Tuesday night
The day had been extremely difficult and exhausting, yet it had seemed almost normal.
Of course, there was nothing normal about the murders. The savagery and brutality—and the display, surely intended to arouse the public and taunt the police—were far from normal. Murder was always heinous.
The very act of taking human life was horrible.
But seldom had Sophie seen such barbaric horror.
Still, working with victims—at the scene of a crime or a dump site—or the friends and family of victims, was something she did often enough. And, so, while the day had seemed beyond hard—an autopsy, a new murder scene, and the suffering of the survivors—it had also kept her from thinking about her own situation.
And the fact that the day had started so bizarrely.
There had been Gwen—Sophie talked to her and the other friends who had come in, as well as the teachers and her landlord and everyone else who had been brought in or called. She had also received and worked through the reports from the other officers who had been out pounding the pavement to see what they could find.
She knew that Bruce McFadden had gone out to conduct interviews.
She chafed that she hadn’t been able to be in two places at once.
She was finishing a report when Vining tapped on her door. “Long day,” he said. “But time to wrap it up. It’s all come down from the top—FBI is getting in on it, and we’ll have a task force working with us. Meeting and catch-up and assignments first thing in the morning. For now, Sophie, go home. Dawson and Levy have been given all the info we have so far—they’ll be working it overnight.”
“There’s so much we never got to,” Sophie said. “Kenneth Trent and the Hollywood Hooligans. Lili’s boyfriends.”
“Sophie, you need to get some rest.”
“I know. This is just so, so horrible. Two young women. This killer must be stopped. We haven’t begun to scratch the surface. I have the reports. I know that our people have been fact gathering—”
“Both girls lived alone. Lili Montana had an apartment in Burbank. Brenda Sully had a studio near the school. No roommates. Landlords checked out—airtight alibis. And your friend—Bruce McFadden—was out to see Kenneth Trent. Naturally, while we were working on the new victim, boyfriends—new and old—were questioned by our officers. We’ll double-check their alibis with a fine-tooth comb. I believe that McFadden was also stopping in on Jace Brown. We can question them again, but...well, you know me.”
“Yes, I know. The best cops accept help. And I’ve never cared if we made a collar, Grant. You know that. I just want this man off the street.” She smiled at him weakly.
Sophie wasn’t sure why she felt so irritated. She was telling the truth—she agreed that they needed every bit of help on this case. It had nothing to do with jurisdiction. She didn’t have an egotistical need to be the one who brought down the murderer.
They just needed the murderer brought down. Fast.
She was glad of FBI involvement, and the resources they brought along.
But McFadden...
He wasn’t a cop—nor was he FBI. And while his brother had been instrumental in helping them catch a killer just recently, there was something about Bruce that got under her skin.
“Ah, wait a minute. That crime scene tech Lee Underwood called,” Vining told Sophie. “He said they gathered a zillion prints at your place. But there was nothing—other than you—that got any hits in the system, and there was no other evidence. Except that one printed page you reported missing. They locked up carefully when they left. Then again, if someone else had your key, that someone can get back in. You did rekey the place when you moved in, right?”
She wondered if there wasn’t just a bit of skepticism in his voice. “Grant! Yes, I rekeyed when I moved in. I can call my cousin Lisa right now, but I believe she’s traveling. She keeps whatever keys she doesn’t need at any one time in a safe. She’s a travel writer, Grant, but her dad, like mine, was a cop. She is so far from careless or stupid.”
“Then that leaves one thing,” he said softly.
“And what’s that?”
She realized as she spoke that Bruce McFadden was back from wherever he had been—doing their work.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.
“You’re not interrupting. You heard my question to Sophie. What do you say?”
Bruce turned to Sophie. He was a tall man, good-looking in a rugged way. She doubted he owned a single hair product. Raw soap. Maybe aftershave. “A man’s man,” some might have called him.
His eyes fell on her.
“Well, if your cousin wasn’t careless or stupid...”
“Then I was?” she asked, standing. “Okay, fun and games are over, guys. I am not careless. My purse is in my desk when I’m in the office—oh, yeah, and this is a police station. I like to think that we’re competent enough to keep the perps out when I’m moving about. We do have to have some faith in our fellows, right? Otherwise, my belongings are never—and I do mean never—away from me.”
“Well, it remains that the locks were not changed today. Lee apologized that he couldn’t stay with the team, but he had to head on over to the new crime scene. We’re trying to keep a cohesive main unit on this—ME, crime scene and other techs, photographer and cops. Hopefully, we won’t miss any little details that way, though, of course, every spare man and woman in the city will be working on this. So Sophie, I don’t think you should stay there tonight.”
