Page 7 of Nocturne

6

CALLAHAN

T he morning fog clings to Los Angeles like a jilted lover, reluctant to release the city to the waiting sun. I park my Oldsmobile across from the Alto Nido apartments on North Ivar Avenue, a six-story Spanish Colonial on a hill that many aspiring actors, musicians and writers— dreamers —frequent. According to my notes, this is where Lena Reid has lived for the past two years. My notes also tell me I might have dropped by during my blackout, but being here now, no memories come up.

I check my watch. 8:17 a.m. Early for a nightclub singer, probably too early for a social call, but this isn’t social.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours gathering information on Elizabeth Short—interviewing her landlady, speaking with the photographers who took her publicity stills, combing through police reports that Coleman shouldn’t have shared. More than a few roads lead back to Lena Reid. Elizabeth’s closest friend. The one person who might know what Elizabeth was mixed up in before she died.

The one person I can’t seem to get out of my head since our meeting at The Emerald Room.

I light a cigarette and settle in to wait. The notebook Coleman gave me sits open on the passenger seat, filled with my cramped handwriting. Facts. Dates. Questions. The methodical approach that usually brings order to chaos. But something about this case resists organization, like trying to hold mercury in your bare hands.

A woman exits the building, red hair tucked beneath a green scarf, dark heart-shaped sunglasses obscuring her face despite the overcast morning. Even with these concessions to anonymity, I recognize Lena immediately. There’s something about the way she moves—deliberate yet fluid, like she’s perpetually aware of being watched.

I drop my cigarette out the window, crushing it under my shoe as I exit the car and cross the street. She’s halfway down the block before I catch up.

“Ms. Reid.”

She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before she faces me, sunglasses still in place.

“Callahan.” Her voice betrays no surprise, though at least she’s not calling mister anymore. “Following me now?”

“Coincidence. I was actually heading to your apartment.”

“At eight in the morning? How dedicated. I should be flattered.” She removes her sunglasses, and those dark eyes regard me with a mixture of wariness and something else I can’t quite place. Without the stage makeup and dramatic lighting, she looks younger, more vulnerable, though no less striking. Her lips shine subtly, making my cock twitch inside my pants.

“The early bird catches the killer,” I say, immediately regretting the flippancy.

She doesn’t smile. “You should work on your bedside manner, detective.”

“Private investigator,” I correct automatically. I’m used to people calling me detective.

“Is there a difference?”

“About thirty dollars a day and significantly less bureaucracy.”

That earns me the ghost of a smile. Progress.

“I have errands to run,” she says, replacing her sunglasses. “Unless you plan to arrest me?”

“Beyond my authority. But I could walk with you, ask a few questions.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Fine. But I need coffee first.”

Musso & Frank Grill is already half-full despite the early hour. The oldest restaurant in Hollywood attracts a particular clientele—studio executives conducting business over eggs Benedict, screenwriters nursing hangovers with bloody Marys, actors either celebrating last night’s triumph or drowning yesterday’s rejection.

We take a booth in the back. Lena orders coffee, black, and nothing else. I do the same, though I add a side of toast and half a grapefruit. The waitress, a stern-faced woman with expertly pinned gray hair, treats Lena with a deference that suggests she’s a regular.

“You perform anywhere besides The Emerald Room?” I ask once our coffee arrives.

“Occasionally. Romanoff’s when they need a replacement. Started at Slapsy Maxies. Ciro’s once, but that crowd’s a bit too…” She waves a hand vaguely.

“Upscale?”

“Narcissistic.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Elizabeth loved those places, though. Ciro’s, Mocambo, the Trocadero. Anywhere she might bump into Clark Gable or Ray Milland.”

“Was that why she came to Los Angeles? To meet famous men?”

Lena’s expression hardens slightly. “She came to be famous herself. Like thousands of other girls who step off the bus every day with a suitcase and a dream.”

“But unlike those thousands, Elizabeth ended up dead.” I keep my tone neutral, but Lena still flinches.

“You don’t mince words, do you, Callahan?”

“In my experience, minced words just make a mess of the truth.”

She regards me over the rim of her coffee cup. “And what truth are you after? The papers have already decided what kind of girl Elizabeth was.”

“I’m more interested in the girl you knew.”

Something shifts in Lena’s expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxing of her defensive posture.

“She was smart,” Lena says after a pause. “Smarter than people gave her credit for. And kind, genuinely kind, not the Hollywood version where it’s just another performance. But she was also…” She trails off, searching for the word.

“Naive?” I offer.

“Desperate,” Lena corrects. “For recognition, for stability, for someone to see her as special. That’s a dangerous combination in this town.”

“Dangerous enough to get her killed?”

Lena’s gaze drifts to the window, where Sunset Boulevard is coming alive with morning traffic. “This city eats dreams for breakfast. Elizabeth wouldn’t be the first girl who got devoured.”

