Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  He laughed coldly, “Because the two previous owners jumped to their deaths. People now believe this place is haunted. They tell me it’s hard to sell a haunted house.”

  He let his hand slide from her back and stepped beside her. “On dark nights like tonight, no one can ever see us. It’s as if we are invisible.” He took a deep breath before demanding, “Are you working for Yates? Is he paying you to get the goods on me?”

  “No,” she quietly assured him. “No one is paying me anything.”

  “Then why search my house?” he growled.

  “I’m curious,” she replied.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he jibed.

  Shelby nodded, “I’ve also heard that cats have nine lives. I believe that means I still have eight more to go.”

  “I don’t know what your game is,” he admitted, “but you now know about my souvenirs. I can’t let you tell others about them. They would think things I can’t afford to have them think.”

  Shelby nodded and slowly slipped her right hand down to her purse and undid the clasp. As it was so dark, she was banking on him not being able to see her actions. When her fingers felt the cold steel, she pushed her hand around it, took a deep breath and yanked the gun out. Before he could move, she aimed the short barrel at his gut.

  “You came prepared,” he noted, a hint of admiration in his tone. “Is it real, or did you borrow it from the prop department?”

  “I can assure you it’s real.” Her hand was shaking even more than her knees as she waited for his next move.

  He stared into her face rather than at the gun. “You left the keys to the Auburn on the table next to the front door. You can drive yourself home. I’ll pick it up the next time I’m at the studio.”

  “Don’t you want to tell me anything else?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Now just get out of here before anything else happens.”

  Shelby backed across the patio until she felt the back of the door with her hand. Slipping through it, she ran down the hall, only stopping long enough to pick up the keys. Racing out the front door and down the steps, she hopped into the car, jammed the keys into the ignition, and flipped the switch. When the V-12 roared to life, she pushed the vehicle into first and made a U-turn in the wide drive. She didn’t breathe easy until she was home with the door locked.

  65

  July 18, 1936

  After watching Shelby drive away in his car, Flynn Sparks slowly wandered back to the bedroom to look at the final drawer the woman opened. Pulling it out, he returned to the living room and dumped its contents on the couch. He stood and despondently studied the collection for several minutes. Finally reaching down, he picked up a lace handkerchief and traced the initials S.R. before tossing it in the fireplace. He repeated that act until all that was left was Leslie Bryant’s purse.

  Sitting down on the couch he spent almost a half hour examining everything in the small, beaded handbag. He looked through her photographs, opened her lipstick, and even counted the money in her wallet. Finally, after taking a deep breath, he put everything back into the purse and pitched it into the fireplace with his other souvenirs.

  Pushing off the couch, he wandered into the kitchen and opened a drawer beside the stove. Grabbing a four-inch long box, he retraced his steps to the fireplace. After opening the flue, he slid the box open, pulled out a kitchen match, and closed the box. Just to his right was a copy of today’s Times. He retrieved it from the coffee table, glanced at the photo of Shelby and him that Ellen Rains had used in her column, before striking the match against the box. He looked momentarily at the flame before holding the match to the newspaper. When the paper caught fire, he stuck it in the fireplace and set the cache of collectibles aflame. Sensing that he would need more fuel to accomplish his mission, he grabbed several magazines and added them to what would soon become a small blaze. Moving back to an overstuffed chair, he watched the fire until it finally burned out.

  Getting up, Sparks grabbed the shovel and broom from his fireplace tools and began the clean up. After dumping all that was left into an ash can, he slowly walked out onto his patio and over to the wall. He took in the view as he turned the can over and let the slight breeze spread the ashes all over the canyon below. When the job was finished, he returned to the living room, closed the flue, and took the matches back to the kitchen. After turning out the lights and locking the door, the actor marched resolutely back to his bedroom. Within fifteen minutes, he was asleep.

  66

  July 19, 1936

  Shelby didn’t wait for her parents to get ready for the Galaxy Studio church services. Wanting to rid herself of the last vestige of her encounter with Flynn Sparks, the young woman quickly dressed, jumped into the actor’s Auburn Speedster, and drove to the studio. Once there she parked the car in the place reserved for the actor’s car and, without turning back, quickly walked away.

  Through it was still a half an hour before the services were to start, a crowd was gathering. Excited fans stood in the churchyard eagerly watching for the arrival of the stars Galaxy had assigned for church duty. Ignoring them, Shelby marched up the steps and into the building. What she wanted more than anything else was to sit on a pew and spend a few minutes gathering her thoughts.

  Grabbing a spot next to the aisle on the second row, the woman set her purse beside her and placed her Bible in her lap. She was just pulling down the hem on her light blue dress when she sensed a presence. Slowly turning to the right, she found herself looking into the face of Flynn Sparks.

  “You probably didn’t expect to see me here,” he announced, his voice calm and even. If he was the least bit agitated, he didn’t show it.

