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CHAPTER 1
"Tyler, can you hear me?" The sound from the heavy buffeting of the helicopter's rotor blades above me and the cool wind whipping through my hair made it impossible for me to speak in a normal voice. Pushing the hair from my face, I sheltered the mic into my shoulder and screamed, "I'm up on Mulholland. I can see the body!"
From the roadside, the canyon, with its rolling hills and sage green chaparral surrounding upscale Southern California mansions, loomed beneath me. A body, barely visible through the early morning fog, appeared tucked beneath a sprawling oak tree. It looked as though it had fallen from the sky and somersaulted down the hill. A red high heel was several hundred feet away, and bits and pieces of clothing, like scrap ribbon tied to a tree, hung from the branches above the body. Like a ragdoll that had come to a stop, its bare back was exposed to the roadside, the head and shoulders slumped forward at an awkward angle only partially covered by the victim's long, curly blonde hair, hanging limply to one side.
I heard Tyler. "Hold for two." Then, "We're live with KCHC's reporter Carol Childs. Carol."
"Residents along this section of Mulholland Drive woke up this morning to the sound of helicopters above their homes. Police were alerted by commuters who called to report what looked like the body of a partially clad young woman lying several hundred feet from the roadway. But I can tell you, Tyler, among those standing here with me and watching this recovery, there's speculation as to how this girl got here. I'm getting conflicting reports from people who believe they heard the sound of a low flying chopper maybe an hour before LAPD's helicopters arrived to investigate."
I returned to the station, my hair stringy and matted against my head, my lips chapped. Tyler, my boss, had called before sunup alerting me there'd been a possible body dump less than fifteen minutes from my home. He wanted me on the scene, and I'd been there since before six a.m. Right now, I was a mess. I hadn't brushed my teeth, I had a headache from the sounds of the helicopter, and already I was feeling mentally exhausted. I couldn't shake the vision of the young woman's naked body, covered with a thin Mylar blanket, as it was lifted onto the helicopter's gurney, or stop thinking about how horrendous her last moments must have been. From the looks of the shrubbery, undisturbed around the body, and from what some of the residents were telling me regarding the sound of a low flying helicopter, earlier that morning, before the police arrived, this young woman just might have been pushed to her death. I couldn't imagine a worse scenario. My own daughter Cate was only a couple years younger than the body they pulled from canyon. My stomach turned. This was every parent's worst nightmare, and what I wanted now was a shower and a cup of hot coffee, but before I could do any of that, Tyler had insisted on a meeting. He wanted to see me ASAP.
With Tyler everything is ASAP. KCHC's boy wonder, our news and programming director, has ants-in-his-pants when it comes to being the first to know. For Tyler everything's a race. Second best is never good enough. Already there was speculation that the body might be that of Monica Channing, a twenty-four year old kindergarten teacher and daughter of a prominent federal judge. She'd been missing for the last week, the subject of a massive manhunt, and today was our first break in the case. Tyler would want information. If it was Monica, he'd want KCHC to be the first to report it.
The trouble was, I couldn't be certain the body I'd seen up on Mulholland was Monica. Over the last eighteen months three other young women had disappeared off the streets of Hollywood. LAPD Missing Persons Unit has listed them as possible runaways, or probable kidnappings, but nothing had been confirmed. The only facts the media had concerning their disappearance was that they were all young and attractive and were believed to have been into the Hollywood club scene. If Monica had met the same fate, she'd be the fourth victim and the first to show up dead. The only difference was that Monica, while young and attractive, was hardly a party girl.
Throughout the last week, news about Monica's sudden disappearance had been everywhere. Newspapers, billboards, and the evening news all carried stories with photos of her singing in her church choir, feeding the homeless and reading to her kindergarten class. The woman was a saint. Her parents described her as a naïve young woman, an innocent, who would have been vulnerable to someone who wanted to hurt her.
I stopped in the doorway to Tyler's office. He looked like he hadn't slept. His skin was blotchy and his short red hair stuck straight up from his head like he'd finger-combed it. He was focused on the computer monitor. His eyes never left the screen.
"So give me your take. Is this our girl?"
"Maybe," I said. I sat down in the chair in front of his desk. "Stat-wise it all fits. Young, pale blonde, probably about the right height, although I couldn't tell for sure. Could just as easily have been any of the other missing girls, except for the hair. Other two were brunettes. One was a redhead. As for cause of death? We'll have to wait on the medical examiner's report, but my guess is a broken neck. From what I could see the body looked pretty banged up."
Tyler looked up at me.
"You okay on this? You look a bit pale yourself."
