Previous First
[Concluding the epilogue... and the novel]
“You’re not recording our conversation, are you?” he asked.
Hughes stared at him a second, then laughed. “No, of course not. You’ve got nothing to worry about. She’s here to take notes for making cuts to the picture. I’m still not happy with the way it looks.” He paused again, still looking at Casey, as though trying to get up the nerve to do something.
“I think I probably owe you an apology, Casey,” he finally said. “In addition to the thanks for what you two did for Jean. I”—he paused, swallowed—“I have been told I’m kinda too proud for my own good. I let my own hurt feelings get in the way of my good judgment, back—well, you know.” Casey nodded.
“Well, I should never have fired you. I saw the work you did in that piece of—that movie Straebo made. No offense, Miss Farrell,” he added to Desiree. “You surely know how to fly a Tommy. That crash on fire was just the damnedest thing.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Desiree said. Casey said nothing. It had been nearly Christmas before his ribs stopped hurting whenever he coughed.
28 August, 2019
26 August, 2019
High Risk 16.1
Previous First
“I have been to a lot of galas in my time,” Desiree said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I thought we were going to be crushed to death out there,” Casey said. “I was chatting with a reporter in the lobby, and he told me it took him an hour to drive the last four blocks along Hollywood Boulevard on his way here.”
Casey looked at his watch. It was after nine-thirty; the picture was supposed to have started at eight-fifteen. Ahead of where he and Desiree sat, people were still scrambling for seats.
“What did you think of the airplanes?” Desiree asked. At one point, while they’d been trapped in the crowd in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a squadron of red-painted biplanes had flown overhead—as if this premiere had needed any more promotion.
“I was mostly glad I wasn’t one of the pilots,” Casey admitted. “I would have hated to miss this.”
EPILOGUE
“I have been to a lot of galas in my time,” Desiree said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I thought we were going to be crushed to death out there,” Casey said. “I was chatting with a reporter in the lobby, and he told me it took him an hour to drive the last four blocks along Hollywood Boulevard on his way here.”
Casey looked at his watch. It was after nine-thirty; the picture was supposed to have started at eight-fifteen. Ahead of where he and Desiree sat, people were still scrambling for seats.
“What did you think of the airplanes?” Desiree asked. At one point, while they’d been trapped in the crowd in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a squadron of red-painted biplanes had flown overhead—as if this premiere had needed any more promotion.
“I was mostly glad I wasn’t one of the pilots,” Casey admitted. “I would have hated to miss this.”
25 August, 2019
Sunset at the Home Office
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| Photo by Karen Fernandez |
A bunch of us went up there again this year, and I believe the weather this trip was the best it's ever been for us. Days were almost all sunny and warm (warm for the region, at any rate) and what rain did fall mostly fell in a Camelot sort of fashion (early morning or late night).
And when we did get clouds, it was only so we could be treated to Maxfield Parrish-like sunsets or sunrises. (One morning we had fog so thick you could scarcely see the other side of the lake, shown in the photo above.)
The (delightful) irony is that I did almost no writing at all this trip. I say delightful because on previous visits I was on vacation from day-jobs (broadcaster, tech writer, biz analyst), and writing was a vacation activity. Now I write full-time, and the visit to the lake was a vacation from writing. So I spent my days paddling around in the lake, or reading, or even (for the first time in more than four decades) painting and building plastic models.
Since I got home I've written every day. Which is one reason the only posts this blog has seen recently are novel-serialization posts.
Writing Alternate History: Some Advice
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| New York Public Library |
I gather there are people out there who like to create alternate histories for their own sake; I also gather that it's accepted in the online alternate history community to write alt-history as a kind of "non-fiction" essay. But I'm a writer of fiction, and the needs of the story come first, well before any pretensions to accuracy in the background world.
Having said this, I will offer one piece of advice I normally try to follow when writing any sort of alternate history:
23 August, 2019
High Risk 15.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter fifteen]
Desiree’s house was not at all as he’d imagined it.
Granted that his experience with Hollywood housing had been confined to the domiciles of an art director, two stars, and one studio head; still, Casey had thought that he’d detected some common themes in terms of interior décor. Large amounts of empty space, for one. A tendency to gigantism and stylistic pastiche, for another.
Desiree’s house, though, was a modest two-story affair on Seventh Street, near the intersection with a stretch of Alvarado that hadn’t been fashionable in nearly a decade. The closest thing to exoticism was the lake in Westlake Park, on the other side of the street from the house.
“That’s a nice view,” he told her as they walked up the steps to her front door.
“On those days when I’m able to see it in daylight, I quite enjoy it,” she said. Casey couldn’t tell if she was serious or not; given the work-habits required of actors here, she was probably nowhere near a joke. “Why don’t you come in?” she asked him. “It’s either ridiculously late or ridiculously early, and either way I think you’ve earned a cup of coffee.”
[Concluding chapter fifteen]
Desiree’s house was not at all as he’d imagined it.
Granted that his experience with Hollywood housing had been confined to the domiciles of an art director, two stars, and one studio head; still, Casey had thought that he’d detected some common themes in terms of interior décor. Large amounts of empty space, for one. A tendency to gigantism and stylistic pastiche, for another.
Desiree’s house, though, was a modest two-story affair on Seventh Street, near the intersection with a stretch of Alvarado that hadn’t been fashionable in nearly a decade. The closest thing to exoticism was the lake in Westlake Park, on the other side of the street from the house.
“That’s a nice view,” he told her as they walked up the steps to her front door.
“On those days when I’m able to see it in daylight, I quite enjoy it,” she said. Casey couldn’t tell if she was serious or not; given the work-habits required of actors here, she was probably nowhere near a joke. “Why don’t you come in?” she asked him. “It’s either ridiculously late or ridiculously early, and either way I think you’ve earned a cup of coffee.”
22 August, 2019
High Risk 15.4
Previous First
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“I don’t think that you have to do anything with me,” Casey said. “In fact, I insist that you don’t.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about late-night accidents,” McMahon said. “Or a renewal of interest in your behavior by, say, Detective Sergeant Clark.” He smiled—or, rather, showed his teeth with his mouth forced into an upward curve, which was not at all the same thing. “At the same time, you’ll allow that I have a right to be concerned about the details of this unfortunate situation appearing in the newspapers or on Walter Winchell.”
“I’m more than happy to assure you on that score,” Casey said. “I don’t tell tales. So long as I think that justice is done, I’m satisfied.
“Speaking of which, what about Michael Buckley? Do we know where he’s gone? What’s to be done about him?”
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“I don’t think that you have to do anything with me,” Casey said. “In fact, I insist that you don’t.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about late-night accidents,” McMahon said. “Or a renewal of interest in your behavior by, say, Detective Sergeant Clark.” He smiled—or, rather, showed his teeth with his mouth forced into an upward curve, which was not at all the same thing. “At the same time, you’ll allow that I have a right to be concerned about the details of this unfortunate situation appearing in the newspapers or on Walter Winchell.”
