Holding the carved railing, Pico led them to the top floor and down a hallway. The walls were freshly whitewashed here, the carpet threadbare but clean. Behind a closed door, Lily heard an ad for Adolph’s meat tenderizer. At the end of the hallway, Pico fished out a ring of keys. He selected an ornamental black key that looked like it belonged in an antique store, inserted it, and turned the lock.
The room had eighteen-foot ceilings and most of the space was given over to boxes and carved wood furniture stacked taller than a man. It smelled of ancient dust, rosin, cracked leather, and wood oil. Lily saw a hand-tooled leather saddle worked in silver perched atop one of the stacks. A large oil painting of a fierce, hawkeyed man on horseback hung over the fireplace. He wore nineteenth-century finery and had long wavy black hair, olive skin, and a familiar nose that started high on his face and came straight down. Other paintings, many in what looked like their original gilt frames, lay stacked on their sides against one wall. Lily saw a plein air landscape that might have hung in a museum. Floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes of flaming burnt orange covered a large window. The room was clearly used for storage, with only a narrow path leading to an iron bedstead, made up neatly with tightly pulled blankets, muslin sheets, and a flattened pillow.
Pico moved past her to the curtains, pulled them open, and slid up the casement window. Fresh night air poured in, soft light from the courtyard. From far away, she heard laughter and languid canciones in Spanish.
“It really is a museum,” she said, looking around.
The fireplace mantel was crammed with nutcrackers and cigar clippers, old menus written in sepia ink, hand-drawn maps, flasks, a carved-wood hunting rifle with ivory inlays—mementos and knickknacks of all sorts. She ran her finger along the mantel and it came away clean. Someone cared about this place.
“This is only a sample of what’s been lost.”
She nodded at the oil portrait glowering down at her, an imperious look in the haughty eyes. “Is that…”
“It is indeed. Lily Kessler, meet Pío Pico.”
“How do you do, sir?” Lily curtsied and extended her hand for the portrait to kiss. “It’s a great honor.”
Pico took a step toward her, hesitated, then turned on his heel and pulled down two stacked chairs. He brought them to the window, then cleared a space so they could sit down. Crossing the room once more, he got two glasses from a built-in cupboard. He produced a bottle of brandy, poured them each a snort, and handed hers over. Etched onto the glasses in a handsome script were the words Pico House Hotel.
“Salud.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“What a strange night.” He shook his head. “But then, this case has been strange from the beginning. The more I learn, the more bedeviling it gets.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. But I’ve been thinking about it, and you’ve got to be careful. The last thing I’d want is for you to get hurt.”
“Why is that?” Lily held up her glass, turning it around. She tried to empty her eyes of all emotion. A pulse beat strongly in her neck. She breathed in, then out. The room seemed to shimmer at the edges.
“Because we don’t need anyone else getting killed,” Pico said with barely suppressed annoyance.
“Of course not,” Lily said, disappointed.
“We should go.” He stood up, collected their glasses. “C’mon. It’s late. I need to get you home.”
Reluctantly, she rose.
Pico moved toward the door, stopped. “It’s no good,” he said, his back to her.
“What’s no good?”
“This case. It’s making me insane. I can’t think straight. I can’t concentrate.”
“Maybe you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
He groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. “No. And it’s not that.”
He turned. “Isn’t it obvious? I can’t stop thinking about you, and how much I want you. I’m sick with it. You’re all I think about, night and day.”
Lily felt a tremor somewhere near her heart. A current moved between them. She hadn’t felt this way since Joseph. She’d been young then, and the war had been on. Every moment was dangerous, every sensation heightened, and she’d assumed that was the way of it and things would always feel like that. It was only after he was gone that she realized how rare it was, and that she might never feel it again. That she’d been given one shot, and that was already more than some people got.
She was shocked to see how miserable he looked. Shoulders hunched and twitchy, lines creasing either side of his mouth.
