A Hollywood shrine hides unholy deeds

The 1940s: Hard-boiled detectives and femmes fatale are box-office gold. In one iconic scene, set in a deserted museum, the private eye arrives too late, and the buxom beauty is throttled by an ominous Egyptian priest.

Now: The Black Box Cinema immortalizes Hollywood’s Golden Age in its gallery of film noir tributes. But the mannequin of that Egyptian priest is hardly lifeless. He walks—and a young starlet dies a terrifying death.

Movie mogul Eddie Archer’s son is charged with the grisly murder. Eddie calls agent Sean Cameron, who specializes in…irregular investigations. As part of an FBI paranormal forensics team, Cameron knows that nightmares aren’t limited to the silver screen.

Working with special-effects artist Madison Darvil—who has her own otherworldly gifts—Cameron delves into the malevolent force animating more than one movie monster.…

Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal, and romance into a tight plot that keeps the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“A fast-paced and suspenseful read that will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”

—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest… Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Eerie and atmospheric.”

—RT Book Reviews on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer

The Unholy

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Very especially and with love for and thanks to Michelle DeVille, a gifted artist and fabricator!

For Doug and Laurie Jones, talented beyond all measure, sweet and all-around incredible.

And for the Wexler family, Cindy, Bob, Dallas and Reese, for their great kindness and generosity to my family.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Excerpt

Prologue

“So, you think you know the truth?” Dianna Breen, femme fatale, demanded. She leaned on the desk in the P.I.’s dingy office, skirt tight against her curvaceous form, eyes sultry as she stared at the hero, Sam Stone. The film was dark and shadowy, and sexual tension between the players was palpable.

Sam Stone made no pretense of looking away from Dianna Breen’s chest, modestly covered in frilly white cotton beneath the linen jacket of her suit. “I do know the truth. I know you’re a hussy and a thief, and I don’t believe you’d think twice before resorting to murder.”

“You know nothing!” Dianna Breen leaned down to bring her face close to Sam Stone’s. She reached past him, drew a cigarette from a pack on the desk and continued to stare at him as he fumbled for his lighter, then lit the cigarette.

“I know that you’d do anything to own the Egyptian Museum, Dianna. Anything,” he added softly.

She moved away from him at last, striding toward the window, her walk a study in slow sensuality. There, however, in what remained of the winter light, her face told the story; she was being wronged. She was not a murderess. She turned to him, hurt and passion in her eyes. “You don’t understand! You don’t understand about…the museum,” she said. She gazed back out on the Los Angeles street; beyond the window, day was dying. The city’s shadows suited the ambience of the black-and-white film perfectly. “It was never mine—you must understand. It was never mine. It was Frederick’s, and it killed him, not I.”

The sound of the old reels flipping through the projector suddenly seemed loud as Sam Stone watched Dianna Breen incredulously.

Sam’s thoughts were heard then. He was narrating as he stood and walked over to the gorgeous and seductive widow. “I couldn’t believe it. A museum didn’t kill. But the way she was looking at me, those enormous blue eyes of hers brilliant with tears, a trembling in her lips—”

“Hey!”

Alistair Archer nearly jumped out of his seat; he barely managed to cut off the startled scream that threatened to escape him. Jenny Henderson had come running in, slipping her arms around him from behind, and nearly giving him a heart attack.

He was in lust—if not love—with Jenny. There was something about her, an aura of film noir seductress. She had Lana Turner dark brown hair that swept over her forehead, and she wore rich dark shades of lipstick. Today, she was in tight-fitting jeans and a cotton tailored shirt that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.

“Hey!” he said, standing and allowing her to slide into his arms. His voice was a little tremulous, his muscles a little unsteady. “How did you get in here?” he asked, glancing back toward the door. Black Box Cinema was closed on Sundays; every other night of the week, a film noir movie played at 8:00 p.m. precisely. Or there might be more recent a movie influenced by the director’s vision of film noir. The cinema was owned by Alistair’s father, special effects whiz Eddie Archer, and stood just off Sunset Boulevard in the Los Feliz area. Eddie also owned the adjacent studio, and both buildings were situated on two acres surrounded by a very old cemetery.

Eddie Archer had bought the property twenty years ago when he started his special-effects business. For the previous five decades, the now-defunct Claymore Illusions had operated from the massive warehouse-style building in back. The company had been founded by the first Lucas Claymore and continued by his son, who’d eventually sold the place. All Eddie had needed to do was update it to create Archer’s Wizardry and Effects. While his artists and artisans sometimes found the cinema next door a bit annoying, with tourists parking here and there and everywhere, Eddie was adamant that it would stay. He loved film noir, and having his own cinema meant he could watch his favorite old movies on the big screen to his heart’s content. He made them available to the public as a way of sharing his passion, infecting others with his personal enthusiasm.

An underground tunnel—now a museum featuring posed mannequins in famous scenes from film noir and selected classic movies from the ’40s and ’50s—connected the cinema and the studio. But the main doors to the studio, which were next door and about fifty feet behind the parking lot, remained locked and guarded. During production, the studio often went into lockdown, as it was now.

Lockdown was for secrecy as well as security. No one wanted a big-budget movie’s effects and surprises out on the internet before the movie reached the screen. Archer’s Wizardry and Effectswas busy creating the costumes and creatures for The Unholy, the next remake to come to the silver screen.

The Unholy was actually an updated version of Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. Unlike remakes that simply remade an old film, like Psycho, The Unholy used the same characters and situations, but cast them in a contemporary light.

Sam Stone now had a cell phone and a computer.

Alistair was happy that the studio had the momentous task of bringing the film up-to-date, and he knew the effects would be splendid, but he still wasn’t sure about a remake. In his opinion, some things were better off left alone. Film noir didn’t really fit with computers and cell phones.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair asked as the film wound on and the projector clicked, clicked, clicked. “How did you get in?” Alistair had keys to the studio, to the doors that separated the underground tunnel from the studio, and to the Black Box Cinema. His father trusted him completely.

He hated to betray that trust in any way. Even for Jenny. But he’d brought Jenny in with him before. It wasn’t unusual that she’d come; it was unusual that she’d been able to just slip in.

She touched his cheek and smiled seductively. At twenty-two, his senior by a year, she already had the moves—as well as the appearance—of a femme fatale down pat. She eased away, flicking back the strands of hair that had hidden her eyes. “You left the front door open, silly,” she told him. “I started to knock, but…it was open.” She grinned, and looked more like any other young Hollywood hopeful. “The rest of the place is tight as a drum, but my dear, darling, responsible Alistair, believe it or not, you left the front door open.” She paused to give him a charming pout. “I’ve been trying to call you. You didn’t answer your cell.”

He had to wonder what it was about one person that could turn the senses of another upside down. The senses and the sanity. Yes, Jenny was beautiful and perfect, but…it was Hollywood. The stunning, the perfect and the beautiful all walked about, ever hopeful, some willing to do whatever it took to get where they wanted to go, others starry-eyed and naive. He was the son of one of the most respected men in the movie business, and he suspected Jenny hung on to him because of what she thought he could do for her.

“Sorry,” he said, and the tone of his voice was annoyingly husky. She knew she sent his libido off the charts, and he hated the pathetic puppy-dog tail-wagging demeanor he must put forth when she was around. “I was watching the movie. It’s my favorite. Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. I really love the film, and the special effects for it were actually done here, when the place was still Claymore Illusions.” That fact added to the pride his father took in securing the special-effects contract for The Unholy.

Jenny shook her head. “Silly boy, living in the past! Except, of course…”

The production company was trying to keep the information about the Sam Stone remake quiet, but of course the rumor mill was already on the case. The company had neither rejected nor affirmed the claim. Rumors and anticipation could give a film a tremendous box-office advantage.

“So, um, why are you here?” Alistair asked.

Despite her imitation of classic Hollywood vamps, Jenny was not a fan of film noir, or any other “old” movies. She loved silly modern-day romances and adventure flicks, the kind with überbuff heroes who lived exciting adventures and saved the world.

She threw her head back and touched her hair again, one of her moves calculated to be uncalculatedly sexy.

“I heard the studio’s locked down!” she said breathlessly.

He nodded.

“But not to the son of Eddie Archer!”

He groaned aloud. “Jenny, you know it’s not just my dad. It’s the movie studio, the producers, the directors—they don’t want information on pictures or anything on costumes and effects getting out.”

She gave him her pout again. She did it very well, making a little moue of hurt. “Alistair, you know I’d never tell a soul what I’ve seen. I’d never tell a soul I was even in there. But they’re still casting for extras—extras who might wind up with speaking roles. If I had a feel for what was going on, it would help me immensely. Please?”

He hesitated. Jenny always did pay up. If he took her through the studio, he’d be rewarded that night.

He was pretty sure she’d learned her lovemaking from the movies—dirty ones, at that. She was vocal; she liked to crawl on top and twist around like a voodoo queen dancing around a pole.

“You have a key to the studio,” she said.

He groaned again. “If I tried to go in with a guest, old Colin Bailey, who’s on guard at the reception desk, would push his alarm button and every cop in the area would appear,” he said. Colin Bailey had worked for his father for the full twenty years he’d owned the studio—which was most of Alistair’s life. He was like a fixture, dedicated to the studio. And during lockdown, he was fierce.

She moved closer to him. “I realize we can’t go in by the front but we can sneak in because you have a key and the pass code to get there through the tunnel door. And Colin Bailey would never see us, because you know right where the cameras are so we can avoid them.”

Almost involuntarily he felt his left pocket. He did have the keys. But he’d told her the truth. Colin Bailey would report Alistair to his father without blinking an eye.

She shimmied up against him, her body pressed to his in just the right way to elicit an immediate response. Her perfect breasts—albeit made that way with some saline enhancement—were firm against his chest and her groin pushed against his.

He forgot his father completely. He also forgot the danger—and the fact that he was being used.

“All right,” he said. Now his voice was flat-out hoarse. “We’ll go by the tunnel.”

She smiled. She rose up on her toes and brought her lips to his and did things with her tongue that nearly made him climax on the spot. Then she stepped back. “That was a little promise of things to come!”

He nodded. He couldn’t speak.

He turned around. On the screen, Dianna Breen was screaming. She was being chased by the Egyptian robe-clad murderer, who was forcing her deeper and deeper into the museum.

Alistair stumbled through the audience chairs to the back. He entered the old lobby, where wine and beer were sold, along with various forms of high-end movie snack food. To the far left of the lobby were a few offices and conference rooms, and at the back of his father’s favorite little meeting room was a door, nominally hidden by a movie poster.

“Oooh, this is like a high-tech spy adventure!” she said.

“There’s nothing high-tech about it,” he said as guilt clashed with the near-desperate desire she elicited. “It’s a movie poster covering a door.”

She was pressed to his back. Desire won out over guilt.

Alistair swept the canvas poster to the side, dug in his pocket and twisted the key in the lock, fumbling for a moment as he did so.

There were auxiliary lights set into the steps that led down to the tunnel; on the days that the small museum was open, before and after movies were screened, the stairway and the landing would be ablaze with light. But tonight, no one was expected.

“Be careful,” he warned Jenny.

“Of course!” she said.

Alistair walked slowly down the steps, ever aware of her sweet-smelling presence behind him. He reached the landing. He’d never been here before when there was no illumination except the emergency lighting. It changed the entire appearance of the place.

The museum’s first scene was from The Maltese Falcon. Humphrey Bogart sat at his desk while femme fatale Mary Astor leaned toward him and a creepy Peter Lorre hovered off to the side. They were all caught in shadow, and even Bogie looked dangerous, ready to strangle Mary Astor. Across from that tableau, Orson Welles as the title character in Citizen Kane stood by the breakfast table, angry after ignoring Ruth Warrick, who played his first wife. The old mannequins, created in the mid-50s by the previous owner’s special-effects studio, had been works of love, and in the dim red light and shadows, Alistair could almost believe that Orson Welles was about to speak angrily, his patience finally snapping him from the ennui of his marriage. Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake were together next, in a scene from The Glass Key, and then there were Dana Andrews, Vincent Price and Gene Tierney in Laura. The hall was long, and the exhibits were plentiful. A slim wooden barrier separated the walkway from the exhibits, and visitors could push buttons, which would let them hear the audio from the scene they were witnessing, along with information about the actors, producers, writers and directors. That night, to Alistair, all the characters looked as if they could speak without benefit of electronics.

Bogie made another appearance, with Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca; he was saying goodbye in front of the plane that would take her away. Bogie gripped Ingrid by the shoulders, and the emotion between them—and the greater good of the war effort, the sacrifice required—seemed palpable.

Toward the end of the hallway, Alistair stopped.

The scene was taken from the movie he had been watching that night, Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.

There was hard-boiled Sam Stone, played by the ill-fated Jon de la Torre, arriving just a little too late in the fictional museum’s “Hall of the Pharaohs.” And there was the empty sarcophagus, and nearby, the man clad in the robes, his hands around the throat of femme fatale Dianna Breen, played by the equally ill-fated Audrey Grant. Snakes—Egyptian cobras—abounded on the floor, and Sam would have to make his way through them if he was to have any chance of saving Dianna.

Alistair stared at the scene and blinked; he could have sworn he saw one of the snakes move.

“Hey,” Jenny said, pushing against his back.

“What?” Alistair asked, distracted. He kept staring at the tableau.

“The door is open. The door to the studio is open!” she told him, speaking softly.

He turned to look down to the end of the hallway. The door into the basement of the special-effects studio stood ajar. He frowned; it should have been locked. His father and upper-level management were adamant about the rules when it came to lockdown.