“I’m more than happy to assure you on that score,” Casey said. “I don’t tell tales. So long as I think that justice is done, I’m satisfied.
“Speaking of which, what about Michael Buckley? Do we know where he’s gone? What’s to be done about him?”
21 August, 2019
High Risk 15.3
Previous First
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
McMahon perked up at this, but Straebo continued to stare gloomily at the floor. He knows what happened, Casey thought. And he also knows that I’ve figured it out. He turned to Desiree and encouraged her to continue.
“Remember what Carole London told us?” Desiree said. “She saw Lily sneaking into the boarding house just before six last Sunday morning.”
“I remember,” Casey said. “I also remember wondering, at the time, why she’d do that. Carole said that the girls did it all the time, but what I was wondering was, why sneak into the house through somebody else’s room?”
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
McMahon perked up at this, but Straebo continued to stare gloomily at the floor. He knows what happened, Casey thought. And he also knows that I’ve figured it out. He turned to Desiree and encouraged her to continue.
“Remember what Carole London told us?” Desiree said. “She saw Lily sneaking into the boarding house just before six last Sunday morning.”
“I remember,” Casey said. “I also remember wondering, at the time, why she’d do that. Carole said that the girls did it all the time, but what I was wondering was, why sneak into the house through somebody else’s room?”
20 August, 2019
High Risk 15.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“What I propose to give the D.A. is this: Buckley was overheard discussing the screen test with Eve.” He smiled at Straebo. “Overheard, incidentally, by Belinda Moore—the actress you fired in order to bring Lily into your bed. Miss Moore’s testimony alone might be impeachable, but since the meeting took place in a restaurant”—Straebo blanched at this, then slowly shook his head—“there will undoubtedly be other witnesses.”
[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“What I propose to give the D.A. is this: Buckley was overheard discussing the screen test with Eve.” He smiled at Straebo. “Overheard, incidentally, by Belinda Moore—the actress you fired in order to bring Lily into your bed. Miss Moore’s testimony alone might be impeachable, but since the meeting took place in a restaurant”—Straebo blanched at this, then slowly shook his head—“there will undoubtedly be other witnesses.”
19 August, 2019
High Risk 15.1
Previous First
“You know, we really have to stop meeting this way,” Casey said. Nobody laughed at the joke, though Desiree smiled through her fatigue.
I think I’ve spent more time in Ben McMahon’s living room lately than I have in my own room, Casey thought. The same might be said for Neal, Straebo, and Desiree, who had all been brought together by the studio chief in the aftermath of Eve’s arrest. The light in the room seemed pale, malnourished. I wouldn’t want to spend my mornings here, Casey mused.
“I don’t think that we have time for banter this morning,” McMahon said. He had been pacing more or less non-stop since Casey had arrived. In a way, Casey took pleasure from this: it was nice to see McMahon not arrogant and in control of things for a change.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“You know, we really have to stop meeting this way,” Casey said. Nobody laughed at the joke, though Desiree smiled through her fatigue.
I think I’ve spent more time in Ben McMahon’s living room lately than I have in my own room, Casey thought. The same might be said for Neal, Straebo, and Desiree, who had all been brought together by the studio chief in the aftermath of Eve’s arrest. The light in the room seemed pale, malnourished. I wouldn’t want to spend my mornings here, Casey mused.
“I don’t think that we have time for banter this morning,” McMahon said. He had been pacing more or less non-stop since Casey had arrived. In a way, Casey took pleasure from this: it was nice to see McMahon not arrogant and in control of things for a change.
16 August, 2019
High Risk 14.5
Previous First
“What did you say the name of this place was?” Desiree had found a motor club guide behind his seat, and had opened it to the maps.
“Caddo Field. It’s Howard Hughes’s private airport. In the San Fernando Valley, near Van Nuys. Just look for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Airport; Caddo’s only a mile or so from there.”
They were hurtling back toward Hollywood, into the glare of the just-rising sun. Casey fumed at having to drive more slowly; there was traffic on Sunset Boulevard now. The only consolation was that Buckley’s goon couldn’t go any faster without attracting attention.
“Caddo as in ‘c-a-d’?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Casey said. “Caddo is the name of Hughes’s movie company. I have no idea where the name comes from.”
“But I think I’m starting to understand what you’re on about here,” she said. “Lily wasn’t calling Jerry a ‘cad’ in her journal, was she?”
“Clever girl,” Casey said. “You saw that faster than I did.”
[Concluding chapter fourteen]
“What did you say the name of this place was?” Desiree had found a motor club guide behind his seat, and had opened it to the maps.
“Caddo Field. It’s Howard Hughes’s private airport. In the San Fernando Valley, near Van Nuys. Just look for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Airport; Caddo’s only a mile or so from there.”
They were hurtling back toward Hollywood, into the glare of the just-rising sun. Casey fumed at having to drive more slowly; there was traffic on Sunset Boulevard now. The only consolation was that Buckley’s goon couldn’t go any faster without attracting attention.
“Caddo as in ‘c-a-d’?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Casey said. “Caddo is the name of Hughes’s movie company. I have no idea where the name comes from.”
“But I think I’m starting to understand what you’re on about here,” she said. “Lily wasn’t calling Jerry a ‘cad’ in her journal, was she?”
“Clever girl,” Casey said. “You saw that faster than I did.”
15 August, 2019
High Risk 14.4
Previous First
“She couldn’t have been aiming at you,” Desiree said. “If she’d tried, she never could have hit you.”
“Maybe she was trying, a little,” Casey said. “Because she very nearly did miss.” He looked at the blood-stained tear in his brand-new trousers, where the bullet had gone through before slicing through the skin on his hip, and sighed. “This suit is only twelve hours old,” he said.
“You can worry about that later. Right now we have to figure out what we’re going to say to Grey. And the police, if he brings them with him.” Desiree smiled, a little crookedly, at him. “It was depressingly easy to persuade Mr. Bello—that’s Jean’s stepfather—not to call the cops. It was a lot harder to keep him from calling Howard Hughes.”
“That probably would have been safe,” Casey said. “I’m pretty sure Hughes doesn’t know about any of this. That goon wasn’t working for Hughes, I’ll wager. He’s Buckley’s boy all the way.”
“Goon?” Desiree giggled. “What a silly word.”
[Continuing chapter fourteen]
“She couldn’t have been aiming at you,” Desiree said. “If she’d tried, she never could have hit you.”
“Maybe she was trying, a little,” Casey said. “Because she very nearly did miss.” He looked at the blood-stained tear in his brand-new trousers, where the bullet had gone through before slicing through the skin on his hip, and sighed. “This suit is only twelve hours old,” he said.
“You can worry about that later. Right now we have to figure out what we’re going to say to Grey. And the police, if he brings them with him.” Desiree smiled, a little crookedly, at him. “It was depressingly easy to persuade Mr. Bello—that’s Jean’s stepfather—not to call the cops. It was a lot harder to keep him from calling Howard Hughes.”
