If Marilyn Had Lived: What Might Have Happened: A Suspense Thriller

By James Michael

If Marilyn Had Lived is not about what happened to Marilyn Monroe that fateful evening of August 5, 1962. It's about what might have happened if she had lived. It's a suspense thriller that begins on that fateful evening in August and culminates in Dallas, Texas, in late November 1963.

The key character is Los Angeles Detective Mark Carrington. Carrington initially had an affair with Marilyn and later became her confidant and protector. It's a novel that follows Carrington in his attempt to keep her safe and find out who and why someone was trying to end her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781642984323

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If Marilyn Had Lived

What Might Have Happened: A Suspense Thriller

James Michael

Copyright © 2018 James Michael

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64298-431-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64350-504-6 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64298-432-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

I would like to dedicate my book to my friend, Georgia Holt who I have known for nearly thirty years. She is the mother of Cher, the iconic singer and actress. In one of our numerous conversations, she told me a story about Marilyn Monroe that gave me the inspiration for my book.

Prologue

If Marilyn Had Lived is not about what happened to Marilyn Monroe that fateful evening of August 5, 1962. It’s about what might have happened if she had lived. It’s a suspense thriller that begins on that fateful evening in August and culminates in Dallas, Texas, in late November 1963.

The primary character is Los Angeles detective Mark Carrington. Carrington initially had an affair with Marilyn and later became her confidant and protector.

It’s a novel that follows Carrington in his attempt to keep her safe and find out who and why someone was trying to end her life.

The story begins that evening with Carrington being awakened by a call from the duty officer, saying, Marilyn is being rushed to the hospital. It’s looks like it’s an attempted suicide.

CHAPTER 1

It’s November 22, 2006, and the wall-mounted TV in retired detective Mark Carrington’s hospital room is tuned in to the live funeral procession of America’s thirty-fifth president, John F. Kennedy. As the camera pans through the thousands of mourners lining the DC streets, the anchorman makes special mention of the dignitaries attending the funeral, including the current president George W. Bush and former presidents George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter, and the frail Gerald R. Ford. Their collectively somber faces reveal the depth of their affection for one of the nation’s most beloved and respected presidents.

Mentions of the eerie coincidence that Kennedy’s funeral procession and burial is taking place on the exact date of his attempted assassination in 1963 resonate eloquently through every living soul watching the broadcast. Lee Harvey Oswald, forty-three years ago, failed to end President Kennedy’s life with the errant bullet that only grazed the president’s limousine. The anchorman recalls the secret identity of the Good Samaritan who thwarted Oswald’s assassination attempt. Carrington smiles, and his thoughts float back in time as he reminisces on the events that transpired in the Texas Book Depository that made it such a fateful day in Dallas.

Sometimes, it felt like a dream. But it was real. JFK’s funeral painfully reminded Carrington of the past: that consisted of constant risks to his life and his profession, and that was defined by obsession and purpose. It was the stage of Carrington’s life that he most wanted to remember and forget.

Beads of sweat began to percolate on his forehead. He began to use his arm to wipe it away but got caught on an invisible force, the IV. He groaned inwardly. He blinked and closed his eyes and shut them against the bright light seeping through the window blinds.

He inhaled to catch the scent of the room and wrinkled his nose—the stench of industrial strength cleanser. The janitor must have mopped the hall recently. Someone had an accident. It happened all the time on this ward. He sniffed again. Alcohol. Always the faint odor of alcohol in the air and not the kind that made a person feel good either. The kind that meant you were in for another round of needles—if they could find a new place to stick them.

He tried to rise up on his elbows and immediately collapsed back onto the bed. Not enough strength to get up. My time is short. He knew it could be hours or maybe a day or two, but he had little time left to unburden his soul.

Unable to do anything else for the moment, he sank deeply into his pillows, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander.

As always, he saw Marilyn Monroe’s face before him. Fresh. Beautiful. Unmistakable. She was never truly his, yet their lives had been inextricably intertwined. He was there for her when she needed him the most. And in return, she’d given him the most precious gift of all: a story he could tell his children and grandchildren, a story for the ages. But it never reached their ears. No one has heard his remarkable tale except his wife, and she took his secret to the grave five years ago. He had always feared this secret would change their lives in some negative way. Now, Carrington worried he wouldn’t live long enough to tell this story to his children, who were en route from New York but wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. His only regret was that he hadn’t shared the secret with them sooner.

