Page 21 of Nocturne

“Ms. Reid.”

She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before she faces me, sunglasses still in place.

“Callahan.” Her voice betrays no surprise, though at least she’s not calling mister anymore. “Following me now?”

“Coincidence. I was actually heading to your apartment.”

“At eight in the morning? How dedicated. I should be flattered.” She removes her sunglasses, and those dark eyes regard me with a mixture of wariness and something else I can’t quite place. Without the stage makeup and dramatic lighting, she looks younger, more vulnerable, though no less striking. Her lips shine subtly, making my cock twitch inside my pants.

“The early bird catches the killer,” I say, immediately regretting the flippancy.

She doesn’t smile. “You should work on your bedside manner, detective.”

“Private investigator,” I correct automatically. I’m used to people calling me detective.

“Is there a difference?”

“About thirty dollars a day and significantly less bureaucracy.”

That earns me the ghost of a smile. Progress.

“I have errands to run,” she says, replacing her sunglasses. “Unless you plan to arrest me?”

“Beyond my authority. But I could walk with you, ask a few questions.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Fine. But I need coffee first.”

Musso& Frank Grill is already half-full despite the early hour. The oldest restaurant in Hollywood attracts a particular clientele—studio executives conducting business over eggs Benedict, screenwriters nursing hangovers with bloody Marys, actors either celebrating last night’s triumph or drowning yesterday’s rejection.

We take a booth in the back. Lena orders coffee, black, and nothing else. I do the same, though I add a side of toast and half a grapefruit. The waitress, a stern-faced woman with expertly pinned gray hair, treats Lena with a deference that suggests she’s a regular.

“You perform anywhere besides The Emerald Room?” I ask once our coffee arrives.

“Occasionally. Romanoff’s when they need a replacement. Started at Slapsy Maxies. Ciro’s once, but that crowd’s a bit too…” She waves a hand vaguely.

“Upscale?”

“Narcissistic.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Elizabeth loved those places, though. Ciro’s, Mocambo, the Trocadero. Anywhere she might bump into Clark Gable or Ray Milland.”

“Was that why she came to Los Angeles? To meet famous men?”

Lena’s expression hardens slightly. “She came to be famous herself. Like thousands of other girls who step off the bus every day with a suitcase and a dream.”

“But unlike those thousands, Elizabeth ended up dead.” I keep my tone neutral, but Lena still flinches.

“You don’t mince words, do you, Callahan?”

“In my experience, minced words just make a mess of the truth.”

She regards me over the rim of her coffee cup. “And what truth are you after? The papers have already decided what kind of girl Elizabeth was.”

“I’m more interested in the girl you knew.”

Something shifts in Lena’s expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxing of her defensive posture.

“She was smart,” Lena says after a pause. “Smarter than people gave her credit for. And kind, genuinely kind, not the Hollywood version where it’s just another performance. But she was also…” She trails off, searching for the word.

“Naive?” I offer.

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