He glanced at Jenny. For a moment she seemed to look like every femme fatale who had ever graced a movie screen. There was something wrong here. He was being played, he thought, really played. Perhaps punked. There could be cameras somewhere that he didn’t know about and other people ready to break into laughter. Yes, he was a fool, ready to do anything for a woman’s touch. And, as in so many film noir scenarios, the woman was luring him to his doom. At least that was how it felt in his fearful and overheated imagination.

But there was something else about the night, the way the tableau seemed alive. Something that sent a chill raking his bones.

He warned Jenny with a glance that he was wise to the situation.

But when he started through the door to the studio he heard Jenny scream.

When he turned around, he was so stunned that at first his jaw just dropped.

The robed killer—the evil priest, Amun Mopat—had come down from the Sam Stone tableau. The thing seemed to have no face. There was only blackness where a face should have been. He, it, stood behind Jenny, and seemed to be staring at him, but it had no eyes….

“Hey!” He wanted to scream. The sound came out like a croak.

An act. It had to be part of an act.

A hand appeared, brandishing a long knife.

It was a special-effects studio, for God’s sake! Someone was playing a game, he told himself, maybe even at his father’s request. Maybe his dad had suspected him of doing something like this, hoping for a hot night with his girlfriend….

The knife looked very real.

“Hey, enough! Let her go!” Alistair said, willing his feet to move toward Jenny and her costumed attacker.

Jenny was no movie femme fatale. She implored him, her blue eyes wide and filled with terror. “Alistair!” His name was a shriek of panic.

“Enough!” he roared again.

Then he stood dead still. The thing attacked and, with a hard, quick motion, drew the blade across Jenny’s throat. Blood didn’t merely leak from the wound; it spurted. Her scream died in choking sounds that accompanied the blood, and it was cut off within seconds.

There was a scent in the air. Hot and tinny and fetid.

Because it wasn’t stage blood being spewed.

The costumed form dropped Jenny and moved toward Alistair.

He’d spent his life among the creepy and the macabre, the greatest movie heroes and most terrifying villains. Monsters, vampires, ghosts, alien slime…

But something within him—logic, reason—turned off, his terror was so great.

And he fell toward the floor as blackness seemed to overwhelm his vision.

He fell into a pool of blood. And he knew, from its smell, that no, it wasn’t part of any special effect.

It was Jenny’s death, all bloody. Bloody, and real.

* * *

Vengeance.

In Hollywood, every character needed a name.

Vengeance was a good name.

And so Vengeance stood hidden, watching, feeling such a sense of glee, it was almost frightening. The scent of blood remained; the first few minutes after the scene were all but imprinted on the moving reels of memory.

Most people would consider the act, and Vengeance, crazy. Stone-cold crazy. But that wasn’t the case. Crazy could not have worked out all the technicalities and the precise timing that had been necessary.

Crazy could not have figured out everything that was needed to pull off the stunt.

Crazy could never act it all out, as it must now be acted out….

But it had gone better than could possibly be imagined. The girl…the blood.

And Alistair Archer, slipping, falling, knocking himself out.

Then waking, screaming…racing to the guard station.

And now…the blare of sirens in the street.

Cops would soon be crawling all over the place. But the cops would never suspect. Because the cops didn’t know the studio, and the cops didn’t know the past, and the cops would never recognize the brilliance that was bringing it all to fruition.

Ah, tomorrow!

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow, Vengeance would become normal, ordinary, once again. Vengeance would throw off the assumption of superpersonality, sympathize, go about day-to-day business….

And no one would ever, ever know.

Not in this lifetime.

Vengeance smiled, and Vengeance actually laughed aloud in the night; no matter, because Vengeance couldn’t be heard.

It was all too good to be true….

Time to move, but Vengeance needed to savor the moment. Alone in the dark, watching…

Vengeance was good, and vengeance was sweet.

And Vengeance had just begun.

1

Madison Darvil wasn’t really awake when the phone rang. She was in that delightful stage of half sleep, when the alarm had gone off…but the snooze button was on and she had a few minutes to lie lazily in the comfort of her bed before rising. Her phone was loud and strident. She rolled over groping for it, swearing softly as it dropped to the floor and she had to lean down to get it, banging her head on the bedside table.

“Shit!” she muttered, and was further humiliated when she realized she’d hit Answer as she’d picked up the phone—and the caller had heard her.

“Hello?” she said frowning. Seven thirty-three. Who was calling this early?

She could hear a soft chuckle, and then someone clearing his throat. “Madison?”

Inwardly, she groaned.

“Yes, Alfie?” Alfie Longdale was her assistant at the studio. She loved the fact that she had an assistant and she loved Alfie. One day, he was going to rule the world, his eye for detail was so exceptional.

“You don’t have to come in this morning. In fact, you can’t come in.”

Her heart seemed to sink to her knees. Had someone suddenly decided she was really a fake? That, despite her training, degree and experience, she was just a kid who played at working on the movies?

“What…what—?”

Alfie’s voice became hushed. “There was a murder last night! In the tunnel. Lord, Madison, Alistair Archer was arrested for murder! Some little starlet he had the hots for—they say her throat was slit from ear to ear. She’s dead, Madison. And Eddie Archer’s kid is saying that an Egyptian mummy—you know, the priest in the original Sam Stone movie, a monster—came down from one of the tableaux to commit the bloody carnage!”

Alfie was being dramatic. He was dramatic. But right now, what he’d said wasn’t registering.

A mummy? A monster? Alfie had to be making it up. Monsters were what they did, what they created, quite frequently. Well, superheroes, giant rats for commercials, cute little pigs and other such creatures. But horror was big; horror movies could be reasonable in cost and make massive amounts of money.

“Alfie, is this—”

“No! It is not some kind of joke. It is not a movie script. Madison, it’s real. A woman was killed in our tunnel. Anyway, the crime scene units are there today, and Eddie Archer’s closed the entire place. No one goes in until the police have finished with the tunnel, the security tapes, the studio—you name it. Anyway, I was up last night when it all hit the news. And Eddie Archer looked white—I mean, white as a ghost!—when they showed him on film. He said he wants the police to have complete access to everything because he’s going to find out what really happened—his son is not a murderer!”

Alfie was telling the truth. As shocking as it was, she knew he was telling the truth.

Madison felt her heart break for Eddie Archer. He was such a good man.

Alistair was a good kid, too. Could he have snapped and killed someone?

No.

She couldn’t accept that. He was too nice and decent, even shy.

“A monster,” she repeated. “You mean—the Egyptian priest, the killer from Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum?”

“Exactly! Is that movie stuff or what? Everyone suspects The Unholy is a remake of that movie, but most people don’t know for sure. And now, right in front of that tableau…a real murder! Anyway, I thought I’d call because if you show up at work, you’ll be sent home. This way, you might be able to get some more sleep.”

Madison wrinkled her face at the phone, as if she could convey her expression to Alfie. What? Go back to sleep now?

“Thanks, Alfie. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sure I’ll get tons of extra sleep.”

“Keep me posted if you hear more,” Alfie said. He seemed not to notice her sarcasm.

“Ditto,” she said, and ended the call.

She crawled out of bed, drawing an indignant meow from Ichabod, curled up at the foot of the bed. “Sorry, my friend,” she told the cat, hurrying out to the parlor of her old rented bungalow and switching on the TV, going from channel to channel until she found a news station covering the murder.

The information Alfie had given her was true. The news showed the crime tape blocking off the cinema and the studio, then cut to an earlier interview with Eddie Archer in front of the courthouse. He denied his son’s culpability, and swore that he’d learn the truth behind the shocking murder.

Mike Greenwood, creative head of the studio and Madison’s supervisor, stood beside him. When Eddie finished speaking, Mike stepped up to the microphone. He reasserted what Eddie had said, that the truth would be discovered and, while Alistair had been arraigned for the murder, the D.A.’s office had acted only on what appeared to be the case—not what was. They would work toward his release, and by the middle or end of the week, when the police had gone over every inch of the place, Archer’s Wizardry and Effects would be back in business. They would move forward with their various projects while the investigation continued. Mike spoke so earnestly, he silenced the spate of questions that should have arisen. He seemed concerned, but in control.

Mike was a steady man, excellent in stressful situations. Whenever they were on a tight deadline, Mike was the one who calmed down everyone at the studio, assuring them that, step by step, they’d get it all done.

Eddie had acted with his usual composure, but Madison felt so sorry for him.

Eddie, nearing fifty, was still fit, but his face bore the tension of sorrow. As Alfie had said, he looked white as a sheet. He’d run his fingers through his graying hair repeatedly as he spoke, his words calm but determined.

She was still staring at the TV in disbelief when her phone rang again. She’d left it in the bedroom, and raced to retrieve it, thinking it would be Mike Greenwood giving her the message that Alfie had already conveyed.

Her “Hello?” was breathless.

“Madison?”

The caller wasn’t Mike Greenwood. It was Eddie Archer himself.

“Eddie!” she said. “Oh, Eddie, I’m so sorry.”

“Then you’ve heard.”

“Yes.”

“Alistair didn’t do it.”

“I believe that, Eddie. With my whole heart.”

“Thank you.”

He was quiet.

“I heard not to come in, Eddie,” Madison said. “Alfie called me.”

“Actually, Madison, I do want you to come in. I have a friend arriving—a film effects artist I worked with years ago. He’s a member of the FBI now, and he’s going to handle a special investigation for me. I’d like you to meet with him, show him around the studio.”

“I—I thought it was closed down, other than for the police?” FBI? How had he gotten the FBI involved? She wasn’t savvy about law enforcement, but she’d always assumed the FBI only came in for serial killers or kidnapping or crimes that spanned several states.

And how the hell did a special-effects artist wind up in the FBI?

And, oh, God, why had Eddie chosen her?

She knew exactly why Eddie had chosen her. He’d never challenged her, he’d never forced her into a corner over this. But he believed—had reason to believe—that she talked to the dead.

“The police closed the Black Box Cinema. But I closed the studio. And Sean—Sean Cameron—won’t be here until this afternoon. I just talked to him in the wee hours of the morning and he’s coming from Virginia. I’m picking him up myself, so I’ll swing by for you after I’ve collected him from LAX. If that’s all right with you.”

Madison exhaled on a long breath. The man she had hero-worshipped for his artistry throughout her formative years was asking for her help. The same man who’d hired her and opened up a world that she’d only dreamed of knowing.

“Eddie, I would do anything for you,” she assured him humbly. “And for Alistair.”

“Thank you. I think you’re the right person to work with Sean. And I deeply appreciate your friendship—for Alistair and me. You can expect me around five.”

“Of course,” she murmured lamely.

Eddie wasn’t ready to hang up. “Alistair didn’t do it—he really didn’t.” He was quiet for a minute. “He told me that the Egyptian priest, Amun Mopat, came down from the Sam Stone tableau, and killed her. Alistair tried to reach Jenny, but slipped in the blood, conked himself out…and then came to and saw it was real—he was lying in a pool of blood. I guess it’s normal for the police to think that either he’s crazy or his story is and that he’s going to try for an insanity plea. But I know my son. I know he didn’t do it. And only someone who’s familiar with the studio can prove he didn’t.”

“We’re in Hollywood—a place filled with actors and effects,” Madison said.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, sounding bitter. “But, oddly enough, I believe we’re the only ones who see the possibility that Alistair didn’t do it. Anyway, Madison, I’ll be by for you. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I’m happy to show your guy around the museum, Eddie.”

Eddie Archer ended the call. Madison sank down into her art deco–style sofa, setting her phone on the coffee table in front of it.

“Hey.”

Madison nearly leaped a mile into the air at the sound of the voice. Her hand fluttered to her throat; her heart thudded.

She turned and saw the man who’d spoken, standing just behind her.

The voice was soft. The man was slight, with dark graying hair and a wonderful face filled with character.

She let out a breath. Her sometime-resident “invisible” friend—whether extension of her imagination or real ghost—was seated on the arm of the sofa, looking at her sorrowfully.

“You all right, kid?”

She let out a breath, realizing that the very concept of someone being murdered where she worked was terrifying.

“Yeah. It would help if you didn’t startle me like that.”

“I spoke quietly. And I’m not exactly a surprise now, Madison, am I?”

No, not anymore.

She could see him plain as day, as if he were flesh and blood, a good friend who’d stopped by in a time of need. He had a fascinating, ruggedly masculine face—including his slightly scarred lip—and a lean, slight form. When he stood, he was on the short side at only five feet eight inches.

“Um, I’m fine. I’m just stunned,” Madison said. Then she rushed into words, well aware of how ridiculous she’d look if anyone else was there—because she saw Humphrey Bogart as he sat in her living room. “I don’t know how much you hear or fathom from phone conversations, but there was a murder at the studio last night. A starlet who was with Alistair Archer. I can’t believe he killed her. I won’t believe it—not Alistair. Eddie must be beside himself, desperate to help him. He’s such a loving father.”

“Watching a child suffer is a hard thing,” Bogie said, his voice low and slightly nasal.

Bogie.

Madison stared at him. Was he an imaginary friend? She would never be sure. She’d had strange experiences as a child. She’d tried chalking them up to growing pains, teenage angst and, as her parents had suggested, an overactive imagination—the kind that had led her right into a career. She’d also had experiences that had broken her heart—and might be part of the reason she embraced her work, day in and day out.

Bogie hadn’t come with the bungalow, though he’d lived there briefly in the 1920s. He’d told her once that he had loved it and loved living there. She’d first met him at the wax museum when she was a college student; she’d assumed he was a look-alike actor hired to play the part. They’d spoken and laughed together….

And he’d followed her home.

