Sizzling Cold Case: (The Legend of Lori London) a Barnaby Jones Novel

By Buddy Ebsen and Darlene Quinn

Sizzling Cold Caseis aBarnaby Jonesmurder mystery written by Buddy Ebsen, who portrayedL.A.sleuth Barnaby Jones in the long-running TV series of the same name.

Beautiful starlet Lori London died suddenly some eighteen years ago. Though her death was ruled a suicide, neither Barnaby norHollywoodbelieved that was the end of the story, and Barnaby would not let the cold case stay closed.

When another rising star (a dead ringer for Lori) is cast in the movie version ofLondons demise with a new, surprise ending, on-set accidents, death threats, and burned film canisters make it clear someone doesnt want the truth to be told. In his search for clues,Barnaby discovers a connection between the murderer of Lori London and the man who murdered his own son in cold blood, and must confront his sons killer once more. The story comes to a thrilling conclusion at theHollywoodpremiere ofThe True Story behind the Legend of Lori London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781425940515

Buddy Ebsen

Buddy Ebsen's best known characterization is that of "Jed Clampett" patriarch of that celebrated piece of Americana The Beverly Hillbillies. His second best known is the television sleuth "Barnaby Jones." Prior to that he was "Georgie Russell," Davy's pal in the Walt Disney classic Davy Crockett. Surprisingly, Buddy had never intended to be an actor. His goal in life was to be a doctor. However, after completing two years of pre-med studies at the University of Florida and Rollins College, the Florida land boom collapsed, affecting the fortunes of the Ebsen family. Since Ebsen senior was a dancing teacher, he had taught all his children his trade. Buddy shuffled off to New York to try show business, arriving there August 4, 1928. His Broadway credits include: Whoopee 1928, Flying Colors 1933, Ziegfeld Follies 1934, Yokel Boy 1939, Showboat 1945 and Male Animal 1953. His film credits include: Broadway Melody of 1935 with his dancing partner, sister Vilma, Broadway Melody of 1938 with Judy Garland, Born to Dance, the Shirley Temple picture Captain January, Banjo On My Knee, Girl of the Golden West 1938, Parachute Battalion, Night People with Gregory Peck 1954, Between Heaven & Hell 1956 with Robert Wagner, Attack, Breakfast at Tiffany's with Audrey Hepburn 1961, Mail Order Bride 1964, The One & Only Family Band 1968, The President's Plane is Missing, Fire on the Mountain 1981, Stone Fox 1986, to name a few. His creation of Cabaret Dada, a musical was inspired by the Dada artistic revolt as a protest against World War I. A song from that show was selected for world-wide broadcasting in seven languages by the Voice of America. In 1968, he won the Honolulu race in his 35 foot catamaran, "Polynesian Concept." Buddy had painting lessons as a child but this introduction to art did not flower until his later years. From casual pen and ink sketches of old Duke and Uncle Jed he was encouraged by his wife, Dorothy, herself a painter, to try oil. This led to a brisk sale of originals and three limited edition serigraphs of 300 each, Hong Kong, Sea Power, and Sedona presently 90% sold out. The Uncle Jed Country limited edition series of ten paintings represent a return to, and the development of his original inspiration Jed Clampett and Old Duke.

Book preview

Prologue

November 6, 2003

I dropped the receiver back into the cradle, fully aware that I’d told a flat-out lie. No denying. I had no intention of turning in early tonight. And yet, unaccustomed as I was to keeping Betty in the dark, I rationalized. I had no choice. No point in getting my daughter-in-law all riled up at this stage of the investigation. We’d had more than our share of false starts and disappointing leads over the past eighteen years, and this could be another.

But I honestly didn’t think so.

Deep in thought, I smoothed the creases of the tattered Los Angeles Times article on my kitchen counter. The article, written nearly a year ago, had given me hope and what I considered the first real lead in years.

I glanced down at the article. The headlines danced before my eyes, and once again I wondered how much of the article was fact and how much was a heap of creative fiction. I prayed that tonight would lead me down a new path. One that would prove that Lori London’s death was no suicide.

I checked the clock above the counter. It was only quarter to nine—I’d have to cool my heels for at least another three hours. I reached for my unfinished glass of milk, still pondering exactly what effect my reopening this case might have on my daughter-in-law. She’d have a strong reaction—that was for sure. But for the life of me I couldn’t predict what that might be. Would she support a full-speed-ahead approach or would she still be afraid to have me reopen the case?

