TEN

It was three in the morning by the time I finished reading. Theo’s handwriting was cramped and elegant, the letters hooked together. The words were difficult to read, and it took me at least ten minutes to read each page, especially since I took copious notes as I went along.

Errol Flynn, Jules, and someone named Bill. Nora was Eleanor Hayes, of course; it only took me a few pages to figure that out. When I finished reading the first part of the journal I went to the wall of my office, where I had pinned dozens of photographs of Eleanor. After scanning through the photos, I found the one I wanted: Eleanor, at the premiere for My Friend, Roy. She wore a long black gown, and pinned near her breast was a brooch, shaped like a scarab.

---

I could hardly wait to get to work the next morning. When I arrived at the office at six o’clock, I was convinced that I would be the first one in. As soon as I walked into the office, however, I smelled coffee. Someone was already there.

I walked into the kitchen and found Brian humming to himself. His back was to me, and he was stirring sugar into his coffee.

“Brian.”

“Jesus fuck!” He whirled around.

I leaned against the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

Brian scowled. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

He pointed his spoon at me. “That,” he said, “is none of your business.”

I followed him out into the hallway. He sauntered toward his office, still humming. When he reached the office door, he gave me a smug little smile.

“So, how’s that job search coming?”

“I’m not leaving, Brian. Alexa’s keeping me on.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Who are you meeting?”

“Never you mind.” He pulled the door of his office shut behind him. I struggled not to kick the door in, and instead contented myself with going into the kitchen and fixing myself up a cup of coffee.

Over the next few hours, the rest of the Lens staff trickled in. I lingered by my desk, pretending to do work, until I saw Petra walk into the lobby. I jumped up and walked over to her.

“Who’s Brian meeting up with today?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she murmured. “Is that coffee for me?”

“Sure, why not.”

She took a sip. “It’s ice-cold.”

“I made it a few hours ago. So, do you know?”

She didn’t reply but set her things down next to the desk. I watched as she turned on the computer and then pulled out an appointment book. She scanned it, then tapped the Wednesday column.

“Caleb Walsh,” she said.

“Walsh, Walsh.” I snapped my fingers. “The dead art student. Wasn’t her name something Walsh?”

“Samira.”

“He’s started writing the article.”

Petra looked uncomfortable. “There’s something you should know,” she said. “I know what he’s writing about, and it’s probably why they’re meeting today.”

“What? Tell me.”

“Caleb—Mr. Walsh—is petitioning to have Windhall torn down, but it’s pretty hard to demolish a historic building. I don’t know all the details.”

“When did this happen?”

“It’s been happening over the last few days. Mr. Walsh wants Brian to write a story about him so that he can garner sympathy and support.”

I sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through my hair. “I know this man’s grieving, but Theo was never convicted for murdering Eleanor, so there’s nothing to prove that Samira’s death is even linked to Windhall. I don’t even know where to start with this—I mean, the amount of assumptions behind this maneuver are on par with some sort of really sketchy political scheme.”

Petra gave me a wry smile. “I thought you were writing an article about how he got away with murder.”

“I am,” I said. “He definitely killed Eleanor. I believe in due process, though, and this seems to violate that.”

Petra seemed to be weighing her response. Before she could answer, the front door opened and Alexa walked in, followed by a man with a dark complexion and thinning hair.

Alexa nodded hello to Petra and me, and I quickly studied the man standing next to her. Tailored pants and leather saddle shoes, a worn-in cashmere pullover. He hadn’t shaven in a few days, but his stubble almost looked intentional. Grief by Ralph Lauren, I couldn’t help thinking.

“Hello,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m Max Hailey.”

“Caleb Walsh,” he said. “Are you working on the article?”

“I’m researching Theo,” I hedged. “Brian and I are doing research from separate angles.”

“I heard.” Caleb removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Alexa jumped in. “Max is working on a different story,” she said. “You’re going to meet with Brian today.”

“I’d love to sit in on the meeting,” I said. “If that’s okay with you, Mr. Walsh.”

Brian came bouncing into the lobby. “Cal, my man!” he said. “Come and pop into my office.”

Petra stood. “I’ll come take notes, Brian.”

“Good thought, good thought.”

We all filed down the hallway, into Brian’s office. He frowned when he saw that I had joined them.

“Hailey,” he said. “This is a private meeting.”

“It’s okay, Brian,” Alexa said. “I think that Max should be here, too.”

I watched Brian wrestle with his emotions for a minute. He gave me a tight smile, then walked over to his desk and sat down.

I hadn’t seen it before, but now I realized that Caleb was exhausted. The skin beneath his eyes was translucent and damp, and his eyelashes were clumped together, as though he had been crying at some point that day.

“Let me begin by saying that I don’t think Theo killed my daughter,” Caleb said. He paused for a moment. “But I think he’s responsible, all the same.”

“Sure, sure,” Brian said. “This whole thing is his fault.”

“Nobody thinks of young victims as human; nobody cares about their families. People think of them as goddamned icons.” Caleb took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really fragile time for my family.”

“You know,” Brian said, after a pause, “there might be a movie in this. I have a good friend at Fox, and he’d love to have a sit-down with you. We haven’t talked actresses yet, but I could see someone like Emma Watson playing Samira.”

Caleb stared at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

Brian steepled his fingers. “So, what, exactly, do you want? I think you’re missing an opportunity.”

“I want people to know what happens to the families of the victims,” he said. He closed his eyes, and I could see that his hands were shaking. I worried that he might start crying in Brian’s office, but he steeled himself enough to speak up again. “The police haven’t caught this person yet, but maybe we can prevent future crimes, if they see that it’s tearing families apart.”

