The Last Embrace (28 page)

Mickey stirred his coffee and his eyes flickered unpleasantly.

“Aw, c’mon, Mickey, don’t tell me you planned to read Tolstoy,” Florabel needled.

Mickey cleared his throat. “Not in a thousand years. I got a war and peace of my own to deal with. But I don’t like to see a gap in the volumes, it don’t look so good.”

The table erupted in titters.

“But you won’t read about my library in the press,” Mickey said. “The editors just use my name as a red flag to sell papers. Except for the Hearst papers. William Randolph ordered them to start calling me a gambler instead of a hoodlum.” He shook his head. “But the pols? Notice how they’re always vowing to run me out on a rail at election time?”

Florabel put a hand on his arm. “I hope you don’t take it personally.”

“It’s just politics. I know it don’t mean nothing. We’re all friends. The last time I was in the pokey the head of detectives brought me up a steak sandwich.”

“I think gangsters are sexy,” the peroxide blonde announced, thrusting her ample bosom in Mickey’s direction. Lily felt the room heat up.

“How’s that?” Stompanato grinned.

“Well, they take what they want, don’t they?” the blonde said.

“That’s attractive in a man,” the brunette piped up, not to be outdone by her friend.

A glow suffused the table. The blonde poured herself more coffee. Mickey picked up the creamer.

“Some milk with that?” he inquired, pinkie outstretched.

“Ain’t he a gentleman?” the blonde said. “The other night he let me win at cards.”

“Why’d you do that, Mr. Cohen?” her friend inquired.

“Noblesse oblige,” Mickey said, his tongue tripping over the French words.

“What’s that?” a gangster named Neddie asked.

“Something a peasant like you wouldn’t understand,” Mickey said.

The table laughed uproariously.

“But seriously, folks, Mickey’s very o-bleejing,” Florabel said. “He gets stacks of mail from all over the world, people asking for money and favors.”

“They’re always putting the touch on him,” Stompanato said, “on account of he’s so generous. Word gets around.”

Lily watched the girls, wondering how generous he’d been with them. Was this what Kitty’s nights had been like?

Mickey turned to Lily and Harry. “The place where you live, is it nice?” he asked.

Did Cohen know she’d moved into Kitty’s rooming house? Was this some kind of obscure threat? She pushed her silverware around on the tablecloth and glanced at Harry, who said, “Lily’s at a boardinghouse here in Hollywood and I’ve got an apartment in Larchmont. They’re okay.”

“The girls here”—Mickey nodded at the starlets—“have to get out of their dump and into something classy. I’m helping them look.”

“My building doesn’t have any vacancies right now,” Harry said.

“Mine either,” Lily murmured. The conversation was skating perilously close to Kitty.

“Vacancies can be arranged,” Mickey said.

Around five a.m., they packed it in. The gangster and his entourage stood up first, handing out hundred-dollar bills that had the waiters hitting the ground in supplication.

When they reached the lobby, they saw that Cooper and Murray were still outside.

“You paying the shield boys to guard you?” Florabel teased.

“Those guys?” Mickey said incredulously. “They’re so on the up and up, you couldn’t give ’em a nickel. But they wouldn’t frame a guy either. They’re real square policemen.”

They strolled outside and Mickey waited for his car to be brought up. Harry and Lily were standing behind the gangsters, Harry handing the parking attendant his ticket, when it started.

Pop, pop, pop,
like champagne corks going off into a microphone. Cooper staggered backward. Lily screamed. Sparks of light came from the vacant lot directly across Sunset Boulevard. Something grazed Harry’s thigh and a flattened deer slug the size of a fifty-cent piece clattered to the ground. Another shot whizzed through a glass door inside the nightclub. Hoisting his camera, Harry went instinctively to work. Neddie was on the ground. Mickey had disappeared. For a few moments, it was mayhem. Then Mickey, his right arm hanging limp and bleeding, screeched up in a blue Cadillac, jumped out, and ran to Cooper. The lawman was clutching his stomach with one hand and waving his pistol with the other.

“Coop, get in the car,” Mickey screamed.

The cop took a step forward and sagged, about to collapse. Then little Mickey, who’d once been a welterweight boxer, grabbed the six-foot-six cop, dragged him to the car, and threw him inside, blood spurting everywhere.

“Johnny,” he yelled, “get Neddie to the hospital. Let’s move it.”

Harry snapped away, feeling like he was back in the war.
Holy crap,
he thought.
The whole city’s been holding its breath, waiting for this to happen, and I land right in the middle of it. There’s going to be a bidding war for these pics.

