EIGHT
It was Monday morning, which used to be reserved for our weekly pitch meetings. When Ford was still editor in chief, pitch meetings had been a lot of fun. The Lens staff would sit around and debate conspiracy theories for hours, talking about unsolved murders and weird mysteries. Ever since Brian had taken over, however, things had soured a bit. Instead of listening to writers pitch their stories, we’d all sit around and listen to Brian detail his weekend activities, and then there would be a fifteen-minute freestyle session (Brian versus Brian), where he would try to remember the names of various people he had partied with.
“We ended up at a mansion in Venice,” Brian had said during the last week’s meeting. “There was a hot tub on the roof. The place was massive—the guy who owned it was one of the founders of Yahoo! I was so wasted, I spent the whole night throwing up over the side of the roof. Thank God Venice is built along canals, right?”
After confirming Heather’s identity, I had grabbed the stack of notes that I had already compiled on Theo, then got in my car and drove to Hollywood. When I got to the office, I ran up the stairs to the second floor, then burst through the door, into the office.
Petra looked up from the secretary desk, and her eyes widened.
“They’re waiting for you.”
“Wait, what? Who’s waiting for me?”
“Alexa and Brian,” she said. “Ford’s here, too. They’re all in Brian’s office.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“No idea.”
I made my way down the hallway, and knocked on Brian’s door but didn’t wait for a response. I opened the door and stepped inside to find Brian and Ford, and across from them, the one and only Alexa Levine.
“Ford,” I said, catching my breath. I was sweating from my run up the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
“Hailey,” Ford said, smiling. “Take a seat.”
Alexa turned to look at me, her expression neutral. It was unreal to see her sitting ten feet away from me, the same high cheekbones and hooked nose, the sharp eyes I had seen in all of her photos. Her dark hair was pinned back, but I could see a few streaks of gray. She wore no makeup, and she looked just as distinguished and fierce as I had always imagined her to be.
“Ms. Levine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, walking across the room and offering her my hand. “My name is Max Hailey.”
There was an awkward moment, and I realized that they were all waiting for me to sit down. I took a chair next to Brian.
“I want to talk about Theodore Langley,” Alexa said. “Brian said you have some information about him.”
I tried to remember everything I had told Brian.
“Is Theo back in town?” Alexa prompted.
“I have reason to believe so.”
“What reason is that?”
I didn’t want to mention the fact that I had stolen Leland’s phone. “His lawyer is in town,” I said.
“Leland Bates?” Ford asked.
“Yes,” I said, perplexed. “How did you know that?”
“Brian has been doing some research on his own,” Ford said. “He’s put together a few theories.”
“I’m going to write about the dead girls,” Brian said. “I’ve already met with the father of the dead art student. He’s pissed off, as you can imagine. He wants Windhall to be torn to the ground.”
“Alexa,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I’d like to write about Theo.”
“That’s not an option,” Brian said, cutting in. “Alexa, I’ve given Hailey notice. He’s going to finish any stories that he’s working on, but he’ll be gone in two weeks.”
Alexa didn’t even look over at him. “No.”
Brian laughed. “Sorry, no to what?”
“Max isn’t fired,” she said. “If he has information on Theodore Langley, it’s an incredible lead. It would be incredibly shortsighted to let that lead go.”
“I’ve already terminated his contract.”
“So draft another one.” She met his gaze with cool eyes. Brian’s face had turned red, but he finally backed down.
“Hailey’s a great reporter, Bri,” Ford murmured.
“Whatever, Dad.”
Alexa turned to me. “You’re also interested in writing about the dead girls?”
“No,” I said. “I think I can prove that Theo killed Eleanor. That’s the story I’m interested in.”
Brian snorted. “I doubt that, my friend. Also, I haven’t given you permission to write the story.”
“You don’t know anything about Leland, or Theo,” I said. “Petra’s been doing your research for you.”
“Leland’s dad defended Theo at his first criminal trial,” Brian said. “I know that much. And, yes, Petra has been helping me, but it would be stupid not to use all the resources available.”
The color rose to my face. “Ms. Levine, with all due respect, this is my story,” I said. “I’m not going to relinquish my contacts or my information so that Brian can write it.”
“It’s not your decision,” Brian said. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I’m the editor in chief.”
“You’re not,” Alexa corrected him. “I’m taking over that position. You’re an editor, but you’re not the top editor.”
