“So then, you must think it’s her.”
“I didn’t say that.” I knew with the sensitivity of the case, Gabor had to be very careful.
“May I ask a favor then?”
He paused.
“Always with the favors, Miss Childs. Just what is it you’d like me to do for you this time? Call you first with the ID, perhaps?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Or you could text if you’re busy.” I waited for him to consider his options then added, “I’ve got tickets to Disney Hall. Dudamel’s doing a concert this weekend.” In the past I’d thanked the doctor for his help with station tickets to the LA Philharmonic. It’s not exactly how things are supposed to be done between reporters and city officials, but I knew he was a big fan, and it seemed like an innocent enough gesture.
“I’ll text you once I have an ID. But you need to understand, if this is Monica Channing, her father’s going to want answers quickly. I’m already getting pressure from LAPD to get the autopsy done this morning, and once I get a cause of death your people will be all over this like locusts.” He paused, I heard a series of clicks and realized I was no longer on speaker. “However, there is one piece of information I can share with you, off the record.”
“What’s that, Doctor?”
“The girl was recently tattooed on her wrist.” Dr. Gabor explained that the police believed the markings might have something to do with the kidnapping.
CHAPTER 3
As I drove home from the radio station I kept thinking about Monica Channing and the other three missing girls we’d reported on. Over the last year and a half, each girl had had her fifteen minutes of distressed fame and when they didn’t turn up, the news moved on. That’s how the news works. There just isn’t enough time and space to carry every story beyond the initial report. But as a parent, I couldn’t imagine not knowing what had happened to my daughter. What I did know was that the clock was ticking, that the police had yet to officially tie the crimes together, and that in the absence of any new information, in a week or two, this story, like the stories before it, would die. Other stories would come and fill the headlines and in time people would forget. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Both as a parent and as a reporter I was determined to find out if there was some connection.
I entered my condo, threw my keys on the kitchen counter and was about to run upstairs when I noticed a yellow Post-it note on top of a stack of mail on the counter.
Happy Birthday, Mom. Don’t forget the game tonight. Four p.m. @ Notre Dame. Sheri said she’ll meet you there. See you then, Charlie.
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten my own birthday. I glanced down at a stack of mail Charlie had brought in. Directly beneath his note was a postcard. At first I thought it might be from a travel agency, some piece of junk mail. I picked it up and was about to throw it in the trash when I turned it over and noticed it was postmarked from Mexico. I knew instantly it had to be from Eric. FBI Special Agent Eric Langdon is my tall-dark-and-handsome. The man in my life I want to kiss hello and whose arms I wanted to fall asleep in at night. The man who, up until he sailed off with his Sea Mistress, his sixty-foot seafaring yacht, was, and is, my steady.
On the front of the card was a photo of Cabo San Lucas with clear blue waters and palm frond structures. On the back was simply written 10/07/2014 with a hand drawn heart, followed by a happy face and a birthday cake, candles blazing. The coded message on the back of the card made my heart smile. Eric and I have our own special codes, shorthand for when we can get together. The numbers meant Eric was headed home. If weather permitted and the sea gods allowed, I expected him to be in port sometime around October tenth. Next week. The thought of his homecoming tickled me and refreshed my wearied spirits. I grabbed the card, hugged it to my chest, wished myself a happy birthday and headed upstairs like a giddy teenager.
I showered and finished blow-drying my hair, pulled it back into a ponytail, patted a little moisturizer on face and looked into the mirror. I looked tired, but a little concealer and blush worked wonders. I slipped on a bra and panties, walked into the closet and grabbed a short black tailored dress off the hanger. Most of what I own is casual Friday wear, but today being my birthday, I wanted something a little snazzier. Plus, if anything came up concerning Monica’s disappearance, and I suddenly needed to be anywhere downtown, i.e. a courthouse, I wanted to look professional. I wiggled into the dress, struggling with the back zipper as I simultaneously slipped on a pair of black heels, then smoothed the body of the dress over my legs. I glanced back in the mirror. Not bad for a forty-five minute makeover. Happy Birthday, Carol. I smiled at myself one last time in the mirror, threw my leather jacket over my shoulder and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 4
Nearly ten million people a year visit the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The three and half mile stretch along Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street is a magnet for tourists who want to check out the location of their favorite star’s monument. Marilyn Monroe’s star is on the south side of the boulevard at Highland and Hollywood, in front of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. There’s a huge dinosaur on top of the building. I parked my car about a block away, and as I approached I was greeted by a sea of pale skinned, platinum wigged, high-heeled Marilyn impersonators. They were all running in my direction.
