Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie

  PROLOGUE

  The soft glow in the bedroom gave the young woman's face the sensuous texture of fleshy velvet. At least, that's what she thought as she studied herself in the mirror. She wondered if that quality would vanish in the harsh glare of movie lights. Placing her index finger just below her left ear, she traced a line down to her chin and up to the lobe of her right ear. Her mother had claimed that her face was a little too wide to be considered really beautiful. Of course, her mother had never given her blessing to her daughter's lofty ambition.

  She was wondering what a makeup man could do for her when she heard the noise at the window. The young woman tensed and glanced toward it. Located just to the right of the vanity, it opened into an alley running behind the dreary apartment complex. It sounded as if someone had been testing the window to see if it was locked. Thankfully it was always locked. She had been warned about the tramps and derelicts who made the alley their home.

  "Ignore them," she had been told. "And don't answer the door unless you know who it is."

  The woman, her flaxen hair gleaming in the low light, continued to listen. She heard nothing now except the water running into her dismal bathtub. The finish on the tub was chipped and yellowed by rust. When she had first arrived at the apartment, it had been a little grimy, too, but she had spent an hour scrubbing it, since she much preferred a long, relaxing bath to a shower.

  A thin curtain covered the bedroom window. She wanted to peek outside, but her common sense warned her to leave well enough alone.

  "Ignore them," she said, speaking aloud the advice given to her.

  Los Angeles was such a depressing place—certainly not what she had expected. Back in Modesto, the people were at least polite. Here—well, politeness just wasn't one of the things folks practiced. She blamed it on the hectic rush of life.

  Whatever the noise was, it hadn't been repeated. She rose from the vanity and went to a table by the bed. A heavy book rested on top of it. She picked up the book and her glasses and went into the bathroom. If she had remained in the bedroom for just a few seconds longer, she would have heard another sound—the low but harsh rasp of metal against metal. A circular hunk of steel—the window's lock—bounced with a soft thud off the windowsill and landed silently on the worn carpet of the floor. A gloved hand pushed the window open.

  In the bathroom, the young woman was lowering herself into the steaming water. At first, it was uncomfortably hot, but that's how she wanted it, especially here in Los Angeles where the dirt seemed to cling to her body. She closed her eyes and slid down into the tub, allowing the soapy water to wash up and over her large breasts. Her nipples stiffened.

  The book and her glasses rested on the tile floor by the tub. She didn't pick them up at once. Instead, she closed her eyes, allowing the heat of the water to seep into her pores. It softened the tension in her muscles, and she closed her eyes to dream a little.

  On the other side of the wall, the intruder, dressed in dark clothes, eased a long-handled instrument into the bedroom first. Then came one leg, followed by the bulk of his body. Once he was inside, he stopped to listen. He heard the gentle swishing of water and went first to the dresser, where he pulled open a drawer.

  The young woman soaked for a good ten minutes before she reached down for her glasses and the book—Fifteen Great Scenes For Young Actors. She had been studying the book for several days now. She really didn't think any of the scenes were that great, but what did she know? She wanted to be an actress, and, if this was the kind of stuff she had to study, then so be it.

  From somewhere outside the bathroom, she heard the floor creak.

  "Who's there?"

  Water gurgled around her. It dripped from her raised elbow. Other than that, she heard nothing.

  She had been cautioned that there were a lot more little tremors in Los Angeles than in Modesto, The front door was latched. All the windows were locked. So, it must have been a tremor—or maybe the building settling a little. Back in Modesto, the home place creaked and groaned all the time. She heard footsteps above her, but her apartment was on the ground level of the two-story building, so that didn't worry her. She settled back into the water and began to read one of the scenes aloud, trying to put the proper emotion in her voice.

  The man in the bedroom had frozen at the sound of her voice. His hands had been searching through a bureau drawer that was full of silky panties and lacy bras. He had even brought the crotch of one set of panties to his nose. Though clean, it still smelled of woman. He listened to the voice for several minutes before he realized what the young woman was doing. It made him chuckle.

