Pale as Death

by Heather Graham

  He hurried in; he was out in approximately three minutes.

  They were in the car and headed to the hospital before a full ten minutes from start to finish had gone by.

  She smiled, leaning back in the car.

  Nice to have a guy who could move...

  In so many ways.

  “What?” Bruce asked.

  “You’re good. Really good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, I meant at getting ready to leave.”

  “Oh, well. Okay, thank you for that, too. So are you. Not many women can begin to move so quickly.”

  “Hey! Not just women. When we were young, Andrew...”

  Her voice trailed but he cast a smile her way. “Andrew?”

  “He had way more hair-care products than me!”

  He smiled. Then he seemed to be serious when he asked her, “So you don’t mind that I’ve hogged the driving.”

  She laughed, closing her eyes and leaning back.

  “Hell, no. I spend way too much time swearing at other drivers on the expressways. Go for it!”

  * * *

  The general feeling seemed to be one of elation—mixed with sadness. Not a week had gone by and this case with a horrendous killer consuming the force, the media and everyone involved, was almost at a conclusion.

  A suspect had been arrested.

  A patrolman showed them a newspaper while they were waiting to meet up with Captain Chagall at the hospital.

  “Copycat Dahlia Killer Caught!”

  “How the hell do they get this stuff so fast?” Bruce wondered as he scanned the article. He looked down at Sophie; he’d been reading over her shoulder.

  “I don’t think Chagall wanted any of this. I mean, Henry hasn’t even been questioned yet—he hasn’t been officially charged!”

  “They don’t name him—but they do say that ‘an anonymous source’ has informed them that the police are holding one of their own.”

  “It had turned to day when we left,” Sophie said. “Maybe the media swarmed the graveyard after. God knows, there were enough people wandering around.”

  Chagall came into the waiting room. He saw them reading the newspaper and he shook his head with disgust. “I don’t know who the hell our leak is. I’m going to have to hold a press conference because of this and tell them what we want them to know.”

  “You would have had to speak with reporters today no matter what, Captain,” Sophie said. “What are you going to tell them?”

  “That we are holding a suspect. You know about the sniper’s rifle, right?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Evidence is mounting up.”

  “But you still haven’t questioned Henry?” Bruce asked.

  “No—I still have hours left before we have to charge him. He spent the night at the station—behind bars. He’s been raging and spitting—but hasn’t asked for an attorney yet. When Sophie is finished with Grace Leon, we’ll head to the station.”

  “Have you spoken with Grace?” Sophie asked him.

  He nodded.

  “And?” she pressed.

  The captain shook his head. “You ask your questions. Sometimes, people word things differently, and we get different answers. This time? I don’t think that will happen. But she’s specifically asked to see you. She’s in 407. There’s a cop sitting right outside her door.”

  Bruce raised his eyebrows at that. Either the captain was by nature a very careful man, or he wasn’t so certain that they’d caught the right person.

  “Come on.”

  Sophie actually took his hand as she headed down the hospital hallway, looking for room 407.

  There was a chair for the officer outside her door, but he was standing. He nodded to the two of them.

  “Afternoon!” he said.

  “Hi,” Sophie replied. Before she headed in, she paused. “Officer...Bartlett.” She read his name off his name tag. “You okay? Do you want coffee, or anything? Are they looking after you?”

  “Nurses and LPNs here are great—I’m offered everything. But thank you, Detective Manning. Sir,” he added, nodding to Bruce. Bruce nodded and smiled in turn. He knew why Sophie was admired by her fellows; she was polite to and appreciative of others. She could be caring with victims and witnesses; she could also be strong and determined—and find out what she needed to know before becoming concerned and nice.

  When they walked into the room, Grace Leon was sitting up in bed.

  She had makeup on and her hair had been brushed.

