Flashback

By Jared Sandman

LIGHTS!
In the annals of Hollywood cinema, the name Gregory Kincaid is as synonymous with Jack the Ripper as Bela Lugosi to Dracula. He portrayed the infamous serial murderer in half a dozen films, spanning a five-decade career filled with monster movies and sci-fi schlock. Twenty years ago, weary of celebrity's harsh spotlight, he withdrew from public life, never to be seen again -- until now.
CAMERA!
After a wartime accident seriously injures journalist Jenny Pearce, she turns her attention to reporting entertainment news. More comfortable on the frontlines than the red carpet, she jumps at the opportunity to track down the notoriously reclusive Kincaid.
ACTION!
The damaged pair forges an unlikely friendship, working together to write the actor's memoir. Except someone doesn't want Kincaid's tell-all all told, somebody who aims to protect secrets best left buried. Fighting for their lives, Kincaid and Pearce are forced to unravel a murder mystery gone unsolved for over seventy years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jared Sandman
• Release date: Apr 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311516756

Jared Sandman

Jared Sandman was born in Canton, Ohio, in 1985. He began selling his first stories professionally while in high school and wrote his first novel upon graduation. (That book, BLOOD MONEY, sits in a desk drawer where it will never see the light of day.)LEVIATHAN was his second attempt at the long form, which he wrote two years later. This was followed by THE WILD HUNT, DREAMLAND, THE SHADOW WOLVES, BLACKSTONE and FLASHBACK. He's currently working on his eighth book.Jared lives in Los Angeles and can be reached through his website, www.jaredsandman.com. Follow him on Twitter @JaredSandman.

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FLASHBACK

Copyright © 2014 by Jared Sandmann

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © Molodec/Shutterstock.com

Also available in print from Createspace, Amazon and Barnes & Noble, or direct from www.jaredsandman.com.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

FLASHBACK

LIGHTS!

In the annals of Hollywood cinema, the name Gregory Kincaid is as synonymous with Jack the Ripper as Bela Lugosi to Dracula. He portrayed the infamous serial murderer in half a dozen films, spanning a five-decade career filled with monster movies and sci-fi schlock. Twenty years ago, weary of celebrity’s harsh spotlight, he withdrew from public life, never to be seen again — until now.

CAMERA!

After a wartime accident seriously injures journalist Jenny Pearce, she turns her attention to reporting entertainment news. More comfortable on frontlines than the red carpet, she jumps at the opportunity to track down the notoriously reclusive Kincaid.

ACTION!

The damaged pair forges an unlikely friendship, working together to write the actor’s memoir. Except someone doesn’t want Kincaid’s tell-all all told, somebody who aims to protect secrets best left buried. Fighting for their lives, Kincaid and Pearce are forced to unravel a murder mystery gone unsolved for over seventy years.

***

FLASHBACK

JARED SANDMAN

***

CHAPTER ONE

ONE STEP AT a time. Steady breaths. One step at a time. Steady breaths.

This had been Jenny Pearce’s mantra for the past five and a half hours, one she repeated with all the focus of a Zen master.

One step at a time. Steady breaths. One step at a time. Steady breaths.

She sought strength in the words, found a calming influence in their repetition. They had been with her since the start of the race, over twenty miles ago. Now that she approached the marathon’s finish line, each step closer brought a growing sense of relief.

Jenny checked the pedometer hooked to the waist of her jogging shorts. It counted off her every step: 59,786 and rising. Only another half mile or so.

Although not her debut race, this was her first attempt at a full marathon. She had run half a dozen 5K stretches over the past eighteen months, as well as a pair of 10K races. There wasn’t much appreciable difference between five and ten kilometers, but she discovered the jump from ten miles to twenty-six-point-two came with a host of fresh pitfalls, both mental and physical.

Endurance running offered her peace of mind. Jenny felt the freedom to let her thoughts roam, to relax and take in the scenic surroundings. Occasionally she’d pass other runners, and oftentimes they’d pass her, always with a nod of recognition or a word of encouragement.