“No. But most don’t end up bisected and displayed like museum exhibits.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, something like anger flashing in their depths. “Is that really necessary?”

“Necessary? No. Relevant? Absolutely.” I lean forward slightly. “Elizabeth wasn’t just murdered, Ms. Reid. She was staged. Displayed. That suggests something personal, ritualistic even.”

“Ritualistic,” Lena repeats softly, and for a moment, I swear I see recognition in her expression.

“You had said to me she mentioned some Europeans. Foreign businessmen connected to Cohen. You said they scared her.”

“Yes. But that’s all I know.”

“There isn’t anything else you’re not telling me?” I ask, leaning in even closer, my gaze boring into the dark chocolate depths of hers.

Lena hesitates, and I can see the internal debate playing across her face.

I wait, letting the silence draw her out.

You will tell me , I think. You know you want to.

She frowns at me for a moment, as if she heard my thoughts.

“I have her diary,” Lena continues reluctantly.

I perk up. “You have her diary?”

My voice is a little too loud because she looks nervously around the restaurant. “Shhh.”

“Sorry. When did you get her diary? Did you steal it?”

She gives me a dirty look. “I didn’t steal it. Goodness, Mr. Callahan, what kind of a dame do you think I am?”

“Sorry again.”

She exhales and I can tell she’s about to change her tune.

“Please continue,” I say to her.

Finally she nods. “She left it at my house, I think on purpose. When she came over, when I last saw her. I didn’t know until after she’d been killed that it could be important. She’d been keeping track of things, people she’d met, conversations she’d overheard. She was doing odd jobs for some men associated with Cohen, maybe even Siegel. Deliveries, mostly.”

“What kind of deliveries?”

“She never said. Maybe she didn’t know.”

“Can you bring me the diary?”

The corner of her mouth lifts and she gives her head a subtle shake. “No. It’s not for your eyes.”

“I could tell the police…”

Her eyes narrow, her pupils doing something strange, like they’re constricting and dilating in a rhythm. “You won’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because then you’ll lose me as an ally. And you need all the allies you can get in this business.”

I mull that over. I can’t do anything illegal but I could tell Coleman who will then get a warrant out for Lena’s arrest if she doesn’t turn over the diary as evidence.

Still, I don’t like how she’s trying to take control here. That pretty face is too used to getting what she wants.

“Your allegiance means nothing to me,” I tell her.

A brow raises. “Is that so? I may not know a lot of things, but I know men, Callahan.”

“And?”

“And I know men will hang on to that allegiance as long as it leads them to what they really want.”

“Which is?”

She sips her coffee, staring up at me through her long lashes. “A good fuck.”

Her language takes me by surprise, a hot flush spreading at the back of my neck, my cock twitching in my pants. My god, I could hear her say that phrase on repeat.

“To be more specific,” she goes on in her honeyed voice, “a good fuck with me .”

I clear my throat. No point pretending I don’t want exactly that.

“So then what? I just let you hold onto key evidence in the hopes that you’ll suck my dick one day?”

She laughs, rich and throaty, a gorgeous sound that turns heads. “Oh, I’ll do so much more than that.” Then she composes herself. “Doesn’t it feel good to be honest, Callahan?”

“It does. Why don’t you try it for a change?”

Her expression darkens. “I’ll be honest with you if you’re honest with me. I promise you that. Whatever you need from that diary I’ll tell you, but I’m not giving it up.” She reaches forward and puts her slender fingers on my arm. It causes the hair to rise. “Do you understand?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s trying to hypnotize me.

And yet I find myself nodding. “Agreed. So start by telling me what you know. Anything unusual she might have written down.”

She stares at me for a moment, then removes her hand. My skin feels cold without her.

“Well, she kept mentioning the foreigners who were doing business with Cohen,” she says. “Said she saw a man strapped down in a warehouse. She didn’t know if it was like a hit job or a sex thing. Oh, and she saw strange sigils, symbols at this warehouse. She drew them in the book.”

Rituals…warehouse…

“Did she mention any specific names?”

“No. She was vague when she mentioned people. But she recorded addresses, dates of deliveries, her feelings. That sort of thing.”

“Do you know where any of those addresses are?” I ask.

She presses her lips together.

Before I can press further, her attention is taken by a well-dressed man entering the restaurant and speaking to the server. He looks familiar, though I can’t place him.

“You know him?” I ask her.

She quickly turns her head toward me, fear flashing in her eyes for the first time.

The man now notices her and strides toward us. I tense, my hand going for my gun at my side, hidden by the table.

“Well, well, well,” the man says, stopping in front of us with a wry expression on his face. Up close I see the scar running over one cheek, notice the unkemptness of his fingernails as he toys with his car keys. Despite the well-fitted suit, this man didn’t come from money. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig. Some criminals are hard to hide. “Lena Reid. Didn’t expect to see you here. And at this hour.”

The man then looks at me. “Who might you be, pal? Because you don’t look like Marco to me.”

