by Teri White
Spaceman hung up without saying good-bye.
Blue listened to the dial tone for a moment, then shrugged and hung up, too. Maybe too much emphasis was put on the old social amenities anyway.
He carried the bowl into the bedroom, eating the hard cereal as he got dressed. His mood was good. Last night’s dinner with Sharon Engels seemed like a promising beginning. It was just possible that his life was starting to turn around. There was, of course, still the problem of Kowalski to deal with, but in the morning light, even that seemed manageable.
He whistled softly as he pulled on jeans and a white Izod. Maybe casual was the way to go with his new partner. Blue was willing to make accommodations. He clipped the .357 Magnum to his belt and took a lightweight jacket from the closet. The good guys had to keep their guns covered, on the theory, he supposed, that it made the general populous nervous to see naked guns flapping around.
It was a little more than thirty minutes later when Blue pulled to a stop in front of an apartment building on Vermont and leaned on the horn. When nothing happened after a minute, he honked again. Kowalski came barreling out. He was wearing slacks and a sport jacket that had never been intended to be seen together, but at least the shirt was clean.
“Change of plans,” he said, sliding into the car. “We’ve got another stiff in the park; headquarters just called.”
Blue made a sharp righthand turn and headed toward the park. “Another kid?”
Spaceman was leaning back in the seat, his eyes closed. “What? Oh, yeah, another goddamned kid.”
“Damn,” Blue said.
“Yeah. And I didn’t have any breakfast.”
They drove through the park to the place where a couple of zone cars and a lab vehicle were already parked. The area was roped off, and a small group of sightseers stood behind the bright orange restraining lines. Joggers, maybe; what else would anybody be doing in the park so early?
It wasn’t until Blue had pulled in behind the other cars and turned off the engine that Spaceman spoke again. “How much this thing set you back?”
“About thirty grand. Give or take.”
“Give or take. Shit.”
They got out together and headed across a patch of rugged terrain. A rookie cop standing nervous guard was still a nice shade of chartreuse. Obviously relieved to see them, he stepped aside and pointed.
It was the worst thing Blue had seen in his time as a cop. Maybe he’d seen worse in Nam, but that was a long time ago and mostly buried in memory. “My God,” he whispered, looking down at the bloody fetal shape curled in the grass. It seemed an especial obscenity on this warm and sunny morning in the park.
He turned away quickly to stare at a couple of joggers who were running in place and chatting. An early morning pick-up.
“Just like the Lowe boy,” Spaceman said.
Except that they both knew this was worse, for one very good reason. With the first killing, no one knew what they had. Maybe it was a one-time thing. An act of personal passion, no matter how sick and twisted that passion had been. There was always the chance that Peter had brought about his own death, that something in his actions or personality caused someone to go a whole lot crazy suddenly and kill him.
Which didn’t make his death any less tragic, but which at least meant that it was a single incident, terrible but isolated.
But this body put the lie to that. This body meant that they were dealing with a genuine crazy. Or, if the two-killer theory was correct, a couple of crazies.
Blue was tired just thinking about it. For one moment, he almost missed the PR department and making speeches to the Rotary Club.
Spaceman knelt beside the body, just looking at it for a long moment. “Pictures?” he asked no one in particular.
“Done,” the recovering rookie said.
He reached out and gently turned the body so they could see the face. It was a very young face, still boyishly pretty, unmarked by the brutal attack the body had endured. Spaceman said something under his breath that no one could hear.
Blue watched him.
Spaceman fumbled at the jeans that were tangled around the boy’s feet and finally pulled out a wallet. He handed it to Blue.
Inside was an ID card, the kind that some schools issued to students. The picture on the card was of the dead boy; he was very photogenic. “Christopher Blair,” Blue said. “There’s an address in Pasadena, but that’s been marked out. The new one is the Starlite Hotel, on Fairfax.”
“I know the place.”
Another van pulled up and parked.
“About time,” Spaceman muttered.
Sharon Engels climbed down and walked over to where they stood. “Sorry about the delay,” she said. “But they’re stacked up to the ceiling already today. Old folks dropping like flies from the heat and from breathing the air. Not to mention a couple of amateur firefighters. Heart attacks.”
“We have another dead boy,” Spaceman said shortly, not seeming very interested in all the other people dying in L.A. that day.
Sharon pulled on thin plastic gloves and bent over the body. “Thanks again for dinner last night,” she said, not looking up, both hands already busy.
“Any time,” Blue said. He could feel Spaceman’s curious gaze move over him, but luckily they were interrupted.
One of the uniforms came up, holding two bloody tee shirts. “Found these over there,” he said. “Looks like they washed up in the drinking fountain and left them behind.”
Blue opened an evidence bag and the two shirts were dropped in. “That was careless of them.”
Spaceman shrugged. “They probably knew that the shirts wouldn’t help us a damned bit. With the weather the way it is, two guys running around half-dressed won’t attract any attention.”
Sharon joined them. Her face was wearily grim, but she still looked good. Maybe it was the cheekbones. She yanked at the gloves until they peeled reluctantly away from her skin, and shoved them into her black bag. “I wonder how long this damned heat is going to last,” she said.
