The Last Embrace

by Denise Hamilton

  “Why are you holding it like that?” he asked.

  “Force of habit.”

  “What habit might that be?”

  She swayed a little, but didn’t answer.

  “You’ve handled a lot of evidence, have you?”

  A shadow crossed her face, in the moment before she turned away. “A bit,” she said, her voice muted and distant.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She glanced back at him over her shoulder. A small, demure smile.

  “I was a file clerk during the war. And after. You pick up things.”

  He sensed a universe opening in the spaces between her words. He found himself reassessing what he knew about her. This trim figure in the blue suit. Feminine. And yet so hard. Like a steel blade wrapped in crushed velvet.

  “You worked for military intelligence too,” he said triumphantly. “Not just your fiancé.”

  Lily flinched at the mention of her lost love but said nothing.

  Of course! he thought. She would have been sworn to secrecy. He felt a flare of jealousy.

  “I suppose you saw a lot of action. What was it like?”

  She picked her words carefully. “It was a long trip through hell. It was also the most alive I’ve ever felt.”

  He felt embarrassed, remembering how he’d strutted and lectured her when they’d first met.

  “So you know all about hunting people down and espionage?”

  She threw her head back and gave a tinkling laugh. She had a long, swanlike throat, and it arched, lovely and white.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but it really was mainly stenography and filing. I’m hardly Mata Hari.”

  But the color rose in her cheeks at the fib. He could see that she was made for the chase, a thoroughbred, every fiber in her body yearning for it. He felt the air charging, like ions before a storm. Almost unconsciously, he leaned toward her.

  She ran a hand through her hair. “Besides, Detective, you’re the one who said we have to be protected from evil.”

  He felt a hot flush of embarrassment. “That was back when you were just a girl.”

  “And what am I now, Detective? A boy?”

  She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort, that every word out of his mouth was coming out wrong this morning.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said. “I came back to America to get a new start. But it seems I’ve forgotten how normal life works. Have you ever noticed that people who shine in times of crisis don’t always adapt well once peace returns? That frightens me.

  “Ah well.” She made a dismissive motion. “I want this killer caught as much as you do. So tell me, what did the manager of the Radcliffe Arms say about the photos?”

  Pico snorted. “Denied all knowledge. Offered to let us search his place.”

  “Did you?”

  “Clean as a whistle.”

  “He got rid of them already.”

  “Then they’ll turn up. We’ve got eyes on the street, watching.”

  “Unless they go directly into private hands. Photos like that, it’s a specialized taste.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He held out the note. “Please. I’d like you to read this again and tell me what you think. From a girl’s perspective.”

  Lily came and stood behind him, reading over his shoulder, so close he could smell the lilac soap she’d used that morning, hear the rustle of her skirt, the soft rhythmic puffs of her breath.

  “This her writing?” Pico asked gruffly.

  Lily went and got another manila folder labeled Kitty Hayden handwriting sample. She handed it to Pico. “See for yourself.”

  The girl was just full of surprises, Pico thought admiringly. Whip-smart. No nerves that he could see, totally bloodless. Plus she could charm the stripes off a skunk.

  “If they didn’t use you in military intelligence, they certainly should have,” Pico said.

  Lily looked up with surprise. “Women are natural spies,” she said. “We’re taught from childhood to be quiet and listen. We’re patient, and we’re good plotters. It’s bred into us. For centuries we’ve had to use subterfuge to get our way.”

  She gave him an enigmatic smile that both annoyed and aroused him. He forced himself to concentrate on the notes, holding them side by side, comparing the handwriting. “We’ll run it by the experts. But it looks the same to me.”

  After a moment, he went on. “The big question is, did she write this to Kirk Armstrong, or another Kirk?”

  Lily grew pensive. “If it was the actor, she didn’t kiss and tell. Her roommates knew nothing about it.”

