Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I straighten, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. The weight of the night’s events—learning of Betty’s murder, lying to the police, reading her diary—presses down on me.
Someone killed my friend. Someone who scared her enough that she left behind a diary full of evidence. Someone who might be watching me right now from the shadows.
I move back to the window and peer at the figure across the street.
The cigarette drops to the pavement, crushed under a shoe. The figure remains for a moment longer, then melts back into the darkness.
2
CALLAHAN
Iwake 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.