The Last Embrace

by Denise Hamilton

  “What if I don’t want her eating out of my hand?”

  The older detective gave a worldly laugh. “That too. Little on-duty action never hurt anyone. Some of us get all our action at work.”

  Magruder gave his pants a hitch. “Why don’t you tail her when you get a chance? See what she’s up to.”

  He winked, avuncular now. This is how it’s done, old son. Watch and learn. Pico wondered if the older cop saw him as the son he’d never had. He recalled something about a child, but as far as he knew, Magruder lived alone, full of coppish swagger and rough lessons, glorying in the camaraderie of the badge, the closed clubhouse air of it, no girls allowed, forever rumbling with lewd innuendo and hoary wisdom. He wrapped himself in the fug of cracked leather, oiled weapons, Cuban cigars, distilled liquors, and strong cologne. A man’s man.

  “It’s a hard town,” Magruder was saying, “and I’d hate for that li’l gal to get hurt. In fact, I’d rather…” He chuckled. “Stuck-up dames like that need a good pounding. Under all the priss, they’re just asking for it. Every damn one of them.”

  “She didn’t strike me as particularly prissy,” Pico said.

  “It’s all a front. Believe you me. When you’ve been around as long as I have…”

  And Magruder proceeded to lecture Pico on what women really wanted. Then he asked how Pico’s father was enjoying his retirement. “I hear he was flush there for a while,” Magruder said.

  Pico had heard the same thing. There had been elaborate dinners, trips to Catalina, visits to Big Bear. But the lucky streaks never lasted.

  “I wish they’d stop taking him to the track.”

  “There are those who like to have him beholden,” Magruder said. “And you as well.”

  “You know I don’t play the ponies.”

  “There are many ways to be beholden, Stephen. You’ll find that one hand washes the other. It’s about loyalty. Respect. Your pa understood that.”

  “They knew he couldn’t say no, and they took advantage of it.”

  “Your father’s a grown man, Stephen. No one forced him to do anything.”

  “He has a sickness.”

  “And now he must pay.” Magruder’s voice had gone quiet and whispery. “And if the father cannot pay, they turn to the son to make them whole. They are reasonable people, Stephen. They don’t want money. There are things more valuable.”

  “Like what?”

  “When the time comes, you will know it.”

  Magruder slid his bulk off his stool. “All this talk has got my blood up. Let’s go roust Olga,” he said.

  “Who’s Olga?”

  “Surprised your old man never took you around. You’re gonna love Olga.”

  The alcohol glow made Pico feel he was sliding through glass as he drove, the colors bright and electric. Beside him, Magruder stirred.

  “Those actresses probably had you pegged as a Latin lover, that olive skin of yours,” he said. “You’re part Mex, ain’t you, Pico? Name like that?”

  Pico felt the alcohol warmth ebbing away. He’d noticed he was “Stephen” when Magruder felt friendly and “Pico” when he didn’t.

  “You know my family’s been here a long time.”

  “A breed, even. Your white great-grandpappy found him a squaw?”

  “We were already on the rancho when your ancestors were grubbing for rotten potatoes in Ireland.”

  Magruder shot him a dirty look. “Maybe so, but we were God-fearing people. We didn’t go in for fornicating with the natives.”

  “I hear you fornicate with them plenty today.”

  Magruder guffawed. “I’m partial to the native blonde.”

  They drove in silence. Then Magruder said, “Pico Boulevard. That named after your people?”

  Pico stared out the window. His mouth twitched. “Naw,” he said “I don’t think so.”

  Following Magruder’s directions, he turned south on Vine and parked in front of one of the fancy buildings with several floors.

  As they walked up the front steps, Pico heard a jazzy piano tune inside. A man stepped onto the landing.

  “How ya doing, Detectives?” he said in a nasal twang, coins jingling in his pocket.

  Pico wondered if he had purposely lingered on the last word.

  “Haven’t I warned you, Henry, about addressing us in that manner?” Magruder’s voice was so low that Pico strained to catch it. “We don’t need to advertise it.”

