Naked Lies the Truth

Los Angeles, 1929. A real place full of imaginary people. In ten years, the population had doubled to over a million. It was a city where newcomers could invent their own stories. That’s why they came—that and the weather.

The year is remembered now in black and white but was lived in a hazy pink and golden light when the scent of orange groves still perfumed the air with the promise of paradise. Paradise if you were white that is. Because how you looked in this town was all that mattered. And Officer Mathieu looked white.

The young officer stepped onto the porch and undid his holster snap. He looked around before knocking; he was cautious. Domestic disturbance calls in this part of town were dangerous, especially at night. It was the last house on a dead-end street next to a bean field. There were streets like this all over Los Angeles. Tentative forays into the vast agricultural lands that still dotted the landscape.

Officer Mathieu knocked. There was no answer. Keeping his hand on his sidearm, he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Entering, he announced himself, “Police! Is anyone here?”

And then he saw her.

A naked young woman lying on the floor shot twice just below the rib cage.

Had she been black, no one would have ever heard of the case. But she was white, so they would. And she was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman Mathieu had ever seen—movie-star beautiful. There was an expression of surprise frozen on her face. Her lush blonde hair seemed to flow even in death. Her silken skin still had a golden hue to it. Mathieu bent down and touched her wrist. It was warm, but there was no pulse.

Standing up, Mathieu drew his handgun. He listened for any sounds. The house was quiet. He yelled again, “Police!”

He scanned the rest of the room before heading toward the hallway. With his back to the wall, he inched down the narrow corridor. He came to a kitchen on his left. A half-filled coffee cup with lipstick on the rim sat on the table. Further down the hall was the bathroom. A nightdress hung over the open door; a wet towel lay on the floor. At the end of the hallway was the bedroom.

Cautiously, Mathieu entered the room, pointing his handgun with his outstretched arm. Startled by a movement out of the corner of his eye, he swung quickly to his left and yelled, “Police!” Only to be confronted with his own tall, lean image reflected back at him in the full-length mirror. He sighed in relief, laughed at himself, and holstered the gun.

Her perfume hung in the air. The bed had been slept in. The contents of a purse were scattered across the crumpled sheets. A small suitcase lay open on the floor, bras and panties tossed about next to it.

He picked through the items on the bed, hoping to find an ID. He spotted a business card. He read the name “Irene Simpson,” then the title “Personal Secretary to …”

Shocked by her employer’s name, Mathieu froze. He stared at it in disbelief. If this got out, there would be a scandal that would rock the city.

Backtracking through the house, Mathieu went outside. There was a late model black Cadillac Cabriolet Town car parked at the curb in front. He searched the glove compartment until he found the registration, the name matched the victim’s business card.

Mathieu walked to his Henderson Streamline police motorcycle and radioed in his report. He didn’t mention who the victim’s employer was over the radio. Better to do that in person when the detectives arrived. Then he reentered the house to secure the scene and wait for the shit storm that was sure to come.