Pale as Death Read online

  “But she sure as hell knew who Lili was—and she knew Brenda,” Brodie noted.

  “I met many of Brenda’s friends—I wound up at the station most of the day when her body was discovered, just dealing with all the people who knew and loved her. She and Lili... I got the feeling they were more like Marnie. This girl... Grace Leon...she is an opportunist.”

  “But you don’t think she’s a murderer?” Brodie asked.

  “We can all be fooled,” Bruce said. “But I don’t know. She is a liar, that’s for certain.”

  “And now we need to speak with her again,” Sophie said.

  She flicked to another picture, wondering if there was any more to see.

  And there was something that seriously surprised her.

  “Bruce!” she said.

  “I see, I see.”

  This time, the Hollywood Hooligans had been performing in an actual theater.

  The photo had been taken from the stage. The entire audience was visible.

  “That is...”

  “Yes,” Sophie said.

  “Who?” Brodie demanded.

  “That’s our medical examiner. One of the LA medical examiners, I mean. But he’s been assigned this case...both of the victims.” Sophie said.

  It was Dr. Chuck Thompson. He was in a casual short-sleeved shirt and jeans, sitting in the audience and smiling away, his hands lifted as he clapped.

  “Dr. Chuck Thompson was in the audience—and Lili Montana was onstage,” Bruce murmured.

  Sophie remembered what Henry Atkins had said that morning.

  Thompson had wanted to be an anthropologist—to study people. He’d wanted to dig in the field, know more about those who had come before...

  He was an ME.

  He sure as hell knew how to cut up a body.

  Sophie gave herself a shake and looked at Bruce. She was suspecting everyone now.

  “Next,” she murmured aloud, “I’ll be suspecting Captain Chagall.”

  “What?” Bruce said.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that. I just wonder...why wouldn’t Dr. Thompson have said something when he was working on Lili’s corpse?” she asked.

  “Maybe he didn’t want that to make him seem like a ghoul—or get himself thrown off of the case,” Brodie suggested.

  “Or,” Bruce said, “maybe he just saw the show and didn’t know who all the players were—the Hollywood Hooligans are an ensemble. They’re never billed with big name stars. The players get their breaks when an agent or director is in the audience and sees their actual work.”

  “I don’t know. She was on his table...” Sophie said.

  “And not looking much at all as she had in life,” Bruce reminded her softly.

  “Before we jump to conclusions, let’s see what else we have in these pictures,” Bruce suggested.

  Lili in costume, Lili putting her makeup on. A pretty girl who had been loved and admired.

  Just as Brenda Sully had apparently been loved and admired.

  More than ever, Sophie wanted to catch the killer. “You know,” she said softly. “I’m a cop. We’re trained not to feel this way, but...”

  “But?” Brodie asked.

  “I don’t think this killer should just be apprehended. I think he should be boiled in oil and drawn and quartered.”

  “Don’t look like that!” Bruce said.

  “Like—vicious?”

  “No, stricken. Sophie, come on. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t empathize with these girls.” He moved closer and took her hand. “And what we’re feeling is natural—the way we act on it makes us what we are. Then again, no cop is asked to give up his or her own life when it comes to a draw,” Bruce reminded her. “And you were threatened last night, Sophie.”

  “It is strange. Do you think it might be more than one person involved?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think so,” Bruce said.

  “It’s very elaborate,” Brodie noted. “One corpse the first day, laid out like the Black Dahlia. And then, just one day later, another corpse. Laid out like the Black Dahlia—in almost the same place.”

  “I still think it’s one killer—and I think that the killer has been reading up on the Dahlia and planning the murders for a long time. After he had learned everything that he thought he could and made his plans, he chose his victims. Both girls resemble Elizabeth Short. Both wanted to hit the big time. What they never discovered years ago was where Elizabeth Short was murdered. There was supposition not so long ago that if Dr. George Hodel was indeed the killer—and his own son, ex-LAPD, believed it—that she was killed in what was his home then. But, by now, there have been dozens of theories. Way too late to prove any of them. And while there’s the obvious connection in the past and the present, even if we knew who killed the original Dahlia, it might not point to our current killer.”

  “Sophie, what do you think about the possibility of two perpetrators?” Brodie asked.

  “I don’t know, either, but I doubt it,” Sophie said. “This whole thing—I mean, from the killer’s point of view—depends on anonymity. More than one killer...you’re risking more mistakes.”

  Her phone rang as she spoke and she picked it up. Captain Chagall was on the other end of the call.

  “Captain, anything?” she asked.

  “Not that we can find. But I do understand your determination that we search—it can be described as a ‘weird’ place, and the Hollywood Hooligans did perform there. You believe that the killer was watching the girls, and that he found them through their performances?”

  “Only Lili Montana was with the company. Brenda Sully had gone in to ask for an audition. But she attended performances. I’m going over pictures now that were sent to me by Jace Brown. That’s her current boyfriend, the one she started dating right after she broke up with Ian Sanders several months ago. He has a lot of pictures.”

  “We’re living in the digital age. A zillion clicks at one time, and of course, selfies are snapped right and left. But you’ve already interviewed both men.”

  “Yes. One was with friends on the night Lili was killed, one wasn’t even in the city. They’re in the clear.”

  “We’ve got the studio. We are on track. Tomorrow morning, you’ll run the meeting. Make sure everyone knows what we have in every direction.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you still at the church?”

  “No, back at the station. We have more and more calls coming in. And don’t worry—I’ll see that you have access to them all.”

  She thanked him and hung up. Bruce and Brodie were both looking at her.

  “General meeting, summary of progress, tomorrow morning.”

  “Always a good thing,” Brodie murmured.

  “But a little uncomfortable—when you believe one of your fellow officers or coworkers might be involved,” Bruce noted.

  “There is that...” Sophie said, and sighed.

  “How are you going to handle that?” Brodie asked.

  “Carefully,” Sophie said. She hit the button on her computer to bring up the next image.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Yep,” Bruce murmured.

  Because now the Hollywood Hooligan picture featured Lili Montana at the train station.

  And there, watching the interactive performance, was another man they knew.

  Police photographer Henry Atkins.

  “Well, he’s not hiding his presence,” Bruce noted.

  “What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

  “Enlarge behind Henry Atkins to the left,” he said.

  Sophie did so. With Henry was Lee Underwood and a few other men and women Sophie knew from the forensics department.

  “How did no one recognize her?” Sophie asked.

  “No one would have recognized her when she was found,�
�� Bruce said flatly. “What’s puzzling is that no one else mentioned the fact that they’d seen her perform.”

  “Yes, but as you pointed out...Hollywood Hooligans put on a different kind of theater experience,” Sophie said. She shook her head.

  “I can see where maybe one person didn’t recognize her, but...” Bruce murmured. “Or, sorry, let me correct that. When she was found, no one—not her closest friend—would have recognized her. But once her identity was known and we were looking into the Hollywood Hooligans...well, someone should have mentioned that they’d seen her.”

  “So...now I’m suspicious of Henry, Lee Underwood—and even the medical examiner,” Sophie said. “It’s really going to be one hell of a meeting tomorrow.”

  “At the least, every one of them needs to explain them not mentioning the fact somewhere along in the investigation,” Bruce said.

  “Let’s see what else shows in those pictures,” Brodie said. “I’m coming in a bit late to the party—trying to catch up.”

  Jace Brown had not just loved Lili—he had loved photographing her. There were more pictures of Lili—in a burlesque costume, in Victorian attire, in mime whiteface.

  Lili emoted. She was vibrant.

  Sophie vowed silently that she would find the young woman’s killer. The monster who had stolen life and dreams and everything else from Lili and Brenda.

  Another shot of an audience popped up.

  “Whoa,” Bruce said. “Is that...?”

  Sophie couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “Yes. That’s Captain Chagall,” she said. “Captain Lorne Chagall.”

  “That is going to be one hell of an interesting meeting tomorrow,” Bruce said.

  12

  Friday, late afternoon

  Bruce knew that Sophie wasn’t going to wait; she wasn’t going to lead a meeting with a hundred or so officers in a room and turn around and question the men with whom she worked most closely.

  He didn’t argue with her when she wanted to head straight to the station and talk with Captain Chagall.

  “Do you want to go in with him alone? Do you want me to talk to one of the other men? Like Lee or Henry?”

  She shook her head. “Come in with me.”

  “All right.”

  She turned to him. “I work with these people—closely. And the fact that they watched a troupe of performers doesn’t mean anything. That none of them mentioned it...”

  Her voice trailed.

  “I’ll back you up,” he said.

  When they reached the station, the desk sergeant—someone who also seemed to be a friend of Sophie’s—told her that Lee Underwood and others in the forensic crew were still out at the church.

  Captain Chagall was in his office.

  Bruce followed Sophie. The captain was on the phone. He motioned them to come in.

  Sophie took a seat in front of his desk. Bruce did the same.

  The captain set down the receiver. “That was Tanenbaum from forensics. They’re finishing up in the burial ground.” He took a breath. “Sophie, I realize it’s an odd place for a performance—maybe not so odd in LA, but odder than most—and still...nothing. The Hollywood Hooligans have performed all over the city. I know that because I’ve seen them.”

  “Excuse me?” Sophie murmured.

  “I was in the train station a while back and there was a piece of theater going on right in the middle of the place there. I guess the troupe was really advertising for a performance they were having somewhere else. They all gathered in the middle and were doing some silent acting. Mime-like.” He shook his head. “I was thinking about it today—I might have seen her. Seen Lili Montana. Anyway, we can’t tear apart every place that troupe has performed. We’d be ripping up the county.”

  “The Hollywood Hooligans are far more popular than I realized,” Sophie said.

  “Oh?”

  “Jace Brown was very much so in love with Lili. He took pictures of her everywhere. You’re actually in some of them—as are Henry Atkins, Lee Underwood, and even Dr. Thompson.”

