“Flynn, here’s where I am in this mess,” Alfano said, and then told both men what had happened.
“Guess they didn’t want your help all that much,” Flynn said, obviously trying to get a jab in.
“Why didn’t you know they were leaving this morning, Flynn? I’m holding you responsible for this screwup. Did you tell them they couldn’t leave town? Did you call the airport to try and stop them?”
“Until McDunnah called, I didn’t know they had left. Besides, by that time they were ten thousand feet in the air.”
“Where were they going, Sergeant?” Alfano said, turning to McDunnah.
“The woman at American Airlines said they had tickets to Los Angeles.”
“Damn. Is there any way to intercept them?”
“Sure, they stop maybe five or six times between here and there. All you have to do is find a local sheriff willing to piss off an airport manager. If they are on schedule, they have already left St. Louis for Oklahoma City, then on to Dallas before heading west.”
“Face it, Detective, they are gone,” Flynn said. “You should drop all this.”
Alfano took a step toward Flynn, pointed at the man with his index finger. “Don’t you ever tell me what to do.”
“Look, sure you’re pissed off, I get it. Even you know they were not involved in Hill’s death. They were all elsewhere.”
“That’s not been confirmed. We’re still waiting on the last of the interviews from Evanston.”
“I got the answers this morning,” Flynn said.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Alfano said.
“Really, the way you busted in here?” Flynn answered. “Their itineraries for the night in question were verified. According to the theater manager, Melnik and Durant left in a limo at eleven o’clock Sunday evening. They had drinks in the Palmer House bar when they got back to the hotel. The bartender remembers them both; it was just the two of them. The night elevator operator took them to the floor around three in the morning. That was at least three hours after Hill died, according to Abrahamson.”
“Obviously neither of them entered Hill’s room,” Alfano said.
“If they did, no one saw them. They sure as hell didn’t say anything. I assume they went straight to their rooms. Melnik was staying in the room next to Hill’s corner room.”
“And Roberts?”
“I pressed the woman on the phone about Roberts. She finally admitted to being with Roberts after the show until about five the next morning. She drove him to the train station for the six o’clock train.”
“Why the hell didn’t they come out of their rooms during all the chaos of us being there?”
“Because, according to the elevator operator, Melnik and Durant got back on his elevator about four that morning and went to the lobby. The doorman said they took a cab; he didn’t know where.”
“It wasn’t Henry Bucci, the doorman we talked to, was it?”
“No. It was the night doorman, a black guy.”
“So, Melnik and Durant went somewhere around four o’clock Monday morning, then met Roberts after he arrived,” Alfano said. “I saw them at the mayor’s office just before ten. The mayor had me cool my heels in his lobby for almost thirty minutes, during which our three suspects were having a conversation with the mayor, Nash, and Spats Lanigan. That’s when His Honor stuck me with Roberts.”
“Stuck you?” Flynn said. “Lanigan was there?”
“The sergeant will fill you in. When are they expected in Los Angeles?”
“According to the schedule and the woman at the airport,” McDunnah said, “they will arrive shortly after midnight West Coast time. That’s almost twelve hours from now. That assumes they don’t get stuck somewhere due to weather.”
“The wonders of the modern world. Shit,” Alfano said.
CHAPTER 7
Melnik, Durant, and Roberts emerged from the mid-door of the American Airlines Ford Trimotor and walked across the apron of the Union Air Terminal in Burbank. Their luggage followed them; it was stacked on a cart pushed by a stevedore. They were three hours late for their scheduled 12:15 am Wednesday morning arrival time. If any of the three had bothered to look up, they would have observed that the stars were obscured by the marine layer extending in from the Pacific Ocean; the air mass was lowering. If they had been delayed any longer that evening as their plane crossed the mountains, they would have had to land in San Bernardino, sixty miles east, and finish the flight in daylight. The weather in Texas—a hellish thunderstorm with high winds around the Dallas airport_had delayed their takeoff. As they flew through the late-evening heat rising from the desert west of Tucson, the plane had made gut-wrenching climbs and drops. Not many of the passengers made it without some form of stomach problem; Durant had vomited twice, Roberts once. Only Melnik, who’d flown a lot over the past year, survived unscathed. All three were exhausted as they climbed into the hired limousine.
