by Guy Bolton
When he was convinced that Michael wasn’t on Broadway, Craine went back to his car. He had to get back to the school. There was still a chance they’d found him, that he’d be back safe, silently apologetic.
As he stepped down to the curb, a giant billboard framed by light bulbs caught his eye. It was a picture of Greta Garbo, but the motion picture it advertised was old, an early talkie from the beginning of the decade. It was also one of Celia’s pictures from the height of her career where she played the second lead. Craine stared at the poster. The film was playing at the Los Angeles Theatre, only two blocks away. There were showings every night, all week.
He knew at once where Michael would be.
Craine went to cross the road but another vehicle pulled out in front of him. The black Pontiac.
He felt a shiver rise up between his shoulder blades as the red-headed man wound down the window. He was only a few feet away and for the first time Craine could really see the details of his face. That scar was more pronounced in close-up, a string of raised pink tissue that curved around his jawline and traveled up beyond his temples. His eyes were both dark, but didn’t seem to match.
“You need to be more careful, Craine. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
For a brief second Craine expected to see a pistol. Then, before he could even move, the driver put the car in gear and drove away.
* * *
For several weeks Michael had been wondering about the possibilities of becoming spiritually closer to his mother. Then, at lunch today, he’d overheard two other boys talking about a picture they’d seen with their parents. Romance, it was called. He knew it immediately. It was one of his mother’s pictures. He’d listened in for as long as he could without them noticing. One of the boys, David, mentioned that it was an old rerun playing at the Los Angeles Theatre. Michael decided there and then that he had to go there; he had to see his mother.
He left through the school gates before evening chapel, when the teachers were too busy to see him sneak out. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, hadn’t said goodbye, but then again he had no one to say goodbye to. He doubted he’d be missed.
He took the Red Car to Broadway, sitting in the rear of the trolley by the window where it was quietest. The trolley passed one stop after another, gathering passengers. Michael stared out of the window at nothing in particular, content to listen in on other people’s conversations as he so often did. A woman talked to her husband about the food lines that day. An old man mumbled quietly to himself about nothing in particular as he filled his pipe. Two other boys his age talked about going to The Wizard of Oz premiere.
The trolley accelerated toward downtown and the carriage got busier as they approached Broadway and Movie Palace Row.
Getting off at the next stop, he realized the Red Car had dropped him off on the wrong side of the road. Movie Palace Row was the other side, he was sure of it. He went to cross the street but it had been raining intermittently all day and the roads were slick with water. He lost his footing and fell to the ground. A car swerved to miss him as he pushed himself to his feet and ran over to the other side.
Michael took long, deep breaths and tried not to cry. Someone asked him if he was alright but he didn’t answer them and walked south down Broadway. The sun was already beginning to set and the sky fell dark under thick rain clouds. He didn’t have a watch but he knew that the picture must be starting soon. Where was the picture house? He couldn’t see it.
In a sheltered alleyway, two men beckoned him over. They were wearing long coats and large derby hats, their faces bearded and filthy. Ignoring their calls, he kept on down Broadway, looking up at the signs above, desperate for the glowing light bulbs he remembered from the picture house.
A voice called out. It must be the men in the alleyway. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he knew they were calling for him. He started walking faster, praying they wouldn’t come after him. In a moment he heard footsteps behind him. Terrified, he broke into a run, weaving through pedestrians, trying not to slip on the wet concrete.
He reached the curbs when a man grabbed his arm. Instinctively, Michael pulled away. The man grabbed him again, held him tighter and twisted him toward him.
“Michael. Michael, stop. It’s me, Michael, it’s me.”
It was his father. He stared at Michael with fury in his eyes. He took hold of his shoulders, crouched down and pulled his face toward his. Michael had never seen his father so angry before.
“Where have you been?” he shouted. “Where have you been?”
Michael didn’t reply. He looked away.
“Look at me. Do you know how many people are out looking for you?” Michael winced as his father gripped him tighter. “Do you understand how worried everyone has been?”
Michael tried to pull himself free but his father gripped him harder and fixed him with a stare. “I’m taking you back,” he said, pointing at an unfamiliar sedan at the curbside. “Get in the car.”
And then Michael did something he’d wanted to do for a long time. He hit his father. He bunched up his fists and launched them at him, one by one, beating his father’s sides until he grabbed his wrists and held him still.
“Stop it. Stop it, Michael.”
He let go of his arms and stood up straight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. We’ve been looking for you. Do you realize that? Do you understand? We’ve been looking all over for you. Please, you need to go back. Get in the car. Please, get in the car, Michael.”
Reluctantly, Michael obeyed his father.
Roger Simms had never really considered police work his vocation, but he’d stuck with it and progressed steadily through the middle ranks on tenacity alone. Head of the Detective Bureau was Simms’ reward for more than thirty years of service. Besides, what he lacked in investigative ability he more than made up for in political acumen. He knew how the system worked and was savvy enough to recognize that ethics and morals had little place within the department. Justice wasn’t an ideal, it was a graph where the thick red line slanted upward.
