Pale as Death

by Heather Graham

  Locked.

  Bruce jiggled it roughly, but the door held fast. He sighed in frustration.

  “Wait!” Michael said, “I’ll go. Ghosts are good for something.”

  He stepped through the sheet of metal.

  Sophie reached Bruce just as Michael Thoreau stepped back into the dim light of the alley.

  “Call a judge,” he said. “You’re going to need that warrant.”

  7

  Wednesday night

  Sophie was grateful that Bruce had stopped cold when he’d opened the door and looked into the now-empty studio.

  Because she was convinced that they’d found a lead. Maybe the studio wouldn’t prove to be the place where the murders had been committed, but it was starting to seem likely that it was the place where Lili Montana and Brenda Sully had first met their killer.

  It was Hollywood—studios of some kind or another were just about everywhere. If the young women had believed they were going to an audition, they might have easily accepted the address, and it might not have seemed odd if they had been asked to come by the alley door.

  Sophie wasn’t sure what was “weird” or “odd” about the studio yet—but it might well have been the meeting point, or the gateway to wherever “weird” place their killer had convinced them he intended to film their auditions.

  The place had been cleaned out—and then set up.

  The law was tricky; while never perfect, American laws had been created by the Founding Fathers who didn’t want to see illegal searches and detainments, and in the end—even when it made it hard on law enforcement—civil rights were of utmost importance in the “land of the free,” and upholding the law meant just about everything to Sophie.

  Once Bruce—and then she—had looked inside, they both believed that they were looking at a scene that had been staged. Just for Lili, and then, most likely, Brenda, as well.

  It meant that they had to wait.

  Wait for Vining and other cops.

  And for a forensic team.

  Because, as Tom and Billy had told them, the studio people had cleared out.

  But then, someone else had gone in. With just one private and intimate setting.

  It wasn’t easy, waiting.

  Sophie covered part of the time by leaving Bruce McFadden with their new friends—Tom and Billy—so that she could run over to a gas station and buy them cigarettes. Billy had admitted to breaking a drug problem a year ago, and so, since they seemed to be helping him stay off anything harder, buying cigarettes for him didn’t seem like such a bad thing in comparison.

  Tom’s wife had died three years ago, Sophie learned. They’d never had children. He’d tried to keep his job and take care of her—cancer had been the culprit stealing a bit of her life day after day. The amount of work he’d missed had caused him to be laid off. Then he’d gone through his savings.

  Bill’s story was a bit different. He’d come home from serving in the Middle East to wake in the middle of the night with violent nightmares. Then he’d started having them during the day.

  He was a pilot; he’d been working for a major airline at the time.

  He was never fired—he quit. He’d fought a war to save people; he wasn’t going to lose his mind in the air and kill hundreds.

  When Sophie came back from buying the cigarettes, Billy and Bruce had been comparing service stories.

  “The homeless...we’re not disposable people,” Billy said. “We’ve just had some hard breaks.”

  Bruce, sitting with the two of them and leaning against the wall as they did, spoke up.

  “I think I’ve talked them into coming down to the station to tell their stories. Jackson is on his way here. What the LAPD can’t handle, not to worry, Jackson Crow will.”

  “I know they’ll be grateful for statements at the station,” Sophie said.

  “My colleague Jackson will accompany you,” Bruce said to the two men. “And, for tonight, he’ll see to it that you have a room and a shower—and breakfast wherever you like in the morning.”

  “On the taxpayer’s dime?” Tom asked him bleakly. “Well, at least I did always pay my taxes.”

  “Not taxpayer money,” Bruce said. “My friend’s boss is just a really rich guy who likes people—and is happy to pitch in when they need a break.”

  “And these are really good guys,” the ghost of Michael Thoreau piped up.

  He, like Bruce, was leaning against the wall with the two men.

  Finally Grant Vining arrived with a forensic unit right behind him. Sophie felt that she was on pins and needles, watching as everyone put on gloves and booties over their shoes as they prepared to enter the studio.

  As they had noted—and as Sophie had told Vining—the place had been cleared out. What had seemed to point to young actresses being lured to the address was the fact that there was a single camera set on a tripod in the middle of the floor. One chair was by it—as if for an interviewer or cameraman. Another chair faced the camera in what appeared to be the place where an actor might sit while answering questions or giving a bit of a performance.

  A switch on the wall turned on floodlights that illuminated the cavernous room, revealing a great deal of empty space—but also the reason they needed a search warrant.

  There was a small teddy bear seated on the “audition” chair. It was like...a talisman. Or a good-luck charm. Something that a young actress might have brought with her to an audition, especially if she had been asked to talk about herself, her hopes and dreams, and her background.

  “We’re not sure yet about the full story on this place,” Grant Vining told them, surveying the room as the forensic team of four headed in. “It had been leased by Silvertone Productions. They are a new indie company, but responsible for two recent documentaries that were highly acclaimed. Anyway, they didn’t go broke and abandon the place. Their lease was up and they were moving out of the downtown area—out of the congestion to where they could get a really big studio for half the price. You know how things go. Landlords increase rents. Anyway, Silvertone has been gone completely for at least a week now, but their lease actually ends Sunday night. The building’s owner is one Ralph Haver, who currently lives in New York City.”