“I’m a cop, Grant.”
“Yeah, and a smart one, Sophie. You know enough to know that no man or woman alone can fight off a determined perp—oh, and actually get a night of sleep. That would be important right now.”
“I can stand guard, split up the night,” McFadden offered.
“Or I can, and will, happily go to a hotel,” Sophie said.
Vining waved a hand in the air. “Whichever. Sophie, this case is...what it is. The break-in at your place may or may not be related, but the point is you’re valuable. You can’t take risks right now.”
Bruce McFadden cleared his throat. “Actually, the case is ongoing for the moment. I found Jace Brown at his local bar. I brought him in. I thought we might all like to have a chat with him.”
“You have Jace Brown here?” Sophie frowned. Maybe she liked him a little better.
“Yes,” McFadden said. “The front desk officer escorted him into an interview room. Another officer is watching him until we get there.”
Sophie was on her feet. Vining sighed.
“So, the day is going to be just a bit longer...let’s get to it!”
* * *
Jace Brown was bleary-eyed. He’d evidently been doing a lot of drinking before Bruce McFadden had found him at his watering hole. He was sipping coffee now. And maybe his eyes were as red as they were because he’d been crying, too.
He was young, late twenties to thirty. His build was thin but wiry. He was a handsome man, as so many were in LA—land of big-screen dreams.
He tried to rise as the three of them entered the room.
Then he sank back into his chair.
“The cops aren’t saying much. And you’re not going to say much. But everyone knows. You know, guys, people have eyes. And the talk. And I know that my Lili was cut up like prime beef...” He burst into tears.
In most murder cases, it was true that law enforcement looked close to home for suspects at the beginning of an investigation. Husbands, boyfriends. Lovers.
By the very nature of it, this case was different.
She didn’t think that the man’s show of wet emotion was crocodile tears.
“You two didn’t live together,” Sophie said.
He shook his head. “My fault. No, her fault, too. She was...ambitious. I mean, we didn’t pretend that we weren’t together, but I know she felt that for the time, it seemed important that she appear to be a free agent. You know, she just came off another relationship. Living together is a big step. We were close... I loved her. But we weren’t ready for that step.”
“When did you last see her?”
He inhaled. “Sunday morning. We had brunch at a café in Studio City. Then she was heading over to Vine to see Kenneth Trent—and then...”
He broke off.
“Then?” Vining prodded gently.
“She was meeting someone.”
“But you don’t know who?” Bruce asked.
He shook his head. “She—she thought she was meeting someone who was going to give her a great offer. Film. She told me it was going to be a screen test. One that could be a major break in her career.”
“But she didn’t give you a name, or tell you who she was meeting?” Sophie asked.
Jace Brown shook his head. “No, it was all going to be a big surprise. She said that I wouldn’t know the name...new player in town with money, someone who wanted to make her a star. I reminded her that there were all kinds of promises out there, and some weren’t true. I told her that she really did have a great opportunity with the Hollywood Hooligans—maybe not big money, but they’re gaining more and more respect and critics love them. That’s where opportunity lay. But she told me not to worry...”
“You didn’t report her missing,” Bruce said quietly.
“I didn’t know she was missing. We didn’t live together. I figured that maybe things were working out for her. Oh, God.”
“Where were you after brunch? When your girlfriend was being killed?” Vining asked.
Jace Brown looked at him. “That’s right, asshole. Killed. My girlfriend was killed—and now another girl has been killed. Where the hell were you? I played football with friends for the afternoon. Give me a piece of paper. I’ll give you all their names. I went back to the home of my buddy, Niall, who lives in Malibu. He still lives with his folks, but hey, if my folks had a three-story house in Malibu, I’d still live there, too. His parents and his sister knew I was there—we had some beer. His mom wasn’t about to let me drive. Talk to Kenneth Trent. He saw Lili after I did.”
“We will talk to him.”
Bruce leaned forward. “Kenneth Trent saw her after you. He told me the same thing, she was excited about a meeting. She was secretive but enthusiastic. Can you think of anything at all she said about the man she was meeting?”
Jace swallowed hard. “She said that...he was young. Wait. Not that he was young. That he was new. I think some rich guy who wanted to use his money to break in to the business, you know. Someone with enough to get going as an indie producer. He’d seen her work—he’d told her that he loved her.”
Bruce looked at Vining and Sophie. The man was telling the truth. Of course, they would check out his alibi, but Bruce felt it was going to prove to be good.
