Chapter 14 Perception Takes More Casualties
Perception Takes More Casualties
The morning continues, distant and unreal.
Nico’s other associates appear before the police.
Men who don’t say much as they attempt to preserve an ounce of privacy for a person who can no longer protect herself.
Within minutes, they correct the scene. Anything that could mar June’s reputation is gone.
The empty champagne bottle gets replaced by an unopened bottle from the kitchen as if to cover that June drank alone while offering an ounce of truth that she drank at all.
The pill bottles taken. Any undergarments deemed too risqué removed.
What they leave behind is safe to list on a police report: makeup, a hairbrush, the perfume, aspirin, clothing.
Jack, as well, is fixed up, given a new shirt and pants, and told to stay in the bedroom.
And then the police arrive. Black shoes and scuff marks.
Bursts of flashbulbs. Statements given at the kitchen table.
Nico watches the cops like children who’ve wandered into a candy store.
Even Betty appears momentarily, leaving behind a platter of sandwiches and paper plates.
The plates are from a Halloween party with thick orange borders and wispy black shapes of ghouls and goblins, arms outstretched.
June, Frankie remembers, dressed as a monk in a long brown robe.
Oh, they’re all having a fit, she said about the studio heads, who’d expected their starlet to look like a starlet.
But they have the best cupcakes here. A smile as she scooped up sugary orange swirls with her finger.
It catches you off guard sometimes, doesn’t it? When you realize you’re happy?
An officer beside June works to lower her dress, covering more of her leg, and Nico nods approvingly.
“You can’t be too careful,” he tells Frankie, and then recounts the day Alexander Marquand, one of their stars, died from “tuberculosis”—the code word studios use for overdose.
Voice low, he continues. “One of the cops wasn’t with us.
Wouldn’t you know, a watch goes missing.
A toothbrush. The water glass Alex drank from before he died—all of it, off with souvenir hunters.
It devastated his wife. You can imagine.
Maybe she would’ve kept that glass for the rest of her life, I don’t know.
But for someone else to have it? It’s a line no one should cross.
So I’m not taking chances. Not with her.
She hated that her life became an open book.
Hell if I let that happen with her death too.
” A beat as he looks toward the bathroom.
“I want you to have that bottle of Joy.”
“I can’t.”
“You want that perfume to end up broken in an evidence box? Or sold to the highest bidder? It was made special for her. It’s got her name on it. Someone’s gonna get their mitts on it. No, you need to take it.”
“Maybe it should go to her sister.”
Ida, whom Betty has been tasked with telling.
“Hey, you get any without mustard?” a man asks Frankie, motioning to the sandwiches. The district attorney. His face was on the cover of newspapers a few months back.
“This is my associate,” Nico says. “Frankie Donnelly. Someone else got the sandwiches.”
The man blinks, still waiting for an answer.
Though she doesn’t know if it’s true or not, Frankie says flatly, “They’ve all got mustard.”
In the bedroom, Jack is wrapping up his statement: They were going to elope.
This morning was their secret wedding. When June didn’t show up at the courthouse, as planned, he came here.
When he found her shot, he went to bungalow two, reeling, and called Frankie.
Frankie says the same thing when she gives her statement, and reminds herself that she’s not lying about the murder itself, just about Jack’s timing.
Maybe Nico sees the doubt on her face, because after she’s done, he leads her to the corner of the room. “Talk to me.”
“It’s the right thing, what we’re doing.”
He’s nodding. “Anyone learns he was here last night, and he’s the suspect. It’s that simple. First thing they do is look to the husband or the boyfriend. Or the ex.”
“They find Tank Adams?”
“Not yet. He’s top on their list, though, so it’s a matter of time. What I know is Jack had nothing to do with it, so anything we say about him makes no difference. Right? We could say he was wearing a cowboy hat, and what would that matter when it comes to June being shot?”
“It doesn’t get in the way of the investigation?”
“Not unless you think he did it.”
They’ve left me no way to prove how much I want to be with you.
The words slam into her, accompanied by a flush of guilt.
Though Jack and June didn’t get along, and the timing of him being here was less than ideal, he never would so much as wish her harm.
Jack’s got a temper and has ended up in fights, but he always had reasons: to defend someone, to put someone in their place, once even to end a fight so it didn’t get worse.
But what Frankie’s realizing is that none of this matters, and what she knows or believes won’t make a difference.
The only thing that matters is just how far she’ll go to protect him.
Around them, cops are pacing, talking, even leafing through a pile of scripts and magazines.
Someone’s left a plate by the phone, with a half-eaten sandwich.
Someone else exits the bedroom, talking about a price tag still on a dress.
The way they’ve handled this crime scene has been about protecting the victim’s reputation, not about finding justice.
Keeping her voice low, Frankie leans in to Nico.
