctor,” Sophie said.
“Agreed.”
“Well, in the original case, there was Leslie Dillon as a viable suspect—he was a bellhop who had once been a mortuary assistant. He left LA, and wrote in to a police psychiatrist, de River, saying that his friend did it. He wound up being arrested, but nothing could be proven, not even that he was in the city at the time of the murder. His friend turned out to be a man named Artie Lane, though Leslie Dillon had called him Connors. Artie Lane was a maintenance man for Columbia Studios—one of Elizabeth’s favorite places. Again, nothing could be proven.”
“I’ve got pages and pages on the original crime. I think I’ve ordered every book written,” Sophie told him. “I always thought that Leslie Dillon was a sound suspect. Then again, with degenerative brain disease, the surgeon made a good suspect, too.”
“Ah, but could he carry out that kind of murder—with his disease?” Bruce asked.
“A former cop, Steve Hodel, wrote a book, and he’s certain that his own father, Dr. George Hodel, did it. Dr. Hodel’s daughter accused him of molestation. There were other factors, and some circumstantial evidence. Then again, Hodel himself wrote that nothing could ever be proven. Janice Knowlton, whose father—another George—was a suspect, also wrote a book. She claimed that her father was the Black Dahlia killer—and she knew that because of hypnosis to recover ‘repressed’ memories,” Sophie said. “The problem with LA is...”
“There are a lot of people willing to confess to a horrible murder—or to blame it on a parent or relative?” Bruce asked.
“Go figure,” Michael said.
“Geography,” Sophie murmured. She glanced at Bruce briefly and smiled. “First European settlement was mid-eighteenth century. The Spanish found about 300,000 Gabrielinos and Fernandinos—as they came to call them, and as they were associated with their missions. Captain Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo and Sebastian Vizcaino—they came in 1542 and then 1602, but the first person to really make a dent in the Spanish presence here was Felipe de Neve, early governor of California. He wanted pueblos to support the presidios and the military. The city was officially founded in 1781. In 1821, Mexico gained independence, and California celebrated, but fast-forward to the Mexican War, and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ceded California to the US—officially—in 1848.”
She thought that Bruce was staring at her blankly, wondering why they all needed a history lesson.
But he was actually watching her with interest, she realized.
He looked over at Michael Thoreau. “We are in an old
section of the city,” he said.
“Right—where people have knocked down and rebuilt over and over again,” Michael said. “We’re not really known—as human beings—for ever being bright enough to really appreciate our pasts.”
“Still...we’re looking for something weird. And maybe old,” Bruce said. “And,” he added, looking at Michael Thoreau, “no one knew where the Dahlia was murdered, either. They knew where her body was dumped, and that it was drained of blood and mutilated, but—they never found the place where the killer carried out the deed.”
“Could be the same,” Michael said softly.
“Could be,” Sophie agreed. “Michael, when you were investigating—doing your investigative reporter stint—what did you believe?” Sophie asked him.
“Well, that’s just it,” Michael said. “That’s why I was bringing all this up—now.” He was quiet for a minute, and then said, “This is the area where I was shot and killed. There is an area just a bit out—all this is now part of El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Monument. All kinds of buildings are part of it, but head a little out and you have alleys and smaller buildings and farther out you even have the remnants of old churches and mansions and more.” He paused and pointed. “See those thirties buildings? I was killed late one night, 1948. I was following a lead that there was a producer out in this area that Elizabeth Short had said sounded a little sketchy but might just be the man she was looking for.”
“Let’s go,” Sophie said. They had reached the café—The Very Old Old-Town Café.
Michael Thoreau fell into step with them as they exited the car. He continued musing. “You know that the police investigated the Cleveland torso murders, too. Although—never proven—a lot of people think that killer was Frank Dolezal, who died mysteriously in police custody at the Cuyahoga jail. An autopsy revealed a bunch of broken ribs, so...it looks as if the cops thought he was guilty, whether justly or not.”
A historical marker told them that the foundations for the building dated back to the late 1700s, and, in one form or another, it had been serving up delicious food to the residents of the area for, literally, hundreds of years.
“So, it has been The Very Old Old-Town Café all these years?” Sophie murmured.
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