She prayed that the Trundys would be all right. Karissa considered calling the police anyway, but Regina was probably right—bringing in the cops would cause more trouble than they’d want. She had to trust that Doon would not harm them, especially now that he knew Karissa was on to him. Now she had to take the risk of going home, if she should at all. Maybe she could go to Marcello’s? Maybe—
Her phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was her ex, Willy. Great. That was all she needed. But on second thought—perhaps this could be helpful.
“Willy?” she answered.
“Hey, Karissa. I’m at your house.”
“What? Why?”
“I brought you a present. You’re going to like what I have to say. Are you at the office? I thought you might be home. I could come back in—”
“No! Stay there, Willy! Please! I’m on my way. I’ll be there in five.”
35
THE MOVIE
The sun is setting. As the camera follows the Oldsmobile along Crescent Heights Boulevard, the urban landscape thins out. We’re heading into the Hollywood Hills. Soon there are no buildings at all as the car repeatedly climbs and dips. Cut back and forth to a close shot of Blair behind the wheel, tears streaming down her face as she tries to concentrate on her driving.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” the voice-over says. “I was supposed to meet Ray after my ‘visit’ to the studio. Depending on how it turned out, he was going to help me get away, but I completely forgot and absent-mindedly found myself heading out of the city. Before I knew it, I was in the Hollywood Hills. I didn’t want to turn around. I wanted to get lost. I was afraid. I knew that I’d done something terrible. Did I regret it? No, I didn’t. But that didn’t mean I thought I wouldn’t have to pay for it when my soul was eventually judged at the gates of heaven. I had sinned, but that’s what ‘Blair Kendrick—the Bad Girl’ would have done, right? A tagline on one of my movie posters was ‘Her Sins Will Shock You!’ I guess they really would now.”
The two-lane road turned into Laurel Canyon Boulevard and ascended higher, winding around sharp curves and treacherous drop-offs. Blair didn’t know where the road would lead. Sometimes the road narrowed and there was a cluster of houses, but then it opened up again to wild country. Blair had been acquainted with some stars who lived in the Hollywood Hills, and she’d been to some parties there, but she had no clue as to the exact geographical locations. In those instances, she had ridden in a limousine or studio car and had rarely driven her own automobile to such functions.
She was forced to change gears often on the tricky road. Her speed had lessened considerably, and she didn’t feel safe. The image of that strange woman bolting out of the studio door with gun in hand—firing at her—was imprinted on her retinas. Was she following her now? And what about Buddy Franco? Was he dead or merely wounded? One thing was certain: she had to flee the city—and do it quickly. She dared not go back to her house. Her half-baked plan of quitting the movie business was now a reality. Blair Kendrick was no longer a star and would never make another picture again.
The erratic movement of lights in her rearview mirror jerked her out of the delirious reverie. It was a car, hot on her tail some fifty to a hundred yards back. Every time she went around a curve, Blair lost sight of it, but whenever the road managed to straighten for a short stint, the car was there.
Franco. Pursuing her in his Cadillac.
Or was it? He would have been in no condition to drive.
That woman with the gun?
She instinctively stepped harder on the gas pedal, attempting to go faster, but the climbing and snaking was too hard on the car. She was afraid she’d drive off into a precipice. She was in canyon country now.
A road sign indicated that she was approaching Mulholland Drive. She made a right turn and found herself on an even more meandering path. She had been on the scenic boulevard in the past—she and Hank had driven up to a lovers’ lookout somewhere along the way to sit and contemplate the city lights. The lonely road was a symbol of Hollywood dreams.
Why was it so dark?
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, as she realized she didn’t have her headlamps on. The sun had set, and it was as if she were following a barely visible ribbon illuminated only by the moon and stars. She flicked the lights on, which made the road clearer.
But that only made her car more visible to her pursuer.
