by Guy Bolton
“Did she hear the shot?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Canvass the other houses here, see if anyone else saw anything or heard the shooting. Anyone else here yet?”
“Techs are on their way.” Becker checked his watch. “Medical examiner should be here any minute.”
Craine noted the kitchen in disarray: the pantry shelves swept clear, the canned food tossed on the kitchen floor. Broken dishes and pans were scattered across the sideboard and the refrigerator had been pulled away from the wall.
He didn’t go into the bathroom but he could see the medicine cabinet had been pulled open. A bottle of pills was scattered across the floor. Sleeping pills. Must have been hundreds of them.
“Lot of pills she’s got.”
“Nothing unusual,” Craine said. At times it felt like the whole town was existing in a narcotic delirium.
“There’s a gold watch on the side of the sink there. Seems funny the intruder would leave it.”
Craine wasn’t listening. He flanked into the corridor. “Let’s see it then.”
Becker followed close behind, lighting a second cigarette from the first as they reached the bedroom door. “It’s pretty messy. Not much left of her, that’s for damn sure.”
The door was ajar; Craine pushed the door back and surveyed the bedroom.
Florence Lloyd’s remains were enough to make him gag. He suddenly felt hot, a bracing sweat forming on his forehead. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief and used it to protect his nose from the stench of fresh meat. Murder scenes never became easier, no matter what people said.
Becker was still loitering in the doorway. “Can I get you anything? Think there’s some coffee back there on the kitchen floor. I can put a pot on?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Becker didn’t want to see the body. He left him alone in the bedroom.
Craine started working the crime scene from the periphery, walking around the perimeter of the bedroom and making notes. All her clothes had been pulled out of the drawers and lay scattered around the base of the bed. The burglar looking for a safe or money box, he reasoned.
There was a photo framed on the sideboard. Same fair hair, same skin tone. Must be the victim. She was attractive, stunning even. It was a professional photograph, a three-quarter shot of Florence Lloyd in a décolleté cocktail dress. White pearls hung low around her neckline. He imagined the budget lines: “BLOND BEAUTY BUTCHERED IN HOLLYWOOD.” More fuel for the tabloids.
He looked for other signs of disturbance, anything that didn’t fit in with the surroundings, before taking a long look at the body. The bleeding was still pronounced and the sheets were glistening crimson. Copper wire was wrapped tight around her wrists and feet, a ring shank nail pinning her palms against the bedposts. Bruising round her collarbone suggested her throat had been constricted and there were bloody ligature marks ribboned around her neck. The M.E. would determine if she was raped but there was no doubt she had been beaten and tortured—for what means he couldn’t be sure. The papers would have a field day.
Shards of skull and brain matter framed a bullet hole in the headboard. Craine held his handkerchief to his face and breathed through his mouth. God, this was awful. He’d have the lab techs remove the bullet and run some ballistic tests. The damage done to the head indicated a large-caliber weapon and he wondered how the neighbors had failed to hear the gunfire.
Craine quickly sketched the position of the corpse in the room and the angle of fire before touching the back of the dead girl’s arm. Cool. He looked at her hands. The fingers were rigid but the body had yet to fully enter rigor mortis. She had died less than two hours ago.
Leaning back against the wall, Craine went through the attack in his head. Robbery turned foul. The intruder, if indeed there was only one, had entered the bedroom when Florence Lloyd was asleep. He had tied her ankles and wrists to the bedposts, beaten her to a pulp then shot her dead. He must have ransacked the house for most of an hour, probably left not long before the uniforms arrived.
Craine flipped his notepad shut and breathed a sigh of relief.
He found Becker in the kitchen sipping coffee and writing up his case notes.
“All done, Detective?”
“Robbery-homicide. As expected.”
“You don’t think it was planned out? Maybe someone came here to kill her, I mean.”
Craine tensed. He detested speculation, particularly from the lower ranks. Abstract theories and conjectures served no one. Most murder convictions were of young black men local to the area; consequently, it was logical to assume that this murder was committed by a young black male.