They both shrugged.
“Everybody always talks about a full moon making people crazy,” she went on, taking out a cigarette. Before anyone could move to light it, there was a Bic in her hand and it was done. “But for my money, a heat wave like this is worse. Wonder if anybody’s ever done a study on that.”
Blue didn’t say anything. He recognized the seemingly idle chatter for what it really was, an attempt to get away from the horror of it all for a moment, to steady herself. He had done the same thing himself in the past. They all had.
She glanced back toward the body, which was being readied for transport. “This is just preliminary,” she warned.
“Sure,” Spaceman said.
“It looks like a match to the other killing. There’s only one real difference that I could spot immediately.”
“What?”
“This one was a lot worse. Escalating degree of violence, I think they call it.”
“That’s what they call it,” Blue agreed.
“That’s it, then?”
“For the moment, Spaceman. You want to be at the post?”
But he shook his head. “Not this time. I don’t need a rerun. Just get the data to me as soon as possible.” He turned and started for the car.
Blue hung back. “Mind if I call you again?” he asked, feeling like a junior high nerd talking to the prom queen.
“Call.” She smiled fleetingly and left.
He watched until she was back in the van. When he slid behind the wheel of his car again, Spaceman was smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance. “Where to?” Blue asked.
“I don’t give a damn.” Then he sighed. “To a telephone. But not the office. I sure as hell don’t need to get trapped into listening to one of McGannon’s pep talks.” He glanced sidewise at Blue. “Unless you’re a stickler for details like checking in.”
Blue shrugged. “I’m flexible.”
“Good,” Spaceman said, and Blue had the
feeling that he’d passed some kind of test. “We’ll track down the Pasadena address, see if his family is still there.” Spaceman tossed the cigarette out the window. “Put the phone someplace where I can get some breakfast.”
Blue nodded and aimed the car toward San Fernando Boulevard and Biff’s Coffeeshop.
Chapter 19
While Spaceman downed a western sandwich, Blue checked out the address found in Blair’s wallet. The family, whatever that might consist of, apparently still lived at the same place. It had been decided that they would go break the news in person.
Blue went back to the table and sat down opposite Spaceman, who was just finishing his meal. He was plainly lost in thought, and once again Blue had the feeling that something beyond the case or even the unwanted partnership was bothering him. Having learned his lesson the day before, however, he kept his mouth closed.
The coffee he’d ordered was cold now, but Blue drank it anyway. “The phone is listed to a Charles Blair,” he said.
Spaceman nodded and wiped the napkin across his mouth. “That’s our next stop, then,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
The house was a stucco bungalow, painted a bright shade of pink. The lawn, what there was of it, needed trimming. They parked in the unpaved drive. The house and the green car clashed painfully in the vivid sunshine.
Since Spaceman seemed quite content to stand back for the moment and let him take charge, Blue led the way to the door and knocked firmly. He didn’t know what game his partner was playing now, but he was willing to hang in there. If nothing else, a background in public relations taught the art of diplomacy.
The door opened slowly. A woman stood there, but it was hard to see her inside the dim hallway. “Yes, what do you want?” The voice was overly precise, as if it belonged to an English teacher or a drunk. Blue tagged this one as a boozer. Not a falling down drinker, but a careful sherry sipper.
“Mrs. Blair?”
“I am Felicia Blair, yes. Who might you gentlemen be?”
“Detectives Kowalski and Maguire, ma’am, from the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Which one are you?”
“Maguire. May we step inside and speak with you?”
“Well, I suppose so. One wants to cooperate with the authorities, of course, although I cannot imagine what business the police could have with me.” She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. They entered, following her toward the living room.
Blue came to an abrupt stop on the threshold, staring. Several hundred framed pictures covered every available inch of wall space in the room. A closer look revealed that they weren’t pictures at all, but the covers of movie magazines, some from as far back as the Forties and some quite recent. Each cover had been placed within a plastic frame of red or blue and hung with care.
Spaceman nudged him from behind and they walked on into the room. The Phil Donahue Show was on the television. Once inside, Spaceman again seemed to lose interest in the proceedings. He appeared quite content to wander around the room, studying the walls.
There was something frightening about the room. Granted, everybody in Southern California lived a media-soaked life, where nothing was real until and unless it was on the screen or in People magazine, but Mrs. Blair’s little world went even beyond that. This room had slipped over the edge of tenuous reality into the madness that hovered all around, like the smog.
“I see you’ve noticed my collection,” the woman said.
“Hard to miss,” Spaceman replied.
She ignored him, looking at Blue instead. The expression on her face could only have been described as coy. Her hair was tightly curled, her face elaborately made up. The brows had been plucked and then pencilled in again; the mouth was a vivid red slash across her face. Although she probably wasn’t much over forty, she looked more like something preserved from several decades earlier.
Her gaze simmered as she took Blue in from head to toe. “Young Redford,” she pronounced at last. “That’s what you are. A young Redford type.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said. He pulled out his notebook, hoping it would make things seem more official and less like a trip into the Twilight Zone. “You have a son named Christopher Blair?”
