The Last Embrace (6 page)

“So it’s Cinderella’s Slipper, then,” a man called out.

“The Princess and the Missing Slipper,” said another.

“Red Cinderella,” came a third, the call and response heating up as the reporters tried out, then discarded various names. Because every journo worth his salt knew that a lurid death required an equally lurid moniker.

“Not Red Cinderella,” someone said, “or everyone’ll think it’s a HUAC thing.”

“This look like the Dahlia killer’s handiwork?” asked a female voice from the back. Harry recognized Florabel Muir, a spitfire for the
Mirror.

An excited murmur rose from the crowd. “Good thinking, Florabel. Is our boy back in action?”

“We don’t know that it’s a murder yet, gentlemen. And let me point out that she’s in one piece.”

“Was she raped?” someone asked.

“We’ll leave that to the coroner.”

The journalistic hive brain began to hum with purpose again.

“We need a name,” one said. “Something like Dahlia.”

“Smithy, be a good fellow and pick us a flower off that bush, tuck it behind her ear, and she’ll be the Red Bougainvillea,” said another.

“Red. Crimson. Scarlet. How about Scarlet Sandal?” a third voice said.

A roar of approval went up for the Scarlet Sandal and everybody wrote it down.

“So come on, someone did her, right, Sarge?” a man called out.

The sergeant scratched his chin. “There’s severe bruising, possible ligature marks on her neck.”

There was momentary quiet. Then a buzz of excitement.

“Strangled?” a man said, whistling. “We got ourselves a Hollywood Strangler?”

“Let’s leave pronouncements to the coroner.”

“Which letter was she found under, Sarge?”

The sergeant stared for a long moment. “The
D
,” he said finally.

“What’d I tell ya?” a voice crowed. “You owe me twenty-five dollars.”

“Banyan, you disgust me,” Florabel Muir said. She turned to the sergeant. “So the vic wasn’t killed elsewhere and dumped in the ravine?”

“We’ll have more in a few days, folks,” the sergeant said. He signaled the techs, who threw down their cigarettes, ground them out with their heels—it was fire season, after all—and walked back to the gurney.

The photogs took a final set of snaps as the body was loaded into the van. Harry snapped away too, wondering who he could sell the photos to. He didn’t see the
Daily Mirror
photographer, a roustabout named Larry Bostone. Inquiring, Harry learned the man was sleeping off a drunk in a whorehouse in the sticks of Ventura Boulevard.
Ka-ching.
Harry heard the sound of a cash register.

The kid was sitting in Harry’s backseat, eating an apple. When he saw Harry, he froze.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, son. I owe you an apology. You saved me from getting run over back there at the
Times.
”

Harry got in the car, the film itching a hole in his pocket. “You really better?”

The kid nodded.

“Good, because we’ve got a little errand to run. Hold on, we need to fly.”

Fifteen minutes and an inch of tire rubber later, Harry pulled into the
Mirror
’s parking lot.

“Back in a flash,” he told the kid, who watched beadily from the rear seat but said nothing. Harry hoped he’d be gone when he returned.

Taking the stairs three a time, Harry burst into the
Mirror
’s photo lab. Photo editor Steve Chawkins was screaming into the phone.

“What the hell do you mean, he’s on assignment on Ventura Boulevard and you can’t reach him? Excuse my French, Mrs. Bostone, but this is the last straw. Tell him not to bother to come in to work tomorrow. He’s fired.”

The photo editor threw down the phone and Harry popped the film out of his camera and held it up.

“It’s okay, Mr. Chawkins. I got it. Here it is.”

Chawkins was cross-eyed with rage.

“Here’s what, you simpleton?”

“Film of the dead girl in Hollywood. It’s all here.” Harry was so excited he could barely get the words out.

Chawkins snatched the film out of Harry’s hands, ran to the darkroom, and tossed it to a technician. Stepping back out, he said, “How much do you want for it?”

“Um, a hundred dollars?” Harry closed his eyes in terror at the unmitigated gall of asking for so much money.