"I haven't showered yet, and I'd like get a cup of coffee before I start my shift." Tyler was oblivious to the fact he'd called me before five a.m. and that I wasn't scheduled to clock in until almost ten. "Other than that," I said, "I'm good."
I stood up and moved toward the doorway. I was desperate for coffee. If there was any chance of my making a connection between Monica Channing's murder and that of the other missing girls, I needed caffeine and lots of it, quickly.
"Great, 'cause before you go, I have another story for you." Tyler pointed to the chair and indicated he wanted me to sit down. We weren't done. "We've got another missing blonde."
Another young girl? I sat down. The shock on my face must have registered my surprise.
"Relax, Carol. This is different, a little story to make up for this morning. I think you might actually like it."
I knew I was in for it. Tyler was up to something. The look on his boyish face had suddenly changed from weary to smug. He smiled impishly at me.
"Really," I said. There was a heavy touch of sarcasm to my voice. "And just what might that be?"
He paused, looked back at his computer, printed out an assignment sheet and handed me the paper. "This just came in."
I glanced at the paper and sighed. My window of opportunity for running home and taking a shower before my shift began was growing ever smaller. Now I'd be cutting it tight.
"Kari Rhodes," he said, "is doing an on-air tribute to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. She's got the boulevard's honorary mayor Tommy Banks in studio with her. All that would have been fine, except it turns out someone's removed, or stolen, Marilyn's star."
"Marilyn?" I interrupted. "Like in Monroe?"
"Who else?" He leaned back in his chair, crossed his skinny arms across his chest and smiled confidently. "We're going to need a reporter over there for an interview. You interested?"
"Do I have a choice?"
He shook his head. "No. But on the brighter side, it appears a group of street impersonators have launched a protest. Seems they don't think the city's paying enough attention to security. They're upset about Marilyn's star. I'm certain there's a little human-interest story there somewhere. See what you can do."
I groaned. The Hollywood Walk of Fame was a tourist trap, a nightmare of ghoulish looking impersonators that roamed the boulevard. Most of them were out-of-work actors, hoping to be discovered while making a few bucks on the side posing with tourists in front of what was formerly Grauman's Chinese Theater.
CHAPTER 2
I left Tyler's office clutching my cellphone like a compass and hurried down the hall towards the station's lobby. Staring up at me was a returned text from my best friend, Sheri. I had texted her as I left the house before dawn. I explained Tyler had called and asked if she'd put in a wakeup call for my son Charlie. Her reply read: "Not a problem. Boys and I did pancakes at Dupar's. Don't forget, big game tonight. Call when you get a minute."
I laughed. Pancakes. That was so Sheri.
Sheri's a single mom like me, but the similarity ends there. She refers to herself as a member of the lucky sperm club, a trust fund baby, who doesn't need to work and dabbles in special projects. I suspect I'm one. She admits to living vicariously through me. Physically we're exact opposites in everything from our height to our hair color — I'm blonde and scraping five-nine and Sheri's brunette and barely five-two — but our sons, Clint and Charlie, are best buds. They're both freshmen at Princeton High around the corner from my condo.
I stopped in the lobby to catch my breath and leaned up against the wall. It was still early, but there was a chance that if the body up on Mulholland had been Monica Channing, the LA Coroner might already have an answer. The identification of a judge's daughter would have top priority. Every reporter in town would be making the same call right about now. I listened as the phone rang, my foot tapping against the floor nervously as the call went through to voicemail.
Dammit! I hung up and stared down at my two left feet. In my rush to get dressed this morning I'd grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt off the hamper, torn blue jeans, and a mismatched set of pink tennis shoes. Thank goodness this was radio. I glanced up at the big clock in the lobby. It was nine-fifteen. I had an hour and half before I had to be in Hollywood.
I drove home with my cellphone to my ear. Like an addict, I continued to call the coroner's office nonstop. Fortunately, I had Dr. Gabor's inside number, something only a few reporters in town had. Plus, I knew right about now he'd be taking his mid-morning coffee break.
"Hello?" Dr. Gabor answered. His heavy Hungarian accent echoed through the line. He had me on speaker. "May I help you?"
"Let me guess," I said. "You've been in the office since before five, you've completed two autopsies, checked your emails and you're just about to sit down and crunch into a pickle from Jerry's Deli. Am I right?"
"Carol. You know me too well." I pictured Dr. Gabor in his office, his lab coat on the coatrack by the door. He'd be dressed in a three-piece suit with his trademark red bowtie, and right about now he probably had a pastrami on rye neatly laid out on a cloth napkin in front of him. For him it was already lunchtime. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about the body of the young woman the police recovered this morning. I know it's early, but by any chance have you been able to get a look, maybe make an ID?"