“With us trying to protect Jack and June—what if we’ve gotten in the way of the truth? ”
Nico’s ready for the question. “In a burning building, you save who you can; you don’t stop to figure out who set the fire.
The truth is important, yes, but if you have someone you can save, you save them.
We have Jack. And it’s all hands on deck for that, because, Frankie, he’s had a rough but charmed life.
Every scrape he got into, all the trouble he’s gotten in, he’s used to getting out of it.
But this? This could go differently, because Jack being innocent is only part of the equation.
And that’s why we do what we do, because perception takes more casualties than truth ever saves.
Remember that. If we go a little further than we should, there’s a reason.
” He motions toward the porch. “That officer requested a word, so I’ll be out there. Let’s just get through this.”
Frankie takes a seat by the front door. Fashion magazines are on the table by the window, June radiant on the top cover.
One Lucky Gal, the headline announces. There’s that pricking in her sinuses that tells her she’s about to cry, and Frankie pinches the bridge of her nose just as she overhears Nico say that Jack left in the limo after the premiere to go to Malibu, with O’Shea driving.
O’Shea, who dropped him off, safe and sound, at the beach house.
Suddenly, she sets down the magazine. Because Jack’s here, but his car is not.
It’s a glaring hole in their story, and Nico has no idea he could be walking into a trap. She can practically feel the officer peering down the street, looking for a car fancy enough to be driven by a star.
“So he wasn’t driving?” the officer asks.
“My stars don’t drive to premieres.”
Right there. Nico’s foot in the trap. Because if Jack didn’t have his car, how did he get here?
Behind her, the medical examiner’s assistant says, “Now she’s immortal. If you got to go, this is how you do it. Truthfully, this is a good death.”
Just slightly, Frankie turns to glare at the man.
But instead of backing down, he shrugs and gives Frankie a half smile. “Oh, come on. We all gotta die sometime. Might as well go out on a good note, when you’re still young and loved. Hell, she’s even dressed like a star.”
“What would’ve been a good death,” Frankie says, “would be when she’s old and got a chance to say goodbye. Not young and in the prime—”
“In the prime of her life. Sure. But I guarantee she’s been to more countries than I’ve been to states.
More parties, had better food. In terms of living, she packed it in, and I got a lot of people I need to feel bad for, but she’s not one of them.
I mean, look at her. A stunner, even now.
She didn’t even take off her makeup. No, I’m telling you, this was a good death. A very good death.”
Frankie’s about to let him have it when she hears the officer on the porch say, “So this morning, Mr. Sawyer got here how early?”
Before Nico can reply, she’s outside. “Nico, I have to go, but when you see Jack, tell him we put his car keys in the kitchen when we dropped it off, will you?”
Lies are like salting food, Nico once said.
Too much and it’s no good. She hopes what she said was vague enough to not raise more questions but enough to stop the officer’s line of thinking.
As he catches on, Nico’s gaze shifts to the street—but his eyes widen at what he sees there: Ida, pale-faced, determined, and storming toward the house.
“Oh hell,” Nico says. He’s turning to Frankie when something in the living room catches his eye. His face contorts with anger. “What are you doing? What are you doing?”
When Frankie looks, her stomach drops. A police officer is smiling, kneeling by June’s body as another camera clicks.
In a flash, Nico’s there and something hits the wall—a small Leica 50 mm, Frankie later learns.
Mickey Mulroney grabs Nico’s shoulders while Nico tries to pull free, arm swinging toward the person who held the camera—the medical examiner’s assistant, Frankie realizes.
And then there is a scream that cuts through the room.
Ida, standing in the doorway.
Everyone freezes.
On the ground, the officer who smiled and posed beside June scrambles to his feet, and Frankie realizes what’s about to happen before it does.
Time seems to lengthen and spread, because there’s the officer’s black shoe, scuffed on the edge, and there’s June’s hand, her pale fingers frozen in a slight curl, nails painted light pink like little shells.
Frankie opens her mouth to yell at the man, but everything is too late because, without looking, the man takes a hurried step back, away from Nico, and there’s a sound that silences the room.
Understanding what’s happened, the cop jerks his leg back. June’s fingers are askew and broken.
Silence. Even Ida is speechless, staring at her sister’s hand.
Then everything breaks loose. Jack rushes into the room, face flushed with rage, arm drawn back and fist tight—a windup before he unleashes.
The cop who stepped on June’s hand flies backward, head whipping to the side, a streak of blood when he steadies and wipes his face.
Every other cop descends upon Jack. Some hold him back while others shove him, everyone yelling and barking orders until suddenly their voices taper off.
Ida strides into the room. She passes her sister. Passes Frankie, and Nico. Her eyes don’t leave Jack’s face.
Placing her hand on top of his bloodied fist, she nods as if to thank him. Then she turns back to the room. “Everyone, get the hell out.”