“Fifty,” Chawkins snapped.

“Seventy-five.”

“It better be good.”

L
ily opened one eye, saw buttery light filtering through the bedroom window, and knew it was past noon. She rolled over and promptly fell onto the floor. She’d forgotten the strange bed, the rickety frame. For a moment, she lay there, stunned. Then a sense of urgency seized her. She had a lot to do today.

Grabbing her toiletries, she headed for the bathroom, then squealed as her bare foot landed on something furry and wet just outside her door. It was the small, bloody haunch of a mouse. Ugh. Who’d left this nasty calling card outside her door? Mrs. Potter’s cat?

Once she was dressed and groomed, she went down to the kitchen, which was deserted. The icebox held Carnation cottage cheese, fried chicken, and a bottle of milk. Peeling off the foil top, she chugged in a most unladylike fashion.

“Would you like to contribute to the dairy fund?” Mrs. Potter stood in the doorway.

Lily blushed and reached for her purse. Then she mentioned the mouse remains.

“Caligro’s a good ratter,” Mrs. Potter said, spooning chunks of meat and congealed fat into the animal’s dish. “Come get your reward, my pet.”

A queasy feeling settled over Lily and she hurried from the house. The day was half gone. She’d grab a quick bite at the drugstore, then call Max Vranizan at RKO. And she’d ask the police about the odd little gangster from last night.

“Extra, extra,” a newsboy shouted as she reached the corner. People crowded around, pushing and shoving, eyes darting and eager. “Here ya go, folks. Read all about it. Strangled girl found in Hollywood Hills. Read all about it.”

With a sense of foreboding, Lily tapped the shoulder of a gray-haired lady who’d managed to get a paper.

“May I see?”

Obligingly, the woman held it up.

“Body of Strangled Young Woman Found Below Hollywood Sign,” the enormous headline read. “Search Continues for Scarlet Sandal’s Identity and Her Killer.”

A girl’s face stared from the front page, puffy and waxy and rigid, with the closed lids and blurry impersonality of death, her hair askew, makeup smudged, cheeks scraped. Add in the blotchy ink and rough newsprint, and it looked very little like the artfully lit glamour shots of Kitty Hayden that Mrs. Croggan had shown Lily. Still, there were undeniable similarities to Joseph. The large generous mouth, high forehead, and wide-spaced eyes.

“Oh god,” Lily said, as the world tilted and spun. She staggered backward. At that moment, a truck screeched up to the newspaper stand and burly arms tossed out two stacks of papers so fresh they still reeked of newsprint. Lily grabbed blindly to brace herself, the stack wobbled, and she tumbled off the curb, the papers falling on top of her.

The truck, which was already pulling out, swerved to avoid hitting her. Someone lay on the horn and a man leaned out the window.

“Jesus, lady, do you want to get killed?”

The newsstand employee helped her up, then stared dolefully at his scattered goods. Lily helped him pick up the mess, then bought every paper the guy had—the
Mirror,
the
Herald,
the
World,
the
Hollywood Citizen News,
the
Times,
the
Examiner.

“They’re going like hotcakes,” the man intoned. He had an Eastern European accent, Romanian, she thought. Unwilling to accept that the dead girl might be Kitty, Lily instead recalled the night at Bucharest’s Athénée Palace when Joseph had clipped amber teardrop earrings to her lobes and asked her to marry him. Lily had rejoiced, then, to think of the family she’d be joining. Now she could only hope the blurry newsprint had played a cruel trick.

“You should maybe sit down, miss,” the Romanian man said.

He wore a woolen vest over a threadbare white shirt with long sleeves, and through the cloth Lily saw the outline of ghostly blue numbers on his forearm. You never really left the past behind, she thought. It lurked under a fraying shirt, in the guttural inflection of a voice, the face of a dead girl on cheap newsprint.

“I think I know her,” Lily said.

The man regarded her impassively. “Then you must go to police.”

“How do I get there?”

