Wednesday afternoon/evening
Kenneth Trent had been seen at the concession stand with his partner, Frank Oliver. The two had even seen friends in front of the theater—they had been there talking until probably around midnight. Jackson had checked out and confirmed Kenneth Trent’s alibi.
“One man telling the truth. I’m going to question the boyfriends again—past and present,” Jackson told Bruce over the phone.
“We think we’re onto something here.” Bruce went on to tell him about their conversation with Amal, and that they were now off to the see the waitress.
“The women were both seen in this area, a day apart. If we get a similar story at the café...I’ll really believe we might catch a break. The thing is, if we can find his murder room or hole or whatever it is, we’ll have a good shot at finding the killer. At least, we may have a real shot at finding some forensic clues.”
Bruce ended his call, and got into the car where Sophie and Michael were waiting. Sophie ended her own call; she’d given Vining a quick update.
Michael Thoreau spoke up as Sophie steered the car out into traffic. “This is different from the original. Some people think that the killer was angry with the entire Hollywood studio system. And the pornography filmed out here. And the auditions that turned into exploitation, if you know what I mean. Elizabeth Short did want fame—so did these girls. Back in my day, there were all kinds of suspects. The LAPD originally thought they had about twenty-five viable suspects. Some were cleared, and some new ones popped up on the radar. Her father lived out in Vallejo, but he was just about worthless. Let’s see, she really did love men in uniform, so any guy in the military was of interest. One suspect—one I followed up on—was Dr. Walter Bayley. He was a surgeon, he and his wife had a painful divorce—and his wife still lived in the family home, just about a block from the Dahlia’s dump site. His daughter had been friends with Elizabeth’s sister, Virginia. Bayley died in 1948, and his autopsy showed that he was suffering from degenerative brain disease. A few detectives believed that it was definitely him.”
“I’ve read up about the Dahlia case,” Bruce said. “But as you said, this is different.”
“The thing is figuring out how it’s different. A surgeon makes sense—Elizabeth was so cleanly dissected, her organs...removed. So a surgeon makes sense.”
“But,” Sophie said, “someone studying the case now has easy access to the old crime scene photos, autopsy reports and more. So would someone need to know what they were doing—anatomically—or could they pull this off by imitation?”
“They’d likely have to know something,” Bruce said.
“But I don’t believe that the killer had to have been a surgeon or even a doctor,” Sophie said.
“Agreed.”
“Well, in the original case, there was Leslie Dillon as a viable suspect—he was a bellhop who had once been a mortuary assistant. He left LA, and wrote in to a police psychiatrist, de River, saying that his friend did it. He wound up being arrested, but nothing could be proven, not even that he was in the city at the time of the murder. His friend turned out to be a man named Artie Lane, though Leslie Dillon had called him Connors. Artie Lane was a maintenance man for Columbia Studios—one of Elizabeth’s favorite places. Again, nothing could be proven.”
“I’ve got pages and pages on the original crime. I think I’ve ordered every book written,” Sophie told him. “I always thought that Leslie Dillon was a sound suspect. Then again, with degenerative brain disease, the surgeon made a good suspect, too.”
“Ah, but could he carry out that kind of murder—with his disease?” Bruce asked.
“A former cop, Steve Hodel, wrote a book, and he’s certain that his own father, Dr. George Hodel, did it. Dr. Hodel’s daughter accused him of molestation. There were other factors, and some circumstantial evidence. Then again, Hodel himself wrote that nothing could ever be proven. Janice Knowlton, whose father—another George—was a suspect, also wrote a book. She claimed that her father was the Black Dahlia killer—and she knew that because of hypnosis to recover ‘repressed’ memories,” Sophie said. “The problem with LA is...”
“There are a lot of people willing to confess to a horrible murder—or to blame it on a parent or relative?” Bruce asked.
“Go figure,” Michael said.
“Geography,” Sophie murmured. She glanced at Bruce briefly and smiled. “First European settlement was mid-eighteenth century. The Spanish found about 300,000 Gabrielinos and Fernandinos—as they came to call them, and as they were associated with their missions. Captain Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo and Sebastian Vizcaino—they came in 1542 and then 1602, but the first person to really make a dent in the Spanish presence here was Felipe de Neve, early governor of California. He wanted pueblos to support the presidios and the military. The city was officially founded in 1781. In 1821, Mexico gained independence, and California celebrated, but fast-forward to the Mexican War, and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ceded California to the US—officially—in 1848.”