“That probably would have been safe,” Casey said. “I’m pretty sure Hughes doesn’t know about any of this. That goon wasn’t working for Hughes, I’ll wager. He’s Buckley’s boy all the way.”
“Goon?” Desiree giggled. “What a silly word.”
14 August, 2019
High Risk 14.3
Previous First
Casey pulled the car to the curb, opening his door before he’d come to a stop. He didn’t bother to set the brake, just pulled the wheel to steer the front wheels into the curb. Then he was out and running toward Eve and her—prisoners? victims?—keeping the Harlows’ car between him and Eve for as long as he could.
Eve was saying something, but she hadn’t pitched her voice loudly enough for Casey to be able to make it out. Probably it was intended for Jean Harlow anyway; the girl’s face looked cold and smooth, almost death-like. Like something from Madame Tussaud’s, Casey thought.
Clearly he was out of time. Shouting, he rounded the back of the car. Hope she’s rattled enough not to aim. Everyone, he noted, was staring at him. Good.
[Continuing chapter fourteen]
Casey pulled the car to the curb, opening his door before he’d come to a stop. He didn’t bother to set the brake, just pulled the wheel to steer the front wheels into the curb. Then he was out and running toward Eve and her—prisoners? victims?—keeping the Harlows’ car between him and Eve for as long as he could.
Eve was saying something, but she hadn’t pitched her voice loudly enough for Casey to be able to make it out. Probably it was intended for Jean Harlow anyway; the girl’s face looked cold and smooth, almost death-like. Like something from Madame Tussaud’s, Casey thought.
Clearly he was out of time. Shouting, he rounded the back of the car. Hope she’s rattled enough not to aim. Everyone, he noted, was staring at him. Good.
13 August, 2019
High Risk 14.2
Previous First
“Three Hundred North Maple,” Casey said. “How do I get there?” He started the Bentley. “More to the point, what way will they be going?”
“West on Sunset to La Cienega,” Desiree shouted over the roar of the engine. “Down to Santa Monica Boulevard, then west maybe a mile.”
“Let’s just hope that Mrs. Harlow is the homebody type when it comes to breakfast. If they’ve gone somewhere else, we’ll never find them. Never catch up with them in time.”
“In time for what?”
“In time to stop Eve Adams doing to Jean Harlow what she did to Lily Cross,” Casey said.
It was one of the few times in their so-far brief acquaintance that Casey had seen Desiree silenced by anything. She might have said “Oh,” out loud, but if so it was inaudible over the Bentley.
Hurtling along the snake-like residential streets, looking for a way to connect with Sunset Boulevard, Casey regretted that he’d not asked Hart for instructions on operating the big car’s supercharger. Oh, well; there’s always the possibility that Hart doesn’t know himself. With luck, he wouldn’t need the blower: the Bentley moved like an SE-5a in a dive after a fat Hun two-seater, and as the road got rougher Casey was grateful for the car’s big steering-wheel. It not only helped him control the car, it gave him something to hold on to.
Looking to his right, Casey saw Desiree gripping the edge of her seat with one hand, and the top of her door with the other. Her eyes were wide, her mouth tight to the point where the lips were little more than thin, pale lines. He shouldn’t have, but he smiled at this. This is payment for those moments of terror while you were driving, he thought to her.
“Here!” Desiree shouted. “Turn right here!”
They were on Fountain, and now Casey knew more or less where he was. A few blocks more, and there was Sunset. Another right turn, left at the five-way intersection with Hollywood Boulevard, and now they were moving on a straight line west to the end of Hollywood.
There was blessedly little traffic on the roads at this time of morning, for which Casey was grateful. He prayed that there were no cops on the prowl for speeding drivers. Even at the speed he was going now, they were a good ten to fifteen minutes from the Harlow home. And Sunset wasn’t the best of roads, he knew, on the strip between Hollywood and Beverley Hills.
“What are you going to do?” Desiree shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind.
“Don’t really know,” Casey shouted back, not taking his eyes from the road. The light ahead was red; he braked and put the Bentley into neutral, hoping there was nobody coming along Western in either direction and he could safely run that red.
“Why do you think Eve killed Lily?” Desiree’s voice was still pitched to be heard over the Bentley in full roar, and Casey winced.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you later. But I always knew that whatever Telford did, he didn’t do alone. I wasn’t able to put all of the pieces together until tonight.
“It was your notes that proved it, for me,” he added, sparing her a glance.
“Well, thanks for enlightening me,” she said as Casey slipped the car back into gear and accelerated through the vacant intersection. “I know so much more now than I did a minute ago.” Casey grinned, but did not bother trying to enlighten her further.
The pre-dawn was beginning to turn the sky behind them a dull mauve. Dawn patrol time, thought Casey. He’d never liked being awake this early, not since the war. The Garden of Allah appeared ahead and to the right, disappearing behind them as he turned south on La Cienega. For a moment Casey thought he heard the sounds of partying coming from the apartment complex.
“Casey?” Desiree tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?”
“I think we’re being followed.”
“Why?”
“Why do I think that, or why are we being followed?”
“I’ll take either, if you’ve got ‘em,” Casey said. He slowed to make the right onto Santa Monica.
“Well, I’ve seen headlights a couple of blocks behind us for the last five minutes or so. Could have been there before that, I don’t know. But when we turned onto La Cienega back there, he turned too. I’ll bet you next week’s salary he turns onto the Boulevard after us. As to why, I don’t know. Maybe it’s Jerry. Maybe the whole party crowd is following us. It’s the sort of game they like to play.”
“Charming folks,” Casey said.
“Left here,” Desiree murmured. “This is North Maple.”
In the half-light of the coming morning, Casey knew the Harlows’ house by the haphazardly parked car in front of it. Whatever Eve Adams was planning, she’d apparently already begun.
No, they weren’t too late. People were only now emerging from the car: four in all, a man and three women.
One of the women held something in one hand, extended away from her body awkwardly as though trying to prevent it from touching any part of her beyond the hand that held it.
“Good God,” Desiree said. “Where did Eve get a gun?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, taking the car out of gear and letting it coast past the people now gathered on the lawn. “I have an idea, though.”
He didn’t have much time to come up with a plan of action. Not that there was much he could have done in the way of subtlety, anyway. It was accepted practice, in the RFC and RAF, that if you encountered a superior German force while on patrol, you went after them anyway. In retrospect that seemed a rather stupid idea. But it was probably the only appropriate course of action for here and now.
“Try to stay behind Eve,” he told Desiree. “If I can distract her at all, get the others into the house. Go around the back if you can. But get them away. And call Detective Grey if you get a chance.” He fished Grey’s card from his suit jacket and gave it to her.
“You’re not going to do something stupid?”
“Of course I am. What else is there?”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
[Continuing chapter fourteen]
“Three Hundred North Maple,” Casey said. “How do I get there?” He started the Bentley. “More to the point, what way will they be going?”