“I swear, Melnik, next time I’m taking the train,” Roberts said as their car began its trek.
“We had to get back.”
His companions exchanged weary looks but said nothing.
“We need to get this production going,” Melnik said. “Three days on the train might as well be three weeks. The camera equipment is available. If I didn’t commit, it would be four months until we could get those cameras and all the gear.”
“Why the hell don’t you buy your own equipment?” Durant said as she lit a cigarette. “You make enough fucking money.”
“Tax reasons and expenses.” Melnik poured himself a drink from the crystal carafe secured to the back of the driver’s seat. “You two already cost me a fortune, and I don’t want the cameras to sit around gathering dust when we are out of production. We lease them when we need them, and right now, and for the next sixty days, they are mine. We start shooting State Street Killers on Monday.”
“The script sucks. It’s all wrong,” Roberts said. “And how the hell are we going to get organized in a week? Kitty handled all that shit. You couldn’t organize a birthday party.”
“I borrowed a guy from RKO,” Melnik said. “He helped put together King Kong with Schoedsack and Cooper. Wished to hell I’d done that picture; RKO is making a fortune. Last year they came to me for a loan, they were that close to sinking. I lent them ten grand; it kept them afloat. In six months, they’ve made half a million off the fucking ape.”
Schoedsack and Cooper owed him, Melnik told them. During the Texas stop, he had placed a call to his guy at RKO, who arranged for Schoedsack’s assistant to temporarily take over for Kitty. “His name is Jorge Jones, J.J. to most of us who know the kid,” Melnik said.
“I’ve worked with him. He’s an idiot,” Durant said.
“My guess, he turned you down when you wanted to fuck him,” Roberts said.
“You are such a sweetie. Screw you.”
“Stop it. I don’t want your catfighting for the next month,” Melnik said. “Keep it up, and I’ll get replacements—for both of you.”
“I have a contract, H.M.,” Durant said.
“I’ll pay you half, like the contract says, and dump your pretty ass in the street—and still make money. So, quit being my second-biggest problem, and shut the fuck up.”
That ended further conversation. Melnik stared out at the early morning gloom as they drove through the mountains on Cahuenga Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard. Durant glowered at the back of his head until she grew bored. The small party in the limo remained silent as the driver navigated the familiar, lofty streets of Beverly Hills and wound up North Crescent Drive to Melnik’s mansion. After Melnik opened the gate, he climbed back in and the driver pulled into the circular drop-off.
“Either of you want a drink before going home?” Melnik asked. The driver removed his suitcase from the trunk.
“I’m beat,” Durant said. “Besides, the sun will be up in half an hour.”
“Me, too—we start Monday?” Roberts said.
“Eight o�
��clock. Be there at the studio,” Melnik said. “I want to go over the script. If it’s as fucked as you think, Roberts, we’ll make it right. I feel real good about this project.” Melnik got out of the limo.
Durant gave a shrug that might have indicated agreement. She and Roberts watched Melnik follow the driver to the front door.
The Sierra Films studio was in a warehouse complex on Santa Monica Boulevard that Melnik had rented two years earlier. Before Prohibition, it had housed a brewery and then sat empty for ten years. The owner, a Jew from Melnik’s old neighborhood off Fairfax Avenue, was a friend of the movie director’s father. Melnik made him an offer, and the owner was thrilled—especially at the prospect of a moving picture studio as a tenant. Melnik also had an option to buy the place; time would tell if he could pull that off. He had ten thousand dollars to lend a fellow producer, but not a hundred thousand to buy the five acres and all the buildings, yet.
Melnik stood just outside his front door and watched the limousine drive down the hill. Its taillights disappeared as it followed the curving street back to Sunset Boulevard. Roberts had rented a house somewhere nearer Santa Monica Boulevard. Durant had a three-room suite with a sunset view at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel—Melnik had never been invited to their residences.
