THE ORACLE WAS lit up as if for the 1927 premiere of Wings, the first feature to win the Academy Award for Best Picture. Light chased the LED bulbs around the towering marquee, left, right, up, down, and left again, technology’s answer to man’s quest for the eternal. Searchlights the size of trampolines tinted the bellies of clouds in cotton-candy colors, the shafts crisscrossing like swords in combat. Guests in full evening dress crossed the red carpet under the glittering canopy, admiring the barbaric splendor of ancient civilizations, mythic beasts, and pagan deities restored to life in gilt, plaster, and resin; all the illusionary, elusive, over-the-top art of the Hollywood Dream Factory.
Harriet Johansen was first to arrive, in a silver lamé gown that clung to her slim athletic frame and reflected the light in flat sheets. She kissed Valentino and pointed the corner of her clutch purse at the man who’d taken her gold-bordered pass, in a tuxedo that could only have been cut to his massive measure. A black velvet band of mourning encircled one sleeve.
“Wherever did you find him?”
Valentino was standing next to the vacant ticket booth wearing a white dinner jacket.
“His name’s Vivien, believe it or not. He came to me three days ago, saying he owed me a favor. He doesn’t—I was just a catalyst—but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He’s already turned away a dozen people who thought this was a public event.”
“I can’t think how they made that mistake. The place only looks like the World’s Fair.” She looked at the man again. “He reminds me of someone.”
“Only if you’ve seen The Incredible Hulk.”
“The TV show? Loved it. In re-runs, I mean. Is he—?”
“Not Lou Ferrigno. Leave it to a forensics expert to recognize a stunt double after all these years.”
She beamed. “How can I help?”
“Stand beside me. That way no one will notice I borrowed this outfit from the Hallmark Channel.”
“You look like Rick Blaine.” She studied his face.
“Just by coincidence; it was the only thing available. I won’t play it again, Sam. This time.”
She was looking at the next arrivals. “I think I just got upstaged.”
Fanta Broadhead approached, her arm linked with her husband’s. She was a glittering mermaid in sparkling green sequins and a white wrap that would have passed for ermine if she didn’t do pro bono work for the ASPCA.
The host kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“This old thing?” She hugged Harriet. “You clean up well, too.”
Valentino shook Broadhead’s hand. “So do you.”
The professor tugged at his starched collar. In a black tuxedo with onyx studs he might have passed for a truck driver at his daughter’s wedding. “Third time I’ve worn the monkey suit, thanks to you. I should’ve suspected what Fanta was up to when she talked me into buying it instead of renting one for the hitching post. I thought she intended to bury me in it.”
“We’ve heard it all before, old man,” said his wife. “I told you when you proposed I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in sensible shoes and a tailored suit like all the rest of the faculty wives. That meant dressing you up so it wouldn’t look like I checked you out of a hotel for transients. And just for the record, I proposed to you.”
“I said I’d think about it. I was still thinking when you dragged me to the cake-tasting.”
“You forget a lawyer never asks a question she doesn’t know the answer to,” she said.
Broadhead turned to survey the small group lined up behind them. “Not much of a turnout. I warned you when this whole thing started you’ll never lure people away from their living rooms and Netflix.”
“Did you look at the invitation?” Valentino said.
“‘Admit two,’ along with the lame tease of a sneak premiere. What part of ‘grand opening’ did you not understand?”
“It’s the grandest company I could have wished for.”
Fanta turned toward the centerpiece of the ornate lobby, an oil portrait of a hauntingly lovely brunette in its original Deco frame, securely sealed in a shadow box made of beveled glass. “It looks even better than it did in the Bradbury.”
“I hoped it would. Mounting it in that case cost me four hundred dollars. Anytime someone offers you a gift, make sure you can afford it.”
“You know,” she said, “I like it more than the one they used in the film.”
“Meaning no disrespect to a beautiful actress, that’s because the one Preminger had made looks like Gene Tierney. This one looks like Laura, the unachievable ideal. That’s an impossible undertaking for any mortal casting director, no matter how talented. Vera Caspary preferred it to the other; but what did she know? She only wrote the novel the picture was based on.”
“Will Bozal be coming?” Broadhead said.
