Читать книгу Fade To Black - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThere had been something about Marnie Davante in her role as Madam Zeta that had been magical. The show had been cast well. It was one of those in which the chemistry between the players was just right on, and because of it, the show was incredibly watchable, and it was still doing very well in syndication.
Bryan had downloaded a number of episodes to watch on his phone during the cross-continental flight. After a few, he felt he knew Scarlet Zeta—except, of course, who he had come to know wasn’t a real person—he had come to know a character.
His first stop was with the major crimes detectives who were handling the case. The detective he’d finally managed to speak with over the phone before his arrival—Sophie Manning—was still confused as to why he was coming out from Virginia.
That was all right. In a way, he was still confused himself.
He was asked to wait by the desk sergeant, and soon a small woman with a purposeful gait came toward him. She assessed him quickly, apparently noting that he’d probably hold his own in a fight since she gave him a sort of approving nod. While she was a tiny thing, Bryan figured she’d had some training herself, and while she might not be able to throw much weight around, she’d be damned good throwing around what she did have.
“Mr. McFadden?” she asked, offering him a hand. She had a good grip.
“Bryan McFadden, yes. And you’re Detective Manning.”
“I am. If you’ll come with me, my partner is upstairs in one of our conference rooms.”
Upstairs, he met Grant Vining; once again, he was impressed. Vining didn’t appear to be at all intimidated, nor did he seem to resent Bryan’s presence there. If anything, he was curious—something that he voiced almost immediately.
“You’re out here from Virginia?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Virginia is my home. At the moment.”
“Military brat?”
“Military myself for a few years—a few years back. My parents, no. They were actors.”
“I see,” Vining said. Then he scratched his graying head. “No, no, frankly, I don’t see at all. You’re a private eye?”
“Yes, recently licensed.”
“And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”
Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.
“I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.
“But then—”
“I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.
“For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.
Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”
“And?”
“Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.
“The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.
Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”
“Dead,” Bryan finished for her.
She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.
“That would be me. I am my own client on this.”
Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”
“Absolutely,” Bryan promised.
“We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”
“I don’t intend to grill anyone,” Bryan said.
“Ah, well, then...” Vining just stared at him.
“My most sincere thanks,” Bryan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to work in your jurisdiction, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to share information.”
“We did investigate you, of course,” Vining told him.
“I’d expect no less. I will be in touch.” He hesitated. “As far as the comic con goes, are there markers at the table that suggest who sits where?”
“Yes, there were numbers on the table. Along with their nameplates,” Vining said.
“Were they in order?” Bryan asked.
“In order?” Vining frowned. “What order would that be? We believed the numbers to have been set out by the organizers. Along with the nameplates.”
“Were such numbers available on other tables?” Bryan asked.
“They were between a descendant of a famous German shepherd and Malcolm Dangerfield,” Vining said. “Just one dog. And in Malcolm’s case—just one man. Oh, yes, and his publicity manager and reporters and God alone might know who else during the day. Dangerfield is what might be a called an ‘It boy’ this year. You think that the numbers mean something?” he asked.
Bryan shook his head. “I’ve seen the news. That’s about it. I don’t think anything as of yet. And even if someone had been offended by Miss Barton, this was one drastic method of showing displeasure.”
“Yes,” Vining said. “You have contact info for the comic con organizer and his secretary for operations there. I can’t tell you how many people are involved. There are some closed-circuit cameras around the convention floor. But not enough to cover the entire area. I’m willing to bet, however, that there are tons of cell phone videos of the event out there, videos we have yet to see here, though we did pick up many. If you find any...”
“If I find more video, I’ll let you know.”
“Precisely,” Vining said.
Sophie Manning cleared her throat.
“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner released the body, and... I guess everyone wanted it to happen. She was just killed on Friday. We’re frankly surprised that the ME did release the body so quickly, but he has extensive notes—”
“I know,” Bryan said.
“You’ve been to see Dr. Collier already?” Vining asked a little sharply.
“No. I just know of him,” Bryan said. “And he is top-notch.”
“There will be a reception following, but I can’t help you get access.”
“That’s fine. I’ll manage,” Bryan assured him. “And thank you again.”
“You just keep in touch,” Vining said firmly.
“It’s a promise,” Bryan assured him.
Before he’d actually reached the street, Bryan had received a digital folder. Vining clearly meant to keep his word.
A glance at his email showed him that he’d received the autopsy notes, as well. He could have told Vining that Dr. Edward Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.