  Henry’s upper lip curled. “Sorry, Detective. Just remember, you want rough stuff, go over to Hattie’s. We don’t do that here.”

  Magruder caught the bouncer by his bow tie, shoving him against the wall so hard that Pico heard his head crack. Grabbing the man’s neck, Magruder squeezed.

  Henry made spluttering, choking sounds, his face turning purple as he tried to pry Magruder’s meaty hands from his windpipe. The cop’s eyes were wide, his jaw working.

  Pico tried to pull him off, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

  “Magruder,” he yelled. “Let the fuck go.”

  Slowly, the older cop’s fingers loosened. The bouncer fell to his knees, gasping for air. Magruder stared down dispassionately.

  The door was opened by a uniformed maid with café au lait skin and a welcoming smile. They stepped over the still-writhing body and went inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lily gaped at her bedroom in dismay. Every drawer had been pulled out, its contents dumped. The trash can was missing. A residue of powder coated many surfaces. The contents of the closet lay strewn across the bed.

  Red, who’d offered to help, was busily placing hats and shoes back into their proper boxes. Lily saw piles of clothes—formal gowns, suits, frocks gauzy and light as a summer breeze, dungarees, and checkered shirts. There were also homespun dresses of modest cut and a heavy overcoat made for Midwest winters, clothes from a former life that Kitty had shed upon arrival as casually as her name.

  There was no sign of Mighty Joe Young; the officers must have taken it.

  They heard a rap at the door.

  “Come in,” Red said absentmindedly.

  In walked Jeanne. Behind her stood a man in a brown suit, clutching a hat. He was about forty, with a receding hairline, a large toffee-colored nose, and a bobbing Adam’s apple. He craned his neck like a large, cautious bird. His pale, watery gaze slid across the room’s wreckage as if memorizing each detail.

  “Who are you?” Lily blurted out.

  “This is Freddy Taunton,” Red said, introducing them. “For goodness’ sakes, Freddy, don’t just stand there like a startled goose, come in.”

  The man obliged, his eyes still moving like minesweepers.

  “Freddy’s originally from England,” Jeanne explained. “He came here to write scripts for the studios. Kitty was his muse, so he’s quite shaken up.”

  “His muse?” Lily’s eyebrows arched.

  “An exquisite young woman,” Freddy said in a cockney accent. “We are all devastated.”

  “Poor Freddy, how will you be able to finish your script now?” Jeanne asked mournfully.

  “We must soldier on,” Freddy said. His gaze lingered at Lily’s sable-trimmed coat, now slung across a chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a black and gold silk scarf? I, ah, loaned it to Kitty last time I saw her. She’d complained of a draft, so I did the gallant thing.”

  How could this man bring up his stupid scarf right now? Lily wondered. Especially when Kitty had been strangled. An image came to her of a silk noose tightening around a pale neck and Lily took an immediate and violent dislike to Freddy. She’d long counted on these intuitive feelings to guide her. In Rome, she’d once handpicked German POW volunteers to infiltrate back across Nazi lines to spread rumors and scatter propaganda pamphlets. All sixteen had returned, some with coordinates of camouflaged tanks for the Allies to bomb. Now without being obvious, she began to study Freddy more closely.

  “Have a look,” Red said. “We’re not sure what the detectives too
k.”

  “Ah, yes, I saw one of them leaving,” Freddy said. “An unmarked car, was it? Did they take her journal?”

  “How do you know she kept a journal?” Lily asked.

  Freddy gave her a patronizing look. “Don’t all young ladies confide their most fervent hopes and dreams in journals?”

  “Freddy’s got a scene in his new script,” Jeanne interjected, “where a man reads the diary of a girl he’s secretly in love with and believes she’s writing about her passion for him. When he finds out she loves someone else, he’s so devastated that—”

  “Save it,” Red said. “Lily’s not interested.”

  “Sure I am.” Lily gazed earnestly at Freddy Taunton. “What does he do?”

  “Well, I…”

  “It’s soooo tragic,” Jeanne said. “He lures his rival to a meeting to kill him, but the girl intercepts the letter and goes in his place because she suspects her lover’s cheating on her. The lovesick guy ends up killing the girl by mistake.”

