Pale as Death

  “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.

  5

  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. B
ut 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?”