“Ah, to hell with it,” he said, slamming the crystal glasses down on a shelf. They spun, then slid across the wood. “I’m sick and tired of trying to stay away from you, Lily. I can’t do it anymore.”
Then his arm was around her, tugging her toward him, pulling her close. His lips met hers, and he was kissing her, drinking her in. She clasped her hands around his neck, pressing against the yielding warmth of his mouth, tasting him.
Heat spread from somewhere inside her lower belly. She felt a familiar tingling, the terrifying and delirious plunge of a roller coaster at the amusement park. Shivering, she closed her eyes and felt the sinews of his arms wrap tighter around her, enveloping her. They stayed that way, suspended in space, and she had no idea if twenty seconds had passed or twenty minutes. She didn’t care, so long as it never ended. Somehow, she managed to breathe.
They broke apart finally, his eyes wide and dilated, then he pulled her to him again, breathing in the essence of her, caressing her hair, cradling her head, whispering her name and something more as she leaned against him, her limbs heavy and languorous, until suddenly she made out that he was saying he was sorry.
“What?” she said, giddy and confused. “Why are you apologizing?”
His lips went to her ear; his fingers tucked back her hair. “You probably think I brought you up here with this in mind. And I didn’t. I swear.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m the one who suggested it, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“Sshhh. It’s only ghosts watching.”
She pulled him down onto the iron-frame bed, modest and narrow, little more than a camp cot, really, but perfectly adequate for their purpose.
They fell onto the mattress, already intertwined, making the springs creak, the frame slam against the wall, and she would have stripped her clothes off in a fever, but he pinned her wrists against the sheets and whispered that there was no hurry, he wanted to take his time, relish every bit of her, every valley and swell, that this was what he’d thought about since the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
She sank back against the pillow and gave in to his tongue, his fingers, his mouth. The ceiling spun and the cracks in the plaster danced and shimmied and she gasped, her legs spasming uncontrollably. Then, still trembling, she pushed herself up. Kneeling on the bed, she explored him in turn, the constellations of muscles, the fine whorls of hair, making her way across the tawny landscape of his skin to the pearly wetness at its tip, sliding against his slickness, and when he was inside of her at last, she knew finally that she had come home.
Afterward they lay there a long time, feeling the night breeze dry their sticky flesh.
He caressed her hair and said, “This isn’t how I’d imagined—”
She put a finger to his lips to silence him, then her mouth, then pressed her entire body against him, and they began all over again.
The moon shone through the windowpane, the stars wheeled across the sky, same as they ever had, and it seemed that nothing at all had changed. And yet everything had.
They left the old hotel like ghosts out of time, tiptoeing past the receptionist snoring on his army cot behind the counter. The moon was down, the streets spectral and empty. They rode in silence, flanks and shoulders pressed together, not needing to speak.
When he pulled up in front of the boardinghouse they said good-bye, limbs tangled, l
ips swollen and bruised, then she got out, moving like an automaton, the slam of the car door reverberating in the silence. She ran up the steps, then turned to wave as she slipped inside.
“Good-bye, Lily,” came Pico’s voice, already so far away it might have been underwater.
At the sight of the car pulling up, a shadow hidden in the shrubbery stirred. He’d expected her on foot. Plans would have to be adjusted. The figure watched patiently as Lily got out. Soon the car would leave and she’d be alone. But the car lingered until the girl was inside. He waited, ears cocked to see if she’d lock the door. They probably didn’t do that where she came from. But the lock slid home. He watched the upstairs intently to see where the light went on. When it did, he smiled, memorizing the location of the room. Bunch of girls. Thought they were so smart. He waited another half hour until he was sure nothing was stirring. Then, clad in black, with noiseless, crepe-soled shoes, he crept around to the back door and tried it. Locked. Slowly, he made his way to the windows. It was October, but the nights were still pleasant. He was patient. He’d try every one.