“That’s fine,” Brian said. “I’m still writing the story on Theo.”
“Actually, Brian, I think it’s best if you let us finish this conversation privately.”
Brian shot to his feet. “Dad!”
“She’s right, Bri,” Ford said. “I’ll talk to you afterward.”
Brian gave me a filthy look, then stalked across the office and paused at the door. “This is my office, you know,” he said. “You’re the ones who should be leaving, not me.”
Alexa fixed her eyes on him and said nothing. Brian stood there, wavering, and then left the office, slamming the door behind him.
“Now,” Alexa said, turning her gaze to me, “I’d like to know what information you have. Is Theo back in Los Angeles?”
“I think so, but I don’t have any definitive proof yet.”
“Max, I’m going to level with you,” she said. “Theo had nothing to do with the murders of those two young women. It’s the work of a copycat, there’s no doubt about that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ve seen this before,” she said. “Besides, Theo’s too old to inflict this kind of damage. He’s in his nineties.”
“Ninety-three,” I said quietly.
“There you go. What’s your angle?”
“I want to know why he did it.”
“I want you to be completely honest with me,” she said. “How do you know that Theo is back in town?”
“I went to Windhall,” I said, then hesitated. “I broke in, and I found Leland’s phone. I took the phone and went through it. There was an email from Theo.”
Ford bit back a smile, and I couldn’t read Alexa’s expression.
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I said. “We could get a retrial.”
“He was acquitted,” Ford said. “You can’t be tried again if you’re acquitted.”
“He wasn’t acquitted, the case was dropped,” I said. “The prosecution team never got enough evidence together to launch a new case. Shortly thereafter, a new district attorney was appointed, and the case eventually got swept under the rug. If we were able to produce enough evidence to pull together another trial, that would be huge.”
“Hailey, Hailey,” Ford said. “Let’s not go gallivanting off too quickly. None of us have law degrees, and even if we did, how would you go about gathering evidence?”
“Isn’t Lapin going to law school?”
Lapin was Ford’s boyfriend, and also a law student at UCLA.
“He’s in his first year,” Ford said. “Besides, he’s studying antitrust, not criminal law. Lapin’s out.”
Alexa leaned back in her chair. “You’re a skilled journalist,” she said. “I’ve had some time to look at your portfolio. You’re not the first one to try to prove Theo’s guilt, however, and so far, nobody’s proven anything.”
“The entire Los Angeles prosecution team couldn’t come up with anything,” Ford added. “They had warrants.”
“I’ve known a few people who have tried in the past,” Alexa said. “Theo’s the holy grail of true crime. Wasn’t there a reward offered for a while?”
“Reuben Engel was offering fifty thousand dollars for a while,” I said. “But that’s over, since he’s dead.”
“Remind me who Reuben Engel is.”
“He was the producer for Last Train to Avalon,” I said. I debated telling them I had gotten a phone call from Engel’s daughter the night before, but decided that I should see what Alexa wanted before I mentioned her name. “Theo’s last movie, the one that never got finished. Reuben lost a ton of money after Eleanor died.”
“You have a backward way of doing things, but I miss that spark of yours,” Ford said. “You’re one tough bastard, you know that, Hailey?”
I couldn’t resist my next comment. “I think it was a mistake to hire Brian, Ford. He doesn’t have the same eye for a story.”
Ford and Alexa exchanged a look, and neither one of them said anything. I wondered if I had put my foot in my mouth.
“Look, Hailey, I don’t want this information to get spread around,” Ford said. “So don’t tell anyone else. There’s a reason I stepped down.”
“Okay, you can trust me.”
“I had some tests done,” he said. “I kept getting these awful headaches. Turns out I have some aggressive form of cancer in a part of my body I don’t think you need to know about.”
“Come on.”
He was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were always my best reporter,” he said.
“Ford, you’re not serious,” I said. “Are you really sick?”
“Afraid so, old chap.” He tried another smile. “That’s why I brought Alexa in. I taught her everything I know, once upon a time.”
I could see that he was getting emotional, and it embarrassed me. Without saying anything, Alexa rose from her chair and exited the room, so that we were alone together. There was an awkward moment, and then Alexa returned, carrying a glass of orange juice. She went over and sat next to Ford on the couch, handing him the glass.
He accepted it with shaking hands, and Alexa squeezed his shoulder. She sat there for a moment, until some of the color returned to Ford’s face, and then she returned to her chair.