  She tried to speak, but with thoughts of looking at the canyon once more filling her head, she could only manage a shake of her head. Moving her gaze to the front of the church, she prayed someone else would enter, but no one did.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Shelby,” Sparks said. “Yes, Leslie Bryant did spend the night at my house, but nothing happened. I didn’t know she’d never had anything to drink, and the booze made her sick. I let her sleep in my bed, and I spent the night in one of the other rooms.”

  She balled her hands on top of her Bible and whispered, “How is that supposed to make me feel better? She’s still dead.”

  “And I wish she wasn’t,” Sparks assured her. “I’d do anything to bring her back. That is beyond my power. But let me assure you of this, I understand why you did what you did last night. I realize you had to know if you could trust me. I got to thinking after you left that, if I had been in your shoes, I’d have probably done the same thing.”

  Shelby was still looking at the cross hanging on the back wall of the church as the man slowly walked back down the aisle and to the door. She heard it open and close before turning back. He was gone, but for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she still didn’t feel safe.

  67

  July 19, 1936

  Bill Barrister watched the services from the back pew, but it was only after the dinner on the ground was in full swing that he strolled over to where Shelby sat. After she related the events of the previous night, the cop swung into action. He first interrupted the district attorney during a round of golf. Next came a district judge. By three, Barrister had the search warrant he needed to finally get the goods on Flynn Sparks. Thirty minutes later, the captain and seven cops knocked on the star’s door.

  “May I help you?” Sparks asked as he pulled the entry open.

  Barrister studied his host. Dressed in tennis clothes and holding a racket, the actor seemed confident and unconcerned by the fact three police cars were parked in his drive.

  “Mr. Sparks,” the captain began, “I’m Bill Barrister of the Los Angeles homicide squad.” He stopped to flash his badge. “We have a warrant to search your home and property in connection with the murder of Leslie Bryant. Here is the warrant if you would like to read it.”

  “Just set it on the kitch
en table,” Sparks calmly suggested. “Gentlemen, I have a tennis match at the country club. If you need me for any reason, you can find me there. As far as my home, feel free to look anywhere and everywhere. If you get thirsty, I have some Cokes cooling in the refrigerator. I bought them this morning. And if you could, lock the door when you leave.”

  The stunned cop watched as Sparks strolled by him and over to his car. After a few seconds to gather his wits, Barrister glanced over to Barry Jenkins. “You get in one of our cars and follow him. I don’t want him trying to skip out.”

  “Captain Barrister,” the actor yelled from his Auburn. “I’ve been in a lot of police movies. I assume you just told one of your men to tail me.”

  Barrister nodded.

  “There’s no reason to do that,” Sparks assured him. “I have plenty of room in my car. He can just ride along. When you finish, you can come by and pick him up.”

  “What do you think?” a uniformed cop asked.

  Barrister wasn’t sure what to think. Why was Sparks being so cooperative? What game was he playing? Or was he just reconciled to the fact the chase was about to end?

  “Mr. Sparks,” the captain announced, “one of my men, Sergeant Barry Jenkins, will be happy to ride with you.”

  “Jenkins,” the actor laughed, “I feel like I know him already.”

  As his team went to work, Barrister stood on the steps until the Auburn was well down the hill. Still puzzled, the cop then made an initial walk-through, stopping in the bedroom and moving to the chest of drawers. He opened the eighth one and looked inside. It was empty. He frowned, even though Miss Beckett had not told the actor she was working for the police, Sparks somehow must have figured it out.

  “Cap.”

  Barrister turned toward a uniformed officer named Sims. “You got something?”

  “I found these typed pages in a kitchen trash can. They look like they are part of a script.”

  “So?”

  “You’re name is here, as is Jenkins, and it also has the name of one of the victims.”

  Barrister moved quickly to the bedroom entry. He grabbed the three pages and began to read. It took only one sentence for him to realize what was going on. He glanced at the top of the page and noted a date . . . July 14, 1936. Reading the remainder of the pages proved something else. Whoever was writing this script had access to information directly from police files. But what was more troubling was the studio seemed to have uncovered things his investigation hadn’t.

  “Sims, I want everyone in the living room now. Gather up the team. I have some very specific instructions for them.”

  As the officer assembled the six other officers at the meeting point, Barrister reread the three pages of the script. Without his knowledge, Galaxy was making a movie about this case. Someone was playing him like a bass drum. Who was it? How did the studio have this information?

  Moving through the door, down the hall, and back to the living room, he looked at his men. “OK, he’s onto us. And that’s just the beginning of our problems. I want you to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb. Look under, over, and behind everything. But, put everything back just as you found it. This place needs to look just as neat now as it did when we arrived. And, Sims, put these pages back where you got them too.”

  As the crew went back to work, Barrister sat down on the couch and considered his options. After a few seconds to assemble his thoughts, he pulled an address book from his pocket and searched for a number. He then picked up the phone and made a call.

  68

  July 19, 1936

  It was just past seven when Bill Barrister knocked on the door of the palatial, fifteen-room home on Beverly Glenn and waited for a response. A formally dressed butler answered.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “You can’t,” the cop bluntly answered, “but Miss Rains can. And don’t bother announcing me; she knows I’m coming. Just guide me to the right room.”