Lily turned off the lamp but tossed restlessly in bed, touching the tender parts of herself, drinking in the smell of him that wafted off her skin when she moved, replaying everything they’d done, the brawny feel of him, the sheer vastness of what they’d unleashed. What’s the use of sleep? she thought. In a few hours it would be dawn. She felt like a particle hurtling through space, gyrating madly, moving toward eternity. She longed for the ordered symmetry of the atom, electrons and protons orbiting the nucleic core in perfect harmony. Then how it would split. She imagined surrendering to such a cataclysm, the totality of the destruction.
She was drifting off at last when a creak jolted her awake. She felt a presence just outside her door. Then, just as it had the other night, the knob began to turn. But this time, Lily felt brave. Her evening with Pico had left her thrumming with strange energies.
Snapping on the lamp, she jumped out of bed and hunted for a weapon. She grabbed the bottle of Arpège off the vanity and she crept to the door.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. She heard a creak, footsteps moving away.
Lily turned the lock and flung open the door. In the shadowed hallway, a spectral figure clad in white receded.
“Who’s that?” Lily whispered more loudly, recalling Mrs. Potter’s offhanded talk of ghosts.
The figure turned. In the dimness, Lily made out a face.
“Oh,” she said, lowering the bottle as Red hastened toward her.
“Sorry if I scared you,” she whispered. “I wanted to borrow an aspirin.”
“Why didn’t you knock?” Lily asked, suspicious.
“I didn’t want to wake the others.”
Lily sighed. “Come in.”
Red glided in, self-conscious, looking around.
Slowly, Lily’s hackles settled. She went to her makeup bag and pulled out a bottle of aspirin, poured a glass of water from the pitcher.
It was only later, after Red had returned to her room, that Lily wondered if she’d come creeping around because she’d thought Lily was still out or sound asleep and figured it was a good time to snoop through her things.
CHAPTER 23
October 16, 1949
Pico was driving, Magruder slumped in the front seat, morose and silent. It was a blustery day in the valley, clouds drifting across the blue sky, aimless as Pico’s sleep-deprived thoughts. He wanted to sneak away to call Lily, see how she was doing, but they were chasing a new lead. A tipster claimed to have seen Kitty eating lasagna with two men at an Italian restaurant in Sherman Oaks the night of October 7. But the staff didn’t recognize the photos the detectives shuffled like a deck of cards. And the tipster, who lived around the corner, had suddenly become less sure. The dead girl had become a phantom hovering at the edge of things, a projection of the city’s fears and desires, its flickering whims, a celluloid will-o’-the-wisp. The Regal Theater on Beverly was even running a Scarlet Sandal marathon featuring all the movies she’d been in. Patrons were urged to come dressed in red. A particularly notorious female evangelical preacher would perform a funeral service afterward while the organist played “Amazing Grace” and theatergoers lit candles, acolytes to a morbid shrine. There’d been a lively debate this morning on KNX about whether the spectacle was appropriate.
Pico glanced over at Magruder. He smelled like a distillery, even after his garlicky chicken cacciatore. His hair was lank, his suit rumpled, his jowls grizzled. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin underneath like twin eggplants. He wasn’t even up to his usual jibes.
“Are you okay?” Pico asked finally.
Magruder muttered something unintelligible. They were almost to the Cahuenga Pass when Magruder said, “Turn left here.”
“Where’re we…?”
Magruder lurched upright and gave an evil belch. “Shut up and do as I say.”
Pico shrugged and made a left onto Vineland. The area was all orchards and fields, with ranch houses hidden behind the trees.
“Make a right,” Magruder said as they neared an unmarked road.
They bounced along the rutted surface.
“This have something to do with the Hayden case?” Pico asked finally.
Magruder turned baleful eyes on him. “Everything.”
“This where she was killed?” Pico asked, his nerves trilling. Some isolated hideaway shack used for an awful purpose, with only the owls and bats and coyotes as witnesses. How did Magruder know, anyway?
