The Pictures

Shortlisted for the John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger Award

Guy Bolton

• Publisher: Point Blank
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9781786070401
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

*Shortlisted for the John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger Award 2017*

World-weary Jonathan Craine is a detective at the LAPD who has spent his entire career as a studio ‘fixer’, covering up crimes of the studio players to protect the billion-dollar industry that built Los Angeles. When one of the producers of The Wizard of Oz is found dead under suspicious circumstances, Craine must make sure the incident passes without scandal and that the deceased’s widow, the beautiful starlet Gale Goodwin, comes through the ordeal with her reputation unscathed.

But against his better instincts, Craine finds himself increasingly drawn to Gale. And when a series of unsavoury truths begin to surface, Craine finds himself at the centre of a conspiracy involving a Chicago crime syndicate, a prostitution racket and a set of stolen pictures that could hold the key to unravelling the mystery.

Chapter 1

Fred Astaire was performing at the Lilac Club.

A black tie supper club on the eastern end of Sunset Boulevard, the Lilac Club was a venue synonymous with stars and stardom. It was owned by William Wilson, the wealthy publisher of The Hollywood Enquirer. Not content with running Hollywood’s most popular trade newspaper, Wilson had bought seven highly profitable clubs on the Sunset Strip, catering specifically to the Hollywood rich and famous. The Lilac Club was the largest and grandest of them all.

Jonathan Craine was sitting at a table not far from the bar. Resisting the recent trend for white jackets, he wore a plain black New York drape suit with the legs tapered at the ankle. To look at, he was at once both appealing and unremarkable. Standing a little under six feet, Craine was fairly tall and reasonably broad but not quite either. He remained to most people who met him quiet, measured and reserved, a harmless nobody.

The evening was in full swing, the room alive with chatter and laughter, but Craine sat alone. He bowed his head as a few familiar faces passed by, anxious to avoid their awkward nods and smiles. He tried to ignore the hushed whispers of strangers who knew him only by reputation, the hairs standing tall on the back of his neck as he imagined how they gossiped about the widower of the late actress Celia Raymond.

“Detective Craine?”

Craine looked up to see a waiter he recognized. Being referred to by his profession always put him on edge when he was off-duty.

“Hullo.”

“Good to see you again. Have you been away?”

“I was in New York.”

The waiter lowered his voice. “Are you back working the studios?”

Craine was a little taken aback by the directness of the question but he recovered his composure. “No,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well, it’s nice to have you back, sir. And I wanted to say—” the waiter paused, trying to find the right words. “I wanted to say I was very sorry about your wife. She was a lovely lady.”

Craine tilted his head to acknowledge what he’d said then replied simply, “I’ll have a French 75 whenever you’re ready.”

The waiter stiffened. They returned to their roles as server and guest. “Oh, yessir, right away.”

On stage “Cheek to Cheek” was brought to an end and the club audience broke into applause. A tall, olive-skinned man came on stage to shake Astaire’s hand: the club manager, Benjamin Carell. They hadn’t met before but Craine knew he was a Chicago-bred Italian with criminal ties. He wondered why William Wilson had ever hired him.

“Jonathan Craine? Detective Jonathan Craine?”

He was expecting his cocktail but when Craine turned around the concierge was standing over him. “Yes,” he said.

“There’s a call for you, sir.”

Craine sighed. He knew exactly who it would be.

“Thank you, I’ll be right over. Cancel my drinks order.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

Craine took the call at the front desk. Two studio executives were moving through the foyer and Craine caught them staring at him. He heard his name mentioned and one of them laughed. His ears burned and Craine contemplated why, after almost five months away, he’d decided to come back from New York to a place that left him feeling injured and empty.

“This is Craine,” he said after they’d gone.

“Good evening, Detective,” said a young man’s voice. As expected: it was Dispatch. “I apologize for calling you. Your secretary said you might be at the Lilac Club.”

“Yes,” added Craine impatiently.