“West on Sunset to La Cienega,” Desiree shouted over the roar of the engine. “Down to Santa Monica Boulevard, then west maybe a mile.”
“Let’s just hope that Mrs. Harlow is the homebody type when it comes to breakfast. If they’ve gone somewhere else, we’ll never find them. Never catch up with them in time.”
“In time for what?”
“In time to stop Eve Adams doing to Jean Harlow what she did to Lily Cross,” Casey said.
It was one of the few times in their so-far brief acquaintance that Casey had seen Desiree silenced by anything. She might have said “Oh,” out loud, but if so it was inaudible over the Bentley.
Hurtling along the snake-like residential streets, looking for a way to connect with Sunset Boulevard, Casey regretted that he’d not asked Hart for instructions on operating the big car’s supercharger. Oh, well; there’s always the possibility that Hart doesn’t know himself. With luck, he wouldn’t need the blower: the Bentley moved like an SE-5a in a dive after a fat Hun two-seater, and as the road got rougher Casey was grateful for the car’s big steering-wheel. It not only helped him control the car, it gave him something to hold on to.
Looking to his right, Casey saw Desiree gripping the edge of her seat with one hand, and the top of her door with the other. Her eyes were wide, her mouth tight to the point where the lips were little more than thin, pale lines. He shouldn’t have, but he smiled at this. This is payment for those moments of terror while you were driving, he thought to her.
“Here!” Desiree shouted. “Turn right here!”
They were on Fountain, and now Casey knew more or less where he was. A few blocks more, and there was Sunset. Another right turn, left at the five-way intersection with Hollywood Boulevard, and now they were moving on a straight line west to the end of Hollywood.
There was blessedly little traffic on the roads at this time of morning, for which Casey was grateful. He prayed that there were no cops on the prowl for speeding drivers. Even at the speed he was going now, they were a good ten to fifteen minutes from the Harlow home. And Sunset wasn’t the best of roads, he knew, on the strip between Hollywood and Beverley Hills.
“What are you going to do?” Desiree shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind.
“Don’t really know,” Casey shouted back, not taking his eyes from the road. The light ahead was red; he braked and put the Bentley into neutral, hoping there was nobody coming along Western in either direction and he could safely run that red.
“Why do you think Eve killed Lily?” Desiree’s voice was still pitched to be heard over the Bentley in full roar, and Casey winced.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you later. But I always knew that whatever Telford did, he didn’t do alone. I wasn’t able to put all of the pieces together until tonight.
“It was your notes that proved it, for me,” he added, sparing her a glance.
“Well, thanks for enlightening me,” she said as Casey slipped the car back into gear and accelerated through the vacant intersection. “I know so much more now than I did a minute ago.” Casey grinned, but did not bother trying to enlighten her further.
The pre-dawn was beginning to turn the sky behind them a dull mauve. Dawn patrol time, thought Casey. He’d never liked being awake this early, not since the war. The Garden of Allah appeared ahead and to the right, disappearing behind them as he turned south on La Cienega. For a moment Casey thought he heard the sounds of partying coming from the apartment complex.
“Casey?” Desiree tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?”
“I think we’re being followed.”
“Why?”
“Why do I think that, or why are we being followed?”
“I’ll take either, if you’ve got ‘em,” Casey said. He slowed to make the right onto Santa Monica.
“Well, I’ve seen headlights a couple of blocks behind us for the last five minutes or so. Could have been there before that, I don’t know. But when we turned onto La Cienega back there, he turned too. I’ll bet you next week’s salary he turns onto the Boulevard after us. As to why, I don’t know. Maybe it’s Jerry. Maybe the whole party crowd is following us. It’s the sort of game they like to play.”
“Charming folks,” Casey said.
“Left here,” Desiree murmured. “This is North Maple.”
In the half-light of the coming morning, Casey knew the Harlows’ house by the haphazardly parked car in front of it. Whatever Eve Adams was planning, she’d apparently already begun.
No, they weren’t too late. People were only now emerging from the car: four in all, a man and three women.
One of the women held something in one hand, extended away from her body awkwardly as though trying to prevent it from touching any part of her beyond the hand that held it.
“Good God,” Desiree said. “Where did Eve get a gun?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, taking the car out of gear and letting it coast past the people now gathered on the lawn. “I have an idea, though.”
He didn’t have much time to come up with a plan of action. Not that there was much he could have done in the way of subtlety, anyway. It was accepted practice, in the RFC and RAF, that if you encountered a superior German force while on patrol, you went after them anyway. In retrospect that seemed a rather stupid idea. But it was probably the only appropriate course of action for here and now.
“Try to stay behind Eve,” he told Desiree. “If I can distract her at all, get the others into the house. Go around the back if you can. But get them away. And call Detective Grey if you get a chance.” He fished Grey’s card from his suit jacket and gave it to her.
“You’re not going to do something stupid?”
“Of course I am. What else is there?”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
12 August, 2019
High Risk 14.1
Previous First
It’s no wonder I feel so tired, Casey thought. It’s after three. Where the hell did the night go? And where had the young man gone, who could drink all night and still survive a dawn patrol over the German lines in Flanders?
“If this is about your contract,” said Straebo from the doorway, “I’m terribly sorry but there’s nothing I can do.” Desiree, who had found and fetched him, stood behind him—conveniently blocking his line of retreat, Casey realized. She has a good sense of tactics, too.
“Relax,” said Casey. “I don’t want to talk to you about the contract. It won’t bother me if I never set foot inside the Monarch studio again.” He gestured at a chair. “No, I want to talk to you about something else. Please sit down, Mr. Straebo.”
The director’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I was about to collect Eve and go home.”
“Is Eve here tonight? That’s good. She should probably hear this as well. Perhaps you could go fetch her for us, Desiree?”
“Oh, no you don’t, Casey.” Desiree turned and said something to someone in the hall. “I’m not going to miss any of this,” she said when she returned. “Kerry is looking for her.”
“I have had quite enough of this,” Straebo said. “Stand aside, Miss Farrell. I’m leaving.”
“Aren’t you in the slightest bit curious about what I wanted to talk to you about?” Casey asked. “Or have you already guessed?”
“Not only am I not curious, I am prepared to have you charged with assault if you try to prevent me from leaving. I am sorry, Mr. Casey, that I ever had anything to do with you.”
“Really? And here you were so concerned Friday night to keep me under contract. Or was it really that you just wanted me where you could keep your eye on me, learn how much Desiree and I had discovered?”
“You’ve got me curious,” Desiree said, “even if Jerry isn’t. What exactly have we discovered, Casey?”
Straebo turned, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Out of my way, Miss Farrell,” he said.”
Desiree stood her ground. “Do you intend to charge me with assault, Jerry?” She looked past Straebo at Casey. “Well?”
“For one thing,” Casey said, “I’ve learned that, in spite of my first thoughts, you didn’t actually have Lily killed.”
Straebo’s face turned the colour of raw pork. “You,” he shouted, “are going to hear from my lawyer!”