“I’ll level with you, Max,” Alexa said. “I think you’re overreaching by trying to get an interview with Theo.”
I waited.
“It’s a story I’d love to see, but right now, Brian has a better angle,” she went on. “He has leads. He’s talking to the families of the dead girls, and that’s the hot topic. It’ll sell ad space.”
“Ad space.” I failed to hide my disgust.
“Haven’t you heard? The Lens is coming back from bankruptcy.”
I saw a flash of annoyance across her face.
“So you don’t want my story,” I said. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying that if you can’t prove that you’ve got a lead, I’m going to run with Brian’s story,” she said. “And then your story will probably be redundant. I’ll give you both until the end of the week before I decide which one to go with. Thanks for coming in today.”
She turned her attention to some papers in front of her. It seemed clear to me that the conversation was over, so I left the room.
It had been almost twenty-four hours, and Leland hadn’t taken the bait on my Connie message. I only had one last option, and before I could talk myself out of it, I climbed into my car and headed south, toward the city.
I knew that I was playing with fire by going back to Windhall, when Leland and Ben had both warned me not to, but I had to give it one last shot. If Brian went ahead with his story about the dead girls, it was only a matter of time before Windhall became the center of a shitstorm. I didn’t want all that extra attention directed at the house before I’d had one last go at it.
I got my first surprise when I reached the edge of the property and saw that the gate was open. Something inside me warned that it was a bad sign, but I pushed the feeling aside and slipped past the heavy iron barrier. Leland was probably at the house, that was all; he had forgotten to close the gate. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that they might be expecting a visit.
As I walked up the cracked, overgrown driveway, I saw that there were lights on in the house. The windows weren’t completely illuminated; the light seemed to emit a hollow glow, a feeble beating heart within the walls. Lanterns, then, or maybe a strong flashlight.
I approached the front door and lifted the heavy knocker, then banged it against the door three times.
A small eternity passed before I heard a noise from within the house. A voice, and then a reply. I couldn’t make out the age or sex of who had spoken, but at least I knew that someone was there.
The door finally swung open, and Leland stood before me.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “I thought you were smart enough to stay away from here.”
“I want to talk to Theo.”
He took his phone out of his pocket and waved it at me. “A homeless man found this near a diner on Sunset. Anything you want to add?”
I shrugged. “Some people have integrity.”
“I’m going to give you about thirty seconds to vacate the property before I call the police—”
“I want to talk about Connie.”
Leland was quiet. He still held the phone in the air, but I could see that I had caught him off guard. Recovering, he tucked the phone back in his pocket, then smiled.
“Connie,” he said. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “Theo and Connie were at Lucy’s together. Didn’t you get my text message?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to Theo.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
“I’ll sit on the story about Connie,” I said. “We’re prepared to run it this weekend, but we’ll hold it, if you agree to let Theo meet up with me.”
“One interview?”
“Two,” I said. I was gambling, here, but I wasn’t about to go all in unless I knew that I could get something solid from Theo.
“I’m calling your bluff. Run an article, if you like. You might have some information, but it’s equally possible that you’ve just come across a lucky piece of memorabilia and you don’t actually have a story. I’d be willing to bet the latter.”
“I thought you might say that,” I said. “And if that’s how you feel, I’ll have to go ahead and run the article without your input.”
“As you wish.”
“But you should know,” I went on. “I know about Ben. I know why he doesn’t want me to come back to Windhall.”
This comment was followed by a steep silence. “All right, Mr. Hailey,” Leland said. “I’ll hear your terms, and see what I can do about them.”
“I want to see the inside of the house,” I said. “Every room of it.”
“I thought you already had.”
“I’d like a personal tour.”
“We’ll see about that. Next?”
“I want two interviews,” I said. “One won’t be enough.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I can get you a meeting with Theo. I can’t promise two. It’ll have to be here, though, I don’t want him walking into some kind of media ambush.”
“That’s fine.” I was afraid I might burst into song if I kept talking.
“Thursday. I’ll send someone to your house to pick you up.”
“I don’t mind driving over.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll send a driver to pick you up at two.”
“Okay, let me give you my address.”
“I know where you live, Mr. Hailey.”
A chill ran down my spine, and I tried to sound casual. “Great,” I said. “I’ll see you Thursday, then.”
“See you then.”
