Page 11 of Nocturne

10

CALLAHAN

S unrise bleeds across the horizon as we pull into the parking lot of The Blue Moon Diner, one of the few places in this part of town where the coffee doesn’t taste like it was filtered through an ashtray. At this hour, it’s mostly populated by workers coming off the night shift—factory men with grease-stained hands, nurses with weary eyes, cab drivers counting their tips.

I steal a glance at Lena sitting beside me. Even after spending the night on my office couch, she somehow manages to look composed. Her red hair is slightly mussed, falling in loose waves around her face, making her look younger, more vulnerable than the sultry singer I first saw on stage. The morning light catches on her profile, illuminating her pale skin, the elegant curve of her throat.

Last night still feels like a fever dream. Lena calling me in terror. The strange tale of her intruder. Marco Russo showing up at dawn, threatening us both. And somewhere between it all, me spilling my guts about Catherine, about the war, about things I haven’t told another living soul in years.

“You’re staring,” Lena says without looking at me, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Professional habit.” I exit the car and circle around to open her door. “Observing people.”

“Is that what you call it?” She steps out, her movements fluid despite her obvious fatigue.

Inside, we claim a booth by the window. The waitress—a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and world-weary eyes—brings coffee without being asked. A regular’s privilege.

“What’ll it be this morning?” she asks, pencil poised over her pad.

“The usual for me, Molly. And whatever the lady wants.” I look around. “Say, isn’t this Doris’ shift?”

She shakes her head. “Haven’t seen Doris for days. She never showed up for her shift.”

An uneasy feeling churns in my stomach. “She alright?”

Molly shrugs, seeming too weary to care. “One can hope. And what does the lady want?”

Lena places her order but my mind is tripping over Doris. The last time I saw her was when I had one of my blackouts. I was talking to her right here and that’s when the world went black.

I give my head a shake. There’s no way that can be connected. I’m sure Doris is just fine. Probably had enough and quit. Just because I lost time doesn’t mean I spent that time murdering my waitress.

The food comes fast. Lena ordered toast and eggs, though she doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about either. I notice she pushes the food around more than she eats it when it arrives.

“Not hungry?” I ask, halfway through my own plate of eggs and hash.

“Not particularly.” She sips her coffee, her magnetic eyes meeting mine over the rim of the cup. “Last night was…intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She sets down her coffee, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to see right through me. “You told me a lot about yourself. More than I expected.”

“Believe me, no one’s more surprised than I am.” I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve told about Catherine since the war. Yet something about Lena had pulled the words from me like a confession. Like she was a church I’d stumbled into, seeking refuge.

“Does it bother you?” she asks. “That I know so much about you now?”

“Should it?”

A slight smile curves her lips. “Most men prefer to maintain an air of mystery.”

“I think you’ve got enough mystery for both of us.”

Her expression shifts subtly, a wariness entering her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been forthcoming about exactly one thing—Elizabeth Short. Everything else about you is carefully curated. You want others to see what you want them to see. The perfect performance. And I’m no exception.” I lean forward slightly. “I know you’re from Salem, Oregon, your parents are still there, you’ve been in LA for three years, singing at The Emerald Room, and other joints about town, for two. But I don’t know a damn thing about who you really are.”

“And who do you think I really am, Callahan?”

There’s a challenge in her voice that makes something stir in my blood. Makes me want to rise and meet that challenge. “Someone who’s survived by keeping secrets. Someone who’s used to being watched, admired, desired—but never really seen.”

She goes very still, her face unreadable. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far.

Then she says, quietly, “And do you see me?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken things. The strange, electric connection that sparked the moment we met. The way she seems to haunt my thoughts even when she’s not around. The hunger that rises in me whenever we’re close. The way her presence makes me want to unleash every lewd, crude thought and action from deep inside me, turn me into more animal than man.

“I’m starting to,” I admit, my voice coming out hoarse. “But there’s still a lot in shadow.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe that’s where I prefer to stay.”

