Wednesday, morning
The current murders were even more sensational than the original Black Dahlia.
In the 1940s, there had been no internet.
News didn’t travel with the speed of light.
It was the crack of dawn when Sophie rose and showered and prepared for the day; every channel she hit on the TV was telling the tale.
Just like Elizabeth Short, the original Black Dahlia, Lili Montana and Brenda Sully had become far more famous in death than they might have dreamed they could be in life.
The media, of course, had little care for the fact that the first body had just been found on Monday morning, the second just twenty-four hours after. The coverage didn’t seem to be concerned with helping the police, but in sensationalizing that two young women had been savagely slain, and noting that the original killer had never been caught—and this copycat might well be about to get away with murder, as well.
She had just finished dressing when her phone rang; it was Bruce McFadden.
“Ready to head out?” he asked.
“I am.”
“We have some new support,” he told her.
“Oh?” She wondered if it was his brother Bryan.
“Jackson Crow, FBI, he’s with a special circumstances unit—”
“I know Special Agent Crow,” she said. She’d worked with Jackson and Bryan not so very long ago. Bryan McFadden was, she now knew through Marnie’s messages, in the FBI academy in order to become a part of Crow’s unit.
“He’s here. He’s going to go with you to your house to get the place rekeyed. After the meeting, of course.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he asked, his tone surprised.
“How did he get here so fast? And if he’s here, why would he spend his time on something so trivial as getting my apartment rekeyed.”
“I thought you were a detective.”
Just when she was beginning to like him a little better.
“I am a detective, Mr. McFadden. Which is why I believe I should be detecting.”
“Okay. You want to stay in a hotel forever, fine. This isn’t me—Vining isn’t going to let you go back to your place.”
“He can’t exactly stop me—it’s my call, in my mind. But I’m not even sure he believes me,” she murmured.
“Sophie,” he said patiently, and she was irritated just to hear the easy, almost gentle way, her name sounded on his tongue. “Sophie, you know as well as I do that we could spend weeks—months—on this case and get nowhere.”
“No, there’s too much riding on this. We need to keep working our leads.”
She was silent for a long moment. “Do we have an alibi yet for Kenneth Trent? As of now, he’s the last one to see Lili Montana alive. And while Brenda Sully might not have been a member of the Hollywood Hooligans, she was a young actress, and she might well have gone to an audition or into the office, or—”
“Wait until we get to the meeting.”
“Why? What has happened?”
It was still just 7:00 a.m., but she’d been watching nothing but the case since she woke up. “Have you talked to Vining or the captain or—”
“Jackson has been in touch with the station. There have been so many calls with suspected sightings of both women that it’s going to take an army just to track them all down. I’m in the hall. Jackson is downstairs. We’ll go into the meeting together.”
“I’m ready. I’m coming out now.”
She met Bruce at the elevator. She kept silent, wondering why she resented him so very much, as they stepped into the elevator together. She was determined, however, not to show how she was feeling.
Then, just as the door closed, the ghost of Michael Thoreau stepped in with them. She deliberately looked past him and ignored him.
“It’s all right, Sophie, he sees me,” Thoreau said.
She didn’t respond in the least. She was getting better at this.
“Sophie?” Bruce said.
“What?” she snapped.
“I do see him.”
She was so startled that she stared at Bruce—and then at the ghost.
She wondered if her imagination was so strong that she could create a delusion witnessed by others, as well.
Bruce was looking at her with very gentle, sympathetic eyes.
Pitying eyes?
“You see—him. Him who?”
“Michael Thoreau. His ghost, that is.”
“Yep, he sees me!” Thoreau said happily. “Amazing. So cool.”
“Did they say things like that in the forties?” Bruce McFadden asked him.
Thoreau shrugged. “To be absolutely honest, I’m not sure. I’ve been hanging around forever, so I’ve picked stuff up. For instance, I still love ‘groovy.’”
“Groovy,” Bruce said.
“This can’t be happening,” Sophie said.
The elevator was descending to the lobby. She was startled when Bruce McFadden took her by the shoulders. “Okay, this is new for you, I guess. But, Sophie, it’s real, and there are others in the world who see the dead. When the dead wish to be seen. It can be alarming. I can’t tell you how freaked out I was the first time—it was my mom! She figured she’d raised three sons who could handle anything. Sophie, you’re tough as nails. You will handle it.”
His eyes were intense. Something inside her was still fighting. It couldn’t be real. Was he trying to help, or feeding into the insanity?
“Sophie, please,” Michael Thoreau said.