  “Did you get a warrant—or speak with this Ralph Haver?” Sophie asked him.

  “I have a man still trying to reach him. We didn’t have a problem in the world getting a search warrant once the judge knew that Lili Montana had possibly been seen going into the building,” Vining told her.

  “What do you think?” Sophie asked him.

  “I don’t know how you did it, Manning, but you and McFadden might have found the first real lead in the case,” he told her.

  Michael Thoreau came here, and we followed. He said that he could help, and it appears that he may well be helping.

  She smiled grimly at Vining. “If he’s playing out the whole Hollywood scenario, he would have convinced his victims that they needed to read for him.”

  “I don’t think they were killed here,” Vining said. “We haven’t searched that far, but how could he have carried out such gruesome murders—and not left blood?”

  “I don’t think that he did murder them here. I think they met here, and he talked them into going somewhere else.”

  “Hey, Manning,” someone said. She looked over. Henry Atkins was there, camera in hand.

  “Hey, Henry.”

  Henry looked around at the almost-empty studio and nodded grimly at Vining. “This place is still listed as a working studio. Easy enough to lure someone here. Thing is, with those two homeless guys out there...if he killed the women here, how did he get by those guys?”

  “Well, the one night, they’d found a bottle of whiskey,” Sophie said. “They might have been passed out.”

  “One night. What about the other?” Vining asked.
>
  Bruce came striding toward them from the back area. “We found a sparse worker’s kitchen and a bathroom. There’s no shower or tub, though, just a commode and a sink. I don’t think that anyone would be able to mutilate a body here—and not leave a speck of blood. You had to have someplace big enough to have cleaned the corpses of the women the way that he did. Your people are working to see if there is any sign whatsoever of blood.”

  One of the members of the forensic team walked over to them. “Don’t worry, sir!” she said to Bruce. “We will find it—if it’s here.”

  “Of course,” Bruce said.

  The young woman nodded and headed over to join the others in her team.

  “She’s new?” Sophie asked.

  “I’ve been trying to keep the same group working,” Vining said. “That’s Shelby. We had Morton. But Morton’s wife is having a baby. Right now. Can’t fault him for calling in. But Lee Underwood is here, and the other two who have consistently worked the sites. I have clearance right from the chief and the mayor. God help us, we have to hope there aren’t any more murders, but we get the same ME, same photographer and same forensic team. We all know what we’re looking for—and willing to find what we didn’t know we were looking for. This one has to be solved.”

  “What about the teddy bear? Do you think it belonged to one of the women?” Sophie asked. “I have numbers for Brenda’s friends. And I know that Jackson Crow is interviewing Lili’s boyfriends.”

  “I’ll call Kenneth Trent,” Bruce said. “Find out if he knew anything about a teddy bear.”

  “I’ll make some calls, too,” Sophie said.

  As she pulled out her phone, she saw the number that she had most recently entered.

  That of the waitress, Gina Wyler. She dialed the young woman, who answered immediately.

  “Detective Manning?” Gina said.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “No bother!”

  “Did you happen to notice or see—did Lili Montana have anything with her?”

  “Her purse.”

  “Anything else?”

  Sophie had to stifle her gasp at Gina’s reply. She was beyond eager to relay the news to Bruce and Vining, but quickly regained her composure.

  “We’re investigating. I can’t really say more right now, but again, we do appreciate your help, ” Sophie told Gina and ended the call.

  She saw that Vining and Henry Atkins were staring at her.

  “Sophie?” Vining asked.

  “Lili Montana, at least, was here,” she said. “Gina Wyler, the waitress, just confirmed that Lili had a small stuffed bear with her, about five inches high. Lili called it Jasper.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “It was supposed to be her good-luck charm.”

  Vining nodded grimly. “We’ve found the way in to this case. Now we keep going.” He turned to Sophie. “Except for you. Go home. No. Go to the hotel. Call it a night and get some sleep. Do you understand me? If I didn’t know you so well, I’d actually tell you to go to a club and drink too much or do something—anything—fun.”

  “I’m really fine—”

  Vining turned to Bruce.

  “McFadden, can you please get her the hell out of here?” Vining asked. “Back to that hotel. Sophie, get some sleep.” He looked at her and then lightened his tone. “I swear, if we make any kind of headway, I will call you immediately.”

  She nodded. As far as the investigation went, the day had been a good one. Michael Thoreau had led them to the alley where he’d been killed. How he might have known it could have been related to the murders, she didn’t really understand.

  Maybe he hadn’t known. Maybe he had been drawn.

  And maybe the studio had been used before—when the Black Dahlia had been killed in the 1940s. And maybe Thoreau had been shot because he’d been so close...

  They weren’t really close to figuring this out yet, but it was a good day’s work.