“Why? What are you hiding from, Lena? I don’t mean the Europeans. And don’t tell me it’s Marco or Mickey. Those boys don’t scare you the way they should.”

She bites her lip for a moment in thought. “Who says I’m hiding?”

“Your eyes do.” My words come out soft. “They’re always scanning exits, tracking movements, assessing threats. That’s not the habit of someone who feels safe in the world.”

Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at being so thoroughly read. “Do you think any girl in this city should feel safe?”

“Maybe the ones who know the right people.”

“And are you the right people?”

“I can be. For you.”

She mulls that over, licking her lips, the action causing heat to pulse through my cock. “You notice a lot.”

I splay my hands. “It’s what I do.”

“Is that all it is? Professional interest?”

The air between us thickens with unspoken possibility. I’m suddenly, acutely aware of the curve of her lips, the pulse point visible at the base of her throat, the way her pupils have dilated slightly. I’ve known this woman for a week, yet I can’t remember the last time I wanted someone with such intensity. The kind that blinds and binds you, that leaves a mark.

This could be my downfall.

“No,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. “That’s not all it is.”

She holds my gaze, something inviting in her eyes, and that itself is dangerous. “Then what is it?”

How do I explain this ache? This pull toward her that defies reason? What would she think if I told her how I’ve jacked off to her, imagining what it would be like to grip the creamy white skin around her neck, to thrust my cock down her throat, watch her suck me dry?

Would she recoil? Would I offend her ladylike sensibilities?

Or am I right in thinking she wants it too. Wants me to take her in whatever way I can, as rough as I can be.

“I’m not sure,” I say instead. “But I intend to find out.”

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Always the investigator.”

“Old habits.”

We finish our coffee in charged silence, the air between us electric with things unsaid. When I finally pay the bill and we head back to the car, my hand finds the small of her back—a gesture both protective and possessive, and utterly natural.

The drive to her apartment passes with the same tension, both of us acutely aware of the other, of the narrowing space between professional collaboration and something far more complicated.

A space I’m more than willing to step into.

When we pull up outside the Alto Nido, I kill the engine but keep my hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.

“You don’t have to go back in there,” I say. “Not after what happened last night.”

She turns to face me, a spark in her eyes. “Afraid I can’t take care of myself?”

“I’d be a fool to think that.” I meet her gaze directly. “But everyone needs backup sometimes.”

“Is that what you’re offering? Backup?”

No. What I want to offer is something far more primal, more complicated. I want to follow her up to that apartment, push her against the wall, and finally taste those crimson lips. I want to lose myself in her body until these crude, obsessive thoughts are purged from my system. I want?—

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now,” I manage. “Perhaps neither of us should be, with everything that’s happening.”

“You’re telling me you’re scared?”

I am , kitten . But not of what you think.

Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a decision being made. She reaches across the seat, her hand coming to rest on mine, cool fingers against my skin sending electricity up my arm.

“Come up, then,” she says, her voice low. “Just for a while.”

The invitation hangs between us, tempting, dangerous.

I should say no. I should keep a professional distance. I should remember that she’s connected to my case, to Cohen’s organization through Marco. That she herself might not be who I want her to be.

I almost reach for the doorhandle, but something stops me.

It’s that last thought.

That there’s something about this woman—no matter how enticing and beguiling she is, no matter how badly I want to take control and fuck her pretty little brains out—that is bad news. Maybe even dangerous. And that she might not have my best interests at heart. I’d wager she only has one person’s best interests at heart, and that’s her own.

Can’t blame her for that either.

“Maybe some other time,” I tell her. “I’ve got work to do. I’m sure you do too.”

She nods, a cool expression coming over her face, as if slipping on a mask. Perhaps I’ve hurt her with my rejection. I think I hurt myself too. At least I know my dick is throbbing in protest.

We part ways and I watch until she disappears into her apartment before I decide to drive back home to take a shower. The warm water manages to knock some sense back into me, and I come in the stream to the thoughts of pinning her in her dressing room and going at her with feral abandon.

The phone rings just as I’m stepping out. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer. “Callahan.”