Florabel scampered off to find a phone, yelling “Get me the city desk.”

The gangster named Neddie lay facedown on the sidewalk, screaming with pain, hollering that he couldn’t use his legs. There was a big hole in his lower back where a deer slug had penetrated, and his legs were riddled with shotgun pellets.

“Neddie, Neddie,” the brunette screamed.

Lily ran back inside and gathered tablecloths. She came back with a waitress and they bandaged up Neddie, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Then an ambulance arrived. Deputies from the Hollywood Sheriff’s Station were piecing the story together and every witness agreed that it had been Mickey’s finest hour.

A tablecloth draped across her shoulders against the night air, Lily hiked with Harry and Barney Ruditsky, the burly New York ex-cop who ran Sherry’s, across Sunset Boulevard, where they fanned out across the vacant lot with flashlights to look for evidence. The gunmen had piled brush in front of them before they laid in ambush. Halfway up an old concrete staircase, Harry and Ruditsky found empty shells and the remnants of sardine sandwiches the shooters had dined on while they waited for Cohen to come out.

“What a punk operation,” Harry said in disgust.

“These guys don’t have the decency of rattlesnakes,” agreed Ruditsky.

As daylight broke, the police announced they’d found abandoned shotguns on Harratt Street, a short block away. Nearby residents reported a car backing up and almost colliding with another vehicle as it raced down the hill.

“What a bunch of cowardly rats,” one of Mickey’s men said. “Wouldn’t even come out into the open, give a guy a fighting chance.”

Reporters were rolling in now, sniffing around one another like strange dogs at a fight.

“Yeah, but who were they?” Harry said, his voice low.

“Same ones that got Frankie and Li’l Dave, maybe. And the Scarlet Sandal.”

Lily pricked her ears up.

“If Dragna’s people are behind this,” the gangster said. “This means war.”

October 17, 1949

W
ho are Frankie and Li’l Dave?” Lily asked Harry as he drove her home. Dawn was streaking across the sky, all persimmon orange and cotton-candy pink.

“Two of Mickey’s guys who have disappeared.”

“Were they killed?”

Harry explained what Shorty had told him, dropping Lily off at the rooming house as the sun rose. She climbed upstairs and fell into bed like a dead thing.

A loud pounding woke her up four hours later.

“That Detective Pico said he’s on his way,” Mrs. Potter announced through the door.

Lily threw on clothes, swiped on lipstick, and powdered her face. Heading out, she stopped at the tarnished silver mirror by the door for one last look, her heart trilling with anticipation at seeing him again. Something caught her eye on the bookshelf. Next to the Bible. Something fancy, bound in red leather. Lily could see the mirror image of the title in the reflection. She let her brain disentangle the letters.
War and Peace.

The gangsters last night had mentioned a “little actress” who’d borrowed a book from Mickey. Was this it? Lily wondered if Kitty had been sleeping with the kingpin himself, not just partying with his underlings. With a last look at Tolstoy, she locked the door and saw Jinx emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe. That reminded her.

“Did my coat come in handy down on the beach?” Lily asked.

Jinx looked puzzled.

She remembered again how Jinx hadn’t been wearing the coat when she walked in. And it wouldn’t have fit in her overnight bag.

“You didn’t leave it in La Jolla or in your friend’s car, did you?”

Jinx’s face was still blank.

“That’s why I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The third girl they found strangled hasn’t been identified yet, but in the newspaper photo she was wearing a coat with fur trim that looked awfully like mine…Jinx, why are you staring at me like that?”

“I didn’t end up taking your coat. We stopped at the corner market to get sodas and Louise was there buying cigarettes. She asked if she could borrow it for a photo shoot. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

They stared at each other. “Louise,” they said together, and rushed for her door, throwing it open. The room was empty, the bed hadn’t been slept in.

Pico blinked at the sight of Jinx in her bathrobe.

“Alive and well,” he said. “I should have known.”

The two girls started talking at once.

“Hold on,” Pico said. “One at a time. You first.” He pointed to Lily.

“I loaned my coat to Jinx, but she loaned it to our roommate Louise, who went on a photo shoot two days ago and hasn’t come back. And the dead girl in the photo is wearing a coat that looks just like mine.” Lily took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Would one of you girls be willing to come downtown to look at the body?” Pico said, looking grave.

“Certainly,” they said together.

“Do you know the photographer’s name or where she was meeting him?” Pico asked.