  But she cried out to the two of them. “Detective Manning... Mr. McFadden. Thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I can never thank you enough. I’m alive. Oh, God, I’m alive. And I was so rude to you, Sophie. I was such a bitch. But you understand I was protecting Kenneth. I had to. He’s a really good guy. Trying so hard. I beg you—forgive me! I was so rude—and you saved my life, anyway.”

  Sophie was uncomfortable, Bruce knew.

  “We’re very glad you’re alive, Grace,” he said.

  “It’s all right. We all act badly sometimes. Not act—you’re a very good actress—behave badly,” Sophie amended. “But, please, it’s my job—” She glanced at Bruce “It’s our job...all of us with law enforcement. It’s what we do. And we’re incredibly grateful when we do get somewhere in time to save an innocent victim.”

  “I would do anything for you guys!” Grace said. She glanced at Sophie, and then at Bruce. He really didn’t like to think too much of himself, but he knew her look. She made it pretty clear. “Anything,” she repeated.

  “We just need to know what happened last night,” Bruce said.

  “The show...you saw the show. The guy who plays Dudley... Perry. Perry Sykes. He and I are... We’re seeing each other.”

  “Yes,” Sophie said. “It’s thanks to Perry and Kenneth that we found you.”

  Grace nodded. “I owe them so much.”

  “Go on, Grace, please,” Bruce pressed.

  “Okay, so...there’s not much, I’m afraid. I was talking to a lot of people after the show. So was Perry. Perry helped me get the role.” She was quiet. “It had been Lili’s role.”

  “We know,” Sophie said. “Grace, please. Last night?”

  “I’m getting there, I’m getting there...it’s just not much,” Grace said. “I parked my car in the lot off Sunset. I thought I’d be plenty safe—it was maybe near 1:00 a.m., but hey, on a Saturday night on Sunset, that’s not late. I felt safe. Plenty of people. Except...”

  “Except?” Bruce said, hiding his impatience and speaking quickly.

  “From there, I don’t know!” she whispered. “I got out of the car, I locked it—and there was a bag over my head. I don’t even know what kind of a bag. But it was soaked in stuff. I don’t know what. The doctors say I was drugged, but by what, I don’t know. I didn’t drink anything—except water at the show—and I drove to Sunset Strip from Malibu, so...anyway. The bag came over my head, and I was drugged. I think he was big... I think,” she whispered. “Strong.”

  “You never heard him speak? Did he wear cologne, or was there anything else you noticed? Maybe he was a smoker and you could smell it on him. Anything?” Sophie asked.

  “No, nothing.” Grace’s brow furrowed in a frown. “Except...oh, well, that could mean nothing.”

  “What?” Sophie managed not to shout.

  “Roses. I kept smelling roses,” Grace said, “but then, we give them away at the show, so that doesn’t mean anything.” She paused, and visibly shivered. “Oh, I’m shaking again. I barely remember you finding me, but I remember waking...cold stone...and...blood. Oh, God, that awful scent of blood. Blood and roses.”

  They weren’t getting anything else out of Grace Leon.

  Bruce turned to go.

  Sophie murmured a thank yo
u and followed.

  “Hey!” Grace called. They paused. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  It sounded sincere. Bruce almost liked the young woman.

  But then, she added, “Oh, Lord! Thank you! I’m not just alive, I’m going to be really famous. Reporters are coming! I’m the one who survived. They may even buy my story...there might be a book. A play. And then a movie. I can star as myself!”

  Bruce set a hand on the small of Sophie’s back, urging her toward the door with a little bit of force.

  Grace had survived, yes.

  But one of them just might turn around and smack her.

  17

  Sunday afternoon

  Henry Atkins had pushed his hair back so many times that it was almost standing straight up on the front of his forehead.

  He’d spent the night in a cell—in solitary.

  And he was now under arrest.

  The ballistics expert had reported that the high-powered sniper rifle found beneath his bed was the weapon that had been used to strike Grant Vining, and which had also been used to shoot a bullet into a stone in the old burial ground. Why, none of them knew.

