The Last Embrace

by Denise Hamilton

  “You should maybe sit down, miss,” the Romanian man said.

  He wore a woolen vest over a threadbare white shirt with long sleeves, and through the cloth Lily saw the outline of ghostly blue numbers on his forearm. You never really left the past behind, she thought. It lurked under a fraying shirt, in the guttural inflection of a voice, the face of a dead girl on cheap newsprint.

  “I think I know her,” Lily said.

  The man regarded her impassively. “Then you must go to police.”

  “How do I get there?”

  Forty minutes later, Lily sat in a bare room downtown, explaining what she knew to two detectives from the Central Homicide Bureau.

  Magruder was built like a pickle barrel, with red braces and a tough glint in his eye, tapping cigar ash into a cupped hand as he talked. Pico was younger and loose-limbed, with a long classic nose, hazel eyes framed by long black lashes, and hair so stiff with Brylcreem you could see the toothmarks where he’d dragged the comb.

  “I already told you I never met her,” Lily said patiently. She knew from experience that they needed to verify her story, but she didn’t like the way their eyes roved up and down her body, especially the older cop’s. They’d insist they were watching for signs that she was lying or nervous, guilty in some way, but she knew better.

  “Kind of beats all, don’t it? You strolling in here, offering to identify the body of a girl you never even met, convinced it’s this missing”—Pico checked his notes—“Kitty Hayden.”

  His skin was tawny, sun-kissed by the climate, and he moved with the easy grace of an athlete. Lily was used to the pallor of northern Europe, the bundling greatcoats and endless drizzle. The only thing these detectives shared with the agency men she’d known in Europe was their lazy arrogance. Some kind of yearning must have suffused her face, because Pico stepped back, eyes suddenly flat and wary.

  “How do we know you’re not a nutcase?” he asked. “Or one of those Looky Lous.”

  Lily felt exasperated. “I’m here because I promised Mrs. Croggan I’d track down her daughter.”

  Lily opened her purse and pulled a small photo out of her wallet. “She gave me a recent picture, so here, check it yourself.” She placed the head shot of the smiling starlet next to the newspaper photo. The air around her tightened and the men grew still and watchful. Finally, she had their attention.

  “And one more thing. Mrs. Croggan told me Doreen had a brown mole in the shape of a teardrop under her left breast. That should allow you to make a positive identification. There are always fingerprints, of course, but unless she’s been convicted of a crime, it’s unlikely her prints would be on record anywhere.”

  The detectives’ eyes spiraled in surprise. Pico cleared his throat. “Miss Kessler, do you have a background in law enforcement? You seem to know somewhat more than the average—”

  “Civilian dame,” Magruder interjected.

  Who’d believe it anyway? Lily thought. Turning down the corners of her mouth, she stared at the floor as if trying not to cry. To her surprise, real tears welled.

  “My fiancé was in military intelligence,” she said, “so I picked up a few things here and there. He died serving his country. Kitty was his sister.”

  The detectives shot each other a look and murmured their condolences. Lily knew they had pegged her as just another uppity ex-WAVE or WAC who’d picked up a hotshot boyfriend during the war and some fancy lingo to go along with it.

  It is entirely in my interest for you to underestimate me, she thought.

  Five minutes later, they escorted her through the warrens of the LAPD headquarters and to the county morgue, where Magruder asked to see Jane Doe #15.

  Outside the door, he turned to her.

  “Brace yourself, Miss Kessler. It’s not all nice and pretty like at a funeral parlor.”

  Lily had seen bodies blown apart by bombs and emaciated corpses in striped uniforms piled like firewood. In a Dresden alley, she’d seen a rat nibble a dead man’s toes that protruded from boots held together by twine.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  A blast of refrigerator air hit them. The stench of ammonia mingled with decaying meat. The medical examiner was prepping for the autopsy, a cigarette clasped between his lips to ward off the worst of the smell. When he pulled the sheet back, Lily took an involuntary breath.