The elevator door opened.
Jackson Crow was waiting for them. To Sophie’s astonishment, it seemed that he nodded to the ghost of Thoreau.
“Three of you! This is heaven!” Thoreau said. “Well, not literally, of course. I am looking forward to that, but first, this copycat killer.”
Jackson shook hands with Sophie. “Nice to see you, Sophie.”
“You, too, sir. I’m glad you’re going to be the FBI liaison—but there is an LA field office.”
“Yes, I’m here as a special consultant. Area FBI will also be on the case. You’ll meet some of them at the station now.”
“And you’ll let me help?” Thoreau asked.
“We’ll take all the help we can get,” Crow said.
So he was real. Her ghost was real.
And suddenly she liked Crow—and even McFadden—all the more. They were on her team.
It was just the way she had first met McFadden. Maybe she’d never recovered from being caught so off guard.
She turned on Michael Thoreau suddenly. “Were you in my apartment yesterday morning? If so, you will not be welcome in any way—”
“I wasn’t in your apartment,” Thoreau said indignantly. “I knock. You know that. I would never be so rude.”
“Shall we get going? People are coming into the lobby,” Bruce noted.
Thankfully, Sophie realized, no one had been there when she’d turned on Thoreau. To anyone watching, it would have appeared she was talking to thin air.
“Yes, for God’s sake, let’s get going.”
On the way to the station, Jackson Crow filled them in. “Our unit has our own jet, Sophie, that’s how we move when we choose,” he told her. “And as to what I know...nothing yet. Just that the tip lines went crazy after they were posted in the news.”
“Did they check out Kenneth Trent yet?” Sophie asked. “As to where he might have been on Sunday night?”
“According to him, he didn’t leave his office until about five that afternoon,” Bruce said. “This morning, I spoke with his partner. They were both at a movie Sunday night. They have the ticket stubs. We’ll go by and hope that someone remembers the two of them at the concession stand.”
“And there are two victims now,” Jackson Crow said.
“So now we find out where Brenda was on Monday night. I spent a lot of yesterday with her friends.”
“We have the same story from everyone associated with both women,” Bruce said. “Each was excited. They were both scheduled to meet with someone who was going to change their world—make them famous.”
“That’s what you see a lot of with the original Black Dahlia,” Sophie murmured. “That she wanted to be a star.”
“Elizabeth Short had a mom and a family in Massachusetts,” Bruce said. “One of the papers brought the mom out here—they were really using her to keep up the numbers for the paper. Some of the news sources tried to blast Short as a call girl or a prostitute—or at least someone willing to sleep with anyone to get where she wanted to go. But according to reliable sources, that just wasn’t true. She had been in love with a serviceman. He was killed. She was out here like other women were out here—chasing the elusive dream.”
“But neither of these girls really had family—friends who love them, yes, but no family,” Sophie mused. “Surely, women would be smart enough these days not to go with someone...someone they don’t know, someone who could be dangerous,” Sophie said.
“The lure of stardom is huge—worth a lot of risks—to many people, men and women. But he may change up his game,” Bruce said. “Playing the big producer worked at first. Maybe now—now that we’re going to make sure the public knows what was going on with Lili and Brenda—they won’t be so foolish.”
Michael Thoreau piped up. “I still say it’s going to help to figure out just who killed Elizabeth Short!”
“Police then and now have gone over the case for decades,” Sophie reminded him. “There was still no proof.”
“Maybe we can’t prove it. But maybe we can know,” Thoreau said.
When they reached the station, the ghost followed them in.
Sophie and Grant and a squad of eight officers worked directly beneath Captain Lorne Chagall. He was an experienced man with thirty years in the force—he’d made his way up from patrol officer. He was usually in his office at the station, juggling the cases handled by his squad. They all just called him Captain, something that worked well since he spent his leisure time out on his little fishing boat.
He was a great superior, a man who never micromanaged, but listened intently and gravely, and he imparted wisdom with his years of on-the-street savvy behind him.
He nodded at them all when they came in.
“Captain, you’re taking lead on this?”
“No, Sophie. Grant Vining is lead. He’ll get what he needs from me. And the two of you have any other officers or anything else required as you go along. Anything you want to say or add in, just speak up.
“Bruce McFadden?” he asked then, reaching across to shake Bruce’s hand.
“Yes, sir, Captain, glad to meet you,” Bruce said.
“Glad to have you here. I understand you’re a consultant, but we know about Special Agent Crow and his unique unit. I suppose this case could use all hands on deck.”
