Dark Drama: A Mike Angel Mystery

By David H Fears

In Dark Drama, the 12th novel in the series set in Portland in 1971, Mike Angel stumbles into his office during a power outage to discover a stunning look-alike for Hollywood actress Hedy Lamarr posed in his loveseat. At first he talks to the woman, then discovers to his horror she’s been murdered with a bullet in her brain. His partner discovers Mike’s business card in the dead woman’s panties. The murder leads Mike to the girl’s family, then into a thicket of smut film productions made to order with Hollywood diva look-alikes for rich Arab shieks. Chasing leads takes Mike to Boise, Idaho City, and Tijuana, as he identifies all the actors and crew who filmed a death scene where blanks were switched with live ammunition. Seemingly everyone he talks to had motive and opportunity. Break-ins, and a stand-in for porno screen tests yields valuable clues. Mike takes direct action in a convoluted mess of a case he grows to hate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David H Fears
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311840509

David H Fears

David was known by the handle “professor” as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel.Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, “The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference” by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is “to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses,” one that provides many “tastes” of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be “finished” — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction.David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004.He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he’s written, “It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you’re very young.” David’s a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction.UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

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Chapter 2

I sat continuing my one-sided conversation with the dead beauty. It seemed the polite thing to do, denying that a second Hedy Lamarr was dead. Rick came through the door and clicked on the overhead. Tried to, anyway.

Power’s still out here, I said from behind the flickering candle, now worn down to a stubby two inches. Rick pulled his pocket flash and walked toward the dead woman. The overhead light came on in the middle of his nose-on-nose scrutiny and he jumped back from the sudden illumination. Yeah. She wore black lacy panties virtually invisible in the dark.

Paltry amount of blood, Rick said. You’re correct, son. She wasn’t killed here. The location of the shot would have guaranteed a bucket of vital fluid. No powder burns around the entrance, so not point blank. Small caliber. No exit. Know her?

No clue. Or what the caper is behind dropping her on my doorstep. I wish I had known her.

And if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s that Austrian movie stunner.

Hedy Lamarr.

Exactly, though this dish is much younger.

You find any ID?

None evident, though I haven’t rolled her over. What do you make of her being dumped here?

Someone’s sending a message. From makeup, nails, muscle tone in her calves and general appearance, I’d say she’s pampered and works out. A runner perhaps.

Like Lamarr, she strikes me as an actress in the old Hollywood mould. Singer, performer, perhaps. I suppose I’ll have to call the law and let them sort it out. If Detective Fiskar’s on duty, he’ll grind away with a million questions about why she was dumped here. Even he can see this wasn’t the murder scene.

Rick studied her from various angles: Posing with cigarette, most peculiar.

He went back to the loveseat while I dialed Central Precinct and reported the body. Rick half-rolled her and shined his flash underneath, then investigated cushions and the floor around the loveseat. Bending over her legs he poked around and excused himself to the lovely, as if she patiently allowed his intrusion.

He raised up, turned and held a small paper object out to me. "Any reason why the woman would have your card in her bloomers? A unique cover for a mons venus."

At first I thought he was pulling my leg, as he often does, though not on crime scenes. I came over and took the card from him. Sure enough, mine. Musky aromas of lavender and female. It was an older card from the first batch I’d had printed. Subsequent orders used thinner paper.

Not unless she wanted me to find it before she was killed.

Fanciful, Rick said. Your reputation’s not that wide spread that strange ladies gather your business cards to rest near their control center as a way of dreaming of seduction. I’d say the killer slipped it in there. Should I put it back?

Ix-nay. Bad enough the dame was carted here. Fiskar’d have a field day if he found my card on her black pussy. Best we file it in the junk drawer.

Speaking of junk, I don’t see any tracks or scars, tattoos or other identifying marks. Of course she might have such things on her back side but it’s best we leave the treasure hunt for the coroner.

A car pulled up out front. Rick tweaked the blinds and said, Patrol car. Two uniformed constables, working swing shift no doubt. I suppose homicide detectives are already in the bag on this soggy evening.

