Alive!

by Loren D. Estleman

  The flat voice called out. In that echoing place there was no telling from which direction it came. “What?”

  “He’s bugged!”

  “Wired?”

  “Cell.” He told him the rest.

  A vile curse, without inflection. “Shoo him down here.”

  Valentino turned back down the corridor without waiting to be ordered. He stiffened for another blow, but it didn’t come. Instead he heard a wheezy grunt. The small effort of stooping to pick up the briefcase would tax that damaged throat and his respiratory function. Something prodded Valentino’s kidney— Wirtz’s favorite spot for persuasion, it seemed—and he started forward with the man’s feet scraping the floor behind.

  They passed the scene of Alien’s bloody birth, George Romero’s zombies, the shower scene from Psycho. Now he heard snatches of conversation, too low to follow, punctuated at unpredictable intervals by hissing pops like short bursts of steam escaping a leaky valve. After a few more yards a bored mechanical voice, vaguely female, said, “Seven-fourteen, what’s your twenty?” Another pop. Then: “Sherman and Sepulveda.” A male voice, just as mechanical.

  The police band. Valentino felt a fear he had never known watching the movies that had inspired the exhibits. He hadn’t once thought the killers might have brought along a scanner. They would know the police were on their way long before rescue arrived.

  He stopped. They had entered a series of tableaus devoted to the horror films of Roger Corman. Figures—he couldn’t tell how many—stood in the shadow of the wall enclosing The Masque of the Red Death. The fact that they were not on a platform told him they weren’t made of wax.

  Something moved in the shadow and Pudge Pollard came out into the light, gripping a handgun similar to his partner’s. In his other hand he held the handle of a portable radio receiver, which was silent now between transmissions. Even L.A. had its quiet nights.

  “Dumb move, pal,” Pollard said. “Amateur’s mistake. Who’d you call?”

  He saw no advantage in lying. “A friend. We have fifteen minutes before he calls the police.”

  “We’ll know when he does.” Pollard set the scanner on the edge of the platform. “Okay, Dickey. Check out the case.”

  Wirtz moved back into his line of sight, stuck his gun into his underarm holster, and rummaged around inside the briefcase until he brought out one of the flat cans. He held it out to Pollard, who took it but barely glanced at it. “Okay, guy,” said the flat voice. “You know what to look for.”

  The shadow shifted again and J. Arthur Greenwood came forward. Valentino froze, as motionless as Vincent Price in his scarlet robe. The aged collector looked distinctly uncomfortable among cinematic displays that did not belong to him.

  **

  CHAPTER

  22

  THE RETIRED PUBLISHER of Horrorwood wore a mohair suit tailored to his burly frame and a Tyrolean hat perched at an angle whose gaiety did not extend to his expression. His black-tinted hair and pencil moustache looked even more artificial against the gray of his face. He looked nervous, and not at all as a connoisseur of fantasy memorabilia should look when he was within arm’s reach of the gem of any modern collection.

  Valentino found his voice at last. “You?”

  Greenwood shook his head, and went on shaking it as if he suffered from palsy. It moved like the safety plug on a pressure cooker coming to full steam.

  Pollard chuckled again. “Get real, pal. He almost wet himself when we dropped in on him. He’s just here to get a look at the goods.” He extended the can to Greenwood without taking his eyes or his gun off the archivist.

  “One moment, please.” The octogenarian’s head stopped shaking. He tucked his cane under one arm, drew a pair of surgical gloves from one of the flap pockets of his coat, and wriggled his fingers into them.

  Wirtz snorted. “Pansy.”

  Greenwood paid him no attention. His nerves appeared to have settled as he went through the familiar process of authentication. When he had the can in hand he fumbled with the seam, but got it open finally and removed the reel from inside. He set the can on the floor, puffing as he straightened, unspooled two feet of film, and held it up so the overhead light shone through the frames. His breathing quickened; Valentino knew that sensation. At length he rerolled the film and nodded.

  “Okay. Let’s have the other, Dickey.”

  A new voice came from the shadows. “That won’t be necessary. I know a bit about these people. They’d rather forego an item than break up a set. Thank you, Mr. Greenwood.”

  The collector hesitated in the midst of returning the reel to its container. “You won’t forget our agreement.”

  “You’ll be the sole bidder. Just remember your part of it.”

  “Of course, although it’s a shame I can’t show it off.”

  “After the grand jury’s no longer in session and things settle down, you may show it to whomever you like.”

  “I hope I live that long.”

  “You won’t if you don’t hold up your end.”

  Distractedly, Valentino watched Greenwood return the can to Pollard, who had to tug a little to free it from his hand, and walk up the corridor toward the entrance, his cane and handmade shoes tapping the floor hastily (undoubtedly it was the only time he’d moved that fast away from an acquisition). The voice in shadow was maddeningly familiar, but the archivist had met so many new people in the course of this affair he failed to place it in the crowd. Mike Grundage? No, and that astonished him. If he’d come here knowing nothing else, he’d been sure of whom he was coming to meet.