Forty minutes later, Lily sat in a bare room downtown, explaining what she knew to two detectives from the Central Homicide Bureau.

Magruder was built like a pickle barrel, with red braces and a tough glint in his eye, tapping cigar ash into a cupped hand as he talked. Pico was younger and loose-limbed, with a long classic nose, hazel eyes framed by long black lashes, and hair so stiff with Brylcreem you could see the toothmarks where he’d dragged the comb.

“I already told you I never met her,” Lily said patiently. She knew from experience that they needed to verify her story, but she didn’t like the way their eyes roved up and down her body, especially the older cop’s. They’d insist they were watching for signs that she was lying or nervous, guilty in some way, but she knew better.

“Kind of beats all, don’t it? You strolling in here, offering to identify the body of a girl you never even met, convinced it’s this missing”—Pico checked his notes—“Kitty Hayden.”

His skin was tawny, sun-kissed by the climate, and he moved with the easy grace of an athlete. Lily was used to the pallor of northern Europe, the bundling greatcoats and endless drizzle. The only thing these detectives shared with the agency men she’d known in Europe was their lazy arrogance. Some kind of yearning must have suffused her face, because Pico stepped back, eyes suddenly flat and wary.

“How do we know you’re not a nutcase?” he asked. “Or one of those Looky Lous.”

Lily felt exasperated. “I’m here because I promised Mrs. Croggan I’d track down her daughter.”

Lily opened her purse and pulled a small photo out of her wallet. “She gave me a recent picture, so here, check it yourself.” She placed the head shot of the smiling starlet next to the newspaper photo. The air around her tightened and the men grew still and watchful. Finally, she had their attention.

“And one more thing. Mrs. Croggan told me Doreen had a brown mole in the shape of a teardrop under her left breast. That should allow you to make a positive identification. There are always fingerprints, of course, but unless she’s been convicted of a crime, it’s unlikely her prints would be on record anywhere.”

The detectives’ eyes spiraled in surprise. Pico cleared his throat. “Miss Kessler, do you have a background in law enforcement? You seem to know somewhat more than the average—”

“Civilian dame,” Magruder interjected.

Who’d believe it anyway?
Lily thought. Turning down the corners of her mouth, she stared at the floor as if trying not to cry. To her surprise, real tears welled.

“My fiancé was in military intelligence,” she said, “so I picked up a few things here and there. He died serving his country. Kitty was his sister.”

The detectives shot each other a look and murmured their condolences. Lily knew they had pegged her as just another uppity ex-WAVE or WAC who’d picked up a hotshot boyfriend during the war and some fancy lingo to go along with it.

It is entirely in my interest for you to underestimate me,
she thought.

Five minutes later, they escorted her through the warrens of the LAPD headquarters and to the county morgue, where Magruder asked to see Jane Doe #15.

Outside the door, he turned to her.

“Brace yourself, Miss Kessler. It’s not all nice and pretty like at a funeral parlor.”

Lily had seen bodies blown apart by bombs and emaciated corpses in striped uniforms piled like firewood. In a Dresden alley, she’d seen a rat nibble a dead man’s toes that protruded from boots held together by twine.

“I’m ready,” she said.

A blast of refrigerator air hit them. The stench of ammonia mingled with decaying meat. The medical examiner was prepping for the autopsy, a cigarette clasped between his lips to ward off the worst of the smell. When he pulled the sheet back, Lily took an involuntary breath.

Seeing her in the flesh, she was struck by the desecration of such beauty and the undeniable similarity to Joseph. The detectives took turns comparing the photo with the body before them. Then Magruder explained about the birthmark and the coroner nodded and sliced down the front of the girl’s suit, pulling the fabric apart with his hands. Another slice and the brassiere gave way, releasing two creamy white breasts that flopped to either side. Lily saw the mole right away. From the corner of her eye, she saw Magruder ogling. She turned away, hand covering her mouth, and the men gave her a wide berth, sure that she was about to get sick. Instead, a sob welled up in Lily’s throat as she said, “It’s her, all right.”