  Pico rocked in the chair, debating with himself. He shouldn’t tell her. It broke all kinds of protocol. But there was something about her…

  “Kirk Armstrong called us this morning after he read the paper,” he said.

  Lily’s eyebrow went up. “And?”

  Pico knew she was pumping him, her face oozing sympathy and encouragement. But suddenly, he wanted to tell her everything.

  “He remembers her from Young Man with a Horn. She had a bit part and he’d seen her around the set. But that’s all.”

  “Then why didn’t he contact you earlier?” Lily asked immediately.

  “There was nothing to say.”

  “They weren’t having an affair?”

  “He’d barely spoken two words to her.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’ll let you know after we meet with him. We’re doing a formal sit-down at Warner’s at noon.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “Impossible,” he said with exasperation. “The studio would scream holy hell and so would Magruder.”

  Lily paced the room. It had been a long shot, she knew. But she enjoyed batting ideas around with this handsome detective. Running through the possible scenarios. There was an appealing purity to it, this game of building a narrative step by step, using inference, deduction, and logic. She’d been good at it once.

  “Why are you questioning him at the studio?” she asked. “Wouldn’t an interrogation room at headquarters be more appropriate?” She waved her arm. “Exposed lightbulb. Bare table. Glass of water and strategically doled-out smokes.”

  Pico rubbed his jaw. “Because he’s in the middle of shooting a picture, and he is not a suspect in Kitty Hayden’s murder. He volunteered to meet with us. As a courtesy. The LAPD wants to make it as painless for him as possible.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet they do.”

  “Don’t be cynical.”

  “It’s my nature. I thought it was yours too.”

  “It used to be. I grow less cynical with each passing year. And more skeptical.”

  “Okay. Let’s be skeptical, then. It’s very clever of him, don’t you think, to make the first move?”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten our code of justice. In America you’re innocent until proven guilty. Mr. Armstrong isn’t being accused of a crime.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe not ever.”

  “You cops have too much respect for Hollywood.”

  “Maybe you don’t have enough.”

  “It just bugs me how stars get special treatment. Even in a murder investigation. You’re going there, hat in hand.”

  “They invited us.”

  “They?”

  “Jack Warner will be there. Plus the head of security and a studio PR man.”

  “See? The fix is in. They’re probably off right now getting their stories straight.”

  “I’m not saying all the stars are angels. But maybe he’s telling the truth.”

  Lily paced the room. “Movie stars are like gods who can do anything they want,” she said. “Imagine having the money and power to satisfy every desire. Life gets boring and empty after a while. So you chase the next thrill. Look for that rush. Knowing you’ll get away with it. Who’s going to stop you? Because, after all, you’re a god.”

  She strode to the far wall and Pico followed her, drawn to her, liki
ng her. The swagger, the slim hips, the abrupt gestures. When she suddenly reached out and pulled down the Murphy bed, he had trouble staying focused. What was that about? He imagined throwing her onto it. He’d pin those slender wrists against the sheets. I have an urgent police matter to discuss with you, he’d whisper, just before he placed his mouth over hers. And she’d squirm against him, but only to get into a better position. And behind that combative exterior, she’d burn with a white-hot flame.

  But no, she was off again, into the closet this time. She emerged bearing a handful of Kitty’s outfits and hurled them onto the bed.

  “What do you notice about these dresses?”

  He leaned forward. “They’re pretty.”

  During the war, OSS spies infiltrating behind enemy lines had been outfitted with battered suitcases and clothes bought from refugees and secondhand stores. The OSS even removed U.S. dry-cleaning marks. Money would be shuffled and crumpled, smudged with dirt, since sequenced banknotes were a dead giveaway. Outside Nice Lily had a close call once when a fellow agent tossed down a half-smoked cigarette, something a real Frenchman would never do. Lily had snatched it and relit it and her colleague had realized his error and feigned a coughing fit.

  “Look at the seams,” Lily said now. “This one is strained. And she took out the darts on that one. She’d gained weight. Kitty Hayden was pregnant, Pico. Probably with Kirk Armstrong’s child. That’s what the note was about. She’d decided on an abortion.”