She thought that Bruce was staring at her blankly, wondering why they all needed a history lesson.
But he was actually watching her with interest, she realized.
He looked over at Michael Thoreau. “We are in an old section of the city,” he said.
“Right—where people have knocked down and rebuilt over and over again,” Michael said. “We’re not really known—as human beings—for ever being bright enough to really appreciate our pasts.”
“Still...we’re looking for something weird. And maybe old,” Bruce said. “And,” he added, looking at Michael Thoreau, “no one knew where the Dahlia was murdered, either. They knew where her body was dumped, and that it was drained of blood and mutilated, but—they never found the place where the killer carried out the deed.”
“Could be the same,” Michael said softly.
“Could be,” Sophie agreed. “Michael, when you were investigating—doing your investigative reporter stint—what did you believe?” Sophie asked him.
“Well, that’s just it,” Michael said. “That’s why I was bringing all this up—now.” He was quiet for a minute, and then said, “This is the area where I was shot and killed. There is an area just a bit out—all this is now part of El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Monument. All kinds of buildings are part of it, but head a little out and you have alleys and smaller buildings and farther out you even have the remnants of old churches and mansions and more.” He paused and pointed. “See those thirties buildings? I was killed late one night, 1948. I was following a lead that there was a producer out in this area that Elizabeth Short had said sounded a little sketchy but might just be the man she was looking for.”
“Let’s go,” Sophie said. They had reached the café—The Very Old Old-Town Café.
Michael Thoreau fell into step with them as they exited the car. He continued musing. “You know that the police investigated the Cleveland torso murders, too. Although—never proven—a lot of people think that killer was Frank Dolezal, who died mysteriously in police custody at the Cuyahoga jail. An autopsy revealed a bunch of broken ribs, so...it looks as if the cops thought he was guilty, whether justly or not.”
A historical marker told them that the foundations for the building dated back to the late 1700s, and, in one form or another, it had been serving up delicious food to the residents of the area for, literally, hundreds of years.
“So, it has been The Very Old Old-Town Café all these years?” Sophie murmured.
“Well, when you’re new, you can’t be old,” Bruce said.
“But it was here in 1948,” Michael said. “I had coffee at the café the day that I died.”
He seemed very somber and morose. Bruce glanced at Sophie, who was then looking at Michael as if she wished she could give him a hug.
“I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said softly. She glanced at Bruce, wanting him to do or say something gentle and kind, as well.
“You must have been a damned cool dude,” Bruce said. “And I, too, am so sorry.”
Michael brightened. “Well, at least I’m here with you two,” he said, sliding between them and setting his ghostly arms around their shoulders. “Let’s do it.”
“What’s the waitress’s name?” Bruce asked Sophie.
He watched Sophie as she consulted her cell phone for her notes. “Gina Wyler. And she’s at the café until eight.”
“Let’s get on in,” Bruce said.
He opened the door. An old-fashioned little bell tinkled.
The café was obviously a popular place; the tables were filled except one, and every stool at the counter was taken.
Sophie walked up to the register and showed her ID and asked the tall man in an apron there if it was possible for them to see Gina Wyler. He was immediately helpful. “Yes, I’m Xander Young. I own the café now. And I’m glad you’re here. Gina is quite certain we saw that woman. If we can help, we want to do so.”
“Mr. Young, thank you,” Sophie said. “The LAPD is grateful, of course. Did you see Lili Montana, too?”
He nodded. “I saw her. I didn’t get to speak with her the way that Gina did.” The man pointed to the empty table. “I’ll send Gina right over.”
Sophie and Bruce took seats across from one another in the booth.
Gina Wyler was tiny—it was easy to see since she was wearing sneakers for her job. She was about five-one or five-two, pleasingly plump—as Sophie’s mom would have said—and possessing a beautiful smile, even when it was punctuated with a worried furrow of the brows.
She slid into the booth next to Bruce. A good thing since Michael Thoreau was next to Sophie.
If Gina had taken that seat, she might have received a startling little chill.
Bruce had become so accustomed to Michael Thoreau following them around that he almost introduced the ghost to Gina.
He managed not to—these days, he seldom gave himself away with the least movement, word or even whisper.