This unsolved case remained an open wound; one I felt had been relegated to the back burner for far too long. Now was the time to bring it front and center. Betty was resilient, but the thought of her slipping back into the uncharacteristic kind of depression that overtook her following my son, Hal’s, senseless murder filled me with more than a bit of unease. Would reopening the Lori London case bring it all spiraling back to her?

I shook my head.

I knew deep in my soul that no matter what the night had in store, this case was now my number-one priority.

Chapter 1

Around 11:30 p.m., I pulled out of the garage and headed for Hollywood Boulevard. Luck was on my side. I found a parking spot less than two blocks from Lori London’s special star. A good start for this long-awaited night.

As I made my way down the street, a lifetime of memories wove its spell. My long legs propelled me past a good portion of the five acres of bronze stars. Embedded in pink terrazzo, they lined the celebrated Walk of Fame. The famous names of movie icons, such as Gloria Swanson, Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, right up to the present, barely registered. I strode across the stars of Orson Welles, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, right on past Boris Karloff, George Burns, and Gracie Allen, as I made my way to Hollywood and Las Palmas. But my mind was fixed on only one. Thoughts of Lori London overshadowed all others.

At the corner, I saw this was no ordinary newspaper machine; the papers were free for the taking. I dropped the coins I’d held ready to deposit back into my pocket and lifted the metal door of the bright-red contraption. The paper listed a wide range of jobs, along with scores of advertisements. I glanced at the paper, then retraced my steps to the shelter of the broad concrete column outside the neon lights of the tattoo and body-piercing establishment. I’d scoped out this dubious business a bit earlier and decided my best bet was to pick up a newspaper and wait to see what I could discover from this obscure vantage point.

Just inside the doorway of this specialized business of body mutilation, on a high stool, at an equally high counter, sat the slim young man with the flaming-red hair, six rings in each ear, and tattoos covering both arms as if they were long sleeves. When I’d spoken to him earlier, he told me the establishment remained open until 3 a.m. Later if we have a late-night client. Now, I’d hardly describe a 3 a.m. customer as late-night, but that’s what the young fellow said.

Leaning against a flat surface on the five-sided concrete column, I tried to get somewhat less uncomfortable as I casually opened the newspaper, but my interest lay elsewhere.

*****

Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket and turning up his collar against the December chill, Detective Craig Scott picked up his pace. This three-quarter-mile strip of Hollywood Boulevard had recently been targeted by the LAPD’s Crime Analysis Detail. Detective Scott had drawn an assignment a few blocks west of the unusual array of costumed spectacles lining the street across from the El Capitan Theater.

Scott could think of a hell of a lot better places to be on a night like this. Promoted to Detective not quite three weeks ago, here he was back on the street—the steamiest street in Los Angeles. Only difference was he no longer wore a uniform. Thank God for small favors.

Pausing beside the Egyptian Theater, Scott observed a stately, silver-haired man in a pristine gray suit, who strode purposely toward the newspaper vending machine at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and North Las Palmas Avenue.

Noting the total incongruity of the polished gentleman and the tawdry surroundings, Scott shortened his stride and headed toward the man. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was just a few minutes before midnight. He couldn’t believe the gentleman might be seeking the type of job offered in one of those throwaway rags, and he sure as hell was no candidate for tattooing or body piercing. Why was he lingering?

*****

Hollywood Boulevard, though still ablaze in a backwash of ambient light from the ubiquitous marquees up and down the renowned Walk of Fame. It was relatively quiet and relatively deserted. Relatively was the only way I could describe this section of Hollywood, a part of the infamous city that never seemed to sleep.

But now, away from the area near the El Capitan Theater, there were only the soft whispers of tires from the occasional automobile or the light tread of a lone pedestrian. A cold silence wrapped around me. I hadn’t realized how darn cold it was until I’d stopped walking. Then from somewhere in the night, the sweet, poignant loneliness of an alto saxophone drifted into my consciousness but lingered for only a moment.

Alerted by the deep-throated vibrations of a powerful engine, my focus rapidly shifted. A red Ferrari had crossed the white line a yard or so in front of me and pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street. It was facing in the direction of oncoming traffic, had there been any. The driver’s door stood ajar as the Ferrari’s powerful idle pierced the early morning air.

Knowing this might be just who I’d been waiting for, I tucked the unread newspaper under my arm but stood rock steady, taking a moment or so to observe.

