Pale as Death

by Heather Graham

  “But what do you think?” Sophie asked him. “Is he telling the truth?”

  “Well, he could be.”

  “He could be.”

  “Or, he could be a very good liar. As good at getting out of the accusation as he was at imitating the Black Dahlia murders. What’s your gut say?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said. “Anyway, I’ve done what I can... I’m going to go join Bruce out at the old graveyard. Apparently, he might be onto something more. Something that can help us.”

  The desk sergeant opened the door to the observation room. “Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, Detective Manning, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But it does involve you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m about to leave. How does it involve me?”

  “They’re letting Miss Leon go from the hospital. She’s a nervous wreck. We told her that a police officer would watch over her.”

  “Yes, and we will have an officer drive her home, check out her place, and stay with her,” Chagall said. “So, what’s wrong?”

  “She wants Sophie.”

  “There’s already a patrolman at the hospital,” Sophie said.

  “She wants you,” the desk sergeant told her, grimacing.

  “She’s going to have to wait,” Sophie said flatly. “Have them tell her that I will be there—as soon as I can.”

  “Detective Manning is not her professional babysitter,” Chagall said. “Tell her exactly what Sophie said. Except, Sophie, you don’t have to watch over her.”

  “She knows that you have a suspect in custody, right?”

  “She’s more than dramatic,” the desk sergeant said.

  “I agree. Protect and serve, and Sophie protected her—someone else can serve,” Chagall said.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll get Bruce and we’ll go see her together. Tell her I will be by,” Sophie told him.

  “Sure thing.”

  He left, and the captain turned to Sophie. “Wish they would have kept her in the hospital—it’s easier for us there. Do you need a car? Didn’t you get here with Bruce?”

  Sophie nodded. “Yep, you’re right. I did.”

  “Lee Underwood is heading back out. He just brought some soil samples and bits of torn fabric back to the lab. I’ll have him take you.”

  “Fine,” Sophie said.

  She headed out, unsure of what she wanted to find.

  * * *

  Bruce stood by the Johnstone tomb in the graveyard.

  Sabrina Hayes was inside the old church, making sure the cops didn’t destroy her company’s holding.

  He’d figured she might be horrified to learn that women had been killed in her graveyard.

  She hadn’t been. She was a bit ghoulishly appreciative of all that had happened.

  “This place will be insane now!” she’d told him. “Everyone is going to want to come here.”

  He didn’t speak with her long.

  Angela had written to tell him that she was sure there was more underground—somewhere. Also, she’d wanted him to know that the Johnstone family had owned a large portion of the nearby property at one time; some of it had been farmland.

  He called her, wanting to know more.

  “Well, they died out at the turn of the century—nineteenth to twentieth,” Angela told him. “They donated a lot of what they had to the city of Los Angeles, to museums and, yes, to the church. Property was auctioned off, and you have the bars and restaurants and what you see that’s there now. But I suggest that you keep pounding on crypt walls—or maybe go through some of the skeletons there.”

  “Great,” he said.

  “No more help from Ann Marie Beauvoir or Michael Thoreau?”

  “I don’t even know where they are today,” Bruce said. “The tomb area is just now clearing out—forensic team is heading out, leaving just one cop to keep watch, though for how long, I don’t know... They do have Henry Atkins in custody, and evidence—circumstantial, no prints on even the sniper rifle—but we were suspecting him before.”

  “You don’t sound certain.”

  “I’m not. He could be the killer—he could also be the perfect scapegoat.”

  “Where’s Jackson?”

  “At the hospital. He’s with Vining. Brodie is watching over Grace Leon.”

  “You and your brother should really think about joining us,” Angela said. “No pressure.”

  He laughed. “No pressure.”

  “All three McFadden brothers would be a nice addition. Mull it over.”

  “I’m mulling,” he assured her. “All right, if you get anything else—”

  “I’ll let you all know immediately,” she said.

  “I’m going to crawl through skeletons now.”

  “Enjoy.”

  He ended the call and headed to the pyramid structure of tombs and took the stone steps down into the catacombs below. A woman with the forensic team was heading back up.

  “I swear, we have everything that could be down there,” she told him.

  “I’m sure you do,” he said. He smiled. She waited for him to leave. He didn’t. She shrugged and climbed the stairs.

  For a moment, he was alone. He looked around. Forensics had left their work lights up and casting a too-bright glow around the crypt.

  Some things buried should remained buried. But even the earth itself could be a brutal mistress. It wasn’t like an ancient tomb where shrouded bodies lay rotting.

  But a quake—or perhaps several small quakes—had definitely done damage.

  Cement seals were chipped or broken almost everywhere.

  Along the sides, coffins were clearly visible.

  The bony, half-mummified hand still dangled from the one.

  There was more underground. There had been more, at least. Maybe the shifting earth had covered it all, and it was there no more?