  The elderly man stepped back and allowed Barrister to enter. He then pointed a long bony finger toward a door on the right. The captain moved quickly across the tile floor to the ten-foot-high slab of wood, grabbed the knob, twisted it, and walked in.

  “Have you ever heard of knocking?” Rains asked.

  She was dressed in rose red from her slippers clear up to her hat. She even wore matching lipstick. She was reclining on a dark blue couch; beside her appeared to be a glass of iced lemonade.

  “I’m tired of knocking,” Barrister grumbled. “I’m also tired of being used and kicked around. And this time I’m going to grill you even more deeply than you do the stars you interview.”

  “There’s no reason for being pushy,” she suggested. “I’ve always done my bit to help the police.”

  “You’ve also done your bit to sell us out,” he snapped.

  “If you’re going to roar,” she said, “then do it while sitting down.”

  “I’ll stand,” Barrister quickly replied. “There’s a cop in records, his name is Tim Thomas. I think you know him.”

  She smiled, “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Barrister unbuttoned his suit coat and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let me remind you. Whenever a star is arrested, Thomas calls you with the tip.”

  “Oh,” she grinned, “is that his name? I do wish you would sit down. The way you move when you talk, I feel like I’m watching a tennis match.”

  “Miss Rains, you can make light of this if you want, but you’re in some trouble here. Thomas also passed along files that concern the murder of several young women in this town.”

  “Why would I want those?” she asked. “I make my living writing about entertainment, not homicide.”

  Barrister growled, “Let me pass along some information that Thomas was going to give you but never got the chance. My team searched Flynn Sparks’s house today. We found three pages of a script in which I appear to be the lead character. The movie is about the homicides I just mentioned. There is only one way that Galaxy Studios could have gotten the information, and that was from our police files. And Thomas has admitted passing copies of all our materials from the case on the strangler to you.”

  Rains set her glass down, ran her manicured fingers across her chin and sighed. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “That depends upon what you tell me right now.”

  “Would you please sit down?” she asked. “Take that chair across from me.” After the cop was seated, she swung around into a proper sitting posture and continued, “Thomas and I have an arrangement. He always gets me the information first, so that I can beat the other columnists. When the murder case came in, he called and informed me there were some studio links. I offered him a bit extra to get me all the information you all collected.”

  “But,” Barrister noted, “you haven’t been writing about it.”

  “No,” she admitted, “I don’t have the files here. When new information came in, I passed it, by messenger, directly to the studio. They gave it to their scriptwriters and have been filming a movie about the strangler for several weeks now. You might be interested in knowing that Dalton Andrews is playing you.”

  The cop considered the irony of a tall, good-looking man filling his shoes, then looked back to his host. “Miss Rains. There was information in the pages of that script I read that I didn’t have. Are they making stuff up?”

  “Bill, if you’re asking me if they are taking liberties with the facts, the answer is no. Jacob Yates has a team of investigators working it as well. The scriptwriters combined the stuff Galaxy uncovers with what you have dug up.”

  It was now starting to make sense. The studio was therefore well ahead of his department too.

  Fearing the answer, Barrister asked, “Do they know who the strangler actually is?”

  “If Yates knows,” she quickly explained, “he hasn’t told me. But I would bet they are close. My sources indicate it will wrap this week. Now, what kind of trouble am I in?”

  “Tha
t depends,” Barrister replied. “If you get me on the movie set when they present the evidence as to who the strangler is, I might forget a lot of things I know.”

  “I’ll talk to Yates,” she assured him.

  Barrister stood and moved toward the door. Just before he exited, he turned back to Rains. “Would the studio frame someone in order to protect one of their own?”

  “No,” she assured him. “Because that would make them look foolish when the movie was released and you guys solved the crime arresting the real killer.” She paused, as if thinking, “But, if Yates saw things working against what he wanted, he’d scrap the project and burn the film.”

  The cop pointed his finger into the woman’s face, “Don’t tell Yates I know anything about this. I want to spring that on him myself.”

  “I thought you wanted to be on the set when they filmed the finale?”

  “Miss Rains, I do, but as I think about things now, I realize I’m the one in the position of power. I don’t think I’ll have any problem being on the set when this whodunit wraps up. I do have a word of warning for you.”

  She nodded, “What’s that?”

  “Don’t tell anyone that I know what is going on. If you do, I’ll make sure we find a way to toss you in jail for a while.”

  He smiled, tipped his hat, turned, and walked out.

  69

  July 20, 1936

  You’re up early today,” Victor Melton noted from his office on the second floor of Galaxy’s administrative building.

  Jacob Yates, donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, marched in and took a seat beside the director’s desk. As he took a bite of his breakfast, he glanced around the seemingly disorganized twelve-by-fifteen-foot room. Scripts were stacked in every corner, ash trays overflowed with cigarette butts, an Academy Award on a shelf was all but hidden by four empty Coca-Cola bottles, and a half dozen suit jackets had been taken off and just tossed on the floor.