We let the blues in and I explained my stopping by the place at ten p.m. when the power was out. The cops ogled the dead woman like she was from Mars.

Detectives all tucked in for the night? I said. They acted like they hadn’t heard me.

Another car pulled up outside. I peered down at the top of Bret Fiskar’s head, bare spot and all. Might as well make a pot of coffee, I said. Looks like a homicide party. You boys like a cup?

They grunted agreement and I went into the kitchenette to make the coffee, while Rick met Fiskar inside the door. In his first few cases Fiskar had been over eager to point investigation in one direction. We’d butted heads over his inability to see the big picture, but in the end I had to admit he possessed a doggedness that would serve him well in his post. He was green at it, after all, and I was better at seeing through obstacles from years of practice. But this was new, having a body dropped inside my inner sanctum. New and unnerving, especially since the body belonged to a luscious babe who looked like Hedy Lamarr wearing only a sweater and panties, her rolodex with a single card inside, my card. I racked my memory to come up with any time I’d ever seen the woman, much less a time I’d given her my card. Of course, my cards are out there in too many hands to trace. I’d even left a few on bulletin boards around town when we first arrived in ’65 and I needed cases. I’d remember this woman, for sure. I didn’t.

Molly walked in with big eyes in shock at the scene, her curiosity led her to see what delayed me. She took a few steps toward the dead woman and stared, then walked over, gave me a wifely peck on the cheek and perched on the corner of my desk. I see why you’re tied up, she said somberly. Who is she?

I shook my head.

Fiskar stood over me as I put my Florsheims up and leaned back enjoying the Columbian blend, made strong the way Rick likes it.

Yeah — who is she, Angelo? Fiskar said in a tone I didn’t much care for.

For all I know she’s your sister, I said evenly.

Molly stifled a laugh. Fiskar threw her a dirty look.

Dead bodies seem to follow you around, peeper. I’ve only been in this town three years and you must be getting paid a commission by the morgue.

It’s not healthy for dicks to stand so close to me, Fiskar.

You want to play that game? he said, raising his voice. As far as I’m concerned whoever shot the girl and put her here means you’re next, and I wouldn’t lose any sleep if that comes off. Some chick gets scragged and dropped in your lap and you act the innocent. That game won’t work.

I don’t play games. I don’t know who she is. Neither does my partner, though we both think she’s a ringer for Hedy Lamarr.

Fiskar scratched his week’s growth of stubble. Who?

"Hedy Lamarr. Hollywood movie star. Algiers, Samson and Delilah, White Cargo."

She’s not Hedy, Rick threw out from the windows where he kept an eye on the weather that shifted every hour. She’s now in her late fifties, but our visitor has one of those faces a bloke eyes once and imagines he’s snuggled up next to her somewhere in the past. A familiar face.

A dead one, as well, Fiskar said. You jokers aren’t much help.

She looks like every model in Cosmo, Molly added. I winked at her.

Who’s Cosmo, Fiskar asked like a dunce.

Big time woman’s magazine, I said. You need to get out more.

Okay, Angel man, give me the last time you were here with no corpse, and the time you discovered it tonight.

I did so.

So within approximately the last twenty-four, the victim was carried upstairs into your office? The place unlocked?

Might as well be. No valuables or weapons kept here. Only this potent java, which no one in his right mind would break in for. The lock’s easy, like the dead woman appears to have been.

Why do you say that?

Her wardrobe says it. What kind of dish runs around in a sweater and panties?

I doubt you missed she’s not wearing anything under that sweater.

As a matter of fact I missed that little item. Molly raised one eyebrow as if she didn’t buy my answer or didn’t feel like competing in a leg runoff with a dead woman.

You call yourself an investigator? Fiskar said, sneering. I heard in that Albina mess two years ago you were quite the breast man.

Molly nodded in agreement. Her breasts were my favorites, but she understood how much I liked any pair.

Must’ve been distracted by those gams, she said.

Uh huh. So, when did you get here Mister Anthony?