“What, because he said you didn’t kill Lily?” Desiree said. “You have a strange idea of what constitutes slander, Jerry.”
“You still have a lot to answer for, though,” Casey said. “A court might find you an accessory to the murder. At the very least you contributed in a material way to Lily’s death.”
Straebo whirled and, with a wordless roar, launched himself at Casey. Should have got out of the chair, Casey thought before the beefy director slammed into him, knocking the two of them and the chair into a heap on the floor.
Straebo was angry but he was no fighter. He didn’t try to immobilize Casey’s arms, nor did he get his own hands around Casey’s throat. He got one weak punch in at Casey’s nose before Casey, with a cross-punch aimed at Straebo’s chin, snapped the man’s head back and knocked him over. As he fell, Straebo’s head hit one of the chair legs. He flopped, stunned, onto the Persian carpet.
“Gosh,” Desiree said. “You really know how to bring out the animal in our Jerry.”
“If I harbored any thoughts at all that he’d killed Lily,” Casey said, “they’re gone now. He’s not a strangler-type.”
Jeff Cunningham appeared in the doorway, at the head of a gaggle of party guests looking, Casey guessed, for some impromptu entertainment. “What’s going on?” Cunningham asked Desiree.
“Casey’s playing detective,” Desiree said. “Doing a nice job of it, too. You should have been here, Jeff.”
“Well, I’m here now. What’s up?”
“Can I tell them?” Desiree turned to look at Casey. She actually asked me instead of just going ahead and doing it, he thought. That’s got to mean something.
“Why not?” he said, getting his breathing back under control. “The more people hear this, the better. But let’s make sure that Straebo’s awake first. And get Eve Adams. Anyone know where she is?”
“You’ve just missed her, Casey,” came Brett Kerry’s voice from somewhere in the crowd. “I gather she’s gone home.”
“She came with Straebo,” Casey said, unease growing in him. “When did she leave?”
“Just now,” Kerry said. “She’s going to have breakfast with the Harlows, I gather.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Casey grabbed for the papers and stuffed them into the envelope. “Who knows where Miss Harlow lives? I’ve got to catch her.” He pushed his way through the crowd and down the stairs.
“I’m sure I’m going to regret this,” he heard Desiree say behind him, “but I’m coming with you.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s no wonder I feel so tired, Casey thought. It’s after three. Where the hell did the night go? And where had the young man gone, who could drink all night and still survive a dawn patrol over the German lines in Flanders?
“If this is about your contract,” said Straebo from the doorway, “I’m terribly sorry but there’s nothing I can do.” Desiree, who had found and fetched him, stood behind him—conveniently blocking his line of retreat, Casey realized. She has a good sense of tactics, too.
“Relax,” said Casey. “I don’t want to talk to you about the contract. It won’t bother me if I never set foot inside the Monarch studio again.” He gestured at a chair. “No, I want to talk to you about something else. Please sit down, Mr. Straebo.”
The director’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I was about to collect Eve and go home.”
“Is Eve here tonight? That’s good. She should probably hear this as well. Perhaps you could go fetch her for us, Desiree?”
“Oh, no you don’t, Casey.” Desiree turned and said something to someone in the hall. “I’m not going to miss any of this,” she said when she returned. “Kerry is looking for her.”
“I have had quite enough of this,” Straebo said. “Stand aside, Miss Farrell. I’m leaving.”
“Aren’t you in the slightest bit curious about what I wanted to talk to you about?” Casey asked. “Or have you already guessed?”
“Not only am I not curious, I am prepared to have you charged with assault if you try to prevent me from leaving. I am sorry, Mr. Casey, that I ever had anything to do with you.”
“Really? And here you were so concerned Friday night to keep me under contract. Or was it really that you just wanted me where you could keep your eye on me, learn how much Desiree and I had discovered?”
“You’ve got me curious,” Desiree said, “even if Jerry isn’t. What exactly have we discovered, Casey?”
Straebo turned, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Out of my way, Miss Farrell,” he said.”
Desiree stood her ground. “Do you intend to charge me with assault, Jerry?” She looked past Straebo at Casey. “Well?”
“For one thing,” Casey said, “I’ve learned that, in spite of my first thoughts, you didn’t actually have Lily killed.”
Straebo’s face turned the colour of raw pork. “You,” he shouted, “are going to hear from my lawyer!”
“What, because he said you didn’t kill Lily?” Desiree said. “You have a strange idea of what constitutes slander, Jerry.”
“You still have a lot to answer for, though,” Casey said. “A court might find you an accessory to the murder. At the very least you contributed in a material way to Lily’s death.”
Straebo whirled and, with a wordless roar, launched himself at Casey. Should have got out of the chair, Casey thought before the beefy director slammed into him, knocking the two of them and the chair into a heap on the floor.
Straebo was angry but he was no fighter. He didn’t try to immobilize Casey’s arms, nor did he get his own hands around Casey’s throat. He got one weak punch in at Casey’s nose before Casey, with a cross-punch aimed at Straebo’s chin, snapped the man’s head back and knocked him over. As he fell, Straebo’s head hit one of the chair legs. He flopped, stunned, onto the Persian carpet.
“Gosh,” Desiree said. “You really know how to bring out the animal in our Jerry.”
“If I harbored any thoughts at all that he’d killed Lily,” Casey said, “they’re gone now. He’s not a strangler-type.”
Jeff Cunningham appeared in the doorway, at the head of a gaggle of party guests looking, Casey guessed, for some impromptu entertainment. “What’s going on?” Cunningham asked Desiree.
“Casey’s playing detective,” Desiree said. “Doing a nice job of it, too. You should have been here, Jeff.”
“Well, I’m here now. What’s up?”
“Can I tell them?” Desiree turned to look at Casey. She actually asked me instead of just going ahead and doing it, he thought. That’s got to mean something.
“Why not?” he said, getting his breathing back under control. “The more people hear this, the better. But let’s make sure that Straebo’s awake first. And get Eve Adams. Anyone know where she is?”
“You’ve just missed her, Casey,” came Brett Kerry’s voice from somewhere in the crowd. “I gather she’s gone home.”
“She came with Straebo,” Casey said, unease growing in him. “When did she leave?”
“Just now,” Kerry said. “She’s going to have breakfast with the Harlows, I gather.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Casey grabbed for the papers and stuffed them into the envelope. “Who knows where Miss Harlow lives? I’ve got to catch her.” He pushed his way through the crowd and down the stairs.
“I’m sure I’m going to regret this,” he heard Desiree say behind him, “but I’m coming with you.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
09 August, 2019
High Risk 13.5
Previous First
After the second time a passing reveler jostled him and nearly caused him to hemorrhage paper, Casey gave up and started looking for a more quiet place in which to read. French doors from the dining room opened out onto a patio and yard, but they were crowded with partiers, and the more distant parts of the yard would be too dark. Reluctantly, he started up the stairs. Perhaps he could lock himself in the toilet and read there.
