Pale as Death Read online

  “That’s my Sophie!”

  He smiled; she did, too.

  “Turn there for Henry’s house,” she said.

  * * *

  Henry seemed excited to see them.

  He probably didn’t get much company, Sophie thought.

  Maybe his work made him an introvert—and maybe, like some, he had gotten to a point where he was restless or uncomfortable when meeting friends at a bar, or heading off to a game. Maybe he really didn’t have much of a life outside of working.

  She understood, because maybe she was getting that way herself. She gave herself the excuse that she’d been giving so much of her time to being a caregiver.

  But that was over.

  And now...

  Bruce was amazing. He’d given her something more.

  But she didn’t want to think about it too deeply. Bruce would be leaving. She would still be here. Unless she could talk him into staying. Unless...

  She couldn’t think that way. Things were good between them. Excellent. He’d given her moments she hadn’t even imagined. It was more than just sex; it was his laughter, waking with him, his sense of...life.

  “I have tea on,” Henry said, “and I made sandwiches. Simple. Ham and cheese and mayo and lettuce and tomato. I know Sophie forgets to eat.”

  “Henry, thank you. That’s so sweet,” Sophie said.

  “And she makes me forget to eat,” Bruce said. “Thank you, Henry. That’s above and beyond.”

  “Have a seat in the back. I have the big screen up. I can show anything you want.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said. “And you can put up some pics I have on my phone?”

  “For sure. I have every cable known to man,” he assured them. “I’ll get food.”

  Henry’s house was amazing with art. And his taste was eclectic, to say the least. He had pictures of seascapes, mountains, children, animals—and framed shots of bizarre crime scenes, some from the gangland killings in Chicago during the height of the mob—some more contemporary and local. He had pictures from the night River Phoenix had died at the Viper Room, pictures of various cemeteries and old churches, graves and gravestones.

  “Interesting,” Bruce murmured, as they made their way to the back.

  “Tea!” Henry announced, joining them. “Eat up, then I’ll start.”

  She thought of herself as a fairly hardened cop—she’d seen a hell of a lot. But she was glad that she got down a sandwich and a cup of tea before he started his slide show for them.

  “I’ve set it up,” Henry said. “I have slides with the old Dahlia next to our two new victims. Well, you know that—I had them in the office. But here...several different angles. I made sure to repeat the Dahlia pictures from the files.”

  She glanced at Bruce.

  How had he really known all of the angles when he’d first gotten to the crime scene?

  “You know, this is sad, really sad,” he said. “That old case always fascinated me.”

  “Old cases do,” Bruce murmured. He glanced at Sophie. “Like this one, and Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Well, the CIA killed Marilyn. We all know that,” Henry said.

  “Or,” Bruce suggested, “it was suicide. But let’s see the Black Dahlia. No suicide there,” he said drily.

  The pictures on the screen—if seen separately—might have been mistaken for the same ones.

  “They’re identical except for the canvas bag with the bloody water in it,” Sophie said.

  “Whoever did this copied all the old details—except the one which might give away some forensic evidence,” Henry said. “A bag with bloody water...he might have gotten some skin cells somewhere or something. This guy...he’s good. And he likes taunting the police.”

  The images on the large screen were truly savage. The grotesque, bloody grins on the victims’ faces were awful.

  “My opinion? Of the past, I mean. It was that doctor—the surgeon. That Walter Bayley guy. Oh, you know, there is also an unnamed cop listed as a suspect. Could have been a cop. I mean, cops are people, too, right? And, hey, we all know that a murderer can put up a good front. Like Ted Bundy. Good-looking—charming!”

  Henry was almost gleeful, showing them the pictures, comparing body positioning. Sophie again felt her heart bleed for the young victims.

  Finally, she said, “Henry, can you set these up for me?”

  “Sure. What are they?”

  “Pictures that the boyfriend took. Of Hooligan performances.”

  “Sure. The Hooligans are great. Well, I mean, it’s so sad now. But they really are up-and-coming. You know the Groundlings, right? A ton of comedians and actors and actresses cut their teeth with that group. The Hooligans are moving right in that direction!”

  “You’ve seen them perform?”

  “Sure.”

  “Henry, you never mentioned that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Henry, you knew that Lili Montana was a Hooligan,” Bruce said softly.

  “Well, I... I guess I thought of the Hooligans as performers and Lili as a victim, and I don’t think that I ever saw Lili.”

  He seemed intrigued, eager to see the pictures. He took Sophie’s phone and hurried to find his attachments. There were many pictures to go through. He stopped when he came to the captain and laughed. “I’ll bet you Chagall didn’t even know what was going on at first. They do a lot of those little impromptu pieces around the city—advertisements for their real performances.”

  “I’m sure Captain didn’t know what was going on at first, either,” Sophie said.

  “Look, there’s our ME Chuck Thompson. Thank the Lord, the man does look at something other than a corpse!”

  “And there’s Lee Underwood,” Bruce pointed out. “With you.”

  “Yeah, I told Lee about the Hooligans. Got him to go with me. But I don’t think that Lili was even in that performance. Don’t know where she was...”