“Diseased whores, all of them,” the older cop announced. His voice fell to a hoarse whisper, then slowly rose in volume. “Blood begets blood. Bodies stacked everywhere. The tribes of the night advance, and we cower in shadow, paralyzed and helpless before the apocalypse.”
With that he shrieked and slumped against the passenger door.
He’s mad as a hatter, Pico thought. And now he’s had some kind of fit.
“Magruder,” Pico said tersely. “Sir. Snap out of it. Look at me. You okay?” He slapped his partner’s beefy arm. Had he swallowed his tongue? Should they drive to a hospital?
Magruder gave Pico a ghastly grin. “A-OK,” he said.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
With effort, the older cop roused himself. “Pull in here,” he said, pointing.
Pico turned up a driveway and stopped in front of a ranch house. Magruder threw the door open and lurched out.
“I’ll only be a minute,” he called.
Pico slammed the car into park and ran after his partner, tripping over a tree root. By the time he picked himself up, Magruder had disappeared around the back. Pico found him handing a farmer a bill and receiving a burlap sack. At their feet, chickens scratched in the dirt.
“Much obliged,” Magruder said.
Then he saw Pico. “C’mon. Told you I’d be right back.”
Whatever Magruder had in the bag was thrashing and making panicky sounds.
“What the hell is going on?” Pico said.
“None of your business,” Magruder mumbled.
“What’s in there?”
“See for yourself. Then maybe you’ll shut the fuck up.”
He opened the bag and Pico peered in with caution, half expecting something to jump out and fasten sharp teeth onto the end of his nose. A trussed-up chicken looked back, eyes darting nervously.
Pico was angry that Magruder had taken them so far out of their way for a stupid bird.
“You can buy those at Ralph’s, you know,” he said as he drove back to the main road. “All plucked and cut and wrapped in plastic. Save you some work, you got a hankering for soup.”
“That’s not the kind of hankering I’ve got,” Magruder said unpleasantly.
“We going back to headquarters?”
“No. We’re going to Angelino Heights. I’ve got some business there.”
Pico was irritable. “You’ve got business everywhere. It’s just that none of it is police business.
”
In the back, the chicken squawked futilely, then subsided.
“What would you know about it, snot-nose? I’ve been a cop longer than you’ve been alive.”
Pico’s cheeks burned. He wanted to punch Magruder, could already hear the satisfying crack of fist against cartilage as the older man’s nose broke. He gripped the wheel tighter.
The address was a dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian home on Carroll Avenue that had been prime real estate about sixty years earlier. Now the paint peeled off its lacy, ornamental spindles and the wraparound porch sagged. With a strange impatience, Magruder grabbed his bag and told Pico to follow. They walked up a pink granite path and past stone pillars onto the front porch. Magruder gave an elaborate series of knocks and an iron grate in the door slid open.
“Hattie,” Magruder said. “I’ve come for a visit.”
The grate swung shut. A moment later, the heavy oak door opened and they entered a house that smelled of hamburger grease, wax candles, and cloying perfume. The woman Hattie, huge and slovenly, led them into a living room filled with cheap plaster figurines. Crocheted lace covered every surface. From upstairs came the sound of laughter. It was a whorehouse, but worlds removed from the one on Vine.
Magruder exhaled heavily and huddled in a chair, his sack squirming on his lap. “I’m in a bad way, Hattie,” he mumbled.
She gave him a practiced look. “Okay, hon, we’ll take care of you. Your room’s all set up.”
She led the old cop out and the last thing Pico saw was the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
Pico seethed with impatience. He wanted to be working on the case. His mind inflamed by Lily, he found the entire idea of whores repulsive.
Hattie bustled back into the room. “Your partner said I was to take good care of you. So what’s your pleasure, mister?”
Pico felt a warmth stain his cheeks. “I’ll wait.” Like he was declining canapés at a dinner party.
Hattie put a hand on her hip. “You like boys, maybe?”
“I’m not in the mood today.”
“I’ll send the girls down, maybe you see something you like.”
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