The sounds of drunken lovemaking—somehow it didn’t seem right to think of it as “passion”—came from behind the first door he encountered at the top of the stairs. A second door was locked. The next door was open, though, and a small circle of yellow light revealed the back of a tall armchair and invited him in.
When Casey reached the chair, he found Desiree in it. He just stood in front of her, unable to speak.
[Concluding chapter thirteen]
After the second time a passing reveler jostled him and nearly caused him to hemorrhage paper, Casey gave up and started looking for a more quiet place in which to read. French doors from the dining room opened out onto a patio and yard, but they were crowded with partiers, and the more distant parts of the yard would be too dark. Reluctantly, he started up the stairs. Perhaps he could lock himself in the toilet and read there.
The sounds of drunken lovemaking—somehow it didn’t seem right to think of it as “passion”—came from behind the first door he encountered at the top of the stairs. A second door was locked. The next door was open, though, and a small circle of yellow light revealed the back of a tall armchair and invited him in.
When Casey reached the chair, he found Desiree in it. He just stood in front of her, unable to speak.
08 August, 2019
High Risk 13.4
Previous First
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Desiree blinked, slowly, as if willing a spell to break. “I thought you didn’t come to these parties,” Casey said.
“I don’t,” she said. “Obviously I’m at risk of falling into bad habits.” She looked in her handbag, then back up at him. “Don’t go away,” she said. “I’ve brought something for you.” She edged past him, disappearing into the crowd.
Casey was almost afraid to move. He was aware of his heart acting strangely, and a sort of fluttering sensation in his chest. You weren’t supposed to be here, he thought.
[Continuing chapter thirteen]
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Desiree blinked, slowly, as if willing a spell to break. “I thought you didn’t come to these parties,” Casey said.
“I don’t,” she said. “Obviously I’m at risk of falling into bad habits.” She looked in her handbag, then back up at him. “Don’t go away,” she said. “I’ve brought something for you.” She edged past him, disappearing into the crowd.
Casey was almost afraid to move. He was aware of his heart acting strangely, and a sort of fluttering sensation in his chest. You weren’t supposed to be here, he thought.
07 August, 2019
High Risk 13.3
Previous First
For some reason, Conrad Hart had decorated his house with what looked to Casey like a drunkard’s vision of an Arabian Nights harem. It was the interior to match the faux-Moorish exterior of Armstrong’s house. No doubt some Valentino Sheik-movie’s store of props had been raided for its supply of fake palm trees and curl-cut screens—the latter mostly press-board. Someone had undoubtedly put a lot of effort into providing Hart’s party with a décor that some mid-westerner might think of as exotic. If she viewed it in the dark of a movie theatre. And had never been anywhere east of Iowa in her life.
“Casey. Good to see you. Sorry to hear about the contract.”
Casey didn’t bother to turn around to see who’d spoken. He’d heard the same sentiment, expressed in almost identical words, at least a half-dozen times since arriving. It had reminded him exactly of the rote expressions of sorrow at the mess table whenever anyone from the squadron had Gone West: something that was said out of a sense of obligation, and where the person’s true feelings were hidden, tamped down because of a fear that he would be the next to go.
The people he wanted to talk to, though, had yet to make an appearance.
[Continuing chapter thirteen]
For some reason, Conrad Hart had decorated his house with what looked to Casey like a drunkard’s vision of an Arabian Nights harem. It was the interior to match the faux-Moorish exterior of Armstrong’s house. No doubt some Valentino Sheik-movie’s store of props had been raided for its supply of fake palm trees and curl-cut screens—the latter mostly press-board. Someone had undoubtedly put a lot of effort into providing Hart’s party with a décor that some mid-westerner might think of as exotic. If she viewed it in the dark of a movie theatre. And had never been anywhere east of Iowa in her life.
“Casey. Good to see you. Sorry to hear about the contract.”
Casey didn’t bother to turn around to see who’d spoken. He’d heard the same sentiment, expressed in almost identical words, at least a half-dozen times since arriving. It had reminded him exactly of the rote expressions of sorrow at the mess table whenever anyone from the squadron had Gone West: something that was said out of a sense of obligation, and where the person’s true feelings were hidden, tamped down because of a fear that he would be the next to go.
The people he wanted to talk to, though, had yet to make an appearance.
06 August, 2019
High Risk 13.2
Previous First
He parked the Bentley beside the cemetery and walked to the Monarch studio. It was dark, now, the peculiar soft purple-black darkness of autumnal Los Angeles; and the lot was empty save for the guard at the gate. It was nice to know that everybody in town partied on Saturday nights. The hardest part of getting into Neal’s office again was the sneaking past the guard at the falsely gaudy gate; once Casey was on the lot itself he had no trouble getting into either the administration building or Neal’s office.
As he’d suspected, Lily Cross’s diary was gone. Burned, no doubt, just as Desiree had predicted. Neal collected all sorts of information about the security of the studio, though, and Casey soon found the other items he was looking for.
[Continuing chapter thirteen]
He parked the Bentley beside the cemetery and walked to the Monarch studio. It was dark, now, the peculiar soft purple-black darkness of autumnal Los Angeles; and the lot was empty save for the guard at the gate. It was nice to know that everybody in town partied on Saturday nights. The hardest part of getting into Neal’s office again was the sneaking past the guard at the falsely gaudy gate; once Casey was on the lot itself he had no trouble getting into either the administration building or Neal’s office.
As he’d suspected, Lily Cross’s diary was gone. Burned, no doubt, just as Desiree had predicted. Neal collected all sorts of information about the security of the studio, though, and Casey soon found the other items he was looking for.
05 August, 2019
High Risk 13.1
Previous First
Richard Armstrong lived in a mock-Arab atrocity perched in the dry, dusty hills overlooking Lake Hollywood. The only good thing about visiting the place, Casey decided, was the twisty nature of the Mulholland Highway he drove to reach Armstrong’s place: the road was an appropriate challenge to his driving skills and to the big Bentley’s stability.
Armstrong’s house was freshly painted on the outside, and the lawns green and carefully trimmed. Nobody answered the door when Casey rang, though, and after waiting several minutes he let himself in. Inside, the place was a foul-smelling wreck, strewn with newspapers, takeout Chinese-food containers and unwashed plates. Whatever domestic staff Armstrong had employed had obviously departed some time ago. Given the man’s behavior on the set, when he was supposedly at his best, Casey had no trouble figuring out why it might have been hard for Armstrong to hold onto the help.
Casey guessed, by the direction from which the loud voices seemed to be coming, that Armstrong was in his kitchen—with someone else. Casey had phoned ahead to invite himself over, so it was hard to see this lack of hospitality as anything but a direct insult.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Richard Armstrong lived in a mock-Arab atrocity perched in the dry, dusty hills overlooking Lake Hollywood. The only good thing about visiting the place, Casey decided, was the twisty nature of the Mulholland Highway he drove to reach Armstrong’s place: the road was an appropriate challenge to his driving skills and to the big Bentley’s stability.