  “She was in it,” Sophie said. “That’s why Jace Brown took the pictures.”

  “Oh. I guess I didn’t realize. See—when you look at the performers, they’re all wearing those plague mask things. Well, they aren’t really plague masks—they don’t have the big noses. They’re almost movie masks. Like in old Greek or Roman theater.”

  He flicked to the pictures of the performers.

  He was right.

  “I’m sorry, I wish fervently that my having seen them could help in some way. But...hey... You think that someone chose Lili because she was a Hooligan? Have you talked to other performers? The troupe’s director?”

  “Yes, a few times,” Bruce said.

  “Am I helping you any?” Henry asked anxiously.

  “Sure. And the sandwich was great,” Sophie told him. She smiled and rose, and took her phone back as he unattached it from his viewing screen.

  He looked at them both anxiously. “Can I do anything else? Do you want to do—something else?”

  He was lonely, she thought. Because of his work, maybe. Or maybe because of his dark obsessions. He didn’t have many friends, she thought.

  Could that lead to him being a killer?

  “Henry, thank you so much. I don’t know if anything helped or not. I’ll have to keep thinking and trying and...”

  “No pictures of the old church,” Henry noted.

  “Jace wasn’t dating Lili when they did the performance there. She was still with her old boyfriend then, Ian Sanders.”

  “Ah. That place is amazing. I’m going to go back and just take more pictures of the art and the tombs and everything else. So cool. People forget history in LA. It is La La Land. They want to see Rodeo Drive and all the movie star homes. But that cemetery—it is so amazing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, technically, it’s a graveyard. Or burial ground. Attached to
the church. Cemeteries really came in with the Victorian age...spend time with your deceased love ones. Have some lunch with them, sit on a bench with the angels...”

  “Yes,” Bruce said, smiling. “It’s good to stay close to the dead.”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Henry, I can’t thank you enough. I hope you don’t mind that I called—and I may call on you again, okay?”

  “Of course, Sophie. Anytime.”

  When they were out on the street, it had finally gotten dark.

  “Time to hop a wall?” Bruce asked.

  They were both startled when they heard another voice.

  “Absolutely. Of course, I can kind of hop right through it,” Michael Thoreau said.

  “Where have you been?” Sophie asked him.

  “Watching Kenneth Trent,” Michael said. “Hey, let’s go—shall we?”

  “All right,” Bruce said.

  “What about Kenneth Trent?” Sophie asked, sliding into the front seat. When she turned, Michael was already behind her.

  “Kenneth Trent is a boring individual. He writes. And writes. And gets on the phone. And arranges rehearsals. And calls his performers. And writes. Oh, he is having a performance tomorrow night. It will be at the Dunston Inn—it’s an old place in Malibu.”

  “Still active?” Sophie asked.

  “Nope. They rent it out for parties and the like. Weddings, receptions for funerals. And, apparently, theatrical performances.”

  “We never have seen the Hooligans,” Sophie told Bruce.

  “Are you asking me out on a date?” Bruce teased, sliding out on the road.

  “Cart before the horse,” Michael muttered. “Ah...sorry! I think you two are adorable, really.”

  Bruce smiled, shaking his head, glancing over at Sophie.

  She wondered who else knew that there was more than the case between them.

  When they neared the old church, Michael leaned forward and spoke up again. “You can park there, across the street. That way, anyone following you around will think you’re in one of the little bars over that way.”

  “Good idea,” Bruce agreed.

  He slid into public parking, but displayed his police sticker. They hopped out of the car. The stone wall surrounding the church and the graveyard was about a block down and across the street.

  As they left the car, a rather inebriated couple was exiting the closest bar. The man stopped and pointed to the old church and burial ground.

  “Cops were all over that place today,” he said.

  “Well, they should be. Do you think they got the ghosts?” the woman asked, and giggled.

  “I don’t think cops go after ghosts,” the man said. “And why would ghosts hang out there? It’s creepy. The coolest ‘spirits’ are over here!”

  “No, no, trust me! The place is haunted,” the woman said. “I heard them all...twice. They were like...like having a party or something. Screaming, going crazy. Poor things. They didn’t have any good music.”

  The couple moved on.

  “If I weren’t about to trespass, I’d stop them. Maybe I should stop them anyway—neither of those two should be driving,” Sophie said. She started to walk in their direction.

  Bruce caught her shoulders. “No, no—”

  “But, Bruce, I’m just going to suggest that they get a taxi.”

  “You don’t need to—they’re waiting for a ride. See?”

  The man had his phone out and he was watching the approach of their cab.

  “Sure you’re ready to leave?” the man asked the woman. “We could go party with your ghosts.”

  The woman suddenly seemed sober. “Oh, no. No. That place is bad—really bad.”

  The man looked up and saw Sophie and Bruce watching them. He scowled for a minute, and then smiled. “That place there—Crusty’s—makes a great crab sandwich. And amazing margaritas!”

  “Thanks, we’ll try them out,” Bruce said.