He’d given the maids and butler the week off as he traveled. They would be back at noon today. He dropped his bag in the foyer of the Italianate house that had become opportunistically available a year earlier. He’d snapped it up after the unfortunate death by narcotic overdose of a mildly successful silent film actor.
Melnik poured himself a bourbon and took it out to the terrace that overlooked the pool. The view beyond was the glow of the rising sun over the high-rises of downtown Los Angeles ten miles away. He stripped off his clothes and stood at the edge of the pool, took a deep breath, and jumped in.
✥✥✥
Roberts walked through the front door of his rented twelve-room Julia Morgan wannabe mansion in the flatter neighborhood of Beverly Hills. His taste had shifted from the dust-covered furniture and fly-ridden ranch of his youth spent in Fresno to this collection of Arts and Crafts frou-frou. He’d sworn never to go back to that valley life; his taste was now for cognac and champagne, not tequila and beer. He also knew that his other needs could be met in Los Angeles, needs that in the small community of Fresno County might bring embarrassment to his family. He loved them—but when they found out, he left. Not as much to avoid his own exposure as to reduce theirs.
“You’re early,” a man’s voice said from the top of the wooden stairs in the spacious entry. “Thank you for the call. I’d have met you at the airport . . .”
“Unnecessary. H.M. gave us a ride. I need something to eat, then sleep. We start production Monday. I’ve got three days to myself.”
“To ourselves,” the lanky man said, correcting Roberts. He crossed the tile floor in his bare feet. He was nude. “I’ll make you some eggs. There’s still some bacon.”
“Excellent, I’m famished.”
The man took Robert’s hand. “Where’s your watch?”
“I can’t find it, Wells,” Roberts said. “I looked everywhere. It still might be in my bags. If not, I’ll file a claim.”
“I gave you that watch. You loved that watch.”
“I know—you gave it to me; that’s the worst part. I’ll keep looking for it. If not, I’ll replace it. And, young man, put some clothes on. I want nothing singed or splattered; I’ve a special three days planned,” Roberts said as they headed toward the kitchen.
✥✥✥
The lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel was empty aside from a maid dusting the furniture and a man in formal attire stationed at the front desk. He nodded to Maxime Durant as she crossed the spacious room, then put up his hand, gesturing for her to stop.
“Good morning, Cecil,” she said. “Mail?”
“Of course, ma’am. One moment.” He disappeared into a cubicle behind the front desk, then emerged with a bundle of letters and a package. “Did you have a good trip? Was Chicago successful?”
“No, it was a wretched trip, and Mr. Melnik required that we fly. I was miserable. But I’m home now.”
“Welcome back. Would you like breakfast?”
“Send up my usual at noon. I first need some sleep. Please have the kitchen call before they arrive.”
“Certainly, Miss Durant. Anything else?”
“No, that will do, Cecil.” Holding the bundle of mail, she turned to the bellhop who had followed her from the entry and carried her bags. “Juan, home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the bellhop answered.
The two of them proceeded to the elevator. Durant leaned against the paneling as Juan and the elevator operator discussed boxing at the Legion Hall in Hollywood.
“Please stop that, you two,” Durant said to the pair. “It’s a barbaric sport.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“That’s okay. I’m just tired.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Durant followed Juan down the hallway to her suite. He opened the door and placed her two bags in the bedroom and then walked back to the small kitchen that was a part of the suite. She placed the mail and the small package on the ornate iron and marble ledge in the entry.
“Anything else, Miss Durant?”
“No, Juan, that will be all. Please confirm that my breakfast order was placed. No need to call.”
“Of course, Miss Durant.”
Juan shut the door behind him as he left.
Durant picked up the package, crossed the living room, and sat on the couch. The sun was a finger’s width above the rooftops. The light cut diagonally through the back blinds as she lit a cigarette. A letter opener lay on the glass coffee table; she carefully slit open the package and removed the small bundle wrapped in newspaper and secured with Scotch Tape. She smiled and peeled away the newspaper. A bundle of fifty-dollar bills was secured to a larger bundle of twenty-dollar bills. A note wrapped them both.
