A Hollywood shrine hides unholy deeds
The 1940s: Hard-boiled detectives and femmes fatale are box-office gold. In one iconic scene, set in a deserted museum, the private eye arrives too late, and the buxom beauty is throttled by an ominous Egyptian priest.
Now: The Black Box Cinema immortalizes Hollywood’s Golden Age in its gallery of film noir tributes. But the mannequin of that Egyptian priest is hardly lifeless. He walks—and a young starlet dies a terrifying death.
Movie mogul Eddie Archer’s son is charged with the grisly murder. Eddie calls agent Sean Cameron, who specializes in…irregular investigations. As part of an FBI paranormal forensics team, Cameron knows that nightmares aren’t limited to the silver screen.
Working with special-effects artist Madison Darvil—who has her own otherworldly gifts—Cameron delves into the malevolent force animating more than one movie monster.…
Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
“An incredible storyteller.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal, and romance into a tight plot that keeps the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen
“A fast-paced and suspenseful read that will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon
“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest… Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”
—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground
“Eerie and atmospheric.”
—RT Book Reviews on Unhallowed Ground
“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”
—Booklist on Ghost Walk
“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Vision
“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer
The Unholy
Heather Graham
Very especially and with love for and thanks to Michelle DeVille, a gifted artist and fabricator!
For Doug and Laurie Jones, talented beyond all measure, sweet and all-around incredible.
And for the Wexler family, Cindy, Bob, Dallas and Reese, for their great kindness and generosity to my family.
Contents
Prologue
“So, you think you know the truth?” Dianna Breen, femme fatale, demanded. She leaned on the desk in the P.I.’s dingy office, skirt tight against her curvaceous form, eyes sultry as she stared at the hero, Sam Stone. The film was dark and shadowy, and sexual tension between the players was palpable.
Sam Stone made no pretense of looking away from Dianna Breen’s chest, modestly covered in frilly white cotton beneath the linen jacket of her suit. “I do know the truth. I know you’re a hussy and a thief, and I don’t believe you’d think twice before resorting to murder.”
“You know nothing!” Dianna Breen leaned down to bring her face close to Sam Stone’s. She reached past him, drew a cigarette from a pack on the desk and continued to stare at him as he fumbled for his lighter, then lit the cigarette.
“I know that you’d do anything to own the Egyptian Museum, Dianna. Anything,” he added softly.
She moved away from him at last, striding toward the window, her walk a study in slow sensuality. There, however, in what remained of the winter light, her face told the story; she was being wronged. She was not a murderess. She turned to him, hurt and passion in her eyes. “You don’t understand! You don’t understand about…the museum,” she said. She gazed back out on the Los Angeles street; beyond the window, day was dying. The city’s shadows suited the ambience of the black-and-white film perfectly. “It was never mine—you must understand. It was never mine. It was Frederick’s, and it killed him, not I.”
The sound of the old reels flipping through the projector suddenly seemed loud as Sam Stone watched Dianna Breen incredulously.
Sam’s thoughts were heard then. He was narrating as he stood and walked over to the gorgeous and seductive widow. “I couldn’t believe it. A museum didn’t kill. But the way she was looking at me, those enormous blue eyes of hers brilliant with tears, a trembling in her lips—”
“Hey!”
Alistair Archer nearly jumped out of his seat; he barely managed to cut off the startled scream that threatened to escape him. Jenny Henderson had come running in, slipping her arms around him from behind, and nearly giving him a heart attack.
He was in lust—if not love—with Jenny. There was something about her, an aura of film noir seductress. She had Lana Turner dark brown hair that swept over her forehead, and she wore rich dark shades of lipstick. Today, she was in tight-fitting jeans and a cotton tailored shirt that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.
“Hey!”