Bogie showed up whenever he wanted to. Apparently he had other places to haunt, as well. Madison simply accepted him as a friend—imaginary though he might be. Sometimes she thought she was crazy; sometimes she thought she was incredibly lucky that such a man had chosen her to haunt. Although she believed that now, she hadn’t always. He’d scared her to death at first, and had occasionally made her life hell.

He’d just startled her today; the first night she’d seen him sitting on her sofa, however, he’d practically given her a heart attack. She’d fumbled to call the police, and they’d come and almost arrested her, assuming she was another college kid trying to make trouble. Bogie had been apologetic and courteous—so sorry for causing her distress. He was what he was, and he’d tried to explain, but she hadn’t believed him.

Maybe he was imaginary, but she didn’t know what part of her mind triggered his appearances.

And if he was, what about the other dead people who’d spoken to her?

But imaginary or not, he was there for her now.

“Have some coffee, kid. That’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not sure it will help me feel better. But at least it’ll wake me up.”

“What are you waking up for? You could go back to sleep.”

“Why is it that everyone thinks I can sleep now?” she muttered.

Bogie ignored that, standing and stretching as he gazed out the windows. He turned to look at her. “The murder took place in the studio?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The underground tunnel between the Black Box Cinema and the studio—where Archer has his film noir museum.”

“Interesting,” Bogie mused. “By which display?”

Madison frowned. “The news didn’t say, but Alfie told me it was by the tableau for Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I mean, especially since the studio is now in lockdown because of The Unholy—the Sam Stone remake.”

“A lot has been crazy in Hollywood through the years. You’ve heard about the case of the Black Dahlia? Poor girl, tortured and then displayed, chopped right in two,” Bogie said, shaking his head. “There’s always been murder out here—and out here, it becomes sensational, with more emphasis on the drama than the tragedy. You had Fatty Arbuckle and the murder of Virginia Rappe back in 1921, and later, you had the Manson murders and then the Simpson murders, and anytime anyone’s killed here, the press is out looking for every sordid detail.” He shrugged. “I watch the news, you know,” he told her seriously, “as well as old comedy reruns. And, kid, this is a big place full of illusion. Murder isn’t confined to Tinseltown, but there’s no way it’s not going to occur here, too.”

Madison nodded absently. She glanced over at Bogie and wondered sometimes why he didn’t haunt some of the other places he’d loved. And some of the people… He’d told her once, though, “They can’t see me. I can’t reach them. So it just hurts, kid. It just hurts.” And he’d grinned at her. “You reply when I speak to you and I like that. It’s why I keep coming back, kid.”

And now, most of the time, she was glad. Very glad.

“Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum,” Bogie said. “I could’ve been in that movie. I think I was busy at the time. Something else going on. Might have been Casablanca. Yeah, probably. That was 1942. Anyway, I always thanked God I wasn’t on that set, because there was a death back then—and it might have been a murder, too.”

Madison tried to see if she could remember her Hollywood lore and legend well enough to recall a murder that had happened during the making of Sam Stone.

“I don’t recall ever seeing anything about it—in any of the lurid books about true Hollywood murders or on any of the history or entertainment channels,” she said.

Bogie joined her on the couch again. Watching him, she hid a smile. He seemed to sit differently from other people she knew. He was relaxed, and still, somehow appeared proper.

“It was 1942. The war effort was in full swing. Movies were being made to encourage heroism—or to try and divert the public from the war. Casablanca,” he said, and grew thoughtful. “Ah, that was a good one for me. There was some great writing on that movie. I wish some of those lines had been my own. That and The African Queen…some of those were my ad-libs. And both of them gave me a persona to live up to.” He paused and looked at her with his famous lopsided grin. “Anyway, I digress, kid. And I’m talking out of line. The death of Pete Krakowski was never officially called a murder. No real inquiries were made, no one was investigated and no one was arrested. There were just rumors on the set, rumors that traveled around. Gotta remember, back then, the studios were king, and they were powerful. Krakowski’s death was seen as a tragic accident, and that’s the way it went. It was long ago and in the middle of a world war, and it wasn’t particularly noted at the time—he was a bit player, not a big star.”

“How did Krakowski die?” Madison asked, puzzled.

“There was some kind of fault with the wiring. He was electrocuted. From what I understood, he was fooling around on set before the filming was to start, and then he was dead. Fried,” Bogie said, shaking his head sadly.

“We’re doing a remake of that movie—and I never even heard about it. Why do you say it might’ve been a murder?” Madison asked.

“You didn’t hear about it because there were accidents on sets from time to time. Krakowski wasn’t the only film person who died that you’ve probably never heard of—no internet back then. You just heard about these things if they happened to a major star or if someone was killed by a lover or a spouse.” He cocked his head toward her. “Bit player, and what was deemed an accident. Nothing sensational about it, and Krakowski was hardly a household name. Like I said, no way for every little piece of news to be known across the country back then. No Twitter, no Facebook and no Google.” He was quiet for a minute. “I woulda liked a Facebook page,” he said.

“Actually, there are several devoted to you,” she said. “But why would someone suspect it was murder? It sounds like an accident.”

“I knew the key grip and the lead electrician on that film. They were the best in the business. If they were working the rigging and electric, both were safe.” Bogie waved a hand. “Anyway, Krakowski’s death is a far cry from a starlet being sliced up in the tunnel. A far cry, indeed.” He leaned back, nostalgic. “I remember that old cinema from way back. Played silent films, even before my time. It’s a shame, a damned shame. That Eddie Archer has a real appreciation for the past—this shouldn’t have happened on his property. Shouldn’t have happened to the poor girl, either.”

Madison realized that she’d been feeling sorry for and worried about Eddie Archer and his son, Alistair. She’d almost forgotten the victim.

Was that how it had been when the death had occurred during the original filming?

“Lord,” she whispered. “You’re right. The poor girl.”

“That’s Hollywood for you,” Bogie said. “It’ll steal your soul, if not your life. There’ve been so many who came here with such dreams and wound up dead. Christa Helm, Dorothy Stratton, Dominique Dunne, Elizabeth Short or the Black Dahlia, Sharon Tate. Peg Entwhistle, the only one to really jump from the Hollywood sign. I remember that,” Bogie said. “She found her fame in death. And we may never find out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe.” He paused. “Did you know the young woman who was killed?”

Madison nodded, then shook her head. “I can’t say I knew her. I met her a few times when she was with Alistair and once at an office party.”

“You work too much, kid. You’ve gotta remember, none of it’s worth anything if you don’t have a life.”

Madison arched a brow and refrained from reminding him that the last time she’d brought a date home, she’d acted like an idiot because Bogie had been watching something on her television and had said, “Don’t mind me, kid.” He loved TV. He couldn’t do a lot on the physical plane, but he could manage such simple tasks as pushing buttons on the remote control. He adored old sitcoms and liked to keep up with the television news.

“There has to be some information on Krakowski’s death,” she said, returning to their previous topic.

“There was—one newspaper article. No follow-up. He died. It was sad. He was buried. And that was that. I’m sure many of us thought about it back then. But time goes by.”

“This is so horrible. For the poor girl, yes, of course. And for everyone who will be touched by it.” She sighed. “Alistair really loves his dad. He didn’t usually bring people to the studio. I mean, I don’t know what went on before—I’ve been there for about three years now. But as far as I can tell, Alistair respects the studio. And he loves film. He wants to get into directing rather than special effects, but…although I didn’t really know Jenny Henderson, I saw the way Alistair followed her around like a puppy dog. He had a huge crush on her. I can’t believe he would’ve killed anyone. And I especially can’t believe he would’ve hurt Jenny. He was crazy about her.”

Bogie shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I think it might have been better back in the bad old days when we were contract players for the major studios. Now, the young and the beautiful come out here willing to do anything for stardom. Anything. Can’t help wondering what Jenny Henderson did—or was willing to do. Or maybe her dreams had nothing to do with her death. Maybe she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The wrong place at the wrong time. How could that be possible? The studio was in lockdown. There should have been no one with access to the museum—other than Alistair, Eddie and some of the department heads.

She winced inwardly.

It didn’t look good for Eddie Archer. And it sure didn’t look good for Alistair.

“Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum,” Bogie said. “You know, the costuming and effects for that movie were done where you work. The place was Claymore Illusions back then.”

“I know,” Madison told him. “That’s why it seemed so perfect that the studio was hired for the remake. I think the fact that the place was used for creating props, costumes, illusions and whatever was needed for film noir is half the reason Eddie Archer loves it so much.”

“Eddie appears to be a talented man with a real appreciation for the past,” Bogie said, not for the first time.

Madison let out a little cry, startled as something pounced onto the sofa beside her. She laughed at herself.

As if he knew she was upset and needed some warmth, Ichabod meowed and settled his furry body next to hers.

“Hey!” Bogie said softly. “It’s going to be all right. Don’t go getting all jumpy on me now.”

Madison forced a smile despite feeling a sense of dread.

It wasn’t going to be all right.

* * *

Sean Cameron arrived in L.A. in the afternoon, when the sun seemed to spray down light like a fountain, and the bustle of the city was as frantic as ever. This might be Tinseltown, and massive movie deals might be taking place in any coffee shop, but it was also where he’d learned that it was often the B-lister who had to put on pretensions, and where the working moguls could be as down-to-earth as their gardeners.

Such was the case with Eddie Archer.

Sean had spent five formative years working under Archer. The man was a genius when it came to creating creatures and special effects. To this day, Eddie loathed straight CGI or computer-generated imagery. Of course, effects were effects, but in Eddie’s view, to create what looked real, you had to start with something real. Thanks to Archer, Sean had learned a great deal about physical illusion as well as computer-generated magic. He’d worked with Eddie in many capacities, learning to create costumes and attachments, build creatures, as well as work with computers.

Archer certainly enjoyed his income and the fact that he was customarily sought out by the most important and influential names in the business. But above all, he still loved his art, and he loved sharing that excitement and enthusiasm with promising young artists, wide-eyed and in awe of the chance to work for him.

Sean had gotten a frantic call from Archer an hour before he’d gotten the call from Logan Raintree, head of their Krewe of Hunters unit, telling him he’d received an official request that they be brought in. He assumed that Eddie Archer had used his influence with someone above the local police and even the state police, because just when he’d been about to tell Logan Raintree that he had to go to L.A. one way or another, Raintree had asked him to head out on the first flight and look into the situation.

“Remember, if something’s impossible—then it’s impossible,” Logan had said. “I know this man is an old friend of yours, a mentor. And I know you don’t want his son to be guilty of murder. But our job isn’t to hide things, fix things or help with creative defense mechanisms. Our job is to discover the truth.”

“I’m aware of that, Logan,” Sean had been quick to reply. He hadn’t taken offense. Whenever a team member had any personal involvement in a case, it was important to note what priorities had to be maintained. He’d gone on to say, “But I knew Alistair when he was a kid. Nice boy. He’s trying to figure out how to be his father’s son and his own man. And no, murder wouldn’t be how he’d plan to make his name. From what I understand from Eddie so far, the kid loved this girl. She used him, but he was crazy about her. And he’s a basket case now. He was immediately arraigned, and he’s out on bail—Archer money and pull, I imagine—but he’s basically locked up, anyway. He’s wearing an ankle monitor and he’s at a mental hospital that deals with dangerous and suicidal clients. A posh place, I understand. Apparently it’s where the A-listers go when there’s some kind of serious question about rehab, sanity…or possibility of a criminal offense.”

“I’m sure this place is the best money can buy,” Logan had said.

“Yeah. Archer loves his kid,” Sean had told him.

And Eddie Archer did love his one and only son. Married three times, Eddie Archie had just the one child. Alistair was the son of his first marriage, to Annie Smith, with whom he’d grown up in Valencia, California. Annie had been a fledgling actress, but her first love had been her family. She’d died when a vicious flu strain had swept through the world, shocking everyone with the deaths it had caused. Eddie had been absolutely bereft.

And then lonely. And Alistair had been left without the mother who’d adored him. Eddie made up for that the best he could; he was always there for his son.

But although Annie had been as sweet and dedicated to a man as a woman could be, Eddie hadn’t had much luck with women since her death five and a half years ago. When he’d married Benita Lowe two years after Annie’s death, Sean had come to the wedding. He could have said right then that it wouldn’t last. Benita had practically snatched the bill from the caterer’s hand and had a few things to say about the cost of the reception. Turned out she wanted Eddie to save his money—for her. That marriage had ended in a matter of months. A year ago, Eddie had given marriage another try, again with an actress, Helena LaRoux. Sean knew Helena; she’d attended Eddie’s second wedding with her third husband. Sean hadn’t gone to that wedding. He’d sent his best wishes to Eddie, hoping he was wrong in his judgment of Helena. They’d had a few minutes to talk at Eddie’s wedding to Benita, and he’d discovered that Helena apparently thought Benita’s then-husband was superior to her own, as far as contacts and possibilities went.

Sean heard a horn beep and when he saw Eddie’s car across the divider realized he’d been waiting in the wrong place, pretty sad considering the fact that he’d lived in L.A. for five years and visited frequently ever since. He threw his garment bag over his shoulder and hurried over to slide into the passenger seat of Eddie’s sporty little Ford hybrid.

“Hey, old friend,” Eddie greeted him. “I’d give you a big man-hug, but they don’t let you sit here long these days!”

“Just drive, my friend, drive,” Sean said.

Eddie nodded and focused his gaze on the road ahead and the insanity of LAX. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“Ah, Eddie, you knew I’d come if you called me.”

Sean glanced at Eddie, who looked drawn and haggard, a lot older than his years. That was natural under the circumstances.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Eddie? Okay to be driving around?”

Eddie nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t risk your life—or my own. Alistair needs me. I’m strong. I know my son is innocent, and it has to be proven.”

