by Guy Bolton
Ahead of them, a paperboy waved newspapers at a stoplight. Craine called him to the window. “What’s all the traffic about?” he asked, paying for a copy of the Times. “There been an accident?”
“No, something going on at Grauman’s. They closed part of Hollywood Boulevard already.”
Then Craine remembered—tonight was the premiere for one of M.G.M.’s films. The first early fans must be already arriving, hoping for a glimpse of the rich and famous on the red carpet. Gale had mentioned it several times. She was going to the after-party tonight. He wondered what she’d say if she knew that he was reinvestigating her husband’s death. He hadn’t told her what he was up to. Maybe because he knew it would upset her.
Craine instructed O’Neill to take a right down Gower Street then turn onto Route 66 at the Memorial Park. As they did so a set of headlights in the wing mirror caught his lateral vision. He turned back to see a black Pontiac driving about thirty yards behind. He thought he recognized it before a small coupe turned onto the road between them and the Pontiac was lost to the traffic.
They idled at the next intersection before the stoplight gonged and they could turn east, passing R.K.O. and Paramount studios. They went another two blocks before the coupe turned off and Craine spotted the Pontiac again.
“Everything alright? You keep looking behind,” asked O’Neill, glancing at him before turning back to the road.
“Keep driving. But hold it under thirty.” Craine twisted the rearview mirror so he could see the Pontiac’s headlights behind them. When O’Neill braked, the Pontiac seemed to fall back at the exact same moment. No one drove with such deliberation. Craine squinted but couldn’t make out the driver. Was it his imagination, or was this the car he’d seen outside Florence Lloyd’s house?
They were building a freeway between downtown and the San Fernando Valley and this part of Hollywood was almost derelict, a hundred-yard expanse of bulldozed desert effectively marking the boundary between West and East Hollywood.
“Take Virgil,” Craine said when they’d passed into Little Armenia.
“Sunset will be quicker.”
Craine was adamant. “Go right at Virgil.”
O’Neill flicked on his amber indicators and turned right down Virgil. The Pontiac continued after them, never less than sixty yards behind. For a second, Craine didn’t say anything, considering the implications. Should they try and out-chase the car? No, impossible, not in this heap. He unbuttoned his jacket and took out his Browning.
O’Neill looked at him, suddenly worried. “What are you doing?”
“There’s a car tailing us.”
O’Neill followed his gaze in the wing mirror. “The Pontiac? You sure?”
“I can’t be certain. I think it’s been following us since Memorial.”
“Christ, what do we—”
“You’re not going to do anything. Keep going.”
O’Neill took a left downhill onto 3rd Street, their chassis swaying as they steered round the sharp-angled bend. Again, the Pontiac followed. Craine felt a tremor of anxiety. He checked the mirror again as they crested the hill but couldn’t discern the figure behind the wheel or make out his license plate numbers.
The road leveled out and they continued for another mile, passing St. Vincent’s Hospital and a small church hidden behind a row of Italian cypresses. He told O’Neill to increase his speed then looked out for somewhere they could make a sudden turn onto. Before Burlington was a lay-by. He pointed at it and muttered: “Pull over. Right here.”
The Plymouth skittered to a halt beside a skinny palm tree. Both men looked around, half-expecting the Pontiac to pull up behind them but it barely slowed down, charging onward. Craine gripped his gun and braced himself as the car drew level. Above the window line he made out a lone man. For the briefest of moments they made eye contact.
Dark red hair and a beard. It was the same man he’d seen on the steps of Headquarters the day after Stanley died, he remembered him now. But who was he?
The Pontiac picked up speed, its headlights tumbling south toward downtown. O’Neill looked at Craine for an explanation but none came.
“Come on, keep going. It was nothing.”
“Who was he?”
“I said it was nothing.”
O’Neill’s eyes were pulsing now. “You think that car was following us?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“But you recognized the driver, didn’t you?”
Craine waited until he was sure the car wasn’t coming back before answering. “He was there the day you read your statement to the press.”
“After Stanley died? Outside the police department?”
“Yeah.”
“Should we be worried?”
“If he was going to do anything he would have done it by now.”
But a part of Craine knew that wasn’t true. Whoever it was that was following them was simply taking their time. He wanted to tell himself that City Hall wouldn’t accept a policeman’s murder and that Carell would know that. But despite this rationale, a sickish sinking feeling sat in his lower gut with the recognition that at any moment, a black Pontiac could swing out and spray them with machine gun fire. And with what they already knew, it might only be a matter of time.
Chapter 35
Benjamin Carell was sitting in the Gold Club Restaurant at the Hollywood Park Racetrack, waiting to hear from Vincent Kinney, his Head of Security. The maître d’ had reserved his usual table, a cover for one with a view of the finish line, but he wasn’t hungry. He never ate when he was on edge.
Carell heard the starting pistol fire and saw twelve horses career out of their gates and down the long straight that took them to where he was sitting on the first turn of the park’s mile-long track. Carell had spotted Louis Mayer downstairs with his wife and Russell Peterson, posing for pictures to drum up publicity for a movie premiere they were holding tonight. Carell was hoping for a quiet word.
