Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  Her anger showed in her cheeks as she set out to verbally abuse the cop. “So the man that thinks it was so noble of me to get the church started now wants me to play the role of a harlot. I might not be old and wise, but unlike most of the actresses I’ve met in this town, I know that you can’t have it both ways. There is no such thing as a kind of good girl. You are either good or you are bad.”

  “So,” he grumbled, “You’re not going to do what it takes to nab a killer. Your pride is worth more to you than the lives of other women. Is that because you think you’re better than them? Is that what this is all about? At least one of those young women who were strangled was a preacher’s daughter. She was just an innocent kid who won a contest and ended up spending the evening with Flynn Sparks. So don’t put yourself above her or any of the rest of those girls who died because a studio felt that protecting their prize property was more important than letting us arrest a perverted human being. I mean, this guy is going to continue to get away with murder for who knows how long. Isn’t that important to you?”

  Shelby crossed her arms and pushed her back against the booth. She didn’t need to be lectured. “Who else knows about this?” she demanded.

  “Just me and you,” he quickly replied.

  “So you haven’t told anyone at the station?”

  “No,” he assured her. “I didn’t want anyone to talk about you or think you were something you weren’t.”

  Her eyes aflame she quipped, “You mean that something you’re asking me to be.”

  He shook his head, “I’m not asking you to be that way. I’m asking you to act that way.”

  “And that’s the problem,” she explained, “This whole town is filled with people who act. They act so much they forget who they are. I didn’t come to Hollywood to lose myself.”

  “And I respect that,” he admitted. “But I also have to protect women who don’t have your grit and convictions. I have to protect them from a monster that is lurking out there and waiting to get them alone. Because let’s face it, most girls your age couldn’t resist a Cary Grant, Clark Gable, or Flynn Sparks.”

  “OK,” she sighed, “I give up. I’ll keep trying to get to the house. But, I ask you again, how are you going to feel if I’m the next victim?”

  Barrister went mute as he looked out the window and studied the traffic. A nearby radio played almost all of “Melody From the Sky” by the Jan Garber Orchestra before the cop finally turned back to face his unwilling accomplice. His eyes caught hers for just a moment before he reached into his coat and pulled out a .38 revolver.

  “Keep this in your purse. I hope you never have to use it. But if he attacks you, pull the trigger as many times as it takes until he stops breathing. Then call me.”

  She tentatively reached out and took the gun. As her fingers wrapped around it, she looked back at the cop as he sadly nodded. After she placed the deadly gift into her bag, he tossed a dime on the table, pushed away, and walked out the door.

  62

  July 16, 1936

  It was already past six, and the crew had been working since seven this morning. Everyone was tired and on edge. The fact the two lead actors weren’t speaking to each other off the set wasn’t helping matters. Likely due to the strained atmosphere coupled with the tight shooting schedule, Vic Melton had already exploded in rage three times during the day, and his red face indicated another volcanic eruption was on the way. Meanwhile, Dalton Andrews, his face placid and his manner relaxed, sat on the edge of his character’s desk and waited for instructions.

  “OK, people,” Melton barked, “Barrister has seen the ME, and he finally knows the identity of the first victim. He’s now back at his desk and the phone rings. We only hear him talk, not the party at the other end. Toward the end of the call, his partner walks in.” The director looked over to Sparks, “Have you read this part of the script?”

  “Only the part I’m involved in,” he replied. “I didn’t bother looking at anything that he says other than enough to recognize my cues. I mean, how hard is it? I’m playing a second banana who’s boring, dry, and clueless.”

  “Perfect casting,” Andrews chimed in.

  “Why you . . .” Only Melton stepping between the two men saved a fistfight from breaking out.

  “Whatever it is you two have going on, save it for after hours. Flynn, get out of the shot until I signal for you to come in.” He waited for the actor to move off the office set and then looked back to Andrews. “Dalton, you need to be behind the desk in the chair.”

  As the actor took his place, the director returned to his seat and signaled for action. A second later the desk phone rang, and Andrews, now immersed in his role as Barrister, picked up the receiver.

  “Barrister, homicide.” He pretended to listen for a short period of time before saying, “OK, what can you tell me about her background?” He waited again, “I see. And what do you know about the son?” As he paused again, Sparks, now in character as Barry Jenkins, casually entered the office. “OK, wait just a minute, I need to write that down.” Andrews picked up a pen and a notepad and scribbled on the paper. “Thanks. Along with what you told me this morning, this is good stuff. I appreciate it. If you ever need anything from me, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Slamming the receiver down, Andrews leapt from his chair. “Barry, we got a break.”

  “Who was that?” Sparks now in his role as Jenkins asked.

  “It was the police in Indiana.”

  “What do they have to do with anything?”

  “That’s right,” Andrews cut in, “you weren’t in the building this morning. Those bones we found in the section of brush, Arnie traced them to a missing woman from the Hoosier state. She was out here looking for a big payoff of some kind. My best guess is that it had to do with her son. You see, she’s never been married. But there’s a name of the father on the birth certificate. I figure she was coming out here to see him. He’s probably some successful guy who couldn’t afford to have his reputation ruined, so he killed her.”

