James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Slow would be good. They’re nonexistent. The publisher’s decided the title’s the problem. Rear Entry sounds like a sex manual for gay men.”

I was talking to my agent, Elliot. He’s got a boutique agency for writers on their way up. Or down. I wasn’t sure which category I belonged in. “Elliot, the title was their idea.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Let them make mistakes with Grisham’s next book.”

“Almost nobody writes a bestseller their first time up. Not even Grisham.”

“It took me three years to write Rear Entry, and now you’re saying I have to write another book?”

“You told me you wrote for the pure joy of it.”

“I was lying.”

“I warned you writing was a tough way to get rich.”

“I thought you were lying.”

“Never fear, Bubele. It’s not over until the buyer for Barnes and Noble sings. If they give us a doorway display, hell, who knows…”

“Anything I can do to help? Interviews? Book signings?”

“Reality check, Gidman. You’re nobody. James Patterson does interviews because he’s famous. People will watch a show to see him. Ratings go up, he sells more books. It’s a help you/help me kind of simpatico. Stephen King does a book signing because he’s famous. People come to a bookstore just to see him. More people in the store mean sales go up. We’ve got that help you/help me thing going again.”

“But they got famous writing books.”

“Correctamundo, but they wrote bestsellers. Writing bestsellers made them famous. And fame is the ultimate passkey. Before you can hit the interview/book signing trail, Rear Entry needs to become a bestseller.”

“But how will it become a bestseller if I can’t do any interviews or book signings?”

“Welcome to Catch 22 Land—chicken and the egg and all that.”

“So that’s it? There’s nothing I can do?”

“You could get famous first. Break a big murder case. Solve a million dollar diamond heist. Marry Lindsey Lohan. You need something to single you out, something to make people sit up and take notice.”

Yeah, right , I thought. Who’s going to notice a two bit PI? “All right, Elliot,” I said. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Wait, I’ve got one more piece of bread to throw upon the waters.”

“What?”

“Don’t give up your day job.”

There’s something very soothing about cemeteries—all that grass, the flowers, the fountains, the birds. It’s a shame they’re wasted on the dead.

The Westside Cemetery is in the heart of Brentwood. It’s small—only about two acres—but some of Hollywood’s biggest stars are buried there.

I was shown into Alex Snyder’s office by his secretary—a middle-aged woman who oozed warmth and compassion. Alex Snyder also oozed warmth and compassion. He was the kindly grandfather type—late sixties, thick gray hair, natty moustache, reassuringly plump. He smiled as I entered, shook my hand. “Mr. Kincaid, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, call me Gideon.”

“Gideon,” he said, smiling.

“Will there be anything else?” the secretary asked.

“No, Bernice, thank you.”

She closed the door. Snyder pulled a .45 Smith and Wesson out of his desk and shoved it in my face. “Where is she?”

“Get that gun out of my face before I make you eat it,” I said. It’s tough to talk tough with a gun an inch from your nose, but I didn’t think he’d really pull the trigger.

He pulled the trigger. The bullet blew a hole in the wall a micro millimeter from my left ear.

There was a scream from outside the door then a fearful Bernice asked, “Alex, are you okay?”

“Just dandy, Bernice,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. To me he said, “The next one is between your eyes. Now, where is she?!”

“Who?”

“Christine.”

“Christine who?”

His eyes nearly bored holes in mine before he said, “You don’t know, do you?”

“No.”

A little more cornea drilling, then: “I believe you.” He lowered the gun, backed away and sagged into his desk chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. I hate violence, but this kidnapping’s got me a little crazy.”

“Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

“I got a call this morning at five-fifteen. One of the gardeners found Christine Cole’s crypt open and her body missing.”

Holy shit . “Christine Cole?”

Christine Cole was one of the biggest movie stars of the sixties. A model turned actress, she vaulted to fame the year after Marilyn Monroe died and took her place as Hollywood’s “it” girl. A sultry blonde with a killer body, Christine oozed sex. And she used it. To the gossip columnists’ delight, Christine unabashedly slept her way through the rich and famous. And she battled some personal demons with drugs and alcohol. But Christine also had talent, and she made a string of hit movies. Four, to be exact, and only four. Because, on a foggy April morning, a drunk Christine lost control of her silver Jaguar XKE on the Pacific Coast Highway and plunged to her death. She was thirty-three years old.

Her death had shocked the world. And, like that of Bogart and Monroe, Christine’s fame had only increased since her passing. Her image was on everything from tee shirts and coffee mugs to perfume and push-up bras. A true Hollywood icon.

Someone had robbed her grave. Stolen her corpse.

Who steals a corpse?

I said, “There can’t be much of her left after forty years. Just bones, right?”

“Bones. The gown she was buried in. And some jewelry. She was buried wearing a bracelet, necklace and diamond ring.”

“Valuable?”

“On another body, no. But these were on Christine Cole.”

“How much is the kidnapper asking?”

“Two million dollars.”

It suddenly hit me. “Wait a minute… why’d you think I knew where the body was?”

“Your business card was attached to the ransom note.”

“What?”

“The kidnapper says you have to deliver the money.” He handed me the note. The words looked like they were cut out of a variety of magazine articles.

IF YOU WANT TO SEE CHRISTINE AGAIN, HAVE GIDEON BRING $2,000,000 IN USED $100 BILLS TO THE NORTHWEST CORNER OF HOLLYWOOD AND VINE AT 3 P.M. TODAY, OR I’LL SELL THE BODY, BONE BY BONE.

My business card was paper-clipped to the top of the page. In the six years I’d been a PI, I must’ve given out hundreds of business cards. Was this guy an ex-client? Someone I’d interviewed? Someone who’d picked up my card from a desk? No way of knowing. “I’ll be happy to deliver this ransom free of charge.” I wanted to find out who this son of a bitch was.

“I appreciate that, but I’ll pay for your time—as long as you promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize the safe return of Ms. Cole’s remains.”

In other words, don’t let it get too personal . “I won’t.” Something was nagging at the back of my brain. There was a familiar aspect about all this, but I couldn’t get it to bubble to the surface. “I’d like to see her crypt.”

“The funeral itself was small, only thirty-five guests. But outside the gates stood hundreds of reporters, photographers, police officers and fans.”

We were standing in front of the open crypt. The marble facing had been pried off, the bronze casket slid open. The only thing inside was the dried remains of a few roses.

“I played the organ,” Alex Snyder said. “You know what they requested? ‘Yesterday.’ Christine loved the Beatles.”

A set of footprints in the still-wet grass led to a rear gate. The chain had been broken, snapped by a crowbar, from the looks of it. Probably used the same crowbar on the crypt. “I could talk to a few neighbors,” I said. “See if anyone saw anything last night.”