“You think it was human?”
“I couldn’t tell. Maybe. Whatever it was, it was strong. I’m sorry, that’s not much help.”
“Well, it was worth a try. Thanks for making the drive down here. At least I got to see you.”
Peter walked us back to Investigator Shin’s office. He tapped on her door and opened it long enough to thank her and tell her he’d let her know as soon as he got an ID on the body.
We stepped out into the sunlight, and the yelling started. Reporters raced up the steps to shove mics in our faces. News crews from the local networks had cameras set up. The paparazzi were waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Detective King, what’s going on with the body you found at the Sportsmen’s?”
“Is it another Cinema Slayer case?”
“How come you’re here, Ms. Moore? Did the dead woman work for Anticipation? Did you know her? Look over here! Give us a shot!”
“Come on, Ovsanna—smile!”
“Yeah, Ovsanna, what’s your connection to the case? Come on! Come on, speak into the microphone!”
“What’s your connection to Detective King? Can you tell us that?”
“Is that Zac Posen you’re wearing?”
Peter put his arm around me and shielded me with his body as we pushed past the photographers to the car. Maral was behind us. At one point, I turned around and couldn’t see her through the wall of paps between us. They were yelling at her, too.
“Miss McKenzie, is your boss helping the police?”
“How come she’s here? Is this research for the next film?”
“Was the dead woman a friend? What was she wearing?”
Peter opened the passenger door for me. I slid in and closed it and rolled down the window to say good-bye. Peter leaned in so no one else could hear him.
“I don’t know how they knew you were here,” he whispered. “Maral wouldn’t have told anyone, would she?”
“Not if she wants to keep her job.” I looked over at her. She was sitting rigid in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. Straining to hear what Peter was saying, I think.
The photographers had followed us down to the car. They were still yelling, but now they were jostling for the best angle to shoot Peter and me together. Peter turned on them.
“Take a hike, fellas. I’d hate to have to ruin someone’s morning with a trip downtown. That means you, Eddie.” He glared at the photographer who was leading the pack. It was Steady Eddie—a bald, three-hundred-pound behemoth wearing lime green suspenders and two Nikons around his neck. I see him outside my house from time to time. He’s got a reputation as one of the town’s top paparazzi.
“Ah, the illustrious Beverly Hills sleuth, winner of medals for heroism, destroyer of fine photography.”
“What’s he talking about?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” Peter responded. “The last time I saw him, he made the mistake of showing me some fast-frame shots he’d taken of something he shouldn’t have. I borrowed his camera to get a closer look and handed it back with a reformatted disk and no forbidden pictures.”
Eddie overheard him. “Well, you ought to tell her the whole tale, Detective. Who are you trying to protect? They were shots of your abode, Ms. Moore, with some nice detail work of the code for your gate. Truly creative on my part, I thought.”
“Get fucked, Eddie, and get out of here, or fine photography won’t be all I destroy.”
“In truth, Detective, methinks the time you’re spending with the lovely Ms. Moore is not all in the line of duty.”
Peter advanced on him, and he scrambled back to the safety of the pack. They were still firing off shots. Peter pulled himself together and came back to me.
I asked him if that meant he’d known my security code all this time. He avoided an answer, which was an answer in itself. Interesting. Maybe Maral was right when she talked about trust.
Instead he asked, “How do you deal with this every day? They’re like a pack of wolves waiting to get their teeth into something juicy. I’ve watched them do it for years, but they seem to be getting more and more vicious. There are no boundaries anymore.”
“You get used to it,” I said. “Although they’re not usually on me like this. I’m not nineteen and in rehab, I’m not starving myself to death, and I haven’t got any kids to fight for in a bloody divorce. Unless I have a film coming out, or we’ve made a deal with some other celebrity, they usually leave me alone. All this attention started with the Cinema Slayer. And for some reason, it got worse after we came back from Palm Springs.”
Maral started the car. “We’ve got to go, Ovsanna.” She still hadn’t looked at me.