“You know anyone else that Lili might have talked to?” Bruce asked. “A girlfriend?”
Jace sighed deeply. He shook his head. “Lili...she wanted this. She—she wouldn’t have shared. She had the contact. And—she wanted to be big.”
Vining said, “All right, Mr. Brown. We’ll let you get on home. Thank you for coming in. You may hear from us again soon.”
Jace Brown stood and wavered. Sophie looked as if she would reach for him. Bruce caught his arm. “You all right? I’m going to see to it that you get home. I brought him here—I’ll get him back safe,” he told them.
“No, I’ll get him home. Sophie—you can stop by your place and get some things. Then check into a hotel. And tomorrow, you’ll see about the locks on your place.”
Vining didn’t ask for anyone’s agreement.
“You know,” Sophie said, looking at Vining and not at Bruce. “I really can take care of myself. I’m not afraid—”
“And according to you, someone was definitely in your house even though the doors were definitely locked. So someone had a key. We’ve been through this. You need to be awake, alert—and rested. Spend the night in a hotel. On the department. Where are you staying?” he asked Bruce.
Bruce told him.
“Just check in downtown for the damned night, all right, Sophie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See that she does it,” Vining told Bruce.
“No one needs to see that I do anything. I’ll check in to McFadden’s hotel,” Sophie said.
Bruce shrugged, looking at Sophie.
“I’ll get my things,” she said simply.
“I’m taking the car. You’re with him,” Vining said over his shoulder as he walked away, steering Jace Brown toward the exit.
Sophie dashed back to her desk and quickly grabbed her simple carryall bag, slinging it over her shoulder.
“Do you want to stop by your house?” Bruce asked her.
“No. I’m fine. I keep a few things in my locker,” she said.
“Just as well. If someone is eyeing you, they won’t have a chance to follow.”
She glanced at him sideways and spoke emotionlessly. “And if someone wants something in my apartment, we’re giving them an open invitation.”
“Good point.”
Sophie walked off ahead of him and had a quick word with the officer at the front desk. When Bruce caught up, she told him, “We’ll have a patrol car go by my place.”
“Great.”
She was quiet when they reached his car. He started to walk around and open the door to the passenger’s seat for her, then changed his mind.
She barely noticed. She wasn’t happy. He was trying to be polite; she really didn’t care if he did or didn’t open the door for her.
She just didn’t want to talk. Thankfully, he seemed to figure it out.
They drove in silence.
* * *
To Bruce’s surprise, as they headed for his hotel, Sophie finally began to speak quietly, almost as if she was musing aloud. “I believed Jace Brown. I think he was really in love with Lili Montana.”
“I don’t think Kenneth Trent had anything to do with it, either,” he said. “Not to mention the fact that there is now a second victim.”
“At the moment, we don’t have a connection between the victims. Except the one thing. They were both actresses—fledgling or hopeful young actresses—like the Black Dahlia.”
“Which makes it appear that we do have a killer who isn’t connected—not in a friendly or romantic way. I don’t believe, however, that they were chosen randomly. The killer knew them—or knew about them.”
“And they each believed that the killer was going to make them famous.”
“He has made them famous,” Bruce said softly. “Just not in the way they had dreamed.”
“Why torture them?” Sophie asked, sounding pained herself.
“Because he takes pleasure in the torture—and in the belief that he can do these things and get away with them.”
“Two victims. Two days, two victims.”
“Let’s pray there isn’t a third tomorrow,” Bruce said.
“At least we won’t find her in the same area,” Sophie said, staring out the window. “They’ve doubled up on the patrols in the area—doubled up over doubling up.”
She was thoughtful—and tired. She rested her head against the window as she stared ahead, deep in thought. She was truly beautiful, Bruce thought, her features even more defined now as she leaned there, caught in the strange glow and shadow of the changing light that played upon her as he drove.
To his surprise, she turned to him suddenly.
“I did not leave my doors open this morning.”
“I didn’t suggest that you did.”
She shook her head. “Grant Vining has been the best partner...but I’m not sure that he does believe me. Of course, this making me stay in a hotel is a little ridiculous. I am a crack shot.”
“I’m sure you are—when you’re awake. He has a point.” Bruce hesitated. “Sophie, you said that whoever was in there took a page of paper you had printed while doing research on the Black Dahlia. That could mean that this is all related.”
She shook her head. “So—you think he was after me? That would be crazy—trying to kidnap a cop.”
He hesitated. She could be damned touchy.