“There she is. The reporter. Over there.”
I glanced over my shoulder. I was thinking a TV crew must have pulled up behind me. Perhaps Mario Lopez from Extra? What else could explain this gaggle of Marilyns running in my direction? How could they possibly know who I was? Radio people aren’t exactly recognizable. I wasn’t carrying, or wearing, any identifying logos on my person. My microphone was in my bag and far as I knew, dressed in black, I looked like any other businessperson about to dash into Musso & Frank’s or maybe the Roosevelt Hotel for lunch.
“Are you Carol Childs from KCHC?” The first of the Marilyns to reach me grabbed my hand and, turning me around so that my back was to the others, made a quick introduction. “I’m Norma Jean Baker. I called the station this morning to report the theft. I organized this protest.”
I was surprised the young woman in front of me was using Marilyn Monroe’s real name. Certainly it was an alias. I asked, “Your name’s Norma Jean Baker? For real?”
“It helps in this town when you work as an impersonator to be as authentic as possible. So for today, yes, I’m Norma Jean Baker, a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe.” She smiled and feigned one of Marilyn’s famous poses, one hand on her hip, the other in the air. Beneath her platinum blonde wig, strands of dark hair had worked their way loose and were threatening to escape. She was as much Norma Jean Baker as she was a natural blonde.
“How did you know who I was?”
“I’m a big fan of the Kari Rhodes show. I listen every day. Love all the gossip. She described you to me, but…” She stood back, held my hands out to the side of my body and studied me, her eyes giving me the big once over. “She didn’t mention that you were so…”
“What?” I asked.
“Well, pretty. I actually thought since you were in radio that you’d be more…you know…”
My cellphone started to vibrate. I was happy for the intrusion. I could only imagine how Kari might have described me. Our relationship was at best professionally strained. Kari viewed any female with whom she shared a broadcast booth to be competition. From her perch as the mid-day entertainment host, I was the enemy. I held up my index finger. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
A text message from Dr. Gabor filled the screen. Positive ID on Miss Channing. Cause of death TBD.
I sighed and glanced back at Norma Jean. I didn’t have a lot of time. Behind her the Marilyns were approaching like a group of platinum wigged bobbleheads.
“I need to make a call. Can you ward off your blonde impersonator friends for a moment?” From the look on her face I could see she thought I was being rude. I felt bad.
I didn’t mean to come off as dismissive. I softened my voice and with as much constraint as I could muster, I said, “Look, I’m sorry. I need to call the newsroom. It’s important.”
“Is this about that body you reported on this morning? I heard your report. Awful news. Do the police think it’s the schoolteacher?”
I held the phone to my chest. I’d already hit the speed dial to Tyler’s office and could feel the ringing vibrate against my heart.
“I really can’t say. But if you’ll wait with your friends, I’ll be right with you. I know Kari wants me to get an interview.”
I turned my back and waited for Tyler to answer then whispered into the phone. “It’s the schoolteacher. Her parents identified the body a few minutes ago.”
“Hold on a minute, Carol.” In the background I could hear Tyler, his quick fingers flying across the keyboard. “Cause of death?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re still waiting. I’m thinking maybe I should blow this boulevard thing off, go over to the morgue, talk to the coroner, see if I could get an interview with her parents.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Tyler’s voice was firm, there was no room for negotiation. “You stay where you are. I’ll take it from here.” Tyler hung up. A dial tone droned coldly in my ear. I felt as though I’d just been told to stand down. I turned around and looked back at Norma Jean. She was standing in the middle of the Marilyns. All eight of them, identically dressed in Marilyn’s iconic white dress, like she’d worn in The Seven Year Itch, stared back at me like they were awaiting stage directions.