  No. There was something. The killer had needed a very sharp knife to create the Joker’s grin on his victim’s faces. He had needed a saw or something as honed as a scalpel to bisect the bodies.

  And they had found no such tools. Nor had they found the clothing the victims had been wearing before they had been killed.

  He began tapping at the seals where the Johnstone family had been interred. The seals were so weakened they crumbled easily. There were coffins. And there were skeletons.

  No tools.

  He straightened, frustrated, and then turned to the slab where the girls had been tied—and brutally murdered.

  Walking over to it, he hunkered down.

  He began to tap under the slab. Useless—so many people had been working there.

  But as he pounded on the earth, he suddenly heard a difference in the sounds his efforts were creating.

  A hollow reverberation. There was something hollow here.

  He began to push aside dirt and dust and found nothing. He stopped himself; he needed to be methodical.

  He pushed one inch at a time.

  And finally, he found it.

  The opening was so smooth that it appeared to be part of the earth flooring, invisible to the naked eye.

  But it was there.

  It didn’t open; it slid back. There was no hinge, no hook, no handle.

  It just slid back and led into more darkness.

  * * *

  “There’s more, there’s definitely more,” Lee Underwood said.

  He brushed his surfer-blond hair from his forehead as he drove.

  Sophie wished that she was at the wheel.

  “You don’t believe that Henry committed the murders?” Sophie asked him.

  He shook his head and flashed her a smile. A beach-boy smile.

  She found herself thinking of Ted Bundy: good-looking, charming.

  They
were in a car; he was driving. But it was growing late. It would be dark soon.

  She was a cop. With a gun. She knew how to use it.

  And, of course, the captain knew where she was and who she was with. Even if Lee was the killer, he wouldn’t dare try anything with her right now.

  How could she believe it was a friend? On the other hand, how could she not, at this point, allow for every possibility?

  “Henry...he’s an odd old bug, but I like him. And I’ve been out with him now and then. We both enjoy theater and the movies. I guess I’ve felt bad for him now and then. Most Friday nights, I have a date. Or I have friends that I see. We go to games...we go to concerts. I knew that Henry loved the Hollywood Hooligans, so, you know, when you mentioned at the meeting that they were having a performance on Saturday night, I thought I should ask him to go. And since Chuck Thompson had been in to bring us some of his lab reports, he wanted to go. I swear, it’s hard for me to imagine that Henry went from the performance to kidnapping the leading lady.”

  “Then how did his rose get there?”

  Lee grinned at her. “Hey, I’m just the lab rat. You’re the detective.”

  They were nearing the graveyard gates.

  The place wasn’t crowded along the street with cop cars anymore.

  Two cars were parked just outside the gates, though. One patrol car—and Bruce’s rental with the police decal.

  She wasn’t sure why she felt so relieved when Lee just pulled in, right next to the cop car.

  Yes, of course, she knew why. Lee was a forensic investigator. Lee had been at both crime scenes. Lee worked at the station. He had access to the crime scene photos. He could have gotten into her purse—just as easily as Henry—and made a copy of her key. He could have broken into her apartment to see what she had...to steal the page about possible police involvement in the Dahlia case.

  He knew what could and couldn’t be found when it came to fingerprints, DNA and anything else, and he was perfectly placed to hide any incriminating evidence.

  Sophie hopped out.

  She saw that an officer was sitting in the driver’s seat of the patrol car. He was directly in front of the gate. He could see anyone coming or going.

  If they went through the gate, Sophie thought. But she and Bruce had come into graveyard by hopping over the fence.

  No one was going to hop over the fence with sharp knives and a bone saw.

  She walked over to the officer. She knew him; his name was Frank Paisley. He’d been with the force about three years. She liked him. He had an easy manner about him. He was good at breaking up fights—and exceptional at crowd control.

  He quickly rolled down his window. “Hey, Detective Manning.”

  “Hey. What’s going on?”

  “They’ve pulled out. I’m on guard duty.”

  “But the PI, Bruce McFadden, is still in there, right?”

  “Yep. He’s down in the tomb thing, catacombs—whatever you call something like that. Ugh. I was down there. You know what? I’m going to be cremated. That’s—creepy.”

  Sophie agreed. “Yep, creepy.” She realized that Lee was standing behind her. “Okay, well, I’ll find Bruce.”

  “I’m with you,” Lee said.

  She turned back to him. “I thought that forensics was done here.”

  “Basically. I can’t help thinking that we missed something. Still need to find the tools.”

  She felt comfort in her holstered Glock, tucked into her waistband. But she also smiled at Officer Paisley.

  “Keep an eye out for us, will you?”

  “Always, Detective Manning.”

  Lee might be making her feel uneasy, but it never hurt to be uneasy.

  Alert—aware—and on guard.

  “You first!” she told Lee.

  He shrugged. “As you wish, Detective!”

  They went through the gate and over to the steps to the catacomb.