Who was crazy enough to build such a hazardous road? she wondered, reminding herself to pay attention. The headlamps shot straight beams of whiteness that cut through the black to reveal a highway that moved as if it were alive. A writhing, untamable beast upon which her car had to traverse. The sides were nothing but tall, thick trees, rocks, and cliffs. Every now and then a bend revealed a darkness off the side that might as well have been a bottomless pit. It probably went all the way to hell.
The pinpoints of headlights behind her were still there and getting closer. Whoever it was would soon catch her and kill her. She would never make it to the end of this insane road. Either that or she would end up at the bottom of a canyon, burning in a fiery wreck.
Perhaps that’s what she deserved.
Unless …
She set a trap.
Maybe she could cause it to have an accident.
Mulholland Drive was silent and empty. It seemed they were the only ones up in the hills. Only once did another car pass her, and it was going down to the city. Could she get away with it?
At one point along the road at which she had a good vantage of the serpent road behind her, she saw not only the pursuer’s headlights, but those of another vehicle behind his. Did they belong to a car driven by one of Franco’s henchmen? Was that driver going to help the other car’s occupants murder her and then bury her body somewhere out here in the canyons?
She had to do something.
A long arc ahead provided the opportunity. Blair cut her own headlamps and slowed down to a stop. In a flurry, she grabbed her purse, the gun, and the coin binders, and got out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the lane. To the left of the drive was a steep drop into nothingness. To the right was a tall, rocky cliff. She moved forward toward the cliff and along the stone wall, running ahead perhaps fifty feet. She heard the approaching Cadillac and saw its beams from around the bend of the rocks. They grew brighter as the car rumbled closer.
Then it was there, barreling ahead. Although she was some distance away, she could swear she saw the driver’s eyes bulge when he saw the Oldsmobile in the middle of the road. It was too late to stop. He pulled the wheel to the right, but the Cadillac hit the back of Blair’s car anyway and then plowed into the rocky face of the cliff.
Blair held the pistol and strode forward, pointing it at the wrecked Cadillac. She stopped ten feet from the wreckage. The Cadillac’s lights cast an eerie glow over the scene that reflected on the stone and trees around them.
The woman from Hirsch’s office sat in the passenger seat, her head resting against a spiderweb crack in the windshield, blood streaming down her face. The driver looked like a hired thug. He, too, had blood on his head and face, but he was conscious.
The other pair of headlights that had been behind the Cadillac now appeared from around the bend. The car stopped before it could collide with the chaos of metal on the road. But Blair was too intent on finishing this business to notice the second driver.
The injured driver’s door had opened. Grimacing, the man moved and raised a pistol, pointing it at her.
Blair squeezed the trigger of her own gun and was startled by the jerk of the recoil and the loud reverberation of its retort across the canyons.
The man slumped in the seat and no longer moved.
“Blair!”
The voice startled her out of her one-track state. She turned to see the other car sitting in the road, idling, its headlamps illuminating the scene brighter than before. A black man stood in front of the car, his hand outstretched to her.
“Blair, it’s me
, Ray!”
“Ray?”
“When you didn’t show up where we were supposed to meet, I drove to the lot and saw you leave. Then I saw them take off after you. I followed you both. Come on. We’ve got to get out of here!”
In a daze, Blair nodded and went to him. He opened the passenger door of a green 1939 Ford Coupe. “Wait,” she said. She moved past him to the side of the road and threw the Smith & Wesson out into the precipice, where it disappeared into the darkness below. She then returned to the car and got inside with the binders and purse in hand.
Ray sat behind the wheel.
She said nothing. Her face was blank, eyes staring ahead as if she were in a trance.
“You don’t own a car, Ray,” she said with remarkable clarity after a while.
“No, Blair, I don’t. This here belongs to Bobop. He lent me the car tonight for our plans, remember?”
”Oh. I forgot.”
He was about to drive away, when Blair whispered to him.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“We can’t leave the scene like this.”
“What are you talking about, Blair? We got to get out of here!”
She swallowed and uttered a coarse laugh. “I’ve made enough crime movies to know. There’s something I have to do.”
