Angel in Black (Nathan Heller Novels) by Max Allan Collins
By Max Allan Collins
The newspapers dubbed her The Black Dahlia. Nathan Heller knew her-intimately- as Elizabeth brief. to find the id of the fiend who destroyed her, Heller needs to lay naked the terrifying fact in the back of Hollywood's make-believe facade.
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Get put straight through to the watch commander. ” That seemed a fair assessment. “Monitoring police calls, Mr. ” the older cop asked. Fowley shrugged. “Yeah. ” Fowley was reaching in his pants pocket; but this time no revolver jumped into the hand of the man in blue. . ” But somehow the cop didn’t sound like he meant it; a ritual was in progress. Fowley handed the guy a folded-up tenspot. ” The patrolman took the tenspot, put it in his pocket, and came back with a nickel, which he flipped to Fowley.
She said, fumbling in her purse for cigarettes. She was shaking, a little. . Jack! ” He sighed smoke. ” Aggie offered me a cigarette, a Camel, and I took her up on it. Like a lot of servicemen, I’d started smoking overseas; I’d managed to shake the habit, during my postcombat trauma stay in the mental ward at St. Elizabeth’s. But now and then I got the craving—stressful situations, mostly. “So the Examiner beat me here,” she said, plucking a tobacco flake off her tongue. . ” “It doesn’t matter, anyway.
We were in a neighborhood of Los Angeles called Leimert Park, an area where development had been stalled by the war, and the weedy lots retained sidewalks, driveways and fire hydrants, as if the houses had been whisked away by a particularly tidy tornado. ” James H. Richardson was Fowley’s boss, the city editor of Hearst’s morning Examiner, and Bill Fowley—son of a legendary New York American editor—was one of about twelve guys who fancied themselves Richardson’s star reporter. A rumpled gray porkpie hat sitting tight on his round skull, Fowley had the same reddish brown hair as me, only his was cropped close to the scalp, like a guy going to the electric chair.