  A car drove up; the couple hopped into it.

  As they drove away, Sophie was anxious. “Bruce, see? I’m telling you—there’s something there!”

  “Well, we’re about to check it out, aren’t we?”

  They crossed the street. Bruce was looking up and around.

  “Forensics find out anything about the bullet fired at you? Anything you heard that you’re not telling me?”

  “From what I did understand, they believe it came from some kind of vehicle driving by. Like a pickup truck or something else tall. They’re still playing around with trajectory models.”

  “It wasn’t a random bullet.”

  She realized that he was keeping himself between her and the street.

  “Bruce—”

  “Just in case there’s another random bullet out there,” he said.

  “And you’re as valuable as I am,” she said softly.

  He smiled at her. “Not to me.”

  “Oh, please,” Michael said.

  They both smiled, but quickly drew serious. They were approaching the spot in the wall where Bruce had found best to climb over.

  He glanced around, looking out for anyone who might be going by, and then reached and got his hold. She well imagined that he could have played football. He was lithe and quick, with powerful arms and legs.

  He pulled her up after he was on top, and helped her leap down.

  Michael was already there, amidst the shrubs that grew by the wall.

  They walked around the tombs where Sophie had sat earlier. Then around the front of the church.

  At the side where Sophie had first seen her, they paused. And waited.

  “Beautiful angel,” Michael said, noting a sculpture of an angel with outspread wings, her head bowed, her hands folded in prayer.

  Then he repeated his words.

  “Beautiful angel!”

  And she was there. Ann Marie, in white, with long blond hair flowing—as if she were, indeed, an angel.

  She seemed to glide as she walked over to them. She was staring at Michael with something like awe.

  “You’re dead,” she whispered. “And you’re in the world.”

  “I am...do you never leave this place?” he asked her.

  “I... I am hardly here!” she whispered.

  She started to fade.

  “No, no, you just try harder. Take my hand!” Michael said.

  Sophie was amazed, and shaken. It was one thing to see ghosts. It was another to see Michael interacting with this young woman.

  Ann Marie took his hand.

  And she seemed to find substance again.

  “I can take you from here,” Michael told her. “I’m not the best, but I can show you...”

  “Michael,” Bruce said. “We need her help.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Ann Marie, we have to know what you know. What goes on here?”

  “The screams...” she whispered.

  “From where?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure... He comes... He has keys. He comes...alone. And then, he comes...with the girls.”

  “The girls? How many?” Sophie asked, frowning.

  “There have been...several.”

  “Where does he go?”

  Ann Marie appeared to be distressed. “I don’t know. He’s in the graveyard with them. He auditions them... I know... I know an audition.”

  “Auditions them where?” Bruce asked.

  “Here. In the graveyard. And I try to warn them...warn them to run. So that it won’t happen to them. So that they...so that they will not be me. Sometimes...right here. Right by the angel.”

  “And then?” Sophie asked, her words barely a breath.

  “I don’t know. I try so hard. But they don’t see me. They can’t hear me. And I
feel myself slipping away, like dying again. And then...”

  “Yes, Ann Marie, and then?” Michael asked her. “Keep my hand. Hold on to me. I will give you strength.”

  She smiled at him. She was still in awe of him. “You’re so kind.”

  “And then?” Sophie couldn’t help but urge.

  Ann Marie shook her head. “Somehow, I hear the screams. Somehow, I hear them. And I know. I know that wherever he has them, he is killing them. And I can do nothing about it.”

  “But you have helped, Ann Marie!” Michael told her. “You have helped. Sophie—that’s Sophie, that’s Bruce, and I’m Michael—Sophie has been convinced that there’s something here. And she’s right.”

  “But we were all over this place today. Forensics couldn’t find anything. They searched and searched for blood, for...for anything,” Sophie said. She hesitated. “The killer has ripped two girls apart, Ann Marie. How could he have done that?”

  Their newfound ghost friend really appeared about to cry. “I don’t know. I don’t know. When I saw you... I was so afraid.”

  “And this has happened...more than twice?” Bruce asked.

  She nodded. “Four times, no, five times...maybe. I think. The first was...long ago. I don’t have...time, now, here...it just goes on.”

  Sophie and Bruce looked at one another.

  “How the hell will I ever get cops back in here?” Sophie murmured.

  “You got to be friends with the young woman running it all, right? You became really friendly with her today. Sabrina Hayes, right?” Bruce asked.

  She nodded. “Fairly friendly, at least. I don’t think she’s going to call me for a mani-pedi date or anything.”

  “We’ll go through her,” Bruce said.

  “Yes, please...it will happen again. It will happen again. First, there had been time between it all...days, maybe weeks,” Ann Marie said. “And then...two nights in a row.”

  “He has to come by car, with his victims,” Sophie said.

  Ann Marie nodded. “I guess. I don’t see the car. And he opens the locks, and they talk, and they laugh. And then...”

  “What does he look like, Ann Marie? What does this man look like?”

  Ann Marie sadly shook her head. “A ghoul,” she said.

  “A ghoul?”