“We have a report of a robbery-homicide in West Hollywood.”

“Who’s on duty? I’m not due in until nine.”

“I’m afraid all our night officers are out on calls.”

Craine sighed quietly. The homicide unit was understaffed and overstretched. It was little surprise Captain Simms had been so keen to have him back.

“Do you know the name of the first officer?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The first uniform officer on the scene.”

“One second, please.” The line went quiet and Craine heard a ruffle of papers. Outside, four security guards pushed back a rank of photographers gathering beside the double glass doors. Craine followed their gaze. A woman entered the foyer and walked briskly toward the main hall. He recognized her as the actress Gale Goodwin. Her latest picture, The Tainted Feather, had topped the box office—she must be celebrating.

The dispatcher came back on the line. “I’m sorry, I don’t have that information, sir.”

Craine rolled his eyes. “Do you have the address?”

“Yes, Detective, the address is—”

“Hold on one second.” He cradled the receiver between cheek and neck and stretched across the desk for a pen and pad. “Go on.”

“Address is one-ten Longbrook Avenue.”

Craine scrawled it down then checked his watch. Just after midnight. He let out a long sigh. “Tell the first officer I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He put the phone down, rubbed his eyes and asked the concierge to retrieve his coat and hat.

* * *

A gray and dusty Los Angeles reeled through the windows like a broken strip of celluloid. Although the motion picture industry had helped prop up Los Angeles in the lean years since the Wall Street Crash, visible shocks of depression were not in short supply. Craine wound up the window as he drove past a slum of tarpaper shacks and a group of homeless men fretting over a garbage fire. He passed vacant lots and filling stations, mile after mile of billboards selling God, bank loans and beauty creams.

He accelerated west down Sunset before turning south toward Hollywood, the neon nightlife receding in his rearview mirror. He was driving the V-16 Cadillac Fleetwood that Celia had bought him for their ten-year anniversary. The car radio was playing an Ella Fitzgerald record and he turned it up so loud that thoughts of Celia were buried in the song.

The slum receded, quickly forgotten to palm trees, flowering plants and the stucco-walled homes of the Hollywood middle class. This is a city of contradictions, Craine thought, a metropolis where sepia and Technicolor play side by side.

He turned into Longbrook where the roads were quiet now, almost empty, with barely a Buick or Packard in sight. Craine looked at the address Dispatch had given him, counting the house numbers on his right. He spotted a squad car parked outside a single-story and pulled up behind it in the driveway.

The porch light flicked on and the front door opened. A squat uniform officer with a thick mustache and a flashlight cradled under one arm stepped outside.

“Evening, Detective,” he said as Craine got out of his car. His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of the Fleetwood but he kept his thoughts to himself. He probably thought all detectives drove two-thousand-dollar Cadillacs.

“You the first officer?”

“Yes, sir. Becker. Arrived about an hour ago. My partner, Cassidy, went to take a statement from the neighbor. She called it in.”

Craine took a pencil and notepad from his jacket pocket. “Did you touch the body, move it at all?”

“Didn’t get further than her doorway.”

“A woman?”

“Yessir. Shot dead.”

He sighed inwardly. A dead girl meant unwanted media interest.

Craine paused to examine the door and windows on the front of the house. All intact, no signs of forced entry.

“Door was unlocked when I got here,” said the uniform, taking off his hat to wipe his brow. “I went all around with the flashlight but there’s no windows broken either.”

“Make sure that’s in your report.”

Craine noticed Becker was staring at him. “Have we met before?” Becker asked. “Yeah, we have. That assault charge on that actor. They called you—”

“I remember.”

“He beat her up real bad. Broke her nose, stitches across her cheek where he’d split it right open. What was she, six...

Table of contents

• Cover
• The Pictures
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• One Month Later
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 37
• Chapter 38
• Chapter 39
• Chapter 40
• Chapter 41
• Chapter 42
• Chapter 43
• Chapter 44
• Chapter 45
• Acknowledgements
• Imprint Page