Sophie kept a forced expression of calm as Bruce thanked the captain. She hadn’t actually realized how warm and chummy it had all become between law enforcement agencies—and “consultants” like Bruce McFadden. She was pretty sure that the captain had no real idea that members of the Krewe spoke with the dead, but she had learned that the Krewe had an incredible record for closing cases, and figured the captain was glad to be working with such a unit.
There was barely time for them to grab paper cups of coffee before the meeting began, headed—as Captain had said it would be—by Detective Grant Vining. He welcomed Jackson and other members of the FBI, and the dozen other officers from their major crime divisions, along with state police and a forensic psychiatrist named Bobby Dougherty.
Grant Vining went through the discovery of the bodies, including time lines. Dr. Thompson, the medical examiner, was there and reported on the state of the bodies.
An officer from the hotline reported on the number of tips they had received. They would be doled out to patrolmen who would follow up. While Vining would remain lead detective on the case, they were asking for help from everywhere.
Henry Atkins was there; his crime scene photos blazed large on a pull-down screen. Henry had gone a step further; he showed the similarity to photos from the original crime scene—that of the Black Dahlia.
The similarity to their new murders—down to detail—was remarkable.
“The bag,” Sophie murmured. “He didn’t leave a bag.”
“No,” Henry agreed. “I was among the first responders. Our man may know that such a thing might have led to some kind of forensic discovery.”
“And we’re still doing all kinds of tests,” Lee Underwood put in. “But so far, we’ve got cigarette butts that match nothing we have. We haven’t found a thing that would give us any help. We checked Lili Montana’s body for prints, but he was careful. He wore gloves the whole time.”
Media attention was getting out of hand. Following the meeting, Vining was going to give a press conference, and among what information they did intend to hand out, he would warn young women about being anywhere alone with a stranger. Especially if that stranger promised to be a producer who would help them reach the big time in Hollywood.
A young officer entered the room, wincing at the sight of the crime scene photos, and went over to Detective Vining. He spoke in a low, urgent voice.
“Well, we have another similarity,” Vining said to the room. “Lili Montana’s driver’s license just appeared on the desk of a reporter at the newspaper. The Black Dahlia killer, as we all know, sent the paper items belonging to Elizabeth Short, as well. We sent a team to collect the license and the envelope—forensics will get on it right away.”
“Do we know where it was mailed from?” Sophie asked.
“Yeah,” Vining said drily. “The mailbox on the corner down the street from this station.”
The room was silent for a second; they all knew that the killer was taunting them.
Vining ended the meeting by assigning tasks, and the officers headed out—vigilant, but with little more to go on.
There would be another door-to-door bout of questioning in the area where the bodies had been found—both sides of the park and beyond. Apartments would be searched in the hopes that there had been some small clue one of the young women had left behind.
The killer had dropped an envelope within blocks of the police station. They could hope that he had licked the envelope.
He most probably had not.
They could hope for fingerprints.
They would probably find those belonging to the postal employees and workers at the newspaper.
But somewhere out there, both girls had been seen by others. And Sophie was anxious to follow up—hours of treading the streets didn’t matter—and find out just which of the hundreds of callers had really had something of substance to report.
“We need to go through the leads,” Sophie said.
“There are hundreds. It will take our entire team days to follow them through,” Grant told her. “Yes, you can get on them. But you need to get your place fixed.”
“I will, but please, Grant, let’s get on this now, while the leads are hot. Please. I’ll stay at the hotel another night.”
“Sophie, we’re cops. There are hundreds of law enforcement people now working this case,” Grant reminded her. “Look, I’m not trying to be an ass, I swear it. You can’t let a case become so much of an obsession—”
“Another night. Maybe there is something hot,” Bruce said.
She glanced at him; he was supporting her. She really needed to be grateful.
Vining shook his head. “All right. But, Sophie—we both want to stay on the force, right? So let’s remember that this is a career choice, yes, but that we’re human beings, too, right?”
She nodded. “Please, let’s see the leads.”
As they went through the hundreds of notes taken, Vining glanced at her occasionally to see if there was anything that spurred her. She listened patiently as he went through them, including those that had come in from psychics who had seen Lili or Brenda in their minds, or in a crystal ball.
“Psychics have helped on other cases, you know,” Vining said grimly.
“I’m not discounting them. You just haven’t got anything from a psychic that rings true to me yet,” Sophie told him.
Grant excused himself and began to dole out some of the help line info to others.
“I’ll follow up on Kenneth Trent’s alibi,” Jackson Crow said.