And yet something about this afternoon’s conversations had left him troubled. Until recently, Craine had always strictly adhered to Simms’ principles; he was a stickler to protocol. So what had happened to make him revisit the Loew House incident, to question the Florence Lloyd murder and the Stanley suicide?
Simms thought back to that night and the days that followed the murder at Loew House and the Lloyd and Stanley deaths before that. It was inevitable, of course, that the senior ranks wouldn’t want such a series of deaths to dominate the headlines for too long, but he couldn’t deny that their behavior seemed a little out of place. Chief Davidson seemed genuinely concerned that the news scandals be suppressed; that Craine be brought on board to use his contacts to sway the headlines in M.G.M.’s favor. Then, after the shootings at Loew House, Simms had received urgent phone calls almost daily asking if everything was going smoothly, if the body of the shooter had been identified and duly disposed of, if the newspapers were printing their press releases word for word. Likewise, Craine’s promotion had been rushed through, a political maneuver. But with what intention?
Simms was starting to consider whether there might actually be some truth to Craine and O’Neill’s tenuous assertions when there was a light tapping at the door. Chief of Police Davidson entered, two hands clasped behind his back.
“Good evening, Simms,” Chief Davidson said, that dull monotone voice of his hanging in the air.
Simms shifted in his seat. “Sir.”
“Don’t get up,” Davidson said politely, “I was just passing by and thought I’d show a face. So . . . how is everything?”
“Everything is fine.”
“Good to hear it. Thank you for those figures, by the way. Clearance rate looks right on target. First quarter far better than last year, particularly impressive considering recent events.”
“Yes, sir, I’m glad you noticed.”
“Y
ou know, top brass are putting together a steering group to identify action and learning points. I’d like you to come along to our next committee meeting, give us an insight into the fast progress you’ve made managing the department. Maybe you could help us put together a development agenda for the next quarter.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Davidson smiled and nodded. The Chief of Police was a hulking figure, well over six feet tall, with narrow eyes and broad, toad-like features. “Not a handsome man, nor a charming one,” Simms’ wife had observed at his inauguration party.
“One other thing. About those recent events,” he said, almost as an aside. “That’s all done with, isn’t it? That’s a closed book, so to speak?”
“Yes it is, sir. A closed book.”
“It’s only because I’ve had a few phone calls; City Hall is a bit concerned that maybe questions are being asked that don’t need to be. One or two of your men—”
Simms blanched. “I’ve spoken to them,” he said quickly, too quickly perhaps. “It’s dealt with, sir. Too curious for their own good. Nothing serious. Nothing problematic.”
“Great. Swell, as my son would say. Well, I’m sure you have it under control. You know how it is, local elections coming up, don’t want to upset the voters, keep those donations coming in.”
“I understand, sir.”
Davidson’s voice became suddenly serious. “But maybe you ought to tighten that leash in future. We don’t need any unnecessary worry over this, do we?”
“No, sir,” Simms replied, avoiding Davidson’s eye.
“Great. Well, I’m glad we’re clear. Everything else okay? Your wife . . .”
“She’s fine.”
“Good, good, glad to hear it. Well, you two must come round for dinner sometime,” he added affectionately. “Or maybe golf? You play?”
“A little sir, a little.”
“Well, we should, we really should. Nine holes, at least. Weather we’ve had the past few weeks, we’d be foolish not to. Grab the chance while we can.” Davidson pondered for a moment then clicked his heels together and stood at attention. “Carry on, Captain. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
When Davidson left, Simms twisted in his chair and watched as the skies opened and heavy rain came down. Maybe he and Davidson would never get their nine holes in after all.
Chapter 37
Margaret squeezed her husband’s arm with excitement. Their limousine had turned onto Hollywood Boulevard and they could see the crowd of well-wishers outside Grauman’s Theatre for the premiere of The Wizard of Oz.
The Wizard of Oz had taken a lot out of her husband. A large budget, lots of problems during filming. Once or twice he came home almost in tears. He had aged physically this past year, and she wondered how long realistically he could work the hours he did. It wasn’t healthy to dedicate so much time to work, and she hoped now that it was over his life could return to some form of normality. She was starting to resent the studio for taking her husband away from her.
They joined a line of black limousines outside the theater and Margaret felt butterflies rise up in her stomach. It had stopped raining as quickly as it had started and she was quietly thankful. The last thing she needed was the rain ruining her hair.
Margaret felt suddenly self-conscious. She bit her lip. “Do I look okay, Louis?”
“What was that? What are you talking about, you look fine.” Louis wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was usually a little agitated before premieres but he seemed particularly tetchy tonight and Margaret didn’t like it.
“Is everything alright, Louis?”
“Of course it is. Can you let me concentrate a second?”
“Concentrate on what?”
“I need to concentrate on what I’m going to say,” Louis snapped. “There’s a lot of people here tonight and they’ll want me to say something.”
Margaret took her arm out of his and shuffled further down the seat.
Her husband sighed and held up two apologetic palms. “Oh, Margaret, don’t get upset.”