Sophie seemed to quickly have gotten the hang of having a ghost around, as well.
She welcomed Gina with a firm handshake and an expression of gratitude. The girl—Gina couldn’t possibly be more than in her very early twenties—seemed very quickly at ease with the two of them.
“I was so stunned when I saw the news...and when I saw her picture. It was Lili Montana who came in here. I never asked her what her name was, and I should have, because we really did chat,” Gina said. “She was so pretty...and nice. And nervous. She was going for an audition.”
“She told you she was actually going to audition?” Bruce asked.
“Yes. I always ask customers how they’re doing, what they’re up to, and she said she had an audition that day.”
“For—who? Or what?” Sophie pressed.
“She didn’t name a name. She said the whole thing sounded a little odd. It was all going to start off as theater that would be filmed. You know what I mean—a play that’s filmed. Anyway, sounded even odder to me that they intended to film it, because it wasn’t going to be usual theater.”
Bruce and Sophie glanced at each other.
“Did she ever use the word ‘weird’ in your conversation?” Bruce asked.
“Yes! Exactly! The show was going to be weird. We started talking about Sleep No More. That’s a play that showed in New York City. It was very cool—you follow certain performers around. It’s a different experience for whoever sees it. The performers make use of different floors of the hotel...you’re just not sure where you’re going to end up. I saw it when I went back home to see my brother—he had just finished his enlistment with the military. My mom took us all to the show. I loved it. And that’s how Lili and I started talking.”
“Is there going to be a performance here? Was she trying out for it?”
“No. I mean, there might be a show out here—but not that I know about. Although then, we started talking about The Johnny Cycle—III. That was done not far at all from here in a mausoleum. It was fabulous. Same thing—you followed different performers around, only out here, it was a mausoleum. Not at all strange for LA County, I guess. The Speakeasy Society is great for doing amazing new theater,” Gina told them.
“So, was she going to audition for them?” Bruce asked.
“No, no—if only she had been going out for something they were doing. No, the guy was brand-new in the game, she said. She had the chance to get in with him from the get-go. And if she was one of his major players and it all came out right—she’d be set.”
“She never mentioned a man’s name or the name of the production house he’d formed—or where she was going at all?” Sophie asked.
“All she said was ‘weird.’”
“Weird?” Bruce repeated softly.
“She was going somewhere ‘weird.’ No, she wouldn’t say where. She didn’t want to jinx herself.”
“But it was near here?” Bruce asked.
“I think...because we talked until about a quarter of eight—and she was supposed to meet him at eight.”
“Did you see where she went when she left here?” Sophie asked.
Of course not, Bruce thought.
That would be too damned easy.
“When she left the café, she headed away from downtown—toward the west.”
“Walking?” Bruce asked.
“She came here by something—taxi, Uber, Lyft. When she left the café, she was walking.”
There wasn’t much else Gina could tell them. “I wish I could help you more. She was just so sweet. So pretty and natural and... I didn’t meet the other girl. And to think...this horrible person killed Lili, and then went on to kill again—just a day later. God knows, he might have another victim right now. He’s going for the hopefuls, you know. The girls who come out here just hoping... Hollywood can be such a dream. And it can be such a killer, too.” She was silent a minute. “Literally,” she said drily.
“Gina, you’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you so much,” Sophie told her. Gina’s hand lay on the table; Sophie squeezed it.
“Yes, thank you so much,” Bruce echoed. He and Sophie handed her their contact cards. “If you need us for anything—anything at all—call. If by any chance you think anyone even remotely dangerous is hanging around here, you call us. Don’t ever be hesitant, okay?”
Gina smiled and nodded. “I’m not a Hollywood hopeful. I was born here, but I never wanted to be in the movies. Yep, I know that most of the waiters and waitresses out here want to be actors. Not me. I’m in nursing school. I love medicine. I’ve thought about going into it full blast—to be a doctor, you know. But I like people. And people who are hurt or sick need compassion. I want to be the person who really helps them feel better.”
“That’s commendable,” Sophie told her.
“I guess I should get back to work.” She smiled grimly and rose. “Thank you—for not just putting us off. I know you must have received a thousand tips. I do pray that you find whoever killed those young women.”
“We intend to,” Bruce assured her.
She left the table. Sophie already had her phone out to report to Grant Vining.