He headed on out for his third stop that day.
He wanted to see where Marnie Davante lived.
Just to observe. It was a day for gathering information.
Tomorrow would be time enough to put some of it to use.
* * *
Marnie Davante stood quietly by the graveside and listened while the priest spoke about life and death, and his certainty that while they buried the mortal remains of Cara Barton, her soul went on to a better place, one where there was no pain and no fear, and where love reigned.
Marnie hoped it was true.
For a moment, she thought she saw Cara there, dressed beautifully in the red-and-black tailored suit she’d been dressed in for her viewing, enjoying the attention her funeral was receiving.
Marnie had truly loved Cara, but she knew as well that years of fighting to maintain a career had left Cara jaded and weary. She had dated many a heartthrob, but she had never married. Her parents had long ago departed their mortal coil, and she’d had no siblings. So she left behind no one with very close ties to her. But in Marnie’s mind, there had been many wonderful things about her friend. Cara had cared deeply about animals—she had raised money and awareness for humane societies and no-kill shelters. She had given what she could to children’s charities.
And Marnie had had a chance to talk about all the good in Cara lately—she’d been interviewed right and left, almost to a point of embarrassment.
Cara would have been happy.
In death, she was incredibly famous.
So much was being written about her. Every celebrity and pop culture magazine out there was doing an article on her.
Marnie was somehow the golden girl in most interviews, and it was very uncomfortable. She had remained friends with her fellow castmates from Dark Harbor, and she hoped to God that they knew she had never mentioned herself as the “success” story from the show while the others had gone on to face less-than-stellar careers.
She wasn’t sure how exactly anyone measured success. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly been besieged with scripts for blockbusters. She’d just managed to keep working, and a lot of that had been theatrical work.
The priest was going on. He was a good man, Marnie knew. He and Cara had been friends. That was one thing people hadn’t known about her. Cara had been a regular churchgoer.
A cloud shifted in the sky.
Marnie thought that the late-afternoon sun must be playing tricks on her; she could have sworn that Cara—or someone dressed similarly, wearing one of the ridiculous giant black hats Cara had worn—had just slipped behind the priest.
Someone was sobbing; it was Roberta Alan, Marnie’s sister from the show. Well, of course. Roberta and Cara had often bickered, but they had been very close. Since Cara had lacked real family, her Dark Harbor fellows were being seen as her closest relations. To be fair, they had been something of a family for a time. Marnie had been so young herself when she’d started—just turned sixteen—she had leaned on the others. While Cara had been huge at emoting—larger than life, more than a bit of a diva—she’d always been kind and something like a very whacky but caring aunt for Marnie.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she was still in shock. Marnie had done enough crying herself, the night at the hospital when she realized there had never been a chance for Cara, that doctors had gone through the motions, but there had been nothing they could do.
Since then, she had just been going through the motions. Moving by rote, speaking by rote...
Getting herself here today...she didn’t even recall how.
As Roberta softly sobbed, a spate of flashbulbs went off. Marnie could see them even through her closed eyelids. There was press everywhere. There had been ever since Cara died.
The priest, deep in his reflection, didn’t miss a beat.
Marnie opened her eyes again.
That was when she saw her fully. The woman dressed like Cara.
She was on the other side of the coffin, standing beside one of Hollywood’s hot young leading men and an older, well-respected actor. They didn’t seem to notice the woman.
How the hell they didn’t, Marnie didn’t begin to understand.
She looked just like Cara.
As if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.
It was Cara.
Cara Barton.
It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.
She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.
She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...
But it had been real. The blade had been real.
And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!
Not at death, no, not the horror of death.
They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.
And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.
It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.
Cara Barton was dead. She had died in Marnie’s arms.
And yet there she was, watching the proceedings, nodding with approval as the priest went on emotionally, as Roberta cried softly, as others followed suit.
The priest’s words came to an end. Marnie remembered that she’d been holding a rose; a number of people, those who had been closest to Cara in life, were stepping forward, dropping their roses onto the coffin. It was almost time to leave. Cara’s coffin would be lowered into the ground.
Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.
Cara had always known that she would be buried here, in Hollywood’s oldest cemetery, close to so many actors, directors, writers, producers and musicians she had known and loved. She’d adored the place. Marnie had come with her once to see a showing of a black-and-white silent classic on one of the large mausoleum walls; Cara had giggled and said it was like a living cemetery. They could catch a flick—and leave roses on the graves of Rudolph Valentino, Cecille B. DeMille and so many, many more. Sometimes there were concerts in the cemetery. Johnny Ramone would surely love it.
