Page 5 of Nocturne

4

CALLAHAN

T he headache starts as I’m leaving the office, a dull throb behind my right eye.

Night has fallen over Los Angeles, the streets glossy with recent rain, neon signs reflecting in puddles like portals to some garish underworld. I loosen my tie as I walk to my car, irritated by how the fabric seems to constrict my throat.

These headaches have been getting worse. More frequent.

I unlock the Oldsmobile, sliding behind the wheel and sitting for a moment in the dark. The folder with Elizabeth Short’s photos and letters rests on the passenger seat. Virginia West’s distress still lingers in my mind—the quiet dignity of her grief, the determination to find justice for a sister she barely knew.

Starting the car, I pull into the sparse evening traffic. I need food, a shower, and sleep, in that order. Tomorrow I’ll see Coleman, get what information the LAPD is willing to share about the Black Dahlia. There’s a rhythm to investigations, steps that can’t be rushed.

The pain intensifies as I drive, spreading from behind my eye to encompass my entire skull. Lights from oncoming cars seem too bright, each one sending daggers through my retinas. I fumble in my pocket for aspirin, dry-swallowing two tablets without taking my eyes off the road.

They don’t help.

By the time I reach the diner three blocks from my apartment, the pain has become a pulsing entity, something alive inside my head. I park and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, waiting for the aspirin to kick in.

Just need to eat something. Low blood sugar, that’s all.

I manage to make it inside, claiming a booth in the back. The waitress—Doris, who’s seen me at my best and worst—takes one look at me and brings water without being asked.

“You look like death warmed over, Vic,” she says, sliding the glass toward me.

“Feel it too.” I squint up at her. “The usual, please.”

She nods and disappears, leaving me to massage my temples. The diner’s sounds—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the sizzle of the grill—seem amplified, painfully loud. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, sending shooting pains through my skull with each pulse.

Something’s not right with me. Is this what a migraine is? It’s like my senses are overloaded.

The thought forms through the fog of pain just as Doris returns with my coffee. I try to thank her, but my tongue feels wrong in my mouth, clumsy and thick. The cup trembles in my hand as I bring it to my lips.

Then it happens.

The diner tilts sideways, colors blurring together like wet paint. A high-pitched whine fills my ears, drowning out all other sounds. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white with effort, but I can’t seem to anchor myself.

“Vic?” Doris’s voice comes from far away. “You alright, hon?”

I try to answer, but my mouth won’t form the words. The last thing I see before darkness swallows me is Doris’s concerned face, her mouth moving in words I can no longer hear.

Then nothing.

I wake to the sound of rain.

For a moment, I lie still, eyes closed, trying to orient myself through sound alone. Rain pattering against windows. The distant rush of traffic. A dog barking somewhere nearby.

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 on The Blue 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.”

“She was twenty-two and looking for work in Hollywood,” I say flatly. “Just like everyone else. Though I’m sure that detail won’t make the papers alongside the speculation about her virtue.”

Coleman sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look, you want to poke around, be my guest. God knows we could use an extra pair of eyes. But tread carefully. The brass wants this wrapped up clean and quick.”

“When has murder ever been clean and quick?”

Especially a murder like this.

Body severed in half.

Both legs broken at the knees.

Multiple lacerations and cigarette burns on both breasts, one nearly sliced clean off.

Massive skull fractures.

And the piece de resistance, a laceration from both corners of the mouth to the earlobes. A “Glasgow Smile” that was carved into her face, giving her a permanent, grotesque grin that lasted past her death.

How the fuck could that be wrapped up clean and quick?

“I’m serious, Vic. There’s pressure coming down from above on this one. I’m hearing whispers about connections in high places, people who don’t want certain stones turned over.”

That gets my attention. “What kind of connections?”

Coleman glances toward the open door of his office, then lowers his voice. “The girl knew people. Connected people. Word is she was seen around town with men who have the kind of money that buys silence.”

“Cohen’s people?”

“Maybe. Maybe higher.” He pushes a thin folder across the desk—not the official case file, but something he’s compiled separately. “This doesn’t leave this room, understand? Just a few notes of my own, leads the department isn’t pursuing with appropriate enthusiasm.”

I take the folder, not opening it yet. “Why are you helping me, Ray?”