  She slammed the book closed and let it drop to the tile floor. Those weren't the kind of scenes she wanted to do. She liked the romantic comedies, especially those starring Clark Gable. In fact, she liked anything starring Gable. The water was starting to cool, so she quickly washed the grime from her hair and soaped her body clean. She released the plug, allowing the water to drain out.

  In the bedroom he heard the sucking sound when the last of the water drained out of the tub. Quickly he stepped to the window to grab the object he had brought with him and then darted into the cover of the closet. He was just in time. The door was hardly closed when she stepped into the bedroom.

  At first glance, she didn't notice the open drawers of the dresser and the clothing spilled out of them. A worn towel was wrapped around her torso, and she sat down on the bed to dry her hair with the smaller towel in her hand. She saw the ransacked drawers when she finished with her hair.

  "Oh—" It took a split second for the scene to mature into a horrifying realization.

  Her heart started to pound. A knot of fear formed deep in her belly. Slowly her eyes moved around the shadows of the bedroom. Though her knees and legs were weakened by fear, she stood and started toward the door. The towel dropped from her body, but she didn't stop to retrieve it.

  The closet door burst open just as she reached the bedroom door. The young woman managed to dodge the first blow from the axe—the second one, too. She hadn't even screamed. She was too frightened, but she had enough presence of mind to lash out at her attacker—until he wielded the heavy blade a third time.

  ONE

  The man stood near the center of the theater's lobby, a three-foot circular buffer zone separating him from the noisy crowd. He had done nothing to create the space he enjoyed. Maybe it developed because he didn't quite belong to the show business crowd that congested the lobby of the Egyptian Hotel. He was taller than most of the men, his skin not as richly tanned. His dark hair, worn slick and parted, was just beyond needing a trim. A five-o'-clock shadow, more pronounced now that it was ninish, suggested a heavy beard that demanded more than once-a-day attention. His suit wasn't a shiny black tuxedo or purchased at one of the exclusive Hollywood shops. Most of the "in" crowd probably took him for another one of the seedy news people who hung about their gatherings like a squadron of hungry mosquitoes, anxious to feed on the popularity that was their lifeblood.

  But even that didn't fully explain their reluctance to push too close to him. Perhaps it was something more basic than even his appearance—an aura emanating from the man that didn't welcome small talk, and hinted at a personality dark and slightly dangerous. Whatever the reason, the show biz folks stayed away from him. He didn't mind a bit.

  With dark blue, dispassionate eyes, he assimilated the slapstick chaos. Cumbersome television cameras, manned by two-men crews, channeled and obstructed the traffic flow. Still photographers, dressed even less appropriately than he, checked and adjusted their camera settings as the glitterati jostled them. From inside the theater proper, he could hear tumultuous applause—amazing, considering how many people alr
eady had spewed forth from the darkened theater in the hope that the cameras might pause for even a fleeting moment on their tanned, not-quite-famous faces. The men were a homogeneous group, for the most part dressed alike in their evening clothes, distinguishable from their counterparts only by virtue of the females attached to their arms. The women, barely covered by tight-fitting beaded dresses, provided the crowd with its color—and most of its noise.

  Outside the theater, swarms of star-worshipers pushed and battered the contingent of cops assigned to crowd control. The fans' hysterical screaming grew even louder as the theater audience emptied into the lobby. Some of the onlookers even managed to press their sweaty faces against the lobby's glass windows before frustrated cops flung them back toward Hollywood Boulevard. They yearned for a chance to lay hands on a star, any star—to shake hands, to hug, or at least to touch. Merely to see a star was a rather drab alternative on their premiere wish list.

  Although the lobby was filling rapidly, the man in its center still enjoyed his few square feet of space. The movie people who milled among each other gave him wary glances. Unlike the press pests, he wasn't asking for interviews, making notes, or brandishing a camera. He remained an enigma to most of those with whom he celebrated.

  As for himself, he had worked the seamy side of Hollywood for a lot of years. The glitter had quickly tarnished. As famous and rich as they were, or pretended to be, he found these show biz people in a lot of ways more pathetic and vulnerable than those on the other side of the glass who so blindly venerated them.