She shook her head vigorously, but the curls didn’t even flutter. “No. I was never blessed with a child of my own.”
“But you do know him?”
“Of course. He’s my husband’s nephew. We’ve raised him since he was four, after the tragic accident that killed his own parents. So even though I was not blessed to give birth to him, Chris is very dear to me.” It sounded like a speech she’d given before; it also sounded like a speech from an old Bette Davis movie.
“Well, I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. Chris was found this morning—”
“Found?” she broke in cheerfully. “But he hasn’t been lost. Chris lives in Hollywood.” She said it with the fervor a true believer might use to speak of Mecca.
“At the Starlite Hotel, right?”
“Yes. We decided that was a better place from which to launch his career. Chris is an Actor.” Capital letter.
Spaceman made an impatient sound.
Blue took the hint. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mrs. Blair, but Chris is dead.”
“What?” Lacquered fingertips sprang to the scarlet mouth, but Blue couldn’t tell how much of the emotion was real and how much staged. “Dead? Oh, no, you must be mistaken. It must be some other boy you’re talking about. Chris is going to be a star.”
“I’m afraid someone killed him,” Blue said gently. “His body was found in Griffith Park.”
She shook her head impatiently, angrily, rejecting this sudden thrust of reality into her dream world. “No.”
“Yes,” Blue said firmly.
“Chris is a wonderful actor. Who would kill him? Who would harm him at all? He’s the sweetest boy.”
“We don’t know yet who killed him.”
Spaceman, who had been studying a Movie Screen cover trumpeting an affair between Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson, turned suddenly. “How old was Chris?”
“He’s sixteen.”
“Isn’t that a little young to be on his own? Especially in a place like the Starlite?”
She drew herself up and now Blue thought of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. “The Starlite Hotel is the residence of a number of promising young theatrical figures,” she said with great dignity. “The giants of the business frequently lunch in the chic little cafe there.”
Spaceman snorted. “Crap, lady. The giants of the business wouldn’t use the toilet there because they’d probably catch something.”
She fixed him with an icy glare. “Obviously one does not expect a person of your type to understand the film world. A boy like Chris needs to make contacts.”
“Right,” Spaceman said in obvious disgust.
Blue stepped forward. “Mrs. Blair, Chris is dead,” he said softly, but firmly. “Someone killed him.”
She looked at him, her mouth opening as if more protest might be forthcoming, then something within the woman seemed to crumble. She folded like a dying flower and sank to the couch. “Chris? But he was going to be a star. We had it all planned.”
Blue touched her shoulder lightly. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
They called her husband, and since he worked only minutes away, he arrived quickly. Obviously, Charles Blair didn’t share the lofty visions of his wife or his late nephew. He was a thin, nervous-looking man with a twitch.
He didn’t seem surprised to hear about Chris, although his twitch got a little worse. “He was my brother’s boy. Nice, kid, Chris, but a dreamer. Flighty, like my wife. The two of them were always at the movies or reading through those damned magazines.” He glanced across the room at his wife, who was showing Spaceman a scrapbook devoted to Chris. “I always thought the boy was a little … strange. Not normal, if you get my drift.”
“We think he was picked up by someone for
sexual purposes, then killed.”
Blair nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. The poor kid.”
There wasn’t anything more to be learned from these people. Blair agreed to come in for an official ID, and at least they were willing to bury the boy. In fact, she was already making plans for the funeral when they left. Blair saw them to the door and stood there, twitching and looking bothered as they got into the car.
“Hooray for Hollywood,” Blue said.
Spaceman slammed the car door too hard. “Goddamned fucking Tinseltown,” he said.
Chapter 20
It wasn’t the first time Spaceman had been to the Starlite Hotel. Back when he was still in uniform, he’d been called out a number of times to the rundown establishment. Most of the complaints were minor—drunk and disorderly, domestic squabbles, an occasional drug OD, once a knifing. Just the ordinary kinds of things for a place like that.
Once upon a time, back in the late Forties and early Fifties, the Starlite had worn a mantle of respectability. Rumor had it that a couple of real stars actually lived there before they made it big. That rumor was enough to bring more hopefuls flocking to the tiny rooms and haphazard service. It didn’t take most of them long to realize that Hollywood held nothing for them except hurt. Nevertheless, the dream persisted.
The lobby never changed, only got more like it was. The gloomy lighting did nothing except hide the worst of the stains on the rug. All the stains looked alike, so there was no way of telling which were blood, which booze, which other things that didn’t bear thinking of.
On this particular day, it was occupied by several rummies and a couple of kids. The old-timers were playing a slow-motion game of poker, while the kids read the trades.
Spaceman and Blue walked through the dismal lobby to the front desk, which was under the command of a woman dressed entirely in yellow. She could have been fifty or seventy. Blue hair was piled onto her head in a display Marie Antoinette might have envied. A small fan on the counter was blowing air right at her, but it did not seem to have much of a cooling effect on her plump redness.
Obviously an old hand at her job, she watched their approach suspiciously. “Nobody called the cops,” she said when they reached her.