He called Jackson Crow.
“We believe Lili Montana met her killer within fifteen minutes of this café—on foot.”
“I’ll call the home office and get Angela started on possibilities.”
“You’ll call Angela—at headquarters? In Virginia?”
Jackson laughed softly. “Don’t ever underestimate my wife. She can pull up any old plans you might imagine. She’ll find everything in the near vicinity with a foundation, basement—or anything that might have been an old soundproof studio.”
“That’s great. I guess we’ll keep searching the general area. Two sightings of the victims in the same area.”
“Go to it. I’ll meet you down there in an hour or so.”
He hung up; Sophie had just done the same.
“Vining is on his way down.”
“Jackson is coming, too. My suggestion is that we go out—and walk west and see what we see.”
She smiled. “I like that suggestion.”
“Brilliant,” Michael Thoreau’s ghost agreed.
They started down the street. Sophie started telling Bruce why she loved California—and even Los Angeles—so much. She pointed out the various historic buildings near them, and told him that he really should see the many old missions that were on the historic register. “These buildings, though,” she said, “are filled with tourists daily. All kinds of historic boards work with and on them. I can’t imagine that anyone could do anything secret with them. They’d have been discovered by now. I’m almost positive.”
“We’re looking for something that might be private. And while we’re in an old section of the city, it might not be that old. But Jackson has an agent searching old maps and plans.”
“I know that it’s near here,” Michael said. “We’re about two blocks from the alley...where I was shot and killed. In fact...”
“Don’t go there, Michael!” Sophie said. “It will just make you...”
“Sad,” Bruce said for her.
“So follow me,” he said. “Be there for me.”
He turned to head for his alley.
“Michael—it might not even be an alley anymore,” Sophie called.
“It’s an alley,” Michael said with assurance.
“It’s a secluded place—and it’s in the area of interest,” Bruce said to Sophie.
She nodded with a slight shrug and started off after Michael.
To his surprise, she then stopped and looked at him seriously. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“About what?”
“I have had an attitude.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
“I actually rather like you.”
“And I like and admire you.”
She looked embarrassed and uncomfortable then. She started walking again.
He reached out and stopped her. “You’re so dedicated, but... Do you have a life?” he asked her. “I mean—any kind of social life?”
She blushed furiously. “Yes. No. I’m going to find one,” she admitted on a quick breath. “I thought I was going to start having one. And then...this case. And Michael.”
“Did someone convince you that you were crazy when you first saw a ghost?” he asked her softly.
“Yes.”
“It’s happened to many people,” he assured her. “I don’t know what it is... Adam Harrison—he’s the head of the Krewe of Hunters—has a knack for finding such people. It’s maybe one or two percent of the population. And some never do accept it. Obviously—we could be ridiculed for it.”
She nodded. “Yeah. So Bryan sees ghosts, too?”
“And my younger brother, Brodie. For us, it started with our parents.”
She smiled. “Your famous parents, right?”
“They were actors—well-known in their day—yes.”
“I think I have accepted Michael. But...isn’t it...weird, even for you, when they first show up?”
“Sometimes so weird that I have to figure out if they are the living or the dead,” he assured her. “But, Sophie, honestly, they help. I just found a missing woman, because a ghost helped. And Cara Barton helped solved her own murder—the ghost of Cara Barton. I know it’s strange, but it really is a gift—and we are able to do some amazing things because of this gift.”
“So you think that Michael can really help?”
“I’m not sure how yet, but yes.”
She smiled, but then she gasped. “There he goes—down that little alley. I wouldn’t have even looked for an alley there...it seems to be set there between a building from the late 1800s and one from maybe 1930 or so.”
“We said we’d follow.”
“And we will!”
She started off again, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. “Sophie, you said that you almost had a life.”
She nodded. “I was being a caregiver. To an old friend.”
“And old lover?” he asked softly, thinking that she’d probably tell him that it was none of his business.
“Not recently—way back in high school. But we were still friends, and he didn’t have the help that he should have had...so basically, I had work, and I had him.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so truly sorry.”
“We all lose in life, don’t we?”
“We do. But to honor those we lost, Sophie, we keep living.”
“We’re going to lose Michael,” she said.
“Nope, we’re going to catch up to him,” he told her, and they hurried down the street.