  A young man, dressed in a shiny black leather vest, jeans, and scuffed engineer boots, dared to violate the buffer zone. He wore his sideburns far below the lobes of his ears, and his hair was piled almost as high as some of the bouffant styles worn by the women. He carried a small camera in his hands, its purpose more than just an excuse for his appearance.

  "Damn, look at all the big names," the young man said.

  Jack Cleary smiled down at the James Dean look-alike. "You starstruck, Betts?"

  "I've just never seen so many stars, not in one place." As if to prove the point, he gasped and hoisted the small camera to his eye to snap a picture of one of Hollywood's favorite leading men.

  "He's a lot shorter than he looks in the movies," he said as he advanced the film, preparing for the next big shot.

  Betts's disillusionment was short-lived as he noticed a tall, big-breasted redhead emerge from the theater. She wore a red-beaded gown like a second skin. "Would you look at her. I'd like to count every one of those beads, starting just below her chin."

  "Who?" Cleary asked, not really interested in an answer.

  "Her!" Betts pointed.

  "That's Avon Marlo."

  "Marlo?"

  Cleary nodded. "Yeah. The daughter of the lady of honor tonight."

  "Hey, man, introduce me. She's fine."

  Cleary gave his young associate a long up-and-down look. "Christ, Betts, you look like a refugee from a backwoods reform school. Trust me, you're not her type."

  Johnny frowned. "I bought these threads especially for this. It's the new look."

  "There's nothing new about that look. I'd call it early fifties delinquent. And those boots—" Cleary couldn't think of words to describe them. "Well, a polish certainly wouldn't do them any harm."

  Betts had broken the spell that surrounded Cleary. A camera crew was trying to work their way across the room. The producer was shoving people aside until he reached Cleary. He stared up at the dark, pensive features. "Can I get through, guy?"

  Cleary ignored him and leaned down close to Betts. "Save some film for the surveillance."

  Betts, his eyes searching again for the young woman in the red dress, nodded in acknowledgement.

  "Did you hear me, Betts?"

  "Yeah, I heard. I'll stop with the picture taking."

  "I'm gonna take a closer look at our man when he comes out."

  "What's the cat look like?"

  Cleary rolled his eyes. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need a closer look, now would I?"

  "Okay... okay. Pardon me for breathing."

  "C'mon, guy," urged the producer. "Give us some room here."

  "Don't push!" Cleary snapped, glaring at the man. The producer looked up at him, decided against making a big deal out of it, and told his guys, "Set it up right here. This'll do fine."

  Cleary paused for a few moments, just to spite the camera crew, and then started to wedge his way through the crowd. He found enough room to pull a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat. He fished one from the pack, jammed it in his mouth, and started searching for the pack of matches he knew he had—somewhere.

  "Let me."

  The lighter exploded in front of his face.

  "Whoa!" Cleary cried, jerking away from the gaseous torch.

  "It's something new on the market," Andy Milchik noted. "Sure beats lighter fluid."

  "Did they use those things in Korea, Milchik?"

  Milchik, short and round, looked just like what he was: a newspaper columnist. He lit Cleary's cigarette, then used the gas lighter to ignite the end of a huge Cuban cigar. "I know you're not into starlets, Cleary, which means you must be working tonight. How about a tip? Is it a juicy divorce?"

  "Could be. Then again, maybe I just took a wrong turn."

  Milchik laughed. "I hear you're big on wrong turns. Come on, pal, what's up?"

  "You first, Milchik. You gave up the glitter beat a long time ago. I figured the paper woulda sent Breedlove here."

  "Hell, Breedlove couldn't buy or beg his way into this kinda crowd."

  "So, what's a political muckraker doing here?"

  The columnist nodded toward a corner of the lobby. "Take a look over there."

  Cleary did and said, "The big guy's Congressman Tom McNeil. Who's he with?"

  "Lou Kaplan."

  "The studio head?"

  "Yeah. I'd give you odds on what they're talking about. The union's just about ready to burst this town wide open. McNeil's got a bill up that will put the stops on 'em, which Lou there would love to see become law."