The name catches my attention. Marco. Likely Marco Russo, one of Cohen’s enforcers, known for his quick temper and quicker fists. I’ve seen his name in police reports too often for coincidence.

“Just a family friend from Oregon,” I tell him. “Sent on behalf of her father, making sure she’s okay with all the murders going on.”

“I see,” the man says. Then he smiles at Lena, a gold tooth shining in the corner. “Then I suppose Marco will have to understand that.”

The ma?tre d whistles from the stand, holding out a phone, and the man nods before heading back. “I’ll let him know. That’s probably him now.”

He leaves and I look at Lena for an explanation. Her expression is carefully neutral, though she swallows hard. “I need to go.”

She gathers her purse and I reach across the table, putting my hand on her arm. A current runs from her body to mine and I have to blink it away.

“Marco Russo?” I ask, unable to keep the question to myself.

“You know him?”

“It’s my job to know who’s who in this city.”

“Then you’ll know it’s unwise to interfere with his interests.” There’s something cold in her tone now, a warning. She rips her arm out of my grasp.

An unexpected flare of irritation rises in my chest. “And are you one of those interests, Ms. Reid?”

“That’s really none of your business, Mr. Callahan.” She slides out of the booth, adjusting her scarf.

“It becomes my business if it connects to Elizabeth Short,” I say sharply.

Lena pauses, studying me with renewed intensity. “Be careful, detective. Curiosity did worse than kill the cat in this town.”

“I’ve never been particularly fond of cats.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “No, you strike me as more of a lone wolf.”

“Wolves aren’t known for backing down.”

“But they are known for getting shot by hunters.” She gets to her feet. “If we’re done with the animal metaphors, I really do need to go.”

I stand as well, leaving enough cash on the table to cover our coffees and a generous tip. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the morning fog has finally surrendered to the California rays, making me wince at the light. Sunset Boulevard gleams with promise and pretense in equal measure. Convertibles with their tops down cruise past, driven by men in expensive suits and women in even more expensive dresses, all with purpose, all with dreams, all with secrets.

“How can I reach you if I have more questions?” I ask as we stand on the sidewalk. “You have my card but I don’t have a number for you.”

Lena considers me for a moment. “You’re a PI. I’m sure you know my number by now. You at least knew my address.”

“You’re not listed. But I’m sure I can do some digging. Might just be easier if you gave it to me yourself.”

She looks up and down the street, seemingly nervous. Then she makes a motion with her hand. “Give me your card.”

I provide one from my jacket pocket. She takes it, turns it over, and takes out a red lipstick from her bag, writes a number on the back before returning it to me.

“Don’t smudge it.”

I take it from her. “I’m honored.”

“Don’t be. I’m doing it for Elizabeth.”

A black Cadillac rolls to a stop at the curb beside us, its engine purring with expensive menace. Lena automatically flinches, her lips forming a tight line. The driver’s window lowers to reveal a square-jawed man with brilliantined hair and cold eyes.

Marco Russo.

“Lena,” he calls, not bothering to exit the car. “A little birdie told me you were here. Lucky I was in my office. Come on. Let’s go.”

She doesn’t immediately move, her eyes still on mine. For a moment, I have the strangest sensation of something passing between us, a strange familiarity.

Then acquiescence.

Finally she slips on her sunglasses and turns, walking to the Cadillac with unhurried grace, hips swaying under her coat.

Russo’s gaze shifts to me, assessing, territorial. I meet it with professional neutrality, though something primitive and possessive stirs unexpectedly in my chest. His eyes narrow slightly before the window rises and the car pulls away, carrying Lena with it.

I watch until the Cadillac disappears into the Hollywood traffic, trying to ignore the irrational surge of…what? Jealousy? Concern? Both seem equally inappropriate for a woman I’ve met exactly twice.

Yet as I walk back to my car, her scent—something feminine and sexy, like night jasmine and vanilla—lingers in my consciousness. The memory of her voice, the way her eyes seemed to see past my carefully constructed professional facade, the electricity that sparked when our hands briefly touched as she returned my card—all of it occupies more mental real estate than it should.

I need to focus. Elizabeth Short’s killer is still out there. The Europeans she mentioned could be the key, and Lena Reid knows more than she’s telling me. Far more. I can’t afford to be distracted by inappropriate attractions or territorial impulses toward a woman who’s clearly involved with one of Mickey Cohen’s enforcers.

Still, as I slide into my car and start the engine, I find myself looking at the phone number written on the back of my card in Lena’s red script. Careful not to smudge it, I tuck it into my wallet rather than my case notebook—a small but telling decision.

The morning stretches ahead, filled with leads to follow, witnesses to interview, breadcrumbs to gather. But as I pull into traffic, joining the stream of dreamers and schemers that populate this city of fallen angels, I know with unsettling certainty that I’ll be seeing Lena Reid again. Soon.

And not just for the sake of the investigation.