  “Fascinating,” Lily said, watching Freddy Taunton turn five shades of red. A vein near his temple began to pulse.

  “Isn’t he a genius?” said Jeanne, her large green eyes glowing. “He’s also minor nobility.” Freddy began to object. “It’s okay, Lily won’t tell anyone. Freddy’s family has estates all over, but he doesn’t want any part of that world. He wants to succeed in Hollywood on his talent, not his title.”

  Lily had met plenty of upper-crust Brits. If he’s a titled English gent, I’m a Rockefeller, she thought.

  “When’s the last time you saw Kitty Hayden, Mr. Taunton?” she asked.

  “Hrrm, it was…” Freddy scratched his chin vigorously, “last week. We had cocktails at the Formosa.”

  “Do you know anyone who might have had any reason to kill her?” Lily asked.

  “Why, no, young lady. I certainly didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Kill her.”

  Lily was silent. Why had he jumped to the defensive so quickly? “I’m sure the police will be around soon to interview you.”

  “Yes,” murmured Freddy. “Do they have any leads yet? Suspects?” He licked his lips.

  “They’re looking at gangsters,” Jeanne said.

  “Might be something to that,” Freddy said, nodding too emphatically. “Our Kitty liked flash and a bit of danger, found it glamorous. Told me as much.”

  Red came over, crossed her arms. “What else did she tell you, Freddy?”

  “Oh, that’s about it. We were just talking hypothetically.” His pale cold fish eyes swam over them. “Or at least I was.”

  He fingered the brim of his hat. “I hope they catch him. A real pity. Lovely girl, just lovely. Everything to live for.”

  He clucked a few more platitudes, then wandered to the window and looked both ways.

  “I really must be going. A friend’s invited me to go deep-sea fishing, and we leave San Pedro at midnight.”

  Lily waited until she heard the front door shut. “How well do you know that fellow?” she asked.

  “Jeanne and Kitty met him last year,” Red said. “He took quite a shine to Kitty. He based several of his heroines on her. I think she was flattered.”

  “I would have been flattered,” said Jeanne fervently.

  “What pictures did he write?”

  “He hasn’t actually sold any of them yet.”

  “Ah.”

  “He says true genius is rarely rewarded,” Jeanne continued. “But he’s absolutely devoted to his art. Once he tied me to a chair and gagged me and took notes while I tried to break free.”

  “Good God, Jeanne,” said Red, “you never told me he’s a pervert!”

  “You have a filthy mind, Red. It wasn’t any kink. I gave him permission. He was writing a scene about an abducted girl and wanted to make it as realistic as possible.”

  “You poor sap, and you believed him?”

  “Kitty did too.” Jeanne pouted. “He gave us money for ‘modeling’ when he had any. His family is very stingy with him. It was fun, like method acting. And when he read us the scenes, well, they were magnificent.”

  “What a load of hogwash,” said Red. “Lily, I had no idea what they’d been up to with him. Jeanne, did you tell Detective Pico about this?”

  Jeanne blinked. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “You didn’t think…” Red threw up her hands.

  “Kitty and I both posed for those pictures, and I’m still alive, so it can’t be Freddy,” Jeanne said. “Besides, he’s an aristocrat, he wouldn’t be capable of—”

  “I hate to break it to you, girls,” Lily said, “but I’ve lived in England and Freddy Taunton is no more a British aristocrat than I am.”

  She explained about posh accents and added, “So if he’s lied about that, what else is he concealing?”

  Had Freddy gotten carried away while doing “research” on Kitty, then panicked and dumped the body?

  Lily asked where Freddy lived.

  “The Radcliffe Arms, near Santa Monica and Western. Sixteen fifty-seven Radcliffe. He’s in Apartment E.”

  As Red marched Jeanne downstairs to inform the police about Freddy’s “photo shoots,” Lily decided she wanted to look through his apartment. If he was really leaving on a fishing trip, that wouldn’t prove too difficult. She’d wait a few hours, then set off. But if he was lying…

  Lily picked the last of Kitty’s sundresses off the floor and noticed a strained seam. Just then Red returned, saying they’d left a message for the detectives.