Jenny had hit a wall around mile eleven. A touch of nausea plagued her for fifteen or twenty minutes. She slowed her pace a bit and concentrated on controlled breathing to quell her upset stomach. Not only had the technique worked, it also allowed her to catch a second wind.

Jenny pushed onward before hitting another wall at the seventeenth mile marker. This one was worse. Her whole body wanted to shut down. To combat the mounting fatigue she began singing to herself — first in her mind, then aloud when that proved less effective than she hoped.

Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking ‘cross the floor. Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking out the door.

Mike had drilled those lyrics into her brain, a song from some classic Rankin/Bass holiday special. She repeated the words to herself and discovered they actually helped. In passing one of the frequent hydration stands alongside the route, she downed a cup of Gatorade and uncovered a fresh wellspring of energy at the bottom.

Upon starting the race, Jenny wasn’t certain whether she’d be able to finish. She had high hopes; not until she crossed the twenty-mile mark did she know she’d reach that finish line.

For over five hours the only things keeping her company were her thoughts and the rhythmic thump-and-slap of her footsteps. Her left leg ached, a deep throb that ran from her knee up to her thigh. Painful, yes, but not nearly enough to cause Jenny to abandon her efforts. Not with the end so close, and her spirit buoyed by an adrenaline high.

The annual Wounded Warrior marathon was held every Labor Day weekend in Santa Monica. Runners raised money for injured veterans (minimum $500 per participant). Jenny had personally raised $650 by taking fifty-dollar donations from friends and family, as well as nurses and other patients at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Several of those same individuals had come out to cheer her on. The thought of their warm faces greeting her at the finish line made Jenny increase her pace and ignore the growing stitch in her side.

The event route began at Barnard Way and wound through Main Street before jumping over to Ocean Avenue. Runners encountered a slight incline stage after turning east onto San Vicente Boulevard, which ended at the turnaround point on Eleventh Street. The Pacific Ocean stretched out on the right-hand side of the jog course on the way to journey’s end: the Santa Monica Pier.

Jenny heard the finish line long before she saw it. She discerned clapping and cheering in the distance. Most of the other runners had already finished, a fact she didn’t let bother her. Jenny needn’t come in first place, because just crossing the finish line was enough of a win for her. She didn’t care whether it took her two hours or twelve.

The last quarter mile stretched out before her; despite the urge to dart ahead, she paced herself. No use risking an injury in the final steps of the competition.

Both sides of the pier were lined with spectators, many of whom had seen off the runners at the beginning. Some carried inspirational placards or homemade signs; others handed out Dixie cups full of water. The finish line was littered with these empty cups, runners having tossed the trash aside without stopping. A work crew would make certain the entire route was cleaned up and pristine come nightfall.

"Go, Jenny, go."

From the cacophony of cheers and applause, Jenny Pearce heard one voice above the others. Looking to her right, she spotted Mike standing in front of Playland Arcade. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again. Jenny smiled and waved back emphatically.

Suzanne stood next to him, a cardboard poster in her hands: CONGRATULATIONS, JEN!!! Each letter was offset in a different color, surrounded by stars and smiley faces.

Strangely, the last hundred yards proved easier than the first. When Jenny finally crossed that threshold, she looked up to the race clock and noted her time: 5 hours, 37 minutes, 46 seconds. A new record . . . for her anyway.

Mike and Suzanne pushed through the bevy of onlookers to greet Jenny. Suzanne went in for a hug, and Jenny kept her at bay with a raised hand. Stand back. I’m covered in sweat and pretty ripe smelling.

Suzanne brushed aside the comment. Oh, I don’t care about that. She threw her arms around Jenny and ushered her friend away from the finish line as other participants brought up the rear.

Five and a half hours, Mike said, a completely respectable time.

In the back of my head, I just wanted to come in under six hours, Jenny said.

The pair’s attendance that afternoon, while unnecessary, nonetheless touched her heart. Thanks so much for coming, you two. You didn’t have to drive all the way out here.

Our pleasure, Mike said. "And after spending the past few hours with her — he wrapped an arm around Suzanne’s shoulders — I made a new friend out of the deal."