  Seeing her in the flesh, she was struck by the desecration of such beauty and the undeniable similarity to Joseph. The detectives took turns comparing the photo with the body before them. Then Magruder explained about the birthmark and the coroner nodded and sliced down the front of the girl’s suit, pulling the fabric apart with his hands. Another slice and the brassiere gave way, releasing two creamy white breasts that flopped to either side. Lily saw the mole right away. From the corner of her eye, she saw Magruder ogling. She turned away, hand covering her mouth, and the men gave her a wide berth, sure that she was about to get sick. Instead, a sob welled up in Lily’s throat as she said, “It’s her, all right.”

  Lily declined the detectives’ offers to call a cab, insisting she was fine, and could take the streetcar. The morgue smell clung to her nostrils, refusing to dissipate even after she was back at the boardinghouse. No one was around. She set her stack of newspapers on the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. This wasn’t some anonymous cadaver, but Joseph’s baby sister. Slowly, Lily’s horror darkened to outrage. Who had done this? What possible motive could there be? She thought about Mrs. Croggan sitting on her couch as the police broke the news to her, the handkerchief bunched and twisting in her hand. It was too much for any mother to bear. First Joseph, now Kitty. Both her children gone in less than one year. She had to call Illinois, but first she needed to calm down and get all the facts.

  After checking that all the doors were locked, Lily put the kettle on for tea and forced herself to read the newspapers, struck with distaste by the nickname Scarlet Sandal, as if Kitty weren’t a human being anymore, but a piece of titillating footwear. The body, which showed significant decomposition, had been found below the Hollywood sign by a man walking his dog. Kitty had been wearing a suit and one red high-heeled sandal. The other shoe and her purse were missing. There was no obvious sign of sexual violation.

  Lily found herself distracted by a bluebottle fly that kept kamikazeing into the window. A foreign word, strange and harsh on the tongue, that had become part of a new lexicon of horror during the war. Lily imagined Kitty flinging herself against her attacker. Praying that someone would hear her screams and come to her aid. When the kettle whistled, she jumped.

  She’d been lulled because Los Angeles was prosperous and peaceful and didn’t look dangerous. It was like a brash, self-absorbed adolescent, tripping over its own ungainly feet. Yet evil lurked here too. It wore a mask to disguise its appetites and walked in shadow. Do not be deceived by the glittery surfaces of things, Lily reminded herself.

  A half hour later, Lily said into the receiver, “Mrs. Croggan, I…it’s about Doreen…I know the police—”

  “We know,” Mrs. Croggan said in a faraway voice. Lily heard muted voices in the background and was relieved that the woman wasn’t alone.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Is it being carried on the radio, then?” Mrs. Croggan asked with glassy calm.

  “And in the newspapers. That’s how I found out. I went down to the police station and—”

  “A famous actress like her. Of course it would be.” And then Mrs. Croggan began to weep. “My poor baby. I should have never let her go.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped her, Mrs. Croggan. It was what she wanted.”

  “Thank you for helping to identify her,” Mrs. Croggan said politely. “It must have been horrible for you…”

  “It was the least I could—”

  “Will you arrange to have Doreen shipped home for a proper funeral?”

  “I don’t know if I can. It’s been several days. The body…”

  “They have refri
gerated cargo.” Mrs. Croggan’s voice was barely audible. “Mr. and Mrs. Pettit are here, from across the street, and our minister, and he says—”

  “The coroner has to finish the autopsy. And I don’t know if—”

  “You’ll try, though, won’t you, Lily?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lily grew distracted as Red walked in, wearing a look of shocked disbelief.

  “Are you at the house now?” Mrs. Croggan asked. “Is it a nice place, where my Doreen lived?”

  Lily thought of the tiny room with its peeling paint, Mrs. Potter with her strange eyes, and Kitty’s roommates meting out friendship and casual cruelty, silky and competitive as cats.

  “It’s homey and cheerful, and in a good part of town.” Lily stared at Red. “And all the other girls at the boardinghouse loved her like a sister.”

  A strange look flashed across Red’s face. She turned and fled.