Carell saw Kinney arrive like a harbinger of death shortly after he’d finished his cocktail. He approached the table but Carell was already up. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not here. Outside.”
Carell led his head of security though the restaurant and out onto the balcony so their voices would be lost in the crowd.
“What happened with Wilson?” he said when they were standing alone. Carell could hear the thud of approaching hooves as the horses passed the first lap and the stadium started cheering again.
“It was Craine,” said Kinney. “He and another detective—Patrick O’Neill from the homicide department. They went to see him.”
Carell was already panicking. “Shit. Who’d you speak to?”
“Concierge. She’s on our books.”
“Do we know what they wanted?”
“They were asking about the club. But we can’t be sure what they know.”
“Craine was asking questions before. They know enough.”
Carell lit a cigarette and thought about his next move. The events of the previous few months had been frustrating, and Carell knew he hadn’t been privy to all the facts. Herbert Stanley’s suicide; the loss of one of his best call girls; the shootings at Loew House. None of it seemed to make sense. All of it stirred up trouble, however, and Carell’s boss Frank Nitti had expressed displeasure with the attention it had received, even after Carell told him repeatedly that the shootings never came on his order. Now, just as he thought it had all blown over, Craine had returned like Lazarus, intent on ruining everything. Carell wasn’t going to stand for it. He considered the Lilac Club his greatest achievement, the product of years of hard work. He wasn’t about to let Jonathan Craine take it away from him.
“What are our options?”
“We can wait to see what happens next.”
“We do that, it could be too late. Craine takes this to the F.B.I. then it’s over for us.”
“Or,” Kinney continued, “we can deal with Craine now. But killing Craine could be foolish. Th
ere’ll be repercussions.”
“Don’t you think I don’t know that?”
A waiter approached. “Sir, champagne?”
“No,” Carell replied without looking at him.
“Something else? Can I bring you the menu?”
“I said no. Can’t you see I’m trying to have a conversation?” Carell was shouting but his voice was barely heard above the crowd. The stress and frustration was too hard to keep to himself. Now finally he had to make a choice. Take his chances and hope that Craine wouldn’t pursue it any further, or kill Craine and manage the consequences as best he could. Carell knew that for better or worse, the decision he would make in the next few minutes would change everything.
Another waiter approached. “Sir, champagne?”
“I said I don’t want any fucking champagne!” Carell grabbed the waiter by the collar and pushed him away. The tray followed, a bottle of Dom Pérignon and six coupes exploding onto the floor. A table of guests in the club restaurant turned to see what all the commotion was about and Carell gave them a red-faced stare.
Kinney motioned for cool as the waiter quickly got to his feet and ran back inside.
“Calm down, sir.”
“Don’t you tell me to calm down—don’t you ever fucking tell me to calm down. You hear me? Fuck! I need time to think. Jesus.” Carell turned in circles, running his hand through his hair. If Craine made a case against him, his business could collapse instantly. But he wasn’t alone. Whatever Craine had found involved some of the most senior figures in the state. None of them would want Craine to proceed. But would they really want Craine dead?
“Craine has enough to bring us down, all of us. The feds are already sniffing around. Anything he has they can use against me. We’ll be ruined.”
Carell was convincing himself of his decision. Craine had to be stopped. But if he was to go ahead with this, he needed the support of City Hall. He had already sent out feelers to his contacts in the Hall of Justice but it wouldn’t be enough. He needed to go higher. There were very few men who had the ear of the Mayor’s office, the District Attorney and the Chief of Police. Louis Mayer was one of them.
He felt himself hesitate before he said, “I want to talk to M.G.M. I need to know where Mayer stands before we do anything.”
Chapter 36
“Why?” Simms asked prickly, when they had told them everything they had discovered in the previous few days. They were sitting in Simms’ office, the sun squat in the horizon, the Civic Center sitting in a cornsilk glow. During the last twenty minutes, Simms had held back any desire to interrupt either one of them as they outlined what they had found, the conversations they’d had, their theories on the real identity of the Loew House shooter. Simms wasn’t prone to petulance and Craine had always known him to be a decent and intelligent man, but still, there was no doubt he would remain protective over the Bureau’s reputation. He had listened to their assertions with a scholar’s calm; now it was his turn to speak. Craine expected resistance.
O’Neill took the opportunity to answer on behalf of both of them. “We have evidence to suggest that Lloyd, Rochelle and Campbell were all murdered and were part of a much larger illicit trade in prostitution. Isn’t that reason enough to relaunch an official investigation?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Simms said, raising his head enquiringly. “I asked why. Why would we possibly want to reopen a series of solved murders?” He glanced at Craine, then at O’Neill, waiting for his answer.
Craine’s thigh muscles fluttered. He tensed his legs. “New evidence has come to light. Things have changed. Jack Rochelle was killed, right in front of our eyes.”
“Yes, and you apprehended a known criminal with a pronounced history of felony and misdemeanor offenses who died resisting arrest. O’Neill, you were witness to the incident, you saw James Campbell shoot Jack Rochelle at Loew House. Both of you were there—how can you possibly doubt that?”
