Hollywood Lust (18 page)

When he was finished, he said, “I was wondering if you’d like to go away next weekend. There’s a beach in Santa Barbara that welcomes dogs. We could take Bernie and maybe even Shaq, and…” He smiled. “I think it would be very special.”

I thought about his offer and what my father had said to me a few weeks earlier, about finding a gift when times are difficult. Noah must have seen my hesitation and said, “It’s now my turn to ask if everything’s okay?”

I took a moment and mentioned the imaginary or real conversation I’d had with my father, his words about finding a gift in the midst of loss.

Noah took some time, maybe thinking about what I’d said, before responding. “It’s a strange thing about loss. When I lost my leg, I realized that I had to lose part of myself to find myself.”

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I had to be incomplete to be complete. It might sound strange, but I think it’s similar to what happens in relationships. We have to lose a part of who we are to find a bigger part of ourselves with someone else.” He came closer, brushing his lips against mine. “I’m not saying that anyone completes us, it’s more a realization that we’re incomplete until we see something bigger than our individual lives.” He moved back a bit. “Crazy, huh?”

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer. “I don’t think it’s crazy at all. I think it’s a gift, the greatest gift of all.”

As our lips came together, in that moment, I knew that this was truly the gift I’d been waiting for. My heart was filled with such joy that I thought it might burst.

The next day I slept in late and awoke with a big grin on my face. Being with Noah and sharing some intimate moments with him seemed to push all the sorrow and loss I’d ever known aside, if only temporarily. I felt renewed and exhilarated at the prospect of what lay ahead for both of us.

Noah had left around midnight after we made plans to go away when my work schedule permitted. The prospect of taking our dogs to the beach near Santa Barbara sounded wonderful. I felt like a teenage girl, anticipating her first date—and a whole lot more.

As I was leaving for work with Bernie, Natalie and Mo appeared on their patio, asking me where Noah was.

“We had a wonderful evening,” I said. “He left late last night.”

Mo, who was wearing one of those sleeping caps with a tassel on the end, shook her head and looked at Natalie, “I’m beginning to think Kate’s lost her groove for good.”

Natalie looked at me. “You do remember what your groove is meant for?”

I exhaled. “Of course.” I was annoyed with my friends, but also still a little delirious after my wonderful night. “Noah and I are going away as soon as things ease up at work.”

Their lungs appeared to deflate in unison, maybe out of relief that I wasn’t entirely hopeless. I started to leave when Natalie called after me, “Don’t forget we’re still working on helping out Gladys at the museum with that theft. We’re gonna go undercover and need your help.”

I stopped and looked back at her. I was relieved by the fact that at least they weren’t talking about finding Donald Regis and confronting him. “Let me know what you need.”

On my way to work, I got a call from Oz, telling me that Alex had called in sick. He said that Leo had also called and asked me to meet him downtown. I spent the next hour fighting rush hour traffic before Bernie and I arrived at the Police Administration Building. We found Leo behind his desk in the cold case unit.

We chatted for a few minutes before Leo told me why he wanted me to meet him there. He placed a couple of boxes on his desk, smiled, and said, “The files on Jean Winslow’s death.”

My brows shot up. “Is this authorized?”

He nodded. “Oz said we could take a look before working on our other cases. At some point, if we find anything that merits further investigation, he’ll need to take it up with the big dogs.” He held on my eyes for a moment. “I realized I didn’t handle things very well with you about your dad the other day and wanted to try and make up for it. I’d like to take a look with you, if you don’t mind.”

I pulled a chair over so that I had better access to the files with him, while Bernie went over and flopped down in a corner. “I’ll bet some people would pay a hefty price to take a look at what’s sitting on your desk.”

“One of the perks of being a civil servant with a job that doesn’t pay much.”

While Jean Winslow’s death had officially been ruled a suicide, Leo explained that because she had died under suspicious circumstances, the reports on her death had been kept by R&I. I knew there had been rumors over the years about the department reopening the investigation, but nothing had ever been authorized.

We spent the next couple of hours going through the files and photographs on the death of one of the most famous actresses in Hollywood. The coroner’s office had officially ruled Winslow’s death a suicide. The tox screen showed there was a lethal dose of Nembutal, a barbiturate, and alcohol in her system, but nothing else seemed remarkable. There were also photographs of the body, which had been found by a maid on a lounger by the actress’s pool. According to the reports, she’d been dead for a couple of hours. No one, other than the maid, had been home at the time of her death.

The follow-up reports provided summaries of interviews with those who had been close to the actress, including her mother and two of her four ex-husbands. I learned that Winslow had remained especially close to Frank Acosta, a musician, who told the detectives that the actress had been depressed from time to time and was prone to using prescription drugs. There was also a brief mention that the detectives had contacted Wallace Studios and spoken with Donald Regis, but he’d offered nothing of value regarding the death.