A few minutes before your officers did.

And you don’t know the woman or why she was killed or left in your office?

Correct.

Fiskar picked up the phone and dialed. He gave the address and put the receiver down gently, like he was struggling to keep his composure."

So, this is one big mystery to you boys? A woman you don’t know, don’t recognize, eats a small caliber slug in the brain, then she’s hauled here like a surprise gift. And you have no idea what it’s all about. Even though you claim to be pros, good investigators.

I noted Fiskar clenching his jaw. The two uniforms put the coffee down. Not their speed. I poured another cup. The mud was effective in keeping me from nodding off under Fiskar’s amazing grilling. Yeah. I don’t have much use for the guy.

You’ve got it about right, I said. If I knew her I’d tell you so. She might have known me, though I doubt it. I’d remember a ringer for Hedy. The killer knows me, or of me, which explains why she was dumped here. Unless some jasper comes in with a big retainer, I’m keeping strictly out of this one, which should make you giggle, knowing how you hate private eyes trumping your glacier pace on homicide cases.

Molly went to the window and watched as hail clattered on cars. The lights flickered again.

Medical examiner boys showed up and took a set of photos. They didn’t ask if I wanted any eight-by-tens standing next to the dead vision. It’s a tough way to make a living, working in the coroner’s bailiwick. They slipped her into a body bag, zipped it up and carried her out to a meat wagon. I pictured the lovely on a cold slab at the morgue, still waiting for that light to her smoke that would never come. A tough, more than cold-turkey way to give up the habit.

Fiskar turned over the cushions and pillows that had been under the victim but there wasn’t even a drop of blood, or anything else for that matter. No more business cards. Some forensic types were dusting the door and frame for prints though there might have been a thousand what with every client who came and went the past year. My prints, as well as Rick’s, were already on file downtown.

The lights flickered again and went out. I flicked my Zippo and announced Molly and I were leaving. Rick seconded the motion. Fiskar didn’t object, said he wanted me to come down in the morning and make a statement, swear under oath I didn’t know the victim or why she’d been brought to my office.

Why Detective, it seems you don’t believe me, I said, going through the door.

Before noon, he said as he got into his midnight blue Fairlane. The two cops sped off down Milwaukie Avenue like a new donut stand was handing out free samples.

Rick felt like a drink so walked across to Kay’s bar.

Molly was anxious to grill me in private. I’d lay the fact of where a business card of mine was found and see if she had any angles we hadn’t thought of. She was no longer a field agent but had the delightful talent of asking the right question, even at the wrong time, a question that often acted as compass for a case adrift. This case really wasn’t one yet, but I felt it would be, sooner or later, once the killer made another move.

Chapter 3

I dropped Molly at work and drove down to Second and Oak, Central Precinct. Fiskar was in the field so I gave a statement to a stenographer about finding the dead woman in my office and left. If Bret wanted more from me he’d have to come to me. I wasn’t about to snare another parking spot in that part of town, where meter maids were never maids and had pawn broker hearts.

A week passed. No word surfaced about the victim’s identity. Chief MacNamara offered a few clues, though he thought the case would go cold. Fiskar and his team had several other murders, victims identified, to work on. Cops nearly always take the path of easy. This private eye focuses on one case until solved or proven unsolvable. I still had two open cases over three years old, but was no longer under retainer, so you might say I’d been fired, since whoever paid me didn’t want to cough up more.

Mac said the beauty had no rap sheet, prints came up empty, autopsy revealed no surprises — no drugs in her system, save for the equivalent of three martinis. That last item got me to thinking — a doll like Hedy (I’d started calling her that since I didn’t have her name) with little besides three martinis and olives in her stomach, dressed as she was, the sweater being identified as an expensive import to a Los Angeles clothier, panties from Frederick’s of Hollywood — suggested she wasn’t a native Oregonian. Mac sent prints and other details to L.A. cops but they acted like he asked for help moving.