“No,” he said. “The intruder saw Lloyd in bed, had his fun then shot her dead. He’ll be a Negro male, twenties or early thirties. I’ll ask Dispatch to put a call out for young Negroes known to the area.”
“How can you be sure?”
Craine struggled to remain calm. “Because that’s the typical profile,” he said, his eyes drilling into him.
“What about the wire? The nails in her wrists? She was beaten half to death, raped probably—”
“Don’t include it in your report.”
Becker frowned. “Why wouldn’t I—”
“It only complicates matters. She was shot in her bed, her house robbed. That’s all you need to include.”
Craine deposited the notepad in his outside jacket pocket and walked back into the hallway toward the front door. He was glad to get out of the house.
“Detective?”
Craine turned at the door. Becker stood in the hallway.
“I was thinking that it seems so odd the robber would leave that watch in the bathroom but go through the whole house like this. I also found a bit of cash in the freezer. Why would he take the time to turn over every room but not take all the money? And why torture the girl? I mean, Jesus, the things he did to her. Doesn’t seem to fit to a botched robbery—”
“It fits perfectly,” said Craine with finality. “Good night, Officer.”
Craine walked out into the night and crossed the driveway toward his Fleetwood. He could be home in less than thirty minutes.
Pulling out of the driveway, he saw Becker staring at him from the front door, shaking his head. Years ago, when I was new to the Bureau, I used to be like that, thought Craine. I wanted every stone turned over, every fact and theory examined.
That time has long since passed.
Chapter 2
May 11th
Louis B. Mayer sat in the back seat of his Lincoln, drew a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. He had a headache.
He took a small bottle of aspirin from his jacket pocket and swallowed two pills dry. Christ, his head hurt. Too many Dubonnets last night. He didn’t normally drink more than the occasional aperitif but Gable kept ordering round after round, and he hadn’t the heart to turn them away. Still, Gable had a good night and that’s all that mattered. Clark Gable and his new wife Carole Lombard were trying for a baby and Mayer was delighted—that kind of press did wonders for a man’s image.
“Are you excited about your party, Mr. Mayer?” his driver asked through the divide.
“Absolutely. It’s going to be terrific. We even have the Dandridge Sisters playing.”
“Oh, my wife loves them,” his driver said, particularly chatty this morning. “What M.G.M. has done for all of us, it means a lot.”
“Well that’s kind of you to say, Artie. Very kind indeed.”
This weekend was M.G.M.’s fifteenth anniversary. Fifteen years since Louis Mayer had first walked onto the lot as head of the newly formed M.G.M. He’d started with six hundred employees, a few dozen actors and a handful of stars. Now he had six thousand employees and over one hundred contract players on his books, a third of whom he categorized as “stars.” M.G.M. had come out of the recession as the only studio to make profits year on year and the anniversary was a great excuse to celebrate.
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Mayer started to relax when they approached Culver City and saw the M.G.M. lot looming ahead. “You know,” he said, feeling unusually generous, “why don’t you and your wife come join us at Loew House for a glass of champagne? You can pick her up after you’ve dropped us off.”
Mayer saw a wide smile through the rearview mirror. “Oh, that’s so generous, sir. We’d be absolutely delighted. My wife, she’ll be over the moon.”
The car passed through the M.G.M. gate between two large Corinthian columns and pulled up outside the Thalberg Building, the home for all senior M.G.M. executives.
Ida, his executive secretary, met him from the elevator on the third floor. She looked pale and her mascara was running. She’d been crying.
“Morning, Ida. You look sick. Are you ill? Do you need to go home? Dr. Hendricks is downstairs.”
Ida held back tears. “No, Mr. Mayer. It’s—”
“It’s what?”
They’d reached the walnut doors of Mayer’s office. Ida reached for the doorknob and composed herself.
“I’m fine. Russell Peterson is inside waiting for you.”