Armstrong’s house was freshly painted on the outside, and the lawns green and carefully trimmed. Nobody answered the door when Casey rang, though, and after waiting several minutes he let himself in. Inside, the place was a foul-smelling wreck, strewn with newspapers, takeout Chinese-food containers and unwashed plates. Whatever domestic staff Armstrong had employed had obviously departed some time ago. Given the man’s behavior on the set, when he was supposedly at his best, Casey had no trouble figuring out why it might have been hard for Armstrong to hold onto the help.
Casey guessed, by the direction from which the loud voices seemed to be coming, that Armstrong was in his kitchen—with someone else. Casey had phoned ahead to invite himself over, so it was hard to see this lack of hospitality as anything but a direct insult.
02 August, 2019
High Risk 12.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter twelve]
The flight from Glendale to Clover Field was wonderful, a pleasure that Casey stretched out as long as possible. Hogan’s Thomas-Morse remained a joy to fly, and Casey hoped there were plenty of Great War flying pictures in Hollywood’s immediate future. They may have been nonsense—certainly the ones written by John Monk Saunders were as ludicrous as any tale Casey had ever heard—but they all seemed to want rotary-powered ships, and Casey was conscious of his position as a member of the small elite that knew how to fly these temperamental machines.
Two surprises awaited him at Clover Field. The first was Hogan’s contract, which paid him a hundred dollars a week—when working—in addition to a substantial percentage of what Hogan charged the studios for stunts. A crash of the sort he’d done yesterday, for example, netted Hogan fifteen hundred dollars. Half of that would be Casey’s. Even something as simple as flying upside-down while being filmed would earn Casey fifty dollars in addition to his daily pay. “There ain’t a lot of work all the time,” Mitch said when Casey whistled, “but when we work we eat pretty well.” Even better, Hogan insisted that Casey familiarize himself with all of Hogan’s planes. So the contract actually required Casey to fly several times a week, even when not working. He wouldn’t be paid for that time, but what did he care about that? Had he been able to afford it, he’d have paid Hogan for the privilege of flying the big Bristol and Hogan’s two Travelaires.
[Concluding chapter twelve]
The flight from Glendale to Clover Field was wonderful, a pleasure that Casey stretched out as long as possible. Hogan’s Thomas-Morse remained a joy to fly, and Casey hoped there were plenty of Great War flying pictures in Hollywood’s immediate future. They may have been nonsense—certainly the ones written by John Monk Saunders were as ludicrous as any tale Casey had ever heard—but they all seemed to want rotary-powered ships, and Casey was conscious of his position as a member of the small elite that knew how to fly these temperamental machines.
Two surprises awaited him at Clover Field. The first was Hogan’s contract, which paid him a hundred dollars a week—when working—in addition to a substantial percentage of what Hogan charged the studios for stunts. A crash of the sort he’d done yesterday, for example, netted Hogan fifteen hundred dollars. Half of that would be Casey’s. Even something as simple as flying upside-down while being filmed would earn Casey fifty dollars in addition to his daily pay. “There ain’t a lot of work all the time,” Mitch said when Casey whistled, “but when we work we eat pretty well.” Even better, Hogan insisted that Casey familiarize himself with all of Hogan’s planes. So the contract actually required Casey to fly several times a week, even when not working. He wouldn’t be paid for that time, but what did he care about that? Had he been able to afford it, he’d have paid Hogan for the privilege of flying the big Bristol and Hogan’s two Travelaires.
01 August, 2019
High Risk 12.4
Previous First
[Continuing chapter twelve]
The “somebody” turned out to be Richard Armstrong. Or so Hart claimed; Armstrong himself was gone by the time Casey got to the sound stage.
“Sorry,” Hart said. “I tried to keep him here. But he got another dressing-down from Jerry this morning, and I suppose he couldn’t really see any good reason for sticking around after he’d done his last scene.”
“Straebo’s in a bad mood again today?” Casey asked. “I suppose he’s still unhappy about McMahon wrapping up his picture for him.”
“Speaking for myself,” Hart said, “I’m glad it’s over. I know that everyone was nervous about this whole talking thing. But that can’t account by itself for the way everyone’s been behaving. It’s been horrible, Casey. It was that way even before Lily was killed, and it’s just got worse since then. I’m only getting two weeks off between pictures, and after this one two weeks isn’t enough. Two months might not be enough.”
“There are worse things to have to worry about,” Casey muttered. Before Hart could say anything—or even acknowledge having heard Casey’s remark—Brett Kerry appeared, towel in hand, his face streaked with sweat and makeup.
“Thank God that’s done,” he said. “I tell you, Hart, if I get sent back to Broadway tomorrow I shan’t demur. It won’t seem like exile after this last few weeks. Oh, hello, Casey. Didn’t expect to see you here today. Sorry to hear about the way you were treated.”
“I’m not so sure you should be,” Casey said.
“What does bring you here, then?”
“Casey’s looking for a chap named Buckley,” Hart said. “Dick claims to know the man, but refuses to give with the details. I think he’s doing it out of spite.”
“You’re talking about Michael Buckley?” Kerry asked.
Casey’s eyes widened. “You know him?”
“Nope. I just know of him. He was somebody Lily knew. Some sort of errand-boy for Howard Hughes, I gather.”
Casey felt light in both the head and the stomach. Some detective he’d turned out to be: the information about Buckley turned out to be no big secret at all. And his guess about Buckley’s torpedo—the man who’d attacked him and Desiree—working for Hughes had turned out to be accurate, after a fashion. “So Lily was palling around with one of Howard Hughes’s guys? And Straebo didn’t know?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say she was pals with him,” Kerry said. “She mentioned his name once or twice, that’s all. It was just business, I guess.”
“With Lily, it seems, everything was business,” Casey said. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. It would have been in Hughes’s best interests to know what was going on with a picture that was pretty much a direct slander. And who better to employ as a spy than an actress Straebo’s having an affair with?”
“You make it sound sinister,” Hart said. “This wouldn’t be the first time that one studio got a little sneaky trying to get the inside goods on what another studio’s doing.”
“But it might be the first time the sneak wound up dead,” Casey said.
“You think that Straebo had something to do with Lily’s death?” Kerry asked. “He has an alibi, doesn’t he?”
“But Telford worked for him. How better for Straebo to get rid of a traitor while staying above suspicion himself? All he has to do is tell Hal to do this one little job for him and he’ll become a star. Come to think of it,” Casey said, “Hal went pretty much off his nuts when I told him Straebo had given me a part in the movie. Maybe that’s why.”
“Jesus Christ, Casey,” Hart said. “That’s one sockdollager of an accusation to make. Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really felt sure about any of this. I’m no private dick.” He looked around, wondering if Straebo had heard him. “Maybe I’m wrong. After all, Straebo fought to keep McMahon from firing me last night.”