A dinner-jacketed young man, shirt collar open, tie dangling, emerged from the Ferrari and stared pensively down at the sidewalk—the very spot that housed that special bronze star. The instant I caught a glimpse of the something red in the young man’s hand, I knew I had my man. The time for observation had come to an end. It was time for action. In one long stride, I reached the large, circular trash container beside the cement bus bench, dumped the newspaper, and raced toward the reflective young man.

The young man stooped, laid a red rose gently on the sidewalk, then stood for a moment, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to anything other than his mission.

I sprinted toward him.

*****

Scott felt a wave of familiarity wash over him as he approached the man in the gray suit and took in his ramrod-straight posture. Who was he? A military officer, out of uniform? A politician? A high-powered businessman? Or perhaps some shrewd criminal he might have come face to face with at the Hollywood precinct? Whoever this distinguished gentleman might be, Scott knew he’d seen him before. But where? He couldn’t put his finger on it. One thing was certain: the man had lingered far too long in this tough, crime-ridden neighborhood not to have something specific on his mind, and he’d damn sure find out what it was.

Scott rubbed his hands together briskly to ward off the cold, flexed his fingers, and cleared his throat, ready to ask some very pointed questions. But before he had a chance to utter a single syllable, the man tossed the newspaper in the trash and bolted into the street.

Hold it! Scott called out as he took off after the man.

The man paused, looked in his direction, but continued at a rapid pace.

Halt! Detective Scott boomed, sprinting to and stepping in front of the man while flashing his badge.

The man stopped mid-stride and blinked, as if the detective had appeared from thin air. Sorry, the silver-haired man said. But his words did not ring true. Hell, the man hadn’t even met his gaze—a gaze intended to bore straight through to his soul.

With his badge a mere few inches from the man’s face, there could be little doubt he meant business. Damned if this long-legged jerk wasn’t attempting to peer around him. Hell, he was flat-out ignoring him, his attention clearly riveted on the man who’d stepped from the Ferrari.

Feeling a wave of heat rise from the base of his collar bone and travel the width of his forehead, his gaze froze. And as the man distractedly reached inside the pocket of his gray suit, Scott’s hand inched down to the butt of his Beretta.

*****

I reached inside my jacket and withdrew my wallet. Dang poor timing, I nearly said aloud, as the detective stood in front of me, blocking a good portion of my view. I knew the detective had a job to do, but so did I, and I was still a good three yards from the young man in the Ferrari. The officer deserved my undivided attention, but I couldn’t afford even the few precious seconds it would take to explain the situation. There was no time; it was ticking away at a breathtaking pace, and I wasn’t about to let another year slip by. As these thoughts tumbled through my head, I peered around the detective in time to see the dinner-jacketed young man ooze back into the Ferrari, make a slow illegal U-turn, and head east at a speed that could be described as nothing short of excessive.

Risking the detective’s rising ire, I took a few more seconds to ponder the license plate as the Ferrari slipped out of sight. No numbers. Just five letters: M-O-R-G-U-E. I smiled. I, too, had once had personalized license plates. No numbers. Just seven letters: B-A-R-N-A-B-Y.

As the detective looked over my ID, I decided it was about time to focus my full attention on him. My name is Barnaby Jones. I’m a private investigator, and you are Detective…? I paused.

The officer looked up from my ID, pulled a business card from his jacket pocket, and handed it to me. Detective Scott, Hollywood Precinct, he said. His gaze remained on my face briefly, and then returned to my ID. Bar-na-by Jones, he repeated, pronouncing each syllable slowly and deliberately. Then a smile of familiarity spread across the features on his ruddy, round face. You’re that legendary PI who’s worked some cases with Lieutenant Biddle. It wasn’t a question.

Legendary? I felt my lips turn up in a smile, and found I had to tilt my head to meet the detective’s eyes. At six foot four, I seldom had need to look up to meet anyone’s gaze, but this barrel-chested detective must have been a good six foot seven or so. Not sure whether to take that as a compliment or consider it as a polite way of telling me I’m old.

No. Not at all, Detective Scott said at lightning speed, his face glowing bright red rivaling the red of the lettering on the nearby marquee. Lieutenant Biddle touts your skills as an investigator, and says your deductive reasoning is top drawer. Tells us if we master even a portion of your skills of logic, we’ll be up for promotion.

