Pale as Death

“He comes in dark clothing...and he wears a mask. Something very strange, like an old Greek theatrical mask.”

  Sophie looked at Bruce. “Like the Hooligans!”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “Thank you, Ann Marie,” Bruce said.

  “Thank you,” Sophie repeated.

  Bruce turned away and started walking slowly. Sophie watched him as he made his way through the slanted old stones and monuments, occasionally glancing back at Michael and Ann Marie.

  Sophie turned to run after Bruce, but nearly slammed into him. “What, where are you going?”

  “I’m an idiot—I started off without you.”

  “No one can know we’re here,” Sophie said.

  “I can’t risk that. Stay with me. I wanted to see where Ann Marie can see around the graveyard, and to check the church and the locks and the windows...he might have a key to the church as well as to the gate. But hell, forensics was down in the basement area, the old catacombs, and nothing,” Bruce said, frustrated.

  “We check, and we check...”

  And they did. They checked the church. They went through the graveyard, checking every door and gate and slab of cement on every vault.

  And there was nothing new to find.

  “We’d best give it up for tonight. We can go study the old plans, and come back later. We can’t get caught here, Sophie, or we’ll never get back in,” Bruce said.

  She nodded, exhausted and well aware that he was right.

  “Let’s get Michael,” she said.

  They headed back to the angel. Michael was there.

  He was seated with Ann Marie, and they were speaking softly to one another.

  Again, they thanked Ann Marie. They told her they’d be back.

  “And I will help any way that I can.”

  “Michael?” Sophie said.

  “Um, I’ll be here a while. With Ann Marie. I can—I can definitely help her,” he said.

  Michael, Sophie thought, was smitten.

  Looking at them there, sitting beneath the angel, she thought that, in the midst of everything that was so tragic and ugly, the two of them were very beautiful.

  13

  Late Friday night

  Bruce was glad to find that Jackson was at Sophie’s house when they arrived; Brodie was staying with Grant Vining. Jackson had stayed at Sophie’s house, working on research there—and, Bruce knew, guarding the place.

  Just in case.

  It was late, but they sat and talked, telling Jackson the newest developments in the case.

  “We think he’s killing them at the church or in the graveyard, but a forensic team found nothing—nothing at all?” Jackson asked.

  “Nothing,” Bruce told him. “They spent the day combing the place for a drop of blood—for anything. Not a drop of blood or anything else found. The graveyard is open by day, and the church itself from ten to six. Sabrina Hayes is there during open hours, or, I’m assuming, someone else from the private organization that runs the place. Thing is, Sophie has had a feeling about it—she’s certain that there is something there. Tonight, we even heard suggestions from the living—a drunk couple from the bar across the street. A woman was certain the place was haunted—ghosts partying and all. Screaming.”

  “And then,” Sophie said, “we heard from the dead. We know the killer goes there. And when he does, he wears a mask. Something like an old Greek tragedy theater mask.”

  “Which we’ve seen being worn by the Hollywood Hooligans,” Bruce said. “Or so I assume it might be the same kind of mask.”

  “But it’s going to be hard to share that information—since you got it from a ghost,” Jackson pointed out. “However, I know that we can do something.”

  “What?” Sophie asked.

  “First, I’m going to get Angela to go deeper—find every old plan of that burial ground and church. And then, well...the police have gone in. But not the FBI.”

  “That will work!” Sophie said happily.

  She rose. She looked tired, and tonight she might really sleep, Bruce thought. “You’re comfortable here?” Sophie asked Jackson. “You’re okay sleeping on the sofa?”

  “Like a dream,” Jackson told her.

  If he knew Jackson at all, Bruce thought, he knew that the man didn’t sleep much. And if he did, he’d awake at the slightest noise.

  Sophie smiled and headed into her bathroom.

  “I really like her,” Jackson told Bruce. “She just recently realized that she has a special talent?”

  “She saw someone before, in college—and mentioned it to others. And they put her in therapy. I’m so glad that Marnie noticed something was up with Sophie and made me come out here...who knows? She might have been back in therapy again. And she is one of the most dedicated detectives I’ve ever come across. Tough—and determined to be tough.”

  Jackson laughed. “Napoleon complex because she’s tiny?”

  “No. Determination to be the best—because she’s tiny.”

  “Get some sleep. I’ve gotten the call for the eight o’clock meeting.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bruce went into the bedroom; Sophie was already in bed. Naked.

  He stripped down and crawled in beside her.

  He slipped an arm around her, and then smiled. She was already sound asleep.

  * * *

  She was standing in the burial ground; the step tombs were right behind her, and the beautiful old Gothic-style church rose before her. Angels, Madonnas, cherubs and other beautiful funerary art seemed to come alive, along with the old broken tombstones, shifting where they stood or lay. Mist seemed to cover the place, and in her dream, Sophie tried to remind herself that it was LA, not San Francisco—but then again, mist could rise anywhere, and in the movies, it always rose in a graveyard.