Who could he tell? Who could he entrust with his secret? All he needed was one friendly and honest face. But those sorts of faces were few and far between around here. Here, they offered managed care. He had become addicted to the drugs that he’d arrested people for during his early days on the force. He snorted at the irony.

A sharp pain cut across his abdomen like a knife. He reached up to press the plunger on the IV but stopped before the morphine could pulsate into his vein, giving him sweet relief and bliss.

He took a deep breath and sucked it up. I have to hold out. Be like I used to be—tough. I need a clear mind to think who I can trust with my story.

Lana. Lana was different than the others. She would listen. She would care. Carrington had been a familiar face on Lana’s ward over the last two years. She reminded him of Marilyn, with the infectious smile and the glowing blond hair. And she was always attentive to hear what he had to say. He could tell that she truly cared. He glanced at the digital clock next to his bed—10:55 a.m. She’d be here in five minutes.

He glanced back up at the TV and used the remote to increase the volume. He thought that maybe the blare would take his mind off the pain.

The screen came alive with the continuing procession of sleek, black limousines moving slowly through Arlington National Cemetery.

He watched as mourners filed out of the limos. Several dabbed their eyes with white handkerchiefs. Others hid their faces to mask the pain. Women tried to carry on gracefully as their high heels sank into the dark, rich earth, making it difficult and requiring escorts to lead them to the grave site.

So many important people, he thought. Marilyn would be there too. In spite of all that had happened, she would want to pay her respects. He searched for her face in the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman that had changed his life forever.

Good morning, Mr. Carrington, Lana said as she whisked through the door, startling him out of his television-induced trance.

He turned a milky gaze toward his favorite nurse and said, How many times have I told you to call me Mark?

Ah. But you’re a man who deserves respect. She smiled and inserted a thermometer into his mouth and lifted his limp wrist to take his pulse.

The thermometer rested under Carrington’s tongue; Lana circled his bed, deftly taking the rest of his vitals. He barely noticed her ministrations.

She glanced up at the TV, cocked her head, and said, JFK’s funeral?

He tried to speak, but Lana scolded him with her eyes.

She removed the thermometer and asked, Now what were you trying to say?

We were friends.

You and Kennedy?

He nodded and said, I saved his life forty-three years ago today.

She stared incredulously at her patient, who was nodding as eagerly as his frail neck would allow. Lana reached over Carrington to adjust his bedding, all the time staring intently at him. Well, aren’t you a man of mystery, Mr. Carrington? she asked sarcastically.

More than you know, he said just above a whisper.

Quiet, uncomfortable seconds followed.

Simultaneously, they turned their attention back to the TV. Six Kennedy family members lifted JFK’s coffin from the hearse and began the slow, arduous journey to the grave site. For several minutes, Carrington and Lana just watched. They watched as soldiers fired their salute to the former president. They watched as soldiers folded the American flag and presented it to Mrs. Jackie Kennedy for her loss. And then they watched as the coffin descended deep into the ground, to its final resting place.

Carrington finally broke the silence with a phlegm-filled hack. I need to tell you my story, he said cautiously.

Mr. Carrington, I’d love to stay and listen, but I have other plans. And my shift ends in ten minutes.

Carrington reached for her arm. Lana, please. This is really important.

Lana hesitated for a moment. She gazed into his gray, suede face, studying it as if searching for something. Seconds later, with a quick glance at the door, she sat down in the chair beside his bed. Okay, Mr. Carrington, she said. I’d like to hear your story.

Carrington slipped his hand into Lana’s. He squeezed it as a gesture of gratitude.

August 5, 1962, in Los Angeles. That evening, I got the call that Marilyn Monroe was on her way to the hospital. I remember it like it was yesterday.

CHAPTER 2

Early morning, August 5, 1962.

Detective Mark Carrington reached for the phone on the fifth ring and raised it to his ear. He had only been in bed for a couple of hours and a mind fog overwhelmed him from his lack of sleep.

This better be good, he snapped, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand.

A voice on the other end of the line said, They just took Marilyn Monroe to the hospital. They suspect an overdose.

Carrington sat up as if shot. Shaken and alert, he asked, Where’d they take her?

Santa Monica Hospital, the officer on duty informed.

Carrington repositioned himself and sat up on the edge of the bed, digesting the information. He feared the worst. Over the years he’d known the iconic actress, she had lived on the edge. Alcohol, drugs, sex—she did them all. No one could be acquainted with Marilyn and not wonder if they’d get this call someday.