  “Didn’t Kitty have nice clothes?” Red asked. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  She tugged the dress out of Lily’s hands. “Why don’t you take a rest, I’ll finish up.”

  Lily walked to the upholstered chair by the window and sat down. Across the street, the mottled trunk of a western sycamore glowed silver in the moonlight.

  “Red, you’ve told me about Max, and now there’s this Freddy, but did Kitty have any serious boyfriends? Someone she might have kept secret? A gangster, maybe?”

  “Kitty, serious?” Red tittered and put a hand to her mouth, not very convincingly. “Kitty was a gal who liked to keep her options open.”

  “Red,” Lily persisted, “was Kitty seeing anyone regularly?”

  Red inhaled sharply. “Sometimes she acted as if she was suffering through a bad love affair…”

  “Do you know his name?”

  Red pouted. “No. But as I told that Detective Pico, whatever was troubling her seemed to fall away a few weeks ago. Like she’d made up her mind about something. ‘I’ve had a hard time of it lately, Reddy,’ she said one morning, just the two of us in the kitchen, ‘but everything’s going to be okay.’ Then she squeezed my hand. Some of the girls here, they resented her, they thought she put on airs, but not me. I was probably her best friend, though Beverly thinks she was.”

  “She never told you any details?”

  Red reared back, insulted. “I didn’t ask. She was very private. So am I. And now I’ve really got to—” She opened the door and took a quick breath. Fumiko stood in the hallway, her ear to the door, a guilty look on her face.

  “You were eavesdropping,” Red accused.

  “I didn’t mean to. I was walking to my room when I heard you. You shouldn’t repeat what Kitty confided in you,” she told Red. Regaining her poise, she turned to Lily. “Why are you stirring up trouble? It’s none of your business.”

  Lily was taken aback. “I’m just trying to—”

  “Why don’t you just go back where you came from?” Fumiko said angrily. “Stop asking questions or the same thing might happen to you.”

  Fumiko stalked off, her gauzy red robe flapping behind her, and Lily saw her in a new light. Of all the aspiring actresses here, she might be the most ambitious, and the most thwarted. Lily wondered if there was bad blood between Kitty and Fumiko. Her description to Mrs. Croggan of the rooming house as one big happy theatrical family with
Mrs. Potter presiding over everything like a plump motherly hen was unraveling into Hollywood fantasy.

  Red drifted to the vanity table, picked up an emery board, and began buffing her nails. The scratchy sound made Lily’s skin crawl.

  “Did she just threaten me?” Lily asked.

  Red gave her a guarded look. “She’s upset, that’s all.”

  “Did Fumiko and Kitty have a falling out? Over a boyfriend, or an acting job?”

  “She did lose a minor role to Kitty a few months back, but I told her she wouldn’t have been cast anyway. They were looking for a white girl.”

  “Maybe that just made her resent Kitty all the more?”

  Lily’s mind began to consider new possibilities. Fumiko wasn’t physically capable of strangling her roommate, but what if she’d had an accomplice? Jealousy was a perfectly viable motive for murder.

  “Oh, pshaw,” said Red, reading her mind. “Fumiko’s just being dramatic. She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Then why did she warn me off?”

  “She was probably just humiliated that we caught her listening.”

  “Then why didn’t she get mad at you?”

  “Because, darling”—Red preened—“I am her friend.”

  Lily sighed. Red could be so aggravating. “So back to Kitty. What did you tell Detective Pico about that gangster who supposedly flirted with her? Could she have been dating one of Mickey Cohen’s men?”

  A frightened look crossed the girl’s face. The nail file ripped across her nail and she gave a cry of pain. “Ooh, I just can’t bear it. Poor Kitty,” Red said, and ran out the door.

  Lily bent down and picked up Kitty’s emery board. She laid it on a lace doily atop the vanity table. A drop of crimson blood seeped into the white linen, leaving a ragged stain.

  CHAPTER 10