“Alright then.” I tried to sound optimistic. “Let’s do this.” I reached into my reporter’s bag for my earphone and mic and with eight Marilyn impersonators trailing behind me like baby quail, I walked across the street to the location where Marilyn’s star appeared to have been jackhammered from the sidewalk in front of Ripley’s.
A bare-chested young man stood in front of the museum and was preparing to swallow a sword while tourists walked past him. Some stopped to watch, most appeared oblivious. With coffee cups and cameras in hand, the majority simply walked past or stopped briefly to take a selfie. Others sidestepped the area where Miss Monroe’s missing star was blocked off with yellow crime scene tape and orange traffic cones.
I gathered my group of Marilyns and glanced at my watch. It was almost the top of the hour, and I dialed Kari’s inside line. By now she should be in the middle of a station break and able to talk freely, off the air.
“Kar—” I hadn’t even gotten her name out of my mouth.
“Well finally, Carol, you’re there. I thought I was going to have to do this show all by myself.”
I resisted the urge to remind her that while she was sitting in the studio, I had been out since five o’clock that morning. I had already viewed a dead body and I was now standing in the middle of a crowd of crazed tourists with a bare-chested sword swallower behind me and a gaggle of Marilyn impersonators in front of me. Instead I said, “The natives are growing restless, Kari.”
“Ha-ha-ha.” She laughed, a very affected stage laugh. “I take that as a good sign the celebration’s underway. It certainly is here.”
In the background I could hear the muffled clatter of plates and utensils. I knew Kari would have had a cake brought in for today’s Walk of Fame Celebration. Part of me wanted to tell her to save me a piece, but I knew there was no point.
“Things in la-la land are getting busy,” I said. I explained the streets were packed with shoppers and tourists and I could see what looked to be a marching band down the street preparing to do a number.
“Fantastic. I’ll cut to you after the station break.” She paused. I heard her chatting in the background, then she came back on the line. “By the way, Tyler just told me, that body this morning? It was the teacher. Thought you might like to know.”
I bit my tongue and waited for Kari to come back on the air. She opened with Mayor Tommy, the two of them reminiscing about old Hollywood. The area had once been lemon groves and then became a kind of silver screen Camelot with its midcentury architecture, views of the Hollywood Sign and movie stars like Clark Gable and Carol Lombard, who secretly rendezvoused at the pool at the old Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Today it was in the midst of an exciting building boom. New apartments, eateries, theaters, museums and scores of nightclubs were attracting LA’s young hip professionals like free tickets to a rock concert. They came in droves.
Turning her attention back to the anniversary celebration, Kari said someone had called into the station to report Marilyn Monroe’s star had been stolen from the boulevard. “Carol, what can you tell us?”
“I’m sure you can hear from all the noise in the background we have a lot of excitement out here today and a bit of mystery, as well.” I reached into my bag and took out a mic sponge to shelter my microphone from the background noise. I explained I was standing with a group of Marilyn impersonators and fans staring at a hole in the ground where Marilyn’s star had been.
“Of course, we really have no idea if the star was stolen or perhaps removed as they sometimes are for cleaning.” During the station break I’d quickly Googled a history of star thefts. I was about to include a list of those stars that had been stolen, Kirk Douglas, James Stewart, Gene Autry and Gregory Peck, when Norma Jean surprised me and grabbed the mic from my hand.
“It was stolen.” She yelled and then turning her back to me and facing her fellow Marilyn followers she screamed, “We know it, don’t we? It was stolen, right?”
As though on cue, the Marilyns, all of them, began chanting. “Bring back our star. Bring back our star...”
“Goodness, it does sound like you have your hands full, Carol.” I could barely hear Kari through my headphone. “Perhaps you might ask them if there’s something we might do?”
I was helpless. I didn’t have the mic. Norma Jean did. Like a cheerleader she hollered at the Marilyns. “What do you say? How about a song, ladies?”
Suddenly the speaker from behind me, atop the Ripley building, started blasting music.
