Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  “Miss Rains, the neighbor that was playing with the cat, what color clothing was the girl wearing?”

  “Blue . . . she had on blue pants and a blue shirt.”

  “Was there any blue color associated with the attack on the puppy?”

  Rains paused before nodding, “Yes, the dog had taken a blue spread off the bed and was playing with it.”

  “And the girl at school?”

  “My word, she was also wearing blue.”

  It was time for Andrews to take a huge leap, “What color was the car that hit you when your son was injured?”

  “The car that ran into us was a light blue. The car I was driving was a darker shade of blue. And now that I think about it, the times he got violent at home after I would check him out of the sanitarium, I was always wearing blue. You know how I always wear the same color from shoes to hat. I don’t wear blue much, but when I did . . .”

  Andrews looked from the woman to Sparks, “Are the men who are looking for Mace all uniformed policemen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Andrews shook his head, “We have to make sure that we pull off all uniformed men from the search and use only those wearing regular clothing.”

  “I’ll get the word out,” Sparks, seemingly now loving his role as Jenkins, announced as he left the room.

  “Blue by itself can’t be all that sets him off,” Rains suggested. “There were many times I wore blue and nothing happened.”

  Andrews thought back to something Barrister had told him earlier. Murderers were motivated by greed, self-preservation, or hate. The cop had left out another key motivation for killing . . . jealousy.

  Possibly because he hadn’t gotten to say any line in a long time, Nelson called out, “Now that all of this has come to light, can I go home?”

  Andrews shook his head, “No.” He turned and looked back at the woman. “Miss Rains, you said that Willard was released from the sanatarium about a year ago?”

  “Yes.” Rains took a deep breath before dropping her final bombshell. “He got out May 27, 1935. I remember that because I’d gone to a movie premiere on the twenty-sixth. And there is one other thing you might want to know about Willard.”

  “What’s that?” Andrews asked.

  Rains, her expression suddenly hard and cold, announced, “His father is Jacob Yates. If he didn’t give Willard the job, I was going to drop that bit of news to his wife.”

  79

  July 22, 1936

  As a completely fascinated Barrister watched, Melton signaled his cameramen to keep the film rolling. After glancing over at Jenkins, the cop sat back in his chair and studied the scene in the studio’s version of his office. Sparks, who had just come back through the door, appeared strangely at ease, Andrews confused, Rains on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Yates in a state of complete shock. As a tense crew looked on, Andrews glanced at each person in the room before finally landing his gaze on the studio mogul and breaking more than a minute of awkward silence.

  “Did you know that you were Willard Mace’s father?”

  “No,” Yates quickly assured him. “I knew Ellen back when we were both in college. And then I saw her again not long after she moved out here from the east. At that time, she told me her son was the product of a failed marriage.”

  Andrews looked back to Rains, “Is that correct?”

  She nodded, “Jacob was married. He had a new life, was just starting his studio; I didn’t want to complicate things for him. What purpose would it have served? If I wrecked his family, he wouldn’t have married me, anyway.”

  Andrews stood, moved to the corner of his desk, sat down, and crossed his arms. With Barrister carefully observing his every move, the pretend cop aimed another pointed question at Yates. “Did you know that Mace had spent years in a mental institution?”

  The mogul nodded.

  “Then, if you were aware of that and you didn’t know Mace was your child, why hire him? What does Rains have on you that could make you do that?”

  Rains cut in before Yates had a chance to answer, “He was driving the car that hit us the night Willard was hurt. And he was drunk. We covered it up so well there wasn’t even an accident report filed. To keep things quiet, he’s paid for all the treatments and care since that night.”

  “OK,” Andrews said as he brought his hand to his jaw, “it would seem that Mace had the best motive for most of the murders. But, until we can track him down and get his story, I can’t be sure of that. But there is one thing that I know, as he was still in the asylum, there is one murder he couldn’t have committed. And this is the one we have labeled as the first murder. Not long ago, our medical examiner discovered that victim’s name.” Andrews picked up a copy of the official police files and opened it. He studied the report for a moment before announcing, “Does the name Wanda McMillan mean anything to anyone here?”