“What?” she demanded.
“Well, you were in the shower.”
“Meaning?”
“You came after me with bug spray.”
“It wasn’t bug spray. It was household cleaner.”
“Even less effective,” he told her. “Seriously, Detective Manning, what if I hadn’t come along? You didn’t have your weapon in the shower. What would you have done if it had been someone trying to abduct you at gunpoint?”
“Fought,” she said softly.
“You’re not that stupid and you are human. You’re a cop. You would have tried talking. He might have gotten you away.”
“And he knew to target me because?”
“You were the spokesperson on the news. That’s why I wound up out here. You did finally get Marnie’s messages about me coming to LA, right?”
“Yes,” she admitted. Then she said, “So, we’ve done this wrong. We should have set a trap.”
“No. He won’t come back. He missed at your apartment.”
“Then...why can’t I go to my apartment?”
He grinned. “Because Vining doesn’t want you to.”
She almost cracked a smile at that.
They reached the hotel; he paid the valet but self-parked. She eyed him curiously.
“I like to be able to get my car quickly if I need it.”
“Good thinking,” she granted him.
Inside, he led her up to the desk. The young woman there greeted him with a smile.
“Hi, Sandra,” he said. He hadn’t actually remembered her name—it was on her tag. “This young woman needs to register.”
“Hi, how are you?” Sandra said cheerfully. “Another key? Are you two together?”
“No, no. Oh, no, no, no. The lady needs her own room,” Bruce said.
He realized that his “Oh, no, no, no” had sounded almost insulting. He hadn’t meant it that way; he was just beginning to know Sophie Manning.
“Oh, okay, a king will be fine?” Sandra asked.
“A king will be just lovely, thank you so much,” Sophie said icily, handing over her credit card.
“Wonderful. I’ve got you on the same floor, anyway. I always try to put friends together as much as possible,” Sandra said.
“Same floor. Lovely, too,” Sophie muttered.
There was, beyond a doubt, sarcasm in her tone.
Cheerful Sandra didn’t seem to notice. She passed Sophie a key card.
Bruce picked up Sophie’s bag for her and led the way across the lobby.
“We’re back at the station by seven thirty tomorrow,” Sophie said. “There’s a meeting on the murders first thing. At least, we’ll hope first thing. If there isn’t...”
“We won’t discover another murder. Not tomorrow,” Bruce said.
“And what makes you so certain?” she asked.
“I’m not really certain. I don’t believe that there will be another murder. Whatever he’s doing has been planned out—a long, long time. And no matter how well you plan, carrying off that kind of a murder and body dump isn’t easy. He’s beaten the original Black Dahlia killer—two victims. Now he’s going to sit back and watch—and assure himself that he was right—and watch for everything the media comes up with and puts out. And if someone is copying the Dahlia case, I believe they’ll start following along with a few more elements of the case.”
“You mean?”
Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. With the Dahlia, there was just the one victim. But then, about a week after she’d been killed, someone called the paper—worried that police interest was falling off. Soon after that—like the next day, if I remember correctly—items of hers arrived in a packet at the newspaper. Her purse was found later on top of a dumpster. Police never knew what to think because about fifty people confessed to the murder.”
“So you think—”
“I think that the paper is going to receive items that belonged to one or both of the victims. Right now, I’m pretty sure the killer is going to sit back and enjoy the sensation of what he’s caused.”
“But this time, we’ll get him,” Sophie said.
“Let’s hope.”
“But that’s just it. The police didn’t have then the tools we have now. Not even two decades ago, a lot of forensic science was in its infancy. Now...no, the killer won’t get away with it.”
“We may have to taunt him,” Bruce said.
He realized that they had come up the elevator. They were standing in the hall, talking.
“Taunt him?” Sophie asked.
“Well, he’s not actually being perfect.”
“He’s pretty damned close. Have you seen the ‘then’ and ‘now’ photo comparisons?”
“But there was a bag found near Elizabeth Short. A bag for concrete—filled with watery blood. Obviously, what the killer used to transport his body pieces. I shouldn’t say obviously—that was what the police thought at the time. There was no bag this time.”
She looked at him curiously. “I grew up here. The Black Dahlia story is one of LA’s most famous cold cases, and I always knew I was going to be a cop. How is it that you know so much about it?”
“I read.”
“And...”