  Pico stared at her with an unfathomable expression. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window.

  “The coroner’s final report came back yesterday evening,” he said. “She was eleven weeks along. But she died of strangulation, not a botched abortion.”

  Lily sat down on the bed.

  “But the pregnancy might have been a motive. We need to find the baby’s father.”

  “The father’s not necessarily the murderer. If she was planning to abort, that would have solved everybody’s problem.”

  “The letter’s very troublesome,” Lily agreed.

  She leaned back on the narrow bed, thinking. Suddenly Pico saw her grow flustered as she realized they were alone. She jumped up, pressing down her skirt, muttering something he didn’t catch.

  A strange energy filled the room, drawing him toward her. She seemed impossibly alluring. He wanted to kick aside the pile of dresses and sink with her onto the thin mattress, could almost feel his hands and lips and body on hers. You could never fully own a girl like that, he thought. Part of her would always remain mysterious, tantalizing, and out of reach. She’d want to be treated like one of the boys, and she’d match you drink for drink and swear like a stevedore and drive recklessly down empty highways late at night, just another one of the boys, until you took her to bed, and then she’d press against you and make little noises and you’d be glad she wasn’t a boy, and clutch her tight, but in the morning she’d be gone.

  The room was silent, the air still, as he took a step closer. She stared, wide-eyed and solemn, barely breathing.

  “Well!” came a nasal voice outside the open door.

  They sprang apart like two electrons that collide and ricochet to opposite ends of a force field. Mrs. Potter stood in the doorway, holding a lamp. Lily gazed out the window, her cheeks burning. Pico stood by the vanity table, examining the bottle of Arpège.

  “I thought you might want a better light to read by. But if I’m interrupting police business, I can just set it in the hallway.”

  They both spoke at once.

  “Not at all,” said Lily. “Come in.”

  “If you could give us a few minutes, ma’am.”

  “I see.”

  Mrs. Potter placed the lamp just inside Lily’s room, then retreated. “Sorry I interrupted.” She pulled the door closed.

  “Perhaps…” Lily began.

  “I might as…” Pico said.

  They subsided, flustered. “Ladies first,” Pico said.

  “No, really, you go.”

  Pico certainly hadn’t planned what came out of his mouth next. Maybe he was desperate to change the subject. Maybe he felt some bond, or desire to protect her, that he couldn’t yet articulate.

  “I want you to be careful around Magruder,” he said. “I’m not sure I trust him.”

  Lily was uncharacteristically subdued as she showed Pico out of the rooming house ten minutes later. Pico had refused to elaborate, leaving her simmering with vague anxiety. Dreading what she had to do next, she picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect her with Champaign, Illinois.

  “Mrs. Croggan? It’s Lily.”

  “My dear girl. I was wondering when you’d call. The police have been so closemouthed. How are you holding up out there?”

  She’s lost both her children and her first thought is for my welfare, thought Lily, pushing her fist against her mouth. I am not worthy to even know her.

  “I’m okay,” Lily said, wondering how to tell Mrs. Croggan what she’d learned. “The police say they can’t release the body yet, until—”

  “Yes, I told them that was fine.”

  “But they’ve found Doreen’s purse, and her missing shoe, and a note that seems to indicate—” Lily began.

  “I heard that on the radio this morning,” Mrs. Croggan said briskly. “But I don’t believe that talk about gangsters and Kirk Armstrong. My minister explained how the studios make up outrageous stories about the stars to generate headlines.”

  “I guess the police are still sorting it out,” Lily said. “But Mrs. Croggan, have they talked to you at all about the autopsy? The coroner’s report?”

  “What about it?” she said after a pause.

  Lily bit her lip, then plunged in. “One of the detectives told me that Doreen was eleven weeks pregnant when she was killed.”

  A small strangled sound came from Mrs. Croggan.

