Pale as Death

  “You do that,” she told him, smiling.

  He moved on, hunkering down to collect a cigarette butt she’d have to admit she hadn’t even seen.

  She was sitting on a steplike group of tombstones. They belonged to one family. The design, she thought, was unique. The oldest tomb was up high—the others came down by six-inch increments, creating something of a pyramid effect.

  A large plaque to the side of the unique configuration stated the name Johnstone, and beneath it, the several members of the family who had been buried there.

  Jacob Johnstone had died in 1843. He had several sons and grandsons interred in like stone coffins on either side of him, creating the steps.

  A handsome Madonna and Child stood guard across from the plaque, gentle eyes watching over all.

  “That’s really beautiful,” Henry Atkins said, snapping away as he walked up to her.

  “It’s a very unique burial ground,” Sophie said. She realized that she was watching Henry differently.

  She couldn’t help but wonder about him.

  About his pictures...

  His apparent fascination with the old case plagued her.

  “This place is...wonderful,” he said, his face alive with excitement. “Actually, I wonder that they’ve never done any kind of an archaeological dig here. I mean, I don’t know that much, but Miss Hayes was telling us that indigenous peoples were buried here, even before the Spanish came. Oh, I’ll bet that Chuck Thompson would just love to dig around in this place!”

  “Chuck is an ME. I imagine he has enough dead bodies to deal with,” Sophie said, studying him with a frown.

  Henry Atkins was oblivious. “No, no—I mean yes, but... I guess you didn’t know. Chuck was going to be an anthropologist, but then he was going to be a doctor, and somehow he wound up becoming an ME. Apparently, he was very good at it somewhere along the line in his training.”

  “I see,” Sophie murmured.

  Her phone buzzed. She looked down at it and saw that she had a message from an unknown number.

  Something made her glance up. Bruce was watching her. She was by the side of the church, and he had stuck close by. She realized that he was standing as if he were her personal bodyguard.

  They hadn’t a chance to talk alone. She didn’t know how the hell he had found the bullet.

  “Check your messages,” he mouthed.

  She nodded and looked down, thinking that he had written something to her.

  But it wasn’t from him. It was from Angela Hawkins, Jackson Crow’s wife—and the expert in his office who dealt with case assignment and research.

  Angela didn’t bother with greetings—just her name, and what she had found.

  Ann Marie Beauvoir...murdered April 3, 1903. Eighteen years old at the time; she was a performer with The Follies, a group that did everything from Shakespeare to burlesque in the Los Angeles area—some of it a bit racy for the time. She headed out to meet with someone who was about to change her world...pave her way to the stages of New York City and Paris, France. Her nude body, throat slit ear to ear, was found in front of the church. She was buried there five days after her death, mourned by her family and friends.

  Sophie looked up at Bruce, and knew that he had already read the message, which had been sent to both of them.

  And she knew that he understood.

  They needed time in the cemetery—alone.

  They had to find Ann Marie. And when they did, they had to pray that she could tell them what she knew, and what she had seen of a murderer.

  11

  Friday, noon

  “We’re getting out of here. For now, at least,” Bruce told Sophie.

  She shook her head, looking up at him. “There’s something here, Bruce. I know it.”

  He hesitated. “Sophie, someone took a shot at you. You and Vining. They got Vining—they missed you. But they will surely try again.”

  “What do you suggest I do? Retire?” she asked drily.

  “Okay, so only you and I know that we were in this graveyard last night. Most of your colleagues don’t know that shot was aimed at you. I do know that.”

  “Well, my colleague Lee, at least, figured out that you and I would have scoped it all out—and that possibly one of us was being shot at. Maybe it was aimed at you,” she said.

  He decided not to argue that. “Maybe. But I’m not a cop. They’re after you and Vining—when Vining isn’t in the field, you’re the lead detective, even if the entire force is involved.”

  “But that’s the point. I don’t think the killer will keep trying—that would be stupid.”

  “Unless someone on the force is involved.”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, if it is a cop—that person does know where you were.”

  “We don’t really know. If Lee thought that we would have scoped it all out, others might, too. I just don’t think it will do any good to say anything. Bruce, really—”

  “Oh, hell, I’m not going to say anything. This is your call, all the way.”

  He took a seat next to her on the steplike tombs where she was perched. “Sophie, the thing is—you may be in danger. Serious danger.”

  “I’m a cop,” she said. “By the very nature of my job, I’m in danger.”

  “I know. But—”

  “Bruce, I can be careful. I know how to watch out.”

  “The thing is, when you go back to see people who were already interviewed, you seem to have a knack for asking the right questions—and getting leads from them that we didn’t have before. Seems like somehow the killer knows this.”

  She hesitated. “Bruce, I was just talking to Henry Atkins. He’s...too excited about the cemetery. We’ve both seen what he’s done with the pictures from the past—and the present. There are no new clues—as if someone knows the old case and police procedure too well. Do you think...?”

  “I wouldn’t discount anything right now,” Bruce told her. “I don’t feel we’re getting anywhere here.”