Good, thought Mayer. Peterson could set up a press release about Gable and Lombard trying for a baby.
Mayer’s office was newly decorated in the Art Moderne style: the walls were white leather, a white floor carpet had only recently been laid and all the furniture was painted magnolia. The national flag and an atlas globe were almost the only items of color. Standing beside Mayer’s white kidney-shaped desk was Russell Peterson, M.G.M.’s Publicity Chief and one of Mayer’s closest confidants. He was tall but slight, with a thick pencil mustache that resembled Errol Flynn’s.
Ida closed the door behind them. Peterson looked unusually anxious.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Mayer?”
“Peterson, why are you in my office?” Mayer barked, striding around his desk toward his chair.
Peterson didn’t reply. He waited for Mayer to take a seat but Mayer stayed standing. Despite never reaching a height above five foot seven, he still hated the feeling of being smaller than someone else, especially in his own office.
“Well?” said Mayer, scanning the morning mail. “Come on, out with it, Peterson. I have a meeting with LeRoy in a quarter-hour.”
Peterson spoke slowly, his voice low and even. “Ida had a phone call ten minutes ago from the maid at Herbert Stanley’s home.”
Mayer felt the blood drain from his face. He already knew what Peterson would say next.
“Sir, she found him . . . she found his body earlier this morning hanging from the ceiling fan. He’s dead, Mr. Mayer.”
Mayer steadied himself on his chair then sat down. Herbert Stanley was among Mayer’s most talented producers. He was also married to Gale Goodwin, one of M.G.M.’s most valued movie stars.
“Has anyone been told?”
“Ida rang me as soon as she found out. She’d tried phoning you at home but you’d already left.”
“What about anyone else?”
“Only Gale. She wasn’t there.”
“Jesus. She was with us at the Lilac Club. Where did she stay last night?”
“She’s been staying at Joan Crawford’s.”
“She there now?”
“To my knowledge.”
“I’ll go over there this afternoon.” Mayer ran through his options. The Tainted Feather was top of the box office this week but was a costly production that might struggle to recoup its costs if Gale got caught up in a scandal.
Peterson coughed. “Shall we call the police?”
“Not yet. Get Whitey Hendry and organize a car. We’ll call the police after. Ask for Craine.”
“He’s back?”
“Margaret saw him at the Lilac Club last night. See if he’s back at the Bureau.”
Peterson seemed hesitant. “Are you sure you want Craine?” He shifted his weight between his feet. “After what happened . . . with Celia Raymond, I mean.”
Mayer had always thought Jonathan Craine something of a fool but he’d consistently proven a loyal and invaluable supporter of the M.G.M. cause. For longer than he could remember, Craine had been tasked by City Hall to clear all indictments against studio employees by any means possible. He was, in essence, the studio “fixer,” the man who made criminal charges disappear.
Then, five months ago, Celia Raymond had died at their home from a drugs overdose and Craine’s swift departure after his wife’s funeral had left everyone unsure of where his allegiances lay. Did he know that Mayer had ended Celia’s contract with M.G.M. only a few days prior to her death?
“Ask for Craine—”
“Sir, is that wise?”
“Don’t argue with me, Peterson, it doesn’t suit you. Ask for Craine but make sure he stays out of the public eye. And I don’t want any mention of Celia Raymond. We have enough on our plate with Stanley.”
Peterson looked wounded. “Anything else?”
“Prep a statement.”
“Same approach as Paul Bern? Homosexual. Depressed. Suicidal tendencies.”
“Agreed,” Mayer confirmed. “Something along those lines.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll call Captain Simms immediately and have Craine assigned.” Russell Peterson nodded and left the room.
Mayer twisted around in his seat until he faced the window. His headache was gone. Through the glass he could see a line of cars pulling into the parking lot below. The working day was about to begin. He spotted Judy Garland’s limousine approach the gates. He’d completely forgotten—they were doing reshoots on The Wizard of Oz today. Herbert had been one of the producers.
