Monday morning
“Wow. You thought...you thought it was me,” Lee Underwood said bleakly. He winced as he spoke to them from his hospital bed.
Sophie was at his side. Grant Vining—finally checking out of the hospital himself—had joined her, along with Bruce, Brodie, Jackson Crow, Henry Atkins and Captain Chagall.
They were a bit of a horde, and they weren’t allowed to stay long; Lee was going to go into surgery for his leg.
He was going to need some serious care as he had many broken bones. And while Dr. Thompson had done the killing when it came to Lili and Brenda, Grace Leon had been the one to smash Lee over and over again with a broken piece of tombstone. He hadn’t been the target for the night, but he’d been there. And, therefore, he’d needed to die.
Sophie couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for having put him high on her suspect list; he’d been trying to help her while he had to have been thinking he was most likely going to be murdered himself.
“We suspected Henry, too,” Sophie said, glancing at Henry.
“They had me locked up,” Henry said. “Scary.”
“It had to be someone connected,” Grant Vining explained.
“But, Sophie, you thought it was me?” Lee repeated.
“I’m sorry!” Sophie said.
“It’s because I’m so good-looking, right?” Lee asked. “Charming—the kind who could get away with it all.”
“It’s because you’re a forensic investigator who was everywhere, had every opportunity—and could have copied Sophie’s key,” Bruce told him, grinning.
“And you are charming, of course,” Sophie assured him.
“Dr. Thompson. Unbelievable. Do you think...do you think he just spent too much time with corpses? Or by himself? How the hell did he and Grace become involved?” Lee asked, shaking his head with confusion.
“Grace’s mother died home alone—that meant that she needed an autopsy,” Bruce explained. “Best we can put it together, Sophie met Thompson when her mother was at the morgue. Who knows who started talking about what they wanted—and how to get it. They were definitely an odd couple.”
“Grace Leon wanted to be famous, more than anything. She needed to become lead actress for the Hollywood Hooligans. She saw it as a launchpad for fame. And she...well, they’re going to exhume her mother. It’s likely Grace had already killed—matricide. Maybe she even became involved with Chuck as a way to keep him from reporting the truth of her mother’s death. Apparently, her mother had the money Grace needed to keep from having to take a day job,” Sophie told him.
“Thompson was always at the station. And he was wary of Vining—which is why he shot Grant,” Captain Chagall explained. “And,” he said sternly, looking at Sophie, “I believe he tried to get Sophie with his sniper rifle, too. I knew that he’d served in Desert Storm. I had never known that he was a sniper.”
“I thought we were friends. And he was making me a patsy for murder,” Henry said.
“I believe he wanted to leave us all guessing forever,” Chagall offered. “You were in jail when he went after Sophie. He must have wanted Grace to lure Sophie to her apartment—that’s what it was all about when Grace called the station and demanded Sophie be her police protection—and then sneak her out somehow. But Sophie told Grace she’d have to wait. Chuck was calling the station, too—keeping tabs on everyone. He knew that Sophie was going back to the church. Where he made his first mistake was believing that the police and forensic crew had all pulled out. He must not have had any idea that Bruce had found the door beneath the slab on the first level of the catacombs.”
“But how was Chuck getting in?” Lee asked.
“It turns out that he had a connection to the church—and the burial ground,” Jackson said. “And he knew about all the things we had to discover—and that Bruce stumbled upon.”
“Don’t tell me—his ancestor was a Johnstone?” Lee asked.
“No, he had an ancestor who was a bootlegger, and—we’re assuming—someone in the family told tales about the old days when Chuck was growing up. We found a few family tree books in his home, along with all kinds of bloody clothes. Somehow, somewhere, he combined his fascination with the Dahlia case and his own lineage. Oh, and every book ever written on the Black Dahlia is in his bookcase, along with newspaper reports, copies of police ledgers, and more. Oh, and notes. He did believe that Elizabeth Short was killed by someone in Bugsy Siegel’s employ. Maybe a couple of people, including a man who was a doctor—until gambling debts and a drug habit got him into trouble and he wound up being one of Siegel’s lackeys. That’s what Thompson seemed to think.”
“Could that be real?” Lee asked.
Bruce grimaced. “I don’t think we’ll ever know what really happened,” he said. “I guess what mattered to Thompson is what drove him.”
“He’s dead, and Grace is dead,” Lee said, and shuddered fiercely. “And we had just watched her...act. I guess we were really always watching her act.”
“I’ve heard actors saying that they’d die for a role...just never knew one who would actually kill for one!” Vining said.
The nurse came in and sweetly ushered them all out. She had to start to prep Lee for surgery.
Lee grinned behind her back.
She was a pretty nurse.
“Down to the station now,” Chagall told Bruce and Sophie. “You have to be cleared on the shootings. It won’t take too long. And, of course, you’re going to need a few sessions with one of our therapists, Sophie, before reporting for duty again. Not that we want you reporting back for a while—don’t show your face for a week, and I mean that. And, Bruce...well, just for yourself, you should talk to someone, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Bruce said. “I’ll talk to someone.”
Sophie had a feeling that the someone he would talk to just might be dead.
But as she now knew, that was all right.
