High Risk 9.3

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[Continuing chapter nine]

When he got to the hangar, a man approached him—a man who most definitely did not look like anyone with a right to be around Hogan’s airplanes. This man was short, and with a well-padded look that suggested he’d gone too long without any meaningful exercise. A pencil-thin mustache clung to his upper lip; when he removed his hat to wipe his forehead, he revealed a hairline in full retreat.

“You Casey?” the man said. His voice had an edge to it, as though he was trying to suppress an angry snarl.

Casey nodded. “And you are—?”

“Grey,” the man said. “Special investigator for District Attorney Buron Fitts. They told me at the studio that I could find you here.”



More about Lily Cross, thought Casey. And Monarch was going to protect me. “What can I do for you?” he asked, not trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Grey shook his head. “No,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking, Casey, and you’ve got me wrong. I’m not associated with Clark and his gang of idiots. If it was up to me, those jerks would be working traffic detail in Pomona.”

“You’re saying you’re not here to question me?”

“Nope. Far as I’m concerned, your story checks out. You hardly knew the dead girl, you weren’t the last person seen with her, so you ain’t a suspect in her killing. No, I’m here to ask for your help.”

“My help? You’re kidding. What kind of help can I be?”

“Oh, I’m not asking for much. But I hear you’ve been asking questions yourself about Lily Cross. Now, I got no problem with that. You’re a citizen, you got the right to ask whatever you want to whoever you want.

“But here’s the way I see it. You know some of these people. And your friend, Miss Farrell—well, she seems to know just about everybody in Hollywood, and don’t I wish I did. Now, I don’t want to make a big fuss out of this investigation. So I was wondering if you’d just do me a favor and let me know if you hear anything interesting.”

“The D.A. has asked you to keep a low profile,” Casey said. So McMahon did have the kind of clout he’d claimed.

Grey nodded. “Mr. Fitts doesn’t think her murder is related to Miss Cross’s movie work. But the fact is, a lot of the people who knew her work in the movies. So some questions have to be asked. I just figured it’d be better for everybody if I didn’t have to be the nosy one. Since you already seem to be the curious type anyway.”

“Not that I mean to seem rude,” Casey said, “but what’s in it for me?”

“You mean besides the warmth and comfort that you’ll get knowing you helped justice be done?” Grey tilted his fedora back so that he could massage his high forehead. “Well, what if we trade information a bit? It might help steer you to the right people if you know a bit of what the cops know.”

“It might,” Casey agreed. He felt a bit dizzy, something like the way he’d felt waiting to go up on his first solo. There was that same feeling of being in over his head, of not knowing exactly where to step next. If Grey was on the level, though, it would help him.

Of course, if Grey was on the level, then he was no longer a suspect and it wasn’t so necessary for him to run around playing detective.

But you like playing detective, he told himself, and realized with a bit of a shock that this was true. Whether it was the excitement of the chase, or just the fact that this amateur investigation coincided with his return to flying—not to mention this morning’s frightening news about a part in the movie—Casey found himself looking forward to doing more sleuthing.

Besides, continuing to investigate Lily Cross’s death meant continuing to spend time with Desiree Farrell. That, he decided, he was beginning to like. In spite of her jarring personality and dubious morals.

“All right,” he said. “Here’s a question for you, then. Which was it: strangulation or beating?”

Grey grinned. “You don’t dance around, do you?”

“I’m a veteran,” Casey said. “I don’t have time for dancing.”

“Know what you mean,” Grey said. “I was at Belleau Wood myself.” He shook his head as though trying to dislodge something uncomfortable. “But enough about that. You ask a good question, Casey. The doctors have pretty much decided she was strangled. The beating might have contributed, but they’re not sure because the coroner thinks that some of the damage was done after she died.”

“Jeez, that’s pretty sick.”

“Sick enough, yeah, but that’s not what I meant. The coroner says she was likely tossed into the river from the Riverside Drive bridge. Some of the bruising was probably done by the fall. She had several bones broken too, though, and that, we think, happened before she died. So she was probably killed somewhere else and brought to the bridge by car.”

“When do you think this happened?” Casey asked.

“The coroner thinks it could have been any time between early morning and mid-afternoon on Sunday. Since we know that Miss Cross was at her boarding house at four Sunday morning, and quite likely for several hours after that”—Casey thought about Carole London, and Mrs. Carpenter’s careful lies, already unraveled—”we figure she went into the river sometime around noon on Sunday.”

“Which lets me out,” Casey said, “because at that time I was at Monarch, doing a screen test.”

Grey smiled wolfishly. “I know. I wouldn’t be saying this to you otherwise.”

Casey looked at Grey for a moment. “You’ve got yourself a deal, then,” he said. “All we’ve really learned so far is that Lily Cross used to see a small-time bootlegger. We don’t even have a name yet. But we’re going to ask more questions.”

“Okay. But bootleggers are more in my line. I’m thinking about people in the movie business.”

“Have you talked to Carole London yet? Her house-mate?”

“Yep. She’s the one who told us about Miss Cross sneaking into the boarding house at four. Something I didn’t hear, incidentally, from Mrs. Carpenter—the landlady. To hear her, our late lamented Lily was a mother’s pride and joy and the sweetest girl to ever—”

“Walk the streets?” Casey asked.

Grey stifled a laugh. “She was a bit much, Mrs. C was. And she wasn’t too helpful either. Of course, neither was the London girl, really. Beyond putting Miss Cross in her room at four a.m. Sunday, that is. Do you think London knows something she’s not telling?”

“Not really,” Casey said, remembering Carole’s promise not to talk about the conversation she’d had with him and Desiree. “I just thought you should know that we spoke to her, that’s all.”

“I appreciate that,” Grey said, and Casey felt a twinge of guilt at having misled the man. He reminded himself, though, that it was important to stay ahead of the police if he and Desiree were going to uncover the identity of the killer before anyone else. Say, someone who’d consider it to be in his best interests to protect the guilty party, possibly by shifting blame back to Casey.

“Desiree—that is, Miss Farrell and I are going to keep looking for people in the business who might know something,” Casey said. “We’ll give you whatever we get.”

“Good man.” Grey turned to leave. Then he stopped. “Any chance a guy could go up in one of those things?” he asked, pointing at the planes being wheeled out of the hangar.

“I’d have to ask Mr. Hogan,” Casey said. “Those either belong to him or he bought them for the picture. But if he gives the thumbs-up, I’d be happy to take you for a flip.”

“I’d be much obliged.”


Casey watched Grey’s back as the man walked to a late-model Chevrolet and got in. How, he wondered, would a fictional detective handle a situation like this? He wanted to help Grey—almost felt obligated to—but not at the risk of his own neck. You used to be more noble, he reminded himself.

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine