The Next to Die

THE NEXT TO DIE

The phone rang and Dayle grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Dayle? It’s Susan. I got your page. I’m on my way over. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes if traffic allows. Is Estelle there with you now?”

“Yes. She’s in the bathroom,” Dayle said, watching Sean wander toward the closed door.

“Fine. I’ll see you soon.” Susan hung up.

Sean turned to Dayle. “That dryer’s been on for at least ten minutes….”

Dayle put down the phone. She rapped on the bathroom door. “Estelle?”

No answer. Dayle pounded on the door again. “Estelle? Can you hear me? Estelle!” She jiggled the doorknob. Locked. At the crack under the bathroom door, blood seeped past the threshold onto the beige shag carpet. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

Dayle threw her weight against the door. “Estelle!” Dayle kicked at the spot just below the doorknob until it finally gave. But the door didn’t move more than a couple of inches. Something was blocking it—something heavy and lifeless.

Dayle peeked into the bathroom and gasped.

There was blood on the white tiled floor, leaking from a slice across Estelle’s throat….

THE NEXT TO DIE

Kevin O’Brien

For my lifelong friends,

George and Sheila Kelly Stydahar

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people helped launch this book. I’m grateful to Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle—my agents, friends, and literary guardian angels. Another great big thank-you goes to John Scognamiglio, my editor at Kensington Books, who also happens to be a good buddy. And thanks to all my other pals at Kensington, especially Doug, Kate, and Amy.

Several friends and family members also helped me whip this novel into shape—either with feedback from reading early drafts or with ideas they allowed me to steal. My thanks and love go to Kate Kinsella, Dan Monda, George Stydahar, Doug Nathan, Wendy Orville, Dan Annear, David Buckner, and Bonny Becker.

For support and inspiration in my career, I want to thank Louise Vogelwede, Terry and Judine Brooks, John Saul and Michael Sack, and Julie Smart and all my friends from good old Adams News.

A special thank-you to my brother and four sisters, and my dear pal, Cate Goethals.

Prologue

Without having to wait, Jim Gelder secured a cozy window table in one of Portland’s swankiest restaurants that Thursday night. If only the maître d’ had sat Jim somewhere else, the thirty-two-year-old salesman from Seattle might not have met such a gruesome death.

Jim was good-looking, and he kept in great shape. He still weighed the same as he had in college: 170 pounds, perfect for his six-foot frame. His hair was usually slicked back with gel that made the straw color appear a shade darker. He had blue eyes, a strong jaw, and the kind of self-assured smile that drew people to him.

He felt lucky that Thursday night. His waitress was cute and friendly, a redhead in her early twenties. Amid the white tablecloths, candlelight, and polished silverware, she seemed like the only waitperson there without a snooty attitude. She even flirted a little when she delivered his tangueray and tonic. Jim had never been unfaithful to his wife, but he wasn’t opposed to some innocent flirting—especially during lonely business trips like this one.

He poured on the charm every time the waitress returned to his table. After the meal, when she came by with his decaf, she brushed her hip against his shoulder. “You’ve been my favorite customer tonight—just thought you should know. Be right back with your check.”

Smiling, Jim watched her retreat toward the kitchen, Just then, someone strode into the restaurant. Nearly everybody noticed him, but no one gawked; this was much too ritzy a place for the late dinner crowd to fuss over a movie star.

Tony Katz seemed smaller in person, not quite as brawny as he appeared on the screen, but every bit as handsome. Women just loved his wavy, chestnut-colored hair and those sleepy, sexy aquamarine eyes. Jim had heard that Tony Katz was in Portland, shooting a new movie.

He tried not to stare as the maître d’ led Tony to a table next to his. Tony threw him a smile. Jim kept his cool and smiled back. Very nonchalant.

The maître d’ left a menu at the place setting across from the film star. Jim hoped he’d get to see Tony’s wife, Linda Zane, a model, whose appearance in a Victoria’s Secret catalog last year was still etched in his brain. But Tony was joined by a balding, middle-aged man who must have been parking the car. He staggered up to the table, all out of breath, then plopped down in the chair. He wore a suit and tie. In contrast, Tony Katz had on a black turtleneck and jeans. He looked annoyed with the guy. “I’m having one drink with you, Benny, that’s all,” he grumbled.

“Okay, okay.” The man took off his glasses and wiped them with the napkin. “Now, where were we?”

“I believe I was calling you a scum-sucking weasel,” Tony Katz said.

Jim couldn’t stifle a laugh, and this caught Tony’s eye. The movie star smiled at him again. “Excuse me,” he said to Jim. “Can I ask you something?”

Dumbstruck, Jim nodded. Tony Katz was actually talking to him.

“If you were a serious actor, what would you think of an agent who wanted you to star in a crappy movie sequel instead of a Tennessee Williams revival on Broadway?”

Jim shrugged. “I’d say he was a scum-sucking weasel.”

“Benny, I think I love this guy.” Tony gave Jim an appreciative grin.

Benny studiously ignored Jim and glanced at his menu. The waitress approached their table and told Tony how much she absolutely adored his latest movie. Tony politely thanked her and ordered a mineral water. His agent ordered scotch. For the next few minutes, the two of them argued quietly. Jim made it a point not to stare.

“Excuse me again, what’s your name?”

Jim blinked at Tony Katz. “Who, me?”

“Tone, please,” his agent whispered. “Listen to me for a sec—”

“I’m talking to my buddy here,” Tony said. Then he smiled at Jim. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Um, I’m Jim Gelder.”

“Mind if I join you, Jim?”

“Oh, now really, Tone,” his agent was saying. “Don’t be this way—”

But Tony Katz switched chairs and sat down across from Jim. He toasted him with his mineral water. “Thanks, Jim. I owe you.”

Dazed, Jim laughed. “God, my wife isn’t going to believe this.”

Tony glanced over his shoulder at his agent friend. “Bye, Benny. I’m with my buddy Jim here. Take the car. I don’t need it. Adios.”

Benny pleaded, but Tony Katz ignored him. He was too busy asking Jim where he was from, what he did for a living, and if he had any kids. To Jim’s utter surprise, even after the agent defeatedly stomped out of the restaurant, Tony remained at the table. It was as if he genuinely cared. “No kids, huh?” Tony said, finishing his drink. “Me neither. Linda and I are thinking about adopting. But there’s a lot to consider, y’know?”

Jim nodded emphatically.

“I mean, look at how everyone’s staring at us. It’s life in a fishbowl, and that’s no way to raise a kid. Plus there are some real nutcases out there. Lately, I’ve been getting these strange phone calls—on my private line, no less. Death threats, real nasty stuff. Makes me think twice about bringing a kid into this world.” He shrugged and sat back. “Anyway, it’s nothing to dump on you. So—what are your plans for the night?”

“I don’t really have any plans,” Jim said.

“Great. Because I’d like to buy you a drink for being such a good sport. Only not here. It’s too stuffy here. I know a place you might like.”

The place was called Vogue Vertigo, at least that was where Tony told the driver to go once they climbed into the taxi. They settled back, and Tony slung his arm around Jim’s shoulder—as though they were old pals. Jim was still in a stupor over this instant bond with the movie star. “I think you’ll dig Vogue Vertigo,” Tony said. “I hear this straight crowd is starting to take over. But that’s mostly on weekends. I don’t think we’ll have to put up with them tonight. We’ll see.”

The driver studied them in the rearview mirror. Jim caught his stare, and he suddenly became aware of how the two of them must have looked together, huddled in the backseat, one guy with his arm around the other.

Chuckling, Jim grinned at those disapproving eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hey, bub, what are you staring at?” he asked. “Think we’re queer or something? Do you know who you’ve got back here? This is Tony—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony whispered.

Jim fell into a stunned silence. He recognized the cold, deadly tone. Tony spoke that way to characters in the movies seconds before blowing them away. He frowned at Jim, then slid over closer to the window.

They went on for three more blocks without saying a word. All the while, Jim tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. It seemed as if his instant friendship with the movie star had just as instantly expired.

“This is good right here, driver,” Tony said, pulling out his wallet.

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Jim warily surveyed the neighborhood. He’d seen worse areas, but had never been dropped in the heart of one this bad—this late at night. Half of the stores looked as if they’d been shut down years ago, and the others didn’t look long for this world. The cab stopped near a dark, cheesy little grocery store.

Climbing out of the taxi, Jim could barely make out the green neon VOGUE VERTIGO sign in the window of a squat brick building farther down the block. “Why didn’t you let him take us right up to the place?” he asked as the taxi pulled away.

“Because you don’t want to go in there,” Tony replied. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. “Listen, Jim. I made a mistake. I’ll get you a cab—another cab, and pay for your ride back. Our plans for tonight are kaput.”

Tony switched on his phone, punched in some numbers, then cradled it to his ear. Apparently, he wasn’t getting a dial tone. Frowning, he rattled the phone in his fist. “Damn it,” he grumbled. “Battery’s dead. You don’t have a cell phone on you, do you?”

Jim shook his head. “Sorry. Listen, what’s happening here? What’s going on?”

“We’ll have to use a pay phone in the bar,” Tony said. “I didn’t want to take you in there, because you’ll probably freak out. It’s a gay bar, Jim. I was wrong earlier. I don’t think you’d like Vogue Vertigo after all.”

“This place is a gay bar?”

“Bingo. Go to the head of the class.” Tony started to walk toward the end of the block.

Jim grabbed his arm. “I don’t get this. You’re married to Linda Zane, for chrissakes, and you’re gay? How could you be gay?”

“I’ll tell you what James Dean said when someone asked him the same question. He said, ‘I’m not about to go through life with one hand tied behind my back.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim stepped in front of him. “I still don’t understand. What made you think I was gay?”

Tony sighed. “I thought you were good-looking. Seemed worth a shot. I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay?”

“But I told you, I’m married.”

“There are lots of married gay guys, Jim,” he replied. “I’m a movie star. Sounds callous, but married men are my safest bet. They don’t talk. Now, I’ve already apologized, and I mean it, I’m sorry to have taken you out of your way.” He gave Jim’s arm a little punch. “So how about it? Do you think you can relax and be cool in this bar while I call you a cab? Or do you want to go on acting like an asshole?”

Jim stared at him for a moment, and realized he was arguing with Tony Katz—who was gay. His wife wasn’t going to believe this. “I think I’ll go on acting like an asshole,” he replied, chuckling. “It’s all right, I’ll be cool. Still, can you blame me for being pissed? I mean, my one big chance to get it on with a movie star, and it’s another guy. Just my luck.”

Tony laughed, but suddenly he froze up and his smile disappeared. He stared at something beyond Jim’s shoulder, and those famous aquamarine eyes filled with dread. The color left his face. “My God,” he whispered. “Run….”

“What?” Jim turned around. His heart stopped.

It happened so quickly. Jim hadn’t even heard the minivan pull up behind him. Two men sprang out of the back. Both of them wore nylon stockings over their heads, the faces hideously distorted—like something out of a nightmare. One of the men had a gun.

Jim wanted to yell out, but he could barely breathe. As if paralyzed, he helplessly watched the two men descend on him. The one with the gun grabbed him by the scalp and jammed the .38 alongside his head. Jim felt the barrel scrape against his cheek, then dig into his ear. It hurt like hell, and he cried out with what little breath he had. Clenching a fistful of hair, the thug yanked his head back, until Jim thought his neck would snap. The guy ground the gun barrel into his ear. Jim felt blood drip down the side of his neck. He could barely hear his attacker barking at Tony: “Get in the van or I’ll blow your boyfriend’s brains out! Hurry!”

“Leave him alone!” Tony demanded. “If it’s me you’re after, I hardly know this guy. Let him go—”

The thug swung Jim around and threw him into the backseat of the van. Toppling onto the floor, Jim blindly reached for the door handle, then realized there was no door on the driver’s side. No escape. Suddenly, Tony fell against him. He was unconscious.

Jim began to shake uncontrollably. He’d never been so scared.

Somebody climbed into the bench seat in back, then someone else jumped in front. Doors slammed, and the car started moving.

Wendy Lockett ran along the same trail through St. Helens Forest Preserve every morning before going to work at the bank. She had a Walkman blasting the Eurythmics’ greatest hits and Cushman, her black Labrador retriever, keeping her company on that lonely path. It was a cold, drizzly Friday, and still quite dark in the heart of the forest.

Sweat rolled off her forehead, and Wendy’s long brown ponytail slapped against the windbreaker on her back. She approached the halfway point, a little clearing in the woods, where she usually turned around.

“Cushman, stick with me!” she called. The dog bolted ahead of her, then disappeared behind some bushes. “Cushman?” she called again, catching her breath. Annie Lennox still wailed in her ears. “Cush? Come here, buddy….”

The Labrador was there for her protection. The thirty-three-year-old divorcee didn’t go jogging in the forest at five-thirty in the morning without her dog—and a small canister of mace in the pocket of her track pants. Cushman had pulled this vanishing act a few times in the past—running after a squirrel or a deer—and Wendy hated it.

She slowed down to a trot, then pulled off the earphones. “Cush? Come here, boy!” she called. She felt so alone and vulnerable without her dog. She approached the clearing, then stopped suddenly. She thought she heard twigs snap, rustling noises. “Cushman?” she called in a shaky voice.

The dog answered with an odd, abbreviated bark.

“Where are you, boy?” As Wendy came into the clearing, she noticed several tire tracks in the mud. Then she realized why Cushman’s response had been nothing more than a distracted grunt. He was too busy sniffing at something by the shrubs. From where she stood, it looked like a dead deer. “Cush, get away from there!” she called. “You heard me….”

As Wendy stepped closer, she saw that bits of the animal’s white flesh had been nibbled away by hungry forest creatures. Whimpering, Cushman repositioned himself to poke his snout at the poor thing from another vantage point. “Stop it, Cush! Stop that right now! Stop—”

Wendy choked on her words. The dead thing was a naked young man. He had flaxen blond hair, and his eyes were fixed open in a horrified grimace. Her dog lapped at the blood from a slash across his throat.

She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t even breathe.

Cushman backed away from the body. He let out a couple of barks. Something else had caught his interest. Wendy tried to call to him, but no words came out. She stood paralyzed in the forest clearing.

The dog trotted over to an oak tree and started sniffing. Tied to the trunk was another corpse, slouching against the ropes, now slack from hours of holding his deadweight. He’d been tortured and mutilated beyond recognition.

Wendy Lockett didn’t know she was staring at someone she’d seen several times before—in the movies.

The Oregonian, Saturday, September 20

FILM STAR TONY KATZ MURDEREDThe nude bodies of film actor Tony Katz, 35, and a male companion were discovered in a forest preserve in St. Helens, Oregon, on Friday morning. Both men had been beaten and repeatedly stabbed. St. Helens police are still searching for clues in the double murder that has been described by one witness as “ritualistic.”Katz’s friend has been identified as James C. Gelder, 32, a salesman with Kingbee Diagnostics in Seattle. Katz and Gelder were last seen Thursday night outside a Portland gay bar, Vogue Vertigo. Katz had been shooting a film, “Gridlock Road,” in Portland for the last three weeks.The two bodies were discovered along a popular nature trail by Wendy Lockett of St. Helens, OR. Lockett, 33, said that the murders appeared to have been “some kind of cult killing.“They were tied up,” Lockett said. “It reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of lynchings of black people back in the thirties. These two were tortured. It was gruesome, an absolute nightmare.”Portland’s Director of Citizens Against Hate Crimes, Vera Stutesman, announced her intentions to “thoroughly investigate if sexual orientation of the victims was a factor in these brutal murders.”In the quiet community of St. Helens, citizens expressed shock and outrage over the double homicide.Katz’s wife actress-model Linda Zane, 26, was unavailable for comment, but the couple’s publicist, Shannon O’Conner, issued the following statement: “Tony Katz was one of our finest, most talented actors. He was a loving, devoted husband, and a thoughtful humanitarian, who gave his time and talent to several charities. His terrible murder is a shock to us all…”

Linda Zane made only one public appearance in the wake of her husband’s death. A bodyguard accompanied Linda to Tony’s memorial service. Two hours later, she boarded a private jet to Greece, destined for the secluded villa of a millionaire friend.

Over two dozen “protesters” also showed up at the funeral. Picketing outside the church, they carried signs that declared TONY KATZ BURNS IN HELL, and GOD HATES FAGS. Some protesters bought their children along.

Jim Gelder’s widow told reporters that her husband wasn’t a homosexual. But everyone already had him labeled as the boyfriend of Tony Katz, so her claims fell on deaf ears. Tony’s agent, Benny Gershon, insisted that the two men couldn’t have been romantically involved, because they’d met for the first time just hours before the murders. No one believed him. After all, Benny also swore up and down that his famous client wasn’t gay.

Several quickie paperback biographies of Tony Katz were thrown together in the wake of his death, and two networks announced different forthcoming TV movies about Tony and his “secret life.”

Despite having earned two Academy Award nominations during his brief yet distinguished career, and despite his devotion to several charities, Tony would always be most remembered for the bizarre, shocking death that exposed him as a homosexual.

