“What about Fabian Granger?” Poppy asked.
“If I had been at the Parker someone would have seen me. I’m famous, or I would have turned up on the security camera at some point, but I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t because I was never there. I’m innocent. So would you please stop obsessing over tying me to these horrific murders? Can you do me that one favor, please?”
“Maybe you’re not responsible for those murders, but what about the others?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hal bellowed.
“There is no statute of limitations for murder so any cold case can still be solved and the killer brought to justice. You’ve produced enough crime movies to know that, Harold.”
He almost missed it.
He was about to argue some more when something in his brain suddenly clicked and his mouth dropped open.
“What did you just call me?”
“Harold, that’s your name, isn’t it? Harold Lawson?”
“How did you—?”
She could see the wave of panic rising up from inside him.
He took a minute to collect himself.
Then, Hal took a deep breath, and smiled. “Nobody’s called me by that name in years. I may have underestimated your detective skills. I really didn’t think you’d remember me.”
“I didn’t. Not at first. But it came back. Who would have guessed the great Hollywood producer Hal Greenwood started out as our ambitious, socially awkward production assistant who was so keenly interested in all the gory aspects of the Pillow Talk Killer murders?”
Hal flinched slightly. “Wow, good memory.”
“It’s been hard to forget that particular day, no matter how hard I’ve tried. Why did you change your name?”
“I was focused on becoming a power player. I never thought Harold would ever command much respect, especially since Harold the PA was treated like dirt most of the time. Although I have to admit, you were always very nice to me.”
Poppy ignored the compliment. “So it wasn’t because you had to change it?”
“I know what you’re implying and you’re dead wrong,” Hal sighed. “I don’t know why you are so hung up on me being the Pillow Talk Killer. I wasn’t him then, I’m not him now. So get over it. We all know the real guy was Donald Carter. He was at the Roosevelt that night with you and Linda Appleton. He bought you a drink after Rod stood you up, you were pegged as his next victim until you ran off at the last minute, and so the killer had no choice but to redirect his attention toward poor unsuspecting Linda. . . .”
Poppy’s already racing heart nearly jumped into her throat. “How did you know Rod Harper stood me up that night?”
“Oh, come on, everyone knows that. It was all over the news the day after it happened,” Hal argued.
“Yes, except the part about Rod standing me up. That was never mentioned in the press.”
“Of course it was,” Hal said warily.
“I’m quite sure the police did not share that detail with reporters at my request, and I know I never told anyone because the last thing I wanted was to fan the flames in the media with endless, breathless stories about me and Rod.”
“Well, what can I say, it’s out there!” Hal yelled.
Poppy studied Hal, whose fleshy face was red and sweaty. “You only know because you followed me to the Roosevelt that night. You were watching me the whole time. Donald Carter wasn’t the Pillow Talk Killer. You were!”
Hal knew he had been caught. His eyes darted back and forth nervously. Finally, he sighed heavily. There was no point in continuing to lie. Poppy knew everything. “I was never going to hurt you. I overheard Rod on the phone getting that last-minute audition. I knew he was going to be a no-show so I went to the Roosevelt and hung out in a booth in the back, hoping to swoop in at the last minute once you realized Rod wasn’t coming, maybe offer a comforting shoulder, or . . .”
“It never would have happened!” Poppy snapped.
“You fled the bar so fast, I didn’t even get my chance. And then I saw Linda. Sweet, beautiful Linda. But before I could work up the nerve to go talk to her, Don Carter was all over her, and the next thing I knew they were heading up to his hotel room. I hung out at the bar a while longer, and when I finally got up to leave, I saw Linda coming down in the elevator on her way home. . . .”
Poppy knew what had happened next. “You felt so rejected, so angry, that all those violent urges rose up inside you again, and so you followed her home and . . .” Poppy couldn’t finish the rest of her thought, the image so disturbing. She cleared her head and continued. “After the police became convinced that Donald Carter was guilty of the three murders, you changed your name, tried to bury that side of yourself, start fresh, focus on becoming a famous producer. And you succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. You got exactly what you came to Hollywood for, respect, money, and a feeling of indestructibility that led to you becoming an unapologetic sexual predator!”
Hal took a menacing step closer to Poppy. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
Poppy shot a hand forward, trying to keep him at arm’s length away from her. “With what I know now, if I do a little more digging, well, like I said, there is no statute of limitations on murder.”
She was trying to keep him focused on what she was saying and not what she was doing because she had managed to surreptitiously extract her phone from her coat pocket with her other hand, hide it behind her back, and was now struggling to dial 911, praying she was hitting the correct numbers blindly. She traced her finger back up the screen, hoping she