You’re free to snoop around on this one, Mike, he said. I doubt Detective Fiskar will object. He’s slammed with other cases right now and the trail on this one’s grown cold. The fact that she was taken to your office might say the killer wanted to send you a pointed message. No threats to you or the Missus in the past few months?

Nothing. Thanks, Chief but I don’t have a client on this one. If I could ID her, I might dig up one. A dish that age would have family. Will let you know if anything pops.

I hung up and daydreamed out the window at the fickle spring weather. The last storm dumped enough water on the town to last months, but when it comes to spring in Portland, the only sure thing is a high chance of rain.

Rick dropped by, tall blonde Cathy Hawthorne on his hip and a box of glazed donuts in his hand. We spent an hour laughing and socializing. They’d set a date and wanted me to be the first to know. Cathy gave me a look that said half joyful, half embarrassed. Since I’d reluctantly turned her down at the Wallace mansion on last year’s big labor union case, I’d only seen her briefly on Rick’s arm. I’m no expert on May-September unions, but it was clear Rick adored the woman and she looked up to him. But every time I saw her, the old image of her nude art photo flashed through me. I took every opportunity to tell the old partner that he could never do better than Miss Hawthorne. Even if he had ten or fifteen years left with her, he should grab them and run. I knew she’d keep him young.

I told Rick the details Mac added to the Hedy look-alike case.

Hollywood connections from her clothing. I wondered, though I didn’t find any labels on her that night.

Panties might not have any, I said, watching Cathy’s neck grow rosy. But the sweater should have.

The killer might have cut the label off, he said. But the blues somehow identified it as from Hollywood. You might remember I eschewed turning her over to look for panty labels. The M.E. must have found them. If you want to pursue this further, I’d suggest you fly south.

Not that into it, Pops. Besides, I have no paying client, remember?

Affirmative, but should you identify the young woman, who most assuredly has surviving family. They possibly might have you find her killer, become your client. Was she buried?

Cremated, Mac says. Guess it’s becoming standard for unidentified corpses. Saves the city a bundle.

Regrettable, he said, looking into Cathy’s face. No dedicated spot on the earth for loved ones to honor.

Yeah, I’ve told Molly I want to be planted, not burned. I make an ash out of myself enough in this life.

Laughter. The couple left and I sat wondering how I might pursue the identity of Hedy. Why would a Hollywood girl be in Oregon? I wish Rick hadn’t left. I’d have to pass that question by Molly over dinner.

I sat haunted by the aspect of the dead woman, the shadow bars across the fine grained skin of her legs. Such a waste: twenty years earlier she’d been someone’s darling baby girl. Now she was no more. I’d seen a lot of tragic events in my time on the beat in New York and my career as a private eye, but this one began to chew on me. Who did I know in Tinsel Town?

I drug out my old rolodex and thumbed through it, looking for any contacts in Los Angeles. Nada. Then I remembered the case of the dead twin, world famous model. Their agent had come up to coerce the surviving twin to renew her contract and to take on a smut film for one million dollars. Quite a case. The agent was a sleazebag but he might have an inkling about the dead woman who looked so much like Hedy in her prime. Looks like that get around. I didn’t recall his name but it should be on file.

It was. Chester Gripper, office on La Cienega. I knew the area, having gone through there on a case years back. That area of La Cienega Boulevard, from Beverly Boulevard to Santa Monica Boulevard, known as the La Cienega Design Quarter. Its shops and galleries house many antiques, furniture, rugs, accessories and art, plus a few fancy clothiers that movie stars frequent. I hoped Gripper was still kicking, nasty though he was, since that old case of mine involved another tragic murder of a world class beauty, five years back. Yeah, Elyse Avery, world class model and surviving twin. How could I forget her spectacular seduction in a farmhouse west of town? My dick grew warm with the thought of that afternoon.

I dialed long distance information for Los Angeles, giving the name Chester Gripper, dramatic agent. Sure enough, the dolt was still in business, scamming starlets out of whatever innocence they still possessed. I dialed the number and let it ring. A woman answered sounding older than Caesar’s mother. I asked for Gripper. She wouldn’t put me through unless