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)
“Ms. Reid.”
She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before she faces me, sunglasses still in place.
“Callahan.” Her voice betrays no surprise, though at least she’s not calling mister anymore. “Following me now?”
“Coincidence. I was actually heading to your apartment.”
“At eight in the morning? How dedicated. I should be flattered.” She removes her sunglasses, and those dark eyes regard me with a mixture of wariness and something else I can’t quite place. Without the stage makeup and dramatic lighting, she looks younger, more vulnerable, though no less striking. Her lips shine subtly, making my cock twitch inside my pants.
“The early bird catches the killer,” I say, immediately regretting the flippancy.
She doesn’t smile. “You should work on your bedside manner, detective.”
“Private investigator,” I correct automatically. I’m used to people calling me detective.
“Is there a difference?”
“About thirty dollars a day and significantly less bureaucracy.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile. Progress.
“I have errands to run,” she says, replacing her sunglasses. “Unless you plan to arrest me?”
“Beyond my authority. But I could walk with you, ask a few questions.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Fine. But I need coffee first.”
Musso & Frank Grill is already half-full despite the early hour. The oldest restaurant in Hollywood attracts a particular clientele—studio executives conducting business over eggs Benedict, screenwriters nursing hangovers with bloody Marys, actors either celebrating last night’s triumph or drowning yesterday’s rejection.
We take a booth in the back. Lena orders coffee, black, and nothing else. I do the same, though I add a side of toast and half a grapefruit. The waitress, a stern-faced woman with expertly pinned gray hair, treats Lena with a deference that suggests she’s a regular.
“You perform anywhere besides The Emerald Room?” I ask once our coffee arrives.
“Occasionally. Romanoff’s when they need a replacement. Started at Slapsy Maxies. Ciro’s once, but that crowd’s a bit too…” She waves a hand vaguely.
“Upscale?”
“Narcissistic.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Elizabeth loved those places, though. Ciro’s, Mocambo, the Trocadero. Anywhere she might bump into Clark Gable or Ray Milland.”
“Was that why she came to Los Angeles? To meet famous men?”
Lena’s expression hardens slightly. “She came to be famous herself. Like thousands of other girls who step off the bus every day with a suitcase and a dream.”
“But unlike those thousands, Elizabeth ended up dead.” I keep my tone neutral, but Lena still flinches.
“You don’t mince words, do you, Callahan?”
“In my experience, minced words just make a mess of the truth.”
She regards me over the rim of her coffee cup. “And what truth are you after? The papers have already decided what kind of girl Elizabeth was.”
“I’m more interested in the girl you knew.”
Something shifts in Lena’s expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxing of her defensive posture.
“She was smart,” Lena says after a pause. “Smarter than people gave her credit for. And kind, genuinely kind, not the Hollywood version where it’s just another performance. But she was also…” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Naive?” I offer.
“Desperate,” Lena corrects. “For recognition, for stability, for someone to see her as special. That’s a dangerous combination in this town.”
“Dangerous enough to get her killed?”
Lena’s gaze drifts to the window, where Sunset Boulevard is coming alive with morning traffic. “This city eats dreams for breakfast. Elizabeth wouldn’t be the first girl who got devoured.”
“No. But most don’t end up bisected and displayed like museum exhibits.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, something like anger flashing in their depths. “Is that really necessary?”
“Necessary? No. Relevant? Absolutely.” I lean forward slightly. “Elizabeth wasn’t just murdered, Ms. Reid. She was staged. Displayed. That suggests something personal, ritualistic even.”
“Ritualistic,” Lena repeats softly, and for a moment, I swear I see recognition in her expression.
“You had said to me she mentioned some Europeans. Foreign businessmen connected to Cohen. You said they scared her.”
“Yes. But that’s all I know.”
“There isn’t anything else you’re not telling me?” I ask, leaning in even closer, my gaze boring into the dark chocolate depths of hers.
Lena hesitates, and I can see the internal debate playing across her face.
I wait, letting the silence draw her out.
You will tell me, I think. You know you want to.
She frowns at me for a moment, as if she heard my thoughts.
“I have her diary,” Lena continues reluctantly.
I perk up. “You have her diary?”
My voice is a little too loud because she looks nervously around the restaurant. “Shhh.”
“Sorry. When did you get her diary? Did you steal it?”
She gives me a dirty look. “I didn’t steal it. Goodness, Mr. Callahan, what kind of a dame do you think I am?”
“Sorry again.”
She exhales and I can tell she’s about to change her tune.
“Please continue,” I say to her.
Finally she nods. “She left it at my house, I think on purpose. When she came over, when I last saw her. I didn’t know until after she’d been killed that it could be important. She’d been keeping track of things, people she’d met, conversations she’d overheard. She was doing odd jobs for some men associated with Cohen, maybe even Siegel. Deliveries, mostly.”