Page 3 of Nocturne

2

CALLAHAN

I wake with the copper taste of blood in my mouth and the remnants of a dream slipping away like smoke.

Something about running through darkened streets. A hunger so intense it felt physical. A rage that took hold. Then nothing but fragments dissolving as consciousness comes to the forefront.

I sit up, head pounding, and glance at the bedside clock. 1:17 p.m.

That can’t be right.

I never sleep past seven, not even when I’m sick. Discipline is the one thing I’ve carried with me from my military days—the one thing that keeps the rest of my life from unraveling like a cheap suit.

The apartment is silent except for the distant sounds of traffic and the occasional shout from the street below. January sunlight filters through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the rumpled bed. I’m still wearing my trousers from yesterday, though my shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open.

I notice dark, rust-colored splotches patterning the white cotton near the cuff and collar. Dried blood. Must have had another nosebleed in my sleep. They’ve been happening more frequently lately. Least they don’t happen when I’m awake.

I strip off the shirt and head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks like he’s been on a three-day bender—hollow eyes, stubbled jaw, skin sallow beneath my naturally olive complexion. I look like hell, but I don’t remember drinking last night.

In fact, I don’t remember much of anything after leaving the office around eight.

These gaps in memory have been happening more often. Just stress and overwork, most likely. Nothing a decent meal and a proper night’s sleep won’t fix. Maybe a good fuck too, though that’s becoming fewer and far between these days. When was the last time I’d been with a woman? October? Shameful. If I keep this up, my dick might cease to work.

The small Philco radio on my dresser crackles to life with a twist of the dial. I need noise, something to drown out the pounding in my skull.

“—gruesome discovery early this morning in a vacant lot on South Norton Avenue,” the announcer’s voice cuts through a burst of static. “The body of an unidentified young woman was found brutally mutilated. Police are calling it one of the most shocking murders in Los Angeles history?—”

I turn up the volume, suddenly alert despite my fatigue.

“The victim, believed to be between sixteen and thirty years of age, was found by a local resident walking her child to school. Police have revealed the body was severed at the waist and appeared to have been drained of blood. Captain Jack Donahue of the LAPD has issued a statement asking anyone with information to come forward?—”

Another murder in the City of Angels. Nothing new there, though this one sounds particularly grim. I switch off the radio and head to the shower, eager to wash away the night sweat and the taste of pennies lingering in my mouth.

Three days later, I’m parked outside the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, watching the comings and goings of Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel’s operation through a pair of field glasses. The client who’s paying me to track his wife’s gambling debts would be better off accepting that the money’s gone, but he’s convinced Siegel’s people are running some kind of special scam on her. They’re not. She’s just bad at blackjack and worse at knowing when to walk away.

It’s busywork, the kind of case I’d normally pass off to someone else. But after weeks of complex investigations, mindless surveillance feels almost like a vacation.

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, and even 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 is nothing 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.”

I make a note. “How often did you and your sister communicate?”

Virginia’s fingers twist in her lap. “Not enough. Monthly letters, mostly. Sometimes postcards. We weren’t raised together—different fathers. But we found each other a few years ago.” Her voice falters. “I should have done more.”

“Guilt doesn’t solve cases, Miss West,” I remind her. “What else can you tell me about her time in Los Angeles?”

“She was always chasing dreams. Acting mostly, but she’d try anything. She wanted to be somebody. Who doesn’t?” Virginia’s eyes grow distant. “In her last letter, she mentioned a new opportunity. Someone with connections who could help her career.”

“Did she say who?”

She shakes her head. “Just that it might be her big break. That’s Betty—always hopeful.”

I don’t mention that hope is what gets you killed in this city. Instead, I gather the materials into a neat pile.

“I’ll need to keep these for now,” I tell her. “My rate is twenty-five a day, plus expenses. I require a three-day advance.”

Virginia straightens. “I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes, Mr. Callahan.”

As she writes the check, I study her face. The determined sister, the practical one, now left behind to make sense of a senseless crime.

After she’s gone, I sit in the gathering darkness, spreading the photos across my desk. Elizabeth Short smiles up at me, unaware of her gruesome fate. In the corner of one photo, her friend—Lena Reid—looks directly at the camera, her dark eyes seeming to hold a challenge.

Find me , they seem to say. If you dare.