Lily declined the detectives’ offers to call a cab, insisting she was fine, and could take the streetcar. The morgue smell clung to her nostrils, refusing to dissipate even after she was back at the boardinghouse. No one was around. She set her stack of newspapers on the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. This wasn’t some anonymous cadaver, but Joseph’s baby sister. Slowly, Lily’s horror darkened to outrage. Who had done this? What possible motive could there be? She thought about Mrs. Croggan sitting on her couch as the police broke the news to her, the handkerchief bunched and twisting in her hand. It was too much for any mother to bear. First Joseph, now Kitty. Both her children gone in less than one year. She had to call Illinois, but first she needed to calm down and get all the facts.

After checking that all the doors were locked, Lily put the kettle on for tea and forced herself to read the newspapers, struck with distaste by the nickname Scarlet Sandal, as if Kitty weren’t a human being anymore, but a piece of titillating footwear. The body, which showed significant decomposition, had been found below the Hollywood sign by a man walking his dog. Kitty had been wearing a suit and one red high-heeled sandal. The other shoe and her purse were missing. There was no obvious sign of sexual violation.

Lily found herself distracted by a bluebottle fly that kept kamikazeing into the window. A foreign word, strange and harsh on the tongue, that had become part of a new lexicon of horror during the war. Lily imagined Kitty flinging herself against her attacker. Praying that someone would hear her screams and come to her aid. When the kettle whistled, she jumped.

She’d been lulled because Los Angeles was prosperous and peaceful and didn’t
look
dangerous. It was like a brash, self-absorbed adolescent, tripping over its own ungainly feet. Yet evil lurked here too. It wore a mask to disguise its appetites and walked in shadow. Do not be deceived by the glittery surfaces of things, Lily reminded herself.

A half hour later, Lily said into the receiver, “Mrs. Croggan, I…it’s about Doreen…I know the police—”

“We know,” Mrs. Croggan said in a faraway voice. Lily heard muted voices in the background and was relieved that the woman wasn’t alone.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Is it being carried on the radio, then?” Mrs. Croggan asked with glassy calm.

“And in the newspapers. That’s how I found out. I went down to the police station and—”

“A famous actress like her. Of course it would be.” And then Mrs. Croggan began to weep. “My poor baby. I should have never let her go.”

“You couldn’t have stopped her, Mrs. Croggan. It was what she wanted.”

“Thank you for helping to identify her,” Mrs. Croggan said politely. “It must have been horrible for you…”

“It was the least I could—”

“Will you arrange to have Doreen shipped home for a proper funeral?”

“I don’t know if I can. It’s been several days. The body…”

“They have refrigerated cargo.” Mrs. Croggan’s voice was barely audible. “Mr. and Mrs. Pettit are here, from across the street, and our minister, and he says—”

“The coroner has to finish the autopsy. And I don’t know if—”

“You’ll try, though, won’t you, Lily?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lily grew distracted as Red walked in, wearing a look of shocked disbelief.

“Are you at the house now?” Mrs. Croggan asked. “Is it a nice place, where my Doreen lived?”

Lily thought of the tiny room with its peeling paint, Mrs. Potter with her strange eyes, and Kitty’s roommates meting out friendship and casual cruelty, silky and competitive as cats.

“It’s homey and cheerful, and in a good part of town.” Lily stared at Red. “And all the other girls at the boardinghouse loved her like a sister.”

A strange look flashed across Red’s face. She turned and fled.

“You tell those detectives she was a good girl, hear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Croggan.”

“She didn’t run with bad company. She worked hard. She wanted to make a name for herself, on talent.”

“She had plenty of it.”

“If only the police had done more when I first called, Doreen might still be alive.”

“She’s with the angels in heaven now.” Lily didn’t know if she believed this, but it felt like the right thing to say.

“That’s what my minister says. Oh, why did I ever let her go?”

“I swear to you, Mrs. Croggan, I’m going to track down the animal who did this.”