Eddie did seem rational and in control, driving like an expert as he maneuvered the complicated airport exit and the California highway system.

“From special effects to the FBI?” Eddie asked. He tried to smile. “I still marvel at that. I was in shock when you told me. Guess it must be your ability to create giant man-eating rats against a green background.”

“Hey, now,” Sean said, trying to speak lightly. “They didn’t just pluck me out of the studio, you know. All right, well, they did at first, but you remember I’d done some work with Texas law enforcement groups. And now we’ve gone through the training system at Quantico. My team and I, that is,” he added. “None of us was FBI when we formed. But you must know something about my team, Eddie—besides the little we’ve exchanged in phone conversations. Because I got the call from our team leader not long after I talked to you.”

Eddie nodded. “Ever since I was informed that my son was in a jail cell, covered in blood, I’ve done nothing except rack my brains to figure out how we can prove that Alistair didn’t do this—that he couldn’t have done it. I thought about you instantly, and the fact that you’ve become part of an elite unit.”

“I’m not so sure they call us elite,” Sean murmured.

“Sean, the cops have gone through the security tapes. There was no one in or out of the cinema or the studio, other than Alistair and Jenny Henderson. There were no cameras running in the museum. It was closed. The whole thing is impossible. I know Alistair didn’t do it. My attorney is suggesting we consider an insanity plea…but Alistair isn’t crazy. He didn’t do it.”

Sean studied Eddie as he drove. The man was a father, desperate to save his son. Sean groaned inwardly; he hoped Eddie hadn’t wanted the Krewe involved because he believed he had an old protégé working with a group that was part of the federal government. Did he figure Sean might help with an insanity plea? It seemed to him that a good defense attorney could get a person off on insanity in a dozen different ways. The television made me do it. The voices in my head made me do it. A video game made me do it, a book made me do it. The ghosts living in the old Black Box Cinema did it, not me. And if you imagined that a ghost did it—or made you do it—was that as good as actual insanity?

“Eddie, a ghost—or a creature—didn’t kill the girl. I mean, if you’re hoping we can come up with the spirit of a dead noir actor, it’s not going to fly.”

Eddie looked at him, frowning. “Sean, I…I know that. I don’t believe a ghost killed anyone, either. Can ghosts kill someone? Or if a ghost ever did kill anyone, wouldn’t it be that guilt or fear or terror simply overwhelmed that person? Sean, trust me, I don’t think a ghost killed Jenny Henderson. But someone did,” he said grimly. “Someone who knows the studio. Whether it’s someone working there now or not, I have no idea. The police checked out the security footage and said, Hey, cut and dried, no one in there that night except for the security guard—who never moved. The guy didn’t even take a piss until Alistair came running in to get him. Someone else was in that studio, Sean, and you know as well as anyone that what we see isn’t always real, and that what looks real can be illusion.”

“Of course, Eddie,” Sean said, feeling a little foolish. Was he a bit testy about being part of a unit that many questioned? The Ghostbusters of the FBI? They were still a new unit, and they’d met all the members of the original Krewe, so they knew what they were up against. He’d been involved in the case that had put this second group together, and it had been unusual, to say the least. But like most evil, it had come down to human greed and the horrible twists and turns the mind could take.

But…

He’d also learned that there were others like himself and his cousin Kelsey. Those who could hear voices and see visions of people who’d departed the physical realm.

He’d also gone through rigorous training. He was an excellent shot, should the need occur, even if he’d always planned on living his life creating fantasy for entertainment purposes.

On both fronts, he’d learned that perception was everything. They were dealing with a locked-room mystery, he thought. A classic puzzle, and every puzzle had a solution.

And Eddie had seen this, the key to vindicating his son.

“I haven’t been in the studio in years, Eddie,” Sean reminded him.

“Yeah, I figured that, and some things have changed. Some storage has been moved around, but most of the structure is the same. Climate control or cold room, sewing section, construction—those areas are all the same. Anyway, I’ve asked one of my top young protégées to be your guide. She’ll take you through the studio, answer any of your questions. She’s the perfect assistant for you right now.”

“Oh? Why is she so perfect?”

Eddie glanced his way before looking back at the road, somber and thoughtful.

“Because she’s a lot like you. She’s quiet, doesn’t say much about anything that affects her, but…well, she’s either certifiable, crazy as a loon, or just like you. She talks to the dead.”

2

Los Angeles County was known for its smog, but this afternoon was worse than usual. When Madison stepped outside to wait for Eddie Archer, she felt as though the day itself was in mourning for Jenny Henderson and the Archer family.

It was just the beginning of summer, and in the past few days the sky had been powder-blue with wonderful puffs of snow-white clouds; today, a fog had rolled in from somewhere and joined with the pollution of the massively populated area. She almost expected to hear crows caw in warning while bats took flight across a darkening sky. Like something of a ’50s horror movie…

Eddie Archer’s little hybrid car pulling up in front of her place brought her back to reality.

Eddie pulled to the curb. A man slid out of the passenger seat watching her as she approached. He seemed to fit right in to the California scene. He was tall, wearing dark glasses, and appeared to be fit and athletic, with a lean muscled frame. She slipped her own sunglasses on; sunglasses camouflaged a multitude of sins, or so they said—and allowed one to hide one’s emotions.

As she reached the car, he extended a hand. “Sean Cameron, Ms. Darvil. Please, take the front. I’ll get in behind you.” He had a low, smooth, throaty voice that suited his physique. Bogie, she thought, would label him “a man’s man.” There was a quality about him that conveyed an inner easy confidence. She sensed his compelling masculinity and realized that meeting him, just feeling his handshake, made her want to know him. She lowered her head for a swift moment, willing herself not to flush.

Why on earth was she instantly attracted to a man she’d barely met?

She steeled herself mentally, disturbed and annoyed with her own thoughts. Eddie was troubled. Alistair was in a grave situation. A beautiful young woman had been murdered. She was here to escort this man around the studio today, and that was it.

“After you,” he said.

She wasn’t short, but neither was she exceptionally tall, at five-eight.

“No, no—you take the front.” She managed a casual grimace. “Since I’m staring up at you, it’s obvious you have much longer legs.” He had to be six-three or six-four, she estimated. She felt she should tell him it was a pleasure to meet him, except that seemed kind of ridiculous at the moment. “I’m glad you’re here for Eddie,” she said instead.

He gave her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. “I’ll say the same,” he told her huskily. “Please, take the seat next to Eddie. There’s plenty of legroom in the back. Humor me—it’s a Texas thing.”

Madison decided she wasn’t going to wage a war over a car seat and got in.

When she was seated, Eddie turned to her. “Thanks, Maddie,” he said quietly. “Thank you, sincerely.”

“You’re welcome, Eddie.”

“So, the police still have the museum area—the tunnel—cordoned off. Naturally, Sean has jurisdiction anywhere, but I’d like you to show him the studio. You can answer any questions he might have.” Eddie’s voice grew emotional as he added, “I’m going to abandon you two and get back to the hospital to see Alistair. I don’t like leaving him alone. I don’t mean alone—I mean, without seeing me as much as possible.”

“I understand, Eddie,” Madison said quietly. Alistair—assuming he was innocent—definitely needed family support at a time like this.

But he had a stepmother, too, although it was true that Alistair had never called his father’s wives “Mother.” But he seemed to have a friendly relationship with Helena LaRoux, and as far as she could tell, Helena liked Alistair. Alistair was happy if his father was happy, and he found it amusing that Helena had made no bones about the fact that she’d loved Eddie and wanted to be Mrs. Eddie Archer. She claimed to love Eddie and maybe she did. It was a nice bonus that he was as powerful as he was—and Helena never pretended that she wasn’t eager to be rich and famous on her own. It seemed, however, that she was happy to share her journey with Eddie’s son.

Appearances, Madison thought. Hollywood was all smoke and mirrors.

“He’s got family there now,” Eddie told her. “Helena is with him. But we’ve only been married a year, and although she and Alistair get along fine, she’s not his real mom, and certainly not his dad, you know?” he ended hoarsely.

“No one else is you, Eddie.”

She noticed that Sean Cameron reached over from the backseat, placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezed.

She’d heard about Cameron before; she knew his name, and that he’d worked at the studio. Now that she was with him, she realized she’d even seen pictures of him with past creatures created at the studio and at industry parties. Once she’d actually wondered about him and joked with Carla, a seamstress, about him. Why didn’t he still work there, huh? she’d asked. She often worked a double shift, seventy to eighty hours, with a group that was seventy to eighty percent male. All those hours and all those men, and they were like fathers, uncles, little brothers or obnoxious cousins. Or uninterested in the opposite sex.

Carla had reminded her that she dressed some of the hottest actors in the business, and she’d been asked out often enough.

It wasn’t as if she was totally averse to a whirlwind romance—here today, gone tomorrow—it was just that the right opportunity hadn’t come along. She preferred to remain friends with men she might work with again, and she didn’t want the girlfriends, wives and lovers of actors or colleagues not wanting her to be part of future projects. So she kept her distance. Sometimes the actors she worked with could be cold and full of themselves, but luckily, that was seldom the case. And when she kept her distance, she earned their respect. Maybe men always admired and longed for what they couldn’t have. Maybe women, too.

And maybe she was just damaged. Maybe a friend like Bogie was a reward for the strange and painful things that had happened to her.

Right now, she needed to concentrate and focus on the moment—and not on Sean Cameron. She didn’t know the man. Not at all. She’d seen him standing outside a car. She’d heard his voice and shaken his hand. Watched how he’d silently laid his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, a true sign of friendship and support. There was something about his voice, though. It seemed to enclose her and make her feel his words were sincere, that he was some kind of secure bastion against the world. Eddie had called on him in a time of need.

As they pulled up in front of the cinema and studio, Madison saw that there were four police cars guarding the entrance. She looked past the cars and the crime scene tape to the beautiful Art Deco–style Black Box Cinema with its terra-cotta sunburst facade, and the elegantly crafted sign. The building itself was a handsome and historic structure; it appeared sad, though, wrapped in crime scene tape as it was.

When she looked to the side she saw the parking lot, empty now of cars. During lockdown it was usually crowded even at night—all hands on deck.

She noted a vintage Cadillac that was out of place among the clearly marked patrol cars. It was parked at the far end; there was a man standing outside the car, staring at the buildings, as if he was carefully watching the police and every move they made.

He turned as they drove up. Before they could exit, he walked over to the car, and Eddie rolled down the driver’s-seat window. From the passenger seat, Madison leaned over and saw that it was Andy Simons, Eddie’s partner.

“Hey, you doing okay?” Simons asked Eddie.

Madison didn’t know him half as well as she knew Eddie; Simons was money, Eddie was art. But the two were longtime friends and Simons—like everyone else associated with the studio—would stand by Eddie to the very end. Eddie and Andy were complete opposites in more ways than one. Eddie was slim and athletic, an attractive middle-aged man, casual and easy in his manner and dress. Andy was muscular and his clothing—even his jogging attire, as she’d seen once—was pure designer quality. He had a head of light blond hair that he kept artfully colored and his nails were manicured. He’d always been nice when Madison encountered him, he just didn’t have Eddie’s natural ease with the artisans and employees of the studio. However, that didn’t matter much, since he was seldom around.

“Thanks, Andy,” Eddie said huskily. “I’m doing all right.”

“And Alistair?”

“The best he can be—under the circumstances.” Eddie gestured at Sean. “Andy, you remember Sean Cameron—”

“Of course I do,” Andy said, looking into the backseat and smiling. “Nice to see you, Sean. We missed you—and your talent—when you left. Odd timing, though,” he added.

“He’s not here for his old job,” Eddie said. “Sean is with the FBI. His unit is going to take the lead on the investigation. I told you I was going to call in some favors to see that Alistair got a fair shake, that I wanted to bring in an FBI unit.”

“Yeah, I know. But, Sean—you’re FBI?” Simons asked.

“Career change,” Sean said with a shrug. “Life takes us to some strange places.”

“That’s a major change.” Simons looked at Eddie, frowning. “I knew you wanted the FBI involved, but I wasn’t sure you could pull it off. But then, you’ve always been able to create magic.”

“Never hurts to have two law enforcement agencies working together—we can bring different specialties to the table,” Sean explained.

“But from fabricator…to FBI?” Simons said, grinning.

“You never know,” Sean Cameron said.

There was an air of expectancy in the silence that followed, but Cameron didn’t say anything else and Eddie spoke up.

“Madison is going to show him around the studio. It’s been a while.”

Simons nodded. “Great.” He smiled at Eddie and tried to sound cheerful. “No one works harder than Madison, and I’d say she’s definitely a good choice for bringing Sean up-to-date. And we can’t ask for anything better than the FBI,” he said. He bent lower and grinned at her. “You’re the best, too, Madison. We all appreciate what you’re doing, but I have to ask—you okay with this? You don’t have to be here, you know. We can only ask so much of you.”

“I’m just fine. I’ll do anything to help Alistair,” she said.

“Anything,” Simons repeated. His comment seemed odd to Madison, or maybe not. To the outside world, there was no way that Alistair hadn’t committed the murder. Maybe he was really asking if she’d be willing to lie, if necessary. Was he? she wondered. Andy Simons’s fortune was tied to Eddie’s, and while he might have had the seed money, it was Eddie’s talent that had kept them both going.

The one aspect of the business Andy didn’t have anything to do with was the Black Box Cinema. That was strictly Eddie’s.

“Agent Cameron, welcome, and thank you,” Simons was saying. He straightened a bit. “Glad you’re with us. I’ve been standing in the parking lot for hours—don’t know why, except that I want the police to realize that all of us at the studio believe in Alistair, and we’ll be watching them.”

