Pale as Death

by Heather Graham

  “Embarrassed? Yeah, well, there is a bit of that.”

  “Don’t be,” he said firmly. “Don’t be...and please don’t let another five years go by.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about that now... I mean, I’m not leaving town anytime soon.”

  She smiled.

  He was gazing warmly at her. But then he asked softly, “So...what’s been keeping you so busy?”

  She blew out a breath, and then admitted. “Well, first it was my dad. I lost my mom when I was young, and I guess, I kind of hero-worshipped him. He taught me about being a good cop. He was the best... He got to see me make it through college, and graduate the academy. But there was also a friend...”

  “Your old flame.”

  She nodded. “Andrew. We were together in high school, then we were off. Then we were together at UCLA...then we were off. Then he got sick. We had just gone to lunch, and talked as old friends, and then, the next week, he got the diagnosis. We never got back together, so to speak. But he lost his job, he was so ill so often from chemo... Anyway, he needed help. So, I was there for him. And then, there was work...”

  “Sophie, Sophie,” he said softly. “Life can’t just be work.”

  “I didn’t mean to make it that way.”

  “And no one asked you out? I don’t believe that.”

  “No one who I wanted to go out with,” she whispered.

  He smoothed back her hair, pulled her closer.

  “Sophie,” he whispered again.

  They started to move toward one another.

  But suddenly, both their phones were ringing.

  Sophie leaped up, with him now far too intimate to worry about her nudity, and made a dive for her handbag over by the table where they’d eaten dinner.

  It was LAPD photographer Henry Atkins on the other end of the line. “Sophie, the captain asked me to call you.”

  She was confused. If something was up, Grant Vining would have called her. And if Grant had been hurt or injured, Captain Chagall should have called.

  Unless he wanted to be as delicate as possible.

  “Oh, God, what’s happened?” she asked. “Grant—what’s happened to Grant?”

  “He’s alive, Sophie,” Henry assured her. “But he was shot.”

  “Where? When? Where is he now?”

  “The hospital. He asked that no one call you until he was out of surgery. He came through fine. He’s in recovery—”

  “I’m on my way,” Sophie said.

  She broke the call and looked at Bruce. She saw that he’d received the same information, and she assumed that he’d been talking to Jackson Crow.

  “Let’s go,” he said simply.

  She nodded.

  Two seconds in the shower; neither of them joked that they should join one another.

  They were dressed and out of the hotel in a matter of minutes.

  She was glad that Bruce was driving. She realized that she was shaky. He was okay. Grant would be okay. But she couldn’t help but feel guilty; she’d been having the time of her life while her partner had been in danger.

  Bruce didn’t say anything at all, and she was relieved. He didn’t try to tell her that she deserved what little happiness she could grab.

  As he quickly found parking at the hospital, he spoke at last and said simply, “Jackson assured me that Vining is going to be fine. The bullet caught him on the side of his chest. They had to extract it. Apparently he was sure at first that he could simply pluck it out himself.”

  “That would be just like Grant.”

  “That would be just like you!” Bruce said, offering her a bit of a smile.

  Sophie looked at Bruce. “I didn’t even ask where it happened, if they caught the person who shot him, if it was random, if...”

  “He was shot just outside the alley when he reached the street. Long-range rifle. Cops have been combing over the streets.”

  “In the alley... Right where...”

  “Yeah. Near where Michael Thoreau was killed.”

  They hurried in. There were a number of officers around, sitting or standing politely in the waiting room. Henry Atkins hurried over to see Sophie as she and Bruce came in. “It’s all good. One person can see him at a time, so we all waited for you.”

  “Thank you!”

  She glanced at Bruce.

  “Go,” he told her.

  A nurse showed her the way.

  Grant Vining looked thin and somewhat haggard in his hospital bed. She must have made a distressed sound when she entered, because he immediately shook his head and said, “Sophie, Sophie, honestly, I’m fine, they all made a big deal out of a scratch.”

  “It wasn’t a scratch. You had a bullet in your body.”

  He shrugged. “Well, thankfully, our guy was a lousy shot.”

  “Or,” she murmured, “a good shot—a good shot that he was able to catch you at all. I heard that—while I was back at the hotel—cops were out combing the neighborhood.”

  He laughed softly and then quickly stopped; laughing must have hurt. “Sophie, they did a good job. I know that our guys did a good job. The shooter was far away. How far, I don’t know. He didn’t get me until I was out on the street.”

  She hesitated and then said, “You know that I’ve been looking into the Dahlia case—”

  “As have we all.”

  “And there was a reporter—an investigative reporter named Michael Thoreau—who was killed in that alley.”

  “Okay, that I didn’t know.”

  “It’s possible his killer might have thought that he was getting too close. Maybe Elizabeth Short was lured to the same studio.”

  “We’ve checked everything. The renters were out—completely gone. The owner was in Europe. Whoever got in had to know. And how the hell did he know what studio the Dahlia went to—and how the hell could he know that it was going to be empty?”