Lily and Jinx shook their heads.

“Get dressed,” Pico told Jinx. “You knew her longer. I’ll drive you down.”

Jinx trudged up the stairs. Suddenly Pico’s arms were around her, his face nuzzling her hair.

“Lily.” His breath caught, warm and sweet against her cheek. “Lily. You’re all right.”

I’m alive,
thought Lily.
I’m here with you. That’s what I am.

Ear pressed to his chest, she heard the thud of his heart. She stood very still, listening to him repeat her name. It had never sounded so beautiful to her. And yet she felt such anguish. Out of all the roommates, Louise was the most self-assured, practical one. She’d been the one who’d cabled Mrs. Croggan when Kitty disappeared. She’d been the one who first called the police. Louise was the last girl Lily imagined falling prey to a slick stranger. If she was dead, then it could happen to any of them. She kept flashing to a scenario…Louise walking home at night, or sitting at a bus stop, wrapped in Lily’s coat. She’d be wearing a hat, which would obscure her face. She had the same proportions as Lily, the same color and style of hair. The night would have blurred their identities. The killer would have been in a hurry.

“Stephen,” said Lily. “I’m afraid it’s my fault Louise Dobbs was murdered. No, listen. I think the killer thought she was me. Someone who knew I owned a coat like that. Someone who thought I was getting too close to figuring out who killed Kitty.”

He examined her face, reading every tremor of emotion.

“We don’t know that the dead girl is Louise,” Pico said. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

Pico went to call Magruder and request a tech team to go over Louise’s room.

When he returned, he cleared his throat. “I called you back last night, but the girls said you were out. Where did you go at midnight?”

“I was at Sherry’s.” Lily launched into a description of the shoot-out.

Pico’s face grew stormy. “I thought I told you to be careful.”

“I had no idea what would happen. No one did. But based on what I heard, I think Kitty was more involved with Mickey Cohen’s people than anyone knew.”

She told him about the book, then ran upstairs to get it. Pico flipped through it and a scrap of paper fell out. He unfolded it. In Kitty’s handwriting, it read:
Frankie, 10/7 @ 9 pm.

“Frankie Niccoli,” Pico said wonderingly. “He’s one of the gangsters who partied with Kitty in Palm Springs and has disappeared. The other is Davey Ogul. Mickey’s people told me they’re just lying low, but we’ve got bulletins out at police departments across the country to pick them up on sight.”

“What if these two guys killed Kitty, then took off for Mexico to avoid getting caught?” Lily said. “Or it was a love triangle, and one guy killed the other, then Kitty, and went on the lam?”

“What’s also possible is that Jack Dragna’s mob killed all three. But then why haven’t Niccoli’s and Ogul’s bodies turned up?”

Lily’s eyes glittered and she explained the theory about the forfeited bail that Harry Jack had recounted on their way home. “Do you think Dragna would go to such elaborate lengths to ruin Mickey?” she asked Pico.

“I don’t know. And damn it, Lily, I want you to stop hanging around with gangsters. Kitty may have been murdered because she got too close to Cohen’s people. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

Lily pointed out that Cohen should have been well protected, what with so many cops standing guard outside. “I thought I might even see Magruder,” she joked.

Pico’s mouth twitched. “There’s something I should have told you earlier, and it’s been eating away at me. Magruder and I were at Keck’s apartment the morning he jumped, asking him about Kitty.”

Lily had a sudden, awful fear that the very thing that had brought them together—finding Kitty’s killer—might tear them apart once the full truth became known.

“How did you know about Keck?” she forced herself to say.

“One of Magruder’s pals had heard that Keck was calling around the station, asking questions about Kitty.”

“What exactly was he asking?”

“That’s what we went there to find out.”

“Couldn’t the DA’s office help you? If there was an investigation, there should be a file.”

“They didn’t know anything about it. If there was a file it’s disappeared.”

Lily walked to the window. The Santa Anas had kicked up again. Wind devils moaned and shutters creaked.

“How could a file just disappear?”

“Beats me,” Pico said. “The DA said Keck had been out sick since October twelfth so we thought maybe he’d taken the file home. But when we get there, he didn’t want to let us in at first. Didn’t know about any file. Seemed scared for his life.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But if Keck really was investigating, why didn’t he contact us when she turned up dead?”

“Because the file was opened under the name Doreen Croggan, not Kitty Hayden,” Lily said. “She must have wanted to do this under the radar.”

Pico was across the room in a flash. “So there is a file! How do you know?”