M.D.,
Your share of the last two months’ sales. Business has been hot, to say the least. You were right, those girls you sent over were easy, even a few eagerly participated. We are expanding distribution to Chicago and St. Louis. The films are being carried by girls in their luggage. Let’s have lunch soon.
D.
Durant walked to the window and looked out over Los Angeles from her ninth-floor apartment. She was poised to star in a new Sierra film; she was holding in her hands a substantial share of her now lucrative partnership; and the one woman who could have thrown a wrench into the whole enterprise was lying in a morgue two thousand miles away. Yes, the future was looking good.
CHAPTER 8
The following Monday, a week after Kitty Hill’s body was found, Alfano stood at the murder board and considered the new slips of paper and photos that McDunnah had pinned to the cork. Three headshots of the LA3, as McDunnah called them, had been added to the right side: Melnik on top, then Durant, then Roberts. Notecards with personal information were pinned next to each photo: age, Los Angeles addresses, notes about movies, and criminal records (as much as could be found). Alfano had wanted the addresses just in case these fellow employees of Kitty Hill became suspects; knowing their whereabouts in advance would make it easier for the LA police to bring them in. He knew this was just a hope; nobody wanted to deal with interstate extradition these days. And the chance of the Bureau getting involved was slim at best, not that he wanted them involved. He dictated to McDunnah the biography Roberts had narrated while with him in the car. That was added to the cards next to Roberts’s photo.
The picture in the center of the board was a headshot of Kitty Hill. Two photos, placeholders really, for the dozens of others in an envelope in his desk, showed her body on the white rug along with the red scarf. McDunnah had strategically placed a small piece of paper effectively hiding the dead naked woman’s assets. A typed card gave Hill’s backstory as well as personal information.
The
lower portion of the board included a floor plan of the twenty-fourth floor of the Palmer House. Four rooms had notations: Hill’s Body Here read a card tacked to the space indicating the northwest corner room, and for the adjacent room, Melnik. The room on the opposite corner: Durant. Three doors down, toward the elevator: Roberts.
Alfano leaned in, his hands clasped behind his back, and read the details about the woman on the white rug:
Kitty Hill, formerly Katherine Mooney. Singer and dancer in Chicago nightclubs from 1916 to 1923 . . . (That’s why he’d thought he’d recognized her.) Drake and Simmons nightclubs. Did burlesque for a time; that’s when she changed her name to Kitty O’Neal. Husband, Allen O’Neal, killed in gang shooting in 1923. The manager at the Chez Paree nightclub said she left Chicago and headed West in 1923 or ’24. Her last known address was 1228 Brockton Avenue, Los Angeles, California.
Sergeant McDunnah came to join him.
“Good job,” Alfano said. “How did you get so much information since last Tuesday? And the Chez Paree only opened last year.”
“Much of that was cribbed from the Tribune article. The news story was put together by one of their beat writers who covers the Loop. He remembered Kitty from the old days. And I got a guy on the Los Angeles police force, name’s Gil Tuttle, a detective sergeant. He’s the son of a gal who was married to a neighbor’s brother that I grew up with in Bridgeport. I even dated his sister. That was long before Moira. He quit the Chicago force about twenty years ago, packed up everything, and moved to LA.”
“You Irish, just one big family. I’ll take your word for it. Again, good job.”
“I’m fleshing out the details on the others—might take a few days,” McDunnah told him. “Thanks for Roberts’s life story. I’m having Tuttle check it out. But they are public people, so I’ll get what I can. Seems that Kitty Mooney, or O’Neal, left an impression with some of the nightclub managers, especially the current manager at Chez Paree. He worked with her at a club on Rush Street about ten years ago. She was all Irish, great looks and voice, could dance. She wasn’t from Bridgeport. After her husband was gunned down, she changed her name from O’Neal to Hill. I also found out that the night her husband, Allen O’Neal, was slain, her brother, Ian Mooney, was also killed, both shot dead, execution style, at close range. I’ll add all that to the board.”
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