Carrington?

What’s her condition? he asked, gulping down the huge lump in his throat.

Don’t know. All I know is what I told you.

Carrington grew irritated by the officer’s inept attitude. He could picture the guy yawning and shuffling papers instead of bestowing proper respect to the most revered actress of the day.

Of course his rising anger might have had something to do with his affair he’d once had with the star. It had been brief—much too brief in Carrington’s mind—but it was one he recalled with great affection.

He hadn’t fallen in love with Marilyn during their time together—well, at least not in the conventional sense. He loved her and she loved him. But in the end, they were better friends than lovers. He’d always been a huge fan, so after the affair fizzled, they stayed close. He kept in touch, checking up on her on a regular basis.

Carrington was an all-American guy from Los Angeles. He was born in Orange County, California, in 1932. His six-foot-five stature was enough to attract attention, but his Hollywood good looks and naturally blond hair drew the attention of virtually every woman who happened his way. He played most high school sports, but his primary love was basketball. He lettered every year in high school and always thought he would attend college at UCLA and play college ball. When he attended college at UCLA, his dream became reality due to earning a scholarship for his basketball prowess. He enrolled in 1950 and became a star on the team immediately. Things changed in his sophomore year when he realized he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father and become a cop. He finished college that year but didn’t return that fall. Instead, he decided to attend the police academy and keep the family tradition intact. It was a decision he would never regret, simply because if he hadn’t, he never would have met Marilyn.

But he didn’t check on her last night.

Now it was nagging him. Instead, he met this amazing brunette and spent most of the evening with her. She was worth it, but if Marilyn died—

Hey, Carrington, I got work here. The officer’s whiny voice agitated him even more. Just thought I’d give you a call. No one else down here.

Thanks, Johnson. He slammed the receiver down hard, hoping it would sting Johnson’s ear. He’d never liked the little suck-up. He supposed that sometime in the near future, Johnson would expect a favor in return—one he’d reluctantly fulfill. Still, he had to admit, Johnson was right. Even though his fellow officers knew about his affair with Marilyn, no one but Johnson had bothered to contact him and made him aware of Marilyn’s situation.

He shook his head hard. No time to think about how the other cops are letting me down. Marilyn is in trouble.

He jumped out of bed, pulled on his trousers and shirt, strapped on his shoulder holster, and checked his gun. It took him a few minutes to find both shoes; one was found wedged under the side of the bed closest to the wall. He didn’t have time to wonder how it got there. He simply slipped them on, tied them, and grabbed his suit coat before heading out the door. The only thing on his mind was getting to Marilyn. He felt the need to get to her fast.

This wasn’t Carrington’s way. He usually had every hair in place, a starched shirt, and professionally pressed slacks that projected his usual GQ style. It was his trademark. But his appearance was the last thing on his mind. Getting to Marilyn was his only priority. He only hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

CHAPTER 3

12305 Fifth Helena Drive

Brentwood, CA

August 4, 1962, one day earlier

Marilyn lay still on her bed. She chose not to move, just as she had chosen not to get up when she awakened. Instead, she instructed her housekeeper to bring her breakfast in bed. She didn’t do it often, and she particularly enjoyed the occasional bacon and eggs, toast, and black coffee in bed.

After she finished her breakfast, she moved the tray to her nightstand and reclined to a comfortable position.

Now lying on her back, she stared at the ceiling and felt the late-morning breeze flow across her skin.

The luxury of staying in bed, nowhere to go and nothing to do, she thought, as she raised her arms high above her head. Besides, her head ached and her eyes burned—the penalty of a good time, she mused. Well, not that good. Good old Pat simply had to drag me to that party, when I would have rather stayed home.

The memory increased her pain—she didn’t want to remember. She hated memories that made her sad, so she quickly turned her attention back to the glorious morning, with its sunshine and warmth. Days like this—lovely, leisurely days—would be over soon. They had called her back to the set of Something’s Got to Give. She had been told by a reliable source that Dean Martin himself had insisted that she, and she alone, play the role of Ellen Arden. Wasn’t that sweet of him?

It will be good to get back to work. I have plenty to do tomorrow and on Monday. But today, today, I’ll rest. Take advantage of my last few days of freedom. She basked.

Marilyn turned to her other side and watched the wind take the curtain, sucking it out into the backyard, whipping it with invisible force, giving it a life of