“I know why you’re here. You’re my friend,” Eddie said. “And I’m grateful for the support.”

“Sure. With Sean on the case now, I’ll head home. But, Eddie, if you need me—for anything, anything at all—just call.”

“Thanks, Andy,” Eddie said.

“Thank you. And I will be calling on you.” Sean Cameron reached through an open window to shake the man’s hand.

“I’ll talk to you later, then.” Simons gave them all a grave nod and walked to his car.

“Thank God I do have friends on board, and we’re not just throwing Alistair to the wolves,” Eddie said.

“Character can mean everything, Eddie. And a vicious murder isn’t in Alistair’s character.” Sean Cameron opened his door to exit the car and Madison did the same.

“Keep the faith, Eddie,” Sean said, ducking his head down to the window.

“I will.” Eddie nodded, and eased the car toward the road.

One of the police officers on guard duty approached Madison and Sean. Madison felt awkward about this; Sean Cameron did not. He smoothly produced his credentials and they were ushered through the massive gates. They were stopped once again, at the entrance to the cinema.

“Even though you’re FBI, are you sure they’re going to let us in here?” Madison asked.

“Yes, they’re required to. The agencies will be working in tandem. I want to see the studio today. The crime scene experts are probably still in there—looking for anything and everything. But it’s important that I meet the LAPD detective in charge,” he told her. “How do you feel about Andy Simons?” he asked, looking at her closely.

“Andy? Honestly, I don’t see him that often. Neither Eddie nor Andy comes to the studio daily, although Eddie’s in far more often and is usually with us when we go on location,” Madison said. “When Andy does come in—maybe once every couple of weeks—he’s cordial, interested and decent to everyone.”

“How do you feel about him?” Sean persisted.

She smiled suddenly. “Well, I guess Eddie’s a man of the people. Andy is more like royalty condescending from on high. But like I said, he’s always been decent, and, odd couple though they are, he and Eddie have been friends for years. You don’t think Andy—”

“I don’t think anything yet. We’ve got a long way to go, Madison.”

He’d paused to look at her and she was startled by the little tremor that rippled down her spine. She’d just met him, and she was alarmed by her strange and instant admiration for him. She liked the steady gravity in his eyes as he spoke, and still felt touched by the sound of his voice and the honesty and sincerity with which he seemed to speak. He wasn’t muscle-bound like a prizefighter, but she had the feeling he was all lean strength.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, stepping back. She was making far too much of a simple moment they were sharing in the pursuit of justice.

They were approached by another officer and stood at the door, waiting, while he went into the building.

“We will get in there,” Sean muttered.

The officer returned, leading a tall, bald-headed man of about forty. The newcomer eyed Sean suspiciously, but had apparently expected him. He was Detective Benny Knox, and he was polite enough, although he glanced at Madison as if he wasn’t impressed and was, in fact, indifferent to her presence. She wasn’t sure how he’d figured out that she didn’t know a thing about crime scenes. Sean, however, introduced her as “Eddie Archer’s most trusted studio artist,” and the detective assessed her again and nodded grimly.

“I heard you worked here once, Cameron,” Knox said.

“I did.”

“I assumed they brought you in because you know the place yourself.”

Sean gave a slight shrug. “But things change over time. Madison has the position I had years ago, so she’ll know what I’m talking about when I ask a question.”

“And she’s Eddie’s girl,” Knox said.

Madison frowned. “I’m not anyone’s ‘girl,’ Detective. I’m here to make sure Agent Cameron has knowledgeable updates on any changes in the studio.”

Knox raised his eyebrows, then nodded.

It was fine for them to be in the studio, Knox assured them. Fingerprints had been taken from the door that connected the tunnel to the studio, and the rooms had been searched. Knox actually managed something of a smile when he told her that some of his most seasoned people had been startled more than once, running into the creatures in production and in storage. She forced a weak smile in return.

The police were finishing up in the cinema and the tunnel, he went on to say, and, as law enforcement, Sean would understand that they didn’t want tainted evidence. But before the biohazard teams were called in to clean up, Sean would have access to everything.

“Notes from the first officer on the scene?”

“Yes—and my own. Officer Braden was pretty thorough, and he knew the drill. He didn’t touch anything until I was called. Of course, there’s no such thing as a pristine crime scene in a situation like this—Alistair Archer had been slipping around in the blood, the guard rushed in and he had blood on him. But after that, the scene was contained. Let me know what you want when, and I’ll see that you get it.”

Once Knox had finished speaking, he studied Sean carefully. “What I hear—and this comes straight from the governor’s office—is that you’re lead investigator on this, along with your team. It’s your ball game,” he said.

“Not all—we need and appreciate you and your men, Knox. I’d like you to keep the lead until we’re completely established. I want to get the lay of the land again, so to speak. Raintree is due tonight or tomorrow morning with the rest of the team. I’m not sure what plans they’ve made as yet. Now…we’ll go through the parking lot to the studio, staying out of the way of the forensic experts.”

Knox seemed mollified. He kept nodding.

Madison and Sean started across to the main studio entrance.

As they walked, Madison asked, “Is it always like that? I mean, it felt like he was throwing massive webs of power and testosterone there. Aren’t you both working toward the same goal, as in the truth of what happened?”

Sean Cameron grinned at her; he was strikingly good-looking, she realized again, and could have been in the movies instead of the magic behind them.

Step back, think sanely. You’re just here as a guide, she reminded herself.

She still wasn’t quite sure how one went from being a visual fabricator and creator to an FBI agent, but she was glad to see his grin. She had to admit she hadn’t relished this assignment and wished they could rewind time—go back twenty-four hours, make sure Alistair Archer was nowhere near the Black Box Cinema last night and that the entire place had been locked down tight. Then she’d be at work, consulting with her colleagues, studying sketches, and then computer simulations, discussing materials….

“Sometimes the L.A. cops have taken a beating when they haven’t been the ones to mess things up. And if you’re asking whether law enforcement agencies can be territorial—you bet. I actually belong to a unit of people who are ready to stand down, suck up when necessary and just get our part done. But yes, we are all working toward the same goal, and a team like mine doesn’t have the manpower to do it alone. If you have good cops on your side, you’re ahead of the game.”

“You worked for Eddie for several years, right?” Madison asked him.

“Yes. Then I returned to Texas—had a close friend with cancer, and I wanted to be around to help with what was needed.”

“How did you find your way into law enforcement?”

“I didn’t. It found me,” he said.

They were in front of the studio door now. He indicated that she should get out her key, and she knew that their conversation on his history was over.

Madison fumbled in her purse and produced the key, then opened the door and stepped inside. As she’d expected, once they’d entered the vestibule, she saw Colin Bailey on duty behind the little glassed-in reception area.

During the day, when work was in progress, two people handled the reception desk. The hallways that led down to the studios, work areas and offices weren’t locked, but a security officer usually sat in front with the receptionist. Today, no receptionist was on duty, but Colin Bailey was there, formidable despite his age. Colin had been a boxer in his day. Like the cop she’d just met, he was bald, but his bare pate was a present from nature, and not the work of careful shaving. He had bright blue eyes and jowls that would have done a bulldog proud. His nose had been broken a dozen times and looked it.

He could be gentle as a lamb, but when it came to defending Eddie Archer or his property and reputation, Colin turned into a cobra.

“There’s no entrance! Absolutely no—Oh! Madison, it’s you. And the FBI man, I assume?” Bailey rose from his swivel chair, opened the door dividing the entry from the reception area and came out to greet them. He inspected Sean, and then smiled. “Why, it’s you, kid!” he said with enthusiasm. “I thought I got the name wrong or something!” He took Sean’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “Wow, it’s true! So you’re a G-man, huh? For real?”

“For real, Colin, my friend, for real,” Sean told him. “So, you’re doing well?”

“Great!” Bailey said. “Well, until last night,” he added, his smile fading.

“You were on duty?”

“I was. And I take that seriously, as you know, especially during lockdown.”

“You had your eye on the video screens?” Sean asked.

Bailey grimaced. “For all the good it did. And the cops have the video now.”

“The cameras still cover the same areas?”

Bailey nodded. He motioned to them to join him in the reception area. As they walked in, Madison realized she’d never been there herself; she’d never thought about the security cameras.

There was a bank with six screens. One showed the entry. Another focused on the main work area, encompassing the shop, the main construction area and, somewhat obscured, the rest of the floor. Another screen covered the parking lot, and yet another, the upstairs hallway. One showed the cemetery and parking lot to the right if one were facing the studio entrance, and another showed the side of the Black Box Cinema.

“You can’t see the entrance to the Black Box,” Madison noted.

“The Black Box Cinema has its own security camera that focuses on anyone coming through the main entrance,” Bailey told her. “But as you can see, these screens will tell you if anyone is entering the studio by the main entrance, and if anyone tried to get through the fire exits, an alarm would have gone off.”

“There’s no security footage for the tunnel—the museum—itself?” Sean asked.

“Yes, but it’s seldom used,” Colin said. “There never seemed to be a reason. No one’s allowed down there except by appointment or on movie nights, and there’s always a guide with anyone who does go down. Film noir buffs always want to see it, but it’s not like it’s the biggest tourist attraction in Hollywood or anything. The cinema’s Eddie’s baby—has been from the start. He grew up loving film noir, and I guess he feels it’s just a little collection he shows friends, even if the friends are people he doesn’t know. You can ask for a tour if you’ve come to see a movie. You don’t even have to pay the nominal five bucks, just bring your ticket stub during opening hours. Like I said, there never seemed to be much need for security down there.”

Sean Cameron didn’t respond to that. Maintaining a pleasant expression, he said, “Thanks, Colin. Madison’s going to catch me up on any of the changes that have happened around here since I left. We’ll check back in before we leave. Obviously, we have to leave this way, don’t we?”

Bailey nodded. “Unless you open a fire door and, if you do, alarms will go off like firecrackers.” He grinned at his own mild joke.

Sean looked at Madison. “If we go to the right, that’ll still lead us to the main work areas?”

“Yes, the hallway to the left has two meeting rooms, plus the stairs up to the offices and meeting rooms on the second floor.”

He moved quickly, heading to the right. She followed him at the same pace.

The studio seemed strange. Empty. She came in early sometimes, but a lot of workers did, and Madison couldn’t remember a single time when she’d come in and one of the seamstresses or construction engineers hadn’t already been at work. The sounds of sewing machines, electric saws, hammers and other work-related noises were constant, although someone usually had a stereo system playing pop music or rock classics. Today, there was no stereo on. Materials were piled up on the tables that stood by the sewing machines, and the shop area itself felt eerie. It was almost like walking into a home whose owners had mysteriously disappeared.

The walls were pinned with fabric and materials and drawings. Creatures they’d made for movies, shows or advertisements were lined up on the floor and arranged on shelves—some might be used again, and some were kept because they’d required a great deal of work and had turned out exceptionally well. They also kept some of the projects that hadn’t worked quite as well, a reminder of the thought and care that needed to go into any creation.

A giant rat stood next to an equally large penguin. The rat had been used in a public service announcement and the penguin had been animated to advertise a new adventure park in Oregon. Robotic creatures from the last sci-fi movie they’d worked on were lined up together, and above them was an old bicycle being ridden by a very evil-looking big, bad wolf. Zombies created for Apocalypse from Beneath the Sea were against the far rear wall, and the bloodied victims from a Victorian-era murder mystery were on the high shelving ten feet above the floor—above the zombies. Madison noted that Sean was staring at the victims, Miss Mary, Parson Bridge and Myra Sue. He was thoughtful, and she suspected he was imagining that the appearance of Jenny Henderson’s body must have been disturbingly similar to these props. The studio was known for the realism of what they created.

“Life imitates art and art imitates life. In this case, the question is which came first,” Sean murmured.

Madison glanced down, troubled by the creatures that were just rubber, plastic, fabric and paint. She’d drawn the designs for some of them; she’d dressed Myra Sue. Suddenly, Myra Sue and the other “victims” didn’t seem like props designed for a movie. They looked like flesh and blood.

A lot of blood.

Madison found herself turning away from Myra Sue’s one sightless eye.

“Fire door is still in the back, right?” Sean asked her.

She nodded. “Between these guys and the Planet Mondo air creatures over there,” she said, pointing to the door. There was a large sign that said Fire Door, but it was partially obstructed by the wings of one of the Planet Mondo air creatures.

“Hasn’t changed much,” Sean said. He nodded to one of the giant robots across the workstations, beside the climate control room. “I worked on Hugoman. He’s been here awhile.”

“Really? He’s fantastic. And I love the movie!” Madison said. She did love the creature in the movie Hugoman. He was the invention of a mad scientist who’d given him his son’s personality through partial cloning; the massive machinelike creature was kind and fought only to save lives. Of course, he’d been misunderstood, and when he’d saved the community from an attack by mutant creatures, he had died—a moral about judging people, or creatures, on appearances. Hugoman had actually been low-budget and promoted as an action/monster flick, but it had been extremely well written and had become a cult classic.

She flushed; they were here because of a murder, and because someone they both cared about had been accused of that murder. And yet, she wasn’t sure why they were just touring the studio. The murder hadn’t taken place in the studio; it had happened in the museum tunnel.

He wasn’t appalled by her sudden enthusiasm; he smiled at her. “Thanks. I loved working here. I needed to go back to Texas for a bit, and then…then you get swept up in life, so I wound up staying and working there. But I did love the time I spent here, working for Eddie Archer. I was proud that we helped create a cult classic on a budget.” His tone became businesslike. “So, as far as I know, that’s our fire door on this side of the building downstairs, and we have another over by the offices?”

