The journals recovered from Jay Dean Mitchell’s room, hidden in a box in the back of his closet, proved conclusively that he had been the killer known as the Doodler. Not only did his handwriting match that on the drawings left at the crime scenes, but he had kept samples of hair from his victims and carefully labeled each one. Major newspapers across the country announced the news and applauded the SFPD for solving the two-decades-old case. No mention was made in the media of Blake’s involvement. The official story was that Jay Dean Mitchell was being investigated as another possible victim of the killer, based on his unsolved death at the hands of a hit-and-run driver around the time of the murders. Mrs. Mitchell—broken and humiliated—agreed not to speak to the press about the visit from the famous ghost hunter. And Blake, while happy about helping to solve the case, couldn’t help but feel guilty about tricking Mrs. Mitchell.
“But he was a murderer,” Brian said, exasperation creeping into his voice, “one of the worst in California history!” He jumped up from the bed and began to dress, not wanting to argue.
“I know,” Blake replied. “But she wasn’t. And for twenty-odd years she believed her son was a good person who was simply killed by a hit-and-run driver. I helped ruin that memory, possibly speeding up that old woman’s death.”
“Oh, come on.” Brian turned away from Blake. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
“She’s old,” Blake replied sadly. “Now I doubt if even her neighbors will speak to her.”
“That’s not your problem.” Brian pulled on his shirt. “You were just helping us solve a case.”
Blake nodded, but couldn’t get Mrs. Mitchell’s face out of his head. She made him miss his own parents, now retired to a small town outside Albuquerque after they sold the Danzig Brothers Circus to a larger conglomerate. He said so to Brian, who sighed loudly and stopped putting his clothes on.
“Maybe you should go visit them,” he said, sitting down on the bed where Blake was lying. He tenderly kissed him on the forehead. “A trip might make you feel better.”
Blake sighed.
“I can’t.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m scheduled to film some segments of the show for FX this weekend in Los Angeles.”
“Oh.” Brian looked crestfallen. “When did you intend to tell me that?”
“I thought I did.” Seeing the look on Brian’s face, he said, “Jesus. It’s my job.”
Blake jumped out of bed and walked into the adjoining bathroom. Brian admired his hairy, muscular ass as he crossed the room, and shook his head. Brian put on his tie. He was grabbing his jacket from the back of an armchair when Blake re-emerged from the bathroom and pulled on the pair of boxer shorts he had earlier discarded on the floor.
“Look,” he said, taking Brian in his arms. “I’m sorry if I forgot to tell you about this weekend. Why don’t you come down with me?”
“I can’t.” Brian kissed him lightly on the lips. “I have to attend a police seminar in Oakland this weekend.”
Blake nodded and stooped to pick up a discarded T-shirt. “We’re not working out, are we?” he asked, without making eye contact.
“No.” The word caught in Brian’s throat.
“What can I do?” Blake sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Brian sat next to Blake and put a hand on his leg. “We’re just too different,” he said hesitantly. “You travel a lot, which I understand, and then there’s the whole ghost thing.”
“The ‘ghost thing’ used to freak me out, too, Brian, but it’s who I am. I can’t help it.”
“It’s just weird, waking up in the middle of the night, hearing you whispering to people who aren’t even there. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Blake laughed. Not a forced, angry laugh, but a sincere, heartfelt laugh. Midnight, the time between day and night, had always been a difficult time for him because of the number of ghosts active. It wasn’t as bad as Halloween, but close. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, arising from the bed. “I know how creepy that must be. But can we try to work this out? I really like you, Brian.”
Brian slowly nodded, then rose, embracing Blake. “We’ll talk when you get back from LA.”
As Brian left the apartment, Blake couldn’t help but wonder if he had just left for good.
*
For most of their southbound flight, Blake sat lost in silent contemplation. Melody, who was seated next to him reading a magazine, finally nudged him and asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I was just thinking about Brian.”
“Listen, Brian’s a good guy and everything, but if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”
Blake looked at her with what felt like a hangdog expression.
“I’m just saying, you haven’t known each other that long and at least you haven’t moved in together yet.”
“This from a lesbian.” Blake felt better—good enough to tease her. “How does it go? Rent a U-Haul after the second date?”
Melody playfully slapped his arm with the rolled-up magazine. “Well, this lesbian hasn’t seen any action in months,” she groaned, “so I wouldn’t know.”
*
Blake had never had a great opinion of Los Angeles, considering the city too reliant on cars and plastic surgeons, although he viewed Hollywood with an almost childlike nostalgia. Hollywood Boulevard, however, reminded him what he was attracted to wasn’t real, like it was produced for him like a movie flickering on a big screen, doing its best with a song and a dance to hide the decay of the neglected buildings, the parade of lost souls, living and dead, which wandered its length and breadth. For decades, so many people had come here searching for a dream that was never fulfilled, had worked here and died here, and the evidence was all around him. The teenaged runaways, sitting in doorways and begging for money; the faded actor, who nobody would hire because of his drinking; the screenwriter, who hadn’t had a fresh idea in five years—they, too, were the living dead, passing time until they were ghosts like Montgomery Clift and Marilyn.
The studio car picked them up at the airport and drove them directly to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Not only were they staying there, but they’d be filming their latest paranormal investigation there. Situated on Hollywood Boulevard, across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Hollywood Roosevelt had opened in 1927 and was the site of the first Academy Awards banquet in 1929. A plethora of stars of the golden age stayed there over the years, and some refused to leave even after their death. Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, Clark Gable, and a dozen other spirits were said to haunt the venerable old hotel. The Haunted California team was there to film a segment to be aired for Halloween. Because of the number of supposed spirits concentrated there, the producers decided to focus solely on the Roosevelt and ignore other nearby haunted hotels and theaters. This was fine with Blake, since it made his job easier. Besides, he reasoned, they could always come back to the other locales later, for future episodes of the show.
After checking in at the front desk, Blake turned to Melody. “I’m going to call Brian and let him know we got here okay.”
He walked across to a grouping of overstuffed chairs in a corner of the lobby and pulled out his cell phone, dialing the now-familiar number. His call went directly into Brian’s voice mail. Though Blake was slightly miffed, he tried not to convey his annoyance in his message.
“Hi, Brian,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know we arrived safely. Give me a call later, okay?” He snapped his cell phone shut and returned to Melody, who was waiting for him beside the front counter.
“I got his voice mail,” he said, answering the expectant expression on Melody’s face. “Probably still at that conference.”
Melody merely nodded, gazing across the garish Spanish-style lobby. The floors were covered by large tiles and, looking down upon them like sentries, ornate balconies peeked from beneath the painted, beamed ceilings. A fountain gurgled in the middle of the room, barely audible over the echoing footsteps of the other guests.
“This place is wild,” she said, pointing at the ornately painted ceiling. Blake appreciated that Melody was trying to change the subject, but didn’t say anything.
“Well,” he replied, “I’ve already seen a couple of apparitions walk through here in period clothing. Then again,” he said, “this is Hollywood, so it could have been someone in costume.”
“So, what’s the deal with this hotel?”
“Supposedly, Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift haunt this place. We’re staying on the ninth floor, which Monty is said to haunt.”
“I want to run into Marilyn.” Melody licked her lips suggestively.
“Why do you think I wanted to stay on the ninth floor? I wouldn’t mind running into Montgomery Clift, ghost or not.”