At 7:13 P.M., Saturday, September 27, the following Internet dialogue appeared on the Dog Lover’s chat line:

COOKIE’S MOM: My 18 yr old schnauzer, Cookie, has bad arthritis & is now going blind. The vet sez I should think about putting her to sleep. Anyone else out there ever had to do that to their dog? Can’t imagine killing Cookie.

PAT: It’s for the best…keeping her alive would be cruel.

SPARKLE’S OWNER: i’ve had to say goodbye to 2 other doggies that way—it isn’t easy—B brave.

RICK: Sorry about Cookie…Request Private Chat w/Pat.

Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:15 P.M., Saturday, September 27:

PATRIOT: What’s up?

AMERICKAN: Re: Portland job last week…Congratulations to you & your team…Updating you on plans for L.S., like old Cookie, that black bitch needs to be put to sleep…Will B another Portland job…Details to follow…God Bless U…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

One

“Stay tuned for Common Sense with Elsie and Drew Marshall!”

The tiny portable television was propped up on the desktop of a young film executive. Dennis Walsh was thirty years old, chubby but handsome with dark blond hair, dimples, and a killer smile. Despite his girth, he wore clothes well and had an Ivy League look uncommon in southern California: oxford shirts, pleated pants, and penny loafers.

At the moment, Dennis paid little attention to the TV. Instead, he was updating his Franklin Planner and getting ready to see his boss. Helena, his assistant, wandered in and tossed a fax on his desk. “God, Dennis,” she said, frowning at the TV. “How can you watch that garbage?”

“It’s time for a little Common Sense!” the TV announcer boomed, over a swelling of patriotic music. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Richard Marshall!”

He sighed. “Well, I don’t have any passion in my life. So I have to settle for hating Elsie Marshall.”

“We need to find you a girlfriend soon.” Helena slipped out of his office.

“Hello, everybody!” chirped the woman on TV. Sixty-five years old, slim, blond, and rather pretty, she looked and dressed like a Republican First Lady. “God bless you!” she said, waving to her studio audience. Then she looked into the camera. “I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!” her studio subjects chanted.

She wandered back to the set: a desk in front of a bookcase, crammed with copies of A Little More Common Sense, the second best-seller by Mrs. Richard Marshall. All the covers were turned forward, of course. On her desk sat a framed photo of her late husband, also turned forward. There were two easy chairs, one reserved for her guest—usually a politician, washed-up film star, or retired sports figure. The other easy chair belonged to Elsie’s son and cohost, Drew, the real force behind the show. Handsome and articulate, thirty-year-old Drew brought in younger viewers and seemed groomed for future presidency, a beacon for fundamentalism in the twenty-first century. Drew gave his mother the first ten minutes of every show, then strolled onto the set to claim his chair and the remainder of the program.

Presently, Elsie Marshall basked alone in the spotlight. “I almost didn’t make it out of the house this morning,” she said, sitting at her desk. “All my recycling bins are by my back door. I knocked over the cans, and, oh, what a mess! Cans everywhere! Am I the only housewife in America who’s fed up with recycling? Those bleeding-heart ecologists make you feel like Attila the Hun if you so much as toss an old newspaper in the trash. Do our forests really need saving that badly?” She frowned. “Oh, and speaking of forests, isn’t it a pity what happened to Tony Katz and that other young man?”

The studio audience murmured an affirmative.

Dennis glanced at the TV and sighed. “Oh, shit.”

“But I’ll tell you what’s even more of a pity,” Elsie went on. “And I’m sure if my Ricky were alive today, he’d tell you the same thing. The real pity is that Mr. Katz and his—you know, friend—decided to carry on the way they did in the middle of a forest preserve. Can you imagine?

“Certain segments of the population gripe that they’re victimized. But what do you expect when they’re fornicating—if you’ll pardon me—in parks, public rest rooms, and movie theaters? I think it’s sad what happened to Tony Katz and his friend, but sometimes people bring these things on themselves….”

“Christ on a crutch,” Dennis grumbled, pulling away from his desk.

Clipboard in hand, he hurried out of his office, down the hallway, and out of the climate-controlled building. A gust of warm air hit him. Dennis put on his sunglasses. His boss was filming in a soundstage around the corner.

He’d be back in time to catch the end of Elsie’s show. Watching the program was a true masochistic experience. For three years, Elsie and Ricky Marshall had had a syndicated half-hour talk show, expounding their ultraconservative values. They peppered their dialogue with cutesy, domestic chatter and good-natured bickering. Their popularity grew and grew. Then Ricky dropped dead of a heart attack. Elsie carried the banner, but the show’s ratings sagged until Drew came aboard as cohost. The mother-son raillery became a crowd pleaser. America’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Best-Dressed Man, Sexiest Hunk was smart enough to know his mother still held a big influence over their audience. The sweet old widow with “common sense” could get away with those cutting remarks about a murdered homosexual actor, but Drew might not fare as well. So at times, she was his mouthpiece. Elsie attacked anything and anyone who didn’t fit in with The Marshalls’ idea of American family values. She even made a list of celebrities whose films or TV programs “ought to be missed by decent people.”

Dennis Walsh’s boss was on that list.

The soundstage door’s red light wasn’t on, which meant they’d taken a break in filming. Dennis stepped into the vast hall, threading around all the sound equipment, cameras, cables, and lights. “Is Dayle in her trailer?” he asked one of the camera operators.

“Yep, working on her wardrobe,” he said, between gulps from a Mountain Dew can.

Dennis thanked him and headed for the trailer in the corner of the soundstage. On the door was a plaque:—DAYLE SUTTON—ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. Dennis knocked and entered.

Inside the dressing room trailer, Dayle Sutton stood with her arms outstretched as if crucified. Two middle-aged women were sewing a white satin evening gown on her. She felt them pinch and tug the material around her ribs. “Can’t be tight enough,” Dayle cracked. “I’m still breathing.”

She was filming a drama based on a best-seller, Waiting for the Fall. Today’s scene involved a flashback sequence, in which the thirty-nine-year-old actress had to look twenty without the benefit of extra filters on the camera lens. Dayle was up for the task. Besides, she had good lighting men.

She also had a good man in Dennis Walsh. He was a production assistant with the studio, and had worked with Dayle on her last picture. He’d become indispensable. He talked to Dayle’s agent more than she did, acted as liaison with every department in the studio, and even reviewed story ideas and screenplays for her. That was why Dennis had come to her studio trailer now. He sat on the couch by Dayle’s dressing table, and unwrapped a Tootsie Roll. “Ready for the pitch?” he asked, glancing at the clipboard in his lap.

“Fire away,” Dayle said, arms still spread out like a regal scarecrow. Along with the 1950s gown, she also wore a long blond wig.

“You’re the First Lady, and you begin to suspect the president is really an imposter, because he starts acting different with you. And the things he does are more radical and dangerous until the world is on the brink of nuclear war.”

“Sounds like Dave meets Suspicion meets Fail Safe,” Dayle said.

“Exactly. It’s a thriller.”

“I hate it.”

“So do I,” Dennis said. “But I figured you wouldn’t mind playing a First Lady who defies her husband and saves the world from nuclear destruction.”

“Next?”

“Okay, this one’s a true story,” Dennis said. “It’s about a guy who gets attacked outside a gay bar. Four college frat boys try to beat him up—”

“Don’t tell me,” Dayle said, watching the seamstresses work on her sleeves. “‘Ripped from today’s headlines,’ shades of Tony Katz.”

She’d met Tony only twice: first at a fund-raiser, and again when they’d been paired up as Oscar presenters last year. Dayle had found him charming and sexy. He was also extremely active in campaigns against discrimination and censorship. Everyone in Hollywood knew Tony was gay. His marriage to Linda Zane was a smoke screen. But he was so well liked, no one wanted to see his cover blown. His horrible death changed all that. Nobody talked about Tony Katz, the actor; they only talked about Tony Katz, the closet homosexual who was killed with his pants down.

Dennis snacked on his Tootsie Roll. “According to ‘Just call me Elsie,’” he said, between chews, “Tony and his friend brought it all on themselves. How about that? God, I would love to punch that old gasbag’s lights out.”

“Yeah, well, take a number,” Dayle said, lowering her arms a bit for circulation. “Anyway, about the movie, is there a part for me?”

“Yes, indeedee,” he said. “See, the guy kills one of his attackers—cuts a frat boy’s throat with a broken beer bottle. So believe it or not, they put him on trial for murder. He hires this lesbian attorney to defend him, and after a lot of opposition in this small, affluent college town, she gets this guy acquitted. It’s an old script that’s been floating around, but Soren Eberhart wants to direct, and Avery Cooper’s interested in playing the gay guy.”

“Philadelphia meets The Accused,” Dayle said. “And you want me to play a lesbian lawyer? Next, please.”

“Why are you passing?”

“Two words,” Dayle replied. “Survival Instincts.”

That was the title of her ill-fated action-thriller. Dayle had played the leader of an environmentalist group, stalked in the wilderness by a team of crazed hunters. As the lean, mean, no-nonsense heroine, Dayle had given her sexually ambiguous character some lesbian undertones. She’d been a bit too convincing. It set people wondering about the lack of chemistry between Dayle Sutton and her last few leading men. Despite good reviews, the film came and went, but the wild rumors about Dayle’s private life prevailed.

“Survival Instincts was a couple of years ago,” Dennis said. “Middle America just wasn’t ready for you as a butch-female action hero—”

“Huh, Rambimbo,” Dayle muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Attitudes have changed. It’s not so taboo to play a lesbian anymore. And this is a primo part for you—”

“Next, Dennis,” she said, an edginess in her voice.

Dennis sighed, then tossed what was left of his Tootsie Roll in the wastebasket. “Okay. Not your cup of Liptons.” He checked his clipboard. “Last but certainly least is a zany comedy. You and another star—Bette Midler, if somebody puts a gun to her head—are mothers, each with teenage daughters giving you loads of trouble. Turns out the gals were switched at birth.”

“Imagine that,” Dayle said.

“There’s madcap high jinks galore as you adjust to your real daughter and some heart-tugging moments as you miss that little hellion you’ve come to love now that she isn’t yours anymore.”

“Stop before I throw up. It’ll probably rake in a fortune. You may shoot me if I ever show interest in a project like that. Anything else?”

Dennis consulted his clipboard again. “Messages worth mentioning—you had a call from Leigh Simone this morning.”

Dayle turned to glance at him. “Really?”

A call from Leigh Simone was pretty heady stuff. The vibrant, black rock artist was the kind of superstar even other stars admired. Already a legend, she’d been dubbed The High Priestess of Rock.

“We’re almost done here, Ms. Sutton,” one of the wardrobe women said. “You can lower your arms now.”

“Thanks, Pam,” Dayle let her tired arms drop to her sides. She gave Dennis a nonchalant look. “So—did the call come from Leigh herself?”

“No. From her personal assistant, Estelle. She wants to know if you’re available next Thursday night. I checked, and you are. Leigh has a concert in Portland. She’s donating the profits—speak of the devil—to one of Tony Katz’s favorite charities. Leigh wants you to read a tribute to him.”

Dayle frowned. “Why me? I met Tony only a couple of times. That hardly qualifies me to give his eulogy at some benefit.”

“In Hollywood it does. Besides, this is a worthwhile cause, and publicitywise, it wouldn’t hurt to share a stage with rock’s high priestess.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Dayle said. “Listen, I could use some time alone here. Are we almost finished, Pam?”

“All done, Miss Sutton.”

“Hallelujah.” She smiled at the seamstresses, then turned to Dennis. Her smile slipped away. “Knock when they need me on the set, okay?”

“Will do.” He and the two wardrobe women headed out the trailer door.

“Damn,” Dayle muttered, now alone. She felt as if she were suffocating. She wanted to strip off the tight gown and yank the blond wig from her head. Maybe then she’d breathe easier.

She hated feeling so afraid. It clashed with the image she’d built up for herself: Dayle Sutton, the strong, sexy, intelligent actress. Sixteen years ago, when she’d first started making movies, Dayle had fought against playing glamour girl roles. She had to prove that she was more than a pretty girl with a head of long, wavy auburn hair and the body of a centerfold. An Academy Award helped earn her respect—and superstardom. Playboy labeled her “The Thinking Man’s Sex Symbol.” Back in the late eighties, she’d refused an offer to appear on their cover in a skimpy bunny suit.

But a year ago, Vanity Fair seemed to fulfill Dayle’s longtime wish by calling her “Down to Earth Actress, Dayle Sutton.” The epithet was emblazoned at the bottom of an Annie Leibovitz cover photo of Dayle up to her shoulders in a mud bath. It was a provocative pose, sexy and smart.

That had been before the tepid box office of Survival Instincts—and all those rumors that she was gay. Not only had Dayle’s career suffered, but she’d also incurred the wrath of several anti-gay groups. Plus the film’s depiction of hunters had outraged the gun advocates. Dayle had received stacks of venomous hate mail—and dozens of death threats. She’d made a great show of nonchalance, but it had been a scary time.

In a way, the short life of Survival Instincts in the theaters and video stores was a blessing. The gun lovers and the gay haters quickly found other targets for their animosity, and Dayle was able to breathe easier.

She wasn’t ready to set herself up as a target again by playing this lesbian lawyer character. Social conscience be damned. What happened to Tony Katz was a startling reminder of how far some people could go with their intolerance. The same fate might have befallen her when Survival Instincts had opened. In an ironic way, old Elsie Marshall was right. Perhaps Tony had bought his death upon himself. Though married, he refused to change his lifestyle or avoid controversy. He wasn’t afraid of pissing people off.

And he should have been. What was the old saying? The braver the bird, the fatter the cat. She had good reason to be scared.

Still, Dayle didn’t like herself very much right now. She remembered back when she was a child, all those times making believe she was somebody else. It was one reason she became an actress—to escape from that scared, lonely little girl inside her.

There was a knock on her trailer door, followed by Dennis calling that she was due on the set.

“Thank you, Dennis!” she called, her eyes closed. Dayle emerged from the trailer. Stepping over cables, she strolled onto the set: a hotel veranda, overlooking a seascape—to be provided later with back projection. For now, Dayle’s stand-in, Bonny McKenna, waited on the fake balcony in front of a blue screen. Dressed in a white gown and donning a blond wig, she drank a Diet Coke. She grinned at Dayle, and offered her the can of pop.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Dayle took a sip from Bonny’s straw.

Four years younger, Bonny was Dayle’s mirror image—only not quite as beautiful, like the kid sister who didn’t quite match up to her gorgeous sibling. Bonny had been a policewoman for several years, and was married to a cop. The star and her stand-in were best friends on the set. Bonny stepped behind Dayle and massaged her shoulders. “God, you feel tense,” she whispered. “You okay?”

“Just peachy.” Dayle sighed, “Oh, that feels like heaven. Don’t stop.”

“Quiet on the set!” someone yelled. “Places!”

“So much for not stopping,” Bonny said, pulling away.

Dayle handed her the Diet Coke. “Thanks anyway.” Stepping on her mark, she took a deep breath. The man with the clapboard announced the scene and take. The cameras began to roll. Then Dayle Sutton became someone else.

Dayle chose her black silk pantsuit with the big rhinestone buttons for the Screen Legends Salute tomorrow night. She would be a presenter. People magazine ran a photo of her last year in this suit when they put her on their Best Dressed list. Understated elegance.

She hung the pantsuit, still in its dry cleaning bag, on her closet door for tomorrow morning. She’d change at the studio, have her hair and makeup done there, then go to the event. A long day ahead.

Dayle took another sip of Cabernet, finishing off the glass. “Let’s go, Fred,” she told the short-hair gray tabby lying at the foot of her bed. He was named after Federico Fellini. She didn’t trust him alone around the silk suit. He’d start clawing at that plastic bag the minute her back was turned. “C’mon, babe,” she called, strolling toward the kitchen with her empty glass.

Sometimes late at night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d pour a verboten brandy, then wander around her beautiful penthouse and admire what she’d done with the place. The apartment had been featured in Architectural Digest a few years ago: her spacious living room had a fireplace and a panoramic view of Los Angeles; in the dining room, an ornate inlaid cherrywood table seated twenty; her study held a large antique desk and volumes of books, which The Thinking Man’s Sex Symbol had read. She’d carefully chosen the artwork for these rooms, including two original Hopper paintings, a small Monet, and a Jackson Pollock. The art piece that most fascinated the Architectural Digest people was a glass-top pedestal in her living room. It held her Academy Award. The base and stem of the pedestal had been forged from several pairs of broken and tattered high heels wired together to create a swirling funnel effect. Dayle had worn out all those shoes walking from auditions to agencies during her struggling starlet days. “I saved them, knowing I’d do something with them one day,” she told the interviewer.

The magazine layout also included photos of her private exercise room and the modern kitchen. But they weren’t allowed to take any pictures of the large, informal pantry and TV room area off the kitchen. This was where Dayle let herself relax, where she snuggled up with Fred in her lap to study a film script, or indulge in some low-fat microwave popcorn and a good video. Of the four fireplaces, the one in this room was used most. The best view came from this picture window: a sweeping vista of the Hollywood hills. The walls were decorated with framed photos of herself with other celebrities and a few of her better magazine covers. It was the only room in the place where she felt comfortable putting her feet up on the furniture. The other rooms were for entertaining. This one was for friends and family. But Dayle had spent the majority of her time in this cozy room alone with Fred. Thank God for the cat.