  Part of being a cop was learning to work with others—other cops, other departments. No man was an island. She really did need to let it go, to let others do their jobs, as well. It was arrogance—something that did no one any good—to assume that she needed to be there.

  “Fine,” she said softly. She turned to Bruce.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “What about Jackson?” she asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to have met you here?”

  “He’s come and gone. He took Tom and Bill down to the station. They’re telling what they’ve seen and what they might know. And then he’ll see to it that they get a bit of a break.”

  She nodded and took one final look around the studio.

  The alley was empty. She realized that she hadn’t seen the ghost of Michael Thoreau inside; he was out in the alley. He fell in step behind Sophie and Bruce.

  “So that’s it!” he said. “I was killed because I was close. I mean, what do you think? Way back when—whoever the Dahlia killer might have been—they knew that I was getting close.”

  Sophie was careful not to answer him until they had cleared the alley, which had a couple cops and forensic investigators lingering about.

  “Who were you after? Why were you in that alley?”

  “That’s the oddest thing,” he told her.

  “What’s that?” Bruce asked.

  “I was working that night. There was a bum in the alley. I could see him from the sidewalk. He had a sign...just by his side. And a dog. I’m a sucker for a dog. So I went to put some coins in the old army hat he had out and...he thanked me. I thanked him—for serving, you know. He was grateful. He had a bum leg—it was keeping him from getting work. So, later, I talked to some friends when I was at the bar down the street and we took up a little collection for him. I went back to give it him, and he was gone, and while I was walking up and down the alley seeing if he’d fallen asleep somewhere...I was shot and killed.”

  Michael fell silent. Sophie wanted to touch him—to say or do something that could somehow ease his pain. She felt that she had said “I’m so sorry” so many times that it was meaningless.

  “Michael,” she murmured.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You see, I am a lot of talk. I said that I could help you, and I wasn’t even sure how. But this is right. I blindly helped you. This is good. I feel...well, not good. I won’t feel good until a killer is caught this time. I was murdered here. Is it just Fate? Anyway, here we are again. I felt I’d been just drifting and wandering for so long, but there must be a reason...a real reason.” He stopped as he reached the car, and gave them a grin. “See you guys.”

  “Where are you going?” Bruce asked him.

  “I’m going to go be a fly on the wall. Oh, and, by the way—my mama taught me right. I will never just show up anywhere—as in anywhere private—without knocking. So...go have fun. And don’t worry about being interrupted.”

  Sophie felt a flush rise to her cheeks.

  “Thoreau,” Bruce said. “We’re working a case here!”

  Michael was already walking away. He lifted a hand and kept going. Sophie watched him, wondering why her face was so hot, and why she felt so acutely uncomfortable. People joked all the time. It was certainly not the first time someone had suggested she should hook up with someone else.

  She worked in a male-dominated field, had always been “one of the guys,” and she could slough off almost anything. And she usually gave as good as she got.

  But looking at Bruce across the car, it seemed that more than her face was burning. She realized, it was because it was the first time that a teasing comment seemed to reach in deep and find home.

  She was attracted to the man.

  She’d been working so hard, and giving whatever else she had to being a caretaker, that she’d almost forgotten about living outside the job.

  She had a feelin
g about Bruce. Something about him. He was decent. He didn’t condescend, and yet he stood his own ground.

  But, yes, somewhere deep in her psyche, she knew that she had noticed his evocatively clean and ruggedly male scent. And the energy that hung about him, he was like walking with or touching fire: vital, so alive, so in possession of his sensuality and sexuality...a handsome piece of blithely walking seduction.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Bruce was out here because Marnie had asked him to come. Her friends Marnie and Bryan were just looking out for her.

  She was no one’s charity case, she determined.

  “Don’t,” he warned her.

  “Pardon? Don’t what?”

  “Get all defensive on me.”

  “I’m not defensive.”

  “You are.”

  She waved a hand in the air, choosing to ignore his words. “I’m not defensive. I’m long past that kind of thing. I’m thinking.”

  She was lying.

  But as she slid into the car, she did have an idea.

  “I’d like to stop by my house.”

  “I thought you promised Vining you’d go to the hotel.”

  “I will go back with you to the hotel. I just want to stop by my house first. One page of my research was missing. I want to find out what page that was. If I have them all and retrace my steps on the computer, I should be able to figure it out. At the very least, figure out what was taken—and that could be a clue.”

  “You think it was the killer who was in your house?”

  “It wasn’t the ghost—and anyway, I don’t think that ghosts steal papers, do they?”

  “Not that I know about,” Bruce admitted.

  They drove in silence for a minute, and then she asked him, “So, where is home for you?”

  He shrugged. “Here and there. We have a cabin up near the Blue Ridge, and a place in Virginia—my parents’ place. Who knows? Bryan is in the FBI academy now, and Marnie is going to open a children’s program at Adam’s theater. Maybe they’ll take over the old homestead—our parents left it to all of us, naturally.”

  “And you guys all get along?” she asked.