Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Massive skull fractures.
And the piece de resistance, a laceration from both corners of the mouth to the earlobes. A “Glasgow Smile” that was carved into her face, giving her a permanent, grotesque grin that lasted past her death.
How the fuck could that be wrapped up clean and quick?
“I’m serious, Vic. There’s pressure coming down from above on this one. I’m hearing whispers about connections in high places, people who don’t want certain stones turned over.”
That gets my attention. “What kind of connections?”
Coleman glances toward the open door of his office, then lowers his voice. “The girl knew people. Connected people. Word is she was seen around town with men who have the kind of money that buys silence.”
“Cohen’s people?”
“Maybe. Maybe higher.” He pushes a thin folder across the desk—not the official case file, but something he’s compiled separately. “This doesn’t leave this room, understand? Just a few notes of my own, leads the department isn’t pursuing with appropriate enthusiasm.”
I take the folder, not opening it yet. “Why are you helping me, Ray?”
His expression darkens. “Because we need your help in return. Whoever did this isn’t going to stop with Elizabeth Short. This wasn’t a crime of passion or opportunity. This was calculated. Thought-out. Almost…ritualistic.” He pauses, his mouth downturned. “And I’ve got a daughter her age.”
I pocket the folder and stand to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Vic,” he calls as I reach the door. “One more thing. She had several close girlfriends we’ve been interviewing. One name keeps coming up—Lena Reid. Singer at The Emerald Room. Might be worth a conversation.”
I nod my thanks, not bothering to tell him I know all about her.
Then I step out into the January sunshine, wincing at the light, the weight of the folder in my pocket nothing compared to the weight of the task ahead. Whatever happened to Elizabeth Short, it wasn’t random. And if Coleman’s right about it being part of something larger, I need to move quickly before the trail goes cold—or someone ensures that it does.
The Emerald Room lives up to its name, all deep greens and gold accents, smoke hanging in lazy curls beneath art deco light fixtures. It’s early yet, only about half the tables filled, but there’s already a palpable energy to the place. The kind of electricity that comes from knowing you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be with people you shouldn’t be with.
I take a seat at a small table near the back, angled to see both the stage and the entrance. The waitress who takes my order looks like she’s seen every trick in the book twice and written a few of her own.
“You just missed the first set,” she says, setting down my drink. “But Lena’s back on in twenty.”
I slide her a generous tip. “She’s why I’m here.”
She studies me briefly, clearly trying to determine if I’m a cop, a troublemaker, or just another man captivated by the mysterious Lena Reid. Evidently deciding I fall into the last category, she offers a knowing smile before moving on to the next table.
I left Coleman’s file back in my car. I’m not here to read. I’m here to observe, to get a sense of Elizabeth Short’s closest friend before I approach her directly. In my experience, watching someone in their natural habitat reveals more than any interrogation.
The lights dim as I’m halfway through my rum sour. A hush falls over the crowd, conversations dropping to whispers then silence. The band begins a slow, smoky number, all brushed drums and mournful saxophone.
And then she steps into the spotlight.
Lena Reid is a vision in emerald sequins that catch the light with every movement of her curves. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders, a striking shade of red, framing a face that belongs on the silver screen—porcelain skin, high cheekbones, full lips painted a dark crimson. But it’s her eyes that catch and hold my attention—deep brown, almost black in the low light, with an intensity that seems to look through rather than at her audience.
When she begins to sing, the room disappears.
Her voice is like aged bourbon—smooth, rich, with a burning finish that lingers long after the note ends. She doesn’t perform so much as confess, each lyric delivered like a secret shared only with you, despite the room full of listeners.
I’ve spent my adult life cultivating detachment. It’s a professional necessity and a personal preference, especially after I lost Catherine. But as I watch Lena Reid weave her spell, I feel something stir beneath that carefully maintained distance—a pull, a recognition of something familiar yet unnamed.
She moves across the stage like a woman who knows precisely the effect she has and is simultaneously amused and bored by it. There’s power in her performance, but also a subtle sadness that I suspect most miss beneath the glamour.