Peter stared at her for a moment. I’m sure he was trying to figure out what was going on. He’d been around the two of us enough to know something wasn’t right. Then he shrugged and smiled at me. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I should know something more then. We got a print off the woman’s Saint Andrew medal; the investigator’s running that, too. And a fingernail I found at the scene. If we find a suspect, we may be able to match DNA.”
“I wasn’t much help. I’m sorry. Sometimes the impressions I get are so clear, but not this time.”
“Well, it wasn’t a total waste. I got to spend the morning with you. And you got to see the gift shop. Let’s see, Christmas Tree Lane and Skeletons in the Closet. Can I show you a good time or what?” He stepped back from the car. “I’ll call you later,” he mouthed.
Maral peeled into the street before I could even wave good-bye.
I’ve seen a lot of gruesome deaths in my life. They don’t faze me. When you’ve lived through the Reign of Terror, the Inquisition, and Ivan the Terrible, you get inured to the visuals. Vlad Tepes might have given me pause, but he’d finished impaling by the time I was born.
But the trip to the Coroner’s office had obviously upset Maral. She was pale and tight-lipped all the way back to the office.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said. “I should have had you wait in the car.” We pulled up outside the building and waited for Jesus, the valet. I bought the building because I love the design—a gem of two-story weathered brick and stone in the midst of the gray cement on the rest of South Beverly—but I had to sacrifice underground parking. Jesus parks our cars in a lot down the street.
I scanned the block before I got out of the car. It had been three days since the were had made himself known. Or not known, which was my real problem. I still didn’t have any idea who had attacked me, and until I did, the only thing I could do was stay alert.
Once again, there were paparazzi standing on the curb. Just two this time, but that was two more than usual. These two hadn’t been at the Coroner’s. And they weren’t shooting anything, just watching as Maral and I walked up the steps. It must be a slow news day, I thought.
“It wasn’t seeing the body that upset me, Ovsanna. It was Peter. It was you and Peter. You’re going to sleep with him, aren’t you?”
“I might. I just might. Depending upon what he wants to do. But what I do with Peter has nothing to do with you and me. You just remember that.” I would have kissed her to reassure her, but the paparazzi hadn’t taken their eyes off us. I didn’t need that kind of photo on the evening news.
She turned on me just outside the door. “I see the way you look at him. You’ve never been like that with anyone since we’ve been together—not Thomas, not Robson, not Al. I know you see other people sometimes, but he’s different. He’s a cop. It scares me. Whatever you’re feeling about him, that scares me.”
“Lower your voice and keep your wits about you. This is not a conversation to have in public. In fact, this is not a conversation I’m going to have at all. Peter is a good man, and he’s not a danger to us. You are my family, Maral, I’m not going to abandon you, but Peter may be in my life right now and you need to accept it. End of story.”
There was a woman sitting on t
he red velvet sofa when we walked in the lobby. She stood as Maral and I entered. She had short, spiky black hair that looked as if she’d chopped it with a pair of nail scissors. Her eyebrows had been plucked into oblivion and then drawn back in a skinny brown line. She was dressed like a teenager, in a yellow and blue striped tunic and psychedelic paisley print leggings, with gold ballet shoes on her feet. Stick-thin legs that never should have seen a pair of tights. Her makeup base was so thick, I couldn’t guess her age. It looked like clay she’d applied with a trowel. She seemed vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until I heard her voice that I realized who she was.
“Ovsanna,” she said, reaching out her hands for me. I was so surprised at recognizing her, I pulled back.
My secretary, Sveta, was up and around her desk in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ms. Moore, she wouldn’t give me her name. She insisted on waiting for you here without an appointment.” She stepped between us like a pit bull preparing for the ring.
“It’s all right, Sveta. She’s a friend. Would you hold my calls, please?” And with that, I ushered the most powerful female star of her era up the stairs and into my office. Mary Pickford had come to call.
“What the hell have you done to your face, Mary?” I asked, locking the door behind me. “And your hair. You look like shit.” I didn’t even want to mention the outfit.