Blair explained to him what she had in mind. Ray’s eyes grew wide, frightened by what she had just suggested. “I’ll do it all myself if you won’t help me, Ray.”
“No, I’ll help you,” he finally said. “Those people deserve to burn in hell. There’s a can of gasoline in the trunk of the car. I used it earlier to fill her up.”
They both got out and went to the other wrecked car. The woman hadn’t moved. Blair thought she might be dead. Was her name Malena? Hirsch had called out that name, as if he’d been expecting her.
Blair hesitated for a few seconds, and then she unfastened the pearl necklace that was her signature accessory. She hung it around Malena Mengarelli’s neck, locked it in place, and walked away.
“Do it, Ray,” she said.
He began to douse both cars with gasoline.
As they drove away from the two infernos on the lonely mountain road, Ray asked, “Are you all right, Blair?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes were on the HOLLYWOOD sign that brightly shone on the hill up ahead. It had recently been refurbished by the Chamber of Commerce. For years it had said HOLLYWOODLAND, but the sign had declined into disrepair and even lost a letter or two. Earlier in 1949, the sign had been rebuilt without the LAND part.
HOLLYWOOD. Built on dreams.
Sure, she thought. Just dreams. Like blues in the dark. Nothing more.
36
KARISSA
As Karissa approached her house on Harvard Boulevard, she saw that a green Jeep Cherokee was parked in front at the curb. She drove onto the driveway without entering the garage, parked, and strode around the house to the front yard to address her ex-husband, who sat on the porch swing with a big grin on his face.
“Willy! You—”
He shook his head. “Now don’t go shooting off your mouth, Karissa, not until you hear what I have to say.”
She started up the steps to the porch. “Willy, I need your help. Someone is—”
The screeching of brakes in front of the house interrupted her. Barry Doon’s BMW made a reckless stop at the curb behind the Jeep. The man got out and aggressively approached Karissa.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, running up the steps to the porch. By then, Willy had gotten to his feet.
“I want to talk to you!” Doon shouted from the yard.
“Who the hell is he?” Willy asked.
“A very bad guy. And he works for your studio, Willy. He wants to kill me,” she said, moving closer to her ex. Despite their history, she felt safer next to him.
Willy looked at her. “He wants to what?”
Doon reached the bottom of the steps and addressed Willy. “Step aside, Mr. Puma. This doesn’t concern you. I need to speak to her.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I work for the studio that makes the Hellhole movies, so back away.”
“I’m staying right here. You say what you need to say to both of us.”
Doon’s face turned red with anger. “Fine!” To Karissa—“What were you doing talking to the Trundys?”
“Get out of here before I call the cops,” Karissa said.
The man pointed to her. “You’re making this much worse for yourself, lady!”
“Hey!” Willy snapped. He moved down the steps. He outweighed Doon by thirty pounds and sported a set of pecs that could intimidate a wild beast. “What’s the problem here?”
Doon backed away. “Easy, Puma. I told you I work for Ultimate Pictures.”
“So? Are you threatening my ex-wife?”
The man held up his hands. “I just want to talk to her. There’s a, uhm, a legal issue that we’re trying to work out.”
“Then have your lawyer contact her lawyer. You best get the hell off this property.”
Doon blustered, “Watch it, Puma, don’t forget you’ve been cast in Hellhole Six.”
“Yeah, and I have a contract of steel, too. Get the fuck out of my face before you don’t have one anymore.”
Doon glared at him and then at Karissa. He pointed at her again. “Keep your nose out of Justin Hirsch’s business if you know what’s good for you!” Puma lunged at him and Doon jerked back. “I’m going! Your boss is going to hear about this, Puma.” The man went back into his car, burning rubber as he went.
Willy climbed the stairs back to the porch.
“Thank you, Willy,” Karissa said. “I hope you don’t get in trouble for that.”
He waved a hand at her. “I don’t give a shit. My manager, my agent, my attorney—they’ll give the studio fire and brimstone if they try to can me. Are you all right? Is this about that movie you and Marcello want to make?”