I heard what sounded like crumpling paper and envisioned him tossing the sandwich wrapper across the room and into the basket.
"Right now all I can tell you is if it's the missing teacher you're concerned about, we'll know soon enough. Judge Channing and his wife are coming in to view the body. I'd say there's a good chance they'll make a positive ID."
"So then, you must think it's her."
"I didn't say that." I knew with the sensitivity of the case, Gabor had to be very careful.
"May I ask a favor then?"
He paused.
"Always with the favors, Miss Childs. Just what is it you'd like me to do for you this time? Call you first with the ID, perhaps?"
"Wouldn't hurt. Or you could text if you're busy." I waited for him to consider his options then added, "I've got tickets to Disney Hall. Dudamel's doing a concert this weekend." In the past I'd thanked the doctor for his help with station tickets to the LA Philharmonic. It's not exactly how things are supposed to be done between reporters and city officials, but I knew he was a big fan, and it seemed like an innocent enough gesture.
"I'll text you once I have an ID. But you need to understand, if this is Monica Channing, her father's going to want answers quickly. I'm already getting pressure from LAPD to get the autopsy done this morning, and once I get a cause of death your people will be all over this like locusts." He paused, I heard a series of clicks and realized I was no longer on speaker. "However, there is one piece of information I can share with you, off the record."
"What's that, Doctor?"
"The girl was recently tattooed on her wrist." Dr. Gabor explained that the police believed the markings might have something to do with the kidnapping.
CHAPTER 3
As I drove home from the radio station I kept thinking about Monica Channing and the other three missing girls we'd reported on. Over the last year and a half, each girl had had her fifteen minutes of distressed fame and when they didn't turn up, the news moved on. That's how the news works. There just isn't enough time and space to carry every story beyond the initial report. But as a parent, I couldn't imagine not knowing what had happened to my daughter. What I did know was that the clock was ticking, that the police had yet to officially tie the crimes together, and that in the absence of any new information, in a week or two, this story, like the stories before it, would die. Other stories would come and fill the headlines and in time people would forget. I wasn't going to let that happen. Both as a parent and as a reporter I was determined to find out if there was some connection.
I entered my condo, threw my keys on the kitchen counter and was about to run upstairs when I noticed a yellow Post-it note on top of a stack of mail on the counter.
Happy Birthday, Mom. Don't forget the game tonight. Four p.m. @ Notre Dame. Sheri said she'll meet you there. See you then, Charlie.
I couldn't believe I'd forgotten my own birthday. I glanced down at a stack of mail Charlie had brought in. Directly beneath his note was a postcard. At first I thought it might be from a travel agency, some piece of junk mail. I picked it up and was about to throw it in the trash when I turned it over and noticed it was postmarked from Mexico. I knew instantly it had to be from Eric. FBI Special Agent Eric Langdon is my tall-dark-and-handsome. The man in my life I want to kiss hello and whose arms I wanted to fall asleep in at night. The man who, up until he sailed off with his Sea Mistress, his sixty-foot seafaring yacht, was, and is, my steady.
On the front of the card was a photo of Cabo San Lucas with clear blue waters and palm frond structures. On the back was simply written 10/07/2014 with a hand drawn heart, followed by a happy face and a birthday cake, candles blazing. The coded message on the back of the card made my heart smile. Eric and I have our own special codes, shorthand for when we can get together. The numbers meant Eric was headed home. If weather permitted and the sea gods allowed, I expected him to be in port sometime around October tenth. Next week. The thought of his homecoming tickled me and refreshed my wearied spirits. I grabbed the card, hugged it to my chest, wished myself a happy birthday and headed upstairs like a giddy teenager.
I showered and finished blow-drying my hair, pulled it back into a ponytail, patted a little moisturizer on face and looked into the mirror. I looked tired, but a little concealer and blush worked wonders. I slipped on a bra and panties, walked into the closet and grabbed a short black tailored dress off the hanger. Most of what I own is casual Friday wear, but today being my birthday, I wanted something a little snazzier. Plus, if anything came up concerning Monica's disappearance, and I suddenly needed to be anywhere downtown, i.e. a courthouse, I wanted to look professional. I wiggled into the dress, struggling with the back zipper as I simultaneously slipped on a pair of black heels, then smoothed the body of the dress over my legs. I glanced back in the mirror. Not bad for a forty-five minute makeover. Happy Birthday, Carol. I smiled at myself one last time in the mirror, threw my leather jacket over my shoulder and headed out the door.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Beyond A Doubt"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Nancy Cole Silverman.
Excerpted by permission of Henery Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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