  “Bill, if that’s the case, then how does it tie in with the others? Where’s the link?”

  “Maybe,” Andrews continued to recite his lines, “the guy discovered he liked the power that strangling a woman gave him. Perhaps like the drunk who has to have another drink, this guy now has to continue to get a fix through murder.”

  Sparks, playing his part of the dull-witted cop, asked, “What makes you think the father’s out here?”

  Andrews, showing the appropriate amount of excitement in his manner, explained, “Because I found out she doesn’t have any relatives or friends in California. She came out here looking for the father and expecting a payoff. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Andrews had just rattled off his lines when a light bulb popped and showered glass down on the set.

  “Cut.” Melton yelled. “And get that cleaned up and the light replaced.” He looked toward the two actors, “When we get this fixed, we can pick it up from where we left off. You both know the rest of your lines?”

  “I got mine down,” Andrews assured him.

  “I don’t have any more,” Sparks noted. “When Dalton finished his epic speech I was supposed to pull out a pad and pencil, pretend to write something down, and run out.”

  “Do you remember where you were?” the director asked.

  “We haven’t moved,” Andrews answered.

  “Glass is off the floor and the light is working again,” a crewman called out.

  “Let’s do it,” Melton suggested, as he hurriedly moved back to his chair. “Is everyone ready? Action.”

  “Barry, get out your pencil, I’ve got a name to give you. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care if it means interviewing a thousand men; we are going to find that child’s father.”

  Andrews paused for dramatic effect before saying, “William Hamilton.”

  Andrews watched as Sparks froze. Rather than pretend to write down the name on the pad, he
went ashen white. Confused, but still wanting to save the scene, Andrews ad-libbed, “You better write that name down, Barry. I think he might be the Hollywood Madman.”

  As if he’d been pinched, Sparks woke up, jotted down the name, turned, and rushed from the office. When he was out of the camera view, Melton yelled, “Cut.” The actor didn’t stop. He continued off the set and through the stage door leading to the main street.

  As Andrews eased down on the corner of the desk, Melton strolled over to him. “What was that all about?”

  The actor slipped his hat back on his head, “I don’t know. But something sure spooked him. Did anyone walk into the room that would have upset Flynn?”

  “No one came into the room at all,” Melton replied. He then looked back at the stunned crew, “That’s it for today; we start in the morning at eight. I need the actors here at seven for makeup and wardrobe.”

  63

  July 18, 1936

  Flynn Sparks was almost an hour late picking Shelby up for their date. Rather than coming to the door, he’d simply blown his horn as he drove up. As she opened her door and slid in, he forced a smile, backed the Auburn out of the drive, and pulled out into the street. She was shocked the normally fastidious man’s face was unshaven, pale and emotionless, and his dinner jacket wrinkled. Also surprising was that, other than when he ordered his meal at the Brown Derby, he remained as mute as a statue.

  As they waited for their order, Shelby looked around the room and made several observations. “I just spotted Barbara Stanwyck. Looks like Robert Taylor is at her table as well. Gable is here. I can’t understand what he sees in his wife. She’s much too old for him.” When Sparks failed to respond, she added, “This is the nicest outfit the studio had made for me, and you haven’t said a word about it.”

  “You look good in it,” he offered.

  “Close your eyes,” she demanded. “What color is it?”

  “Green,” he answered.

  “It’s burgundy,” she corrected him. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated,” he replied. “I’m not feeling well, and I haven’t slept much.”

  “Have you been drinking?” she asked.

  “A little.” He held his thumb and finger just about a half-inch apart.

  “When did you start?” Shelby demanded.

  “Last night,” he admitted. “I had a few at the charity gig at the race track and have been sipping the stuff in tiny doses since then. Errol Flynn swears this is good for whatever ails you. He and I swapped hard-luck stories for about three hours last night. That’s been the highlight of my week.”

  “Did your pity party make you feel better?” she asked.

  “He felt better,” Sparks admitted. “It didn’t help me much.”

  Shelby looked around until she saw their waiter and signaled for him to come over to their table. “Mr. Sparks is not feeling well. Does he have an account here?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Put the bill on his tab. I’m going to get him out to his car.” She looked over at her date. “Don’t argue with me. You and I are walking out of the restaurant, and I’m taking you home.”

  “We can’t do that,” he explained, “I’ll have to pay a big fine.”

  “I’ll explain to Mr. Yates,” Shelby countered, “that this was a humanitarian mission. I think he’ll let you off.”

  Though the actor walked steady and straight, he didn’t seem to be able to focus. When they got to the car, Shelby escorted him around to the passenger side, fished into his pocket for the keys, and then pushed him in. By the time she got to the driver’s side and had adjusted the seat, Sparks was sound asleep. He stayed that way as she wandered around the city streets until finally discovering the road leading up to Hollywood’s most famous bachelor pad. As she drove through the gate, she waved at a man sitting in a three-year-old Ford. He didn’t wave back. Once in the drive, she shut off the motor, set the brake, woke up her date, and pulled him of the car.