“I think he’s innocent,” Bruce said. He looked at Sophie, awaiting her opinion. She didn’t know why, but she trusted his instincts.
“Maybe you can find out if he had any connection with Brenda, too,” she said. “We do know that he saw Lili the afternoon before her murder.”
“Right. Thing is, we’re looking for someone who could pull this all off,” Bruce said. “I talked to Kenneth. I just didn’t get that he’d even begin to know how to...to kill so brutally.”
Sophie continued to leaf through the reports. There had been sightings of Lili Montana and Brenda Sully all over Los Angeles, but finally, one in particular struck Sophie.
The tip had come from a young woman at a coffee shop. She had spoken to Lili Montana, she claimed, at seven on Sunday night—just hours before she had been killed. Lili had been about to meet a producer, she had said.
“I think this is for real,” Sophie said.
“Here’s another tip from a dog walker,” Vining told her. “He claimed to have seen her near where her body was found.”
Sophie shook her head. “We should see him, yes. But I just don’t think that this perp does his killing near his dump sites.”
“I can’t figure where—not by where they were found. But think of our geography. God knows where he might have a lair. This city is all mountains, hills and valleys. There are basements, foundations, old maintenance tunnels—just about everywhere.”
“Still, we’ll talk to the dog walker,” Sophie said. “If he lives nearby, he might have seen a vehicle or something else unusual for the neighborhood.”
Vining looked especially tired. “Pick out the ones you want, but take a handful. Try to go geographically, save yourself time.”
“I do want to check out the waitress who called in. I know that people may not become instant best friends with waiters and waitresses, but they often chat,” Sophie said. “And this café where she works—it’s near Olvera Street, the oldest section of the city.”
“All right,” Vining said. “And here’s another in which the officer on the tip line thought the person sounded both sane and sure—this one is from a convenience store clerk who said that a girl matching Brenda’s description bought a pack of gum from him on Monday. The store is also near Olvera Street.”
“I’ll like to take these for a start,” Sophie said. “From what I’ve heard from friends and coworkers about both the victims, they would have loved history and the city and...” She shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.
“I talked to Brenda’s friends. She seems like a really nice girl. And I was thinking, from what I know about both women, that the area would have appealed to them—lots of history and fun Hollywood. And, I’m willing to bet, old secrets. But I don’t think it’s so much that the area appealed to them. I think, possibly, that there is something in the area that appeals to the killer.”
Vining frowned. “I don’t know. It’s also high traffic. Filled with restaurants and museums.”
“And near a few places where there might well be deep basements and other areas to carry out torture and murder,” Sophie said flatly.
“I’ll go with Sophie,” Bruce offered.
Sophie wanted to deny him; she thought she should be working the case with her actual partner.
But she realized Vining was going to be at the station for a while, going over every tip and clue—no matter how misguided or bizarre—and handing out assignments. There would be endless legwork involved with this case, and as lead detective, it was his responsibility to see that nothing slipped through the cracks.
Vining was a good partner, and she was grateful to work with him. But she was glad that he hadn’t suggested that she remain at the station with him, trying to read between the lines of every tip.
Sophie just had a feeling about the old section of LA.
And if she was stuck with McFadden... Well, with or without him, she was eager to start the hunt.
“Let’s go,” she told Bruce.
“I’ll be in touch, if I find anything else in this massive pile of communication...I’ll get the info to you. And if our men on the street get anything, I’ll reach you. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophie said.
“I like your Olvera Street, too,” he said. “So, two there...let’s start with the dog walker and head on over to the other section of town. I’ve got the rental car. We’ll use that?” he asked Vining.
“Blends right in. Yes.”
Vining gave Bruce a sticker for his vehicle so that he could easily park wherever.
Bruce McFadden seemed glad of it as they left the station. “Hey, I can even leave the car in the middle of the road, if I need to, with this!”
“Yep. Great.”
They had reached his car when he stopped, not opening the door for her—not even unlocking it. He stared at her over the roof.
“Get over it,” he said. His voice was rock hard.
“What?” Sophie demanded.
“Your attitude.”
She naturally wanted to deny that she had an attitude.
“I’m over it,” she said.
“You’re not—but you need to be. Sophie, I came out here to help you because Bryan couldn’t come—and because we both have training and because we all see the dead. Jackson is here for that reason, too. We can use Thoreau. Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. We’ve all been through it. Speaking with the dead goes against everything you’ve learned or been taught your entire life. Accepting it is hard.”
“I’ve accepted it.”
