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The car radio is tuned to a news station, volume low. They’ve identified the Los Angeles murder victim now—Elizabeth Short, twenty-two, an aspiring actress from Massachusetts. The papers are calling her the “Black Dahlia,” making her sound like everything from a party girl to a prostitute. Typical. A woman can’t even get murdered in this town without having her reputation slaughtered alongside her.

Having had enough, I head back to my shitty hotel room and call my office. Norma, the secretary I split with Phillip, another PI, answers.

“You coming back yet?” Norma asks, the line crackling. “The town is going upside down over the murder case.”

“So I gather,” I tell her, wiping the sweat from my brow. The fans in the room do nothing to move the stale, desert air, andeven though the thermometer I drove past earlier had told me it was a cool sixty degrees, I feel strangely flushed.

“You had someone call just now,” she says. “You want the number? They didn’t give too many details but said it was connected to the Black Dahlia. That’s what they’re calling her now, you know. Because of the black dresses she would wear.”

I sigh and get her to tell me, writing down the number. I hang up and sit on the edge of the bed, thinking. I doubt the person calling me has any actual connections to the case. This is what happens when you get a high-profile crime, especially in Los Angeles. All the false confessions from the freaks and weirdos.

Still, the Vegas case is solved and I need the money.

I pick up the phone again and get connected to the operator who patches me through.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers.

“Hello? This is Victor Callahan,” I say. “I got a message to call you.”

“Mr. Callahan? Oh gosh. Thank you for calling me back. My name is Virginia West.” She pauses, taking in a deep breath that seems to fill the line. “You don’t know me, but my sister was Elizabeth Short. Half sister.”

I sit up. “Miss West. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is steady, controlled, but with an undercurrent of exhaustion. “I’m calling because we need help. The police aren’t doing their job…I hate to say it, but they’re more interested in selling papers than finding who did this to Betty.”

I say nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“You were recommended by a Detective Morrison. He said you used to be with Army Intelligence and that you’ve solved cases the police couldn’t touch. Good instincts, I believe he said.”

Morrison. Fine man, one of the few honest cops I know in LA. Still doesn’t explain why he’d send her my way.

“That’s kind of him to say,” I tell her. “But I handle private matters, Miss West. Missing persons, infidelity, insurance fraud. Murder investigations are police territory.”

“He said you might say that but…please.” The control in her voice cracks slightly. “The things they’re saying about her in the papers…it’s just so crude. And the detectives keep asking about her romantic life, like she somehow deserved what happened. We need someone who’ll actually look for the monster who did this. I know her father has already sold her out, they were estranged and it wasn’t a secret, but someone has to look out for her and I can’t do it alone.”

I consider her request. The case will be a nightmare—high-profile, politically charged, with the LAPD corrupt as hell and territorial about jurisdiction.

On the other hand, I’ve never been one to shy away from complications.

“I’m currently out of town on another case.”

“I understand. When will you be back? I’m in Los Angeles now and can meet you.”

“Tomorrow,” I hear myself say. “I can meet you at my office. Three o’clock. You know where it is? Good.”

After she hangs up, I sit motionless, staring out the window at the neon signs that flicker to life against the darkening Nevada sky. Taking this case means stepping into a hornet’s nest. But something about Virginia West’s voice, about the dignity she’s trying to restore to her sister’s memory, that strikes a chord.

Besides, I’ve never been able to walk away from a puzzle. And Elizabeth Short’s murder has all the makings of the most complex puzzle this city has seen in years.

Virginia West isnothing like her sister. Where Elizabeth had cultivated a dramatic look—black hair, pale skin, and crimson lips—Virginia is understated. Practical brown hair pulled into a neat bun, minimal makeup, a plain navy suit that’s seen better days. The only similarity I can detect is in the determined set of her jaw.

“I’ve brought what I could,” she says, opening a worn leather portfolio. “Photos, letters she sent me. The address of her boardinghouse. Names of friends she mentioned.”

I scan the documents as she lays them on my desk. Elizabeth smiling as she leans against a palm tree. Elizabeth with a serviceman, his arm around her waist. Elizabeth with a stunning woman outside a diner, both of them laughing.

“Who’s this?” I tap the last photo, strangely mesmerized by the other woman.

“Lena Reid, I think. Betty mentioned her a few times in her letters. Said she was a singer at some nightclub. They were close.”