Chapter 3
When the telephone rang at eight in the morning, Craine was still awake. He hadn’t slept properly in months. Although the house had six bedrooms, he’d spent most nights since his return from New York in the drawing room, lying on a velvet divan by the fireplace and staring down the long corridor that led to Celia’s bedroom. Their bedroom once, but now forever known as hers. He hadn’t been inside yet, hadn’t dared.
Craine reached over for the rotary phone and lifted up the receiver.
“Hello—” He cleared his throat. “Hello.”
The operator: “Mr. Craine?”
“Yes.”
“One moment, please.” Craine rubbed his eyes and turned toward the double French doors as he waited for the line to connect. The lawn outside was long and unkempt, the surface of the pool covered in white pear blossom. The gardener, like the house staff, had been given indefinite paid leave the morning of Celia’s funeral. If he was being sensible he’d put the house on the market, but even though he was behind on their mortgage payments, he knew he could never bring himself to go through with a sale. This was all he had left of her.
“Detective Craine.” It was his secretary, Elaine. “I thought you might like to know, patrol picked up a Negro youth, Leonard Stone, asleep in his car on Highland in a Model B Ford. They found what looks like stolen goods in his trunk.”
“Any priors?”
“One conviction for theft in June last year.”
“Good. Is he at the precinct?”
“Yes, Detective, he’s in the holding cell.”
“Thank you, Elaine. Move him into the interview room. I’ll be in shortly.”
Craine put the phone down and sat back on the divan. The room was a mess. Dust sheets lay over the furniture like shawls covering a massacre; rows of skeletal lilies stood limp in glass vases and an empty bookshelf was pushed against the far wall, flanked by two cardboard boxes filled with paperbacks and movie scripts. He noticed a picture hanging unevenly on the wall above the fireplace. It was a picture of a small boy sitting cross-legged underneath a Christmas tree. It was a picture of his son.
Sunset Boulevard was quiet for a Thursday morning. The crisp May air whipped through the open windows but did nothing to ease his anxiety. The picture of Michael at Christmas was still firm in his mind and the guilt over how he had treated him since Celia�
��s death sat deep in his chest. The last time he’d seen his son was when he left him at boarding school the day of Celia’s funeral, Michael standing at the school gates, watching his father drive away. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t even said a word. Craine had never told him where he was going or when he’d be coming back.
It was Michael who found Celia, face up in her nightgown beneath the surface of the bathwater. It was Michael who tried to save her, his little hands tearing at her wrists, desperate to pull her out. And it was Michael who called the police, crying down the phone, begging for help because his mother wouldn’t wake up.
As Craine navigated toward City Hall, another memory flickered in his mind, clinging on too long for him to ignore. He remembered the police officer who had first arrived at the scene later telling him that he’d had to break through the back door to get inside the house. He’d followed the sound of a scream through the empty corridors until he’d got to their bedroom door. He found Michael sitting on the bathroom tiles, soaked through, his knees pulled up to his chest and his hands held tight over his ears as if he was trying to protect himself from the noise. But it was Michael who was screaming.
The homicide unit, the L.A.P.D. section responsible for the investigation of all unexplained deaths within the City of Los Angeles, was situated on the fifth floor of the Central Headquarters building opposite downtown’s Civic Center.
Entering the Detective Bureau, Craine walked along the waxed linoleum corridor that led past the briefing hall and the holding cells and into the homicide unit.
The squad room was a half-lit office bullpen crowded with empty desks and deserted workstations. As Craine entered, he noticed a handful of unfamiliar faces sat slumped in chairs, fingering at typewriters. New recruits, Craine thought. He saw a row of eyes look up from their desks, watching him sidelong as he passed. He recognized two detectives, Henson and Kingsley, laughing and joking by the coffee pot. They fell silent when they saw him. Other investigators resented Craine’s role in the department. Working studio cases seemed an easy assignment, with generous rewards that came from grateful studio heads.