“Just not me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know you well enough to like you or dislike you. You’re just not a cop—you’re not even from LA.”
“Vining and your captain are just fine with me. You know what your problem is?”
“I’d like to get going.”
“I saw you shaking—in a towel. You’re just so damned determined that you’re an invincible cop that you can’t bear anything that suggests you might have a weakness.”
She felt her anger rising.
“Maybe I...I just don’t know your real qualifications.”
“Maybe I make you feel vulnerable. Whatever it is, Sophie—”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” she snapped.
He stared at her, looking hard, cold and very fierce for a moment. She thought that maybe he’d missed his calling—if he’d been an attorney, he could have probably made mincemeat of a perp in a courtroom in seconds flat.
Then, suddenly, his demeanor changed.
“Marnie said you were the best,” he said softly. “And, hey, we could work on this thing investigating together, you know. I like you.”
She grimaced. “I... I’m over it. Whatever it is you think I’m not over. I am. I swear.”
“You’re shaken about speaking to the dead.”
She was quiet for an instant, and she swallowed hard.
“Maybe. I think I saw the dead once before. And I was ridiculed and sent to a shrink for it.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re not crazy. It’s real.”
“That’s just as crazy—as being crazy!”
“But real. And it has its benefits, really,” he said, and added softly, “Please, just accept Michael Thoreau. Seriously, we can use him.”
She didn’t have to answer. She was startled by another voice.
The ghost of Michael Thoreau had been coming down the walk; he was by the car when he spoke with a cheerful note in his voice.
“You can indeed use me.”
“Lovely,” Sophie said.
“If it helps at all, I think you’re right,” Bruce said. “There’s something about old LA that just might appeal to this killer.”
“Old LA?” Thoreau asked. “Ah, yes, because he’s imitating an old murder. But hey, that area is way older than Hollywood. You know, back in 1908, this was all real new. The big ‘film’ production—what there was!—was happening in NYC. And France. Before Hollywood, France had it all over us. By 1918, Hollywood was already the hot spot. Founding fathers, corruption, bootlegging. Great stuff.”
“Pre-Dahlia,” Bruce reminded him.
“Yep. But cool.”
“Yes, there’s so much out here that’s so beautiful—and so much that’s so ugly right now,” Sophie said. “My instincts—and your instincts—might be wrong. And it might take forever to follow them all through.”
“You’re a good detective, Sophie. You have people skills, which are important as all hell, too. So I trust your instincts.”
“You may not be a cop, but you’ve obviously been around law enforcement—and very bad things. We’ll be damned lucky if our first instincts panned out.”
“We won’t know if we stand here talking about it,” he said.
“You need to unlock the door. I—unlike Mr. Michael Thoreau—need to enter a car properly.”
“She is a wiseass, isn’t she?” Thoreau asked.
“Attitude,” Bruce said.
“Hey! I’m right here,” she said.
Bruce clicked the car open.
* * *
The dog walker was a Mr. Milton Nguyen. He had a gray terrier mix named Scamp. He had been certain that he’d seen Lili Montana walking down the street the day she was killed. “Pretty girl, dark hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt,” he told them.
“Where was she going?” Bruce asked.
“Um—I don’t know. She was just—she was walking that way.”
He pointed north.
“Did she seem to have a car...did she appear to be heading toward anyone or anything specific?” Sophie asked him. She pulled out her phone and found a photo of Lili—alive—that the police had been using. “Do you really think that you saw this young woman?” she asked.
He studied the pictures. “I think, yes. But I could be wrong.”
Sophie thanked him for his help, and gave him one of her cards, asking him to call if he saw anything else that might be suspicious, or if he thought of anything else.
“This is a nice neighborhood. To have bodies dumped in our park... You will catch this killer, right?”
“We’re doing everything humanly possible,” Sophie assured him. She stooped down to pet the little dog.
“You walk this little guy a lot, right?” Bruce asked him.
“I do. He’s my best friend.”
“Have you seen any unusual vehicles around—maybe even around a few times?” Sophie asked.
He was thoughtful. “Well, you know, there’s some idiot with a souped-up dragster who goes by now and then with rap music blaring.”
“Anything else?” Bruce pressed.
“Maybe. A sedan. Black or dark blue. Yeah, I’ve see it a couple of times,” he said excitedly. “No music—goes slow. Real slow, just driving around. First time I saw it, I thought maybe they were lost.”
“You don’t happen to know the make of the car, do you?”