She poured a half glass of wine, sank back on the sofa, and let Fred curl up in her lap. Dayle reached for the remote and switched on the TV. The news came on. The anchorwoman was talking about a Fullerton couple who had died in a boating accident. Then the picture switched to what looked like a protest demonstration.

“Two weeks after the deaths of Tony Katz and James Gelder, a special memorial service was held in Seattle, Washington, for Gelder, the thirty-two-year-old ‘other victim’ in the still-unsolved double murder,” the newscaster announced.

Dayle stared at the TV, and a line of demonstrators marching in front of a church. There were about a dozen of them, and they held anti-gay signs, the same FAGS BURN IN HELL slogans brandished for Tony Katz’s funeral. In fact, according to the anchorwoman, this demonstration had been organized by the same minister who had masterminded the protest at Tony’s memorial.

“Assholes,” Dayle muttered, shaking her head at the TV.

“I’m grieving my brother’s death right now, and I don’t need to see this,” James Gelder’s older brother told a reporter outside the church. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, the demonstrators waved their signs. “It’s wrong,” the surviving brother went on. “Jimmy was happily married. He wasn’t gay. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Oh, so if he was gay, he’d deserve it?” Dayle growled at the TV. She wasn’t mad at him—really. All of it was so wrong. Frowning, she grabbed the remote, switched off the TV, and got ready for bed.

While brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection. “Gutless,” she said to herself. Was she going to let malignant morons like that minister and those idiot protesters scare her? How could she allow them to influence her career choices? If anything, she wanted to defy them.

Dayle rinsed out her mouth, marched down the hall to her study, and switched on her computer. The film star was dressed for bed in a very unglamourous, extra-large man’s T-shirt. She clicked on to e-mail and sent the following message to Dennis Walsh:

Hey, Dennis:I’ve been rethinking the Portland benefit. Tell Leigh Simone I’d be happy to participate.

Dayle bit her lip, and quickly typed the next part and sent it before she had time to change her mind:

Also, I might have been too hasty on that gay-bashing trial story. Tell Soren Eberhart that I’d like to see the script, especially if Avery Cooper is coming aboard. Keep your powder dry, kiddo. See you in 7 hours.—D.

Dayle Sutton didn’t know that she’d just written her own death warrant.

Two

“I’m definitely interested if Dayle Sutton’s interested,” Avery Cooper grunted between push-ups on the floor of his trailer. He was talking on the speaker phone to his agent, Louise.

“The script’s a little dog-eared, but they’re rewriting it. With Soren Eberhart at the helm and Dayle Sutton starring, you’re in great company.” Louise paused. “By the way, what’s with all the huffing and puffing? What are you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m doing my crunches,” Avery said, sitting for a moment to catch his breath. The shirtless thirty-four-year-old actor worked hard on his taut physique. Yet fans considered Avery Cooper more “cute” than “hunky.” The handsome, blue-eyed former TV star never made anyone’s Sexiest Man Alive list. Still, he possessed a sweet, beguiling, nice-guy appeal that made him enormously popular during the five-year run of his hit TV sitcom. Those same qualities had landed him a role as the hapless hero who comes to the aid of a hooker in danger, played by America’s new sweetheart superstar, Traci Haydn. The film was called Expiration Date, and he had one more week shooting here in Vancouver, British Columbia (doubling for Seattle), before they returned to the Hollywood studios for interior shots. Avery couldn’t wait to get home.

“Devil’s advocate time,” Louise announced. “You ought to consider the possible backlash to playing this gay man. You just had a controversial role. Maybe you should play it safe for a while.”

“Do you mean that, Louise?”

“Not a syllable, but I had to say it for the record.”

Avery smiled. He loved Louise. She’d been his agent for nine years. She understood him. “This is a good part, Avery,” she said. “But you can make some enemies. The network says you’re still receiving poison-pen letters for the TV movie last month.”

The film, called Intent to Kill, tapped into Avery’s nice-guy image. He played a doctor, paralyzed after being gunned down by protesters outside an abortion clinic. The controversial “network event” won him critical raves—along with piles of hate mail, even some death threats.

Avery got to his feet and grabbed a couple of thirty-pound dumbbell weights. “A lot of the letters were very supportive,” he pointed out.

“And a lot of them were damn scary,” Louise said.

Someone knocked on the trailer door. “C’mon in,” Avery called.

Bob, a studio gofer, stepped into the trailer, and set a package on the sofa. “This arrived for you special delivery a little while ago, Avery. Looks kind of personal. I don’t know.”

Avery put down the weights. “Great. Thanks, Bob.”

Bob ducked out of the trailer, not closing the door entirely.

“What did you get?” Louise asked over the speaker phone.

“I don’t know yet,” Avery said, reaching for the box. He tore off the brown wrapping. “There’s no return address.”

“Well, wait a minute!” Louise barked. “What if it’s a letter bomb or something? You already have all these nuts wanting you dead. Wait—”

“Too late, Louise,” Avery said. The box bore a Ralph Lauren polo insignia. He set the top aside, parted the folds of tissue paper, and found a card resting on a gray hand-knit sweater.

“What it is?” Louise asked.

“It’s a sweater that must have cost a few hundred bucks.” Frowning, Avery read the card insert. “Here’s what the enclosure says: I bet it’s cold up there in Canada. Thought you’d need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven’t I heard from you?”

“My Lord,” Louise muttered. “She just won’t give up, will she? You’re too nice. You should let me or someone from the studio write and tell her in a polite way to piss off.”

The sweater was the most recent in a long line of gifts Avery had received from an obsessive woman named Libby Stoddard, who claimed to be his biggest fan. She’d sent the first present a year ago, a book on Bob Hope, because Avery had said in an interview that he was a sucker for old Bob Hope movies. He thanked Libby in a letter and included an autographed glossy. She thanked him right back with a video of Son of Paleface. After that, her presents became more extravagant. Avery started sending them back. He stopped enclosing “No Thank You,” notes with the return packages, figuring they fed something in her. Shortly before Avery had left for Vancouver, he got a call at home, and was stunned to hear a woman on the other end of the line say, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you! This is Libby.”

He probably should have hung up on her right away, but he was stupid enough to think he could talk sense to her. “Um, hello,” he managed to say. “How did you get my home number?”

She laughed. “I hired someone to find out for me, that’s all. I have a lot of money, you ought to know that from the presents I send. This is so neat! How are you, Avery?”

“Well, ah, Libby, I’m—not too happy about this call. I know you’re probably a really nice person, but this is an invasion of my privacy. The gifts you’ve sent are very generous, but—”

“I thought for sure you’d keep the aviator jacket. It cost a lot.”

“I’m sure it did. That’s why I sent it back to you. This has to stop. I can’t have you buying me all these clothes—”

“But I want to….”

“Well, what you’re doing borders on harassment. And I don’t think that’s your intention.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, in a hurt little-girl voice. “Is your wife there? Is that why you’re saying these things? Should I call back later?”

Avery took a deep breath. “I’m asking you not to call me or send me any more gifts. I’m sure your intentions are good, but—”

“I can’t believe you’d be this ungrateful,” she said. “I must have caught you at a bad time. Listen, it’s okay. I’ll call back later—”

“No—”

“Don’t worry, I still love you, Avery.” Then she hung up.

Avery had left for Vancouver two days later. There had been several hang-ups on his answering machine during those forty-eight hours. His caller ID showed seven of those calls were from “L. B. Stoddard: 555-1939.”

Now she’d discovered the film location address here in Vancouver. Avery stared at the sweater. “Christ,” he muttered. “Think she’ll ever give up?”

“Highly doubtful,” Louise said. “I told you last year when you left the show—you need someone to run fan interference. The network did it for you for five years. You can’t be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, Avery. Let me handle this Libby character, okay? I’ll have my assistant, Nola, send her a very officious letter telling her to knock it off.”

“I guess you better.” Avery set the Ralph Lauren box on the sofa.

At that moment, someone stepped into the trailer. “Hey, nice…”

Avery looked up and caught Traci Haydn leering at him. The twenty-seven-year-old ash blonde with an angel’s face was smoking a cigarette. Her breasts stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.

“Traci, hi,” was all Avery could say.

“Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?”

She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. “Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?” she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.

Avery backed into his dressing table. “Jesus, Traci…”

A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked damn sexy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.

“Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside—”

Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. “If the trailer’s rockin’, they won’t come knockin’.”

“Lord, did I hear her right?” Louise asked over the speaker phone. “Did she really just say that?”

“What the fuck?” Traci’s playful grin vanished.

“Traci, I’m on the speaker phone with my agent,” Avery explained. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Um, do you know Louise Farrell?”

“Hi, Traci,” Louise piped up.

Traci Haydn rolled her eyes, then deliberately stepped up to Avery. Those firm, beautiful breasts rubbed against his sweaty chest. She stood on her tiptoes, and her nipples grazed his. “I’m going to get you, one way or another,” she whispered. Then she gave his ear a long, slow lick. Backing away, Traci smiled at him.

Avery tried in vain to camouflage the erection stirring inside his jeans. “Traci, how many times do I have to tell you no?” he whispered.

Ignoring his question, she put her T-shirt back on. “Bye, Laura or whatever your name is,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Oh, you too, Traci, dear,” Louise replied.

Avery watched her go; then he sank down on the sofa. He sighed. “You still there, Louise?”

“Honey, I wouldn’t hang up for the world right now. How many passes does that make from your happily married costar?”

“That’s the third one this week, and it was a lulu, about a five-point-five on the Richter scale. I tell you, she’s worse than Libby.”

“Sounded like she said something about ‘no shirts.’ Was she topless?”

“Yes. And my ear is still wet from her licking it.”

“Well, Mr. Avery Cooper. Do you realize what you just experienced? Traci Haydn is the fantasy girl for millions of boys and men, the stuff wet dreams are made of. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I miss my wife,” Avery replied.

“Hi, sweetie. I erased all the other messages, because we maxed out on the machine. Aren’t we popular?”

Avery smiled. He sat at the desk in his suite at the Vancouver Four Seasons. Simply hearing Joanne’s voice on the answering machine at home soothed some of his loneliness.

Joanne Lane was a stage actress. Twice nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, she’d made a name for herself on Broadway. Elsewhere, she was Mrs. Avery Cooper. Her latest play hadn’t fared well with critics. Unless business picked up, the production would close next week, and she’d return home to L.A. Under such gloomy circumstances, Avery tried not to celebrate their reunions too eagerly. Joanne had bouts with depression. She was on medication, but still required kid-glove handling at times. Things were always a little touch and go whenever one of her plays failed, but it also meant they could be together for a while.

They’d met four years ago, during a summer hiatus from his TV show, Crazy to Work Here. Avery had played a “nice guy” who has horrible luck with women. Quickly he’d become the star attraction among the ensemble cast of “wacky” characters employed at an ad agency. Comparisons to Jack Lemmon and Tom Hanks abounded for the former Northwestern drama major and Second City alumni. He was also a favorite guest on the talk show circuit. On Letterman, he stirred the studio audience into a sing-along frenzy with an impromptu rendition of “Wild Thing” on his harmonica. And to Rosie, when pressed, Avery humbly admitted, “I can count on one hand all my sex partners—including the hand.”

That summer away from the show, Joanne Lane became the fifth woman in Avery’s life. With lustrous shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, Joanne had an undefinable star quality. Though no great beauty, she had a sultry voice and a toned, taut body. She oozed sex appeal. The Broadway actress had landed a role in Avery’s first “starring” feature film, a forgettable romantic comedy called Five Feet of Heaven. She played his slutty sister, and outside of falling in love with her screen brother, she found film acting incredibly tedious. Joanne ran back to Broadway, and Avery reluctantly returned to Los Angeles and Crazy to Work Here. But they couldn’t stay away from each other. Avery used his clout to get Joanne some guest shots on the show. He spent summers and holidays on the East Coast; she took breaks between plays to be with him in Hollywood. All the traveling and scheduling became quite complicated. So they kept the wedding simple. They were married in a small chapel in Avery’s hometown of Fairfax, Virginia.

One advantage to Avery and Joanne’s bicoastal marriage was that the relationship never had a chance to grow stale. After two years, they still acted like newlyweds. If anything had grown stale it was all the traveling and the time apart. Before this recent theatrical misfire had lured Joanne back to Broadway, they’d been trying to have a baby—without much luck.

“I made us another appointment with the fertility specialist on Wednesday, the eighth,” Joanne told him on the answering machine. “Also I committed us to another public service announcement for handgun control. They won’t film until late December, so we can put that on the back burner for now. I miss you, sweetie. I wish it were next week already so we could be together. It’s midnight here. I’m hitting the sheets. Good night, love.”

Joanne had left the message an hour ago. Avery decided not to call and possibly wake her. Instead, he went to his suitcase in the closet. He snapped open the locks, and took out a video—a sexually explicit video starring Mr. and Mrs. Avery Cooper.

Several months back, he’d been concerned about his first R-rated love scene—in this movie with Traci Hadyn. Joanne had playfully suggested they “rehearse” together. At her urging, he’d broken out the video camera and tripod to tape their lovemaking. After some initial shyness, they began to have fun, and eventually forgot the camera was there. The resulting video was more silly than sexy. Avery stashed the tape in his underwear drawer, and pretty much forgot about it.

But his first night on location here in Vancouver, he’d unpacked his bags, and found Joanne had taken their little sex epic out of mothballs. She’d hidden the video in his suitcase—along with a Post-It note: Dear Husband, Keep Rehearsing! Your Loving Wife. She’d left for New York that same day.

Now Avery popped the cassette in the VCR connected to the hotel TV. He sat at the end of his bed and watched. He ignored his own video image: that dumb wiry guy with the erection and the birthmark on his butt. Instead, he focused on Joanne’s lithe body, the way she smiled and giggled. He felt himself grow hard.

Someone knocked on the door. Avery stood up and tried to adjust his erection. His first thought was: God, please don’t let it be Traci Haydn. He ejected the video and turned off the TV. There was another knock.

“Mr. Cooper? Turn down your bed?”

Stashing the video back in his suitcase, Avery went to the other room and checked the peephole. It was the old lady who pulled back the bedcovers every night. As far as Avery was concerned, her job was the most useless service a hotel could provide. But, hell, she was a sweet woman of sixty who walked with a limp, and he didn’t want her put out of commission. Besides, slipping her a Canadian five for a tug at the bedsheets and a mint on his pillow made him feel good. He opened the door.

“Hello, Mr. Cooper!” she chirped. “Turn down the bed, aye?”

“Yes, thanks a lot,” he said, stepping aside.

“I know you go to sleep late, aye, so I saved you for last,” she said. With her basket of mints in tow, the uniformed woman hobbled into the bedroom. Then she let out a frail cry that escalated to a scream. It sounded as if she were having a seizure. Avery raced into the room. She was staggering away from his bed, her hand over her mouth. The basket of mints had spilled onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” Avery asked. Then he saw what the old woman had found beneath the quilted bedcover.

On his pillow, someone had left four dead mice, two of them cut in half. And there was a note—on hotel memo paper: You played a monster who kills little babies that aren’t even this big. He deserved to die, and so do you.

The old woman was still a bit shaken when someone from hotel security led her out of Avery’s suite. The manager on duty kept apologizing to Avery. He didn’t understand how this could have happened—what with the high security and the professional staff. Could they move him to another suite?

Avery told them that would be nice. “And could you please make sure that lady gets a ride home tonight?”

Later he left a message at the house for Joanne, telling her that he’d switched hotel rooms. He didn’t explain why. He said that if she woke up in the middle of the night, she could call him here. It didn’t matter what time. He probably wouldn’t sleep very well tonight anyway.

During a break in filming the next day, Avery retreated to his trailer, sat on the sofa, and telephoned Joanne. “Has anything kind of weird happened to you lately? Have you received any hate mail or strange phone calls?”

“Why do you ask, Avery? Did something kind of weird happen there?”

“Yeah, just a creepy note in my hotel room,” Avery said. “It’s these nuts who didn’t like the TV movie. I’m concerned about you, that’s all.”

“Avery, I can take care of myself,” Joanne calmly pointed out. “That said, okay, yes, something happened last week after the show. I came back to my dressing room, and on the vanity, someone had left a—well, it was a small Gerber’s baby food jar, only they’d stuffed a dead mouse in it.”

“Jesus,” Avery murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because you would have freaked out,” Joanne said. “I know what a worrywart you are. Nothing has happened since. They’ve kept a lookout for me backstage, and I’ve been careful. So don’t sweat about it. Okay?”

Avery got to his feet and started pacing around the trailer, the phone to his ear. “Listen, I’m hiring you a bodyguard. Let’s not take any chances—”

“Sweetie, I reiterate, nothing has happened since. Someone didn’t like your movie, and I had a little scare. End of story. I don’t want a bodyguard.”

“Joanne, we aren’t seeing each other for another six days. Until then, I need to make sure you’re safe.”