He does, does he? I couldn’t help but smile. Lieutenant Biddle and I had been friends for eons. We shared a mutual respect and I knew we were good together, but neither of us tended to gild the lily. Compliments had never been a part of our MO. Challenges were a lot more like it. Well, don’t—

Before I could finish, Scott asked, What brings you to this part of our fair city at this late hour?

Chapter 2

Knowing the detective had observed my every move, just as I had those of the man in the red Ferrari, I said, I think it’s about time the death of Lori London was finally put to rest, and the true story brought to light.

Lori London? Scott’s forehead creased into a series of shallow lines. The name rings a bell, but….

Scott’s gaze followed my index finger as I pointed to the marquee outside the Egyptian Theater. Just like a cotton-pickin’ light bulb in the comic strips, I saw the detective’s memory kick in. His mouth stretched into a wide grin. His recollections began to spew forth. Right. You mean that dead actress in this recent surge of retro films?

I nodded. Heard about the legend of the red rose?

Yeah.

It was clear that Scott’s thoughts were now focused. It made me wonder if he didn’t know a lot more about the case than he first let on.

"Think I read something about the so-called mystery caller and the single red rose in that Times article. The one that appeared a month or so ago. Scott hesitated; then added, as if it just occurred to him, You’d think someone would have put their finger on the identity of that mystery dude by now. Like, how tough could that be?"

I nodded. Well, since you probably read the same article I did, you might recall that the owner of that shop, I gestured to the green awning of the food market then paused, Mirabelle Reese, I believe. Yeah, that was it, I silently confirmed. Apparently, she’s been picking up a single rose from Lori’s star for many years—the past eighteen years would be my guess. Said she never made a connection between the rose and the anniversary of Lori London’s death until last year, when a reporter interviewed her and the shop owner next door for one of those retro pieces on Lori. Since it was the day following the anniversary of Lori London’s death, and Ms. Reese remembered picking up another red rose from Lori’s star that very morning, the pieces came together for her. Had the reporter not come on that very day, it might never have come to light.

Scott raised a brow. Shades of Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe, Scott said with a flare of drama. Then a pinched expression flittered across his broad forehead as he pulled from his memory bank. Don’t believe Joe confined his floral deliveries to a single rose. Not even just for anniversaries. Joe went the ‘whole nine yards.’ I understand Marilyn’s gravesite is reminiscent of a blooming rose garden. Both brows arched as he reconsidered. Well, some kind of flower garden, anyway.

I nodded, no longer listening. I knew the story. Darn near everybody knew the story. They’d most likely also heard DiMaggio had arranged for eternal floral deliveries—these deliveries had already gone beyond Joe’s own lifetime—a visceral bond with his former wife, stretching in perpetuity. But this was not the story I needed to ponder. My thoughts were fleeting and, as gently as possible, I set about shutting down Scott’s litany of recollections. I quickly, but politely, interjected, Only in this case nobody knows the identity of Lori London’s gentleman caller. The supposition that a single red rose has actually appeared on her star on the anniversary of her death for the past eighteen years only surfaced last year.

Surprised there aren’t a fistful of reporters here to check it out this year. Scott’s look was direct.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see one or two. But maybe they wrote the whole thing off as an old woman’s fantasy or need for attention. I hesitated; then said, Wouldn’t been surprised if I’d caught Ms. Reese pulling a late-night vigil. My own gaze held Scott’s as I gave him my take. Now, as for myself, I tend to check things out before discrediting. That’s what brought me out tonight—this morning—or whatever in tarnation you might choose to call it. I’d sort of hoped to find out whether this red rose ritual was fact or fantasy. Might even have had something concrete, provided I hadn’t been detained at the crucial moment and could have spoken to the gentleman caller. I raised a brow and gave Scott an amused smile, hoping to telegraph my lack of desire to place blame on the detective, who was merely doing his job. I had to admit to myself, though, that I might not have been so amiable or forgiving had I not spotted the personalized license plate, which, with my resources, would lead me right to the door of Lori London’s devoted admirer.

Sorry about that, Scott said with a momentary note of chagrin.

I held up my hand. No problem. I didn’t get a chance to chat with Lori London’s admirer, but I got what I needed.

Which was? Scott asked.

His oddly personalized license plate. Although I have no idea why anyone would choose the letters M-O-R-G-U-E as a personal ID, it should be easy to trace.

Maybe some ghoulish coroner, Scott shot back with amusement.

A medical examiner in a flaming-red Ferrari? I don’t think so. I paused; then said, Well, if I keep putting one size-13 shoe in front of the other, all will be revealed in time. One thing is already crystal clear. This particular gentleman admirer is not in hiding. That is, unless he’s of the school that the best place to hide is in plain sight.