  “But we need to find Ann Marie. Bruce, she was murdered, too. She was an actress. She’s apparently been hanging around a very long time seeking justice. She may have seen something. She was worried about us last night, so she does know something. Damn it! I can’t believe we’re getting nothing!”

  “We need to come back. Alone,” he said.

  “And how do we manage that?”

  He laughed. “Hey, you were the one ready to jump over the fence. And break into the church.”

  She flushed slightly and looked away.

  “We’ll find whatever’s here. But not now,” he told her.

  “And what is your suggestion for the present?”

  “The hospital. I know that you want to see Grant—whether you admit it or not. And I want to see my brother.”

  “Brodie is here?”

  “Of course. I told you that he’d be here. He spelled Jackson last night, and they’ll spell each other, on and off, until Grant is out of the hospital. After the hospital, we’ll head to your house.”

  “I can’t hide in my house.”

  “No. But we can get the lock fixed and install cameras. And then, we can set up a command center there. Jace Brown will have sent you his pictures—maybe we can find something in them. You have a large screen at the house?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay.”

  He watched as Sophie went and spoke with Captain Lorne Chagall. Chagall nodded gravely as he listened to her.

  And as Sophie walked back over to Bruce, Chagall nodded to him, as well. He smiled. He wouldn’t dare tell Sophie—she might just be too touchy on the subject—but with Vining in the hospital, he didn’t want her to be on her own.

  And for some reason—most probably his association with Jackson Crow and the FBI—Chagall seemed to trust him.


  As he drove to the hospital, Sophie was busy with her phone. “I can’t see much of anything on the phone...too small,” she murmured.

  “You’re looking at the pictures that Jace Brown sent you?”

  “Yes.”

  She fell silent and studied her phone until they reached the hospital.

  Brodie was there when they entered Grant Vining’s hospital room. He rose, smiling to greet them.

  “Hey, there, Bruce. Your brother is a hell of a guy. Nice of you to drag him all way out here,” Vining said. “But you know, we do have a ton of cops.”

  “Someone shot you, Grant,” Sophie reminded him.

  Funny how she didn’t tell him that someone had also tried to shoot her. But of course, she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to be taken off the case.

  And she didn’t want to admit she’d been crawling around the cemetery after-hours.

  “How are you?” Sophie asked anxiously.

  “They say I’ll be out in a day or two.”

  “Don’t rush it,” Sophie said.

  “I hear you’re making headway.”

  “I don’t know if we’ve made any headway or not. But I do believe that our killer scoped out his victims through the Hollywood Hooligans.”

  “Quite possible. But as to that church...they’re still there searching, right? Have they found anything?”

  “Nothing as yet, sir,” Bruce said, piping in.

  “We’re going to head to my house and get the locks fixed,” Sophie said. She was quiet a minute. “And set up for work there.”

  “Because you think that someone LAPD is involved?” Vining asked.

  “Yes,” Sophie said flatly.

  “You have anyone in mind?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “You’re my partner, Sophie. Share.”

  “Henry Atkins.”

  Vining was silent. “Because he’s being...ghoulish?”

  “Because of what he’s been doing with the old photographs and new photographs. His crime scene pictures are nearly identical to the originals.”

  Vining was again quiet and thoughtful.

  “Henry has been with us a very long time. He’s an excellent photographer. It may just be an obsession with using his work as his art, in a way.”

  “Maybe.”

  Vining shrugged. “Talk to him. As a friend. See if you can find out where he was when the murders were committed. If he doesn’t have alibis, take a closer look.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t believe it, you know.”

  “I don’t want to believe it.” Sophie hesitated and then said, “Grant, someone was in my apartment. They took a page that I’d printed on the Dahlia killing, one about cops being under suspicion then. The thing is, I know you all want to believe I was careless somehow, but I wasn’t. The only time my keys were not in my immediate possession was at the station.”

  “Do you know how many people are in that station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me informed. And if you bring me anything, make it candy. No flowers. I’m not dead yet!”

  Sophie tried to smile at that. She couldn’t.

  “Grant—”

  “Stop, Sophie. I have the best guardians in the world. FBI. I’m going to be fine. You watch out for yourself.”

  “I will.” She glanced at Bruce. “I’m working with the next best to you there is.”

  “Glad you figured that out,” he told her. “Okay, go do what you need to do.”

  She nodded.

  Brodie spoke to Bruce. “Jackson is coming back in an hour or so. I’ll meet you at Sophie’s house?”

  “See you there,” Bruce said.

  He set his hand on the small of Sophie’s back to lead her out.

  She didn’t protest.

  Because she was learning that no man or woman wasn’t vulnerable?

  Or because Grant Vining was watching?

  He wasn’t at all sure.

  But he smiled. It was all right, either way.

  * * *

  As promised, Jace Brown had sent Sophie scores of pictures, all taken at various shows featuring Lili Montana. She was downloading them to her computer in her home office when she heard a soft “Hey.”

  She turned. Brodie McFadden had arrived. He was just checking in with her, she figured. Bruce was out front with the locksmith.