“Yes, but I don’t look like myself, do I? You don’t recognize America’s Sweetheart anymore, do you?” She twirled around to give me a full view of the horrendous haircut and then struck her classic pose with her hands clasped under her chin and the left side of her face towards me. She’d always insisted on being photographed from the left so the hump on her nose wouldn’t show.
Mary is one of mine—one of the Vampyres of Hollywood. She, too, is full-born, of the Leanan-sídhe clan. She came to me in 1910 when D. W. Griffith brought his Biograph players to Los Angeles. She was only seventeen, but she’d been performing onstage since she was five and had already made more than fifty films when I met her.
“I just saw you three weeks ago, and no, I didn’t recognize you at all. What have you done to yourself? And why?”
“I dyed my hair, darling. And got rid of my trademark curls. That broke my heart—remember when I auctioned one off for fifteen thousand dollars to help fight World War One? Now, that was a war! Don’t get me started. I would have had my nose bobbed, but you know, unless you’re Obour, it’s impossible to reset our bones; they just heal exactly the way they were. It’s damn inconvenient, if you ask me.” She walked over to the window and stared up the street towards the shops on Two Rodeo, Beverly Hills’ homage to kitsch.
“You have an adorable nose. Why would you even think about such a thing?”
“Because I want to work. Not on the screen, necessarily, I was happy to stop that years ago, but in the business. I’m a brilliant producer, Chatelaine, you know that. I was one of the most powerful women in Hollywood, and you need me.” She sat in one of my wing chairs, slipped off her shoes, and tucked her feet under her butt, looking very much like she was making herself at home.
“I need you?”
“Yes. To take over for Thomas, God rest his soul. This never would have happened if you had turned him, Ovsanna, but you didn’t, and now he’s gone and you need someone in his place. Who better to hire than the woman who co-founded United Artists and the Society of Independent Motion Picture Producers? I can help you turn Anticipation around.”
“Anticipation isn’t facing the wrong way, Mary. Did you read the trades today? We’re a day away from signing a major merger. Solgar should have the papers ready tomorrow afternoon.” My intercom buzzed.
“Detective King is here to see you,” Sveta announced.
“Oh, that’s the lovely young man who killed Rudy, isn’t it?” Mary asked, jumping up to go to the door. “I never got a chance to thank him properly. Oh, this will be perfect; let’s see if he sees through my disguise.”
There was a quick tap on the door, and Mary walked over in her bare feet to unlock it. She looked like Kelly Osbourne on a bad day. With pearls.
I couldn’t wait to see Peter’s face.
Mary opened the door, and Peter stood there, staring.
“You see, Ovsanna, it works! You didn’t recognize me, did you, Detective King? I’m Mary. Mary Pickford. We just battled all those beasts together! You were so helpful. Oh, I’m delighted. I knew this would work. Ovsanna, darling, you must consider my proposal. I am the perfect person for the job.”
I couldn’t resist. “Mary’s auditioning for one of those magazine layouts,” I said, smiling. “You know, ‘When Bad Clothes Happen to Good People.’ With the caption ‘Move over, Cyndi Lauper.’ ”
I got up from my desk and went to the door where they were standing. “Are the paparazzi still outside?”
“There are two out there,” Peter replied. “None of the regulars. You still don’t know what that’s about, do you?”
“I haven’t got a clue.” I turned to Mary. “It is an interesting proposal. I’ll tell you what. Put your shoes on and go take a walk. Neiman’s is having a sale on furs, if you’re not afraid of the PETA people. No, wait . . . that’s a terrible idea. If you’re going to come back to the business in disguise, you don’t want to call attention to yourself. Forget the furs, just take a walk, and let’s talk later this afternoon. You’ll know immediately if anyone thinks you look like yourself. Although you should be prepared, that hairstyle alone will have people staring at you.”