“Well, if you’ll accept a bit of unsolicited advice from a well-wisher,” Hart said, “I’d advise against you mentioning your theories too much. Hollywood’s a small town, and tales told out of school have a nasty tendency to reach the ears of people you don’t want them to.”
“Not that I care all that much about what Straebo or McMahon think of me,” Casey said. “Still, I appreciate the thought.”
Hart didn’t get a chance to respond. A young man arrived as Casey was speaking, and told Hart and Kerry that they were required back on the set. The young man gave Casey a stare of calculated indifference as the two actors walked, bickering, away into the gloomy expanse of the huge building. Casey, taking the hint, went the other way, back out into the daylight.
Walking up to Sunset to catch the Red Car, Casey thought about Howard Hughes and Jerry W. Straebo. Could Straebo have ordered Lily killed after discovering that she’d betrayed him to Hughes? It was possible, maybe even highly possible. The man had a temper, and everything Casey had seen of Hollywood people lately made megalomania seem a real occupational hazard here.
But suppose Straebo had ordered Telford to kill Lily? Or killed her himself, then ordered Telford to dispose of the body? How could he prove it? And who could he get to act on such an accusation? If Desiree was right, the studio heads pretty much kept the Los Angeles district attorney in their collective back pocket. Perhaps if High Risk flops, Casey thought, I’ll be able to persuade someone to arrest Straebo. Monarch won’t be so anxious to protect a man who blew hundreds of thousands of their dollars.
He decided to make one more effort; if that didn’t bear fruit he’d walk away from the situation and let the Hollywoods handle it as they wanted. Tonight, he would attend Conrad Hart’s party and try to winkle some more information about Buckley from Richard Armstrong. Monday he would pay a visit to Grey, the D.A.’s investigator, and pass on everything he’d been able to learn. If Straebo got away with murder, it wouldn’t be for lack of effort on Casey’s part.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
[Continuing chapter twelve]
The “somebody” turned out to be Richard Armstrong. Or so Hart claimed; Armstrong himself was gone by the time Casey got to the sound stage.
“Sorry,” Hart said. “I tried to keep him here. But he got another dressing-down from Jerry this morning, and I suppose he couldn’t really see any good reason for sticking around after he’d done his last scene.”
“Straebo’s in a bad mood again today?” Casey asked. “I suppose he’s still unhappy about McMahon wrapping up his picture for him.”
“Speaking for myself,” Hart said, “I’m glad it’s over. I know that everyone was nervous about this whole talking thing. But that can’t account by itself for the way everyone’s been behaving. It’s been horrible, Casey. It was that way even before Lily was killed, and it’s just got worse since then. I’m only getting two weeks off between pictures, and after this one two weeks isn’t enough. Two months might not be enough.”
“There are worse things to have to worry about,” Casey muttered. Before Hart could say anything—or even acknowledge having heard Casey’s remark—Brett Kerry appeared, towel in hand, his face streaked with sweat and makeup.
“Thank God that’s done,” he said. “I tell you, Hart, if I get sent back to Broadway tomorrow I shan’t demur. It won’t seem like exile after this last few weeks. Oh, hello, Casey. Didn’t expect to see you here today. Sorry to hear about the way you were treated.”
“I’m not so sure you should be,” Casey said.
“What does bring you here, then?”
“Casey’s looking for a chap named Buckley,” Hart said. “Dick claims to know the man, but refuses to give with the details. I think he’s doing it out of spite.”
“You’re talking about Michael Buckley?” Kerry asked.
Casey’s eyes widened. “You know him?”
“Nope. I just know of him. He was somebody Lily knew. Some sort of errand-boy for Howard Hughes, I gather.”
Casey felt light in both the head and the stomach. Some detective he’d turned out to be: the information about Buckley turned out to be no big secret at all. And his guess about Buckley’s torpedo—the man who’d attacked him and Desiree—working for Hughes had turned out to be accurate, after a fashion. “So Lily was palling around with one of Howard Hughes’s guys? And Straebo didn’t know?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say she was pals with him,” Kerry said. “She mentioned his name once or twice, that’s all. It was just business, I guess.”
“With Lily, it seems, everything was business,” Casey said. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. It would have been in Hughes’s best interests to know what was going on with a picture that was pretty much a direct slander. And who better to employ as a spy than an actress Straebo’s having an affair with?”
“You make it sound sinister,” Hart said. “This wouldn’t be the first time that one studio got a little sneaky trying to get the inside goods on what another studio’s doing.”
“But it might be the first time the sneak wound up dead,” Casey said.
“You think that Straebo had something to do with Lily’s death?” Kerry asked. “He has an alibi, doesn’t he?”
“But Telford worked for him. How better for Straebo to get rid of a traitor while staying above suspicion himself? All he has to do is tell Hal to do this one little job for him and he’ll become a star. Come to think of it,” Casey said, “Hal went pretty much off his nuts when I told him Straebo had given me a part in the movie. Maybe that’s why.”
“Jesus Christ, Casey,” Hart said. “That’s one sockdollager of an accusation to make. Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really felt sure about any of this. I’m no private dick.” He looked around, wondering if Straebo had heard him. “Maybe I’m wrong. After all, Straebo fought to keep McMahon from firing me last night.”
“Well, if you’ll accept a bit of unsolicited advice from a well-wisher,” Hart said, “I’d advise against you mentioning your theories too much. Hollywood’s a small town, and tales told out of school have a nasty tendency to reach the ears of people you don’t want them to.”
“Not that I care all that much about what Straebo or McMahon think of me,” Casey said. “Still, I appreciate the thought.”
Hart didn’t get a chance to respond. A young man arrived as Casey was speaking, and told Hart and Kerry that they were required back on the set. The young man gave Casey a stare of calculated indifference as the two actors walked, bickering, away into the gloomy expanse of the huge building. Casey, taking the hint, went the other way, back out into the daylight.
Walking up to Sunset to catch the Red Car, Casey thought about Howard Hughes and Jerry W. Straebo. Could Straebo have ordered Lily killed after discovering that she’d betrayed him to Hughes? It was possible, maybe even highly possible. The man had a temper, and everything Casey had seen of Hollywood people lately made megalomania seem a real occupational hazard here.
But suppose Straebo had ordered Telford to kill Lily? Or killed her himself, then ordered Telford to dispose of the body? How could he prove it? And who could he get to act on such an accusation? If Desiree was right, the studio heads pretty much kept the Los Angeles district attorney in their collective back pocket. Perhaps if High Risk flops, Casey thought, I’ll be able to persuade someone to arrest Straebo. Monarch won’t be so anxious to protect a man who blew hundreds of thousands of their dollars.
He decided to make one more effort; if that didn’t bear fruit he’d walk away from the situation and let the Hollywoods handle it as they wanted. Tonight, he would attend Conrad Hart’s party and try to winkle some more information about Buckley from Richard Armstrong. Monday he would pay a visit to Grey, the D.A.’s investigator, and pass on everything he’d been able to learn. If Straebo got away with murder, it wouldn’t be for lack of effort on Casey’s part.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
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