When I finished with my stack of reports, I said to Leo, “I don’t see anything remarkable. How about you?”

He thumbed through a thick file on his desk and then looked at me. “I’ve got a file here on her medical history that the coroner obtained. It confirms a history of depression and psychiatric treatment. I don’t know if her shrink is still alive, but it might be worth checking out.”

I made a note of the psychiatrist’s name. “Anything else?”

“It might mean nothing, but a couple of years before her death, Winslow was treated for a fracture of her left arm, supposedly from a fall. There’s nothing in her history that ever references her breaking her arm.”

My sister’s circumstances came to mind as I asked, “You think it might be domestic violence?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

I told him about the brief mention of Donald Regis in the reports. “There was apparently enough concern to interview him, even though nothing came of it.”

“Do we know if Regis is still alive?”

“I have a couple of friends who I confided in about my mom’s letters. They did some checking and found out he’s still living in Beverly Hills, although I don’t think he’s involved with the studios anymore.”

Leo regarded me. “Maybe, if time permits, we can go have a little chat with Mr. Regis.”

I nodded. “Why don’t you give me the medical file? I’ll have my friend in the coroner’s office take a look at it, along with the autopsy report.”

Leo and I got a bite to eat before we headed to Sunset Photography in North Hollywood. We’d called ahead and Gene Washington, the owner, had agreed to meet with us and talk about Galen Marshall’s work as one of their contract employees.

After arriving at the company and showing a receptionist our credentials, she led us to a back room where Washington was working. The work space was filled with equipment, supplies, and stacks of photographs.

“Greetings,” Washington said, waving us over to the table. The owner of Sunset Photography was probably in his sixties, with a slight build. He looked like he’d spent too much time in the sun, leaving his skin wrinkled and blotched. He cleared a space for us, saying, “Have a seat.”

We sat in chairs across from him, while Bernie settled at my feet. I saw there were dozens of photographs that he had arranged in stacks on the table that he told us about. “We’re starting to do some of the shoots for the local proms and I’m trying to get things organized.”

We chatted about the business for a few minutes. We learned that Washington had owned the company for over twenty years before we got down to the reason for our visit.

I showed him the photograph of Galen Marshall from when he’d worked at the shredding company. “He was a contractor, from what we know. He took the group shots over at Bernstein Studios about ten years ago. He’s a suspect in the murder of one of the individuals in the photographs he took.”

Washington studied the photo, at the same time shaking his head. “Sorry, neither his name nor the photo looks familiar.” He handed the picture back to me. “Who did you say he killed?”

“He’s a suspect in the murder of a man named Bruce Reeder. He was a producer at Bernstein Studios.”

Washington had a vacant expression. He continued to shake his head. “Wish I could be of more help.”

“Is there anyone else who works here who might remember him?” Leo asked.

There were more head-shakes. “I’m pretty much a one man show, except for my secretary Margaret, and the contractors…”

He seemed to lose his train of thought. I glanced at Leo, then back at him. “Did you remember something?”

“Margaret!” He’d shouted his secretary’s name and she came scurrying around the corner. Washington took the photograph of Marshall back from me and held it up as she got to the table. “Is this the guy who we found out worked for that mortuary about ten years ago?”

His secretary, who reminded me of a younger version of Nana, glanced at the photo and said, “That’s him.” She looked at Leo and me. “He was weird as hell.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“After he worked for us for a couple of years, we found out he also worked for…” She looked at her boss.

“Galvan Mortuary,” Washington said, apparently having an aha moment.

“That’s it,” she agreed. “He photographed some of the funerals for the families. From what we heard, he even photographed the bodies as they were being prepared for the funeral.”

“Is that a service some of the mortuaries offer?” Leo asked. He then looked at me, his big forehead pinching together.

Margaret answered. “It was his own business. I ran into a friend who worked at the funeral home and I made the connection that it was the same guy who was working as one of our contract employees.” Washington’s secretary grimaced. “She said he was caught with one of the bodies.”

“Caught?”

“He was caught in the act of having sex with a corpse.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time we got back to the station where Leo and I met with Oz, Selfie, and Molly. We took a few minutes, explaining what we’d learned about Galen Marshall working for the mortuary and his extra-curricular activities.

“I guess that’s what you call being caught in corpus delicto,” Selfie said, her nose scrunching up.

“Remind me to be cremated,” Molly added.

“Can you see what you can pull up on the Internet regarding the Galvan Mortuary?” I asked, as Bernie lapped up some water from a bowl I’d put out for him.