So when Joanne Lane Cooper arrived at the theater that night, a bodyguard her husband hired introduced himself and showed his credentials. The man, whom Joanne would describe as “a pain in the ass,” guaranteed her safety for the next six days.

Three

A number of bomb threats didn’t keep fourteen thousand people from filling Portland’s Colosseum for the benefit concert. Dayle Sutton read letters of remembrance from several of Tony Katz’s friends and costars. Many of the letters were from AIDS patients he’d visited regularly, a few of them children.

Another actress might have manufactured some high emotion for the presentation, adding her own pregnant pauses and dramatic sighs, or allowing her voice to quiver. But Dayle chose a simple, dignified approach that focused on the letters, not on the celebrity reading them. When she finished, the audience stood and applauded. Dayle walked off stage left. The ovation continued, but she would not return for a bow. They were applauding the letters, not her.

On the other side of the stage, she glimpsed Leigh Simone, waiting in the wings. Dayle still hadn’t met the force behind this benefit fighting discrimination against gays and lesbians. Two women hovered around Leigh, both of them rather chubby: one, a makeup girl, and the other, an older brunette who held a cellular phone and a clipboard. Dayle wondered if this was the assistant, Estelle Collier.

Leigh broke away from the two women, and waved to her. She was so charismatic, and full of energy. She wore a sleeveless, brown sequined dress with a scooped neck and a jagged hem serrating at her upper thighs. Her legs were long and tapered. The thirty-eight-year-old singer could have been an Olympic athlete with her taut, lean body. The cinnamon skin was flawless. She wore her hair pulled back in a long curly ponytail, which had become her trademark. Her smile could dazzle the recipient a hundred feet away.

Dayle waved back at her. Leigh blew her a kiss, then yelled something. But the applause had yet to die down. She took a pen from her assistant, then wrote something on the clipboard, and sent her off. Leigh waved to Dayle again, then shimmied and shook her way onto the stage. A thunderous applause greeted her, and The High Priestess of Rock began to turn her seductive powers on the audience. She sang an electrifying rendition of Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds.” Mesmerized, Dayle watched her.

According to rumor, Leigh was a gay—or at least bisexual. Dayle didn’t take much stock in the grapevine—after all, they were wrong about her. But Leigh never refuted the gossip, and the sexual energy she exuded seemed to spill beyond all boundaries—including gender.

Dayle felt a little silly for even wondering. But Leigh seemed to have been flirting with her from the other side of that stage.

“Pardon me, Ms. Sutton?”

Dayle turned and smiled at the assistant, who—close up—appeared about fifty years old. She was so professionally perky, she could have been an Avon saleswoman. The woman wore jeans and a violet pullover that didn’t quite camouflage her weight problem. “Are you Estelle?” Dayle asked.

“Why, yes, hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I have a message from Leigh.” She handed Dayle a sheet of paper. “She’s a huge fan of yours.”

Dayle stole another glance at Leigh, who was whipping the crowd into a fever. Then she read the note, hastily scribbled by Leigh herself:

Dear Dayle,What a wonderful tribute to Tony! Thank you so much. Can we get together tonight? Please say yes. I’m in room 1108—same hotel as you. 10:30? I love you, girl!

Dayle let out a little laugh. “Sure,” she said to Estelle Collier. “Tell Leigh that I’d love to get together with her.”

Both Leigh and Dayle had been booked into the Imperial Hotel, the same place Tony Katz had stayed the week he was killed. The Imperial had received their share of bomb threats too, and they’d tightened security at the hotel this evening. Dayle’s suite was on the twentieth floor.

For her date with Leigh, she’d changed her clothes several times, and finally decided on a pair of black stirrup pants and a dark green silk blouse. Like most women, she dressed for other women. In this case, she didn’t want to be too alluring. Leigh’s sexuality shouldn’t have been an issue. But maybe Leigh was expecting more than a friendly chat tonight. Dayle hoped she wouldn’t have to dodge a pass. She’d rejected enough sexual advances in her day, from both genders; that wasn’t a problem. But she admired Leigh Simone, and didn’t want to brave that kind of awkward situation with her.

Dayle was at the dresser mirror, brushing her hair when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, Dayle?” Leigh must have been at a party or in a bar, Dayle heard talking and laughter in the background.

“Yes, hi. Leigh? Where are you calling from?”

“My suite, believe it or not,” Leigh said. “The only person I wanted to see tonight was you, and it’s wall-to-wall people here. Don’t ask me how, but this whole thing got out of control. Are you in a party mood?”

Dayle frowned. “Um, not really. But thank you anyway—”

“No, no, no. Don’t thank me ‘anyway’ yet. I’m not in a party mood either. Could I come up? I figure I can sneak out of this circus in about a half hour. Is that okay? Do you mind meeting in your suite?”

“No, Leigh. I don’t mind at all.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit. I can’t wait!” Leigh made a kissing sound, then hung up.

With Leigh arriving soon, Dayle began to straighten what little mess she’d made in her suite. She cleared some paperwork and clothes off the couch, then called room service and ordered champagne.

She’d just hung up the phone when someone knocked on her door. Dayle checked the peephole. Leigh Simone appeared nervous and tense. She rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and started to knock again.

Dayle opened the door. “Well, hello, Ms. Simone! At last, we meet.”

Leigh seemed taller in person. This close, Dayle couldn’t help noticing the pale olive color of her eyes. Leigh wore black capri pants, fancy gold slippers, and a tuxedo blouse. She stood at the threshold for a moment, one hand on the door frame. “Before I come in,” she announced, “I need to say this, Dayle. I’m really nervous about meeting you.”

Dayle laughed. “Oh, stop….”

“No, ma’am. You’re my hero. My assistant, Estelle, can tell you, I was bowled over when you agreed to come to this benefit. I was shooting for the moon when I invited you. And then, tonight backstage, I kept asking Estelle, ‘Do you think she’d like to get together? Should I ask?’”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Dayle said, feeling more at ease. “For the record, I was so jazzed up about meeting you, I changed my outfit four times. Now for God’s sake, get in here.”

With a hundred-watt grin, Leigh spread her arms and gave Dayle a fierce hug. “Dayle, this is a dream come true. You have no idea!” She unclinched, but continued to hold her hand. “You’re my inspiration. You know, twelve years ago, when I first moved to New York—and I was waiting tables and living in this cheap hotel for women—I used to pattern myself after you in Bending the Rules.”

“That was one of my better ones,” Dayle said.

“Oh, it was great. You were my role model in that. I saw the movie four times, bargain matinees. I used to daydream about being rich and famous. And get this, part of that dream was seeing my sassy little self lounging in a plush hotel room, having a heart-to-heart with my good buddy, Dayle Sutton. So I mean it when I tell you, this is a dream come true for me.”

Dayle squeezed her hand. “Stop, you’ll make me cry—and we haven’t even sat down yet. C’mon. Champagne’s on its way.” She opened the minirefrigerator. “Meanwhile, what can I get you?”

Sitting on the couch, Leigh glanced toward the small refrigerator, then gave Dayle a wicked smile. “That chocolate bar in there. I’ll split it with you. Shoots my diet to hell. But let’s be decadent.”

Dayle grinned. “It’s a deal. Don’t you want a drink?”

“No, but you go ahead. I already had a glass of wine at the party. I’m a lightweight—a total disgrace to the rock star profession. I don’t do drugs or trash hotel rooms either. Half a glass of your champagne, and I’ll be out like a light. I swear, I’ll fall asleep right on this couch.”

“Kind of like a slumber party,” Dayle said, handing Leigh the candy bar and a glass of water.

“Oh, wouldn’t that make the bees buzz?” Leigh unwrapped the Nestle’s Crunch. “‘Leigh Simone Spends Night in Dayle Sutton’s Hotel Room.’ The tabloids would have a field day.” She patted the sofa cushion. “C’mon, sit. I’m not wolfing this down alone.”

Working up a smile, Dayle sat beside her. There was an awkward silence.

Leigh snapped off a corner of the candy bar, then put it up to Dayle’s lips. Dayle hesitated, then took the chocolate in her mouth. Her lips brushed against Leigh’s fingers. “Pretty sinful, isn’t it?” Leigh whispered.

She nodded.

Leigh broke another piece off of the Nestle’s Crunch bar and studied it. “Am I wrong?” she said. “Or is something happening here?”

Dayle shrugged. “Well, I’m picking up some signals—if that’s what you mean. And it’s very flattering. I really admire you, Leigh. You have—so much integrity. You’ve got the courage to say, ‘This is me, I’m gay, and it’s—’”

“Um, Dayle, I’m not gay,” Leigh interrupted.

“You’re not?”

“I know the rumors. If people want to think I’m a lesbian, that’s fine. But you’re not ‘people,’ Dayle, so I can tell you. I’m not gay.” She took a deep breath. “In fact, I thought you were—”

“Gay?” Shaking her head, Dayle started to laugh. “No. God, we must be prey to the same warped rumor mill. I’ve been wondering all night what to do if you should make a pass.”

“Ha, I was thinking the same thing!” Leigh gave her shoulder a playful push. Grinning, she nibbled at the candy bar again. “Want to know what else? I figured, if you tried any moves, I might just go along. After all, you’re Dayle Sutton, for the love of God. Who—no matter what their persuasion—wouldn’t want to give you a tumble?”

Dayle rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, cut me a break.”

Leigh sighed. “Reminds me of those movies on late-night cable TV. They always have lesbian sex scenes. Only those girls are never lesbians, they’re just experimenting.”

Dayle laughed. “It’s the guy myth that we females of the species are all one glass of wine away from becoming bisexual.” She raised her glass in a toast. “So I gather you too have spent many a night on the road in a hotel room with only cable TV for company. That’s me, filming on location.”

“I’m on tour thirty weeks every year,” Leigh said. “I can give you a list of the best hotels in every major city in the world—who has the best room service, the best on-call masseuse…”

“I’ve always been a bit leery of those hotel hands-on artists,” Dayle admitted. “I figure, I’ll have this great message in my room one night, and a week later, it’ll be in the National Enquirer that I’m not a natural redhead.”

“Folks like us, there aren’t a lot of people we can trust.” Leigh picked at the candy bar. “Not a lot of decent men who will put up with the crazy schedules we keep, the press and paparazzi, and all that excess baggage. Not a lot of friends either.”

Dayle nudged her. “If you say, ‘It’s lonely at the top,’ I’ll smack you. Besides, much as I hate to admit it, my box-office clout has been slipping lately. I’m not so close to the top anymore.”

“Then that makes the loneliness even worse, doesn’t it?”

The quiet seriousness in Leigh’s voice took Dayle by surprise. What she said hit close to home. Dayle tried to laugh and shrug it off. “My God, Leigh, how did we get so—heavy all of a sudden?”

Leigh sat back and smiled. “It’s just part of that dream I was telling you about, Dayle. You know, the heart-to-heart talk? I know it sounds corny, but I’d like us to be friends.”

Dayle took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “It is corny, but I’d like that too.”

Living in Hollywood for the last sixteen years had made Dayle cautious. People she met always seemed to want something else from her. But all Leigh Simone wanted was her friendship.

They talked for fifteen more minutes. Leigh had snuck away from her party, and needed to rejoin her guests. She suggested meeting in the morning for a late breakfast. But Dayle had an early flight.

“Well, I’ll be back in L.A. this week,” Leigh said, standing in the doorway. “Let’s do dinner. We’ll really blow our diets, burgers and fries.”

“It’s a deal,” Dayle said, grinning. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

Leigh nodded. “Okay, but you better be careful about seeing too much of me, Dayle. Don’t forget, I have a reputation.”

They laughed and hugged. Dayle felt a twinge of concern. Indeed it might add more fuel to those career-damaging rumors if she were seen with Leigh. She told herself it didn’t matter—at least it shouldn’t have mattered.

She squeezed Leigh a little tighter, and kissed her cheek. They said good-bye once more. Smiling, Dayle watched her saunter down the hall. Then she stepped back inside her suite, and closed the door.

Someone knocked on the door less than three minutes later. Dayle was at the honor bar, ready to pour herself a brandy. “Leigh? Is that you?”

She checked the peephole. It was a young man in a waiter’s uniform. “Room service, Ms. Sutton!” he called.

Dayle opened the door. The hotel badge on his waiter’s jacket showed the name, Brian. With dark hair and dimples, he was quite a handsome young guy. He carried a large tray with a champagne bottle on ice, two flute glasses, and a basket full of fruit, crackers, salami, and cheeses.

“You’re a little late,” Dayle said.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton. The champagne and the food basket are compliments of the management. It’s our way of apologizing for the delay.”

She opened the door wider. “Tell management not to sweat it. C’mon in.”

He set the tray on the desk. “May I open the champagne for you?”

“Yes, thanks.” Dayle fished a few dollars out of her purse while he popped open the bottle. She started to hand him the money.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” the young man said. Reaching inside his waiter’s jacket, he pulled out a small black book and a pen. “In fact, I’d rather get your autograph—if that’s okay. I kind of collect them.”

Dayle took the little book—opened to a blank sheet. She turned back a page: To Brian, A Very Special Guy, Sincerely, Tony Katz. Dayle smiled. “I see you met my buddy, Tony Katz.”

“His suite was below this one. He was a good friend of yours, huh?”

“Only in a show business way.” She took the pen from him and scribbled in his autograph book, To Brian, Many Thanks, Dayle Sutton.

“I saw you on the news tonight,” he said. “You were reading those letters about Tony. It got me thinking about him again. I delivered dinner to his room a couple of times. He—um, well, he made a pass at me.”

“Well, consider it a compliment.” Dayle handed the book back to him.

The young man blushed and glanced down at the carpet. “Y’know, I’m not gay. I—I have a girlfriend. I went to school in Texas, and all my friends—to them, queers are about as low as you can get.”

Dayle frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you were his friend. And I have to tell somebody or I’ll go nuts. Tony knew he was going to die. These people threatened to kill him.”

“Tony told you this? When?”

Brian hesitated. “After we—well, we messed around a little. I was explaining to Tony about my college buddies, and what they think of queers. Tony said that a bunch of ‘good old boys’ can take turns humping a heifer in a pasture and it’s a bonding thing, but if two of those guys are caught kissing, then they’re sick perverts. He was making fun, y’know, sarcastic?”

Dayle just nodded.

“Then he got serious, and he told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay. They said that the whole world would know he was a fag. And it’s just what happened.”

“What do you mean, ‘they’? Was it more than one person?”

“That’s the way it sounded.” Brian’s voice started to crack. “God, it could have been me who was murdered with him out there in that forest….”

“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this?”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t. My girlfriend, my friends—”

“Didn’t the police or FBI interview you? I’d think they would.”

“They only talked to the people who were working that night. I didn’t come in that Thursday.”

“You should be talking to the police, not me,” Dayle said.

“Couldn’t you talk to them for me?” he asked. “You could say that Tony told you about the death threats. That way, I’d stay out of it. And people would believe you, because you were his friend and you’re a movie star—”

“Wait a minute, honey—Brian.” Dayle touched his arm. “I wasn’t that close to Tony. Even if I was, I wouldn’t wait two weeks after his murder to come forward with news about these ‘death threats.’ It doesn’t make sense.”

The young man looked so utterly lost. He kept shaking his head.

“I want to help,” Dayle said. “But I can’t go to the police for you, Brian. That won’t work. If you want, I can have a lawyer talk with you—”

“Are you saying that I need a lawyer?” he asked warily.

“Only someone to give you legal advice when you go to the police—”

“No, I can’t go to the police. I can’t do that.” Turning away, he opened the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’m sorry—”

“Wait…wait a second. I want to help you, Brian—”

He ducked into the hallway and closed the door on her.

Jarnell Cleary had been a maid with the Imperial Hotel for five weeks, and she hated it. Scrubbing out toilets at the crack of dawn was not how she’d planned to spend her young life. But only twenty-nine more weeks of this crap, and she and her boyfriend could afford a trip to Europe together. She was thinking about Paris as she wedged opened the women’s rest room door.

At the moment, there were only two other people on the mezzanine level, both of them janitors. Backing her cart through the doorway, Jarnell realized she had her work cut out for her. The place stunk, a rank odor. Someone had left a faucet on; she could hear the water trickling. The overhead lights had gone haywire and kept flickering on and off.

Jarnell almost tripped over the trash can, lying on its side. Garbage was strewn across the floor. She glanced over toward the sinks. Across the mirror, someone had scribbled in lipstick: LIES! LIES!

One of the sinks was stopped up with paper towels, and overflowing. Water dripped down to the tiled floor. Jarnell accidentally stepped in the puddle as she crept toward the first stall. By the toilet, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. Jarnell pushed the stall door open. She saw a fancy gold slipper on the floor. Beside it was a hypodermic syringe.

In the next stall, Jarnell glanced down at a purse lying on its side. Maybe it was because of the blinking lights, but she didn’t notice anything else. She started into the next stall, expecting it to be empty.

Her shriek echoed off the tiled walls.

A woman sat on the toilet, her head tilted back and legs spread apart. Her black capri pants had been unzipped on the side, but not pulled down. The front of her tuxedo blouse was splattered with gray vomit.