  Tom McNeil, dapper with an Ivy League air about him, had been representing the Hollywood district for a number of years. Jack Cleary knew him well from his days as a cop. On more than one occasion, McNeil had asked him for help. So far, Cleary hadn't had to call in any of the markers, but his day would come.

  "Thanks for the info," Cleary told the columnist.

  "Wait, Jack. What's your business here?"

  "Like you suggested, Andy. Just another wrong turn."

  Cleary moved away quickly away from the columnist toward McNeil. The youthful congressman, who was just ending his conversation with Lou Kaplan, was one of the few politicos Cleary liked. Cleary put a hand on the congressman's shoulder.

  "Evening, Tom."

  McNeil turned. "Jack! I'll be damned. This is some coincidence."

  They shook hands. "Whadaya mean?" Cleary asked.

  "Tell you in a second. You know Lou Kaplan?"

  Cleary smiled down at the short, stocky man. "I've heard of him."

  Kaplan, a drink in one hand and the other jammed in his pocket, didn't offer any more of a greeting than a slight nod.

  "Jack here used to be with the L.A. police," McNeil was saying. "One of the best damned detectives I know."

  Cleary was pleased with the compliment. "I'm glad somebody remembers."

  "What do you do now?" Kaplan asked, his words tinged with the impatient tone of a busy man.

  "I'm in business for myself, Mr. Kaplan. I'm a private cop now."

  McNeil patted Cleary on the back. "If you ever need one, Lou, I'd recommend Jack here."

  "I'll remember that. If you two gentlemen will excuse me, I believe Rita will be coming out soon."

  As soon as Kaplan was out of earshot, McNeil, who was one of the few men in the room as tall as Cleary, leaned close to him. "I need to see you, Jack. I called your office today, but you were out."

  His
words, perhaps prompted by desperation, came out like an accusation.

  "I was interviewing a client. You sound worried, Tom," Cleary said.

  "I am. Maybe we can get together tomorrow. It's a personal thing, and it's very urgent."

  "Sure thing, Tom. I'll stop by your office."

  "My home," McNeil said. "I'll be there all day tomorrow."

  Cleary saw despair in the man's eyes. "We could talk tonight—"

  The roar of the crowd drowned out Cleary's words. McNeil nodded toward the door into the theater. "Tomorrow!" he shouted. "Here comes the star."

  Cleary smiled as McNeil moved toward the commotion. The guy—for all of his good traits—remained a politician, and he wanted to be in the camera's range when the star made her exit from the theater. What a way to make a living, the former cop thought. If his own livelihood had depended upon public recognition and acceptance, he would have been bankrupt early on.

  Even from where Cleary stood, he had a great view as Rita Marlo stepped out to greet her industry colleagues and her frenzied public. It was Rita Marlo's night. Both inside and out, the people had gathered to honor her on the premiere of her newest movie, Dangerous Summer. Diamond Studios was touting it as the "biggest film of 1956," but it would have to go a long way to outshine Giant, its success spurred by the popularity of the late James Dean. If it didn't reach that height of success, its producers couldn't fault Rita's popularity. The crowd in the lobby cheered her. Outside the theater, the mob went wild.

  She was throwing kisses. As cynical as Cleary had become, he had to admit one thing. There was something special about a true star. The really big names didn't reach their plateau of fame on the strength of sheer luck alone. No matter what they were like in the privacy of their own homes, they had a certain internal glow that seemed to bum the brightest before a camera or a clutch of admiring fans.

  Rita Marlo was certainly glowing, almost as bright as one of those atomic explosions. As beautiful as her daughter was, Rita was even lovelier. She wore a blue sequined dress that glittered. It looked as if the dress had been covered with thousands of small diamonds. The stones flashed and winked at the crowd, a perfect compliment to Rita's mood. Though in her late thirties, she appeared just as youthful as Avon. They could have passed for sisters. Where her daughter's hair was deep fiery red, Rita's fine blond hair caught the light from the cameras and tossed it back in a kind of halo that softened the few signs of age on her face.