“They found another one.” Coleman’s voice crackles through the line, grim and urgent. “Six months ago, similar MO. Why don’t you stop by the station?”

My blood runs cold as I adjust the receiver. “Another body?”

“Already accounted for. Cold case so far. Sylvia Winters. Found in Westlake Park, partially drained of blood, strange marks left on her skin. She wasn’t bisected but it was still pretty grim. They buried the file, but one of the evidence clerks remembered it after seeing the Short case photos.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and get ready, no time to waste. Another possible victim means a pattern. A pattern means I’m getting closer to the truth.

I start the car and pull into traffic, heading toward the station. Coleman is waiting for me in his cluttered office, a thick file spread across his desk.

“Sylvia Winters,” he says without preamble, pushing a photograph toward me. A young woman with honey-blonde hair and a serious expression. “Twenty-five. Waitress at The Coconut Grove. Found in Westlake Park six months ago.”

I scan the police report, looking for details. “Cause of death?”

“Exsanguination. Body was partially drained of blood, though not as completely as Short’s. Puncture wounds. Multiple lacerations to the torso and limbs. Some cigarette burns appeared ritualistic in nature.”

“Symbols?”

Coleman nods, sliding over another photograph. The image shows markings carved into pale flesh—not exactly the same but similar to what Lena and I had seen on the warehouse wall, though less elaborate than what was done to Elizabeth Short.

“Like a practice run,” I murmur.

“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.”

“Sure.” The giant smirks. “I’ll tell him real nice.”

Outside, the night air is cool against my face. I light a cigarette, mentally recalibrating. The bar was a dead end, but it confirmed one thing—people are nervous about the Winters case.

Which means I’m on the right track.

The same tracks that lead to the Black Dahlia.

I’m halfway to my car when the vertigo hits—sudden, overwhelming. The street tilts beneath my feet, the streetlights blurring into streaks of color. I grab the nearest wall for support, but it’s like trying to catch smoke.

No.

Not now.

Not again.

The darkness rises like a tide, washing over me, pulling me under.

But it isn’t just the darkness this time.

Something else is there, as if waiting in the shadows of my mind.

Something vicious.

Something wild.

Something…hungry.

And then there’s nothing at all.

“Hey, buddy. You alright?”

The voice comes from far away, filtering through layers of fog. I blink, trying to orient myself. I’m sitting on a bench in a park I don’t recognize, my shirt disheveled, my knuckles raw and scraped.

“Mister? You need help?”

The speaker is an elderly man walking his dog, concern etched on his weathered face. I blink at him. It’s daylight—early morning by the angle of the sun.

I’ve lost an entire night.

“I’m fine,” I croak. “What time is it?”

My voice is rough, my throat parched and yet I feel strangely full.

“Just past seven.” He eyes me warily. “You got blood on your face.”

I touch my mouth, fingers coming away red. Blood. But not from a cut—it’s coming from inside my mouth. The taste coats my tongue, as if I’ve bitten it. Yet I feel no pain, no wound.

“Thanks,” I mutter, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe my face. “I’m fine.”

The old man shrugs and continues on his way, his dog casting a nervous glance back at me, ears pricked forward and back. Smart animal. It senses something wrong with me.

Because something is very wrong with me.

I take stock of my situation. I’m in Elysian Park, miles from where I last remember being. My car is nowhere in sight. My clothes are rumpled but intact, no tears or additional bloodstains beyond my hands and mouth. My wallet and gun are still on me, ruling out a mugging.

Yet another blackout. The longest one yet. And this time, I woke up with more than just a strange taste. I woke up with blood in my mouth.

I stagger to my feet, spitting out the remnants of blood, fighting off another wave of dizziness. These episodes are getting worse, more frequent. I need answers.

But first, I need to get back to civilization, back to my car. I stumble toward what I hope is the park exit, trying to piece together what might have happened during my lost hours. Did I get into a fight? Is the blood in my mouth from a split lip I can’t feel?

Or is it something else entirely?