  “Which key?” she asked as she held the ring in front of his face.

  He pointed to the second one.

  She left him standing by the Auburn as she climbed four steps up to the front door. After slipping the key in, she opened it and glanced back toward Sparks. “Come on, you’ve always wanted me to see the view.”

  Seemingly a bit more alert, he walked up to the front door and stepped in. Sparks then turned around, looked at his guest and said, “Welcome to my lair. Let me take your hand, and I will give you the tour.”

  After pushing by him, she found a switch and brought a bit of light to the situation. With him following along behind, she went room to room until every lamp in the place was burning.

  “Let’s stay in here,” Sparks suggested. “My bed is really comfortable.”

  “Then,” Shelby suggested, “why don’t you go lie down on it, and I will join you later? I want to see the view first.”

  “Will do.” He announced with a salute.

  She then watched as he yanked off his coat and fell face first onto the wine-colored bedspread. She stood at the door and watched him for a minute, but he never moved. Sensing she had some time, she decided in the moment to start doing some police work.

  The home was impressive, the furnishings dark and ornate, and Sparks seemed to have a thing for mounted wild animal heads. They were everywhere. The art hanging on his walls and sitting on tables and dressers consisted of photos of himself from his various films. Except for some soured milk and three eggs, there was nothing in the refrigerator. The cabinets contained a lot more bottles of booze than cans or boxes of food. The place was void of fresh vegetables or fruit. There were also no surprises in his drawers or closets other than stacks of scrapbooks all filled with press clippings and articles on the home’s owner. He even kept the bad reviews.

  A mantle clock, with brass lion heads on both ends, announced the hour of nine. She’d spent an hour and a half searching and found nothing linking the star to the dead women. Now the only room left to search was where Sparks was sleeping.

  Throwing her purse over her shoulder, she crept down the hall to the master bedroom. The man, his eyes closed, was now lying on his back. He breathing was steady.

  “Flynn,” she whispered.

  He didn’t move.

  Sensing she was safe if she worked quietly, she moved over to his walk-in closet. Lined with cherry wood, it was a dozen feet deep. It took only a few minutes to find there was nothing out of the ordinary there. So, she stepped back out in the room. Sparks had not moved.

  Moving past the walnut bed, she walked over to a huge chest. There were nine drawers. The first contained underwear. The second socks. The third was ties. The next one was filled with undershirts. The fifth contained sweaters. The sixth was home to hundreds of fan letters. The seventh was filled with matchbooks from hundreds of different clubs and restaurants. None of them were alike. She looked back toward the bed to assure herself that the man was still sleeping before she pulled open the eighth drawer.

  Jackpot! Barrister would like this. A beaded purse sat on top of a stack of women’s lingerie and five handkerchiefs. Each of the hankies was monogrammed, and none of the initials were the same. Sensing the handbag was the big prize, Shelby pulled out the small purse and undid the clasp. Reaching in, she retrieved a wallet. She slowly opened it. The driver’s license read, “Leslie Bryant.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  64

  July 18, 1936

  Shelby dropped the purse back into the drawer and slowly rose to her feet. After standing, she looked into the mirror and noted Flynn Sparks standing behind her.

  “It’s not what you think,” she explained.

  “Oh,” he quipped, “let me guess, you are really a thief. I saw this in a William Powell movie once. You came up here to rob me. It’s what you do. You seduce actors and then, as we sleep, you turn into a master criminal. Have you found the good silver yet?”

  She slow
ly turned to face him. As their eyes met, she shrugged, and said, “You caught me.”

  “Actually,” he replied, “I didn’t. You’re not a thief, and I haven’t been drunk. In fact, I haven’t had a thing to drink this whole week.”

  “You set me up?”

  “I haven’t been asleep,” he admitted, “I figured out that you were trying too hard to get to my house. You really didn’t want to be with me, you just wanted me to believe that. I’m not stupid enough to think you’d suddenly changed that much. You need to give me more credit.”

  “Maybe I have changed,” she suggested. “I mean, you are a good-looking man. There are a lot of good girls who’d go bad for you.”

  He looked toward the door, “You’re here. You might as well see the view. Let’s go.”

  His tone indicated it was not a request, but an order. She glanced to the hall and took a deep breath. Finally, she asked, “Do I lead the way?”

  “You’ve been all through this house,” he quipped, “you likely know it better than I do. Of course, you’re going to lead the way.”

  Shelby nodded, stepped past the man, walked down the hall, through the living room and to the double French doors. After snapping the lock, she pushed the entry open and strolled out on the stone patio. He followed.

  The view was all he’d advertised it to be. She felt like she could see forever. The fact there was no moon made the city lights and twinkling stars seem that much brighter. She only got to study them for a second before he grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the stone wall separating the patio and the dropoff.

  “Take a look down,” he suggested. “You can’t see it at night, but there are rocks at the bottom of the hill. They tell me the drop is about two hundred feet.” He pushed her closer to the edge. “I got this place cheap. You know why?”

  As his right hand kept pressure on the middle of her back, her legs pressed into the wall. Taking a deep breath to slow her heart, she asked, “Why was it such a bargain?”