It took her a second to follow his quick change of subject, but she managed not to blink.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” she told him. “And there are corresponding exits upstairs, with ladders in case of fire. Eddie’s always been very careful, dealing with some of the flammable materials as we do.”

Sean nodded. “Okay, what’s going on in the shop. What are you working on right now?”

“Don’t you know?” she asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s kind of ironic. We’re working on a remake of Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. It’s updated, and it’s been retitled The Unholy. The script is really good—and different enough to make this a different movie. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d compare it to Disturbing Behavior, which was, in essence, a remake of Hitchcock’s Rear Window.”

Sean frowned. “A remake of the movie—and Jenny was killed in front of the tableau?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not just ironic,” he told her. “That sounds intentional. And it changes everything.”

“The original movie was filmed well over half a century ago. What could this have to do with the movie we’re making now?”

“Everything,” he said curtly. “It could be a motive for murder. And lockdown—that’s incredibly important, too. Lockdown should eliminate anyone who isn’t close to the studio.”

Madison spoke through clenched jaws. She wasn’t in the FBI or the police; she wasn’t required to understand motive and investigation. “Even when we’re not in lockdown, the curious can’t just wander in. I have to have permission to bring in a guest on a regular day, and I wouldn’t have been given permission at all now.”

“Well, there’s permission, and there’s giving yourself permission by dodging the rules. On a regular day, someone could try to slip someone else in.”

“What about the security cameras, Sean? People here don’t want to risk their jobs.”

“Of course not. Still…”

He walked toward the climate-controlled room, but looked through the windows for a moment, and never tried the door. He seemed uninterested.

“Where’s your workstation?” he asked her.

Her work area was a few feet from the climate-controlled area. She pointed it out to him, and he went over to it.

It seemed bizarre that everything was just where she’d left it on Friday night. There were pieces of the leather coat she’d chosen for the costume of actor Oliver Marshall, playing antihero Sam Stone in the new movie.

“I saw the movie as a kid. But refresh me,” Sean said.

What did this have to do with the murder?

“In a nutshell? There are a series of murders—people ripped to shreds by something in the night. Then an incredibly wealthy philanthropist with a gorgeous young wife is found murdered in a similar manner in his Egyptian Museum. The cops want to arrest the wife, so she goes to Sam Stone. Various clues suggest she’s the murderer, but she denies it. The movie is great because it leaves the audience wondering—was something supernatural happening, or could it all be explained? The Egyptian mummy supposedly sent from the Department of Antiquities turns out to be a priest heading an ancient cult and in the end, needless to say, he proves to be the murderer. Sam Stone falls in love with the wife—Dianna Breen—but she dies at the hand of the priest before she’s proven innocent.”

“Who’s playing Sam Stone?” Sean asked.

“Oliver Marshall.”

“Hmm. How is he to work with?”

“He’s fine. He’s always in the tabloids for being a party boy, but he’s polite and courteous, shows up for his fittings and works well with everyone behind the scenes. He’s very pleasant and makes everyone at the studio think he’s just one of the gang. I like him.”

“Good to hear. When’s the last time he was in?”

“Friday. I was working on his costume.” She gestured at the fabric on the table. “He was in for fittings. Sam Stone carries concealed weapons, so everything about the costume has to fit perfectly.”

“Those…creatures evoked by the Egyptian priest—what’s his name?” Sean pointed to some of their newest creations, including giant fanged jackals, birds and bizarre giant snakes.

“The priest is Amun Mopat, and yes, they’re for the movie.”

“What will the priest be wearing? Same type of costume as in the film noir?” Sean asked. “And who’s playing him?”

“That role hasn’t been cast yet,” Madison told him. “There’s a mannequin over by the wall with a mock-up of the robe he’ll be wearing. It’s an homage to the original film. Almost exactly the same.”

“Where? Show me.”

Madison walked over to the mannequin that stood behind one of the jackal-like monsters created for the movie.

There was nothing but a plain brown monk’s robe on it.

She looked at Sean as shivers of fear streaked down her spine.

“The robe—it was just a mock-up. But it’s gone,” she said. “I suppose someone might have taken it…. Mike Greenwood could have shown it to someone. I’ll ask Mike and Eddie where it is.”

Sean shook his head. “They won’t know—and the robe isn’t coming back. It’s been used,” he said grimly, “by the killer.” He turned to look at her. “Find that robe, and we’ll be on our way to finding a killer.”

3

“Hey!” Sean touched her cheek. “This is a good thing. Seeing that the robe is gone actually helps. I’m almost astounded that everyone assumes it was Alistair, to tell you the truth. The girl was killed in front of the Sam Stone tableau, the studio is doing a remake, the robe is gone. To me, all of that points to someone with an agenda against the studio or the movie.”

Madison nodded. But she didn’t agree that the robe’s disappearance was a good thing! A killer had been here, where she worked. A killer had used the robe she’d made to sneak onto a tableau or into the tunnel and slice open a young woman’s throat.

Sean turned her to face the construction area. “What are they working on here?” he asked.

“An old Western scaffold.”

“For The Unholy?”

“No, that’s the tail end of our last project—Ways of the West.” She gave herself a mental shake and turned toward the sewing machines and a rack of clothing. “Projects overlap, but you know that. Or sometimes we work on several at the same time. Right now, though, as soon as the scaffolding’s out of here, we’ll be doing nothing but The Unholy. Or…I assume we’ll still be working on it.”

“The world goes on, despite murder,” Sean said. He motioned to the far wall of the construction area. “And there’s the door that leads from the tunnel.”

It wasn’t really a question. She said, “Yes,” anyway.

He walked over but didn’t touch it. Madison followed him and saw powder all over the whitewashed floor nearby. Black powder.

“The police dusted here,” he said.

Madison felt a moment’s discomfort. Her prints were on that door.

“They’ll get a lot of prints,” she said. “Including mine.”

He looked at her, the curl of his lips gentle, slightly amused. “Elimination,” he told her. “They’ll take everyone’s prints for the purposes of comparison.”

“Elimination? But…you believe the killer works here, or is close to someone here? That means we’ve all known him or her…. Actually, any of us might have been killed.”

“No, I don’t think any of you could have been killed. The killer didn’t want the police running around looking for a murderer. The killer wanted them to arrest Alistair. His habits were known—he was being watched way ahead of time.”

“Are we going through there?” she asked, nodding at the door.

“No, we’ll let the police find everything they can with their forensic units. I’ll go into the tunnel soon. You don’t have to come with me.”

An uncomfortable sensation crept over her. A horrible murder had just taken place there, in the tunnel. She’d only seen crime scenes on television or at the movies. She didn’t want to see the real thing.

But she was here to help. Help save Alistair. He couldn’t be guilty—and Eddie had called her to assist this man who was somehow going to prove it.

She had to go to the site. If what she’d experienced during her life, the ordeals that had made it so painful, were worth anything at all, the one benefit might be that she could reach the dead girl. Did Jenny’s spirit somehow remain, although her mortal life had been stolen? If so, wasn’t she obliged to try to speak to the girl, to connect with her?

She shook her head, responding to Sean’s comment. “No…if I’m going to help you, I should go all the way.”

He didn’t reply. He was staring at the area around the door. Close to it on the left was another rack of costuming, while a supply of wood had been stacked up on the right. She began to wonder if anyone could have hidden behind the racks of clothing or the wood, staying out of sight of the video cameras. But if someone had been there, waiting, how had that person gotten into the building? Some of the construction crew had been working Saturday; she’d been off herself, as had most of the shop. Sunday, as far as she knew, no one had planned on coming in. So that would’ve meant the person had hidden behind the rack of clothing overnight, with the intent of killing someone who might or might not have been in the tunnel on a night when no one should have been there?

Or did she know the killer? Was it someone who walked among them, someone she saw on a day-to-day basis, worked with, laughed with?

“Let’s take a walk through the rest of the place,” he said.

Madison turned and headed back to the hallway, then passed by the reception area and went on to the offices. There were two on the ground floor, both conference rooms more than offices but supplied with computers, printers, screens and other work equipment. The walls were lined with movie posters; the hallway had two circular areas decorated with mannequins, all from different movies. There was an adolescent werewolf, a beautiful evil witch, a torn-up robotic trooper, a vampire complete with cape and golden eyes that seemed to follow you and a zombie, a poor girl from one of those “park by the lake and make out even though a dozen couples have already been killed there” movies. This girl had not done so well; she was missing most of her face, and the one blue eye that stared out at them was pretty gruesome.

Actually, with the exception of Myra Sue, their “creatures” rarely bothered Madison. She was accustomed to them. But there were a few mannequins in the offices that were far more upsetting. They were incredibly realistic. In the first office, there was one on an autopsy table, the sheet drawn up, eyes glazed and open, blond hair streaming around a beautiful face. She was the first victim in a murder mystery. In the second office, there was a mannequin of a beautiful, terrorized woman peeking out from the leaves of a bush. Neither victim had been played by a living actress; the work was so good, it just looked like they’d been real.

Entering the second office, Sean commented, “So Matilda is still here.”

“Matilda?”

He flashed a smile. “We dubbed her Matilda. She didn’t have a name, even in the script. She was just ‘devoured victim number one.’ But we all liked her when my crew was around, and we called her Matilda. She used to really creep out a lot of people. A guy named Harry Smith was working on digital back then, and he used to swear that he hated being in the office alone. He felt like Matilda was watching him.”

“You can feel like our characters are watching you,” Madison said. “The studio’s always done great work. And when it’s great, it looks real.”

“I agree.”

Sean left the office, and for the first time, Madison felt that “Matilda” was watching her and she, too, hurried out.

In the second hallway circle—complete with vampire, witch and slasher-movie victim—Sean paused for a moment, then headed to the hall with the elevator and the emergency exit that led to the fire escape outside. He didn’t touch the door; he saw that the police had dusted here, too. Instead, he returned to the elevator, then saw that the police had dusted there, as well. “We’ll take it.” He pushed the button and they waited for a moment, listening to the whir of motors.

When they were inside the elevator, he said, “Did you know there’s a key to get to the basement—or the end of the tunnel?”

“What?” Madison asked, surprised. As far as she was aware, the elevator only went down to the main level. There were two buttons to push in, for the first and second floors.

Sean pointed to a little metal piece where a key could be inserted. “The elevator can go to the first and second floors and to the basement…or to the tunnel entrance. As far as I’m aware, no one’s used it—except for Eddie Archer, maybe—since Eddie’s owned the place. I think there’s only one key and he has it. But I saw the plans once, and this elevator will go to the basement. I wonder if Eddie thought to mention that to the police.”

“I don’t know if he did,” Madison said. “I have my keys with me, of course. And I have keys to almost everything, but not the elevator.”

“I don’t want to try getting down to the basement yet. I’m going to ask if anyone’s checked it out. For now, we’ll stay clear until the crime scene units have gotten what they need.”

Upstairs, the basic floor design was the same. They passed by a circle of prop creatures and came to Eddie’s office—home to several charming little gnomelike beings from a children’s fantasy movie—and then moved on to the large office occupied by Mike Greenwood, managing artist of the studio. Mike liked aliens, and his office was filled with sci-fi and space creatures and miniatures of a spaceship that appeared several stories tall on film.

A window in the back of his office looked over the rear of the property; it was high enough that the cemetery in back with its historic family vaults and funerary art could easily be seen. Sean paused there, gazing out.

“Peace Cemetery,” he murmured, glancing at her. “Did it ever disturb you to work in the midst of a cemetery?”

“No,” she said curtly, perhaps too curtly.

“That’s an old, old place.”

“And still accepting burials,” Madison said. “I think Eddie loves that it’s there. He says it’s a place where history and contemporary life meet.” She hesitated a moment. Eddie knew she had a sixth sense, as he called it, because of the cemetery, because of the times they’d walked there together—and the day he’d caught her talking to a ghost. “There are dozens of stories about the cemetery, secret burials and, of course, ghosts. Naturally, it’s got a reputation for being haunted.”

“Most cemeteries do,” Sean said. “Eddie told me once that if he ever had time between the projects that paid the bills, he’d love to do a documentary on the cemetery.” She had the uneasy feeling that he was looking inside her soul. Good Lord, Eddie hadn’t told him she was some kind of a freak who talked to ghosts, had he?

“Does it mean anything to you?” she asked. “The cemetery being there?”

He shrugged. “Right now? I see it as a place where a killer could escape—that’s what I see. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

They returned to the first floor and stopped at Bailey’s station. Sean thanked him and asked, “You’re not working around the clock now, are you?”

“No, but I’ve always taken on the Sunday evening shift. You know how Eddie Archer loves his cinema. And it’s not even like we have break-ins or anything of the kind, but I take over for Winston Nash at five in the afternoon on Sundays and work until morning. Today I’m in because I was already here, and because I’d do whatever I could for Eddie Archer.”

“And Nash didn’t report anything?”

“No, Nash said it was quiet as a tomb all day. I saw Alistair when he went into the Black Box.”

“Did you see when Ms. Henderson showed up?” Sean asked.

Bailey flushed. He shook his head. “But she knew I was here. Even if I weren’t, there’d still be a guard watching over the place. I think she parked on the other side of the cemetery—well, that’s where they found her car—and came around through the graveyard. The front of the cemetery is only on the one side, but the graves stretch around to the back. I assume she slipped around the building. We must’ve caught her entry on the security cameras, but I admit I wasn’t watching that screen when she got in. From what I understand, Alistair told his father that Jenny Henderson said he’d forgotten to lock the front door.”

“And had he forgotten?” Sean asked.

