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“That’s what I thought too. The medical examiner noted the killer seemed less precise with Winters. Less confident.” Coleman lowers his voice. “There’s more. Winters’ blood type was rare—AB negative.”

The same rare blood type as Elizabeth Short. My pulse quickens.

“Any suspects?”

“None that went anywhere. Case went cold fast.” Coleman lights a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Too fast, if you ask me. Someone wanted this buried.”

“Cohen?”

“Maybe. But he’s not the only player in this town. Word is, Winters was seen with a well-dressed foreigner at The Coconut Grove the night she disappeared.”

Could it be the Europeans again? It’s too much of a coincidence already.

“I need everything you have on this,” I say, already mentally connecting the dots. “And anything on other unsolved murders with similar characteristics.”

Coleman nods. “Already pulled what I could find, girls that could fit a pattern. There’s not much—most of it’s been buried,you know, files misplaced. Like someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep these cases separate.”

“Someone with enough pull to manipulate police records?”

“Someone with enough money to buy whatever they want in this town.” Coleman’s expression darkens. “Be careful, Vic. You’re pulling on threads that lead to powerful people.”

I spend the next several hours poring over the Winters file, making notes, looking for patterns, connections, anything that might lead me to the killer. By the time I leave the station, dusk is settling over the city, casting long shadows between buildings.

I should go home, get some sleep. But the case has its hooks in me now, and there’s one more lead I need to follow.

The address in the Winters file leads me to a dive bar on the outskirts of town—The Satin Slipper, a place known for catering to the Hollywood crowd looking to slum it for a night. According to a witness statement, this was one of the last places Sylvia Winters was seen alive.

The bar is dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. I take a seat at the bar, ordering a watered-down whiskey I don’t intend to drink. The bartender—a wiry man with thinning hair and suspicious eyes—gives me a once-over, clearly identifying me as an outsider.

“Looking for someone?” he asks, setting down my drink.

“Information,” I reply, sliding a folded bill across the bar. “About a woman who used to come in here. Sylvia Winters.”

His expression dulls “Don’t know the name.”

“Blonde. Pretty. Found dead in Westlake Park six months ago.”

“Like I said. Don’t know her.” He slides the money back toward me. “And I don’t take bribes.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s payment for information.”

“And I got nothing to sell you, pal.”

A hand clamps down on my shoulder—large, extra-meaty, belonging to someone who uses their fists professionally. I should know. “The man said he doesn’t know her. Why don’t you scram?”

I turn to face a mountain of a man, his face pockmarked with old scars, wearing a suit that’s seen better days.

“I’m just having a drink,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“Not anymore.” His grip tightens. “We don’t like strangers asking questions.”

“I’m not a stranger. I’m a private investigator.” I show him my license. “Working a case.”

“Don’t care if you’re Rita Hayworth in the nude.” He jerks his thumb toward the door. “Out. Now.”

I could push it, cause a scene. This bastard is big but I can take him and lay him out cold. But that won’t get me any closer to the truth. Better to retreat, reassess, find another angle.

I down my whiskey and stand. “Tell your boss I was just making conversation.”