“He declined. He’s in Tuscany, scouting locations for a theme park he wants to build. It seems the Catholic Church liked the idea well enough to clear it with the authorities. Anyway, he’s seen the picture.”
Fanta said, “What is the picture, by the way? Casablanca? Harriet told me about that.”
He smiled. “Not Casablanca.”
“He won’t even tell me,” Harriet said.
Still smiling, he turned and opened the embossed bronze door that led into the auditorium.
Henry Anklemire was next in line, in his purple smoking jacket and a green-and-yellow-striped bow tie. “Snazzy joint, kiddo. You could put up the Lost Tribe of Israel in a room this size and still have space for a pool table.”
“Good of you to come, Henry. No hard feelings about what we discussed, I hope.”
“What the heck. Don’t take it the wrong way, but I didn’t really think you could do it. Land on Mars, maybe, but rip the lid off a case the cops gave up on before you was born? Meshugana!”
“You can’t win ’em all.”
Anklemire patted his arm. “Better luck next time. Just let me know when I can go to work on the pitch. I’ll come up with something.”
“I will.”
“Popcorn’s free, right?”
“I hired a caterer. You can have shrimp and lobster if you like.”
“Just so long as you don’t rat me out to Temple Beth Shalom.” He adjusted his toupee and strutted through the door.
Harriet smiled after him. “No one’s that Jewish. I bet he’s a closet Methodist.”
“Nobody knows Henry,” Valentino said. “He’s entirely a creature of manufacture: Mr. Whipple out of Betty Crocker by way of Morris the Cat. They were all born on a drawing board on Madison Avenue.”
“You’re a puzzle yourself. For someone who was so determined to get to the bottom of the Van Oliver case, you seem to have dropped it like a hot lightbulb. What’d I tell you about keeping secrets?”
“This one isn’t mine to share,” he said. “When it is, you’ll be the first to know.”
A new voice interrupted the conversation.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. Ditching the skeleton was a good start.”
Valentino straightened at the sight of the tall redhead in the shimmering blue gown; it was part surprise, part force of habit whenever he found himself face-to-face with an old adversary. She looked more statuesque than ever in six-inch heels and pearls. For the first time it struck him that she was a remarkably beautiful woman, something she managed to camouflage through fierce intelligence and ruthless efficiency on the job.
“Sergeant Clifford. I’m so glad you came.”
“I can tell. I haven’t seen that look on anybody’s face since I slapped the cuffs on a former child star with blood on his shirt. This is my husband, Ray. He’s a criminal attorney. We only fight when he’s cross-examining me in court.”
He shook the hand of a stout, ruddy-faced man whose head barely cleared his wife’s bare shoulders. “Don’t listen to her. She was thrilled when she got the invitation. The last time she got to gussy up, it was in dress blues with a black band on her shield.”
“I object,” she said.
“Overruled.”
Valentino said, “Enjoy the show.”
On her way past, Clifford bent to his ear. “When can I expect a signed statement? I’m not talking about Ivy Lane. The Oliver file’s still open downtown.”
Valentino hesitated. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Harriet said, “Did you do as I suggested and invite Teddie Goodman?”
“I decided against it, for reasons of delicacy. I’ll tell you about it someday.”
When everyone was seated, the lights came down and a bar of white light struck the screen.
Valentino had borrowed the UCLA projectionist for the evening, along with some footage from the secure storage vault. Following Bugs Bunny and a travelogue on the virtues of the Republic of Cuba came a black-and-white newsreel showing Queen Elizabeth II offering a gloved hand to President Eisenhower. Valentino, seated in the center balcony looking down on the screen, felt Harriet stirring restlessly in the adjoining seat. She knew he always insisted on matching the dates of vintage features with vintage films.
When the RKO tower went to black and the title card came on, she whispered, “I should’ve known.”
She was a trained close observer, more so than he, for all his education in the visual arts. Halfway through the opening scene—the anti-hero’s dramatic entrance, stepping down from the chair car of a westbound train—she tensed, shifted positions, turned her head partly Valentino’s way, stopped, watched a minute more, then leaned across the armrest they shared.
“That looks like—”
He shushed her, whispered: “You know how I feel about talking during a movie.”