“I haven’t talked to Alistair since I raced over to the Black Box when he came for me. He was…he was crazy, hysterical, when I saw him. He was screaming that a monster killed Jenny. I went back to the tunnel with him…” He shook his head. “It was a pure zoo here last night! When Alistair ran up to this door it was as if he was being pursued by demons. I saw the blood on him and hit the call button for the police, and they were here within minutes. I tried to calm Alistair down enough to talk, but he just kept screaming about the priest and the mummies.”

“Did you go down to the tunnel?”

“Yes. I walked in, saw Jenny Henderson and the blood and walked out again. But I had to check it out because he was so hysterical. It’s my job.”

Sean was thoughtful. Silent.

Bailey continued. “It was a slip-and-slide of blood down there. A slip and slide. When I saw the way the girl was lying there…. Well, I knew she was dead. I backed out, not wanting to mess anything up for the police.”

“That was the right thing to do, Colin.”

“I never had anything that resembled a coherent talk with Alistair. He was in shock. And then the police got here—and Eddie. Eddie seemed to be in shock, too, and they arrested Alistair. Eddie told me not to leave my post, and it’s been a long time now, but I haven’t left,” Bailey said, nodding with determined loyalty. “I haven’t left,” he repeated doggedly.

“Thank you, sir,” Sean said. He handed Colin Bailey a card. “If you think of anything—even something that might seem unimportant, will you call me?”

“You bet, Sean. You know the police interviewed me for more than an hour. I think I said everything. But, Sean, yeah, you bet. I’ll call you.”

They walked out into the dying sunlight. Sean paused. Some of the police cars were gone; they could see that Benny Knox was still standing outside the entrance to the Black Box Cinema, like a sentinel.

“I’m going in,” Sean said. “They should have finished up with the crime scene evidence by now.” He turned to her. “There’s no reason for you to come.”

Yes, there is. The reason Eddie picked me to be with you.

She studied him, wondering how to explain that she somehow knew it was important that she go in without sounding like a fool. She didn’t want to say she might get some kind of feeling from the place. He’d probably look at her as if she should be committed if she said, “There’s a slim possibility that there’s a ghost in there now, and that she might talk to me.”

What would happen? This man wouldn’t really react. He’d hold his thoughts, be polite—and then see that she was committed.

“I really love Eddie Archer,” she began. “He gave me my life. I want to go in, I don’t know if it’ll help, but maybe…”

“I think it’s a mistake,” he said. He might be a legend, but she sensed that to him she was just the guide. No real help, just the guide.

“Eddie asked me to be here. I feel I should go in,” she said stubbornly.

He knew she resented him at that moment and maybe he resented her back. He was the man in charge, so she understood.

“All right,” he said. “I just wanted to know what we were doing before I challenged the buzzard.”

“The buzzard?”

“Detective Knox,” he said, rolling his eyes toward the entrance—and the man in question.

He didn’t say any more as he headed toward the Black Box. Benny Knox had already been standing in a ramrod-stiff position, but his whole body seemed to straighten further as they approached.

“You going in now?” Knox asked.

“Yes,” Sean said.

“You wait here, miss,” Knox ordered.

“She’s working with me, Detective,” Sean said. “She’ll be with my people on this.” He kept speaking even though Knox’s frown made it apparent that he planned to argue. “This case is looking more and more like an in-house situation, Detective. Madison knows all the players on the stage now, and I may not. She probably knows the killer, and I would say fairly well.”

“In-house,” Knox muttered. “The Archer kid was the only one here, Agent Cameron. Yeah, I guess you’d call that in-house.”

“Come on, Knox,” Sean said. “You’re a good detective or you wouldn’t be on this. And you know as well as I do that what’s most obvious isn’t always the truth.”

“In this case? I don’t know. I really don’t.” Knox wasn’t being a wiseass, Madison thought; he was serious. The subdued way he spoke scared her for Eddie more than anything else.

Sean said, “We’re not going with obvious. We’re investigating. Madison is familiar with the working of this studio and the cinema, inside and out. She’s with me.” The last was quiet and firm.

Madison watched Knox’s inner struggle. His longing to argue was clearly there, but he didn’t persist. She wondered what kind of power Sean and his people had—exactly who they were, she wasn’t sure.

Knox nodded. “Hands gloved, feet bagged,” he said.

“Of course,” Sean agreed.

At the entry there was a box of supplies. Madison followed suit as Sean put plastic covers over his shoes and pulled latex gloves on his hands. She fumbled awkwardly as she tried to get the gloves on, perhaps because Knox was behind them, watching her every move.

The three of them went inside.

A tech in a jumpsuit was leaving, a plastic box filled with vials in his arms. He nodded. As they headed through the theater, she saw that Sean looked at everything, from the Art Deco popcorn stand to the rugs, the cinema itself—and the office. As they reached the tunnel, she heard two of the techs talking.

“Hazmat will have fun with this one,” someone said.

“This is nothing! You should’ve seen that murder site up on the hill. The killer wrote in blood everywhere. Wonder if that place will ever sell,” another voice responded.

“This is Hollywood—you can sell anything,” the first man said. “Let’s finish up here. I’m ready for a drink.”

The techs nodded as they passed Knox, Sean and Madison.

“Your team’s covered everything?” Knox asked.

“Sir, if we covered any more, we’d have to take the walls,” the man said.

“Good.”

As they made their way down, Madison felt as if the place was closing in on them. It was actually a broad throughway, maybe fifty feet in width and a hundred and fifty in length.

When they reached the tunnel, she felt dizzy. The smell of blood was overwhelming.

The museum in the tunnel had always been fascinating. It was an homage to a bygone era of film, one that played an important role in the evolution of movies. Although Madison preferred romantic comedy, fantasy, adventure and horror, she loved the feel of the little museum. She’d learned new respect for film noir because of it, and she was impressed by the accuracy and detail of the old tableaux.

Today, it was different. The artistry seemed to be gone; it was merely a tunnel with props and policemen. There were little plastic clips with numbers, a photographer was still snapping photos and tape outlined the place where the body had fallen. The last tableau at the rear, the Sam Stone movie scene, was out of kilter. It had been photographed, fingerprinted and invaded.

Madison focused on that tableau, not wanting to see the blood on the floor.

It wasn’t prop blood. It wasn’t chocolate, as Hitchcock had used for the black-and-white murder scene in Psycho. It was real blood, and the person who’d shed that blood was now dead.

Thankfully, the body had been taken to the morgue. Despite what Madison had said, and despite all the time she spent creating creatures that were sometimes heroic and most often terrible, she felt somewhat squeamish about being down here. She wondered if she’d ever be able to come to the museum again without thinking about what had happened last night.

She’d come for a reason! she reminded herself. She had to be here.

She stood several feet from the tape that marked the position of the body and tried not to see the remaining techs or pay attention to Sean Cameron as he moved about the room. Eventually he came to the marked-out tape line.

She realized that he was standing as still as she was, as if he felt the air and was waiting for some kind of message that would speak to him in silence from the tunnel.

The photographer packed up his equipment and told Knox he was done. Soon the other techs left, too, and then there were just the three of them. For a moment, the silence around them seemed…unnatural.

“Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.” Sean was looking at the tableau. “And Alistair Archer swears that someone—something—came out of that tableau and attacked Jenny Henderson.”

“The priest—Amun Mopat, I understand,” Madison said.

“Indeed, the priest. And he’s still wearing his robe.”

“There’s something missing—something off in the scene,” Madison said as she studied the tableau.

“I have that feeling, too. But what?” Sean asked. He stared at it, frowning.

Madison continued to study it, as well. Mannequins, snakes and the items in the “Egyptian Museum” had been moved by the police and put back, but they weren’t experts on how the display had been set up. There was something wrong, but she couldn’t pin it down.

Sam Stone was entering, ready to wrest the priest, Amun Mopat, away from Dianna Breen. The sarcophagus, the mummy fallen to the floor, the stand with the canopic jars—all still there. So was the statue of the ancient Egyptian warrior, tilted to the wrong side, and the jackal and the sphinx.

“I wish I knew this place as well as Alistair does,” Sean said.

Madison watched in silence as Sean noted where the body had been and he walked to the tableau, not touching the velvet cord that separated the scene from the hall passage. He stepped over the cord. There wasn’t much he could do to mess up what had been a perfect recreation, since the police and the techs had already been through the entire place. She found it oddly disturbing, as if the characters were now out of focus, and far more haunting than the ferocious and bloody scenes in the studio.

Madison tried to shut herself off, tried to focus on the victim.

Jenny?

But she didn’t feel the presence of anyone near her. She stood there alone in her little world, frozen. She could envision Alistair and Jenny coming here, Alistair walking ahead, Jenny sensing someone at her back, crying out desperately for help….

And then feeling a knife cut through her throat.

Madison gave herself a furious mental shake. She was in the tunnel; the murder had happened only a few feet from where she was standing.

But there was nothing here that wasn’t solid and real.

Jenny Henderson’s body was at the morgue. If she was hanging around the place she’d been murdered, hoping to communicate, Madison could feel no impression of her.

She walked a step closer to the blood, hoping that didn’t make her ghoulish. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scene. Jenny must have coerced Alistair into bringing her to the studio. Jenny was an actress, a budding actress who needed every possible opportunity. No casting was done at the studio, but she probably believed she could learn something that might give her an edge when they were casting bit parts.

Had Jenny and Alistair paused to look at the tableaux? Or had Jenny’s mind been on her agenda—and Alistair’s mind on Jenny?

She took note of where the body had lain. There was a distance of perhaps twenty feet to the door. Alistair had walked ahead….

“All right,” Sean said, startling her. “Here’s how I heard the story from Eddie—how it was told to him by Alistair. Jenny convinced him to bring her over—she wanted to get into the studio, see the costumes and the Egyptian creatures. Or the mythical creatures the Egyptian priest, Amun Mopat, brought to life. And according to Alistair—” Sean paused, approaching the door that separated the tunnel from the studio “—he came this way, and turned.”

“And saw a monster—or the priest,” Madison said.

“Which means—” Sean paused again, walking to the display “—that the killer was in the tableau. As soon as Alistair passed by, the killer came down.” Sean moved up to the display, then got down, his movements silent. “The robed figure left his position and crawled over the velvet cord and attacked Jenny Henderson. He’d left Sam Stone and his femme fatale where they belonged as he stepped down to seize Jenny, and cut her throat.”

Sean was suddenly standing behind Madison.

For a moment, she could feel the fear, feel as if the killer’s breath touched her….

She felt his hands on her shoulders, and the other girl’s fear seemed to fill her. She could practically see—feel, touch!—what had happened.

Her throat closed; she could barely scream.

Alistair!

The sound didn’t leave her lips. She managed to step forward before she began trembling noticeably.

She almost slipped on the blood.

Deep in his own thoughts, Sean hardly noticed her.

“This place, the movie—they have everything to do with the murder,” he said, repeating what he’d told her before. “Everything.”

4

Madison stared at Sean Cameron, feeling frozen at first, and completely lost. There was nothing she could do here. She’d hoped there would be, but she felt nothing except cold and fear and dread. She could picture what had happened but she couldn’t see a face. She imagined the mannequin of the priest moving, saw him walking swiftly….

Saw him kill.

“Poor girl, poor Jenny Henderson—and poor Alistair,” he murmured.

“Alistair didn’t do it,” Madison said. Her voice was low, but her words were passionate. “It happened just the way you reenacted it. He was ahead of her and then he got to the door. Someone was already in here, waiting. Someone who knew that Alistair came to see the noir movies on Sundays, and someone who also knew about Jenny. Yes, it was taking a chance that Jenny would show up and that Alistair would fall in with her plans, but it wasn’t really that big a chance.”

“Someone—or the kid. The kid does tell it your way. But there’s nothing to exonerate him.”

Madison was startled by the voice of Benny Knox. He’d come in behind them. She’d been concentrating so hard, she’d forgotten he was with them.

“Yep, according to the kid, he walked to the door—and the thing came out of the tableau. I don’t know what the kid was on, but temporary insanity or whatever is probably going to be his best defense,” Knox went on.

“If he says that’s what happened, it’s what happened. Alistair isn’t on drugs, and he doesn’t drink. He’s a good kid—which is pretty amazing when you realize the money he has access to and how everyone tries to suck up to him because of what his father might be able to do for them!” Madison said angrily.

“Whoa.” Knox lifted a hand and took a step back in mock-horror. “Well, when they need character witnesses, they can call you to the stand.”

Madison tried to check her temper, but he continued quickly, “Look, I’m sorry. We are going to investigate. If the L.A. police weren’t determined on that, you can guarantee the FBI would be. But you’ve got to understand—you’re looking at a locked-room mystery here, and the thing is, if a room is really locked, the people in that room are the suspects. Nine times out of ten what you see is what you get.”

“What you see is a kid in shock and a brutally murdered young woman,” Sean Cameron said. “And I wouldn’t go counting on there being no other answer. For one thing, a costume is missing from the studio.”

“Missing?” Knox asked sharply.

“It’s not on the mannequin,” Madison said, “where it should be—where it was before I left the studio on Friday.”

“So it may just be somewhere else?”

“It’s the robe the priest wears,” Sean said. “That’s definitely worth investigating.”

Knox didn’t dismiss his words, but he didn’t seem too impressed, either. “That studio is filled with shelves and desks and nooks and crannies and…stuff. The robe may turn up easily. Yes, we’ll investigate—I’m sure you will, too, Agent Cameron,” he said to Sean. “I intend to go through all the steps on my end. I’m just telling you it isn’t looking good for young Archer. When you show me another way in and out of this locked room, I’ll be happy to reexamine the evidence.” He pointed to the tableau. “As you can see, those mannequins just stand there—they don’t move around. They don’t speak, argue or step down to commit murder. But you’re right. We have all kinds of hairs and fibers and plenty of blood. In fact, we’ve got forensics up the wazoo. We’ve checked the locks, we’ve gone over the security footage…and nada. So when you find something, let me know.”

