Salgado ignored the question and posed his own. ‘I know it was a long time ago, Mike, but can you remember how old that sedan was? Maybe the year?’
The man shrugged. ‘I was just a kid, but from what I remember of the shape, it must have easily been thirty years old even then – 1930s for sure.’
‘You remember anything else about it?’
‘Christ, I haven’t thought of that old car in years. It had a dark paint job as I remember. It had once been some light colour, can’t remember what, but Zac said he had had it painted black.’
The air was sucked out of the room. O’Neill managed to keep her features steady, but Salgado turned away and she heard him swear quietly under his breath. He turned, his face straightened again but clearly agitated.
‘That’s really helpful, Mike. Let me try you with something else. Was there anywhere in town that you remember Zac Garland staying when he wasn’t at home? I’m thinking maybe a hotel or a motel. Somewhere your folks might have mentioned.’
When Durrant shrugged and apologised, he pushed it further.
‘I’m going to suggest a few places to you. I’d rather not, but we’re going back a long way. Please think before you answer. Remember – all the places I mention might be relevant, or none of them. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Salgado did his best to keep his voice neutral, not to favour one name over the other. He kept it slow and rhythmic.
‘The Lincoln Park Motel. The Aster Motel. The Harrington Motel. The Mayflower Motel. Any of those mean anything to you?’
Durrant began to speak immediately but Salgado shushed him. ‘Take your time.’
The man nodded, but after a few moment’s thought he spoke up. ‘Same answer. It’s the Aster. Whenever Zac got kicked out or when he later came back to town to see Ethan, he stayed at the Aster Motel. I remember my dad talking about it. It was a thing. He’d say something like “Zac’s at the Aster. That’s trouble for someone.” Definitely the Aster.’
O’Neill saw Salgado’s jaw drop momentarily before tightening into a grimace.
‘Okay, I think we should take a break, Mike. It’s been a lot to handle and you’re probably needing a coffee, right?’
‘I’m okay,’ Durrant sounded confused. ‘I can carry on.’
Salgado smiled but O’Neill saw it was fake. ‘Well, I need a coffee even if you don’t. Let’s break for a while. We’ll pick it up again in thirty minutes.’
*
When there was a closed door between them and Garland’s cousin, O’Neill turned to Salgado and demanded answers.
‘You wanted a break because you need a coffee? Now, why am I not buying that?’
He sighed and eased himself slowly into a chair. ‘Maybe because what I really need is a large shot of Jack Daniel’s.’
‘So, what was all that about the Aster? I know it was the answer you wanted. I just don’t know why.’
Salgado hesitated and that freaked her slightly.
‘What is it?’ she pressed.
‘The original investigation into Elizabeth Short’s murder never identified a locus for the killing. There were a few suggested sites but one that comes up most often is a motel.’
‘Oh fuck. You’re shitting me.’
‘Nope. The Aster Motel on South Flower Street, just outside of downtown. The owners of the Aster admitted that on the day Beth Short was murdered, one of their rooms – cabin 3 – was found to be covered in blood and faecal matter. It was spattered over the floor, the bathroom and up the sides of the walls. They had to soak the bedsheets in a pail of water before they could send them to the laundry. Nothing was ever proven, and I haven’t the first idea of what’s true and what ain’t, but the Aster is where a lot of people think the Black Dahlia was murdered and cut up.’
O’Neill held up a hand to stop him. ‘Okay, let’s just . . . what the fuck have we got here, Salgado? Ethan Garland owns a piece of murderabilia said to be the Black Dahlia’s purse. His father worked at Delmonico’s, where the Dahlia’s shoes and purse were found. Zac Garland used the alias Frankie Wynn. The same name as a man who confessed to the killing and claimed he worked at Delmonico’s. He owned a light-coloured 1930s sedan and he was known to stay at the motel where the Dahlia may have been murdered. Have I missed anything?’
‘I don’t think so. We’re going to have to take this back to Howie Kelsey. It’s his case.’
She nodded but was deep in thought. ‘Yeah. Maybe. But maybe not yet. It’s not still there, is it?’
‘The Aster? I think so. It’s pretty run-down but last I heard it was still operating.’ The moment the words were out his mouth, he caught her meaning. ‘Let me google it.’
He fished out his phone and punched in the name. Less than thirty seconds later, he raised his head again and stared at her.
‘The Aster closed down. About a year ago. It’s been locked up since then.’
CHAPTER 45
There was a black and white waiting for them on South Flower Street by the time Salgado and O’Neill got to the Aster, with a paramedic truck not far behind. The low, grubby, white-walled cabins were in the lot to their left, dimly lit by the streetlights, the Harbor Freeway still roaring overhead to their right. A gaudy sign spelled out motel in alternate red and yellow block letters.
Salgado turned in past the patrol car and parked up in front of cabin 3. The word seedy could have been invented for a place like this. The cheap alternative used by travellers on the thinnest of dimes or someone not caring what the bed was like as long as it had one. The whole complex looked more like a parking lot than somewhere to stay.
They took a moment to size up the dark, curtained windows of the cabin through the car’s windscreen
‘You think he’s in there?’
O’Neill pursed her lips and shrugged before shaking her head. ‘Let’s find out.’
The patrol car had followed them through the green surround fence and the two uniformed cops were getting out of their vehicle. The detectives recognised both by sight. Kate Kuhlmeyer and Mickey Bryant.
‘What we got, Detective? We were told urgent but there doesn’t seem to be anything going down.’ Kuhlmeyer wasn’t grouching, just curious.
‘We need that door opened,’ O’Neill told her. ‘And fast. No time to find the owner or keyholder. We need it opened now.’
‘Want to give us a heads-up on what’s on the other side of it?’ Bryant asked her.
‘Maybe a body. Maybe dead, maybe alive. That’s why we’re in a hurry.’
The cops exchanged a quick glance. ‘Okay, you got it.’ Within a minute, Bryant had pulled a metal enforcer from the trunk of their car and crashed it into the lock of cabin 3. The door splintered and swung.
The detectives and the officers pulled on face masks and gloves and stepped inside the black interior of the dingy cabin. The air was fetid, thick and threatening. All four cops sensed it immediately. The stale stench of decay. The unmistakeable feel of death.
O’Neill flicked a switch but there was no power, forcing them to pull out their Pelican 7060 flashlights and send searing beams across the room. Their eyes searched left and right, hungry to see whatever the cabin held.