He shook his head. “No hood ornament...and I wasn’t really looking. I just watch for speeders sometimes. Lots of dogs—and kids—around here. A dark sedan. That’s all that I can tell you.”
“If, by any chance, you see that car again, can you let us know right away? Don’t endanger yourself in any way, but if you can see what kind of car it is—” Sophie said.
“Or see the tag,” Bruce added.
“Can you call us right away?” Sophie asked.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Sophie and Bruce thanked him again and headed back to the car.
“What do you think?” Bruce asked Sophie.
“I think he’s a really nice man trying to do his civic duty,” she said.
“It’s possible he saw Lili,” Bruce said.
“Or just an unfamiliar car,” Sophie said.
“The killer checking out the neighborhood?”
“Could be,” Sophie said. “But a dark sedan isn’t much to go on.”
“There are hundreds, if not thousands, of dark sedans in LA.”
“I know. And still... Bruce, do you think—”
“Yes. Whoever did this has a fantasy going—a fantasy of re-creating the past, and getting away with murder, as well. Times changed, the neighborhood changed. The killer—even if he grew up here—would have to see just how the terrain had changed.”
Sophie was quiet for a minute and then said, “You’re right. The whole Black Dahlia thing is the killer’s hang-up—or fantasy. Lili and Brenda might have never heard of the Black Dahlia. Or they might have heard of the case in passing. They were just trying to get famous. The killer is playing a savage role.”
“Let’s go see what the convenience store clerk knows,” Bruce said.
* * *
The clerk was a young man with deep dark eyes and brown skin and a pleasant manner. His father owned the franchise on the store. His name was Amal, and he left another young girl at the counter while he brought them into the office.
“I know that I saw the young woman—the second young woman killed, Brenda Sully. I know that it was her. She was so pretty, dressed up, and so pleasant. She just wanted gum. She said that she needed good breath. She had an extremely important meeting with a producer. She was very chatty. She said it was ‘a little weird, but hey, this is movie land.’ I remember because I thought she would be famous someday. She was so beautiful.”
“What time was it when you saw her?” Sophie said.
“Right about 7:00 p.m. I know, because I was leaving right after,” he said, and grimaced. “I had a hot date. Suzie—the girl out there now—was taking over for me. And right after Miss Sully left, Suzie showed up. She teased me a minute, and then I left, and when I walked out, I checked my watch. It was just about seven fifteen then.”
“Did you see where she went? Was she driving?”
“If she had a car, I didn’t see it. I don’t know. Maybe she came in a taxi, maybe she used one of the apps people now call for rides.”
“Maybe,” Bruce said, “she was picked up out front here?”
“She was gone when I came out.”
“Did she say anything else about where she was going—or why the meeting would be weird?” Sophie asked.
He was thoughtful. “We were talking about summer. She asked if I’d ever seen a movie at Hollywood Forever. I have—it’s really cool. If you’ve never been, they show classic movies on the big mausoleum wall. People bring blankets and ice chests and...it’s cool. Kind of like the real old Victorian concept of a cemetery, the living honoring the dead in an odd way—kind of like they keep including the dead in life.”
“I’ve been to the movies at Hollywood Forever,” Sophie assured him. “And I’ve been to a concert there, too. But did she say she was going to the cemetery?”
“Oh, no, she wasn’t. She was just saying that maybe, only in LA, could you do so many weird things—and have film involved with weird things. She was going somewhere else. I don’t remember her exact words, but I know that she wasn’t heading there.”
They talked a while longer. Sophie thanked him sincerely and gave him her card, asking if he would please call if he thought of anything else at all.
“That’s it!”
The ghost of Michael Thoreau had been very quiet so far, but he spoke now before the door to the convenience store had closed behind them.
“She was going somewhere weird,” Sophie said.
“In Los Angeles. Sadly, somewhere weird in LA is almost like a dark sedan in LA,” Bruce added.
“No, but she was talking about movies at a cemetery,” Sophie said.
“And she wasn’t heading there,” Bruce put in.
“But—” Michael Thoreau said.
“Somewhere weird that has to do with those already dead?” Sophie said. “Catacombs, an old church—”
“Deconsecrated church, maybe,” Bruce said. “Or—”
“Graveyard, mortuary,” Sophie said. “Deep underground, away from the living who can hear—”
“Yes,” Bruce added, “where blood could flow and a woman could scream forever...”
“And only those already dead would know!” Michael Thoreau put in. “See? I told you I could really help. Let’s talk to that waitress—and then, my friends, I’m going party hopping. I’ll go haunt some cemeteries!”