“It was a five-hour trip out to LA. Lots of time for focused reading. There have been, literally, hundreds of suspects over time. There have been maybe ten or so who really might have been the killer. I picked up every book I could, and from what I’ve read...I still don’t know. Some even suspected one of the main detectives on the case—Hansen. I’d rule him out. There was a connection to the gangster—later murdered himself—Bugsy Siegel.” He shrugged. “It’s all possible. One of his henchmen later claimed that the murder wasn’t hands-on, but that Siegel had ordered it. He had massive Hollywood parties—he was major league crime all the way round.”
“Do you think that’s the answer?”
“No. I read and read and read—and think a number of theories are good.”
“I see.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll ever know all the facts. It’s like a Jack-the-Ripper case. We can have our theories. But unless science comes up with something we can’t even imagine yet, we’ll all be speculating. Anyway... I think we need to figure out a way to let the killer know that he’s not as perfect as he thinks.”
“What if it causes him to find another victim?”
“I think it will cause him to try to fix his mistakes.”
“Interesting,” she murmured.
Then she yawned. Instantly she looked flushed and embarrassed, and, once again, beautiful and even oddly charming.
“Sorry! Well, I’m here to sleep. So I’m going to go to bed. Double bolts on the door. Good choice of hotel—only Spider-Man could possibly reach a window.”
“Or a window washer, but there’s no scaffolding of any kind,” Bruce assured her. “Okay, I know you’re a cop and all, but while my dad might have been a renowned actor, he was a Virginia gentleman first. Please—let me see you into your room, door locked.”
She smiled. It was a real smile.
“Yes, of course—that’s my room right there. And, uh, thanks. I’m sorry. I have been a bit of an ass. I know that your brother and Marnie made you come out here. This is...well, I’m not sure it can be worse, but it’s at least as bad a situation as the Blood-bone killer. Thanks for coming out. Thanks for being here.”
She hurried past him, slipping into room 2011. He walked closer to the door, listening for the bolts to slide into place.
“Good night, all locked in,” she said, as if aware he’d followed her.
He smiled. “Good night, Detective Manning,” he told her.
He headed to his own room.
Yes, she’d been an ass.
But there was something about her that captivated him. She was tough. He liked tough. She could smile and laugh, and there was something so appealing to him about her size, her movement, her bone structure...
He tried to get to sleep; morning was going to come early.
He lay awake, though. On the one hand, remembering the crime scene. And then he’d think about his arrival at Sophie’s apartment. Something was wrong; that had been evident. The door hadn’t just been unlocked, it had been open.
He remembered her, tearing out of the shower, hair wild, eyes huge, manner that of a cornered lioness...
The more he thought about it, the more the open doors and the fact that a paper was missing from her apartment bothered him.
Was it connected to the murders? He thought about the victim from that morning again. Brenda Sully.
The killer might have been after Sophie. But maybe not...
Happenstance?
Now, happenstance was something that he didn’t believe in.
It was really late. He had to quit ruminating. Vining was right about one thing—they needed sleep if they were going to be any use. And morning was now just hours away.
He stared at the ceiling for a minute, and then closed his eyes.
Sophie still didn’t know that he was well aware that she saw ghosts.
Michael Thoreau was a ghost convinced that he could help.
How?
Morning could provide so many answers.
He wanted to sleep. He kept picturing her...running out, sleek and wet, in just a towel, hair wild...household cleaner raised high for the attack!
He smiled. She’d been an ass. A jerk with a chip on her shoulder.
But really, she wasn’t quite so bad.
At least she was a really striking jerk with a chip on her shoulder.
* * *
Sophie had to admit that curling into the cool, clean sheets at the hotel did not feel so bad.
She wasn’t afraid. She could look after herself.
But it was even oddly comforting to know that Bruce McFadden was down the hall.
Idiot that he was. He’d walked right into her house. If she’d had her gun, she might have shot him. No, she wasn’t trigger-happy. She’d have definitely leveled it at him.
Still...
She was a trained professional. She didn’t need to feel comforted.
But Bruce seemed to know, and Grant Vining definitely knew that no man could be an island. Vining wasn’t afraid of backup.
Yet sometimes, she did feel that she needed to be stronger, more confident, more...
More of an island.
Just to prove herself.
Maybe, for the first time in a very, very long time, she had actually found someone who was...interesting.
He was definitely an attractive man. He just had all the right stuff. And where she could be so tense—so damned certain that she wouldn’t hold her own if she gave an inch—he was relaxed and confident without having to prove a thing.
That made him so damned annoying.
She’d almost drifted to sleep. Her eyes flew wide-open.
Annoying, yes.
But attractive. And she had almost...almost...drifted off into a light sleep and dreamed...
About touching him.