At first, Jarnell thought the lady had passed out. But then the lights flickered bright again, and she could see it was Leigh Simone—with her tongue drooped over her lips, and a dead stare from those olive-green eyes.

Four

At 7:15 A.M., on Friday, October 10, the following Internet conversation appeared on Bullpen, a baseball historian’s chat line:

FRANK: I still say The Babe was the greatest player ever.

JETT: But Hank Aaron broke Ruth’s record with home run # 715 on 4/8/74.

PAT: Breaking records doesn’t necessarily make a player great.

RICK: Request private chat with Pat.

Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:19 that Friday morning:

PATRIOT: Speaking of niggers and records…there’s a nigger singer who ain’t making records any more…no more rallies for queers either.

AMERICKAN: Watch what U say. Will there B enough humiliation 4 subject once L.S. is discovered?

PATRIOT: Yes…went smoothly…her assistant’s cooperating.

AMERICKAN: Good…you’ll B coming to L.A. within week…work begun on A.C…details 2 follow…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

Avery Cooper shivered as he climbed out of the pool. He hiked up his dark blue trunks and threw a towel over his shoulders. As a little reward for finishing his morning laps, he gulped down a glass of orange juice.

Catching his breath on the pool deck, he glanced up at the back of his house, a beautiful two-story, Spanish white stucco. Avery reminded himself how lucky he was. The high-class hacienda had belonged to a big-name record producer, bankrupt after a misguided venture into filmmaking. Avery and Joanne had bought the place for a song. At least that was what his parents had said, and they were in the real estate business.

Married forty-two years, Rich and Loretta Cooper were still crazy about each other. Lo worked as a receptionist in Rich’s office. Business was booming in Fairfax, Virginia. But they managed to have lunch together every day—sometimes later or earlier than they wanted, because a house needed to be shown; but they hadn’t missed a lunch together in seventeen years.

It was a far cry from Avery’s married life—with Joanne gone for months at a time. Sure, when they were together, the honeymoon went on and on. But he was lonely and miserable most of the time. And he had to keep reminding himself how goddamn lucky he was. After all, who wouldn’t want his life? He was paid an obscene amount of money to work at something he loved. And he used his celebrity clout to advocate important causes. His gun-control commercials with Joanne made a difference.

Avery had a good friend in junior high school named Jimmy Fadden. Along with his sister and mother, Jimmy had stopped by for dinner one April night at an upscale burger joint called The Checkered Pantry, outside Fairfax. Avery had eaten there dozens of times—often with Jimmy. But he wasn’t there that warm spring evening when a crazy man with a gun stepped into the restaurant and started shooting. He killed seven people and wounded six more before turning the gun on himself. Mrs. Fadden and nine-year-old Gina were among the seven fatalities. Jimmy took a bullet in the spine and spent the rest of his life a paraplegic. He told Avery that he’d been yelling at his kid sister for swiping fries from his plate when he’d heard the first shot.

Mr. Fadden remarried, and the family moved away when Avery was in high school. But he’d been thinking of Jimmy when he made Intent to Kill, about the doctor paralyzed by a gunman’s bullet outside an abortion clinic. Amid all the hate mail, he also received a letter from Jim Fadden, complimenting him for his accurate portrayal of a paraplegic, and thanking him for his work advocating gun control.

The poison-pen letters had tapered off, and neither Joanne nor he had come across any more dead mice calling cards. They’d sent her bodyguard packing. Joanne had been home a week now. She wanted to stay awhile and work on having a baby. They’d been working on it all week.

Avery glanced up at the bedroom windows. The veranda doors opened, and Joanne stepped out on the balcony. She wore a long, teal silk robe. Her brown hair neatly fell down over her shoulders. Even from the distance, Avery could see she’d put on lipstick and mascara. She looked beautiful in the soft morning light. “Hey, sweetie, why are you up so early?” he called.

In reply, Joanne let the robe drop to the floor. She was naked.

Avery stared at her, mesmerized. She was a vision. After a moment, he threw off his towel, shucked down his swim trunks, and scurried over to the diving board. He was already semierect.

Joanne laughed, and covered her breasts from the cold. “Hurry up! I’m freezing!”

Avery thumped his chest like Tarzan, then dove into the water. He quickly swam the length of the pool, pulled himself out of the water, and ran naked into the house. He left a trail of water as he raced up the stairs, where Joanne waited for him at the landing, her arms open.

Lying with her legs up in the air after sex was supposed to increase her chances of conceiving. Joanne assumed this position at the foot of their bed. Avery’s body had been wet and slick with pool water, so they’d made love on the floor.

Avery propped a pillow under Joanne’s back, and tucked the silk robe around her. He knew other couples who had problems conceiving, and for the husbands, the sex-on-a-schedule became a tiresome ordeal. But Joanne worked to make it fun. The only thing Avery didn’t like was having to produce on demand sperm samples for their fertility specialist.

They had nearly a dozen specimens stored at a lab, just the answer for a bicoastal couple trying to conceive. It was Joanne’s idea—for when she was ovulating and out of town. His “little swimmers” were kept on ice, ready—if he wasn’t—at a day’s notice for shipment out to the East Coast. So far, she hadn’t dipped into that reservoir yet.

Stepping into his undershorts, Avery figured he’d shower later in his trailer. He was due on the set in an hour. He kept picking up a bad odor in the room—someplace. “Do you smell something funny?” he asked.

Joanne adjusted the pillow beneath her back. “Yeah, now that you mention it. It’s like spoiled food or something.”

Avery went to the balcony doors and opened them again. Their bedroom had tall windows curved at the tops, mission-style furniture, and a thick, woven rug. Mexican tiles framed the small fireplace.

“I had a call from Saul yesterday,” Joanne said. “That new play he sent, it’s pretty good. He wants me to fly out there next week for a reading.”

Avery turned from the doors and frowned at her. “But you just got back from New York six days ago—”

“Now, don’t flip out. It’s nothing definite. It’s just a reading—”

“How can you expect us to make a baby when we’re hardly ever together? Do you really want to have a baby?”

Joanne pointed to her legs in the air. “No, it’s just an excuse to lie here like this. I find it very comfortable.”

With a sigh, Avery pulled on a T-shirt. Starting a family had been his idea. He’d originally talked with Joanne about it a year ago, when she’d returned home depressed over a Broadway show that had gone down in flames. She’d said she was ready, but when they’d run into difficulties conceiving, she’d retreated back to The Great White Way and another play. That one had been a hit, and she’d been gone eleven months.

“I just wish we could be together—in the same place—for a while,” Avery grunted, zipping up his trousers. “I’m tired of all the flying back and forth. You know, for every trip you’ve taken out here, I’ve seen you in New York five times. Check my frequent flier points. I could fly first class to Jupiter on the mileage I’ve accrued.”

“I wish you wouldn’t pick on me.” Joanne lowered her feet. “You know, I’m off the antidepressants while we try for junior here. It hasn’t been a picnic for me. How often have we had this argument anyway? I mean—”

The telephone rang.

Joanne sighed. “Ah, saved by the bell.”

“It’s probably the studio.”

Avery grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Avery Cooper?” It sounded like a spaced-out teenage boy. “You’re a fucking asshole and your wife’s a pig.”

Avery hung up, then glanced at Joanne, who started to sit up. “Don’t answer if it rings again.” He ran out of the room.

“What? Was it a crank? Watch the water on the stairs!”

Downstairs, Avery checked the caller ID box in his study. The number had been blocked. The phone rang again. Avery stood over the answering machine, waiting for it to click on. When it did, the caller hung up.

Libby—or someone she’d paid to do her dirty work. Avery’s number-one fan had not taken graciously the officious letter from his agent telling her to cease and desist. She’d left a phone message the day he returned home from Vancouver two weeks back: Hello, Avery. This is Libby. I got a mean note from your agent or whoever. You’re really an asshole, y’know? I spent a lot of money on you, and this is the thanks I get. I should have realized what a shit you are when you did that awful pro-abortion movie on TV. Oh, and those gun-control commercials with you and your stupid wife. I own a gun and I’d like to use it on you, only I won’t. You aren’t worth being locked away in jail for. You can just go to hell.

The calling number had been blocked.

In case he hadn’t gotten the message, she’d dropped something in the mail to him—the autographed portrait he’d originally sent her. The photo had been torn in half and the eyes cut out.

After going to bed that first night back, Avery heard a noise outside—from the front of the house. He tossed aside the covers and crept into the guest room. From the window, he spied two teenage punks scurrying across the moonlit lawn toward the front gate. Avery immediately called the police.

The teenagers, who managed to elude the cops, were only errand boys. They’d delivered three gift boxes to Avery’s door, items he’d returned to Libby. But the Ralph Lauren sweater had ketchup splattered all over the front of it; a sportshirt had been slashed to pieces; and an expensive jogging suit had been partially torched—with ashes still in the box.

Beverly Hills’ finest collected the evidence and called on Leslie Benita Stoddard. But Libby had left for Maui three days before. Avery pressured the police to contact authorities in Maui. When questioned, Libby claimed to have impulsively given the clothes—along with the autographed photo—to a couple of punk boys outside a thrift shop. They’d been asking people for spare change. She’d told them the clothes “weren’t good enough” for Avery Cooper. That was her only contact with the teenagers. She said that except for leaving an angry message a week ago on Avery’s answering machine (which—golly, gee—she now regretted), she hadn’t tried to contact him.

Avery didn’t believe a word. He’d hoped Libby’s recent brush with the law in Maui had convinced her to back off. But now one of her creeps was on the phone harassing Joanne and him at seven-forty in the morning.

“Avery!” Joanne yelled from upstairs. “Oh, Jesus…Avery!”

He ran to the foot of the stairs. Joanne leaned over the upper railing. Her hair was a mess, and tears streamed down her face. Naked, she clutched the robe in front of her.

Avery raced up the steps to her. “What is it?” he asked, out of breath.

“In our bedroom—” She let out a gasp, then shook away a small black ant that had been crawling on her arm. Joanne shuddered and started swatting at her hair, trying to flick away bugs that may or may not have been nesting there. “Your sweater drawer,” she cried, trembling. “Someone broke into the house. They’ve been in our bedroom….”

Avery took hold of her arms. “What?”

Joanne cringed and backed away from him. “They left something in your sweater drawer.” She took a deep breath, then pointed to the bedroom. “I think it’s from your friend—what’s her name, Libby. Take a look.”

Stepping over the pillow on the floor, Avery glanced down at four or five ants scurrying along the wheat-colored carpet. They were moving toward his dresser, where their numbers grew. Just minutes ago, he hadn’t noticed a single insect in the room. But now an army of ants crawled up the front of his cherry-stained dresser—all massing on the open bottom drawer.

Avery felt something tickle the top of his bare foot, and he swatted an ant away. Peering down into the drawer, he found what had attracted the swarm of black, crawling invaders. On top of his Irish knit sweater, someone had left a toy gun and a small baby doll—the kind usually dressed in a little bonnet and frock. But this doll had been stripped of its clothes, and swaddled in bloody, butcher-shop entrails. As the insects honed in on the rotting meat, they seemed to be devouring that cherub-faced toy baby.

With the police on their way, Avery and Joanne quickly got dressed. He’d managed to calm her down. He’d also taken care of the ant problem, using up a near-empty can of Raid. The smell of bug repellent drifted downstairs, where they now searched the house for anything that might have been stolen. None of Joanne’s jewelry was missing, and all their silverware remained intact. Avery checked the shelves in the living room. Every item was still in place.

“I think you’re right,” he called to Joanne. “Libby must be behind this. Nothing’s missing. She’s rich. She doesn’t want to steal anything, she just wants to harass us. She must have had one of her punks break in and plant that—that thing. She was always sending me sweaters. Not too subtle leaving it in my sweater drawer.”

He couldn’t stop wondering how the hell they’d made it past the security system. “Joanne?” he called. “Did you go out yesterday?”

“We met with Dr. Nathan, remember?” she called back to him. Her voice was still a little shaky.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he muttered. They’d had an appointment with their fertility specialist. “Did you set the alarm before you left the house?”

“No, and I’m sorry, okay?” she called back, exasperated. “I’m never home long enough to memorize the stupid code.”

The telephone rang.

“Ignore it,” he yelled. “It’s probably one of Libby’s boys again.” He could hear the answering machine in his study.

“…leave a message after the beep,” the recording said. Then his own voice came on the phone: “Hey, honey…God, look at you. You’re so sexy…”

He started toward the study. Joanne met him in the hallway. “Avery? What’s going on?”

In the study his recorded voice kept talking over her: “I’m so hard. See what you’re doing to me? Come here…”

Joanne clutched his arm. “What is that?” Tears came to her eyes as she listened to the sound of her own laughter.

“Oh, you wicked, wicked girl,” he said on the recording.

“Jesus, they have our videotape,” Avery murmured.

He hurried upstairs to the bedroom, still stinking of bug repellent. He headed toward the dresser, where Libby’s errand boy had left that grisly calling card. A few surviving ants crawled amid the dead.

Avery could hear the police siren drawing near. He pulled open the drawer second to the top. He frantically dug through the underwear. T-shirts and shorts fell to the floor as he searched in vain for the videotape.

“Oh, God, no,” he muttered.

The tape of Joanne and him making love was gone.

Five

“Thank you for your patience this morning,” the flight attendant announced. “As soon as we’ve reached cruising altitude, we will begin our beverage service….”

The plane had been delayed two hours. A limo had whisked Dayle to the airport at 6:30 A.M., only so she could wait and wait. She spent the time studying her script and reviewing today’s scenes to the point of overkill. From the VIP Lounge, she was the last person to board the plane; and thanks to first class seating, she’d be the first to leave.

Her head tipped back and eyes closed, Dayle didn’t dare look at the damn script again. Nor did she feel like chatting with the boring businessman in the aisle seat, who unfortunately recognized her. If she feigned sleep, the guy might leave her alone, and maybe she’d even drift off for a while.

But she kept replaying in her head that bizarre conversation with the room service waiter. She remembered what he’d said about Tony Katz receiving death threats: He told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay….

Amid all the hate mail pouring in after Dayle had made Survival Instincts, one note stood out. It wasn’t among her fan letters—or even in the mailbox at her apartment. She found this one inside her car.

They’d been shooting at the studio into the early evening, and it was dark when Dayle went to her green BMW, parked in its spot outside the soundstage. She unlocked the door. The interior light went on, and she saw the piece of paper taped to the steering wheel. The note was printed up by a computer. What it said made her heart stop: WHEN DAYLE SUTTON IS DEAD, EVERYONE WILL KNOW THAT SHE WAS A LESBIAN DEGENERATE, AND THUS YOU WILL DIE.

She didn’t dare turn the key in the ignition. A police bomb squad came to inspect the car, but found nothing. Dayle had a couple of officers escort her home that night. It remained a mystery how someone could have snuck past studio security and broken into her locked car.

Dayle decided to start working her chauffeur full time, and had him doubling as her bodyguard. After a couple of weeks, the Survival Instincts backlash died down, and she forgot about that note. She had enough on her mind with career worries. Her box-office clout was slipping.

The good film roles were going to younger actresses. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but it still peeved her that—in her late thirties—she was considered by the moneymen as too old to play the romantic lead opposite Harrison Ford in one project—and Robert Redford in another vehicle.

She couldn’t lure the big-name leading men for films made by her own production company. The guys wanted top billing and too much money. So her recent on-screen lovers were mostly second-echelon stars—all fine actors, but somehow lacking the charisma for superstardom. If moviegoers didn’t see much chemistry between Dayle and her last few leading men, that was why.

Her leading men off screen weren’t much better. In fact, for someone selected six times by People magazine as one of The 50 Most Beautiful People, her love life was pretty abysmal. It seemed predestined.

She’d gone to a numerologist once—on a dare, an old Frenchwoman named Rene, who also did tarot readings. Rene must have dug up a few old magazine articles about her, because she accurately pegged Dayle as being an only child from a wealthy family. Perhaps she expected Dayle to be astonished when she pointed to the number nine on a chart, and declared in her thick accent: Dis is how old you are when your father leaves you.

Dayle nodded. Her parents’ divorce was mentioned in that Vanity Fair cover story a while back. The article covered practically everything Rene was “unearthing”: the years at a private boarding school, the need to escape through movies and books, the desire to pretend she was someone else that led to an interest in theater. You do not trust many people, Rene went on. People like you, but you push dem away. You don’t haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build. You are independent…cautious. You trust only yourself. You will not give up control. The relations in love—Rene shook her head and sighed. Dey are not so good. Maybe dis is because you need control? Or perhaps because of your caution?

Dayle didn’t remember Rene saying anything in particular that suddenly won her over. And maybe the old medium was merely conjecturing what might concern most single career women in their late thirties when she talked about Dayle’s fear of growing old alone, her ticking biological clock, and the whole this-is-your-last-chance business. But by the time Rene started flipping over the various tarot cards, Dayle was busy taking notes.

Her love cards always looked so bleak: a man lying facedown with dozens of spears in his back; a sword piercing a heart; a couple of paupers in the snow outside a locked castle. She and Rene finally began laughing over the utter hopelessness of it all.