  Sophie murmured, “Hmm,” and then said, “Grant, what do you think? Maybe this killer was biding his time?”

  “Well, we’ve figured we’re looking for a home-grown killer,” Grant mused.

  “This isn’t someone those girls knew—not someone they had dated casually. This is someone who can present himself as a young producer—and lure them in.” She was thoughtful again a minute, thinking about the prowler in her apartment.

  Because she was not careless with her keys, and she didn’t go into the shower without seeing to it that the doors were locked.

  “It’s a cop,” she said aloud.

  “Not a cop, not a cop we work with,” Grant argued. “Come on, Sophie. When you think about it, we’ve made remarkable progress on this case. We found our first victim Monday, second on Tuesday. This is Thursday. We can’t just make assumptions.”

  “No assumptions,” she assured him. “Just an idea.”

  “You got some sleep?” he asked her.

  “I got some sleep,” she assured him. And a hell of a lot more.

  A nurse popped her head into the room. She was young and smiling and seemed very nice, but she said to Sophie, “I told him he had five minutes. I’d really like to get him to rest for a bit. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’m leaving,” Sophie said. She was suddenly worried, though.

  What if she was right? What if a cop was involved?

  “Sophie!” Grant Vining had caught her arm.

  She looked at him, her brow arching slowly.

  “You behave while I’m in here. You call for backup. You either keep that FBI consultant with you—and swear that you will—or I’ll call Captain and tell him that you need a new partner.”

  “I am not going to try to work this with a new partner—”

  “Then you stick with that consultant and his cowork
er, that Jackson Crow. They know what they’re doing. No bullshit, no heroics, but straightforward investigation.”

  “I will stay with Bruce McFadden.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  He released her arm. “Okay, then, get out of here. I do need some sleep.”

  They had always been friends—partners who obviously cared about one another. But their relationship was also professional. She hesitated. She’d never thought of Grant as a father—no one would ever be like her father, and she wouldn’t think of anyone else in that light.

  But he was a mentor—like the world’s best uncle.

  “You get well.”

  “Of course.” He tried a smile again. “Don’t know when the feds and that PI boy are going to bag out of here, and I sure can’t leave you alone on the street.”

  She smiled and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Wow,” he murmured, smiling—and frowning with confusion at the same time. “You do care.”

  “Look after yourself,” Sophie said and hurried out. As she walked to the exit, she took a close look at the officers standing around, the forensic people, even the techs who were civilians. They weren’t there because they had to be. They were there because they were, definitely, in their way, a brotherhood or a family. They weren’t being paid; they just cared.

  Bruce was waiting for her, looking at her expectantly. She tried to smile at him, but he could obviously tell that she was worried.

  “What’s wrong?” he quickly asked her.

  “I can’t help thinking about that page missing from my research. It was about the suspects the cops thought most likely—and about the fear that it might have been a cop. Bruce, I’m worried about Grant being in the hospital. Yes, they’ll have a police guard watching over him, but...”

  “I have an idea,” he said. He turned and left her, heading out to the hallway where he could make a call in private.

  Henry Atkins—looking hangdog and weary—came over to her.

  “See? He’s really going to be all right.”

  “He’s really going to be fine,” Sophie said.

  “I wouldn’t have lied to you.”

  “I know that, Henry.” She gave him a reassuring hand squeeze. “Hey, can you do me a favor? I know that they’re available at the station, but could you see to it that you email all the pictures you’ve taken of the bodies and all the pictures of the Dahlia you were using for comparison?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “Thanks, Henry.”

  “I’ll head back in soon.”

  “Did you go home last night?”

  “No.”

  “Then go home.”

  “Sure. I’ll go to the station, and then go home.”

  As they stood there, Lee Underwood came striding through the door to the waiting room. He saw Sophie and let out a breath of relief.

  “Sophie, I thought I should call you. Everyone said no, and then Vining made a big deal about you not being told, that you’d wind up going crazy all night and that wouldn’t help the case or anything. Vining said you needed sleep badly and...”

  “It’s all good. I saw Grant.” She looked at him. “You haven’t slept, have you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve been at the studio all night. We went over and over the place. No blood anywhere, and we went through a hell of a lot of luminol. The big guys never thought that our girls were murdered there, but still...you have to eliminate.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You have to eliminate.”

  Bruce came walking back in from the hallway. He greeted Lee.

  “Nothing,” Lee told him.

  “I don’t think that we were expecting anything. You must have hundreds upon hundreds of fingerprints.”

  “Yep,” Lee agreed, letting out a sigh. “We were trying something with the teddy bear, but...so far, I’m afraid, nothing.”

  “I don’t think that we’d find fingerprints even if we did find exactly where the girls were murdered,” Sophie said. “He’s smart. He wears gloves.”

  “Yeah, he’s clever. Like he knows everything we’re going to look for,” Lee said. He made a face. “Too much TV. Perps are learning from shows. Of course, cops never get you in an hour. And most of the time, even today...we’re waiting and waiting for results. Oh, well, better than before, huh?”