Jenny stood straight, hands laced behind her head to help ease her labored breaths. Nice sign.

Suzanne: Just something fun we threw together. I think it highlights my artistic side.

Mike asked, How’s your leg? I see you’re favoring one over the other.

A bit of pain, I can’t lie. Honestly, it feels better than expected.

The crowd parted as a gentleman pushed his way through the sidelines. Are you Jennifer Pearce? he said before answering his own question: Yes, of course you are. He waved for another man to join him, this second one toting a video camera.

I’m Gene Caruso, from KTLA — Channel 5 News.

Jenny anticipated the next words out of his mouth.

We got some stellar footage of you crossing the finish line. Do you mind sparing a few words for our viewers?

She said, Like what?

The camera was already running and shoved two feet from her face. Jenny batted away a stray lock of blonde hair that fell across her eyes, suddenly self-conscious of her sweaty appearance. She hadn’t expected to wind up on the local news. Perhaps that was naïve on her part.

Like how are you feeling? Finishing a marathon like this is quite an accomplishment for anyone.

She let slide the backhanded insinuation — "let alone you — and replied, I’m feeling great. Thanks for your concern."

So what’s next?

Mount Everest, Jenny said facetiously before turning to walk away.

She looked to Mike and Suzanne, who quickly intercepted the newsmen. I think the lady’s had enough excitement for one day, Mike told them.

Suzanne led Jenny from the crowd. Sorry about that, she said.

No, not a problem. You’d think I’d expect it by now. It’s actually kinda flattering.

Suzanne scanned the ocean of vehicles in the parking lot. Where did you park?

Jenny pointed yonder. My van’s over there. I parked in the shade of that tree.

After the reporters left, Mike jogged to catch up with the ladies. Trying to lose me?

Clearly not trying hard enough, Jenny said.

They approached her white van, which Suzanne unlocked with the keys Jenny had given her at the start of the race for safekeeping. Jenny slid open the side door and took a much needed rest on the middle seat. God, it feels good to sit down. She massaged her sore knee.

Mike asked, Do you want me to take a look at it?

Jenny popped off her left leg and handed it to him. My thigh’s killing me.

May not have a thick enough liner, he mused. Mike inspected the fiberglass shell and felt around the bottom. Yeah, looks like you’re bottoming out. I can upgrade you to a new socket, no problem.

Jenny said, Take it home with you, if you want.

You’re sure?

I got spares, she said.

The prosthesis in his hand wasn’t like her others. The rest were made to look like natural legs; this model, however, used a Flex-Foot blade designed specifically for distance running.

I can have it ready for a refitting on Monday. How’s that sound?

From Jenny’s team of medical professionals who helped her after the accident, Mike was the one with whom she’d most bonded. As a physical therapist he was a stern taskmaster, but as a friend there was none better — except for Suzanne.

There’s really no rush. I’ll probably take the next week off to recuperate.

You’ve earned it, Suzanne said.

Mike looked at his watch. It’s already after four. Nancy’s expecting me home for dinner with the in-laws.

Right, go. Don’t let us keep you.

Remember, our next appointment is Tuesday, ten AM.

It’s on Monday, Jen corrected, at three in the afternoon.

Mike’s face scrunched into a moue. Really? Either way, I’ll have this ready for you by then. He waved the women goodbye and took Jennifer’s fake leg with him when he left.

Once Mike was out of earshot, Suzanne turned back to Jennifer. He’s cute.

"He’s married."

Suzanne threw up her hands. Fair enough.

Jenny gestured to the rear of the van. She asked, Can you give me a leg up? Should be another one under my gym bag.

Suzanne grabbed the spare prosthesis and handed it to Jenny, trying (and failing) not to stare at her friend’s amputated stump.

It’s okay, get your fill. Jenny kicked out both legs for a side-by-side comparison. The left one had been severed just below the knee and as such came up thirteen inches short of the other.

Sorry, I didn’t mean —

Nonsense. I don’t mind. Sometimes I have to stare at it too, just so it sinks in that it’s really gone. My brain still thinks it’s there.

Any phantom pain?