Brian was jotting this down. “Gotcha,” he said. “Little vigilante work, I like it.”

“There’s one more thing,” Caleb said. “Windhall. Theo shouldn’t be allowed to stay there any longer.”

“What do you have in mind?”

He rubbed his eyes, then took a creased piece of paper from his pocket. I felt another pang of pity for the man: the paper looked like it had been consulted, pocketed, then taken out and crumpled up. I wondered if it might be a picture of his daughter.

Caleb unfolded the sheet and cleared his throat.

“I’ve looked into it, and Windhall has historic status, so it would be very difficult to have it torn down. There’s another possibility, however. We could force Theo to sell the building, and then have it turned into a nonprofit that would benefit women.”

“Interesting thought,” Alexa murmured. “I don’t like your chances at getting Theo to sell, though.”

“He might not have a choice,” Caleb said, then smiled. “Turns out there’s a caveat written into the Beverly Hills charter about the ownership of historic buildings. If the council finds that a building has been allowed to fall into disrepair, the owner has three months from the time a complaint is lodged to prove to the council that they intend to restore it, or else they’ll be forced to evacuate.”

Alexa frowned. “That seems awfully fast.”

“There’s a stipulation that the building must have been unoccupied for at least seven consecutive years prior,” Caleb said.

“Why hasn’t anyone looked into this before?”

Caleb gave another faint smile. “Windhall was only recently declared historic,” he said. “Something that Theo’s lawyer did, to protect it from demolition. A bit of irony that might work in our favor.”

Alexa nodded. “We’ll write an article to help you gain traction with this petition. Before we delve into this issue more deeply, however, we’ll need to discuss exclusivity rights with you.”

Caleb looked uncomfortable. “I scheduled an appointment with another editor later,” he said.

Alexa shook her head. “This is a lot of work, and we’ll be spending a lot of time and resources to research this article. If you’d like to move forward, we’ll need you to agree to speak with us exclusively.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I don’t see why that should be an issue.”

“I’ll draw up a contract,” Alexa said. “In the meantime, can you tell us a little bit about Samira?”

Caleb took a deep breath. “She never used to keep secrets,” he said. “She was a quiet little girl, but she always felt like she could talk to us about stuff. That changed once she started art school.”

Alexa nodded, and I could see that Petra was busy taking notes. I prayed that Brian wouldn’t jump in with another bad suggestion, a different actress who might play Caleb’s daughter in a Lifetime Original Movie.

“She was working on something when she died,” Caleb went on. “She said that she’d been contacted by a woman who was doing a tribute for Eleanor Hayes. Samira loved Eleanor, grew up watching all her movies.”

I felt a shiver as I thought about the dead girls. It had never occurred to me that they might have been tricked into doing something sinister. The murderer had planned this carefully, methodically.

“Did Samira tell you anything about this woman?” I cut in.

“No,” he admitted. “She didn’t tell me anything, other than that she was a woman.”

“Thanks, Cal,” Brian said. “I think I have enough to start writing the article. I’ll be in touch when I have questions.”

We walked Caleb out of the office, and then I took Alexa aside.

“Can we speak privately? There’s something I need to tell you.”

We stepped into her office, and she closed the door. It was still a little unnerving to have Alexa’s full attention, but I tried to set that aside for the moment.

I couldn’t tell her about the deal I had signed with Heather, obviously, but I needed to tell her about the meeting I had had with Leland at Windhall.

“I’m meeting Theo tomorrow.”

Her face was impassive for a moment, and then she frowned. “You’re meeting with Theo tomorrow? Theodore Langley.”

I couldn’t help grinning. “It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“It is exactly that. How did you manage to finagle a meeting?”

“I found something that belongs to him, and I bluffed my way into a meeting.”

Her expression was still difficult to read. “What do you plan to discuss with him?”

“Look, I think we can all agree that Theo didn’t kill these girls,” I said. “There’s a reason why Theo came back, though. It’s been sixty-seven years.”

“Unfortunately, journalists don’t have the same prerogatives as fiction writers. We have to focus on what the public cares about, and at the moment, they want to see justice for the murder victims.”

I mulled this over. “Alexa,” I said. “I’m happy to look into the deaths of these new girls, but I can’t let Eleanor go. It’s not right. It just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“You’re chasing ghosts, Max. Stick to the present day.”

“What if I found out where he killed her? They didn’t have DNA evidence and all that back then.”

“I thought he killed her in the garden.”

“No, no, that’s what everyone thinks, but they proved that the body had been moved after she was murdered. There were still guests. He had to have killed her somewhere inside, then moved the body.”

“I see.”

“There must still be microscopic bits of DNA, wouldn’t you think?”

She was quiet. “I don’t think you have enough time to pursue this properly. You won’t have police backing, you know. If they go after Theo, they’ll go after him for the two new victims.”

“Okay,” I said, then, “I’ll let you know how tomorrow goes.”

“There’s one more thing,” she said. “You don’t have much time to find some conclusive evidence. It’s going to be very difficult unless you have some help.”

“I’m not working with another writer,” I said quickly. “I want sole credit for the story.”

She sighed. “You’re young,” she said. “Probably too young to realize that you’re making a mistake.”

“I’m capable of doing this alone.”

“You’re not. I can see that you’re a talented journalist, but I’d also like to see that you can work well with others. The Lens was founded on a spirit of conviviality, not ego and individuality.”

I chewed on this. “Fine,” I said. I already knew who I was going to use. “I’ll take the new girl. Petra.”

“Good.” She nodded. “You’d better get started right away; you don’t have much time.”