I was practically skipping as I made my way down the driveway. When I hit the curve in the driveway, I turned to look at the house before it disappeared from view. There was a light on in the library, which had tall windows overlooking the yard. A figure stood in the window, watching me. It was a slightly stooped figure, tall enough, I could see that even from that distance.
Could it be Theo?
As I stood there wondering, the figure turned and retreated, and then the light vanished.
The next morning, I woke up bright and early, then went to my computer and compiled a list of notes for my meeting with Heather. I didn’t know what she’d want to talk about, but I wanted to be prepared. I scanned back through the articles that I had already read about her, boning up on information about her social circle and possible business acquaintances.
Afterward, I headed over to Los Feliz. Madeleine’s favorite café, an old brick fire station that had been converted into a coffee shop, was located two blocks from her house. There were always lines out the door.
I resented the artisanal coffee culture that had taken over Los Angeles in the last few years, since I had always been a shameless devotee of instant espresso. If I had been the type to hole up in a café for a few hours, though, I would have chosen to work at Sparks. With the high, round open doors and the vines swarming all over the brick, it was a hospitable place to get work done.
I picked up two cappuccinos, then headed over to Madeleine’s house.
“You’re too early,” she said by way of greeting when she opened the door.
“It’s ten o’clock. We’re supposed to be in Pasadena at eleven.”
She stared at me. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said. “We won’t have to worry about traffic.”
“I got you coffee. I’ll give you ten minutes to get dressed, and then I’m leaving without you.”
“Jesus,” she said, swiping the coffee. She wandered toward her bedroom.
“I’m serious!” I called after her. “You’ve got ten minutes!”
Madeleine’s house was one of my favorite houses in Los Angeles. In some ways, it was in worse shape than my house was, but it had a lot of charm. The three-room cottage had sloping ceilings and holes in the walls, and Madeleine hid the worst of the damage to the floorboards with some creatively placed rugs. The door leading out to the back garden didn’t open, so whenever we wanted a bit of fresh air, we’d climb out through the kitchen window. Once a year, a developer tried to talk Madeleine into selling for the land value alone, but she refused on principle, because the house had a lot of history.
The rambling little cottage was a former Raymond Chandler residence, and Madeleine had it on good authority that he had written at least three chapters of Farewell, My Lovely while half-tanked in the back bedroom. Living in a Raymond Chandler house isn’t a huge claim to fame in Los Angeles, because Ray and his wife were fairly transient, but I had always been a Philip Marlowe fan, and I got a small thrill every time I came to visit Madeleine.
Madeleine finally reemerged, rubbing her eyes.
“How do I look?”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s go. You can navigate.”
We got on the I-5 North, which drove past Griffith Park. It was a splendid morning, with only a few benign cumulus clouds pinned above the horizon. Baked summers and mountain haze could make you question why you lived in Los Angeles, but a blue sky and early-morning outing could sort everything out again.
“You want to go to the York for lunch this afternoon? My treat,” I offered.
“I could kill a burger,” she said. “You’re on.”
I got on the CA-134 East, toward Pasadena. The San Gabriel Mountains were pristine in the morning light, and once again, I felt filled with optimism.
“Why does Heather want the reel?” Madeleine asked.
“She didn’t say.”
“Take the next exit,” Madeleine said, looking at her phone.
“You sure?”
“That’s what my phone says,” Madeleine read. “I think there’s an accident up ahead.”
I turned off the freeway and wound through a shady, tree-lined street. The oak trees created a thick canopy of leaves, and the houses stood behind long, sloping lawns. The houses were friendly, Craftsman-style mansions, fringed with geraniums and pine trees. Practical houses, intellectual houses. There were no frivolous Swiss chalets or Moroccan temples, no spindly turrets with sugar glass windows.
“Sausalito Avenue’s going to be in two rights,” Madeleine said. “Also, my phone would like to know whether you’re carrying any weapons, and if you have the right to breathe the air in this part of the city?”
“Laurel Canyon isn’t exactly a slum, thank you very much,” I said.
“Compared to this neighborhood, everywhere is a slum.”
Madeleine was right; we had left Los Angeles behind. The Craftsman houses had given way to luxurious, imposing estates, some as big as museums. On the left sat a house so big that it looked like it might have been a hotel, its upper terrace supported by thick Ionic columns. The next house resembled a French palace, complete with flowing gardens and fountains in the front yard.
“Here we are,” I said, as we pulled up in front of Heather’s house. I recognized the house from my earlier Google stalking.