  “Really? The only time I ever saw them was that day—the day at the train station.” He shook his head. “I’ve been on the force since I got out of college. Thirty-three years. And, you know, we’ve had our share of mysteries out here. Tragedies like Marilyn Monroe, George Reeves. And mysteries all the way back to Fatty Arbuckle and the silent era. There were cases everyone pondered over and over again—but nothing like the Dahlia.” He gave her a wry smile. “Okay, maybe Marilyn Monroe. But as to the past and the Dahlia, we all swore that if such a crime was to happen today, we’d be able to find the killer. Things are different now...but do you realize that we don’t even have a damned suspect?”

  “Sophie goes at it every waking minute,” Bruce said.

  Chagall looked at him and nodded. “That’s our Sophie. Sophie—and dozens of other cops. However, the rest of them have dinner and go to bed.”

  “I’ve been going to bed,” Sophie said.

  Bruce looked at his hands, trying not to smile. She had almost choked out the words.

  Sophie said softly, “Captain, hear me out on this, okay? That’s the point—we have nothing. And we should be able to catch him through forensic science—or at least have found something through the crime scene. Who else would know how to get by cops better than a cop? And the one thing I do find the longer I look is that a lot of people in this department have been to some kind of performance put on by the Hollywood Hooligans.”

  “That’s a slippery slope,” Captain Chagall warned her.

  “But we want the truth.”

  “Yes, we want the truth. Go on with your investigation the way you see fit, but I am warning you—be careful. I’m assuming you want a career with this department. And don’t get me wrong—I want the truth as badly as you do. Just be careful on your way as you’re trying to get to it.”

  “Yes, sir. I will be careful.”

  She rose; Bruce did likewise.

  “What are your FBI associates saying, Mr. McFadden?” Chagall asked.

  “So far, sir, they’ve been working like the police. They’ve gone back and questioned people. They’ve gotten the same information. They’ve gone through the rosters of the Hollywood Hooligans and gotten nothing. Like the police, they’ve verified alibis. I know you’re in contact with the LA office, too—and if they had anything, if anyone had anything, I know that we’d all be sharing.”

  “Of course. So, your brother is an investigator, too. Interesting family.”

  “We all went in the same direction, sir.”

  Chagall was quiet. Watching him, Bruce couldn’t help but wonder if Chagall himself had thought that, perhaps, the crimes were just too perfect.

  That maybe one of his own was involved.

  And that was why he, and now Brodie, had been allowed on the investigation.

  Welcomed in.

  “Well, get to it,” Chagall said.

  “Yes, sir,” Sophie said.

  “Watch out for my dedicated girl,” Chagall said, as they headed out.

  “Sir!” Sophie protested.

  “You’re one of my best, Sophie. That’s why I’m saying that.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie murmured.

  They left the captain’s office.

  In the car, Bruce sat still for a minute, waiting to see what Sophie wanted to do.

  “Well, it’s too early to hop a graveyard fence,” he eventually offered.

  “I’d like to talk to Henry Atkins.”

  “We just left the station.”

  “He wasn’t there. I looked.”

  “Then he’s working.”

  “No.” She glanced at her watch. “He’s off now...probably cut out a little early.” She dug out her phone.

  “You’re calling him?”
/>
  “I am.”

  “You’re going to tell him you suspect him?”

  She shot him a slightly evil glance. “No. I’m going to ask him to go through photos with me.”

  Bruce put the car into gear. “Okay. Which way?”

  “He lives in Melrose. I’ll put it on speaker.” She had her phone out, dialing as she spoke.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Henry.”

  “Sophie?”

  “Yeah, I know you’re off, but I was hoping I could come by.”

  “Sophie, you need some rest.”

  “I know. And I will get some. But I was hoping you’d humor me and go through crime scene photos—old and new. And I have some to show you.”

  “Oh? Okay, I’m just pulling into my drive. I mean, I could come to you, but what isn’t in the office is downloaded into my equipment. I have everything here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She hung up and looked at Bruce.

  “Okay, I’ll take us over to Melrose.”

  “We’ll just talk to him.”

  “A slippery slope, remember?”

  “I’ll be subtle and respectful,” she promised.

  Traffic was LA bad. As he drove, he was surprised when she turned to him. “So, I heard you could have played pro ball.”

  “Who knows, maybe,” he said, glancing her way. He knew that she was trying to be balanced, to be the best detective, but remember, too, that it was her career—and not her entire life. “I still love a good game.”

  “And reading.”

  “Love a good book,” he agreed. “A good movie—a good play.”

  “We can check in to Hooligan performances ourselves, you know.”

  “We could.”

  He glanced her way. “Do you read anything other than crime manuals and ME reports?”

  “Ouch!”

  “Do you?”

  She laughed. “Yes, historical novels, mysteries, and I love romances. And Dickens! I can reread A Tale of Two Cities over and over again. Okay, and then, there’s a great book about H. H. Holmes and the Chicago Exhibition, and a great book on people trying to steal Lincoln’s corpse—”