Cara Barton was dead. Cara Barton would soon be lowered into the ground in the cemetery she had always loved so much—where she had always known she wanted to be.
Someday.
It shouldn’t have been so soon...
Marnie blinked. She could still see her.
The woman looked just like Cara. She was grave; she was sad, and then she clapped her hands and wiped her tears, delighted as the hot star of the day stepped forward, casting down a rose and saying, “She was truly an enormous talent! Such a devastating loss!”
Marnie followed Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair, all casting their roses over the coffin.
She stopped dead, staring across the coffin.
Cara was there. Cara. Not someone who looked like Cara.
She looked at Marnie and smiled sadly. “Did you see? Oh, Marnie. Everyone is here. Oh, my Lord. I mean everyone who is anyone. This is so wonderful. If only...”
Marnie froze. Obviously, it had all just been too much.
Cara dying in her arms.
The blood.
The EMTs taking Cara’s body from her. She had just sat there. She could still see the blood, feel the blood, smell the blood.
And see the character—Blood-bone.
For what had seemed like an eternity, he had just stood there, staring at them all while those in the crowd went crazy clapping.
Then he had turned and disappeared into the crowd. It had taken forever, so it had seemed, for people to realize that her screams were real, that something terrible had really happened. It had been no performance.
Crazy. So damned crazy.
And every night now, Marnie had nightmares that featured Blood-bone dancing before her, wielding that sword with its array of colors...
Not just a light-up sword. A real sword.
She had made it through the day. Through the comic con being closed down. Through the questioning by the police. Through the hours of smelling her friend’s blood...until she could finally change into the police-issued scrubs.
And she was still moving. She didn’t know if she was or wasn’t in shock. She just kept going through all the right motions.
She had to be in shock. Or the events being so crazy had turned into her being crazy.
“Marnie?” Grayson Adair had turned back to her. He looked at her with sorrowful affection, like a real big brother.
She blinked. She cast down her rose, looking across the coffin to the other side of the grave.
Cara was still standing there. She gave Marnie a thumbs-up.
It was impossible. Apparently, Grayson Adair did not see Cara.
Surely that meant that Cara was not really there. But Grayson not seeing Cara was not the only reason she could not be there. Cara could not be there because Cara was dead. Her poor murdered body lay in the coffin.
Cara wasn’t there—not really. She was just there in Marnie’s worn and tormented mind. Marnie took a deep breath and pretended she wasn’t hallucinating.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Marnie?”
Grayson was speaking again, looking back at her and offering her an arm.
Marnie took it. But as they started out, she felt something. Something extremely strange, as if a cool fog had formed into some kind of substance on her other side.
She looked to her left. To her free arm.
It wasn’t free; Cara had come up beside her. She had slipped her arm through Marnie’s and was walking at her side.
“At least it was a sensational funeral,” Cara said. “I’m so grateful. Oh, not for being murdered, though, of course, that does mean that I’ll be famous forever. I’ve seen the headlines—Famous TV Matriarch Brutally Taken by Blood-Bone Character. And they said that I was beautiful and aging gracefully. I’ve seen everything you’ve said, too. You are just such a little doll. Frankly, you’re a little too good and innocent, and you really don’t belong in Hollywood. Where was it you came from originally? Atlanta, right? How rude of me not to really remember, but then again, I was meant to live in the dog-eat-dog and plastic part of Hollywood—I do believe that it is all about me!”
It sounded like Cara Barton; the voice was just a little bit raspy, as if it had been created from the wind or the air. The cadence was all Cara, as was the admission that yes, the world was all about her.
Even when she was dead.
Or especially because she was dead.
Someone called out and Grayson paused, turning to talk to the man. It was another reporter.
“Really. Lovely funeral. I’m sure you had a part in planning it? And if I know you, you made sure that it was more than public notice—that everyone who is anyone would be here,” Cara said approvingly.
“You’re not really here, and I can’t hear you,” Marnie whispered, and she knew that her tone was low, that her words were breathy.
For a moment, she felt that she was going to keel over. No, she couldn’t pass out. That would bring attention to her, away from Cara. And Cara wouldn’t be happy.
Cara was dead.
Yep. Dead.
And yet Cara was still standing next to her.