Old Rene’s cards didn’t lie. Dayle felt cursed. The love of her life was Jeremy Caughlin, a brilliant young movie director, responsible for igniting her career. She was twenty-four and still a relative unknown when he picked her to star in The Ivory Collar, the film version of her off-Broadway hit. While shooting on location in Maine, Jeremy became Dayle’s companion and confidant. He was a better friend than lover, but it didn’t seem to matter.

They were a great-looking couple, favorites of the press, photographed wherever they went. Her future with Jeremy looked very promising indeed.

Jeremy told her that he was gay a few months before they got married. Dayle was smart enough to know that she couldn’t change him, but Jeremy could change her—and make her into a major star. He was also a hell of a nice guy, her best friend, and he needed a wife for public appearances. He was very discreet with his boyfriends, while Dayle kept busy with her career. In seven years, she strayed only twice, the second time being the marriage breaker. Her affair with leading man Simon Peck made the tabloids. Jeremy was the one who filed for divorce.

Maybe she was looking for a way out with Simon Peck. He was sexy, yes, but she never really loved him. His real name was Simon Piccardo, and he admitted to stealing Gregory Peck’s last name. That wasn’t all he stole. Every time Dayle went to a party with Simon, he’d come back home with whatever item tickled his fancy at the host’s house: a letter opener, paperweight, candy dish, or a CD. It was the same routine whenever they went shopping together. The studio had even established an understanding with various stores on Rodeo Drive that they would cover the cost of any items Simon stole. The store clerks merely had to keep tabs of the missing merchandise. Despite these precautions, Dayle still had to bail Simon out of jail twice. After the third arrest, she left him.

It was more or less the same scenario with her other show business boyfriends. She had a low tolerance level for their secret dysfunctions: the cokehead, the sex addict, the alcoholic, and the workaholic.

None of the men in Dayle’s life really knew her very well—except maybe Jeremy. He’d remarried—another one of his leading ladies. As far as Dayle knew, he was still seeing his boyfriends on the side. His career had peaked during his time with Dayle. He lived on the East Coast now, and directed the occasional TV movie. They still kept in touch—holidays and birthdays mostly.

For lack of any competition, Dayle continued to think of Jeremy as one of her best buddies. Old Rene had called it pretty accurately: You don’t haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build….

The people who really knew her best were Bonny and Dennis. She was thinking about that last night, when Leigh Simone mentioned, “My best friend is my assistant, Estelle. And I pay her salary.” Leigh said it was the same way with her band and backup singers—to a lesser degree. No matter how close she felt to them, they were still her employees. “Oh, the dilemma of being a diva!” she’d declared—before bursting into laughter.

Dayle kept her eyes closed as the plane encountered a little turbulence. Nothing severe. She smiled at the thought of Leigh Simone, and her offer of friendship. Here was someone very much like herself. How silly of her to worry about what people might think.

She opened her eyes. The boring businessman in the aisle seat didn’t wait a beat before starting in: “The flight attendant came by for your drink order, but you were asleep. I ordered a Bloody Mary. What the heck, it’s free. My wife’s not going to believe I sat next to a movie star—”

“Excuse me, Ms. Sutton,” the flight attendant interrupted, God bless him. “May I get you something to drink?”

Dayle smiled gratefully. “Yes, may I have a Diet Coke please?”

“I’d think a big superstar would order champagne and caviar,” the man beside her remarked.

“I have a long day ahead,” Dayle explained patiently. She glanced at her wristwatch, then reached for the air phone. “You’ve been very nice to let me sleep, thanks.” She started dialing, then turned her shoulder to him.

“Oh, well, no problem,” she heard him reply.

Dennis answered on the third ring. “Dennis Walsh speaking.”

“Hi, it’s me. I’m calling from the plane, which was delayed two hours. So—favor number one, let them know on the set that I’ll be late. Favor two, call your buddy, Estelle, and see if you—”

“Estelle?”

“Leigh Simone’s assistant, Estelle. Between you and her, maybe you can figure out some time when Leigh and I can get together this week. I figure—”

“Jesus, you don’t know,” he interrupted in a whisper.

“Know what?”

“I thought you sounded too damn cheerful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s bad news, Dayle. Um…Leigh’s dead.”

Dayle told herself that she didn’t hear him right.

But Dennis had confirmed it through a friend at Associated Press. Leigh had died from an apparent drug overdose in a rest room at the Imperial Hotel. “More bad news,” Dennis went on. “Someone on the plane ID’d you and called somebody else. Long story short, you’ll have a capacity crowd waiting for you at the gate—including our friends from the press.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dayle muttered, rubbing her forehead.

“I’ll get some extra security over to the airport for you.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” she said, her voice quivering. “Better have my lawyer there too. And for God’s sake, see if you can get any more information about what happened to Leigh.”

Camera flashes went off as Dayle emerged from the jet-way. Photographers elbowed and shoved each other for a good shot. Reporters screamed questions at her: What was her reaction when she heard about Leigh Simone’s death? How well did she know Leigh? Did Leigh seem depressed last night? Did she know Leigh was taking drugs?

Dayle kept her gaze fixed directly ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. The extra security people controlled the crowd at the gate. Hank, her driver and part-time bodyguard, held the mob at bay with an intimidating look. A big guy with a blond crew cut, Hank was fifty-three. Without his glasses, he could have passed for an Aryan version of Oddjob, the deadly henchman in Goldfinger. In reality, Hank was a pussycat.

“Dayle, don’t you have any comment about Leigh?”

On an impulse, she stepped up to the nearest microphone. “I don’t believe for one minute that Leigh Simone took her own life,” she announced. “Leigh didn’t use drugs. When I saw her late last night, she was doing just great. I hope the police thoroughly investigate Leigh’s death, because this overdose was not self-inflicted.”

“Ms. Sutton are you saying Leigh Simone was murdered?” one reporter asked. Then about a dozen others yelled out questions.

“I have no further comment,” Dayle said.

“Thank God!” It was her lawyer, Ross Durlocker, who came to Dayle’s side just as she turned away from the microphone. Balding and middle-aged, Ross compensated for his bland looks with frequent tanning sessions, eighty-dollar haircuts, and expensive designer suits. He hadn’t come alone. Behind him were three men in not-so-expensive suits, who just had to be police. Neither Ross nor the plainclothesmen seemed too happy with her. “Dayle, sweetheart,” Ross whispered. “The detectives here would like to talk to you before you say anything else to the media.”

Dayle threw him a strained smile, then nodded. Hank went to claim her bags. The policemen led Dayle and her lawyer through the crowd, into an elevator that had a sign posted on the doors: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They went up to the third floor, then followed the cops down the corridor to a narrow, windowless conference room with a long oak table and a dozen chairs. Blown-up aerial photos of the airport decorated the walls.

A thin, middle-aged Asian woman sat near the end of the table. She looked haggard. Her red jacket and skirt ensemble were slightly wrinkled. She gave Dayle and Ross a weary nod as she flipped open a steno pad.

“I could use some coffee,” Ross whispered to Dayle. “You want coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Dayle sat down at the table.

Ross settled next to her. He knocked on the table until the Asian woman looked up. “Honey, I’d like a cup of coffee, cream and sugar if you’ve got it.”

The Asian woman nodded and smiled. But she didn’t stand up.

“Don’t call her honey,” Dayle muttered. “You know that pisses me off.”

“Me too,” the Asian woman said. She shot a look at one of the cops. “Frank, get this asshole some coffee.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Linn.” He hurried out the door.

Dayle let out her first laugh since she’d stepped off the plane.

The woman turned to Dayle and her lawyer. “Well, you heard the man,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn of the LAPD. I’ve been on the phone with the Portland Police Department since six forty-five this morning. I’m handling the investigation of Leigh Simone’s death on this end.”

Ross cleared his throat. “I’m here as counsel to—”

“I know why you’re here, Mr. Durlocker,” the lieutenant cut in. “You’re Dayle Sutton’s lawyer. I’ll forget about your ‘honey’ crack if you forget what I called you. Now, let’s cut to the chase. According to findings from the Portland police, Leigh’s death was from an overdose of heroin—accidental or a suicide, they’re still not sure.”

Lieutenant Linn folded her hands and smiled at Dayle—the same smile she’d given Ross just seconds before calling him an asshole. “Now, Ms. Sutton. Since you were at the rally last night with Leigh, we wanted your cooperation in answering a few questions. It wouldn’t have taken long. Of course, that was before you decided to share with the press your opinion about this case.”

“I meant what I said,” Dayle replied coolly.

“Your reputation for being forthright precedes you,” the lieutenant said, glancing at her steno pad. “What makes you think, all evidence to the contrary, that Ms. Simone’s overdose was—as you put it—‘not self-inflicted?’”

Dayle leaned forward. “Leigh met me for a drink in my room late last night.” Ross and the cops were staring at her, perhaps wondering about the lesbian angle; but Dayle didn’t care. At least, she tried not to care.

“Go on,” the lieutenant said. “I’m listening.”

“We talked for thirty minutes or so,” Dayle explained. “Leigh mentioned rumors about her sex life that simply weren’t true. She said she didn’t use drugs, and joked about being a ‘disgrace to the rock star profession.’ She wouldn’t even take a drink when I offered. When she left my room at around eleven, she was in a good mood, not at all on the brink of suicide.”

“So you two said good-bye at eleven o’clock,” Lieutenant Linn remarked, glancing down at her notepad. “Did Ms. Simone say where she was going?”

“Back to her suite, her party.”

“She never returned to her suite. It looks like you were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive.”

“Except for the people who killed her,” Dayle said,

“Ms. Sutton, Leigh’s fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She’d trashed that ladies’ room, and scribbled a note on the mirror in her own lipstick. Do you know what she wrote?”

Dayle shook her head.

“She wrote the word Lies twice. What do you think she meant?”

“Perhaps she didn’t write it,” Dayle said.

“Perhaps she did. Perhaps she’d been lying to you about not using drugs. How well did you really know Leigh Simone?”

“We met for the first time yesterday—after the concert. But I could tell she wasn’t lying to me. Why should she?”

Ross’s coffee finally arrived. The detective set it down in front of him. Ross pried off the lid and grumbled that he’d wanted cream and sugar.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Dayle muttered, swiping the Styrofoam cup from him. She took a sip. The stuff fortified her a bit. She put the cup down. “Lieutenant, I might not have been in that rest room this morning. But I was with Leigh Simone last night. And the woman who left my suite was in a great mood, very much full of life. Your people in Portland ought to be looking into that hotel. Tony Katz was staying there the night he was murdered. And I happen to know that Tony was receiving death threats. Maybe his murder wasn’t as random as it seemed. First Tony, then Leigh. Doesn’t anyone in the Portland police or the LAPD see a connection here?”

“With the hotel? We see a coincidence. Where did you get this information about death threats toward Tony Katz?”

Dayle hesitated. “From someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“That’s not much help.”

“But it should cast doubt on your theory that Leigh killed herself. Somebody connected with the hotel could have been involved in both deaths.”

Lieutenant Linn shut her notebook and sighed. “Ms. Sutton, I’m not investigating the death of Tony Katz. The Columbia County Police in St. Helens, Oregon, are handling that one. The bodies of Mr. Katz and his friend were discovered in a forest preserve seventy-five miles away from Portland and the Imperial Hotel. That was a double homicide. Leigh Simone took an overdose of heroin.” The lieutenant gave her a perfunctory nod. “I want to thank you for your time, Ms. Sutton.”

“Wait a minute,” Dayle said. “Is that all?”

Lieutenant Linn nodded. “I’ll send this information on to Portland.”

“And it won’t change anyone’s mind up there, will it?”

Linn got to her feet. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Sutton. What you’ve said hasn’t changed my mind. I still think Leigh Simone took her own life. Despite what Ms. Simone might have told you, we know she was troubled about her sexuality and that she used drugs—including heroin.”

“That’s a crock of shit,” Dayle said, rising from her chair.

“No, that’s gospel—according to someone who has known Ms. Simone for six years. We got it from her personal assistant, Estelle Collier.”

“I want a powwow with Estelle Collier ASAP,” Dayle told Dennis over the phone in the back of her limousine. Hank was in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the airport terminal.

“You want to meet with Estelle? Leigh Simone’s assistant?”

“Yes. I’m sure everyone and their brother are trying to see her this morning, but do what you can. I need to talk to her.”

“Want me to get you an audience with the pope while I’m at it?”

“We’re not talking. What’s my schedule like today?”

“Mildly horrifying. You were due on the set an hour ago. You have a lunch date with Maggie McGuire that I better cancel. Nearly every reporter in the free world wants to talk to you regarding Leigh Simone. And there’s about a ton of other crap, but I took care of it.”

“Thanks, you’re a prince,” Dayle said. “One more favor. I want to talk with Tony Katz’s widow, Linda Zane. She’s someplace in Greece. See if you can dig up a phone number.”

“Will do. When can we expect you on the set?”

“We just left LAX. I’m on my way.”

“What were you saying back there?” Ross barked into his cellular. He sat behind the wheel of his Miata, a mile ahead of Hank and Dayle on Highway 405, near Culver City. “Do you really believe that Leigh Simone was murdered? That both Tony Katz and she were victims of some sort of conspiracy?”

“Maybe. For lack of a better word, call it a conspiracy.”

“Dayle, do you realize how nuts that sounds? One was gay-bashed. The other took an overdose. Except for the city and the hotel, there’s no connection. Let’s just drop this. The police are handling it. I don’t want to sit through another session with Lieutenant Tokyo Rose, not on this. Besides, you hardly even knew Tony or Leigh. They both have a—a stigma attached to them. The wise thing to do right now is play down your brief association with Leigh—if you get my drift.”

“No, Ross. What is your drift?”

“As it is, people are going to talk about you and Leigh. Why give them more ammunition? I’m not your PR man, but even I can see that it won’t do your image any good to keep harping on this whole Leigh Simone situation. It’s bad press, box office hari-kari. Am I getting through to you?”

She had to salute Ross for his tact. He’d managed to put his point across without calling anyone a lesbian. “You sure sound like a PR man, Ross,” she remarked.

“No, I’m your lawyer. I’m the one who’ll have to sue some tabloid to put an end to the talk. And you’re not making it an easy case to win, Dayle.”

She told herself that gossip about her didn’t matter, but it did. “Listen, Ross,” she said. “Leigh didn’t do drugs, and she wasn’t gay. Her assistant is lying on both counts.”

“Well, why in the world would Estelle Collier lie?”

“I don’t know,” Dayle said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Six

Libby Stoddard didn’t look like an heiress. The plump twenty-seven-year-old had frizzy brown hair and a face that might have been pretty if she didn’t appear perpetually bored. Her idea of dressing up for this meeting was a ratty black pullover and acid-washed jeans that hugged her wide hips.

The law office conference room had a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Seated at the long mahogany desk were Avery and his attorney, Libby, her lawyer, and an arbitrator.

Avery and Joanne had decided not to tell the police about the stolen videotape. They’d hoped to avoid any public embarrassment by meeting with Libby in private and persuading her to give it back. Avery’s lawyer, Brent Cauffield, was very persuasive and charming. Always impeccably dressed, the tall, forty-year-old Brent had thinning brown hair and a confident smile. Avery wanted him to work his charisma on Libby: “We don’t want to prosecute. If she returns the video, we won’t press charges. I want to press her head in a vise, but we won’t press charges.”

Fueling Avery’s anger were the calls to his house—more recorded snippets of conversation from their sex tape. He’d put a trace on the phone, and beefed up their security system. The Homeguard Company positioned four cameras around the house, one at the front gate, and another by the pool. All the cameras had twenty-four-hour videotapes that would be kept on file for a month before recycling. Joanne said it was like living in the Chase-Manhattan Bank.

The police never did figure out how the culprit had broken in. They said it must have been a pro. Avery surmised that Libby had upgraded from her punk errand boys.

As exasperating as Libby had been, Brent suggested that they bury the hatchet. It was why Avery had come along today—so Libby could finally meet him, and perhaps satiate her love-hate fixation for him.

Libby and her attorney had arrived fifteen minutes late. Her lawyer was a savvy black woman named Fiona Williamson, dressed in a yellow tailored suit. Libby seemed quite dumpy and under-dressed as she waddled through the door after Fiona.

Avery stood up and nodded politely.

Libby reeled back and vehemently shook her head.

“Ms. Stoddard and I would appreciate it if Mr. Cooper remained seated throughout the proceedings,” her lawyer explained. “My client objects to his aggressive manner here—and his efforts to intimidate her.”

“What?” Avery murmured, incredulous.

Rolling his eyes, Brent motioned for him to sit down. Avery took his seat. So much for burying the hatchet.

Fiona immediately started in about how her client felt persecuted and hounded by police during her Maui vacation. She stuck to Libby’s original tale of unloading the returned gifts on some teenagers outside a thrift shop.

Brent asked why these destitute boys would ruin six hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise and deliver it to Avery’s door, rather than return the clothes and collect the refund money. Wouldn’t that have made more sense?

“Probably,” Libby replied, shrugging. That tired, bored expression didn’t change. “I mean, whatever….”