We had reached a smooth, white wall. I pulled up to the gate, which was fitted out with an imposing security system. A decorative sand strip fringed with native California plants stood between the street and the edge of Heather’s property.
I punched the button on the box of numerals, and a moment later, a singsong voice came crackling through.
“Ye-es?”
“Max Hailey to see Heather,” I said, then added “Engel-Feeny.”
“That’s her!” replied the voice. “Do come in.”
With a tiny click, the gate retreated into the white wall, and we were confronted with Heather’s mansion. It was much more impressive than the photos I had seen in the Vanity Fair article, which hadn’t quite managed to convey the warmth and grand scale of the thing.
Heather’s wide, well-groomed lawn was decorated with palm trees, bougainvillea, and jacarandas. The gardeners must have been extremely diligent, because not a single blossom or leaf marred the stretch of clean, white stones that expanded up to her front door. A wide brick pathway led up to the house itself, a spacious Spanish hacienda.
After parking, we approached the front door and I knocked. The door swung open to reveal a young man with dark hair and perfect teeth. A Bluetooth glinted in his ear.
“Max,” he said warmly, taking my hand in both of his. “I’m Barney. And who’s this?”
“Madeleine Woolner,” Mad said, stepping forward.
“She doesn’t like apples,” Barney muttered. “And she’s allergic to cinnamon.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” he said, waving his hand at me. He pointed to the Bluetooth. “Caterers.”
“Got it.”
We stepped into the foyer, which was suffused with warm light. The walls were cream-colored cob, and the floors were made of dark wood. All the doorways were arches into other rooms, and I looked up to see vaulted ceilings.
“Follow me,” Barney said, then turned and looked at our shoes. “Are your feet clean?”
“Yes…?”
“You can take your shoes off, then.”
Madeleine and I stooped to remove our shoes. We exchanged a look, then made our way through the foyer behind Barney, who was delivering lines in a dreamy monologue.
“Heather’s particular about who she lets into her house, as you can imagine,” he said. “She has some dogs, which won’t interfere with your business; they’re locked up in the nursery. Also, Heather has an appointment this afternoon, so she might have to cut your meeting short.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Now, is there something we can do about that ridiculous color? Heather finds yellow to be confrontational.”
I glanced down at my outfit. “Are you talking to me?”
“No,” Barney said, irritated. “The caterers’ uniforms are offensive to anyone with eyeballs.”
“Max Hailey! Is that Max?”
Heather emerged in the hallway before us. She looked the same as she had in the photos that I had seen of her, but it looked like her red hair had been recently permed. She wore a crisp oxford shirt and slacks, and a small dog quivered in her arms.
“Barney,” she said, turning to address the young man. “Did you lock the dogs in the nursery?”
“They were highly animated this morning.”
“Well, one of them’s done a shit in the vintage bassinet. You’re going to have to clean that up.”
“Of course, Heather.”
“It looks runny,” she said. “Have you been giving them lamb again?”
“We were out of kibble,” he said, lowering his voice.
“No lamb!” she snapped. “Pedigree can’t take anything but mince. Take care of that now, please.”
Barney disappeared, and Heather turned her attention to Madeleine.
“Who’s your friend, Max?”
“I’m Madeleine,” she said, stepping forward to offer Heather her hand.
“Are you a journalist? Do you write?”
“No, I work with a historical conservation society.”
“Which one?” Heather narrowed her eyes.
“Aiden-Harms.”
“The Jewish one.” Heather pursed her lips, then noticed our bare feet. “You took your shoes off.”
“Barney asked us to.”
“I’d watch your step, if I were you,” Heather said. “Barney gave the dogs lamb this morning, so all bets are off.”
We followed Heather toward the back of the house, and I tried to absorb as much of our surroundings as possible. The thick walls of the estate managed to keep out the heat of the day, and the tiles were cool against my bare feet. Each room followed the same basic color scheme: cream and dark wood. We passed a living room lined with French windows and a formal dining room with a modern art chandelier, and I caught a glimpse of a library down another long hallway.
Heather opened a set of double doors, and we emerged into the backyard. There were paths of swept marble and another tidy, immaculate lawn. Chaise longues were gathered around the lip of a marble swimming pool, and I couldn’t help wondering when someone had last gone swimming.
“Do you swim?” I asked.
“Not here,” Heather said. “I have a personal trainer and a gym membership.”
“I see.”