“Marnie?” It was Grayson speaking again. He was looking at her with dark, concerned eyes.
Grayson had always been known for his good looks. He was tall, and his hair was as dark as his eyes. He was truly concerned for her, Marnie thought.
But he was also extremely aware of the cameras going off all around them. Yes, he was aware of the press and of the possible headlines: Marnie Davante Stumbles from Cemetery in Shock, Held Up by Manly Hands of Former Costar Grayson Adair.
“I’m fine,” she said softly.
“Oh, please, you’re not supposed to be fine!” Cara’s ghost protested. “I’m dead! I was murdered. You’re not fine.”
“No, I’m stone-cold crazy!” Marnie said.
“What?” Grayson asked, twisting around to look at her, a frown creasing his handsome features. “There’s that hot gossip blogger coming toward us. Are you all right? Really?”
“Yes, you’re fine now,” Cara said. “Be sure to tell them how wonderful I was, how much you loved me. I do bask in all this!”
The blogger came forward and brashly shook hands with them both. He apologized for disturbing them then; he was afraid he wouldn’t get near them once they had reached Rodeo, the trendy new restaurant where they’d be having the reception.
Marnie told him how much she had loved Cara; she told him what a wonderful actress she had been in a scene, in an ensemble. She vowed they would hound the police until the killer was found. They would never stop.
“Wonderful,” Cara said.
“Excuse me,” Marnie said, escaping from Grayson’s hold and turning to head back to the grave site. The funeral workers—who had been about to lower the finely carved coffin into the ground—stepped back, obviously surprised and a little annoyed that their time was being taken. They did, however, respectfully move away, allowing her personal and intimate time with her dearly departed loved one.
Marnie stood there for a moment, breathing. And then she spoke softly and firmly. “You are dead, Cara. I cannot see you, I cannot hear you. God help me, I am so, so sorry. I will miss you. Honestly. But you are dead!”
“That isn’t going to help.”
Marnie was so startled by the sound of the deep, masculine voice—so near to her—that she nearly fell over the coffin.
Luckily, she caught herself and looked over it instead.
He was tall—taller even than Grayson Adair. And, if possible, his hair was darker. His eyes, however, weren’t dark, they were green or gold or a startling combination of both, and they sat in a ruggedly masculine face that could well have been the next to grace every pop culture magazine out there. He was well built—he was quite simply both rugged and Hollywood drop-dead gorgeous.
And she was just staring at him.
“Wow,” the specter of Cara murmured, standing close behind Marnie once again. “Did he grow up fine. That’s one of the McFadden boys. Of course, you must understand, the parents were to die for—what an expression. Terrible.”
“You’re not there,” Marnie whispered desperately.
“It’s not going to help,” the man said gently.
Stunned, Marnie realized the truth. Whoever he was—McFadden boy, whatever—he was aware of what was going on.
“You—you—you see her. You hear her, too?” Marnie said.
He nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Bryan McFadden. I’m...I’m here to help you.”
McFadden.
“No.” Marnie shook her head vehemently. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m having hallucinations and you’re...having the same hallucinations. And you know it... Oh! It’s a sham. You’re from a paper. You’re trying to make me look crazy... I have to go.”
Marnie turned, ready to hurry back to Grayson Adair and the rest of her old cast and crew.
“Miss Davante,” he said.
She bit her lower lip and paused, not turning back but listening. On the one hand, she wanted to run.
Then again...
It was too...too...
Real.
And if he could help her?
She stayed there, wanting to run, afraid that if she did so she’d lose any chance of fighting off whatever was happening.
He didn’t speak again right away. They were too close to the cemetery workers.
He came up behind her. Not too close. He didn’t touch her. But close enough. She was aware of him in a way that she seldom felt, as if he were almost inside her skin, as if his fingers did touch her just as the warmth of his words reached her. He whispered softly, his tone still deep and rich and strangely ringing with truth, “She’s here, Marnie. You are not going crazy. She is right next to you. Trust me, I’ve been through this—too many times now. And here is the thing—she won’t go away. Not until we discover exactly why she’s still with us. Maybe it’s to see that her murder is solved. And maybe it’s to prevent something terrible.”
“She’s already dead. So, prevent something such as?” Marnie demanded harshly, giving herself a fierce mental shake. She stared at him. He might be incredibly gorgeous, but he had to be stone-cold crazy, as well. “Such as?”
“Such as another murder,” he said bluntly. “As in—possibly—yours!”
