Page 14

When I finally open my eyes, I’m staring at my own bedroom ceiling.

I sit up slowly, confusion giving way to a creeping dread. I’m in my apartment, fully dressed except for my shoes, lying on top of the bedcovers. My watch reads 5:43 a.m.

Nine hours gone.

Nine damn hours I can’t account for.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, noticing my pants are damp from the knees down, as if I’d been walking in the rain. My shirt cuffs bear the same red stains I’ve been finding lately—more nosebleeds, I suppose, though I can’t remember having one.

Then again, I can’t remember anything.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. No visible injuries, no signs of a struggle. Just the same hollow-eyed man from yesterday morning, looking slightly worse for wear.

What the hell happened last night?

The last clear memory I have is sitting in that diner booth, the pain in my head building to something unbearable. Then…nothing. A black hole where hours should be.

I check my wallet—still there, money intact. My gun is in its holster, hanging where I must have placed it on the bedpost. My car keys sit on the nightstand.

Did I drive home? Did someone bring me? Doris, maybe? Did I walk?

I move to the window, pulling back the curtain to check for my car. It’s parked at the curb, slightly crooked but in one piece. So I must have driven, somehow.

As I turn away, something on the floor catches my eye. A scrap of paper, torn at the edges. I pick it up, finding an address written in what appears to be my own handwriting, though I have no memory of writing it.

Alto Nido Apartments.

Below the address, a single word:LENA

My pulse quickens. Lena Reid. The singer from Elizabeth Short’s photograph. The friend Virginia West mentioned.

Did I go there last night? During the hours I’ve lost?

I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, the scrap of paper clutched in my hand. These blackouts are becoming more than just an inconvenience—they’re a liability. Especially now, with a high-profile case on my desk.

I need to see a doctor. Soon.

But first, I need to meet with Coleman. And then, it seems, I have a singer to find.

“The killer took his time.”Detective Ray Coleman taps the folder on his desk, which I know contains photos I’ve already seen. Crime scene images that would turn most civilians’ stomachs. It even turned mine, and I’ve seen a lot of things. “Medical Examiner says she was likely killed somewhere else, cleaned thoroughly, then cut in half, organs and bowels removed, drained of blood, then transported to the vacant lot.”

Coleman is one of the senior detectives on the case and an old acquaintance from before the war. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, eyes bloodshot, tie loosened, ashtray overflowing beside him.

“Any leads?” I ask, nursing the lukewarm coffee he offered when I arrived at the station twenty minutes ago.

He gives me a weary look. “About six hundred. Every crank and attention-seeker in the city has ‘information’ about the Black Dahlia.”

“Don’t tell me you’re calling her that too,” I say with a groan.

“The papers started it. She wore a lot of black, apparently. Black hair. Their catchy take onTheBlue Dahlia, you know, that Veronica Lake film?” He leans back in his chair. “What’s your interest here, Vic? The sister hire you?”

I nod, setting down the coffee. “Says you boys are more interested in Elizabeth Short’s dating life than finding her killer. Morrison put in a word.”

Coleman’s expression sours. “We’re pursuing every angle. Girl like that, moves around a lot, dates different men?—”

“Girl like what, Ray?” I like to call them out when I can. Catherine would be proud of me.

At least he has the decency to look uncomfortable. “You know what I mean. She wasn’t exactly a schoolteacher.”