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[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?”
His hip, its new bandage notwithstanding, was really starting to hurt. I’m glad, he thought, that I don’t have to do any serious flying for a couple of weeks. It’s going to be at least that long before my hip and ribs will let me sit comfortably in a cockpit again.
“The answer, of course, is that it wasn’t Lily at all. Carole London saw Eve Adams sneaking in. Eve and Lily were both about the same height, both blond. In the dark it would be easy enough for Carole to assume that she was looking at Lily. Especially since Eve was wearing Lily’s clothes, something she could do because Lily was already dead by that point. Eve must have decided that if she could make it look as though Lily had still been alive at six, she could establish an alibi for herself. And for Buckley, who has to have been involved as well.”
“Nothing you’ve said is what a grand jury would consider concrete,” McMahon said. “You’re just guessing.”
Casey gestured at his leg. “Most of what I’ve told you is conjecture, it’s true, supported by circumstantial evidence. I do, however, have a bullet-hole in my hip”—a slight exaggeration, that, but McMahon likely wouldn’t know the difference between a grazing and a penetrating wound—“and I have witnesses who saw Miss Adams shoot me. Not to mention the evidence that Buckley’s thug will provide, if he’s smart.”
After a moment’s silence, Straebo blubbered, “It was a crime of passion. Eve always was—is—a jealous person.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Casey said. “It was as premeditated as could be. Remember how Eve disposed of the body, Straebo. She talked poor Hal Telford into doing her dirty work. Dropping the body from your Jenny was supposed to make it look as if Lily had been savagely beaten—as if a man had killed her. That’s what Telford’s last words to me meant: what he did wasn’t his idea, it was Eve’s. And since Telford was in Mexico, that weekend, picking up bootleg booze for you”—Casey pointed at Straebo—“Eve has to have told him where and when to—to perform his part in her little deception. Which means she has to have decided, no later than Friday morning, which is when Telford left to fly to Tijuana. That was my first day on this picture,” he added, mostly for his own benefit.
“Further, I spoke to Conrad Hart on the telephone from Caddo Field before we drove back here,” he said. “It was no coincidence that Jean Harlow was at his party last night.”
“Oh,” Desiree said. “Eve told him to invite her, did she?” Casey nodded. “And Lily’s diary said something about Eve and tests earlier that week,” Desiree added. “I take it, Jerry, that you’d tried to keep Lily’s testing for Hughes a secret from Eve.”
“For God’s sake, Desiree,” Straebo protested, “you know what Eve is like. Of course I did.”
“Jerry,” McMahon said, “you are an idiot, of the first order. I ought to just throw you to Fitts, along with that—that woman of yours.” Straebo’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at McMahon. Before he could say anything, though, McMahon turned to Casey.
“Congratulations, Casey,” he said. “Did you set out to trick Jerry into admitting his … moronic scheme, or is this just a bonus for you?”
“I don’t much care either way,” Casey said. “All I set out to do, at the outset anyway, was to find out who had killed Lily Cross so I had some ammunition to use against anyone who might be tempted to assume I’d be a convenient scapegoat. When Hal Telford—died—I decided that maybe I owed his memory something. I was going to hand over all of my notes on this case to Grey tomorrow, one way or another. Since I figure you’re powerful enough to protect Straebo if you want, I’m not too concerned about whether or not he admits anything.
“Eve Adams, though, goes on trial for this. You can’t sweep that one under any carpet.”
“I agree with you about the latter point,” McMahon said. “About the former I must hold a different opinion. The studio cannot allow Miss Adams to go to trial. We are going to have trouble enough keeping most of this out of the papers, especially since Miss Adams was mad enough to shoot you in front of Mario Bello, one of the most disgusting specimens of humanity I’ve seen in this community lately.”
“A specimen perhaps equaled by Eve’s own parents,” Desiree snapped. “What do you suppose those poor people are going to do, now that their meal-ticket is going to jail?” This isn’t the first time she’s been so hostile on the subject of parasitic parents, Casey thought. There’s a reason, I suppose, why she never mentions her own.
“She won’t go to jail, either,” McMahon said. At Casey’s protest he raised a hand. “I didn’t say she was going to go free, Casey.” McMahon walked to the sideboard and, sloppily, poured himself a glass of cognac. “It will be clear to anyone that Miss Adams is quite insane,” he said after taking a sip. “I will provide a number of doctors who will swear to this. I think that Buron Fitts will be prepared to accept Miss Adams’s incarceration in an institution as a suitable conclusion to this unfortunate affair.”
“And what about Jerry?” Desiree asked. “Casey may not care either way, but I’m beginning to think that I care about what happens to Jerry. A lot. You bastard,” she finished, softly, staring at Straebo. Straebo turned away from her gaze.
“What happens to Jerry,” McMahon said, “depends entirely on how well High Risk does when we release it next month. If it’s as successful as Jerry has insisted it will be, then I can’t afford to be without a man who is such a marvelous asset to our Monarch family. If the movie loses money…” His voice trailed off in a silky sort of purr, and Casey felt queasy.
“You cannot be serious,” Straebo began, but McMahon cut him off with the raising of one finger.
“Where the success of this studio is concerned, I am always serious. I do not let my personal feelings get in the way of my decisions. That’s an approach you might consider, Jerry. If you hadn’t let yourself be blinded by this ridiculous obsession of yours with Howard Hughes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“And I wouldn’t be faced with the question of what to do with you, Casey.” McMahon’s face was expressionless, and for some reason Casey found himself shifting to look at Neal. The security chief, his face still flushed pink with suppressed anger and loathing, glared back.
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 Chapter Fifteen
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