  The scanner crackled. Time stood still, but it was a routine report of a minor accident. Incredibly, it seemed, only a fraction of the fifteen minutes had elapsed.

  “I wish you could follow orders as well as you follow a trail,” said the voice. “Still, we’re almost finished here.” As he spoke, he came out into the light. Horace Lysander, Mike Grundage’s attorney, had dressed for the occasion, in a dark suit over a midnight-blue shirt with tie to match.

  Valentino’s breath caught. Then he nodded. “It makes sense. You knew Craig Hunter had stolen the film, and that I was the only likely person he’d entrust it to for safekeeping. That’s what he called me about the night he was killed, to tell me to expect it. He knew Grundage wouldn’t touch him as long as the film was somewhere his gorillas couldn’t lay hands on it.”

  “He was always safe from Mike. My clients aren’t such dumb clucks they’d risk being charged with murder in the middle of a racketeering investigation. Hunter thought he was meeting with Mike, to get him to bid against Greenwood for something that already belonged to his family. That’s what I wanted him to think, when he called me from his ex-wife’s home. I didn’t hang up on him; but you’ve guessed that by now.”

  Another transmission came over the air: a two-man team of officers breaking for lunch.

  “Are you saying Grundage knows nothing about tonight?”

  “He knows almost nothing, period. He directed me to handle Hunter as I saw fit. I suppose he meant legally, but I sent Pollard and Wirtz to meet Hunter at the Grotto instead. He must have spotted them for what they were while they were waiting for the crowd to thin out, and that’s when he called you.”

  “You admit you hired these goons to beat Craig to death and break his arms so you could pin it on your client.”

  “Elizabeth Grundage was my client long before Mike was. She still is. I’d do anything to protect her privacy and spare her the kind of attention that comes with dredging up her late husband’s dirty dealings.”

  “How would framing her son for murder manage that?”

  “She’s had very little to do with him for years. Without that film as evidence, the press will never connect her with the case.” A bitter smile passed across his well-fed countenance. “I’m afraid I underestimated Hunter when I advised Elizabeth against doing business with him. He sealed his own fate when he went so far as
to steal the film. I had no choice but to bring in the professionals.”

  “Why didn’t you have my arms broken at the Oracle?”

  “You needed them to carry the reels. I borrowed these fellows from Mike, not that he’s aware of it. He never got them off a murder charge in open court. Isn’t that right, Pudge?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Valentino understood then. “So it’s true love, you and Elizabeth Grundage.”

  “More like respect. I wish it were more, but she’s made it clear she values our friendship too much to jeopardize it with a romantic relationship.” His smile turned sad. “One takes what one can get.”

  “Including, no doubt, a cut of the action when Greenwood buys the film.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I’m one of the highest-paid lawyers in private practice. My beach house in Malibu cost more than those reels will ever bring at auction. I only wanted them to keep from surfacing and causing Elizabeth unnecessary embarrassment. My second mistake was having your apartment searched before they came into your possession. I guessed that much afterwards, and confirmed it when Pollard called you tonight and you let slip that you had them.”

  “They didn’t just search my apartment. They caught a colleague of mine doing the same thing and threw her downstairs.”

  “That was unfortunate, but she shouldn’t have put herself in that position. In any case, I made up for that miscalculation when I used the film to enlist Greenwood’s cooperation. In addition to authenticating it, he arranged this venue through his connections with the owners. They’re under the impression he’s hosting a private party, and we can make our exchange undisturbed. That, at least, was the plan.”

  As if it were timed, a call came onto the scanner from the bored-sounding female dispatcher. “All units in the vicinity, proceed to sixty-seven-sixty-seven Hollywood Boulevard. Possible hostage situation.”

  The archivist knew the address as well as his own. He was standing in the middle of it.

  “I’m afraid that’s your exit cue, Mr. Valentino.” Lysander jerked his chin at Pollard and Wirtz, who spread their feet in target stance, Wirtz retrieving his weapon from his holster.

  “Wait! What have you done with Lorna?”

  “One moment, gentlemen.” The attorney turned and walked a few feet to the nearest wall. Something clicked and a series of fluorescent lights that had been left off flickered into life, illuminating another exhibit.

  Valentino recognized the dungeon set from The Pit and the Pendulum, another of Corman’s garish tributes to the works of Edgar Allan Poe. The painters and carpenters were every bit as talented as the craftsmen who shaped the wax figures. The walls looked realistically of ancient stone, streaked with white mold, and a drop of ruby-colored blood on the razor-sharp axe suspended above the victim’s pallet appeared to tremble on the verge of falling. But in place of a lifeless effigy, Lorna Hunter lay spreadeagle, bound with leather straps and gagged with duct tape. Apart from that she was naked. Her eyes were wide open and rolling with terror.

  “There wasn’t time for her to dress,” Lysander said. “Her kimono came off in the struggle.”