I watched the woman who’d starred in more than two hundred films in the early 1900s walk down the stairs in her Marilyn Manson haircut and psychedelic leggings. The last time I’d seen her, she’d shifted into a bat-faced beastie. This outfit was no less scary.
Peter stared after her. “If my mother were here,” he said, “she’d shit a brick.”
The proposal Mary made to me wasn’t such a bad idea. She’d been brilliant at running United Artists with Douglas and Charlie and D. W. Griffith, breaking the practice of Hollywood studios at the time, which had the studios controlling the theatres and the distributors, putting filmmakers at their mercy. UA producers didn’t have to endure much creative interference; Mary and the fellas set up the studio so their producers were able to keep control of their work. That was a major change in the industry. There’s never been a woman in Hollywood who’s had as much influence as Mary did then. Not Dorothy Arzner, not Sherry Lansing, not Dawn Steele. Mary might really make a difference at Anticipation.
I wasn’t sure I could work with her, though. The Leanan-sídhe are essential vampyres. They feed on the sexual essence of their victims, and they’re very seductive. Hence Mary’s three husbands, I’m sure. If Douglas Fairbanks hadn’t been Blautsauger, she might have drained him dry before they ever separated. I don’t think she practices her wiles much anymore, but I couldn’t have her killing off the actors she was hired to employ. And of course, she’d definitely have to do something about her “disguise.” Orson in his rat form would be easier to look at every day than her skinny legs in those psychedelic tights.
Orson, on the other hand, was a brilliant moviemaker. He could create gold with no budget, no studio behind him, barely anything to work with save his own artistry. He’s Strigoi Vui, a master of witchcraft. Imagine what he could do with Anticipation if I gave him free rein.
Well, I’d think about all of that later. I still had the werewolf attack to worry about. It was two days since I’d asked Solgar for information, and I hadn’t heard anything back from him. I needed to contact the rest of my clan, find out if anyone else had had a run-in with a beast.
But right then, all I could think about was Peter.
It was the first time we’d been alone together since our date the night before. I’d been a mass of nerve endings ever since, all of them set on lust. The blood in the Coroner’s office hadn’t helped. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, feel him hard against me. I wanted to finish the kiss we’d almost started. To scratch my fa
ce against the stubble of his beard and feel the smoothness of the skin on his neck. I wanted to sink my fangs into that neck and feed on the hot fluid in his veins while I fucked his brains out, but that probably wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Not with Maral in her office next door and Sveta and Ilona at their desks downstairs. And not with him trying to solve a homicide, with a chewed-up victim and shit for clues. I tried to get back to business.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Something else I can help you with?” I asked. I kept my distance, not sure what his reaction to romance would be while he was on the job.
“Yeah. The hotel just faxed over the reservations sheet from last night, when our Jane Doe was found. We still don’t have an ID on her, no one’s called in a missing person report, and we didn’t get any help from the bystanders last night. No fingers to print . . . hell, you saw her—no hands. But I’m heading back over there later today to ask some more questions. She probably wasn’t married—she was wearing a Saint Andrew medal.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “There’s a saint for women who want to attract a man?”
“There’s a saint for everything. Don’t you know that? There’s a saint for anesthesiologists, running sores, ice-skating. Hell, there are three saints for difficult marriages; I know because my mother was praying to all three before my divorce. None of them came through. From her point of view, at least. Anyway, Saint Andrew is the patron saint of single women. So I figure our Jane Doe didn’t wear a ring. The way she was dressed, she could have been looking for a honey at the bar.” He rifled through the papers he was holding in a manila envelope and pulled out a single sheet. “The Sportsmen’s Lodge has five rooms being billed to Anticipation Studios. Any idea why?”
“We almost always have someone there. The Sportsmen’s is halfway between the studios in Santa Clarita and my office here, and that’s where our travel agency books anyone from out of town—directors, designers, anyone who might need to be in both places. If it’s an actor, we put him in a hotel in Valencia, closer to the studio, but otherwise, it’s the Sportsmen’s.”
Love Bites Page 9