The alley was a very narrow strip between the two buildings. Bruce didn’t see Michael as they first started down it—it was riddled with trash cans, empty boxes and, he discovered, stepping around one of the old boxes, two homeless men sleeping in makeshift “housing” created from some more empty boxes.
He caught sight of Michael down at the end of the alley, looking at a door into the late 1800s building. But he didn’t walk to him quickly as he might have done; the homeless men were sitting up, looking at the two of them with surprise.
“Hey, hey...we’re not hurting anyone!” the older of the two, a man of about sixty with a full gray beard and headful of long gray hair said.
“It’s good here, please, hey—we even got blankets here,” the younger said.
“We haven’t come to roust you,” Bruce assured him.
“You’re not cops?” the younger man asked.
“Well, Detective Manning is a cop—but not here to bother you in any way,” Bruce assured them both.
“No, but I’d love to speak with you,” Sophie said.
“We don’t trust cops,” the older one said.
“Nope. Can’t trust cops. They want to shake you down,” the younger one said.
Sophie squatted next to them. “I wanted to ask you if you’d see any young women around here.”
The older one laughed. “I haven’t really seen a young woman in a long, long time.”
“Girls like guys with money,” the younger man said.
“There were two women brutally murdered, and we think it happened somewhere near here,” Sophie said.
The older one immediately looked suspicious.
“I never hurt anyone in my life!” he said.
“No, no—I was hoping desperately that you might help, that you might have seen something,” Sophie told him.
The old one looked at the young one. He stood up, and the younger man did the same. Sophie rose with them.
“I’m Tom. This is Billy,” he said. And he smiled sheepishly. “You’re the prettiest young thing I’ve seen in a long, long time. Maybe even forever.”
“Yeah,” Billy agreed. “You don’t happen to be pretty—and have a pack of cigarettes on you, do you?”
“No, I’m so sorry. I don’t smoke.”
“Pretty—and smart,” Tom said. He let out a long breath, looking over at Billy. “There was...someone.”
“An attractive young woman? Dark-haired?” Bruce asked.
“She might have been,” Tom said.
“We didn’t really see her. She ran by us,” Bill said. “She was trying to get somewhere...but the building here...on the side. It was a studio. Guess it was an independent kind of place. It shut down about a month or so ago.”
“Really? So there’s no one there?” Bruce asked.
“People come and go. Guess whoever went down is getting the last of their stuff. Some kid gave us the blankets,” Tom said.
“A kid? How young?” Bruce asked.
“Oh, he thinks everyone is young,” Bill told him. “Kid as in...maybe thirty or so.”
“But was he here when the girl was here? Did you talk to her?” Sophie asked excitedly.
“No, no... I think that the company had already cleared out whatever it was they were going to clear out,” Tom said. “And we didn’t really see her because...”
“Because some idiot dropped a whole bottle of whiskey out on the corner, and Tom and I figured we might enjoy it—rather than let it go to waste, you know,” Billy told them.
Tom sighed. “Okay, okay, so we were pretty blitzed. She went by. She disappeared. Maybe through that door down there.”
“Thank you,” Sophie told him. “Hey, what do you smoke? I’ll get you a pack of cigarettes.”
“Nice! Thank you—anything,” Billy said.
“We may need you again. Not to bother you in any way. But...if this proves to be anything, would you help again?” Bruce asked.
“We don’t like cops,” Billy said.
“But she’s kind of all right. For a cop,” Tom said.
“Let’s get down to the door—and see what we see,” Bruce said to Sophie.
“I’m going to have to get a search warrant if we want to get inside,” Sophie said.
“Hey, I’m not a cop,” Bruce reminded her. He was already walking away.
Michael Thoreau stood at the end of the alley, looking at the door speculatively.
“Bruce, stop,” Sophie called. “Let me get ahold of Vining. We don’t know who owns the place now. If there is something...”
Bruce startled Michael Thoreau—almost walking right through him.
He tried the old metal door with the simple metal knob.
Locked.
Bruce jiggled it roughly, but the door held fast. He sighed in frustration.
“Wait!” Michael said, “I’ll go. Ghosts are good for something.”
He stepped through the sheet of metal.
Sophie reached Bruce just as Michael Thoreau stepped back into the dim light of the alley.
“Call a judge,” he said. “You’re going to need that warrant.”