As he finished speaking, they were all shocked by a noise from the tableau. Some piece of the little scenario had shifted. The three of them immediately looked over at the characters. There was Sam Stone, ready to race across the room to save his femme fatale. And there was the man in the robe, his fingers twined around the terrified woman’s neck. There was the sarcophagus and the snakes—cobras posed moving across the floor and in strike mode.

The scene had shifted, of course, because the crime scene techs had been up there, photographing, fingerprinting, moving things around. That obviously explained the odd, off-kilter look of the tableau. And yet…

Madison swallowed uncomfortably. Dianna Breen seemed to be gazing not at the mysterious man in the robes about to strangle her—but at Madison. Huge blue glass eyes seemed to stare across time and space.

For a moment—just for a moment!—she thought there’d been another presence in the tunnel.

Sean Cameron walked back toward and through the tableau. “Gravity, I guess. Something shifted from being handled by the crime scene techs.”

“Of course,” Knox said. His voice was harsh, and Madison looked over at him. Maybe the hard-boiled just-the-facts detective was a little on edge himself.

Madison tried to define exactly how the tableau had changed. The police and technicians apparently hadn’t uncovered anything they considered evidence; they’d left the scene almost as they’d found it. But it had changed. And Dianna Breen still seemed to be staring at her with horrified eyes.

Last night, those realistic glass eyes had witnessed a murder.

“No sign of the weapon yet, right?” Sean asked.

“No. Before you arrived today, two dozen of our guys—the best at their jobs—went through the studio. We needed that many, which won’t surprise you. The place is a hotbed of fake weapons and fake blood and fake—well, you name it.” He shook his head. “But no, we don’t have the weapon yet.”

“So, how are you figuring that Alistair murdered the girl, fell in the blood, passed out, came to and got emergency help and somehow hid the weapon?” Sean asked him.

“Here’s the thing, Agent Cameron. The kid was here alone. We have experts still going through all the surveillance. He claims he raced toward Ms. Henderson and the ‘thing’ killing her and that he fell in the blood, went down and passed out. According to him, he regained consciousness, called the security guard and came back with him when the guard rushed in, followed by the cops. He claims he passed out. God knows what he was really doing or what really happened. And if someone else was here, why kill the girl and not him?”

“How can you have a scapegoat if you kill everyone?” Sean asked reasonably.

“That’s right,” Madison said. “If Alistair had been killed as well, he couldn’t have been blamed for the murders.”

Knox was quiet a moment. “I’m not discounting any possibilities. I’m just not emotionally involved. Are you done here for the day? We’re closing up until tomorrow and—”

“What about Colin Bailey?” Sean broke in. “Did you confirm that he was in the studio, in the security station, watching the cameras the whole time?”

“Bailey was the only other person on the property at all,” Knox said. “Everything pans out—and, of course, we verified his background. His record is clean as a whistle, he’s worked here twenty years and his story checks out. We’re not stupid local dicks, Agent Cameron. So, are you done here?”

“Yes, thanks, Detective Knox. Can one of your guys give us a ride to Archer’s place?”

“Sure. Go on out. There’s a fellow named Duffy in his car.”

“Madison?”

She nodded, said thank you to Knox, then followed Sean out. She noticed that Knox was behind them and had to wonder if he—hard-boiled L.A. detective—didn’t want to be in the tunnel alone.

“You’re going to Archer’s house?” Madison asked Sean. Her part was finished for today, wasn’t it? She felt as if she were in limbo. She had no idea what was happening with the studio the next day. Were they all on hold?

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

He looked down at her. “Why?”

She found herself bristling again. “Because Eddie asked me to be in on this. Because the studio is my life. Because I may be able to help.”

He stared back at her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being assessed—and found wanting. He was going to tell her no, that she’d done her duty. To her surprise, he didn’t.

“Fine. We’ll both go,” he said.

She looked away, wondering how she could feel so attracted to a man and so hostile to him at the same time. He was physically impressive, she decided. That must be it. He was also a stranger, even though he’d become a legend at the studio, and it was too easy to admire what she’d heard about him. She had to remember: he was law enforcement here, and she was not.

Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she should go home and get out of this now, while she had the chance.

But she knew she couldn’t. She did have…an extra sense. And it was possible that she could help Eddie. She just hoped it wouldn’t mean sucking up too much to Agent Cameron!

“Is Eddie there?” she asked. “I thought he was going to go and stay with Alistair.”

“He’ll come home,” Sean assured her. “I need to get more of a feel for the lay of the land,” he added.

“You suspect someone close,” she said. “First, Bailey, who’s been the most loyal watchdog in the world. Bailey! And now, someone in Eddie’s household?”

“I suspect everyone,” he said simply. “And this isn’t your fight, not really.”

“Oh? Think again. I live here and I work here, Agent Cameron. The studio—and Eddie—are everything to me.”

He smiled suddenly and she had no idea what he was thinking. “Do you have plans for the day?”

“Yes, I’d planned to work. Now, I’m not working, so I plan to do everything I can for Eddie and Alistair. No, I’m not FBI or a cop, but Eddie asked me to help you.”

She didn’t want to tell him she wouldn’t have had any plans. Not social plans, anyway. Life had made her too much of a loner.

Except, of course, for her unearthly friends.

She straightened, trying to appear calm, confident—and determined.

“Officer Duffy is waiting,” Cameron said. “He’ll take us to Eddie’s. If you’re sure you want to plunge in.”

“I’m sure.” She glared at him icily. He seemed amused. That was even more irritating.

* * *

Officer Duffy was quiet as he drove. Sean didn’t try to engage him in conversation.

Instead, he glanced over at his escort, Madison Darvil.

She’s either certifiable, crazy as a loon or just like you. She talks to the dead, Eddie had told him.

She wasn’t crazy; she was talented. But if she talked to the dead, she might wonder if there was something inside her that wasn’t exactly normal. Most people learned early on not to admit that they could communicate with the souls of the departed. Madison was probably unaware that there were actually many people with her talent scattered around the world.

She was silent during the drive. Sean thought that Eddie had picked the perfect person to help him—even if he hadn’t meant to draw her in this far. She did know the studio and everyone working there now; she was in on meetings and certainly trusted if she dealt with major names in the business. And aside from all that, she was slim and well-proportioned, with large, dark-lashed eyes that were exceptionally expressive and beautiful.

He suddenly wished he’d met her at a party or a bar or anywhere that would allow him to ask her out. He liked her passion when she defended Eddie and even her hostility when he suggested she was no longer necessary. Something within her—integrity, honesty—ran very deep, and it was compelling and seductive.

He turned away, surprised. He hadn’t felt like this about anyone in a very long time. Work had been his escape for years now. It wasn’t that he’d eschewed people, women in particular, but he’d never had this sense of knowing them as he already felt he knew her. He’d functioned well enough when he and Melissa had split, even though he’d really loved her, and she’d loved him, too. He hadn’t hesitated to go back when she needed him, and it hadn’t seemed like any kind of chore or sacrifice to be with her.

Her death had changed him.

He shook off the unhappy memory. Another friend needed him.

Eddie’s place wasn’t far from the studio. He lived in an elegant home in a cul-de-sac where the houses started at the seven-figure mark. There was a high wall around the property and gates protected it, but when they were dropped off and Sean pushed the call button, they were answered immediately.

Sean thought that Pierce Enderly, Eddie’s “house manager,” would be the one to greet them. He was wrong.

Mrs. Eddie Archer, Helena LaRoux, came clip-clopping to the door on high-heeled sandals as they arrived. She swiftly ushered them in, looking past them to the gates. “Were you followed?” she asked.

Sean shook his head.

“The paparazzi were out there for hours!” she said. The little lapdog she carried—some kind of designer Peke-teacup-poodle combo—let out a yap.

“Shh, little darling,” Helena said. “It’s Sean—and…Madison, right?”

Madison nodded. Helena gave her a puzzled look.

“Madison is taking me through the studio, Helena. It’s been a while since I worked there,” Sean told her.

“Of course.” Helena smiled at Madison as if she was trying to be warm and genuine, except something in her tone made it clear that she was still confused as to why the “help” would now be at her door. “I knew Eddie had called you in, just didn’t know there’d be anyone with you.”

“Eddie asked her to hang around with me,” Sean continued.

He realized that although Madison was quiet, she meant to hold her own. “I would do anything for Eddie and Alistair, Helena. That’s why I’m here.”

Sean lowered his head to hide the smile that teased his lips. Oh, yes, Madison could hold her own.

“Eddie’s still with Alistair,” Helena said. “I’ve spent time with the boy, but…well, I’m not his mother. He really does need his father now. I’m so distraught! Forgive me if I’ve forgotten my manners. Come in, come in!”

She started clip-clopping across the marble floor again. Helena might claim she hated the paparazzi, but her platinum-blond swath of hair was sleekly brushed, her makeup was perfect and she wore skintight pedal pushers with her high-heeled sandals and a low-cut T-shirt that nicely displayed her expensive cleavage.

She led them through the grand entry to a family room connected to a huge kitchen. He didn’t know if Helena liked to cook, but Eddie was a fan of culinary shows; he loved to watch and cook along with them. He must have put his foot down at some point because the family room was just that, despite Helena’s high-end presence. There was a large-screen TV on the far wall and a pricey stereo system with speakers all around the room. The sofa was old leather, worn and comfortable, and there were a number of magazines spread out on the coffee table. Helena gestured at the sofa and sat in the massive armchair next to it.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Sean. I mean, thank you for coming. You’re so important to Eddie. I was heartbroken when you couldn’t make our wedding,” she said.

“I was on a project, Helena. I’m sorry.”

Helena patted the little dog. “It was a beautiful affair! Oh, you were there, Madison!”

“Yes, it was quite an affair,” Madison said dryly.

Helena frowned. “This is awful, so awful,” she moaned. “I’m afraid it’s just broken Eddie. Everyone in the media…they already have Alistair convicted, and Eddie loves that boy so much!”

“It’s natural for a father to love his son,” Madison said.

“Helena, the media craves sensationalism, and this is definitely a sensational case. But don’t worry, the media might try someone, but there’s still an investigation ahead, and I’m confident we’ll prove Alistair innocent,” Sean told her.

Helena’s perfectly plucked brows shot up. “You think Alistair may be innocent?”

Sean felt Madison shift beside him and he almost grinned again. Apparently, she liked the newest Mrs. Archer about as much as he did.

“Of course I believe he’s innocent. Now I have to prove it.”

“Oh, yes! I’ve tried to be there for him…. Eddie asked me to visit Alistair. They both say he didn’t do it. How wonderful that you think you can prove it,” Helena said. Her voice seemed thick with an air of insincerity.

“Helena, you know Alistair. You can’t possibly believe he could have done such a thing, can you?” Madison asked.

Sean couldn’t help giving her a little nudge with his elbow. He heard the grunt she tried to swallow. Luckily, Helena didn’t.

“I don’t want to believe it. But…I’ve worried so often about poor Alistair. I mean, Eddie is a genius, and most people in the business can tell the difference between reality and imagination—but I’ve warned Eddie! Sometimes, being around all that gore and all that make-believe blood…it has to have an influence.”

“You were with him earlier today, Helena. How is he doing?” Sean asked.

“Well, he’s in bad shape.”

“You didn’t let him know you don’t have complete faith in him, did you?” Sean half smiled to take the sting from his question.

“Oh, no! I do have faith in him,” Helena said.

“Mrs. Archer?”

Sean turned to see that Pierce had arrived at last. He was glad; Pierce was one person who truly loved Eddie. He made a good wage for what he did, and he was another factor in Eddie’s life on which he couldn’t be dissuaded. Pierce had handled the household since the very first Mrs. Archer, Alistair’s mother, had found him poring over classified ads at a coffee shop. She’d brought him home and they’d discovered that he could shop, clean and manage a school list without blinking an eye. He was indispensable. Pierce was gay and had been in a relationship with his high school love all of his adult life; his partner had died of bone cancer soon after Eddie’s first wife, and since that time, Pierce had given his total love and loyalty to Eddie and Alistair. In other words, Pierce was family.

But not, apparently, to Helena.

“What is it, Pierce?” she asked irritably.

“I was wondering if you would like to offer Mr. Archer’s guests some refreshment.”

Sean rose, walking over to Pierce and giving him a hug. “Pierce! Great to see you. How are you holding up?”

“Getting through, Mr. Cameron, getting through,” Pierce said. “Staying strong, because that’s what Eddie and Alistair need now.”

“It’s Agent Cameron, Pierce,” Helena drawled.

“Agent Cameron,” Pierce repeated.

“It’s Sean. You’ve known me forever, Pierce. I’m still Sean.”

Pierce wasn’t exactly the epitome of an old-fashioned butler. Or maybe he was the California equivalent. He was dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved cotton tailored shirt, and he wore sandals. He looked like an aging pool boy, still handsome with his blond hair turning silver and his year-round tan.

Sean imagined that it must be interesting to watch the dynamics between him and the newest Mrs. Archer—especially when no one else was around.

“Sean, what will you have?” Helena asked abruptly. “Madigan?”

“It’s Madison, Mrs. Archer,” Madison said politely. She had risen, too. Ignoring Helena, she walked over to Pierce and took his hand. “Eddie is in a bad way, and Alistair’s worse. I’m glad you’re here for them.”

“We all are!” Helena rose, as well, and walked over, handing Pierce the dog. “Will you take Perla for a walk?” she asked.

Sean wondered if she wanted him out of the way while they spoke or if she was just trying to prove that he was only the hired help.

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