“Pools have a ghastly history in Los Angeles,” Heather said, turning to look at us. “Did you know that Cecil DeMille’s grandson drowned in his neighbor’s pool? Maybe it was a duck pond. Charlie Chaplin nearly died in the swimming pool at Pickfair—oh, he was a devout atheist, he was trying to make some point about the lack of God in Hollywood.”
“Didn’t Cecil DeMille live here?” I asked.
“You’ve done your homework,” she said, impressed. “The accident happened near Los Feliz, though. This was the summer house. I’ve done some extensions and renovations, as you’ve probably noticed.”
Heather set down the dog and found her keys. We stepped into the pool house, and I felt a surge of envy when I saw the interior. One wall was just windows, looking out toward the San Gabriel Mountains. The other walls were covered in framed posters of old movies.
Heather followed my gaze. “My father’s pictures,” she said. “He was a prolific producer.”
“I’ve seen some of them,” I said. “Last Train to Avalon was supposed to be one of his best.”
Heather pressed her lips together, and I realized that I had broached a taboo subject.
“His other movies were great, too,” I added hastily. “The Queen’s Shadow was excellent.”
“It was,” Heather said warmly. “You like movies?”
“Of course. Los Angeles would be nothing without the film industry.”
“Moving on,” she said. “Did you bring what I asked for?”
“I did,” I said. “But first, you said you have something for me.”
I had miscalculated my advantage. Heather narrowed her eyes and laughed once, without mirth.
“You listen to me,” she said. “That reel doesn’t belong to you. Ray wanted to call the police, but I talked him out of it. You’re going to hand it over, because if you don’t, I’m going to have to call the police myself.”
“What?”
“I don’t like to play games, young man,” she said. “You’re a guest in my house, and you’re overstepping your bounds.”
I stared at her, mute.
“Max,” she said, and her voice had softened. “Have you seen the reel? You took it home, so you must have had a good look.”
I nodded.
“Surely you realize,” she said, “how damaging it would be for MGM if the reel got out. My father’s name would be tarnished. It’s a producer’s job to protect his stars, you know.”
“Your father is dead.”
“It’s my job to protect his legacy.”
I reached into my satchel and took out the reel. Before I handed it over to Heather, I hesitated, stalling for time.
“You said you had something for me,” I tried again.
“The reel, Max.”
I handed it over, and Heather smiled. “Thank you for that.”
“You should be careful with that film,” I said. “Nitrogen film is highly flammable. That magician’s lucky it didn’t set fire to his restaurant.”
“Hailey’s a pyromaniac,” Mad said helpfully. “Went to jail and everything.”
Heather ignored her. “I’m aware of the dangers of nitrogen film,” she said. “My father used to tell me stories about how old studios would go up in flames because of it.”
She knelt by a safe and punched in the code. The door opened, and she withdrew a metal box. With a smile, she set the box in front of me.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Open it, don’t be shy.”
I flipped the latch and opened the metal box. Inside was a sheaf of papers, tidy black notebooks, and a few old photographs. I was suddenly short of breath.
“What is it?” Madeleine craned her neck to see.
I picked up the top notebook. Beneath it was a stack of similar notebooks, as well as various photographs, clippings, and bits of memorabilia. May 12, 1944, began the first line. I flipped through the first few pages of the notebook, which was filled with the same, whimsical script. Page after page of meticulous, careful notation.
I turned to Heather. “Where did you get these?”
“Does it matter?” Heather smiled. “They’re authentic. I had them tested for fingerprints. Not that it matters, but the handwriting is a perfect match. There’s no faking this stuff.”
“But… how did you get them? I thought they were destroyed a long time ago.”
“Someone kept them safe.” She shrugged. “They weren’t cheap, but I knew that they were valuable. They’ll give you a lot of insight into Theo’s life back then. I think they can help you prove that he killed Eleanor.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Information,” she said. “That’s all.”
“You already have Theo’s journals. Can’t they tell you everything you need to know?”
I counted the notebooks—there were six of them. Madeleine’s hand was on my arm, and I turned to look at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“These are Theo’s notebooks,” I replied. “These notebooks are the reason that the trial was thrown.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Heather interrupted.
“Well, the judge threw out the case because he found out that the district attorney paid someone to sneak into Theo’s house and steal these,” I said. “Apparently he thought they were valuable enough to risk the case.”
I rested a hand on top of the journals. I felt like I was vibrating at a low frequency, and my feeling of boundless optimism had returned. A long time had passed since the last time I felt so carefree.
