by JoAnn Ross
“Mind if I theorize?” he asked.
“Don’t see that I have much to say about it.”
“Good point. Anyway, it would seem to me,” Gage said mildly, “hypothetically speaking, of course, that if the police discovered that Xanadu’s major star had once worked as a prostitute, in a wide-open gambling town literally run by the mob, that might open up a few avenues of investigation.”
“It might. Of course, there’s always the chance, hypothetically speaking, that more than one of those avenues might lead straight to the husband.”
“Granted.” It was, Gage admitted silently, something he had been forced to consider himself. “But, if that was the case, you’d think the D.A. would have brought it up at the trial. To show motive.”
“Wasn’t any need. All the nails were already in Reardon’s coffin from the beginning.”
“So there was no point in endangering Xanadu Studios’ golden reputation.”
Connelly lit another cigarette. His stare was a hard cold one Gage had used himself on more than one occasion. “Interesting theory you’ve got there.”
“I think so.” No slouch in the intimidation department, Gage stared back. “I also think that it could have been your theory. Before you were pulled off the case.”
“I wasn’t pulled off. I quit.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot that part.” Gage nodded. “Let’s see, the way I heard it, you were the department’s golden-haired boy, the most likely to make lieutenant before you were thirty. Hell, you probably could have ended up a division commander. Or chief.”
His smile held not a trace of humor. “Makes sense to me that you’d trade all that upwardly mobile success to move to a faraway town where the biggest crime to investigate would be overturned outhouses and the occasional rustled steer.”
Connelly didn’t even attempt to answer the unspoken accusation. There was no need. “Alexandra Romanov was killed more than sixty years ago. Why the hell are you dredging things up now?”
Gage shrugged. “Better late than never.”
Connelly’s answer was a muttered curse.
“Mind if I try a little more theorizing?”
The old man spread his beefy arms in a be-my-guest gesture.
“I think that you realized the case was taking on a life of its own,” Gage said. “I also think you weren’t real wild about the way it was going. You thought Reardon was a little too pat. Too obvious.”
“Crimes of passion happen.”
“True. So do crimes for profit.”
“You saying you think she was professionally hit?” Disbelief radiated in the roughened tone.
“No. But you’ve already said that times were different. That the studios held a massive amount of power and influence. Let’s say that stories about Alexandra’s past were beginning to surface. Or, perhaps, for one reason or another, she was considering leaving Xanadu, which would result in a drastically diminished cash flow.
“The country was in the grips of the Great Depression. Only two studios—Xanadu and MGM—were operating in the black. If Alexandra walked, or her career was ruined because of scandal, all the big shots in the executives at Xanadu—including Walter Stern—might have started jumping out of windows.”
“The problem with that theory,” Connelly argued, “is you’ve just pointed out why no one from the studio would have killed her. Because a dead actress can’t bring people into the theater.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” Gage said. “You know as well as I do that there’s nothing the esteemed members of the press—and the people—love more than a scandal. In fact, by the time Xanadu premiered Fool’s Gold, releasing it the week Reardon went on trial, the film broke records in every city all over the country.
“Alexandra’s last role, written by her husband, made so much money, Stern got the bright idea to release all her old films. Xanadu was the first studio ever to do that, and the other owners thought he was nuts. But the box office receipts allowed him to ride out the rest of the depression in style.”
“You’re accusing Stern of making money off Alexandra’s murder. But isn’t that exactly what Blythe Fielding’s doing?”
“Blythe’s motivation is different.”
“Sure.” There was another short, hacking laugh. “The lady thinks she’s going to play Nancy Drew and solve a crime. And, she may just get lucky and come close. But in my business—and in the one you used to be in—coming close doesn’t cut it.
“In a movie, it’s enough if you get the facts kinda right. Once the story gets up on that big screen, it’ll be taken as the truth. And hell, it just may be the truth. But my job was solving murders. Which means I didn’t have the luxury of speculation. I had to make damn sure I got the facts of the case exactly right.”
“Or the wrong man could die,” Gage said quietly.
Connelly didn’t answer. Instead he turned and stared out the window at the lake beyond the asphalt parking lot. It had begun to rain; water streamed down the dingy glass, hammered on the tin roof.
“Look, you gotta understand. In those days, L.A. was a wide-open town. We had booze flowing like the Niagara, dope, prostitution, gambling. Our job was supposedly to clean things up, but most days I felt like the guy in a circus parade, following after the elephants with a teaspoon.
“The only way to survive the system was to follow orders. If my lieutenant told me to jump, I’d ask, ‘How high?’ If he told me to look the other way when some sergeant I was riding with stopped and picked up an envelope from a bookmaking joint, I put on blinders. If I was told to raid one speakeasy and ignore the one right next door, that’s exactly what I did.”
“And if that same lieutenant told you to ignore crucial evidence in a murder investigation—”
“I’d say No way, José..” The granite jaw thrust out. From the steady, implacable look in Connelly’s eyes, Gage knew he was telling the truth.