  Police floodlights still illuminated the dank space. The smell of the earth rose up to greet them as they headed down.

  “Bruce?” Sophie called.

  There was no answer.

  “Sophie, look!” Lee called.

  She could see cement seal had crumbled on the ground.

  And then she saw what Lee was talking about—a hole. A gaping hole, right beneath the slab where Grace Leon had been tied the night before.

  The slab...stained with blood.

  She hurried over to the hole.

  “Bruce?”

  There was no answer.

  “Let’s go down,” she said.

  “We’ll have to jump,” Lee said. “No steps. You—you tall enough to do that?”

  “Yes, yes, I can do it,” Sophie said.

  But go first? Or after? Which would afford him less opportunity for an attack?

  First. She’d go down first. She’d be ready to draw on him before he landed next to her.

  “I’m pulling rank,” Sophie said lightly. “Hopping on down.”

  She lowered herself, keeping an eye on him. Then gripping the edge of the hole, she let herself fall, muscles and limbs loose to absorb the impact.

  The floodlights barely filtered through. Shadows were everywhere. She seemed to be in a maze of tunnels.

  She backed away, waiting for Lee.

  Ready to draw.

  She looked up. “Coming down?”

  “Coming!” he said, crawling to the edge, as she had done.

  And it was then, as she was looking up at him, that she suddenly felt the swish of air behind her.

  And felt the excruciating pain as something crashed hard against her head.

  18

  Sunday night

  When he’d first jumped from the chamber and hit the ground deep below, Bruce had been all but blinded.

  The floodlights above shone down, but they created a small pool of light just below the now open hole, and all beyond that was shadow, moving into a darkness that was so deep in pitch, it seemed that no light could penetrate its shade.

  He’d entered an obsidian pit. That was his initial assessment. But Bruce carried a small flashlight on his key chain that was actually brighter than the one on his phone, and while it couldn’t illuminate far, it provided a path before him.

  As he looked at the construction of what had once been a giant foundation, Bruce was sure that an enterprising priest or engineer had seen to it that the web of tunnels that stretched from the church and out to the Johnstone catacomb had been sealed—they must have become increasingly dangerous, after the quake of 1920, and perhaps even some of the smaller ones that had followed.

  He was equally sure that come Prohibition, some equally enterprising person—mob connected, perhaps?—had seen to it that some of them became useful again. Walls were shored up here and there with large planks of wood; some areas that had caved in had been left.

  He squatted low to the ground, shining the light over it.

  Someone had been there. Recently.

  Bruce pulled out his phone, determined to report his find immediately.

  A blinking light informed him that he had no service. He pocketed his phone. He’d just go back up and call in a minute, but he needed to know one more thing.

  The answers were here. He shone his light down the hall. He stood and kept moving, slowly, closely scanning all around.

  A low arch off the hallway led to another little room. Bruce ducked in.

  Boxes that had stored liquor decades ago remained in the little chamber.

  They were right next to a number of tombs.

  Liquor box, corpse, liquor box...corpse.

  But that was just one of the rooms that led off from the first tunnel where he had come down, deep into the earth. There were many more.

  The main tunnel veered off in a
few directions. Bruce, however, followed it in what he was certain was the direction of the old church.

  He reached a larger chamber. The side walls were lined with tombs. There were massive old containers made of some kind of metal; Bruce thought that they might well have had something to do with the storage and movement of alcohol—they were covered with dust and spiderwebs, as if they might well go back to those days when speakeasies hid from the law and even the average working Joe was willing to pay a high price now and then for a drink.

  One of the round cylinders had no top of any kind. Bruce moved over and looked into it; there, at the bottom of the rusted and decaying cylinder, was a cache.

  A cache of knives.

  He trained his little light down and saw that they were encrusted in red.

  Blood. He moved a little closer, shining his light downward.

  Among the objects was a bone saw.

  He took out his phone again. Still no service. But he quickly snapped a few photographs of his find. He’d located almost everything.

  The water to wash the bodies... Where had the killer washed the bodies?

  He kept moving and hit a wall. He searched for an opening. It was no easy task with just the small light, but he was convinced that the wall he’d hit was a divider—after the earthquakes, whoever had decided that the underground should just be cut off had walled up what were the most important graves belonging to the church. Someone had long ago decided that it just wasn’t necessary for people to crawl below the ground to visit the dead.

  He pushed, pressed and prodded.

  There didn’t seem to be an entry.

  He ducked down, feeling something under his feet give.

  Touching the ground, he saw that it was wet. And the water had to be coming from somewhere.

  He followed the wetness on his hand to the wall. And there, finally, he found the break.

  Once upon a time, a flap door had been made by men who were bootleggers. They might have been cold and calculating; they might have been gangsters or mob men.

  He doubted if any of them could have imagined that in their drive to provide a commodity and make money, they had provided a killing ground for an incredibly sick psychopath.

  He opened the sliding door flap.

  It led into a small chamber.