  Except, of course, Sophie and Bruce.

  As yet.

  Henry wasn’t talking to Captain Chagall or anyone else. He had said, however, that he would talk to Sophie.

  He was awaiting his attorney.

  He had chosen a husband and wife team with an exceptional reputation, Esther and Nathan Holloway, and they had agreed to take his case. The couple had been, however, vacationing in Palm Springs when Henry had called; they would be with him when he was arraigned on Monday morning.

  Sophie stood with Captain Chagall, looking through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room.

  “He looks like he might have a heart attack,” Sophie murmured.

  “We’re watching him. It might be a mercy that he’s under arrest. His blood pressure was sky-high.”

  “Maybe being accused of murder does that to a man.”

  “Whether he is or isn’t guilty,” Chagall said, “this arrest might have saved his life. He saw our doctor and he was given proper medication. Bobby Dougherty has been observing him. Henry has refused to speak with Dougherty—along with everyone else—until he speaks with his attorneys.”

  “A smart move for most criminals,” Bruce murmured.

  “Criminals who are police photographers—sure. They know all the techniques that cops use. But, Sophie, he has said that he will talk to you. You ready?”

  “Of course. He’ll know you’re watching,” Sophie said.

  “Yes, he will. But maybe he thinks he can play you somehow, Sophie.”

  “And maybe he’s innocent,” she murmured.

  Captain Chagall sighed deeply. “I doubt it,” he said softly. “We just got another report from the forensic team. One of Henry’s fingerprints was found on the slab underground. He was never over where that print was found,” Chagall said.

  “Maybe we didn’t see every move he made,” Sophie said.

  “One of us had eyes on him at every moment. You and Bruce were there, at the rear of the tomb. Sophie, I don’t want to accept this, either. But between the fingerprint, and the crushed rose and the rifle found under the bed...”

  Sophie looked for Bruce. He had stepped aside and was on the phone—with Jackson, she thought.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked Bruce.

  “He said only you,” Chagall said.

  “It’s all right,” Bruce said. “Captain, Sophie, I’m going to go ahead and meet Jackson outside—Angela has come up with more information on the burial ground. I’m going to get back out there, Captain. Henry doesn’t want me, and Sophie doesn’t need me. I’ll call in a report about anything that the FBI research has managed to unearth.” He grimaced. “Literally.”

  “We still have people out there,” Captain Chagall said.

  “So does Jackson,” Bruce said, “as I’m sure you know. We’ll coordinate all our efforts.”

  “Of course.”

  “What else has Angela found?” Sophie asked.

  “Looks like more underground chambers,” Bruce said. “If we can find the tools that the killer used...well, we all know that Henry is going to continue to deny everything. There is no way a man could have used a saw and a knife on a person and not left something behind. None of us knows the truth yet, and we need some more hard evidence.”

  “All right. McFadden, go. Sophie, get in there and see what you can get him to say.”

  Bruce turned to leave. Sophie watched him go and then opened the door to the interrogation room. Henry looked at her. “Sophie. Finally.”

  “Henry,” she said, drawing out the chair across the plain metal desk from him. She sat, thinking of all the times she had been at that desk before, questioning suspects, reading them the best she could, and then cajoling, threatening, sympathizing...or just listening.

  This was different. This was a man she knew. A strange man.

  Maybe a guilty man.

  And maybe just a loner who had really longed to be an artist—but had found a good living photographing and trying to read the signs in what the lens captured.

  “Chagall is back there, right?” Henry asked. “Hey, Captain!” he called, waving to the one-way window.

  “Of course, he’s listening,” Sophie said. “You know how everything works here. And you’re probably smart to wait for your attorney. So, why me, Henry?”

  He leaned forward. “Because you know that I didn’t do this.”

  “Henry, I wish I knew that you didn’t do this. But there is no way your rose could have been where it was—unless you’d been there. You never walked over to the stone slab. The rose was there.”