  Andrews looked toward the far wall, Yates shook his head, and Rains pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. When no one volunteered any information, the actor pointed to Nelson, “Would you mind stepping out for a bit? I have a few things I would like to speak to my assistant about.”

  Nelson nodded, pushed off the couch, and walked through the door. When he was gone, Andrews turned his attention to Sparks, still in his role as Barry Jenkins.

  “Barry, you questioned Flynn Sparks a great deal. Would it be an exaggeration to say you know him better than anyone in this room?”

  Sparks stood, faced the other actor, and announced, “I think I know him better than anyone in the world.”

  Barrister was amazed the actors could continue to stay in character. In all this craziness, they were still playing their parts. Like everyone else in the room, the cop was sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation of finding out information that had so far eluded his own investigation.

  Andrews, his eyes locked onto Sparks, asked, “What does the name Wanda McMillan mean to him?”

  “It was the name of a woman he dated for a while in Gary, Indiana, before he came to Hollywood.”

  Andrews nodded, “What was Mr. Sparks's name when he lived in Gary?”

  “Bill Hamilton. Or to put it another way, Bill Hamilton died when Flynn Sparks was born.”

  “Barry, Wanda McMillan’s friends in Indiana told the police she came to Los Angeles in search of big money. I’m guessing she was trying to blackmail the father of her child. Is Flynn Sparks the father of her child?”

  The actor playing Jenkins resolutely shook his head, “No. She tried to shake him down, but he couldn’t have been the father, and he didn’t bite. He took her out to eat and even paid for her to have a special beauty treatment, but he refused to budge on the blackmail. After a couple of meetings, he wished her well and gave her enough money to get back home.”

  “She came to me as well,” Rains freely admitted. “She told me her sad story and wanted to know what’d I pay for an exclusive. She was a pretty girl, and I felt a bit sorry for her, so I sent her to the man with the most to lose, figuring he might spring for some cash.”

  “Who was that?” Andrews asked.

  “Jacob Yates.”

  The mogul shook his head, “She called, but I never met with her. So I actually never saw her.”

  “That’s a lie,” Rains shot back.

  “How dare you call me a liar!”

  “Wait a minute,” Andrews said as he held up his hand. “Yates, I know you pretty well; you’re telling me that as protective as you are of Flynn Sparks, with the money you’ve laid out over the years to protect him, you never met with the woman?” He allowed the words to settle in before sticking the knife in a bit deeper. “Your secretary keeps a log of who comes in and out of your office. It won’t be any problem for us to look at it and find out if you are telling the truth.”

  “Jacob, tell him the truth,” Rains demanded. When the mogul remained mute, she filled in the blanks. “Jacob, you told me you offered her ten grand. And, because she t
old you she’d seen me, you also gave me that much to keep the story quiet. What you didn’t realize was that I wasn’t going to use it. So the ten thousand was for nothing.”

  Yates looked as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Grabbing the woman by her shoulders, he yelled, “You took me?”

  “I’ve taken you scores of times,” she taunted. “It is easy to take advantage of a man who wants to cover up all the bad-tasting truth. My house was paid for by chumps like you.”

  “OK,” Yates announced as he let the woman go. She was still brushing the wrinkles from her sleeves as he explained. “I met the little blonde at a café. She was smart and crafty. She had just enough evidence to convince me the kid was Flynn’s. We haggled for a while, and I paid her off. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “Wait a second,” Sparks again assuming his role as Jenkins said, “when Wanda met with me . . . rather with Flynn Sparks . . . she was a brunette. When Sparks met her for lunch at Gilbert’s Restaurant, there was a waiter who talked about how beautiful her hair was. I know he’ll remember her and can confirm that, if we need corroborating testimony.”