“Your client doesn’t deny leaving an irate message on Mr. Cooper’s home phone answering machine two weeks ago, does she?” Brent asked.

Libby snorted. Fiona shook her head. “Ms. Stoddard has already apologized for that unfortunate incident.”

“We believe your client—still angry at Mr. Cooper—may have destroyed some gifts he’d returned to her. We also believe she paid those teenage boys to deliver the items to his door while she was in Maui.”

“My client has already told you what she did with the merchandise in question,” Fiona Williamson shot back.

“Does your client recall the name and location of the thrift shop?”

Frowning, Libby shook her head.

“It’s important,” Brent said. “Maybe we can track down these teenagers at the same place. We believe these boys may have broken into Mr. Cooper’s home four days ago. They stole a very personal item.”

Libby whispered something to her lawyer, then giggled.

Avery glared at her. She seemed to think this was all pretty amusing. He imagined her watching the video over and over. As much as she snickered at him and Joanne having sex, Libby probably relished the voyeuristic thrill. He could see her gleefully supervising the phone calls her errand boys made.

There had been several more in the last few days. They always hung up before a trace could be completed. At first, the same menacing voice crept over the line, spewing obscenities and quoting them in their intimate moments. A second person started phoning; he sounded older than the first. He said the videotape had been duplicated, and “My, won’t the tabloids be interested.”

Trying to maintain a brave front, Joanne said over and over that she refused to let the calls upset her. Nevertheless, Joanne’s doctor had suggested that she go back on her antidepressants. But she ended up not taking them for fear it might hurt her chances of conceiving.

Seeing Libby so smug—almost enjoying this confrontation—Avery despised her. Beneath the mahogany table, he tapped his foot impatiently while his lawyer tried to tie her punk errand boys to last Thursday’s break-in. Brent seemed headed in the wrong direction. Avery had already told him the cops thought a professional burglar had pulled the job. Why was Brent going on about these teenagers?

“Can you describe these boys outside the thrift store?” he asked.

“I don’t remember.” Libby shrugged and let out a little laugh.

“Ms. Stoddard, we’re trying to track down the person or persons who stole an item from the Coopers’ home last week.”

“Listen…Libby,” Avery broke in. “I’m not interested in pressing charges or anything like that. I just want this personal item back. I’m asking for your cooperation.”

“Well, too bad you didn’t want to talk to me last month,” she sneered. “Too bad you sent back all the presents I bought you. I’ll bet you’re sorry now. Suddenly, you want to be my friend.”

Fiona gently took hold of Libby’s arm and whispered in her ear. Libby glanced down at the tabletop for a moment. “I don’t know about any stolen stuff,” she said coolly. “I can’t help you.”

Avery slapped the tabletop with his palm. “Goddamn it,” he said.

“Mr. Cooper,” the arbitrator said with a chastising look.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Avery took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He glanced across at Libby, who had a tiny smirk on her face. Avery leaned close to Brent. “God help me,” he growled. “I’d like to strangle her….”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cooper?” Libby’s attorney asked hotly. She glowered at him. “Would you care to repeat it for the record?”

“No, that was between my attorney and myself,” Avery said.

He didn’t say another word for the rest of the hearing.

An hour after the meeting adjourned, Avery was back on the set for a love scene with Traci Haydn. It wasn’t his day.

During a break in the shooting, he retreated to his trailer and caught Joanne on her cellular. She was in the car, returning from a lunch date. Avery gave her the bad news: “The arbitration was a disaster. And we aren’t any closer to recovering that stupid video.” He sighed, and sank down on his sofa. “The only thing to come out of this is—well, now I’m pretty certain Libby’s not responsible for stealing the tape.”

“What do you mean?” Joanne asked.

“When Brent asked her about those punks and their night delivery to the house, I could tell every answer Libby gave was a lie or an evasion. But when he focused on the break-in last Thursday and a ‘stolen personal item,’ I think Libby genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Well, if it’s not Libby, who’s behind all this?” Joanne asked.

He’d been wondering the same thing. How could Libby know about their little home movie? Who else knew about the tape? Joanne admitted that she’d told a couple of girlfriends in New York, but no one else. Avery didn’t trust most of Joanne’s Broadway buddies. It was a gossipy, narcissistic crowd. Still, he doubted Libby or one of her people could have gotten to someone in New York. But seven weeks ago, the dead mice people had worked both coasts at the same time. They’d been in Joanne’s dressing room, and they’d broken into his Vancouver hotel suite undetected. They could have first seen the videotape in his suitcase there. All those weeks went by, and nothing. How stupid of him to think that they had decided to pick on someone else.

“Are you still there?” Joanne asked.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.”

“Listen, I talked to Saul again today,” she said. “They still want me for that comedy. They’ve been holding off finding another actress, and the first read through is day after tomorrow in New York.”

Avery sighed. “Well, I won’t blame you if you need to go—”

“Honey, I told them no.”

“Really?”

Joanne laughed. “You figured since things are getting rough, I’d start packing. Didn’t you? Well, I’m sticking around, hon.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Listen, are you headed home?”

“Yes, home to all those cameras and security codes.”

“I’ll try to get out of here early. I love you.”

As soon as Avery hang up, someone was knocking on his trailer door. “Avery? It’s Bob!” the studio gofer said. “There’s a call on your other line. It’s Homeguard Security, something about the house….”

“Um, thanks, Bob,” Avery replied. He grabbed the receiver and pressed the blinking second-line button. “Yes, hello?”

“Hello, Avery Cooper? It’s Homeguard calling. We don’t mean to alarm you, sir. But we’re a bit concerned by something we saw today and thought you might help clear it up for us.”

“Yes?” Avery said.

“Well, we’ve been watching you on this video, licking your wife’s snatch, and we’re wondering how it tasted.”

The line went dead.

With dinnertime just ahead, the Recipe Hotine was buzzing with helpful hints on Monday, October 27 at 4:43 P.M.:

ARLENE: My husband used to say that one of the worst things you can do to ground beef is make it into meat loaf, but then I got this recipe from my friend, Rachel….Mix 1 1b. lean ground beef with ½ cup of Pepperidge Farm Seasoned Stuffing (not cubed), 3 eggs, ¼ cup of barbecue sauce, ½ pouch of Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix (get plenty of the brown onion salt in there!), a dash of garlic salt, pepper, and just enough milk for consistency. Mold into Meat Loaf Casserole dish. If not on a diet, cover with a couple of slices of raw bacon. Slip into the oven at 350 degrees for one hour. It’s delicious!

PAT: What do you usually serve with that? Baked Potato?

DOLORES: I have a garlic mashed potato that would complement it beautifully!

RICK: Request private chat with Pat, regarding pie recipe.

The following private mailbox interchange occurred at 4:46 P.M. on that same Monday afternoon:

AMERICKAN: Re: your inquiry, video has earned approx. $375,000 from various parties…SAAMO officers have broker handling it so we don’t get R hands dirty…Understand stills will run in various adult mags, and B reproduced for Internet…5000 copies of video being distributed…Copies can B easily duplicated to insure wider distribution…SAAMO high-ups congratulate U for profitable & productive mission…that said, are U aware of problems we’ve had with D.S.?

PATRIOT: She’s mouthed off 2 press about R last job…would like to muzzle her. We should have done job on her 2 yrs. ago after lesbo vs. hunters movie.

AMERICKAN: Exactly…New orders to humiliate & terminate D.S. as soon as possible…Details follow…SAAMO Lieut, signing off.

Dayle had telephoned the Imperial Hotel several times, trying to get a hold of Brian, the waiter. It was against hotel policy to give out home phone numbers of their employees. Dayle kept leaving her number, along with the message: “Call Ms. Sutton as soon as possible.” Brian never called.

Meanwhile, in the wake of Leigh’s death, the tabloids churned out their sordid headlines. Several publishers announced forthcoming tell-all biographies, promising to expose the secret life of Leigh Simone. Her CD sales boomed, and Leigh Simone jokes made the rounds—with suicide or lesbianism a part of the punch line. The new issue of Time magazine presented Leigh on the cover, with the headline: STARS AND DRUGS: THE SUICIDE OF LEIGH SIMONE.

Dayle wanted to prove Time magazine’s suicide verdict wrong. Ross warned her to stop “picking at the scab,” and Dennis said she was nuts. Still, he kept trying to reach Estelle Collier for her, but to no avail.

Dennis did get a hold of Linda Zane, long distance at her friend’s villa in Greece. But Tony’s widow couldn’t tell Dayle much. She’d spent little time with Tony in the final weeks of his life, and knew nothing about any threats.

Frustrated, Dayle kept trying to reach the ever-elusive Brian. He’d been dodging her for four days now.

She finally had the hotel operator put her through to the restaurant. Brian wasn’t working, but one of his buddies was. He gave her Brian’s phone number, and Dayle tried him at home. After two rings a young woman picked up. “Hi, this is Joy.”

“Hello, is Brian there, please?”

She heard the girl call out: “Hey, Bry? Telephone!”

Dayle heard her mutter something, then Brian got on the line. “Hello?”

“Brian, this is Dayle Sutton.”

Silence.

“Was that your girlfriend I was talking to just now?”

“No, that was my sister,” he whispered. “This is my family’s house. I wish you hadn’t called me here.”

“I’m sorry,” Dayle said. “But you gave me no choice. I’ve left you several messages at the hotel. Is your sister still there with you?”

“She’s in another part of the house now. But I can’t talk long.”

“Then I’ll get right to the point. I think Tony Katz was killed by the people who had been threatening him. Your story makes it seem less and less like a random gay-bashing. The police don’t know about the threats on Tony’s life. I think the same people who killed Tony and his friend also murdered Leigh Simone.”

“But she committed suicide.”

“I have every reason to doubt that. So here’s where you come in, Brian. You’re the only one who knows about the threats on Tony’s life. If you tell the police what you’ve told me, I’ll do everything I can to keep your name out of the newspapers.”

“But you can’t guarantee anything like that, can you?”

“No, I can’t,” Dayle said. “I understand how you must feel, but if you keep quiet about the threats on Tony’s life, the people who killed him could go on killing.”

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” he said, his voice shaky. “The cops won’t believe me unless I tell them about Tony and me. And I’m not doing that, no way.”

Dayle said nothing. Brian was right. Admitting his sexual fling with Tony Katz was an unavoidable part of the package. And she couldn’t guarantee anonymity for him. Dayle sighed. “Will you at least think about it, Brian?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Sutton,” he whispered. Then he hung up.

“I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!” the studio audience replied in unison.

Elsie Marshall blew them a kiss. Today, she wore a purple suit, which showed off a lavender rinse in her hair. Elsie sat on the edge of the desk, the framed photo of Ricky beside her. “Well, isn’t it a shame what Leigh Simone did to herself?” she asked her subjects in the studio seats. They all murmured in agreement.

“I’ll admit, Leigh Simone was never one of Ricky’s and my favorites. But that doesn’t mean I’m not praying for her. It’s sad, it really is, to see how certain people throw their lives away. Now, the way I understand it, Leigh Simone was at this wild party full of gays and lesbians like herself…”

Elsie hesitated, then frowned. “Gay. Remember when that used to be a perfectly good word? I certainly do.”

She shrugged. “I’m just a housewife, and I don’t know much about this crowd with their ‘lifestyles’ of indiscriminate sex and drugs. But I understand this party was connected to some benefit concert promoting special rights for homosexuals.” Elsie frowned. “What do you think of these people who want special treatment, because they’re homosexual? I’m sure my son, Drew, has a few things to say about that.” She glanced stage right. “Drew?”

Drew Marshall strutted onto the set, wearing a clingy gray crew-neck jersey and pleated black trousers. This was one of the Best Dressed Man’s casual days, and a chance to show off his well-toned body—usually hidden under designer suits. Drew had wavy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones the camera loved. He seemed like the perfect, All-American hunk-hero. Never mind the rumors that a number of women had been paid off to keep quiet about their furtive one-night stands with the eligible bachelor. The stories—though unsubstantiated—went that Drew’s cruelty in bed was matched only by his inadequacies. And the wholesome hunk, so often photographed shirtless while playing football or soccer, was said to be hot-tempered and arrogant on the field; “an incredible asshole,” according to several former classmates at Harvard.

The reports never seemed to hurt Drew’s popularity on the show. He always came across as a perfect gentleman. He stepped up to his mother’s side and put an arm around her.

“Somebody forget to wear a tie today?” Elsie joked.

“Oh, c’mon, Mom,” he said, blushing. “Give me a break.”

The studio audience seemed to laugh on cue.

“Well, did you hear what I was saying?”

“I sure did.” Drew nodded. “Y’know, Mom, I have to admit, I liked Leigh Simone’s music. I have a couple of her albums.”

Elsie rolled her eyes. The studio audience responded with a mild tittering. Elsie moved behind her desk, and Drew sat down in his chair.

“From what I read,” Drew continued, “Leigh Simone was into drugs and had some deep problems having to do with her choice of lifestyle.”

“Yes, indeed,” Elsie said. “If you were listening to your mother instead of combing your hair backstage, you’d have heard what I said about that rally in Portland for homosexuals wanting special rights.”

“I heard you, Mom,” Drew said. He suddenly looked serious. “You know, unfortunate people like Leigh Simone—who promote the homosexual agenda and campaign to restrict our constitutional rights to bear arms—have no regard for American family values. We need to protect our homes, our families, and our impressionable youth. These homosexuals who want to take away our guns and prey on our children, they pose a direct threat to the American family….”

Police had to control the mob of reporters and fans gathered outside the gated community of Malibu Estates. A parade of limos, Mercedeses, and BMWs slowly passed through the guarded entry. Each one carried a film or recording star. None of those famous people gave autographs or talked to reporters. They stayed in their cars—until the guard waved them through to the private cul-de-sac. Photographers still managed to take their pictures, while reporters wrote down what they were wearing and who they were with.

It may as well have been a star-studded film premiere—instead of the site for a memorial service.

Leigh’s will requested a quick cremation and no funeral. Her producer, record mogul Morley Denton, invited a hundred of Leigh’s friends to his beach-front mansion to “celebrate the life” of the late pop diva. Dayle was on the guest list. Morley had also invited some press agents and publicists. In addition to the crowd outside the gate, unwelcome tabloid helicopters hovered over Morley’s house. Dayle’s publicist had alerted the media that Dayle was attending the memorial with her current leading man, John McDunn.

One of the busiest actors in Hollywood, John had snatched up a Best Supporting Oscar three years before. Every one of his forty-six fast-living, hard-drinking years showed on his still-handsome face. Recently divorced, John costarred with Dayle in her new movie. Their steamy love scenes together had already generated some hot prerelease publicity for the film.

In fact, John had been Dayle’s relationship number eight during the finalization of his divorce. She went into the affair knowing he had a roving eye. The romance was short-lived, but they remained friends.

John was the solution to Dayle’s problems. He had no objections to a few publicity dates with her. They looked so right together, it silenced a lot of the whispered rumors about Dayle and Leigh.

Dayle clung onto John’s arm as they stepped into the front hallway—an airy, marble atrium with a waterfall along one wall. She recognized a couple of press agents, staking out the arriving guests. They sized up John and her, then unabashedly scribbled in their notebooks.

“I really appreciate this, Johnny,” she said under her breath. “I know there are a thousand other places you’d rather be right now.”

John shrugged. “The Lakers game, in bed with you…”

Dayle nudged him. “Not anymore, honey. But thanks just the same.”

The helicopters buzzing overhead had driven scores of guests from the terrace into the house. They gathered in Morley’s huge living room, with its panoramic ocean view. Everyone still seemed in shock over Leigh’s untimely death—and the news about her “drug problem.” One of Leigh’s noncelebrity friends confided in Dayle that she refused to believe any of the stories. “And by the way, Dayle,” she said. “You should know, Leigh was so excited about meeting you. Before her Portland trip, that’s all she talked about.”

Dayle felt cheated of a friend.

She spotted Estelle Collier by the hors d’oeuvres table. In only six days, Estelle had gone from celebrity-assistant to celebrity. She knew Leigh better than anyone. Agents, publishers, and TV producers were tripping over each other for the rights to Estelle’s story. She’d already appeared on several tabloid TV news shows, painting her dead employer as a pathetic, drug-dependent lesbian with a string of nameless, faceless lovers.

How Estelle could face Leigh’s friends now was beyond comprehension. She looked like a white-trash lottery winner: too much makeup, too much jewelry, and a tacky purple dress that was too tight for her chubby figure. She loaded up her plate with food, and popped a cheese puff in her mouth.

Patting John’s shoulder, Dayle excused herself and started across the room toward Estelle. Leigh’s former assistant saw her coming. She put down her plate and started to turn away. “Estelle, we need to talk,” Dayle said.

Estelle swiveled around with a professionally perky smile. “Why, hello, Dayle. I’ve been meaning to return your calls—”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Dayle said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why did you lie to the police about Leigh?”

Estelle nervously glanced around at the other guests. Frowning, she shook her head at Dayle. “I don’t have to talk to you,” she said.

“You didn’t have to talk to the tabloids either, but that didn’t stop you.”

Estelle’s eyes narrowed. “Be grateful I’ve left you out of it, Dayle. Take my advice and stay out of it.”