“A kiss on the hand…”
Then leggy dancers with long white gloves and rhinestone jewelry appeared from out of nowhere while in front of me the eight Marilyns started to sing. The marching band down the street began to advance and tourists everywhere started snapping photos. It was chaos.
Only it wasn’t.
It was a flash mob. A public relations promotion, perfectly timed for my arrival, and I was right in the middle of it. Up and down the boulevard traffic had been cleared and people were dancing and singing in the street. I took the mic back from Norma Jean. I began broadcasting a play-by-play; the dancing Marilyns, the bare chested sword swallower, the impersonators, the marching band. Behind me, from inside Ripley’s, and along the street on both sides, shopkeepers began rolling out carts with sheet cakes decorated for the event and offering slices to passersby. It was like a scene out of a 1940’s musical.
I was about to sign off when Kari interrupted me.
“Before you go, Carol, I understand you’re also celebrating a little something today. Your birthday, right? What is it? Thirty—”
I stepped into the street. To my right the band approached, their drum major leading a corps of drums and big brass instruments, the sunlight gleaming off their shiny horns to the beat of Hoorah for Hollywood.
“What? I can’t hear you, Kari. Sorry, the USC Marching Band is coming our way. Listen.” I held out the mic, their sound totally drowning out Kari’s last words. “Thirty-nine again” was lost to crescendo of the beating drums and the brassy sound of the big horns. I signed off.
“This is Carol Childs, live from the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”
I turned back to Norma Jean. “You knew about this?”
She nodded. “It was part of a promotional stunt. I’m a hired hand. An actor. Impersonator. I do parties, standup, wait tabl
es, and on weekends I drive a tour bus.” She handed me her business card. “You ever want to see the boulevard at night, give me a call.”
I looked back down at the card. On one side was a classic swimsuit shot of Norma Jean as Marilyn Monroe. On the other side was a picture of a customized tour van with the words Holly Wood Tours painted on the side beneath a pair of red hot lips. A phone number was printed on the bottom.
“Holly Wood?” I asked. “That’s your name?”
She smiled. “Like I said, this isn’t my only job. Call me sometime.”
Then with a wink she turned and sauntered away, swaying her hips from side to side in a very Marilynesque way. I looked back down at the card in my hand and shook my head. This morning I’d been at the scene of a body dump and this afternoon the middle of a flash mob dance. The day couldn’t get any stranger.
CHAPTER 5
By the time I got back to the car, every radio station in the city was broadcasting that the body found up on Mulholland Drive this morning was that of Monica Channing. KNX, the all-news station, said her parents had made a positive ID. Down the dial KFI was reporting LAPD would be doing a press conference with Miss Channing’s father, Judge Byron Channing III, at two p.m. on the steps of the Federal Courthouse. I was about to pick up the phone and call Tyler and tell him I’d cover the conference when a second news report caught my attention.
“In what may be a related incident, police are also reporting the disappearance of another young woman from North Hollywood. Gabi Garrison, former news anchor for KCBS-TV, was reported missing by friends and family who became alarmed when she failed to come home Tuesday evening.”
Oh my God, not Gabi. I knew Gabi. She and I had lunched together. For a brief period of time, Gabi Garrison had been a TV reporter, a fresh face that quickly faded when the ratings hadn’t worked out in her favor. Rather than fire her, CBS had given her a shot as an account executive. She and I had crossed paths back when I was selling time for the radio station. We’d met outside the office of a mutual client in Westwood, quite accidentally. Our client had kept us waiting in the lobby and told us he’d be about an hour. Gabi and I went down into the village and grabbed a light lunch, and we talked. I liked her right away. She was attractive and vivacious and despite our age difference, we had a lot in common. Gabi was single, like me, and had made a recent career move from the talent side of the business into sales. Something I was hoping to do, only the other way around. She also mentioned she was dating a resident at UCLA Medical named Dr. Ericson. I didn’t recall his first name, but she said she was going to catch coffee with him right after our meeting. I remembered the name because I’d just started dating Eric and had plans to see him later that afternoon as well.
Beyond a Doubt Page 2