  “Detective Pico called me last night. But Doreen never even mentioned a boyfriend.” Mrs. Croggan’s voice rose. “How could this have happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Lily said numbly.

  “It’s too late now,” Mrs. Croggan said, beginning to cry, “but how I wish she would have confided in me. She could have come home. We could have concocted a marriage to a GI who’d died. I am her mother. I’d never turn her away. We could have named the child Joseph. Josephine if it was a girl.”

  Lily was glad that Mrs. Croggan couldn’t see the tears running down her face.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lily said. There was no sense in telling her about the dirty pictures. Her daughter’s memory had been sullied enough.

  “It’s gone, all gone now,” Mrs. Croggan said, her voice muffled. “At times I think I can’t go on. But I must go on. I want to live to see Kitty’s killer found and put away. You’re working with the police on that, aren’t you, Lily? Getting closer every day?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good. I want you to hold your head high when you talk to those people. Don’t let them drag you down to the gutter.”

  “I’ll try,” Lily said, before she hung up.

  She almost collided with Fumiko in the hallway. As she grabbed the girl to steady herself, Lily’s fingers touched soft crepe. She stepped back for a better look and whistled appreciatively. “Nice frock.”

  Fumiko looked away. “Thank you,” she said. Lily’s gaze followed the dress down. “And new shoes too?”

  She remembered Beverly saying that Fumiko struggled to make ends meet.

  “Yes. I have a boyfriend. He gives me many presents.”

  “Oh,” said Lily, her suspicions aroused. “Does he work for Confidential magazine?”

  “Pardon me?” Fumiko gave a confused smile.

  “You told Violet McCree about our talk in the kitchen, didn’t you? You sold her information.”

  “Why would I do that?” Fumiko looked bewildered. Lily had to remember that she was an actress—a damn good one, according to the other girls.

&nbs
p; “Because you never liked Kitty, did you? She got the parts you wanted.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Maybe you wished she’d disappear. Maybe you had something to do with it.”

  Fumiko’s face froze in disbelief. “You…” she said, then swallowed, “are a horrible person. Kitty was my friend.”

  She gave a sob and ran out the front door.

  Lily walked huffily into the kitchen. Then her better instincts kicked in and she turned back, eager to apologize. Outside, a woman screamed.

  Heart pounding, she threw open the door.

  Fumiko stood on the stoop, her face glazed with fear. Below her in the garden, crawling on all fours, looking delirious, was Max Vranizan.

  Fumiko ran in and locked the door, then went to the parlor window and looked down.

  “We have to call the police,” she said. “He’s gone crazy.”

  “Did he hurt you? What happened?”

  Between jagged breaths, Fumiko said, “I walked into the garden and he rushed out of nowhere and grabbed me. He was muttering and he smelled of drink and I…I thought he wanted to hurt me, and I didn’t recognize him, it all happened so suddenly. I kicked him between the legs. He doubled over, writhing and cursing, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, Fumiko. I deserve it. It’s all my fault. Nothing’s turned out the way I planned.’”

  They watched Max get to his feet, swaying. His hat had fallen onto the gravel path and his hair was plastered wetly to his skull. His pants hung loosely, like he hadn’t eaten in several days.

  “I don’t think he’s dangerous,” Lily said. “I want to ask him what turned out so wrong.”

  Lily figured she could keep her distance and run back inside if she had to. She spotted several large rocks in case she needed a weapon in a hurry.

  She opened the door and descended the stairs, Fumiko behind her. “Hullo, Max. Shouldn’t you be at work?” Lily said.

  “I’ve called in sick,” he mumbled.

  “You grabbed Fumiko. That wasn’t very nice. And you’ve been skulking around.”

  “I wanted to see the house again. Kitty and I had nice times here. Then a girl walked by and from the back…she looked like…I was afraid she’d disappear again…”

  Lily crossed her arms. “Fumiko and Kitty don’t look anything alike, Max.”