“Done,” Molly said, looking at the overhead monitor. “It’s been in business over thirty years. Looks like a mom and pop operation.” She clicked through several screen shots showing photographs of the building and their services before we saw a link that said,
Funeral Photography.

Molly clicked on the link and a moment later said, “Bingo.”

“It’s our guy,” I said, leaning closer to the monitor.

There were several photographs of Galen Marshall taken in and around the funeral home, showing him photographing funerals and graveside services. The accompanying text said the funeral home offered memory albums for the families of the dearly departed.

“It makes me wonder if Galen took photographs of himself with his victims,” Selfie said. “Why do you suppose they didn’t fire him?”

I shook my head. “Hard to say. Maybe he was good friends with the owners and promised not to repeat his offense.”

“Was Marshall ever prosecuted for his necrophilia activities?” Oz asked.

Molly answered. “He has no record, other than a couple of traffic violations.”

Oz looked at Leo and me. “Let’s get over to the funeral home, see if we can put these cases to bed before the day is over.”

***

The Galvan Funeral home was located just off the central business district in Fullerton, a city about twenty minutes from Hollywood. The establishment was in a rambling single family abode that had probably been the home to some prominent residents in the middle of the last century.

The home was now full of the dead, and I’m not just talking about the corpses that were probably resting there. The elderly owners of the business, Raymond and Rose Galvan, looked like they could be ready to avail themselves of the services they offered at any moment.

“How may we be of service?” Mr. Galvan said in a serious, low voice after we introduced ourselves and showed our credentials. He lowered his eyes, looking at Bernie and raising a brow.

The owner of the funeral home was probably pushing into the dark regions of eighty. He had a full head of white hair, swept straight back from his forehead. His wife sat at the desk across from him. Rose had almost the same color hair as her husband. Her thin lips were pursed together, giving me the impression that she didn’t want us there.

“We’re looking for an employee of yours named Galen Marshall,” I said. “We understand he does your funeral photography.”

“What do you want with him?” Rose growled. My earlier thought about her not wanting us there was confirmed by the tone of her voice.

Given her attitude, I decided to only give them some general information. “We just need to ask him a few questions about a case we’re working.”

It was now Raymond’s opportunity to show his disdain. “What kind of case?”

I glanced at Leo, then back at the elderly couple. “I’m not at liberty to say. Is he working today?”

Raymond and Rose exchanged a furtive look. “No,” Raymond said. “We’re not sure when he’ll be at work again. He works his own schedule, based upon the request for his services.”

“Do you have his address?” Leo asked, not bothering to conceal his irritation with them.

We got back two headshakes, another stealthy look.

“You need to understand something,” I said, now also thoroughly annoyed. “This is a police investigation and a serious matter. If you don’t want to cooperate, we’ll get a judge on the line and get a search warrant to look through every closet, coffin, and corner of your little slice of otherworldly paradise until we find Mr. Marshall or information about where he’s living.” I raised my voice. “Now, where is he?”

What I’d said caused Raymond to look at Rose again. She gave a slight nod of her head. Mr. Galvan said, “He stays in our basement, sometimes. I’ll show you.”

As we followed the elderly funeral home proprietor through his place of business at the pace of an extremely slow snail, I said to him, “Tell me something. Why all the secrecy?”

He stopped and turned to us, scratching one of his big ears. “I’m afraid Mr. Marshall is…” He found a breath. It rattled in his throat as he released it slowly. “He’s not a very nice person.”

“Has he threatened you?”

Galvan nodded. “I’m afraid so. He made it clear that if we ever complained to the authorities about him, or asked him to leave, he would see to it that we paid the price.”

I glanced at Leo, back at Galvan. “When we get to the basement where he’s staying, let us go in ahead of you. I’d prefer that you stay back if there’s any trouble.”

After a nod, we continued our slow walk to the back of the residence where there was a staircase. Galvan turned to us and whispered, “His room is down the hall toward the back of the basement.”

Leo and I followed Bernie down the dimly lit, narrow stairway with our guns drawn. Once we were in the basement, we cautiously made our way down the hallway toward the room where Marshall was staying. We stopped at his door and I made eye contact with Leo at the same time Bernie released a low whine. Leo nodded and I pushed the door open, calling out and announcing ourselves.

There was no response, and seconds later I understood why. We found our suspect at the back of the small bedroom slumped against a wall. Bernie released a deep growl when he saw what was happening.

I put my gun away, tugged on Bernie’s leash, and said to Leo, “It looks like the Galvans have another customer.”

Galen Marshall had probably been dead for several days. I was aware of that fact, not because of my experience or training in homicide. It was made obvious to me by the rats that were crawling over his body, eating what was left of his face.