Lily sat down heavily. “I intercepted a letter Keck sent Kitty. It was misaddressed and only arrived a couple mornings ago.”

“Christ on a crutch,” Pico said. “What’d it say?”

“No details. Just that he had to talk to her again.”

Pico exploded. “You should have told me. That’s enough to get you killed. And you can’t get killed. Not now. Not after…”

Lily wanted to focus on the concern in his voice. But something nagged at her. Something he hadn’t explained yet.

“Stephen, what else happened at Keck’s apartment?”

“Nothing,” Pico said in disgust. “We warned him we’d be back with a search warrant and a subpoena to compel him to talk.”

“And that freaked him out so much that after you left, he jumped? Or someone came by immediately after and killed him?” Lily watched him carefully.

“I’m not sure how it happened.”

“That’s convenient,” Lily mused. “Kitty’s dead and the only other person who knew anything took a swan dive off a seventh-floor window ledge.”

“That coincidence has been worrying me. In the middle of our interview with Keck, Magruder asked me to go down to the car and get his wallet. Said he’d forgotten it.”

“Why did he need his wallet?”

Pico shot her a look. “He’s my senior partner. I didn’t ask.”

“But Keck was still alive when you got back?”

“He was a sniveling wreck, but he was alive.”

“You think Magruder threatened him?”

“I couldn’t find his wallet.”

They looked at each other.

“When we got back to the car,” Pico continued, “Magruder discovered his wallet in his jacket and apologized. Said he’d stuffed a few hundred in it and gotten nervous. Then he dropped me off at the Farmers Market. A greengrocer had seen a girl who looked like Kitty lingering by the fruit tables on October seventh and Magruder wanted me to interview him.”

“Why didn’t you do it together?”

Pico looked away. “Magruder said he had an errand to run. I figured he wanted to place a bet.”

“What did the greengrocer say?”

“That the girl seemed to be waiting for a rendezvous. She didn’t look scared or unhappy. He heard her greet someone whose name might have started with an
M
but just then a car honked and he missed the rest of it. The next time he looked up she was gone.”

“
M?
Could it have been Max? Max Vranizan?” Lily said.

“The guy’s just not sure.”

Lily turned it around in her head. “Vranizan said he hadn’t seen Kitty since Labor Day. Is the greengrocer sure it was Kitty?”

“Not a hundred percent. He thought he recognized her from the newspaper photos.”

“Why didn’t he call earlier?”

“He did. It’s taken us a while to work through all the leads. We showed him Vranizan’s photo, but it didn’t ring any bells.”

Pico shrugged. “Anyway, Magruder was in a foul mood when he got back from his errand. We were picking up the search warrant when the news came on the radio.”

“You think Magruder went back while you were at the Farmers Market and killed him?”

Pico stared at his hands. “It’s a possibility I can no longer ignore.”

“Why would he kill Keck?”

“Because he was about to blow the lid on something.”

“Something Magruder wanted covered up?”

Pico’s eyes flickered. “And one more thing. He’s got this briefcase he always carries. He dropped it on the way to the judge’s chambers and a manila envelope slid out. It was sealed, but Magruder acted like he couldn’t wait to get it back in his briefcase.”

Lily exhaled. “You think Keck had the file at home and Magruder took it when he killed him.”

“I don’t want to think that,” Pico said. “It troubles me. But he’s a loose cannon. He tried to strangle a bouncer the other day and I had to pull him off the guy.”

“Strangle?” Lily whispered, her hand going to her throat.

They were silent.

“You should report him,” Lily said at last.

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s…personal.”

“You have to. It’s wrong not to.”

“Let’s put it this way. It would be like turning in my own father.” Pico stared steadily at Lily. “Besides, who should I tell? The chief of police has just been indicted; so has his deputy. Half the force is crooked. There’s even rumors about Simpson, the district attorney.”

Lily watched Pico drive off with Jinx to the coroner’s office, feeling sick to her stomach. Pico had searched Louise’s room and found a calendar with the photography appointment and an address. Magruder was already headed to the studio. Lily considered the three murders. All were young, pretty women. All had been strangled and left clothed with only one shoe. All had been dumped in the Hollywood Hills near the symbolic sign. Could the killer be a disgruntled person on the fringes of show business, extracting symbolic revenge against Hollywood? But then how did Florence Kwitney fit into that equation? And what did the one-shoe business mean? If Louise really was dead and Lily’s theory of mistaken identity was correct, then she was in grave danger. But she had to stay alive long enough to unmask the killer.