  “You tell those detectives she was a good girl, hear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Croggan.”

  “She didn’t run with bad company. She worked hard. She wanted to make a name for herself, on talent.”

  “She had plenty of it.”

  “If only the police had done more when I first called, Doreen might still be alive.”

  “She’s with the angels in heaven now.” Lily didn’t know if she believed this, but it felt like the right thing to say.

  “That’s what my minister says. Oh, why did I ever let her go?”

  “I swear to you, Mrs. Croggan, I’m going to track down the animal who did this.”

  “Will you work with the police?”

  “I’ll try,” Lily said diplomatically, but she knew they’d laugh her out the door if she suggested it.

  “Please don’t do anything rash…or illegal,” Mrs. Croggan said. “If Joseph were alive, he’d be out there, asking questions. It’s no job for a young girl.”

  Lily realized she was shaking. “But Joseph’s not here,” she told the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. “There’s only me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Potter called as she knocked. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had terrible news.”

  “I know,” Lily said through the closed bedroom door, drying her hair. Even though it was four in the afternoon, she’d taken a bath. It was the only way to get rid of the morgue smell.

  “Well, hon, my heart goes out to you, but there’s some detectives here to see you and search the room. I took the liberty of bringing them upstairs.”

  Lily dashed on makeup, molded her damp hair into waves, donned a skirt and blouse. Put on earrings, her watch. Finally, she flung open the door. Pico and Magruder walked in, their eyes already scanning the room.

  “I’d ask you to sit down,” Lily said, “but as you can see…” She spread her hands.

  Magruder merely grunted and asked if she’d tidied up or thrown anything away.

  Lily said she hadn’t, but added pointedly that five days had already elapsed since Kitty’s roommates first reported her missing. “I don’t think the police took it seriously. They poked around and left.”

  Pico’s lip curled, his eyes pensive in the moment before he looked away. Magruder’s small, humorless eyes drilled into her and he said, “Do you have any idea how many young women come here from all over the world and disappear into the wilds of Hollywood?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he launched into a speech so canned he couldn’t even feign earnestness anymore. “The vast majority turn up alive, and each one’s got her own reasons for not being found. They’re running from parents. Husbands. Boyfriends. Brats and bad reputations. They come to reinvent themselves, start new lives. And contrary to what the public may think, the LAPD is not a human fetch-and-retrieve service. Unless there’s evidence of foul play or reason to suspect a crime’s occurred, we don’t get involved. Which is why Mrs. Croggan’s calls to the Hollywood station got the response they did. But we’re Homicide. This is a whole different ball game.”

  “Now that it’s too late,” Lily pointed out.

  “Why don’t you go downstairs and have some coffee, calm your nerves,” Pico said. “The Crime Lab boys’ll be here any minute and they’ll turn the place upside down, dusting for prints, looking for blood residue.”

  Lily felt her heart flip over. “You think it happened here?”

  Pico crossed his arms and made a disparaging noise.

  “It’s all part of our investigation,” Magruder said. “Maybe the killer knew her. Maybe he left a pack of matches we can trace back to a bar he frequents. Maybe his dog shed on his sports jacket and we’ll match those to hairs found on the deceased. You’d be surprised at what we can do these days.”

  “Mrs. Croggan would like the body shipped home to Champaign for burial,” Lily said. “Do you know when the autopsy might be complete?”

  Magruder checked his notes. “She gave us permission to release the body to you,” he said. “But the coroner’ll need to run tests. With an open investigation, we’ll want to keep the body on hand.”

  Lily cleared her throat. “What tests?”

  “That’s police business.”

  “Did the medical examiner confirm how she died?”

  “Death by ligature,” Pico said. “She was strangled.”

  “Dear God.” Lily closed her eyes and prayed they’d catch Kitty’s killer soon so Mrs. Croggan could bury her daughter. “I’ll let the mother know.”

  “She knows,” Magruder said.

  Lily noticed Pico bending over the ashtray on the vanity table.

  “Did Miss Hayden smoke?” He held it up.

  “I keep telling you we never met,” Lily said. “Her roommates will know.”