It didn’t really matter whether or not Connelly had been pulled off the case, then quit, or if he’d quit knowing he was going to be replaced. The truth, as unpalatable as it may be, was that in the Alexandra Romanov case, truth and justice had gotten ground up by the heavy wheels of corruption.
“How high up did it go?” Gage asked quietly.
Connelly looked away again. “Did it ever dawn on you that some people might not like the idea of you and that Fielding broad looking into a closed case?”
“You said it yourself. The murder was more than sixty years ago.”
“True.” Connelly turned back and gave Gage a long look of warning. “But I’m still kicking. So, what makes you think I’m the only one left from those days?”
Good question. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to name names?”
“Not on a bet.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “But, if you don’t have anything else to do, you might run an address check on Paul Young.”
“The former Los Angeles County D.A.?”
“Got it on the first try.” The mirthless yellow grin was back. “He quit right after Reardon was executed. Last I heard, he’d moved to Barbados. And he wasn’t exactly camped out on the beach, if you know what I mean.”
His wink spoke volumes. Gage tossed some bills on the bar to pay for the drinks and held out another.
“Put your damn money away,” Connelly growled. “There’s no need to pay because I didn’t tell you a damn thing.” His eyes narrowed again beneath the brim of his mud brown cap. “Understand?”
Gage nodded. “Absolutely.” He stood up, prepared to leave. “Have a good fishing trip.”
“If it’s half as successful as yours has been, I’ll be satisfied,” the former homicide detective said dryly.
As he walked out into the rain, headed toward his rental car, Gage knew that Blythe had been right all along. Patrick Reardon had been railroaded.
Two thoughts crossed his mind simultaneously. The first being Connelly’s warning about people still being alive that wouldn’t want the truth about the ca
se to get out.
The second thought was, if Reardon didn’t kill Alexandra, perhaps the makeup lady was right. Perhaps Walter Stern had killed Xanadu’s biggest star.
* * *
ALTHOUGH SHE WAS looking forward to living with Gage, Blythe wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of moving into his apartment without him being there. Though he’d given her a key, she decided to spend one more night in her hotel. Then, after Gage returned from Oregon, she’d make the move.
It seemed a logical plan. Until Alan Sturgess showed up at the door of her bungalow while she was packing the rest of her things.
“We need to talk,” he said without preamble.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she insisted. A well-placed foot kept her from closing the door.
“We left things badly.” Deftly moving past her, he entered her living room. When he saw the suitcases, more than she would have needed for her brief trip to Greece, he arched a brow. “Going somewhere?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m moving into an apartment.”
“I told you you’d get tired of living in a hotel.”
His smugness, which she’d once taught herself to accept, grated. “So you did.”
“You know,” he said, softening his tone and his expression, “there really isn’t any need for you to move into some tacky, impersonal apartment.” He ran his hands up her arms. “I’ve plenty of room at my house.”
“Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Of course. We did, you recall, discuss it before.”
“And I’m sure you’ll recall that you were afraid that cohabitating with a woman who wasn’t your wife might hurt your chances for being named chief of staff.” His stroking touch gave her the willies. Blythe backed away.
The only hint of his irritation was a faint narrowing of his eyes. “I’ll admit to perhaps being overly cautious. But don’t forget, after the earthquake, I was the one who suggested you move into my home.” His practiced smile was warm, coaxing feminine compliance. Blythe wondered if it was the same one he used to convince a potential patient to have a nose job and some silicone cheek implants added to a planned face-lift. “The offer still stands.”
“Wouldn’t it get a little crowded?” she couldn’t resist asking. “With you, me and Brittany all living under the same roof?”
“Brittany was an aberration,” he said, dismissing the actress with a negligent wave of his well-manicured hand. “The entire affair started out because she was so terrified of surgery. I will admit, that my efforts to soothe her fears may have gotten a bit out of hand.”
“A bit?” Blythe dragged her hand through her hair and stared at this man she’d once been engaged to, as if seeing him for the very first time. “Alan, even discounting the fact that you were unfaithful to me, you were sleeping with a patient. Excuse me if I don’t recall sexual healing being part of the Hippocratic Oath.”
“I wasn’t the first doctor to fall victim to the lure of a predatory patient. I doubt if I’ll be last.”
Blythe was not surprised that he was trying to blame this on Brittany. Disappointed, but not surprised.
“Predatory and needy,” she mused, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “I suppose that’s an irresistible combination for any man.”
Accustomed to her formerly accommodating behavior, Alan seemed both surprised and annoyed by her refusal to cave in as he’d obviously believed she should. “I didn’t come here to rehash old arguments.”
Blythe crossed her arms. “Why did you come here?”
“To convince you there’s no need to break off our engagement just because of a slight lapse on my part.”