  “Better than before,” Sophie agreed.

  As they stood there, Captain came in—along with Dr. Thompson. Seeing the medical examiner made Sophie’s heart turn over.

  But he apparently saw her face and hurried on over. “Don’t look like that,” he begged her. “I’m here as a friend. Grant and I go way back.”

  “He’s doing well,” she said, smiling at Captain, too.

  “You got some sleep?” Captain asked her.

  “Yes, sir. Ready to work.”

  Captain nodded.

  Jackson Crow strode up to the group and spoke quickly. “I went back to the alleyway, searching the streets with a few fellow feds. We think we’ve found the shooter’s spot—down the block, top of the roof of the Dontcha Wanna Donut shop. Scuff marks, like someone was up there. Forensics has gone on over.”

  “I should be there,” Lee said.

  “Absolutely, I want the same crews working so similarities or differences aren’t missed,” Captain said. “But I don’t want my people keeling over. We’ll get another crew in for now. Sleep—then you can all get back to it, okay? You, too, Atkins,” Captain said. He turned to Jackson. “We are grateful for the federal assistance on this, Agent Crow.”

  “It’s what we do, sir,” Jackson said. “I’ll be hanging around here, Captain, if you don’t mind. Keep an eye on Vining?”

  “Of course. We’ll have some patrol officers on duty, too,” Captain said.

  Jackson nodded. Sophie thought that he looked at Bruce, and while he said nothing, they’d somehow had some kind of communication. Jackson gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and she knew that he’d silently let her know that she didn’t need to worry; he would be guarding Grant Vining and no one—cop, friend, relative—would get by him.

  Bruce turned to her.

  “Sophie, you good?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. I need to move. Um, we need to move. I have some reading, some street work, some interviews,” Sophie said.

  “If you need help—” Lee began.

  She smiled at him. “Hey, I went to sleep, as ordered. You go do the same.”

  “I’ll be happy to get some sleep,” Dr. Chuck Thompson said. “You all may have to work hard to wake me up, if you need me.” The laughter left his face. “I’m going to pray that we don’t have another victim.”

  Sophie and Bruce turned together and headed out. She didn’t look at him or speak until they had cleared the hospital.

  “Thank you for calling Jackson... I trust him. Seriously—I don’t know what I’d be doing if you and he weren’t out here. But of course, Jackson can’t stay endlessly. And I’m really concerned while Grant is in here—there are just things that can happen in a hospital.”

  “Sophie, it’s all right.”

  “But—”

  “Sophie, I have another brother.”

  She stared at him and slowly smiled. “Oh...”

  “Brodie. He was working on a case for Adam’s theater, but as it happened, a maintenance man did die of natural causes. Brodie will be here in five or so hours, and then Jackson will be free.”

  “Thank you. And thank Brodie.”

  “He’s glad to come. You haven’t met my parents yet. If we don’t help out where my mother thinks we should...”

  “So coming out here is better than torture, right?” Sophie asked, smiling.

  “Something like that. Okay, so...you said a few things in there. I’d been thinki
ng we should try to find out more about Grant’s shooter, but Jackson already found the final firing position, so...”

  “The papers. Whatever is happening, this killer wants to reproduce the past. I want to get the old newspapers. Atkins is going to email me all the photos he’s taken, and all the photos from the past. Let’s study what we have. Let’s go back and repeat everything, and see if we’ve missed anything.”

  He was thoughtful a minute. They’d reached the car and he hesitated, his hand on the door as he looked over the car at her. “How about the big screen in the conference room at the station? We’ll put all our information up on the projection screen—including any of the websites you’d been visiting. It’ll help to get an overview.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  When they reached the station, Sophie gathered up her computer and hooked up the feed to the large screen in the conference room.

  An image flew up to the screen. It was from the past—a picture taken at the site when Elizabeth Short had been killed.

  “There’s the bag—the canvas bag with the bloody water in it,” Bruce pointed out. “And there wasn’t such a bag when Lili was found, or when Brenda was found.”

  “Among the many theories back then, some wondered if Elizabeth Short had been cut in half because the killer was small—either a woman, or a weakened man—and just couldn’t carry the weight of an entire body at one time.”

  “Only one bag,” Bruce said.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean, there was one bag. The killer didn’t put two body halves in two different bags. I know that it was suggested that one suspect, the surgeon Walter Alonzo Bayley, didn’t have the mental or physical capacity at the time to carry a body, and thus the two pieces. At his autopsy, it was diagnosed that he had a neurological disease. The authors Larry Harnisch and James Ellroy looked into such a theory. Bayley must have been a horrible person—with what came out about the abuse of his daughter during his later life. And he did live in the neighborhood where Short’s body was found—until his wife kicked him out. His daughter was best friends with Short’s sister. His disease might have made him exceptionally violent. I don’t think that cutting the body in half had anything to do with strength—I think it was some kind of a sick and twisted ritual.”