  Rains chimed in next, “After she left my office, I had my man follow her that day too. He took a photo of Flynn with her at Gilbert’s.”

  Andrews pointed a finger at the woman, “So you were interested in her story.”

  “I thought she was lying,” Rains admitted, “but I’m not always right. I decided to follow her trail and see if Flynn was scared. My guy tailed Flynn for a week, but after that lunch at Gilbert’s, they never met. So I don’t think he could have paid her off or killed her.”

  “Do you have the date,” Sparks asked, “of the last time Sparks met with Wanda McMillan?”

  “Not off the top of my head,” the woman said, “but if you let me make a call to my office, I can ask Benny. He was the one tailing Flynn, and he keeps incredible records in a log book.”

  “Don’t use this phone,” Andrews suggested. “Go out into the main office. I don’t want to tie this one up in case we capture Willard Mace.”

  Barrister grinned. The actor realized the desk phone was just a prop and had made up a story to cover that fact. As the cast and crew watched, Rains hurried through the office door and off the set. At the back of the room was a wall phone, and she went right to it. As she made her call, Andrews looked back to Sparks.

  “Did the actor give you any more details about that last meeting?”

  “Yeah, he said Jean Harlow walked in just as they were leaving. He introduced Wanda to the actress and said she loved the way Harlow’s hair looked. That was when she asked for and he gave her money to go to a beauty shop. McMillan must have dyed her hair blonde right after that.”

  Yates shook his head and muttered, “This is a big waste of everyone’s time.”

  The mogul had just finished complaining when Rains returned. “The date was May 13, 1935.”

  “And that was the date of the newspaper that was found under her body,” Sparks noted.

  Rains walked over and took her seat. She glared at Yates for a few moments before announcing, “I had my assistant check the notes in my journal too. On May 21, 1935, I asked Jacob about the woman with the son who was trying to blackmail Sparks. He assured me she wasn’t a problem anymore, that he had paid her off. When I asked how he could be sure she wouldn’t come back asking for more, he replied she was now as silent as Valentino. There’s only one way someone becomes that silent.”

  “You’ve got nothing,” the mogul bragged. “There is nothing connecting me to that girl.”

  “We will see,” Andrews said. “The mere fact you knew she was a blonde means you had to be one of the last people to see her alive.” He glanced at the police file before adding, “And the fact her watch stopped at fourteen minutes after six narrows our window a great deal. I hope you can prove where you were at that time. If you can’t, then the stain of possible guilt will follow you the rest of your life.”

  Barrister grinned. Andrews was doing this just like he would have. In the cop’s mind, there was no doubt that this guy was the best actor in the world.

  As everyone looked at a completely deflated Yates, two real cops walked onto the set and directly into the fake office. One of them announced, “We can’t find Mace, but we have searched his apartment. There is evidence linking him to all but two of the strangulation cases, and in the kitchen, we found matches that are the same as the ones left with the bodies. We even found more than a dozen photos of Flynn Sparks that had been mutilated.”

  “Which two cases did you not find anything on?” Andrews asked.

  “The one from May of last year,” the cop replied.

  “I think,” Andrews said with a satisfied smile, “we’ve solved that one. We know Mace couldn’t have killed Wanda McMillan. He had not been released from the asylum yet.”

  The uniformed cop nodded, “And the other is the murder of Leslie Bryant. For some reason, there was nothing of hers at Mace’s home.”

  80

  July 22, 1936

  Andrews looked to Rains, “Any idea where your son might be?”

  “No,” she admitted. “When he was a kid playing hide-and-seek no one could ever find him. They told me when he was locked up in the asylum that he once stayed out of sight for four days, and he never left the grounds. They had people looking all over the state for him then.”

  Andrews glanced off the set toward Barrister. The cop shrugged. The actor was hoping for more help than that. Yet, with the real cops looking for the man responsible for all but two of the strangulation murders, he figured the best thing to do was keep the film rolling and solve the killing of Leslie Bryant. With that in mind, he glanced to the couch where Shelby Beckett was sitting with her boss.

