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[Continuing chapter six]
He’d been right about the flying. Casey continued to stew about Clark and the dead girl until he was strapped into the Bristol, but by the time Mitch had walked him through the start-up procedure and he was ready to make the first takeoff, Casey found his mind cleared of all thoughts but those required to get the big two-seater off the ground.
Flying a Bristol was markedly different from flying a Tommy or Camel. It was even different from the SE-5a in which he’d done most of his wartime flying. The feeling of power he got from the big Rolls-Royce engine was almost unnerving, and he had no trouble understanding why this was the one model of all the war’s combat types that was still being used by air forces more than a decade after the Armistice. On top of everything else, the Bristol handled beautifully, and by the time he’d circled and touched down for the second time Casey knew that it was going to take a superhuman effort on his part to keep from stunting the kite.
The fact that he had an audience didn’t make it any easier to follow Hogan’s flight plan. Clearly, Straebo had given up trying to get any filming done today, and as he circled Casey could see the cast and crew of High Risk gathered in clumps around the production office, staring up at him.
Many of them continued to watch as Casey landed, switched to a Tommy and did a couple of quick takeoffs meant to show that the actor pretending to fly the plane was angry, or some such thing. A few were still watching when Casey landed again and shifted to the cockpit of the SE-5a that had appeared in the hangar while Casey was being entertained by Clark’s minions. Most of the movie people disappeared, though, once it became clear that Casey wasn’t going to fly this machine; the plan called for nothing more than sitting in the cockpit and running up the engine.
Still, at least one of the movie people stayed until Hogan waved the shut-down signal and wrapped filming for the day. Casey was pulling off his helmet when he heard footsteps behind him, and the soft sawing of silk stockings rubbing against one another. Turning, he saw Eve Adams standing, looking at him. Her expression, on a face that suggested bruised vulnerability, was unreadable; it could have been fear, or nervousness. Of course, he reminded himself, it could just as easily be distaste at having to speak to him.
“Looks like I’m cleaning up by myself today,” Mitch said with a grin.
Miss Adams looked affronted. “I don’t want to keep him from his work,” she said to Mitch.
“Oh, I don’t mind, if Casey’s got better things to do,” Mitch said. He grinned wolfishly.
Now Miss Adams’s expression suggested that a fainting fit was imminent. Casey glared at Mitch for a second, then turned back to Miss Adams. “Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said softly. She looked at Mitch, who was quick to get her meaning and walked, whistling, into the cool gloom of the hanger.
“Would you mind walking?” she asked.
“Not a bit,” he said. “I’ve been sitting down most of the day. Stretching my legs sounds like a good idea.”
When there was no longer a question of their being within earshot of anyone, Casey looked over at Miss Adams. “What can I do for you?”
“This is hard,” she said. She clasped her hands in a way that made Casey wonder if she wasn’t going to cut off the circulation completely. “I don’t want to sound ghoulish, Mr. Casey, but I—I wanted to ask you if you knew anything about Lily’s death.”
“I beg your pardon?” Eve Adams was the last person who should be asking a question like that.
“Oh, I knew you’d misunderstand,” she said. She sounded almost broken, and for an instant Casey felt like a heel. Then he remembered that she was an actress, and began to doubt his reaction.
“Let me try to explain,” she said. “Lily was—well, we weren’t exactly friends, I guess. But I knew her. We lived in the same building once, when I’d just come out. I liked her. And I just”—she sniffled a bit—“wanted to believe that whatever happened she hadn’t suffered.”
“Hadn’t suffered?” Casey didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Miss Adams, she was murdered and dumped into the river. I don’t think it happened quietly in her sleep.”
“Oh, God, then it’s true,” she said.
“What’s true?”
“I heard she’d been beaten to death.” This emerged in a breathy, near-whisper, as though it would be a crime even to mention the details out loud.
Casey was startled. At no time during his grilling by the police had he been told anything about Lily Cross’s death—other than that he was supposed to have done it, that is. In discovering the body all he’d seen clearly was an arm emerging from the water of the river. In his mind he’d decided that she’d been strangled or shot, the way most murders seemed to happen. Something so physical, so brutal, was disgusting, even to one who’d seen some of the things he’d seen.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And meant it, because she truly did look distressed. “I don’t know anything about the way Miss Cross died. The police weren’t exactly generous with information. Or in the way they treated me in general.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said in a little voice. “Jerry—that is, Mr. Straebo—says that the police in this city aren’t always honest.”
“The police in any city ‘aren’t always honest’,” Casey said. “In Los Angeles, they seem to have made an art form of corruption.”
“But they’re our protectors,” she said.
Casey’s planned riposte, in classical vein, about watching watchmen was frustrated by Jerry Straebo, who had waddled up behind them and now made his presence known. “It’s time to go, Eve dear,” he said.
After Miss Adams had nodded her acceptance, Straebo turned to Casey. “Have you bought a suit yet?” he asked.
“Since yesterday morning?” Casey asked. “Mr. Straebo, since I left the studio yesterday I’ve basically spent my time being beaten and abused by George Clark and his bosom buddies. Clothing hasn’t exactly been on my mind.”
“No, of course not,” Straebo said. “And”—he sniffed loudly, scarcely bothering to conceal his disgust—”you’re in need of a shower. Very well. Come with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“And you have it. I require you to accompany me this evening, Mr. Casey. We have been summoned to meet Mr. McMahon at his house this evening.”
“Who is Mr. McMahon?” Casey asked.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six
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