It was a lot more than a lapse, but Blythe knew there was no point in arguing. Alan had always viewed things through the filter of his own perceptions. If he didn’t believe something was important, then it wasn’t. His constant dismissal of her work, especially her Alexandra project, had only been one example of his egocentric mind-set.
“You may have a point,” she allowed.
“That’s my girl.” Self-satisfaction was written all over his handsome face.
When he moved toward her again, Blythe backed away. “There are probably cases where infidelity, while not overlooked or forgotten, could at least be forgiven. Unfortunately, Alan, this isn’t one of them.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. “It means that there are other reasons I can’t marry you. Reasons that have nothing to do with Brittany. Or any other women you may have slept with while we were engaged.”
“I believe I’m entitled to know those reasons.”
Actually, he wasn’t. But Blythe decided to tell him anyway. “I don’t love you, Alan.”
Heaven help her, she’d tried. Really she had. But with the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Blythe realized that she’d been holding something back from the beginning. Which is why she hadn’t been devastated when she’d discovered him in the pool with Brittany. Having invested nothing emotionally in their relationship, she couldn’t be hurt.
Unlike Alexandra. Whose love for Patrick had been all-consuming.
“I told you, Blythe, I never expected a marriage based on love. Love makes a lousy foundation. It never lasts.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Alan,” Blythe argued calmly, once again thinking of Alexandra and Patrick. Their absolute love for one another, she knew, was never-ending.
“What’s reason number two?” he asked, as if realizing that he wasn’t making any grounds chipping away at the first one.
“I’m in love with another man. A man I intend to marry.” The moment Blythe heard herself say the words, she knew it was what she wanted. “As soon as possible.”
“I don’t believe it.” He stared at her, nonplussed. “When did this happen? How did this happen?”
“I’ve had feelings for Gage for several months, but I suppose you could say I was in denial. As for how it happened—” Blythe shrugged “—the usual way.”
“You can’t possibly be referring to that detective you hired?” He heaped an extra helping of scorn on Gage’s occupation. “Remington, wasn’t it?”
“That’s his name. And yes, that’s who I’m talking about.”
Storm clouds gathered in his blue eyes. “You slept with the guy in Greece, didn’t you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “It won’t last, you know. You’re too different.”
“About some things, yes. But not in all the ways that matter.”
The realization that nothing worth having, even love—especially love—was without risk had come to her over the past months as she’d worked on her project.
Only a few days ago, Blythe had been trying to convince herself that marrying Gage would be impossible. Now she knew that the impossibility would be not marrying him.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“And I’m sorry you can’t understand,” Blythe said honestly.
A muscle jerked along his jaw. “Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” he predicted. “Married to some struggling, ex-cop who spends his days peeping into motel room windows.”
“Gage is a good man. And a great detective. I’m proud of him. And I’m especially proud of the way he’s chosen to spend his life helping people.”
He shook his head, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I thought I knew you. It’s discomfiting to realize I was wrong.”
“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger,” Blythe advised him easily as she looped her arm through his and began walking him to the door. “Because I’d always thought I knew myself. And believe me, Alan, it’s come as a major shock to realize that I was wrong.”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Blythe couldn’t keep the smile from blooming on her face as she thought about where she would be going when she left here.
/> He was about to leave when he turned in the open doorway. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be waiting when you finally come to your senses.”
“I didn’t expect that you would be.”
Blythe watched her former fiancé leave and realized that a chapter in her life was ending. But she felt not a twinge of regret. Because a new, exciting, wonderful one was beginning.
Ten minutes later, she was driving down Sunset Boulevard, headed toward Bachelor Arms.
11
WHENEVER BLYTHE VISITED Bachelor Arms, she experienced a strange feeling of déjà vu. Tonight was no different. As she walked past the plaque, where some unseen hand had scratched Believe the legend, she felt goose bumps rising on her arms.
“Someone walking across my grave,” she said, murmuring the old wives’ tale. The thought, along with the building pewter clouds overhead and the electrically tinged scent of an impending storm did nothing to calm her feeling of discomfort.
Telling herself that she was letting her encounter with Alan get to her, she concentrated on thinking positive thoughts. Like welcoming Gage home tomorrow night with a candlelit dinner. Naturally, they’d begin with champagne. And oysters on the half shell, not that Gage needed any assistance in the virility department.
A steamed salmon fillet with white wine and caper sauce might be a nice entrée, she mused, then instantly reconsidered. Gage was definitely a meat and potatoes man if she’d ever met one. A grilled steak, she decided. With roast potatoes and a Caesar salad. With such a heavy dinner, she’d forego a rich desert, choosing instead some ripe berries.
They could eat them later, in bed. With more champagne. After making love.
On second thought, she reconsidered, remembering those passionate, love-filled hours they’d spent in their lovely alcove bed on Aegina, the entire dinner could wait.
She was smiling, humming tunelessly as she walked across the courtyard of Bachelor Arms when she realized someone was following her. All too aware of the lateness of the hour, she spun around, holding her key ring out in front of her like a weapon.