  “Miss Beckett,” Andrews asked, once more falling back into character while opening the file and turning to the sections devoted to the Bryant murder. He scanned the latest notes until he came upon a section involving Shelby’s trip to Sparks’s home. He then looked back to the woman. “You had a chance to search Flynn Sparks’s home last Saturday night. What did you uncover?”

  “I found a man who was a compulsive collector,” Shelby explained. “He had scrapbooks that contained every clipping from every story ever done on him. He had a drawer filled with matchbooks from what looked like every restaurant and nightclub he has ever visited. It seemed he had every piece of fan mail ever sent his way too.”

  “OK,” Andrews cut in, “you’ve established he had amassed a lot of things concerning his career and travels. But there was something you found in another drawer that was tied to this case. And, as that drawer was empty by the time police got a warrant, maybe you can tell me what you saw.”

  “In his bedroom,” Shelby explained, “was a drawer filled with personal items taken from women. On the very top was a purse. Inside that handbag, I found identification that proved it belonged to Leslie Bryant.”

  As Sparks watched, Andrews once more looked at the file. He scanned Barrister’s notes before again turning his attention to the woman. “Miss Beckett, as I said, the next day when we searched the home those items were gone. As you did not take them and the man watching the place for the studio told me no one visited Sparks from the time you left until we arrived the next afternoon, I have to believe that the home’s owner destroyed them.”

  Andrews looked to Sparks. “Barry, did you ask Mr. Sparks what happened to the items?”

  “I burned them,” came the straightforward response.

  “Cut!” Melton screamed. “Flynn you are playing Sergeant Barry Jenkins, not yourself. Please stay in character. Camera one, give me a close up on Flynn, and Sparks, you give me that answer in the third person please.” He waited until everyone was back in place before saying, “Action.”

  Everyone looked to Sparks, “He told me he burned them because he knew they would point the finger of suspicion at him for the murders. Cap, I’m guessing without that evidence there is no case.”

&n
bsp; “Except for one thing, you would be right,” Andrews explained as he reached into his pocket. Retrieving a handkerchief with the initials L.B., the actor tossed it on his desk.

  “Where did you get that?” a now apprehensive Sparks asked.

  Andrews grimly explained, “Dalton Andrews found it in his Packard, the one that Flynn Sparks used when he took Leslie Bryant on a date and then later home. There was also a stain on the backseat that the lab can analyze. Taken together with the testimony of Miss Beckett, the guard, and the numerous people who saw him with Miss Bryant on those nights, it might just be enough to convict him for the crime.”

  Sparks frowned, rubbed his brow, and nervously and slowly walked around the room. He carefully studied each of those present before speaking. As Andrews watched the actor pace, it reminded him of a tiger in a cage at the zoo. There could not be an escape for Sparks now. The noose was tightening around his neck as each second ticked by.

  “I know,” Sparks cautiously acknowledged, “how the handkerchief got into the back floorboard of the car, and I can explain why the purse was where it was also.”

  “We’re waiting,” Andrews announced as he returned to his chair and sat down.

  “Captain,” Sparks said, “when she was taken home, Leslie Bryant was sick. The liquor she’d been served the night before did not sit well with her. At one point, the actor even had to stop the car so she could get out and vomit. After she was feeling a bit better, she got a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her mouth. She then decided to get into the car’s backseat and lie down. She did throw up one more time during the trip. Sparks later cleaned that place on the seat as best he could. He likely didn’t notice the handkerchief was on the floor.”

  Sparks, playing Jenkins, took a deep breath before he continued. “When Sparks finally got Bryant home, he escorted her up to her apartment. Later, after playing tennis with Clark Gable and having dinner, he noticed that she’d left her purse in the Packard. It had fallen between the seat and the passenger door. The actor took it inside and had planned on returning it to her at the studio, but when he found out she’d died, he tossed it in the drawer.”