"No, the pain’s real. It’s the leg that’s a ghost."

Jennifer slipped a fresh silicon liner onto her residual limb then slid on the new prosthesis. Next she stood, allowing the metal pin at the end of the liner to lock into a distal umbrella so the pieces wouldn’t disconnect.

There, good as new.

Suzanne folded her poster sign and placed it on the passenger’s seat. Take this with you, she said, to remember what you achieved today.

I should have it framed.

Suzanne smiled. How have you been sleeping?

Jen took a couple of hesitant steps to steady herself. Better. Still haven’t been able to sleep through a whole night without waking up. If I get five or six hours straight, I consider that a win.

And your dreams?

Take a guess. There’s a reason I’m always up at four in the morning. Most nights I dream about running, oddly enough. Usually along the beach at sunset. And I still have both legs. It’s like my brain hasn’t internalized the loss yet.

Is that normal?

Mike told me a lot of amputees have similar visions of being whole. Once I’m able to dream about myself with the prosthetic, he promised I will have gotten over the ordeal. On a subconscious level, anyway.

The mind works in mysterious ways, Suzanne said. A moment later she asked, Have you given any thought to my offer? Before Jenny could answer, she added: Don’t feel like you’re being rushed to make a decision. Take all the time you need.

"No, I don’t feel pressured at all. I have thought about it; in fact I told myself that if I were able to finish this marathon today, I’d be ready to jump back into the workforce."

Suzanne’s face lit up. That’s great news.

And I appreciate the opportunity, Jenny said. Our friendship —

"Friendship has nothing to do with it. I want you to sign on because you’re a damn fine reporter. If I don’t snap you up, some other magazine will. The fact you’re my oldest friend is a bonus."

"Oldest?"

You know what I mean, she said. "So you’re on board with Cause Célèbre? I promise not to send you into any war zones, unless we’re talking about the red carpet at the Oscars."

I’ve had my fill of the frontlines for a while, Jenny lied.

When do you want to start?

Anytime is fine with me. I’m going stir crazy from being cooped up in my apartment.

I hoped you’d say that. How about the day after tomorrow?

Sold. You don’t gotta twist my arm about it.

And with a simple handshake, Jennifer Pearce formally joined the writing staff of Cause Célèbre magazine.

I have the perfect assignment in mind. What do you know about Gregory Kincaid?

The actor, yes? Starred in all those black and white movies?

That’s right.

Jennifer grabbed a water bottle from the van’s front console. She cracked off the cap and took a long swig. Even though the water was warm, it quenched her gnawing thirst. Isn’t he dead?

I thought that too. Turns out not so much. Nobody’s heard from him in the past twenty years though. Next week he’s getting honored with a star on the Walk of Fame, and we want a full write-up on him.

Like a personal profile?

Exactly. Faded movie star, notorious Hollywood recluse, that kinda thing.

Doesn’t the Walk of Fame committee require the honoree’s attendance to receive a star?

And that’s what makes it newsworthy. Kincaid hasn’t been spotted in public since 1993.

Gimme his phone number and I’ll set up an interview with him ASAP.

I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Suzanne said. I have neither a phone number nor a mailing address. You’ll have to track him down from scratch. I know he still lives here in LA. If you can find him, the story’s yours.

Jennifer Pearce wasn’t one to pass up a challenge, especially to help a friend (or impress a new boss). You’ve got yourself a deal.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER A FIVE-MONTH hiatus, Jennifer was excited to get back to work. It felt much longer than that, as she thrived on the hunt of a juicy story. The morning after the marathon — her first unofficially with the magazine — she sat down with her laptop and tried to find out everything she could about Gregory Kincaid.

There wasn’t a lot to go on, unfortunately. His IMDB page listed credits for more than four dozen movies spanning a fifty-year period. Most of his titles shared a certain colorful kitsch, like The Beast from Beyond the Stars, Curse of the Ripper and (Jenny’s personal favorite) Beach Blanket Bloodbath.