  It was a beautiful mist, silvery in color, and in its whirl, it seemed to make the cherubs and angels and all dance, and even the stones—the chipped and broken stones—had that sway.

  There seemed to be a slight shudder in the ground.

  An earthquake? Maybe just a tremor. The earth shook a lot in LA, often imperceptibly. You’d hear after the event that there had been a quake.

  Maybe the tremor was causing the entire graveyard to shift and dance and...

  As she watched, tombs began to burst open.

  Vault and mausoleum doors burst open.

  And the dead began to rise.

  White and ghostly, caught in mist and silvery light, they rose. Old ghosts, those who had died young, some in finery, some in period clothing she tried to place...men in suspenders, women in cute little pillbox hats...an older lady in a long, late Victorian gown, a woman wearing a Mexican mantilla...they came from their graves, stricken and harsh...coming for her.

  Ann Marie stood at her side, she realized.

  Ann Marie...trying to protect others from the fate that had been her own.

  But ghosts didn’t kill—did they?

  “I’m trying,” she whispered.

  An old man in frock coat walked up to her. “We need to rest. We see, we hear...”

  “What do you see? Help me. How does he get in? How does he get out? How does he kill—and take the bodies out?”

  “We can only see what we can see,” the woman in the mantilla said.

  “And we see him come. In his mask. And we see him play...he reads with them. From Shakespeare,” the woman in the mantilla told her.

  “And from Noel Coward, from movie scripts I know not,” said an old man.

  “They read,” Ann Marie said softly. “And then they are gone. And then there are the screams.”

  “You are the living,” the man in suspenders said.

  “The living must help the dead,” another man said.

  Then it seemed that they were all
coming for her, one after another, all of them...in a horde! They were moving toward her in a white mass, shining silver in the bizarre mist and light. She moved backward, backward, and fell onto the lowest of the step tombs, the pyramid-like structure of tombs where she had been sitting the day before and were now behind her...

  “Sophie.”

  She woke. Bruce was at her side, holding her. She was shaking.

  “Sophie, please, don’t be afraid, and don’t be shaken. It’s common.”

  “It’s common?”

  “Common among us—the ‘gifted,’” he said. “It’s common, and sometimes, it even helps. Dreams trigger things we’re thinking deep in our subconscious.”

  She curled against his chest and she told him about the dream. “Ann Marie didn’t seem to think that anyone else was hanging around the graveyard. I mean, anyone else who was dead.”

  “Maybe, somewhere along the line, you will think of something.”

  “Bruce, I still think that I’m right. It has to be someone who has something to do with law enforcement. No fingerprints. No skin cells...a million pieces of trash—okay, not a million, not so many, but at the crime scenes, and in the graveyard...between them all, gum wrappers, cigarette butts, soda cups, beer cans...and nothing that helps.”

  “Well, something. They have gotten DNA—just nothing that does us any good, that seems to have any affiliation. The forensic team will give a report at the meeting. Maybe there will be something new.”

  She was silent.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You do?”

  “We’re not going to get anything useful—because a cop is involved.”

  “Did you believe Henry today?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was plausible. I also think he’s...”

  “He’s what?”

  “A bit creepy.”

  She almost smiled. “That’s an understatement. But do you think...?”

  “We can get someone to follow him.”

  “Someone?”

  “FBI.”

  “That’s good.” Again, she was quiet.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course. I’m a cop.”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling.

  She rose slightly then, looking at him. He wasn’t sure what her look meant at first. Then, she came closer and kissed him. It wasn’t a tender kiss; it was wild, very hot...very...

  Awakening.

  Then she broke from him and shrugged. “I mean, we are both up, and already naked...”

  He pulled her to him.

  And he realized again that it was all a bit crazy.

  They hadn’t known one another a full week.

  And he was more than a little bit in love.

  Saturday morning, 8:00 a.m.

  Sophie’s professional manner was excellent, Bruce thought. Captain stood by her side, Dr. Thompson as well, should there be any questions; the local FBI agents were there, as well as members of the forensic team and the forensic psychiatrist. But it was Sophie’s meeting, and she took easy and competent control. She kept each department speaking on their own progress, whether they reported that they were coming up empty-handed or not. And then, in summary, and with a smile and thanks to everyone, she explained that she was talking to them all because Vining was still in the hospital. She acknowledged that everyone had been working on the case—down to working on the trajectory of the shots fired at Vining and the one into the cemetery, questioning business owners and even people on the street. She knew that the forensic teams had worked tirelessly. She appreciated everything.

  She went on to make sure that everyone was informed that they needed to keep working on any connections there might be to the Hollywood Hooligans. With another smile, she assured them all that she knew many of them had seen and appreciated the performing troupe. “If you saw anyone suspicious—think back, please—report anything. Anyone who might have been too intrigued by the goings-on. We know that while Brenda Sully wasn’t a member of the troupe, she did go to the offices of the Hollywood Hooligans.”

  She went on, going over everything they did—and didn’t—know.