“The journals are yours,” Heather said. “If.”
“If?”
“In exchange, I need you to do something for me,” Heather said.
“I’m not sure I can offer you anything.” My hand was still on the journals. I had never allowed myself to really believe that they still existed, and now I wasn’t going to let them out of my sight. I already knew that I was going to agree to whatever Heather asked of me, no matter how ridiculous.
“I heard that you’re trying to get in touch with Theo,” she said. “You’ve been speaking with his lawyer.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
“Cut the shit, Max. I’ve got connections, I hear things. I don’t expect you to understand this, but my father’s career was nearly ruined because of Theodore Langley. I want to see him brought to justice before he dies.”
“You think I can make that happen?”
“When you meet him,” she said, “and I’m sure you will, because you’re resourceful—I want you to find out how he did it. I get first dibs on any evidence you find. I don’t want movie posters with Theo’s signature, I want proof that he killed Eleanor. If you can get the district attorney to open a new case, I’ll pay you handsomely. Let’s call it thirty thousand dollars.”
“And the journals.” I was having trouble wrapping my head around the agreement.
“And the journals. It should go without saying that you can’t publish an article until I’ve looked at it.”
“Thirty thousand is tempting, but that would last—what? A year? This story would make my career.” I lingered on the thought. “I’m thinking long-term, here. Money runs out; I’m more interested in keeping my job.”
“You’re forgetting the journals, Max,” Heather said. “You won’t get anywhere without them.”
I reached into the box and picked up a stack of photographs. I recognized a lot of the players in the shots—Errol Flynn, Jean Harlow, Mae West; Rita Hayworth posing next to Porter Hall and Jimmy Stewart. Some of the shots were at Windhall, but others were in the Hollywood Hills, when they were still somewhat wild, or else on the beach.
There were also quite a few shots of Eleanor, sometimes alone, and sometimes with others. I flipped through pictures of Eleanor wearing a tennis outfit, a racket swung over her shoulder, or Eleanor and another woman brushing a horse, so absorbed in their task that they didn’t even seem to notice the photographer. There was a photo of Eleanor standing in a garden, her hair pinned at the base of her neck. I peered closer and recognized the hedges of Theo’s garden, and a shiver went down my spine.
I stopped on a photograph of Windhall. Some dark-eyed stars languished around the lip of Theo’s pool, social malaise written across their features. I frowned and held the photo closer. I could make out Barbara Stanwyck, and it looked like Robert Taylor was shading his eyes against the glare of the sun.
“There’s one more thing,” Heather said. “I expect you to give me weekly updates, let me know what progress you’ve made.”
“Why can’t we just meet at the end of the month? I’ll tell you everything then.”
She wagged a finger at me. “I’d like to know everything as it comes. Anything you learn about Theo, you tell me straight off.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the journals.
“Thirty thousand,” Heather repeated. “I’ll give that to you once you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal, of course.”
“Hailey—” Madeleine started, but Heather cut her off.
“Do we have a deal or not? I have a very important meeting in a few minutes.” Heather was starting to sound impatient.
“Can I take everything in this box?” I asked.
“You may, but only if you sign something.”
I hesitated, looking at Madeleine for confirmation. She looked exasperated, and I felt like I must have missed a hidden signal at some point.
“Look, I can’t promise not to run the article,” I said. “If I find something conclusive, I can show it to you, but I can’t promise to sit on the story.”
“Promise me seventy-two hours,” Heather said. “Give me the information seventy-two hours before you run the story. I’ll take it to the district attorney, and we’ll get the case reopened.”
“Hailey, can we talk outside?” Madeleine gave me a hard look.
“Max, this deal evaporates once I walk out that door.” Heather glanced at her watch. “You’ve got about thirty seconds before I change my mind.”
“Forty-eight,” I said. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours with the evidence before I run my story.”
“Excellent.” Heather walked around her desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out an iPad and swiped the screen, then made a notation. “I’ve got a contract for you right here. I’ll just make a note on here that we’ve changed the terms, and my lawyers can go over it and send you a new copy. Sign with your finger at the bottom of the screen.”
I took the contract and scanned it. It was disheartening to see that for all my strong words and negotiations, Heather had known that she would get things on her terms in the end.
I signed at the bottom of the paper, then picked up the box of notebooks.
“Thank you, Max,” Heather purred. “I really think we’ll do well together.”