  “You can bet we’re going to talk to them,” Magruder boomed. “Boarders, neighbors, boyfriends, studio people. Everyone she ever batted an eyelash at. We’ll research her life, her troubles, her finances. We’ll reconstruct what she did and who she saw the day she disappeared. Maybe she was careless about the company she kept.”

  Pico was behind her, just out of range of the vanity mirror. The skin along Lily’s back rippled. He was watching her. She moved to catch his reflection, but he glided back out of sight.

  “…and if you think of anything after we’re gone,” Magruder was saying, “pick up the phone.” He scribbled the number. “Day or night, someone’s there. Now. Do you know if she kept an appointment book? A diary? An address book?”

  Lily waved her hand. “You’re welcome to check. Did Mrs. Potter tell you that a man from RKO came by a few days ago, asking questions and looking through her room?”

  “Clarence Fletcher,” Pico said. “We intend to talk to him.”

  Magruder gave a sudden belch. “Excuse me.” He swabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Big lunch today with the Culver City chief of police.”

  “Culver City,” Lily said. “Isn’t that where RKO is?”

  Where Kitty had worked?

  A foxy expression lit up Pico’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Magruder said with a hearty laugh. “And also Metro and Monogram and Vanguard. It’s quite a movie town and they’ve got their hands full with those unruly stars.”

  He shifted, and she felt suddenly how big and out of scale he looked in Kitty’s turret room.

  “Especially the ones who date gangsters,” Lily said offhandedly.

  Magruder was at her side in an instant.

  “What have you heard?” he asked in a menacing tone.

  She gave him an innocent look. “Weren’t all the actresses crazy for Bugsy Siegel?”

  “Bugsy Siegel was shot to death in his Beverly Hills living room two years ago. His killer was never caught. What’s that got to do with Kitty Hayden?”

  “Maybe she liked the fast life too, and it caught up with her. I’m sure Kitty’s roommates can tell you whether she knew any gangsters.”

  “Thanks for the job tip,” Magruder said sourly.

  He scowled and flipped open Kitty�
��s portfolio, scrutinizing each photo—modeling jobs and studio stills—the sultry poses in evening gowns, then shorts and a straw hat, bathing-suit cheesecake.

  “I hope you interview Mrs. Potter too,” Lily said, flashing to the landlady’s odd demeanor when they’d met, her suggestion that a room might come available. As if she knew.

  Magruder guffawed. “Mrs. Potter and the department go way back, Miss Kessler,” he said. “As for the girls, I’m gonna sic Pico on ’em. He’s got a way with the ladies. They call us Beauty and the Beast, don’t they, Pico?”

  Detective Pico leaned against the windowsill and crossed his lanky legs in a slow and deliberate fashion. A red flush stained his throat, crept up his jawbone. Something told her it was anger, not embarrassment. She felt a strange desire to goad him, to see the two cops come to blows. She smelled spilled beer, peanuts, rubber mats, bloodlust, the roar of the crowd. She blinked and was back in the room.

  “Miss Kessler is too smart to be seduced by the surface of things,” Pico said.

  Car tires squealed out front. Magruder walked to the window.

  “Here come the boys now.” He turned to Pico. “Let’s meet up at the Boulevard substation. And now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got a murderer to catch.”

  He tipped his hat and slipped out.

  With Magruder’s departure, the room seemed to expand. Lily hadn’t liked the bull-necked detective, found him condescending and full of false heartiness. She disliked Pico for different reasons. His arrogance, cynicism. But mostly, the unnerving sense she’d gotten, back at the station, that he’d instantly disliked her. Still, she was used to law enforcement types and their games. The jaded older one who didn’t take anything seriously and his intense young partner who never lightened up.

  “What did your partner mean by that crack about Mrs. Potter?” Lily asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  Again that tone that suggested he was throwing down a gauntlet. She walked to the window, watched the LAPD men unload metal boxes out of a van. Pico followed her, shadowing her, mimicking her movements. She wished he wouldn’t stand so close.