  “Tonight, the Hollywood Hooligans are giving a performance in Malibu,” she said, looking around the room. “I’ll be there. We’re working the theory that the killer has chosen his victims—Lili and Brenda, at least—through the Hollywood Hooligans. He’s looking for young actresses who are on the trail to their dreams, but, of course, waiting for their really big shot at fame.”

  Jackson then reported on the FBI’s efforts, combing the streets, making sure that they went back and saw the same people, that they’d gone door-to-door around the neighborhood where the bodies had been dumped, that they would continue to be tirelessly involved, as well.

  Forensics reported. It was the forensic psychiatrist, Bobby Dougherty, who spoke for the teams. They had gotten DNA and prints from the trash found at various scenes: the alley before the abandoned studio, the church and graveyard, and the body dump sites.

  “So far, we have no matches—no one in the system. But, of course, we have a mound of work, and, as you know, even working with this as a priority, science can take time. And, as we all believe, this killer is careful. He knows what he’s doing. I do believe this killer has either worked in law enforcement or in a lab of some kind—or has purchased every book available on the subject of forensic science and possibly seen every show out there hosted by an ME or a forensic worker.” He was quiet for a minute. He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe the killer started with these two victims. Maybe even in a different place—he’s killed before. I think he practiced to get where he did with his last two victims. Bear in mind, this is only my opinion, but it seems most likely. There is an unsolved murder of a prostitute in Pasadena, another in Santa Monica and a homeless woman up in San Francisco. All three victims had slashes across their abdomens, as if someone was testing his—or her—abilities. There may be no relationship. None of them were displayed, but still, the slashes might have been practice. Again, it’s conjecture—educated but opinion only. These murders might be related, and they might not be, and other killings might be, as well.”

  Sophie looked at Bruce. She was pleased—Bobby had expressed an opinion she shared.

  At the end, Captain spoke. But while he was speaking, the desk sergeant came hurrying in with a paper in his hands.

  “Something sent in by the killer?” someone murmured. Based on the old Dahlia case, they’d all been waiting for a note or something similar to arrive at a local newspaper office.

  Bruce saw Captain Chagall’s face turn hard.

  “All right, who the hell is responsible for this?”

  He showed them the paper; it was one of the Hollywood gossip rag magazines.

  And there, on the front page, were pictures of the crime scenes.

  Pictures of Lili and Brenda, as they had been found. “Henry? What the hell, Henry? How in God’s name did they get hold of these?”

  “Not me, oh, God, not from me!” Henry cried. Everyone was staring at him. “I swear, sir. Oh, my God, how could the paper print those?”

  “Freedom of the press,” Captain Chagall spat out. “And, of course, they say they’re printing the pictures, asking for help from the public. Henry?”

  “Everyone here has access to the image files,” Henry stated.

  Tension was thick in the room.

  Suspicion of one’s coworkers was a horrible thing.

  “This was not my fault, damn it,” Henry swore passionately.

  “When I find out who did let these pictures leak...you won’t just be fired,” Chagall said. He looked around the room. “Find this killer. Find this damned killer fast!” He turned to Sophie. “Get to that magazine’s offices—now! I want to know how the hell they got these pictures.”

 
He walked out of the conference room.

  Everyone heard the door to his office slam.

  And everyone at the meeting was dead still for a moment.

  Then they were all talking at once, denying that they could have done such a thing.

  Sophie turned to Bruce. “Let’s get going,” she said.

  She was grim as she hurried out of the station.

  She was tiny, but he was using long strides to keep up with her. When they were in the car, she blurted out, “I’m right. I’ve been right. It’s someone who was in that meeting. I can’t tiptoe around anymore. Chagall said to go to the paper. Well, you know what? We’re going to get to these offices and the pictures are going to have arrived in an envelope, and there will be no prints on the envelope, and no saliva on the stamp. And it was probably mailed right from a box near this station.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Bruce said. “When we’re done with the paper, we’ll get back in touch with Jackson. He’ll have had Angela searching, and really, when it comes to finding what is needed from the past, there is no one better than Angela—not to mention that they have a whole tech department that can find just about anything. Sophie, we’ll keep at it until we find the truth.”

  She seemed to calm down a little.

  Enough so that when they reached the paper’s publishers, she was brusque but professional when asking for the managing editor.

  His name was Jude Conner, and was under thirty. He was, apparently, expecting the police. He explained in no uncertain terms that the United States Constitution gave him every right to post the pictures. The police were getting nowhere; the public could help.

  Sophie replied—in no uncertain terms—that what he had done might have hampered an ongoing police investigation, and therefore, was possibly punishable by law. She wanted to know when, where and exactly how the pictures had arrived.

  She was good at intimidating.

  Bruce liked to think that his towering height and bulk standing behind her might have helped as well—and the fact that the man didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t really FBI, he was a consultant.

  At any rate, Sophie wasn’t going to have to get a warrant.

  He would turn the manila envelope that had delivered the pictures over to her immediately.