  “Hey, Brodie.”

  “So,” he said, “we’ve checked out of the hotel entirely—we figured that, now that you’re in compliance with your partner, we’ll all be hanging here in whatever our off hours turn out to be. Not to worry—either Jackson or I will be with Vining at all times. Unless Jackson pulls one of his Krewe members out here, and if so, you won’t have to worry, no matter what. His Krewe...they’d all die before they’d fail to keep someone safe, so...”

  “I do have faith in all of you!” she assured him. “I know Bryan, of course, and Jackson Crow.”

  He took a chair near her desk. “Bryan and Marnie think that the sun rises and sets around you, you know,” he told her.

  “That’s really nice.”

  “Well, you were damned careful not to let anything happen to Marnie.”

  Sophie smiled at him. “Marnie is one of those people you admire all the more when you know her—she’s loved as an icon, and deserves every bit of it. She’s just a nice person.”

  “Yeah, she is,” Brodie agreed.

  Sophie hesitated a moment and then asked him, “So you see the dead?”

  He nodded. “You get used to it.”

  “I wish!”

  “You will. Trust me. Hey, you should have seen the three of us. My mother never had any patience with someone not seeing the truth, so she was haunting the hell out of all of us—but we didn’t want to face it. I can say proudly that I was the one to just spit it out—guys, admit it, Mom and Dad are here! And while Mom is still disappointed that none of us was cut out to be an actor, she does approve of the path we’ve each taken. We like solving puzzles, I guess.”

  “Looking for justice,” Sophie said softly.

  Brodie shrugged. “That may be a little too lofty—although, there is no feeling in the world as great as being able to save a life.”

  “All three of you...so similar.”

  “Oh, not really. Bryan is a mountain man—loves the Blue Ridge, our cabin out there, hiking, fishing, you name it. Bruce is the sports guy—he probably could have played pro ball. Oh, but he’s also a huge Lovecraft fan—and a space nut. He reads avidly about every move NASA makes.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you all haven’t had much time to chat about the mundane, huh?”

  She smiled. “No. I had no idea about NASA. Does he want to be one of the first men on Mars?”

  “I don’t think it goes that far. I said space, but he finds the things they’re learning that have to do with our Earth fascinating, too—NASA is working on predicting tsunamis and floods so that people can be warned, especially in developing nations where weather can be so devastating.”

  She smiled, lowering her head. In a matter of days, she had learned just about all there was to know about the man physically. And she knew that he was very easy to care for...too easy. She’d come to like him. Really like him. Crave being with him, as well.

  But she knew almost nothing about his interests.

  “What about you, Brodie?”

  “Ah, well, I’m the one who loves the water. Beach. Surf, diving, boats, you name it. Underwater exploration. Wrecks—old wrecks. Love ’em! And you?”

  The question took her by surprise.

  Did she actually have interests? She’d done nothing lately but work, come home, do chores and read...yes, she’d done some reading.

  “I really can?
??t tell you just how much Marnie came to care for you and appreciate you. You’ve got to be a very dedicated detective.”

  “I guess I am that,” she murmured. “Oh, and I love creature movies—you know, The Lizard that Ate Manhattan and that kind of thing.”

  He laughed. “Hey, nothing wrong with a good lizard movie.”

  She heard a little beep.

  The pictures had downloaded.

  Bruce arrived at the office door. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yep—good timing. I’ve got everything that he sent,” Sophie said.

  “Let’s see what we can see,” Bruce said.

  Sophie hooked her laptop up to the TV in her living room, to use it as a giant screen, and starting clicking through the album she’d downloaded. The pictures struck Sophie as being almost unbearably sad; Lili Montana had been lovely, and you could feel her vivaciousness through the pictures. Most of the pictures Ian Sanders had taken centered on Lili. Some were Lili and other members of the cast.

  There were pictures of Lili with Jace, and pictures of Lili with Kenneth Trent. Sometimes she was in costume.

  “Hey!” Sophie said, rising from her chair to point at the large screen. “This was one of the later performances. It’s at an old hotel downtown—I know the place. It’s right near the alley and the studio.”

  “Yeah,” Bruce said. He stood, too. “There, right there. Is that Brenda Sully—there in the audience?” Bruce asked.

  “It is!” Sophie said.

  “And look who she’s with,” Bruce said.

  “The other woman?” Brodie asked curiously.

  “It’s the rather rude young actress who claimed that Kenneth Trent was completely surprised to realize that he knew Brenda Sully. And I believe Kenneth was surprised. But that is the woman who was in Kenneth’s office yesterday—her name was Grace Leon,” Sophie said.

  “She obviously knows Brenda Sully,” Bruce said. “They’re there—watching the show, together.”

  “Did you suspect a woman was a possibility as the murderer?” Brodie asked.

  Sophie glanced at Bruce, shaking her head. “In the Dahlia case, different theories suggested a woman—but I don’t know. I’m not sure that Grace being rude and using the death of Lili Montana to further her own career makes her a killer.”