  “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “Hardly nothing. She brought you here. The blade is plywood, I’m sorry to say. Ordinary bullets will have to do.”

  “This isn’t necessary. Teddie Goodman has a chance. You can plead that down to simple assault. Craig Hunter was a has-been, who’d have drunk himself to death sooner or later, or died of an overdose. You of all people know what a smart lawyer can do with motives like love and loyalty. Two cold-blooded murders on top of his would put you in prison for life or worse.”

  “Why me? A pair of corpses with arms broken above the elbows points squarely at Mike Grundage. He had Hunter killed for welshing on his gambling debts, and his ex-wife and best friend for playing Dick Tracy. Those missing reels were never reported. You didn’t, or they’d be in police custody. Without them as evidence, Elizabeth’s name need never appear.”

  “You don’t have time to kill us both and get away!” He strained his ears hard for the sound of sirens.

  Lysander shook his head. “Greenwood’s role was serendipitous. He shared a secret known only to himself and the owners of the museum, a hidden escape route only yards away from this spot. It leads through the storm drains, a feature built into the structure in case a major earthquake sealed all the other exits. But it’s useless if I waste any more time delivering my summation to the jury.”

  Pollard and Wirtz thumbed back the hammers of their pistols.

  At the opposite end of the corridor, something crashed, and pieces of it rattled on the polished linoleum of the floor, sounding as hollow as plastic pipe. One of them came tumbling their way down the middle of the corridor: Lon Chaney, Sr.’s grinning skeletal head from the original 1925 Phantom of the Opera. Dickey Wirtz pivoted that way and fired. The head flew into a hundred pieces.

  The echo of the report rang off the walls and deadened Valentino’s hearing. He, too, had turned in the direction of the disturbance, and saw a ragtag army charging his way in eerie silence, dressed anything but uniform in high silk hats, stiff bowlers, tailcoats, riding boots, and one ivory-lace evening dress with the train slung over one tattooed arm, exposing a pair of galloping legs in laddered hose; the person wearing it raised something shiny to her lips, and then a screeching whistle shattered his deafness.

  “They have guns!” he shouted, lunging and bumping up Pudge Pollard’s arm just as he jerked the trigger. Another shot clapped his ears shut and a shower of plaster came down between them. Then something grazed his ribs and he was sure Wirtz had shot him, but then he saw a brass-knobbed walking stick he’d seen before go bouncing down the corridor and spotted the wheezy-voiced thug gripping the elbow of his gun arm, his lips forming curses that were lost in the aftermath of Pollard’s blast: The stick’s owner had hurled it at Wirtz, disarming him when it connected. It had then glanced off Valentino.

  But rescue was still steps away. Valentino looked around frantically for Wirtz’s gun. He saw it on the floor and dived for it, but just then the white light burst in the same spot in his head where he’d been hit before, a split second before he identified the heel of Pollard’s shoe coming his way. The blow left him conscious, but unable to react physically as the man, evaluating his targets, spurned him and swung his gun around toward Lorna, who was struggling helplessly with her bonds on the exhibit platform.

  A shadow intervened, albeit one with substance; Jason Stickley, charging past Valentino, slashing right and left with his top hat at Pollard’s head and upper body, laying open his face and scalp with the toothy brass and steel gears attached to the crown and sending the pistol flying.

  Valentino wheeled toward Wirtz, but saw things were in hand there as well, with two steampunks pinioning his arms and Whistler’s Daughter blasting her whistle sadistically in his face. Valentino’s ears popped again. He heard the sirens at last and Horace Lysander’s footsteps slapping the floor, no doubt in the direction of the secret escape route.

  **

  IV

  HARNESS THE

  LIGHTNING

  **

  CHAPTER

  23

  “I WONDER ABOUT us,” Harriet said. “I do.”

  Valentino sat absolutely still on the edge of the examining table, feeling only the slight tug as the resident stitched up the gash in his temple. The local anesthetic had kicked in. But he’d have felt numb regardless.

  The doctor looked ten years his junior. Sometime during that endless night he seemed to have passed the point where physicians and police officers had surrendered the role of elder statesmen.

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to say I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s not the magic word your mother told you it is.” Harriet was gazing at an anatomical chart on the wall opposite her, not at Valentino. It wouldn’t be the surgical operation she found
difficult to watch; she’d attended more autopsies and visited more crime scenes than he’d ever heard about. “It implies you won’t do it again, but that’s not the truth, is it?”

  They were in the emergency unit at Cedars Sinai Hospital (formerly Cedars of Lebanon, although longtime Angelinos still called it by its original name). She was wearing the same rumpled traveling clothes she’d worn on the flight from Seattle, not looking rumpled at all inside them; just chillingly resolute. Incredibly, the calendar date was still the same as when she’d arrived.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I’ll do my job and let the police do theirs.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before. You’ve gotten so accustomed to withholding information to get what you’re after, your first instinct in answer to every question is to lie. You can’t build anything on that, especially a relationship.”