“Yeah. There’s some real stinky history at Ultimate Pictures, Willy, and this movie would bring it all out. I’m real close to solving a puzzle.” She exhaled heavily and sat on the top step of the porch.
“Well, I hope you do.” He went back to the porch swing and picked up a large envelope he’d left there. “Look.” He sat beside her and handed it to her. “The papers. All signed.”
She took them and felt her eyes well up. “Oh, Willy. Really?”
“Really.”
She opened the envelope, pulled out the papers, and saw that they were indeed signed. “Willy. Thank you.”
“No problem. Hey, I’m sorry. For everything. I know I’ve been a jerk.”
Karissa was flustered. “What … changed?”
Willy shook his head and grinned. “Well, you know my mama …”
Karissa blinked. “Celia? What about her? Is she okay?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s definitely okay. As ornery as ever. You know how opinionated she can be.”
Karissa thought she knew where this was going. “Oh, yeah. Your mama’s the only person I know who could tell you what to do.”
“Don’t you know it? Well. She’s taken your side in all this, and she gave me hell about all the shit I caused in our marriage. She really let me have it. When she found out I hadn’t signed the papers and was putting you through … well, let’s just say she laid down the law.”
Karissa laughed. Her former mother-in-law was indeed a force to reckon with. “Tough-guy Willy Puma. Bested by Dear Old Mom.”
Willy guffawed. “Please don’t tell my fans. At any rate, I know she’s right. And you’ve been right, too, all along. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me, and let’s try to be friends from here on out.”
“Sure, Willy. Thank you. And thank Celia for me.”
“Oh, no. I ain’t telling her that you know she whooped my ass.” He stood and took a few steps away from the house. Then he turned back and approached her. “Let me know if you have any more trouble with that guy.”
/> He held out a hand. She clasped it in hers and squeezed.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he said, and then Willy Puma crossed the lawn, went out the gate, got in his Jeep, and drove away.
Karissa wanted to collapse on the steps. The flow of adrenaline had been nearly nonstop for the last couple of hours—the car chase around West Adams Heights, the revelation of James Trundy and Regina, and the small satisfaction she felt with Willy and Doon’s confrontation. She had no energy left.
She let herself into the house through the garage and picked up the mail off the floor that had fallen in through the front door. More of the usual junk, plus a letter-sized envelope addressed to her. The return address was a P.O. Box in Wasco, California. Where the hell was that?
Karissa tore open the envelope—inside was an informational pamphlet folded to fit the Number 10 envelope, all about Our Lady of Hope Children’s Home.
An orphanage in Santa Barbara, California.
“What the …?” Karissa opened it to see photos of nuns with babies, older children, and Catholic iconography. A heading indicated that the facility had been in operation since 1921 and had worked for decades to place abandoned or orphaned children in loving foster homes.
Folded inside the pamphlet was a letter-sized piece of paper that was a photocopy of an “intake form.” On it was information about a child who had been brought to the orphanage in 1949.
“Oh, Lord.”
Karissa examined the envelope again. No clue as to who had sent it.
After putting her car in the garage and locking all the doors for the day, Karissa sat at her computer and pulled up Google Maps. Wasco was located roughly thirty miles from Bakersfield. Interestingly, a state prison was also in Wasco. A tiny place with a population of around 25,000, the town didn’t appear to have much else going for it.
Could that be where Gregory Webster lived? Had he sent the envelope? Karissa trusted her instincts, and this time they were telling her the answers to these questions.
The intake form was dated June 17, 1949. The child was described as a Negro female newborn with the name “Jane Doe.” Karissa knew that the Census forms in those days allowed only one race to be selected. Someone’s handwriting in the margin noted: “Parents—one white, one black? Unknown.” The baby had apparently been left at the front door one night, wrapped in a blanket and lying in a pasteboard box. By the time a nun opened the door, whoever had brought the child had vanished.
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