  “It was planted.”

  “By who?”

  “By whoever kidnapped Grace Leon and brought her there.”

  “What about the sniper rifle—the one used to put Vining in the hospital.”

  “It isn’t mine.”

  “It was under your bed.”

  “It still isn’t mine.”

  “What if they find your prints?”

  “They won’t—whoever did this is smart enough to wipe everything down.” He leaned toward her, his tone desperate. “Sophie, I did not do this thing. I could not do this thing. I study a lot of crime photographs. I wanted to travel the world once, get the great pictures. War in the Middle East, kings and queens ascending their thrones, violence in the streets—good things, bad things, murder and mayhem. It turned out that I became a police photographer. No kings and queens—but I did see the drug wars and the insanity of Los Angeles. Yes, I have crime scene photographs in my house. Some of them might seem grisly. I’ll bet you old Dr. Chuck Thompson reads up on other autopsies or watches some of the shows on TV that feature the cases of other medical examiners. It’s a work hazard. Tell me that you don’t read about crimes and criminals and how they were caught and how they got away with it? I’m telling you, I didn’t drop the rose. I have never owned a sniper rifle. I wasn’t the one who fed the crime scene photo to the newspaper. I have had a call with my attorneys. I know that I will be out of here soon, and I might sue the department and everyone involved. This is all ludicrous.”

  Sophie watched him in silence for a minute. She knew that the sniper rifle found at his place was the one used to shoot Grant—and to shoot at her. But as far as she knew, Henry’s prints had not been found on it. His prints on the rifle would have damned him entirely.

  “Sophie, I was set up. Subtly, and bit by bit,” Henry said.

  “By who?”

  He leaned back, shaking his head, and staring at her balefully. “If I knew that, I’d tell you—I’d be shouting it out, obviously! Maybe Kenneth Trent—he had access to the girls.”

  “He had an alibi.”

 
; “Friends lie.”

  “Henry, he was seen by an entire movie theater.”

  Henry threw up his hands. “I don’t know.” He glanced toward the windows. He spoke loudly—making sure that he was clearly heard.

  “Here you go, Sophie. You all suspected me—before last night or early this morning, or whatever it was. Why? Because you thought it was an inside job. Who better to pull off a crime than those who know what the police are searching for? Okay, so I’m what you see as a creepy guy. I have no wife, no kids, no family. Well, hell, I wasn’t really attractive most of my life. But now, I’m going to retire. And you’re not going to pin these awful murders on me—why? Because I didn’t commit them. And, hell, I haven’t been hanging around getting stupider and stupider. I have the best attorneys my saved-up-never-spent-on-a-wife-or-family money can buy. So, everyone was hoping that you’d get something out of me—why? Because, of course, I might be a creepy guy, but you’re a beautiful young woman—and you’ve always been kind to me. Sophie, there’s nothing to get out of me. The crime scene photos got out—it’s the day and age when the internet rules. Anyone could have done it. Everyone involved in investigating has access to those pictures. Think of it this way—hell, even our dear Captain Chagall could have done it. Oh, and the murders. Seriously? Who has experience with crime scenes? You hear that, Captain? You want to play this game? It could have been you. So there you are with me, Sophie. I can tell you nothing. Nothing. So, take that to the bank. I think we’re done for now.”

  “Henry... I hope you’re telling the truth. I really do,” Sophie said, rising.

  “Actually, that’s not, it,” Henry said.

  “Then what?”

  “Keep looking. For the love of God, keep looking.”

  She nodded, and left the room.

  Chagall was waiting for her in observation. She wondered if he’d be angry—or, at the least, irritated—by the accusation.

  He wasn’t, but he did tell her, “Don’t worry. He wouldn’t get anywhere accusing me. I was playing poker with the sheriff and a few old friends until two on Saturday night—and Monday night, I slept at my daughter’s, watching my infant granddaughter all through the night with my wife.”