Scott appeared perplexed. Assumptions about the license plate apparently no longer filled his mind, as he asked, So why, after all these years, does someone want you to trace the identity of the man behind the red rose ritual and look into the cause of Ms. London’s death? Then, without a pause, as his right brow lifted, he asked, Didn’t she kill herself?

That’s one theory. But not one I put much stock in.

Just as I was about to put an end to the idle chit-chat, Scott asked, So who, after some fifteen-odd years, would want to dig into this?

Are you asking who hired me? I asked, not bothering to correct him. The odd years he spoke of added up to exactly three. Lori had been taken from all of us who loved her, as well as her multitude of adoring fans, exactly eighteen years ago tonight. Or would it be more accurate to say this morning? A frown most likely crossed my brow as I pondered the semantics.

Scott shot back quickly, Not exactly. I know you private dicks—I mean investigators aren’t always free to divulge the identity of your clients. But it piques my curiosity when I see a case that’s been closed … and dormant for more than a decade…. It just seems to me—

Stepping on Scott’s unfinished sentence, I said, In this case, my client’s identity is no mystery. I’m the client. I paused for a beat, and then said. I’ve hired myself. This is personal.

Chapter 3

My feet were itching to get a close-up view of Lori’s bronze star and the legendary red rose, but first I’d give Detective Scott an abbreviated background of my interest in solving the Lori London case. A case I believed to the depth of my soul should never have been closed. Lori London’s death had been no suicide.

My son, Hal Jones, was part of the initial investigation. He didn’t believe it was a suicide, and neither do I.

Do either of you have any new leads? Scott asked.

I paused for a beat, and then said, My son was killed while working on another case. Killed by his own client, Terry McCormack.

Sorry. Losing a son has got to be one of life’s greatest tragedies, Scott said, sincerity. Empathy mirrored in his dark eyes. Then in a nearly imperceptible flash, he said, Terry McCormack? Wasn’t he running for some sort of political office a few years back? Up to his eyeballs in blackmail, as I recall.

Right, I said. McCormack is now serving a life sentence.

Not on death row?

"No. Can’t say I think much of taking another life. It wouldn’t have brought Hal back. I’d say it’s like puttin’ up a fence after the horses have reached the hills.

Hal’s gone, and there’s no way of changing that now. Can’t say I didn’t think of revenge, along the lines of ‘an eye for an eye,’ when I first learned of my son’s senseless murder. It took time, but as they say, time, if we use it to our advantage, is the greatest healer. I’ve also come to believe that a life sentence is a heck of a lot more retribution than most folks get. In the long run, a life in prison seems a lot tougher on the perpetrator. Might even give him time for remorse. Even with time off for good behavior McCormack will be a pretty old man before he sees the light of day.

Did you say McCormack was his client?

I nodded.

So why—?

Not wanting to drag this out, I said, McCormack was filled with some sort of gung-ho ambition. He got in way over his head. His judgment went haywire and he thought Hal had betrayed him. Couldn’t have been further from the truth, but without taking the time to check it out, McCormack saw Hal in a public phone booth carrying McCormack’s briefcase filled with his blackmail money. He took aim and fired. End of story, I said with finality.

I’d lived with the loss and the endless questions that could never be put to rest. I had no desire to rehash the details with the detective. I’d come to terms with the things that couldn’t be changed and moved on. Before Scott could ask any further questions, I switched back to my interest in discovering the true cause of Lori London’s death.

While my son had a burning desire to solve this case, he couldn’t afford to let his other cases fall by the wayside. With a wife and plans for a family, Hal had to concentrate on making a living. So, when the LAPD closed the case, labeling it a suicide, and Hal had temporarily run out of leads, he was forced to put the case on the back burner. And yet he knew Lori had not committed suicide, so he never closed his Lori London file, nor did he stop attempting to carve out time to pursue possible links.

Before Scott could interject, I continued, "I’ve always known that one day I would devote time to solving this case. This mysterious rose-dropping gentleman is the first new lead to surface in the past several years.

And as you point out, the trail has been untraveled for nearly two decades, so digging up new leads is no part-time job. Fortunately, I have a competent staff. My associate, Jedidiah Jones, who recently passed the bar, has a good handle on the business. Along with the help of my secretary— I hesitated, and then made the kind of correction that Betty would have