Wikipedia had a brief biographical sketch covering the basics of Kincaid’s life. Born in 1922 in Poland, emigrated to the United States with his parents when he was two years old. Moved to Los Angeles at age seventeen and got his first acting break when he turned twenty-one. Pretty standard stuff, and certainly no information that would lead Jenny to his current whereabouts.

The Internet wasn’t likely to yield up the information she required; however, it gave her a starting point. If she wanted to contact an actor, her best bet was through the Screen Actors’ Guild. She found the SAG’s phone number online and politely asked the secretary who answered to look up Kincaid’s agent. Jenny waited on hold for ten minutes before getting an answer.

Our most recent information for Mr. Kincaid was updated in 1983.

That’s fine. Whatever you have on file, Jenny said.

Says here his agent is Howard Shultz. The secretary rattled off a phone number and address, which Jenny jotted down on a notepad.

Thanks for your help.

The reporter’s next call was to Shultz himself. The phone rang seven times before someone picked up.

Hello? A raspy voice on the other end. Female.

Hi, may I please speak with Howard Shultz?

My husband passed away nine years ago.

While the news threw Jenny for a loop, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. "I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you would be able to help. My name is Jennifer Pearce. I’m with Cause Célèbre magazine, and I’m working on a piece about one of your husband’s former clients."

Howie represented a lot of people over the years.

I don’t doubt that, Jenny said. I’m looking to get in touch with one in particular, Gregory Kincaid.

Oh, Mr. Kincaid?

You know him?

We hosted him here at the house on a few occasions.

So you know how to contact him?

Um, maybe. Let me see . . . Her voice faded as she moved away from the receiver. Ninety seconds later she came back on the line. Here it is. Howie always carried a black book with his clients’ contact info in it. I never had the heart to throw it out; frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t ask to be buried with the damn thing.

Bored, Jenny doodled a tombstone on her notepad. Excellent. That’s Kincaid, K-I-N-C —

"I know how to spell it," the widow snapped.

Jennifer shut her mouth and waited.

Ah, here’s Greg. Do you want the phone number or his address?

Both, if you have them.

The woman gave her both, which Jenny took down in her notes. She added, Now I don’t know how accurate this is. It’s probably thirty-odd years out of date.

I understand that. And it’s better than the nothing I started with. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Shultz.

Jenny hung up and immediately dialed Kincaid’s supposed phone number.

Please still be working, Jenny pleaded as she waited.

And waited.

"We’re sorry, the line you’re trying to reach has been disconnected." A robotic-sounding operator confirmed Jenny’s fears.

She hung up with a curse and scratched out the number.

One down, one to go. The telephone number proved a bust, but she still had a physical address: 3001 Arrowhead Canyon. She plugged that location into the GPS app on her iPhone, which spit out the most direct route between her apartment and the final destination. It appeared Kincaid didn’t live too far away, a little over eight miles.

Jenny figured she could scout out the place and still be back in time to make her three o’clock leg-fitting with Mike.

The drive itself took twenty-four minutes. Situated on the western edge of Griffith Park, Arrowhead Canyon snaked its way up the Hollywood Hills to give a striking overview of the Hollywood Reservoir. Jenny craned her neck to spy the house numbers on individual mailboxes. She slowed her van as she approached the end of the cul-de-sac.

Gotcha, she whispered upon sighting 3001.

A rusted wrought iron gate barred entrance at the mouth of the driveway. Kincaid’s home lay hidden behind a thick hedge of bushes. Jennifer was able to glimpse the roof only as she parked streetside.

The reporter tried the main gate and found it locked, naturally. What would be the point of an unlocked gate? With no callbox available, she hadn’t any choice but to ignore the posted BEWARE OF DOG sign and forge her own path ahead.

She walked the length of the road-facing bushes until she found an area where the verbena hedges thinned a bit. Crouching down, she scooted her way through and batted away branches with her bare hands. An errant twig caught her blouse and poked a hole through the fabric. She growled in frustration before emerging more or less unscathed on the other side.

Now inside the property’s perimeter, Jenny had a full view of the Kincaid residence. The building projected a heavy Old World influence, with white exterior stucco, a pantile roof, ornamental window grilles and an