Captain Chagall and Henry Atkins were heading into the station. Henry was going to work his last few weeks—at his own insistence—and then take his retirement.
Jackson and Brodie were going to the airport in Burbank; they had to head back to Virginia. Sophie gave them a lift.
Bruce had begged out of that first trip back; for one, he still had to go through a few more interviews regarding the shooting and everything that had happened at the old graveyard.
Sophie hugged them both fiercely before they headed to their gate.
Jackson smiled and told her that he knew a good place for her to work—if the L thing ever drove her too crazy.
She smiled. She loved LA. It was her home.
But then again...
She didn’t mind traveling.
“And you, Bruce,” Jackson said. “You know where you could really work with ease, lots of honesty—and tackle more tough cases. I’ll be twisting Brodie’s arm on the way back.”
“You may not have to twist too hard,” Brodie said, waving and hugging Sophie again. He winked at her before releasing her.
“You really have to meet the folks!”
Sophie smiled at that.
“And come out to see Marnie and Bryan.”
“Sure,” she told him.
She and Bruce saw the two of them off, and went back to the car.
Sophie slid into the passenger seat, happy to let Bruce deal with traffic. “Where to now? We don’t have to be to the station—”
“Hawaii. As soon as we can. Great vacation spot—and we both need a vacation.” Bruce grinned at her.
She smiled back at him. “Okay, so we have to arrange that. At this moment...I know that the graveyard is being ripped apart. But I think we need to move over to the section with the really beautiful angel.”
“You want to see Michael?”
“Yes.”
“I feel bad—we never solved his murder.”
“Actually, we might have.”
“Really?”
“Well, not the two of us—as in we. But yes, we—as in Angela is truly amazing and found what might be an answer.”
“And that is...?”
“Even after all this—we haven’t solved the Black Dahlia murder, either. Really, there are so many theories. But one is gangster related. Elizabeth Short was killed on January 15, 1947. Bugsy Siegel was shot and killed on June 29, 1947, just about six months later. But before he pushed too hard and some of the bigger guys pushed back, he was like a king in LA. He was a true godfather when it came to the creation of Las Vegas, but he had power out here, too. Friends at the top—and others as dirty and slimy as they come. Anyway, if it was true that Siegel was involved, he had a lot of people in his employ he could dispatch to get rid of an annoying reporter. There was one fellow who another mobster pinpointed in a letter to a friend when he was on death row himself, that said the man’s name was Harry Lester Pierpont. He went down in a hail of gunfire in Chicago. We can tell Michael that...well, that his killer, we believe, met his just reward.”
It was strange to return the graveyard—even if they weren’t going belowground.
And it wasn’t a quick affair.
Every cop and tech there wanted to tell Sophie how grateful they were that she had come out of it okay. And wanted to commiserate over how unbelievable it was that the murderer was Dr. Thompson!
Finally, they were able to wander away from the Johnstone tombs and over to the beautiful sculpture of the angel with the spread wings.
They sat at the base of the statue and waited, and, soon enough, hand in hand, Michael and Ann Marie came to them.
Sophie immediately thanked them.
Bruce did the same.
Michael beamed and said, “Thank you! Thank you for allowing us to make a difference.”
Bruce went on to tell Michael what Angela had been able to learn. He listened gravely.
“So, I was getting too close to the truth.”
“Yes.”
“I was a good reporter. I’d have only ever reported the truth, not all the wild speculation that went on!”
Sophie looked over at Ann Marie. “We can do more research. We can see what we can find out for you.”
Ann Marie smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. I have Michael.”
“Excellent,” Bruce murmured. “And are you...thinking of moving on?” Bruce asked.
Michael smiled. “No, not yet. They’re expecting this to become an exceptional attraction. You know...they’ll do another Hollywood tour here. It will be very, very busy.”
“We want to keep an eye on things for a while,” Ann Marie said.
“And maybe torment a few tourists. Just a bit!” Michael said. “But despite what happened, you will be back to see us?
Sophie assured them both that she and Bruce would be back.
They left the church and graveyard and headed back to Sophie’s house. They were finally alone; the night had been forever. They’d had just a few minutes sleep.
But now...
They didn’t talk about it.
They just came together, both grateful to be alive.
Grateful to be together.
And then, when they lay, very sleepy and yet very contented, it was time to talk.
“Sophie. I want you to come back with me. I want you and me to think about the Krewe together. You’re a cop. You’re always going to have that desire to serve and protect. But...you see the dead. Okay, we’ve known each other a week. I should go home alone and give you time. But I’m serious about Hawaii. I love Hawaii. Or another island. Another place you might love. I want to give you time.”
She rolled over and kissed his lips.
“I need just one thing from you,” she said.
“And that is?”
“You!” she said.
He smiled, and drew her to him.
“So, me, after five years...we have to make sure that I’m not just better than nothing.”
Sophie kissed him again.
“I believe that you’re actually better than—anything. And I’d just love to get to Hawaii and keep testing that theory.”
“Really? You’d like to go away with me?
“Hawaii sounds lovely. And then...”
“Then?”
She laughed softly. “Home with you. I do have to meet the folks,” she told him.
“Ah, mercy!” Bruce said.
He pulled her close. For the moment, they did have time.
And one another.
And...life.
It was everything they needed.
* * * * *