His expression darkens. “Because we need your help in return. Whoever did this isn’t going to stop with Elizabeth Short. This wasn’t a crime of passion or opportunity. This was calculated. Thought-out. Almost…ritualistic.” He pauses, his mouth downturned. “And I’ve got a daughter her age.”

I pocket the folder and stand to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Vic,” he calls as I reach the door. “One more thing. She had several close girlfriends we’ve been interviewing. One name keeps coming up—Lena Reid. Singer at The Emerald Room. Might be worth a conversation.”

I nod my thanks, not bothering to tell him I know all about her.

Then I step out into the January sunshine, wincing at the light, the weight of the folder in my pocket nothing compared to the weight of the task ahead. Whatever happened to Elizabeth Short, it wasn’t random. And if Coleman’s right about it being part of something larger, I need to move quickly before the trail goes cold—or someone ensures that it does.

The Emerald Room lives up to its name, all deep greens and gold accents, smoke hanging in lazy curls beneath art deco light fixtures. It’s early yet, only about half the tables filled, but there’s already a palpable energy to the place. The kind of electricity that comes from knowing you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be with people you shouldn’t be with.

I take a seat at a small table near the back, angled to see both the stage and the entrance. The waitress who takes my order looks like she’s seen every trick in the book twice and written a few of her own.

“You just missed the first set,” she says, setting down my drink. “But Lena’s back on in twenty.”

I slide her a generous tip. “She’s why I’m here.”

She studies me briefly, clearly trying to determine if I’m a cop, a troublemaker, or just another man captivated by the mysterious Lena Reid. Evidently deciding I fall into the last category, she offers a knowing smile before moving on to the next table.

I left Coleman’s file back in my car. I’m not here to read. I’m here to observe, to get a sense of Elizabeth Short’s closest friend before I approach her directly. In my experience, watching someone in their natural habitat reveals more than any interrogation.

The lights dim as I’m halfway through my rum sour. A hush falls over the crowd, conversations dropping to whispers then silence. The band begins a slow, smoky number, all brushed drums and mournful saxophone.

And then she steps into the spotlight.

Lena Reid is a vision in emerald sequins that catch the light with every movement of her curves. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders, a striking shade of red, framing a face that belongs on the silver screen—porcelain skin, high cheekbones, full lips painted a dark crimson. But it’s her eyes that catch and hold my attention—deep brown, almost black in the low light, with an intensity that seems to look through rather than at her audience.

When she begins to sing, the room disappears.

Her voice is like aged bourbon—smooth, rich, with a burning finish that lingers long after the note ends. She doesn’t perform so much as confess, each lyric delivered like a secret shared only with you, despite the room full of listeners.

I’ve spent my adult life cultivating detachment. It’s a professional necessity and a personal preference, especially after I lost Catherine. But as I watch Lena Reid weave her spell, I feel something stir beneath that carefully maintained distance—a pull, a recognition of something familiar yet unnamed.

She moves across the stage like a woman who knows precisely the effect she has and is simultaneously amused and bored by it. There’s power in her performance, but also a subtle sadness that I suspect most miss beneath the glamour.

And there’s danger, too.

Just a whiff of it.

This woman was close to Elizabeth Short. Close enough that her name came up repeatedly in interviews, that even Virginia knew who she was. Did she know what Elizabeth was involved in? Who she was seeing? What secrets she might have stumbled upon that got her killed?

As Lena holds a final, heartbreaking note, her gaze sweeps the room and for a brief, disconcerting moment, seems to land directly on me. A jolt of something—awareness, recognition, warning—passes through me, setting off alarm bells I haven’t felt since the war.

Then she’s bowing gracefully, accepting the enthusiastic applause with a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach those remarkable eyes.

I drain my drink, decision made. I need to speak with her tonight, before I lose my nerve or my objectivity—the latter already dangerously compromised by five minutes in her presence.

As I rise from my table, I notice my heart beating faster than usual, a strange heat coursing through my veins. Probably just the booze on an empty stomach. Or maybe it’s something about Lena Reid that affects me on a level I don’t yet understand.

Fuck, I need to get laid.

Either way, I have questions that need answers. And I suspect Ms. Reid has secrets worth uncovering—whether she’s willing to share them or not.