“It wasn’t Campbell. The shooter wasn’t Campbell.”
“So you keep telling me. How was it not Campbell? The D.M.V. records show that he was driving Campbell’s car; Campbell’s uncle positively identified his body—”
“We’ve gone over this. Campbell’s body was found by the rail tracks near San Bernardino. His uncle admitted he lied. He was paid to lie.”
“By who?”
“We don’t know who. But they wanted us to believe the shooter was Campbell.”
“And you think Campbell was a victim of the Loew House shooter?”
“Yes.”
“And what is your theory?”
“I’m sorry?”
Simms’ fingers played with his necktie. It was an eye-drawing brown necktie with a tessellated pattern and it gave Craine a headache. “What is it you propose happened to Stanley, to Lloyd, to Rochelle and to Campbell? You’re telling me they were involved in illicit activity, and I’m not necessarily disagreeing with you, but they’re all dead now and punished enough I’d say, so what good is this information you have? If all you have is another corpse, then all you’re doing is tarnishing the Bureau’s clearance rate. If you want me to reopen an investigation into four otherwise closed files, I’m going to need reason, I’m going to need motive.”
Craine answered for both of them. “Neither one of us believes that the shooter did this on his own. Look at the way they were done: Lloyd, tortured then executed in her bed; Campbell, tortured then his throat cut; Rochelle, shot through the back of the head despite the risks. They were desperate. Rochelle needed to be silenced, and it didn’t matter to them that it was a public place. These weren’t crimes of passion. They were planned, considered. Our shooter was a professional.”
“Then who do you think hired him?”
“We assume it’s the Lilac Club.”
A small frown formed on Simms’ brow. “Assume. You think I can grant you a warrant to go into the Lilac Club and roust half the politicians and money men in Los Angeles while they have dinner because you two assume that something isn’t right?” Simms took a deep breath. There was a pause, much needed, as all of them took a moment to calm down.
“Look,” Simms began again, “the Fourth Amendment of our Constitution protects the Lilac Club against unreasonable searches and seizures without probable cause. You two find me evidence to prove why they were killed and we can have another conversation. But until you can give me a motive for the killings, I can’t get you a warrant.”
Simms waited until Craine and O’Neill had lowered their eyes.
“We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we?” he concluded tactfully. “And your assumptions include a number of people in delicate positions. You understand there’s a hierarchy, a carefully constructed house of cards that exists in this city. There’s really no need to run around pointing fingers at people. We’ve created a well-respected Bureau here. City Hall is impressed and pleased. Why go around rocking the boat unnecessarily?”
Craine didn’t reply when Simms added, “And you, Craine, I’m surprised at you. You’re a company man; don’t your Lieutenant bars mean anything to you?”
He could not give him an answer.
There was a soft knock at the door. Simms’ secretary entered.
“Lieutenant Craine, there’s a call for you.”
“I’ll take it later.”
“I’m afraid it’s urgent. It’s your son’s school. Michael has gone missing.”
* * *
Craine responded to the news that Michael was missing with a grim-faced calm, ignoring the image in his head of Michael’s dead body dumped in a gutter somewhere. Father Calloway, embarrassed and apologetic, assured him that he couldn’t have gone far and that all necessary steps were being taken to track Michael down. They’d searched the dormitories, the schoolhouse and the classrooms and were now working under the assumption that Michael had left the school premises of his own accord. He had been seen at afternoon Latin and Divinity classes but had not been accounted for at five o�
��clock chapel. That meant he might have been gone an hour.
Craine instructed Father Calloway to organize a search party. They would split into groups: those who owned automobiles would patrol the roads north and west of the school, while those on foot would head east through the residential side streets. Craine would drive south along Main Street on the off-chance that Michael had taken a bus downtown. Michael knew Broadway relatively well and if he was anywhere away from the vicinity of the school it would be there, he was certain of it.
Craine pulled his car up near Broadway Market and stepped out onto the busy street. If Michael had gone this far, he could be hidden anywhere in the crowd. He pushed through the busy market, spinning around, shouting for his son. He ran from stall to stall, his eyes moving quickly around the marketplace. Panicking, he started shouting louder, weaving through groups of people, reaching out to any child that might be Michael. Mothers pushed him away, pulling their children closer. Other people walked past, ignoring his calls. One or two others stood in doorways and stared at him like he was crazed. No one came to help him.
Craine reached the end of the market square. Michael wasn’t anywhere to be found. He tried to ignore his heart’s frenzied hammering. The teachers assumed Michael had left of his own volition but there was always the possibility that he had been taken. Craine had spent the past two days asking questions no one wanted answered—he should have realized his investigation might threaten Michael’s life as well as his. He’d underestimated how far people might go to keep this buried. Would they use Michael to blackmail him? To force him to drop the investigation? Would they kill him? For a fraction of a second he stood there, pushing the darkest thoughts out of his mind. Then, with numb functionality, Craine walked back through the market, retracing his steps in case he’d missed a doorway or alley somewhere.