“There was no need to raise your voice.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You look wonderful, did I tell you that? Come on, we’re almost here. Are you ready?”
When the car door opened, Margaret was blinded by the flashbulbs. She shielded her eyes and coughed on the magnesium flash powder drifting through the air. Louis took a gentle hold of her sleeve and guided her toward the press corner.
The theater itself was at the end of the long red carpet. To the right and left, cameramen huddled behind the rope barrier; behind them, there must have been over two thousand people gathered here, all of them screaming, whistling, waving their banners with delight.
“Nice to see you,” Mayer said to cheering fans. “Thank you all so much for coming.”
More cameras flashed in their direction as Margaret and Louis Mayer began to make their way toward the theater.
“Margaret, Margaret!” She saw one of the photographers raise his camera. “Margaret, smile for the camera. Margaret!”
Margaret’s face lit up with excitement before one of the cameramen casually brushed her to one side. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that they weren’t talking to her. One of the stars of the film, Margaret Hamilton, had approached the cameras, posing in her Wicked Witch stance. She cackled and the crowd laughed and applauded.
Humiliated, Margaret took her husband’s arm. “Please, Louis, can we go inside now? Please?”
“Sure we can, honey, sure we can.”
But her husband wasn’t really listening, preoccupied with the moment. It was as if Margaret simply wasn’t there.
When Craine left the Bureau to go to his son’s school, O’Neill headed home. He reheated a plate of meat loaf with buttered beets and mash potatoes and took a seat at the circular table in his kitchen.
O’Neill had learned how to cook from his mother and used to help her make dinner as a child. His father would call him a sissy, tell him he should spend his evenings playing outside with the other boys on the street instead of baking cakes.
Thinking about that, he realized that there were a lot of times his father was hard on him. Unnecessarily so too. He owned his own house. He had a job he was good at. Still no wife, though, O’Neill accepted with an internal sigh. Or a girlfriend. And the only woman I’ve met since I arrived in Los Angeles that has shown any interest won’t answer my phone calls.
He put on a pot of coffee and turned on the radio. A newsreader was reporting from a movie premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. As the announcer segued into a studio recording by Judy Garland, O’Neill’s mind started to mull over the events of the last two days. So much had happened since he’d received that call from San Bernardino County that he had barely had a chance to take it all in. Finally he was doing real police work. This was the type of case he’d been waiting for all his life. And despite their differences, he was glad to be working with Craine. He might have an enigmatic quality about him but Craine’s skills as a detective were evident in the way he dealt with people—he was a brilliant interrogator, able to persuade people to tell him all their darkest secrets as if he was doing them a favor. Patrick, however, had never been able to manage people very well. His own expertise had lain, and would always lie, in the minutiae of the crime scene.
Considering this, O’Neill cleared the kitchen table. Crickley’s film lab had printed copies of the tins of roll film found at Lloyd’s basement on eight-by-ten glossies and he took the photographs from his leather work case and placed them on the table beside his coffee cup. There had to be some other clue hidden in these photographs.
There were three rolls of undeveloped film in the tins found in Florence Lloyd’s basement and the prints from each of them were now divided accordingly into separate piles. Campbell had used spools of 120 film, each with twelve or thirteen exposures, which meant that the tins contained up to forty photographs in total that he had yet to fully examine.
For most of an hour, he went through the three piles of photographs, ordering the images carefully and slowly. When they looked to be in sequence, he examined the pictures again one by one, pausing whenever anything caught his eye, not wanting to miss any clue, any detail that might prove useful.
The first pictures were of a woman laid back on a bed, partially nude. The woman was Florence Lloyd, Craine had been certain of it. She was undressed but wasn’t poised toward the camera. In the following prints, there was a shadow, then the same shadow obscuring the line of sight. In the next photograph, however, there was someone in the bed with Florence. O’Neill looked back through the series of pictures one by one. Florence on the bed alone. A shadow across the room. A figure stepping into the frame. That same figure now in the bed but their face and body almost entirely obscured. Either the cameraman had stopped taking pictures during the previous few moments or there were some pictures missing, pictures that would betray the identity of the man in the room with Florence Lloyd.
The subsequent photographs showed Florence arching back, the figure moving beneath the sheets. Then in the next shot, the sheets fell away and the man’s face was just visible through the darkness. O’Neill used a magnifying glass to try and make out the details of his face but the image was grainy and unfocused, as if the camera lens was dirty. It was impossible to make out anything but dark hair and a pale face. Who was he? Was it Campbell or Rochelle? Or Herbert Stanley? Was it someone else entirely?
O’Neill sifted through the remaining photographs but the quality of the images was poor and gave no other indication of the man’s identity. Drumming his fingers against the kitchen table, he pushed the pictures away and sat back in silence. He’d found no answers.
Deciding to revisit them in the morning, O’Neill went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He was starting to undress when the phone began to ring from the kitchen. Please don’t be the Bureau. He picked up the telephone with one hand and poured himself another cup of coffee with the other.