“Leigh wasn’t gay,” Dayle whispered. “She didn’t take drugs. And she didn’t commit suicide. She trusted you. How can you betray her like this?”

“Let’s drop it, okay?” Estelle whispered tensely. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. Forget about it. Nothing can bring her back.”

Dayle numbly gazed at her. “You know who killed her, don’t you?”

“Please, leave me alone.”

Dayle took hold of her arm. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk. I want to help. If someone is threatening you—and making you tell these lies—”

“Please!” Estelle wrenched free from her grasp. She glanced around. They had an audience. Estelle cleared her throat. “I know how fond you were of Leigh,” she said calmly. “We all were. There’s nothing we could have done. She had so many problems. We mustn’t blame ourselves.” Estelle slowly shook her head. “Don’t linger on it, Dayle. Let it go.”

Seven

Twelve laps around her apartment building’s rooftop track equaled a mile. Dayle was alone up there, twenty-one stories above the street. The heavy smog tonight made for a gorgeous sunset: billowing clouds of vibrant pink, orange, and crimson. But the smog also took its toll on Dayle’s lung power. Eighteen laps, and already she was exhausted.

She took to the track whenever she was particularly frazzled, lonely, or blue; which meant she was in damn good physical shape lately. She’d hired a private detective agency, Brock Investigations, to check on Estelle Collier. Dayle figured Estelle was being blackmailed or threatened. There had to be some explanation for her lies. John McDunn had recommended the agency. He swore they were good, because his second wife used the sons of bitches to catch him cheating—and he’d been so careful. Dayle had spoken with Amos Brock three days ago. He’d assigned the case to his brother, Nick, who was supposed to have some results for her soon.

In the meantime, she felt uncertain and all alone with her theories about the deaths of Leigh, Tony, and his friend. Hell, she felt all alone, period. Though they never had a chance to become friends, Dayle felt an inexplicable void in the wake of Leigh’s “suicide.”

Last night, she’d started to call Dennis at home—just to chat. But she hung up before she finished dialing. He wasn’t on the clock. She had no right to bother him at home simply because she was lonely. Besides, Dennis had met someone, and supposedly he was in love. The way he kept talking about her—Laura this, Laura that—was rather nauseating. Dayle hated to admit it, but she was a little jealous. Dennis had found a life outside his job, he’d found someone more important to him than Dayle Sutton.

She wondered what people would say if she died the same way as Leigh had. Would her memory be marred by rumors and innuendo? Who knew her well enough to rush to her defense? She had no real intimate friends. All she had was her public image.

They’d probably rehash the lesbian rumors. Some enterprising tabloid reporter might even dig up evidence of the one time she’d “experimented” with another woman. It had happened almost fourteen years ago, the first of her two indiscretions while married to Jeremy. She was starring in a satire called Positively Revolting, about antiwar demonstrators in the sixties. The movie was shot in Mexico with a very hip, young cast and crew. Dayle often felt as if she was the only person on the production who wasn’t high on something half the time. One night, during a weekend beach party, she indulged in too many margueritas. Everyone went skinny-dipping, and soon, two-somes and threesomes were ducking into the bushes or cars to have sex. Dayle wound up on a cheesy yacht that belonged to a friend of Cindy something. She didn’t know what Cindy had to do with the movie, but she was pretty, with long, curly red hair, blue eyes, and freckles all over her slender body. Cindy also had a little cartoon of Winnie the Pooh tattooed on her ass—along with the words, BEAR BOTTOM.

The next morning, Dayle felt so sick and hungover as she crawled out of the bunk. She found her damp, sandy clothes amid beer cans and food wrappers on the cabin floor. Pulling on her panties, she squinted out the porthole and was relieved to see that they were docked at a pier with a couple of other boats, and not drifting somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. But her hopes for a clean getaway were dashed when Cindy woke up and said something about going out for pancakes.

Dayle apologized and said she had to leave. Her memory of the night before was vague. She’d gone into the water with the others, but kept on her panties. Cindy had stripped all the way to nothing. Several of the guys were after her, but Cindy shot each one down, and eventually she swam to Dayle.

Having been married two years to a gay man, Dayle was curious about same-gender sex—and maybe just a tad interested in evening the score on her wandering spouse. She’d felt a rush of excitement sneaking away with Cindy. But by the time they began kissing and touching each other, it seemed silly. Dayle had to pretend she was someone else in order to overcome the awkwardness. The whole experience was like another acting assignment. She didn’t enjoy it very much.

And she really didn’t want to have pancakes with Cindy. Despite her urgency to get the hell out of there, Dayle tried to let Cindy down easy. She told her that the previous evening’s activities had been a fluke, a drunken experiment. She couldn’t get dressed fast enough. “Considering this kind of thing isn’t my bag,” she heard herself say. “I still had fun with you….”

Cindy stared at her sleepily. Puffing away on a Newport, she lay naked in the bunk, an ashtray balanced on her stomach. “Bullshit,” she said finally. “This is your bag. You’re into girls. That’s what I heard on the set. You dig girls, your old man is into guys, and the two of you got married to please the Hollywood establishment.”

Dayle didn’t remember how long she stuck around trying to convince Cindy that she was wrong. But she vividly recalled the wavering boat, and feeling so sick. When she finally climbed up to the deck, she braced herself against a light post by the dock, and succumbed to the dry heaves.

The half-true rumors about her “marriage of convenience” periodically haunted Dayle and Jeremy during the eight years they were together. But the talk never grew above a whisper, and it stayed within the Hollywood community. Ironically, it took Dayle’s affair with Simon Peck—along with the divorce, and Jeremy’s subsequent remarriage—for the gossip to die down about both of them. Ending in all that mess, it didn’t seem so much like a marriage of convenience anymore.

Of course, the tales about Dayle’s lesbian leanings were resurrected after the release of Survival Instincts. And just as the gossip started subsiding, Leigh’s “suicide” ignited all sorts of new speculation. What was Dayle’s role during Leigh’s last hours that night at the Portland hotel? Had a lover’s quarrel provoked Leigh’s overdose?

The publicity dates with John McDunn had helped take some of the heat off. The former lovers looked so right together, their claim that they were “just good friends” seemed like a smoke screen for some torrid affair. More damage control came from Dayle’s publicist, who concocted a story about the meeting with Leigh on that fateful night. According to the press release, the two women had gotten together to discuss Leigh recording the theme song for Dayle’s new movie. A lot of people bought the story. In fact, several recording artists expressed interest in taking over the vocal assignment.

Dayle had to look out for her reputation. Nevertheless, the more she thought about having to take these steps in the wake of Leigh’s death, the less she liked herself.

She ran harder, pouring it on until she was sprinting around that rooftop track. Her lungs burned, and beads of sweat flew off her forehead.

When she’d started her laps a half hour ago, Dayle had been alone up there. The track encircled a glass-enclosed pool area—complete with lounge chairs, umbrella tables, blooming plants, and potted trees. There were also rest rooms and a mini-gym around the corner by the stairwell, on the other side of the elevator. The maintenance crew kept this semiprivate paradise spotlessly clean. Still, the place always smelled like chlorine and wet socks.

No one was using the pool right now. As dusk gave way to night, the inside lights—set on a timer—went on. Dayle tallied her twenty-eighth lap and began to slow down. Passing by the vestibule for the elevators, she caught a glimpse of someone on the other side of the glass door. He’d been standing there, watching her—a short, pale, mustached man in an aviator jacket. Despite the darkness, he wore sunglasses. Dayle didn’t recognize him as one of her neighbors in the building.

Now that she’d spotted him, the stocky little man suddenly turned away and tried to look interested in the pool area. It wasn’t a very convincing show. He opened the other door and stepped into the tropical atrium, but he kept sneaking these furtive glaces at her.

Dayle peered back over her shoulder at him. She veered along a bend in the track, and ran a half lap on the other side of the building. Taking another curve, she saw him again—still in the pool area. He hadn’t strayed far from the vestibule door. He seemed to be staking out the elevators.

The distant blare of a car horn made her aware of the traffic several stories below—just on the other side of the chest-high railing. The wind kicked up a little, and Dayle suddenly felt cold. The sweat on her forehead turned clammy.

Warily, she watched him move back into the vestibule. She could tell that behind those sunglasses, the creepy man was staring at her. She must have been frowning at him, because he suddenly turned again, and reached for the elevator button. But he didn’t actually press it, his thumb missed the button by an inch. The little arrow light didn’t go on. Almost too casually, he glanced back at her again. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was waiting for her.

Dayle couldn’t quite catch her breath—even as she slowed down to a trot. Her skin felt prickly.

She kept her eyes trained on him—until she rounded another curve in the track. She jogged past the mini-gym, the rest rooms, and a stairwell on the other side of the glass. At the next bend, there was a door to the pool area. She hoped to duck inside and make it to the stairs before he saw her.

Approaching the pool entry, Dayle took a more deliberate stride. She didn’t want to burst through the door and call attention to her flight. She couldn’t let him know she was scared. Like a dog scenting her fear, he’d give chase if she ran. She pulled open the door and walked at a brisk clip toward the stairwell. The humid, chlorine-stagnant air hit her, but she didn’t slow down. Navigating around the pool, she spied him—still by the elevators. He was talking on a cell phone. Dayle couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her yet.

Then, as she neared the stairs, Dayle caught a glimpse of the door to the vestibule swinging open. She didn’t look back. She heard his footsteps on the tiled floor—and him whispering some kind of urgent directions into his portable phone.

Dayle ducked into the stairwell and hurried down a few steps before she suddenly froze. She gaped over the banister. Two flights below, a figure pulled back from the stair railing and retreated into the shadows—along the cement wall.

Someone else was waiting for her.

For a second, Dayle was paralyzed. She turned and raced back up the stairs. She didn’t see the stubby man with the sunglasses. She didn’t even stop to look for him as she emerged from the stairwell. Everything was a blur. She found the ladies’ room door, pushed her way inside, then locked it.

Catching her breath, Dayle leaned against the door. She couldn’t stop trembling. She was covered with perspiration, and her jogging-wear clung to her body. She listened to the footsteps outside—then whispering. It sounded as though one of them said, “She’s in there.”

Dayle backed away from the door—toward the toilet stalls. One of the men outside began tugging and wrenching at the knob over and over—to no avail. Finally, a thin file slipped through the crack by the lock, and it started moving up and down.

Dayle frantically glanced around the lavatory, looking for anything she might use to defend herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the reflection of the mirror.

Gasping, she spun around. A shadow floated across the tiled floor—over by the corner stall. Was someone hiding in there? Did they have a third man working with them?

Dayle tried to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, the scream came from outside—from the pool area. It was the sound of a little girl. Dayle heard a woman and man talking, then water splashing.

Dazed, she stared at the door. The file wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t hear their whispered voices. They’d gone.

Dayle glanced back at that corner stall, then unlocked the rest room door and pushed it open. She peered out at the five people who had unwittingly saved her. Two children were splashing each other in the shallow end of the pool, while three adults—in their street clothes—settled down at an umbrella table. It looked like a young couple with a friend—one of Dayle’s neighbors, probably an uncle to those kids.

She still didn’t feel safe. Dayle stole one more glance at that stall in the corner. If someone was in there, he’d hidden himself well. And she wasn’t going to start looking for him.

Dayle hurried out of the rest room.

“Then what happened?” Lieutenant Linn asked.

“I asked my neighbor over by the pool if he could escort me back to my apartment.” Dayle spoke in a whisper. She glanced around the restaurant for a second, then sighed. “I told him that a reporter had somehow gotten into the building, and he was bothering me. Anyway, my neighbor rode down in the elevator with me, then walked me to my door.”

Despite the noisy crowd at Denny’s this Halloween morning, Dayle was certain someone would hear her. Already, a couple of loud, overly friendly women had come up to the table and asked for her autograph. They kept shrieking and laughing, like contestants on The Price Is Right. The women had left a few minutes ago, but people were still staring.

When Dayle had called her last night, Lieutenant Linn claimed that this particular Denny’s was where she had all her breakfast meetings. A cardboard and tissue jack-o’-lantern centerpiece decorated their window table. The waitress, an older woman with glasses and a pink rinse in her hair, had seemed far too busy to notice that the order for dry toast and orange juice came from a bona fide movie star. Lieutenant Linn had ordered a Grand Slam.

“Don’t you have someone handling security in your building?” she asked, while jotting in her notebook.

Dayle nodded. “We have a doorman and a guard. I called them immediately. But they never found the men. It’s possible these guys slipped in past the front desk earlier. Someone on the eleventh floor was having a lot of work done on their place, and workmen were coming in and out all day.”

Lieutenant Linn grabbed the brown plastic pitcher and refilled both of their coffee cups. “Why did you tell your neighbor that a reporter was pestering you? Why not just tell him the truth?”

“Because these men were after me,” Dayle replied. “I saw no point in scaring my neighbor—or his friends.”

“What makes you so sure they were after you—and only you?”

Dayle frowned. “I’m not paranoid—if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Well, isn’t it possible that these men could have been reporters?” Lieutenant Linn said. “I mean, as you know, some of those guys are awfully aggressive.”

Dayle sighed and glanced out the window for a moment. She’d hoped to avoid publicity by calling Lieutenant Linn last night—instead of reporting the incident to the police. She didn’t want the press picking it up.

Their breakfast arrived. Dayle’s toast was smothered with butter, but at this point, she didn’t give a damn. “I know you think I’m overreacting,” she said. “But something’s happening here. Leigh’s death wasn’t a suicide, and what happened to Tony Katz was no random gay-bashing. He was getting death threats. I wish I could tell you where I heard this, but I can’t. This person prefers to remain anonymous.”

Susan Linn doused her pancakes with syrup. “So you think the men stalking you last night are the same ones who threatened Tony Katz—and killed Leigh Simone?” She gave Dayle a dubious glance. “Why should they want to kill you?”

Dayle shrugged. “I was at that benefit concert. I gave a tribute to Tony. Maybe I pissed somebody off. I had a ton of death threats a couple of years ago when I played a gay character in this movie.”

Nodding, Lieutenant Linn jotted something in her steno pad. “Survival Instincts. I saw it. Listen, do you have a bodyguard?”

“My chauffeur doubles as my bodyguard.”

“You should get somebody full time.” She put down her pen. “When we last talked, you insisted we were wrong about Leigh’s drug habits and sexual problems. Do you still feel that way?”

“Yes, I do,” Dayle said.

“That would make her assistant, Estelle Collier, a liar, wouldn’t it?”

“Has anyone ever bothered to confirm Estelle’s claims about Leigh’s ‘secret life’?”

Susan Linn shrugged. “I suppose we’re all rather quick to believe the worst about people, especially the rich and famous. Then again, why would Estelle Collier lie?”

“I might be able to answer that for you, Lieutenant. Very soon.”

Amos Brock’s brother, Nick, attracted a lot of attention as he swaggered to Dayle’s trailer door. About thirty, and attractive in a cheap, hoody way, he was tan (probably all over), and wore a Hawaiian silk shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He had a sinewy body and his straight black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. He looked like the male equivalent of a bimbo.

He’d shown up at the studio between scene setups. Dayle had managed to get in three hours of work since her breakfast with Lieutenant Linn this morning. She was in her trailer, chatting with Bonny, and primping for her next scene. She asked Bonny to leave them alone for a few minutes. Bonny gave her a lewd wink at the trailer door—as if Nick Brock were some hired stud service, not a private detective. Keeping a straight face, Dayle offered him a seat and a cup of coffee. He’d dowsed himself in Obsession, forcing Dayle to crank up the vent fan. She returned to her vanity, where she reapplied her lipstick. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Brock,” she said to his reflection in the mirror. “I assume you found something.”

“Correct-a-mundo, and you can call me Nick,” he said, leering at her. “You know, you’re one fine-looking lady, Ms. Sutton. And it doesn’t take a lot of detective work to figure that out.”

“Thanks,” Dayle said. “But you can knock off the sweet talk, Nick. What did you find out about Estelle Collier?”

He opened a black leather-bound notebook. “Well, our gal, Estelle, has a lot of secrets. First off, she’s got a kid, a love child, the result of her hippie period. His name is Peter, and he was born in San Francisco in 1970.”

“Is this son still alive?” she asked.

Nick nodded. “Correct-a-mundo. And although she’s been hanging out with liberal types like Leigh Simone, Estelle has kept junior a secret.”

Dayle turned to stare at him. “What about the father?”

“It says ‘unknown’ on the birth certificate. But I know this much. The little bastard grew into a big bastard, despite mama busting her chops to make sure he got everything he wanted. Estelle has spent a small fortune bailing him out of jail again and again, and putting him into private rehab centers for substance abuse. Thanks to Peter, Mama Estelle was in debt up to her ass when Leigh Simone hired her. That was six years ago. At just about the time Estelle was climbing out of debt, Little Petee got bitten by the gambling bug. Three guesses how his luck was.”

“Disastrous?”

He nodded. “Correct-a-mundo. A major loser.”

“Could you do me a favor, Nick?” Dayle said. “Could you knock off the ‘correct-a-mundo’ bit? It’s annoying.”

Nick looked crestfallen. “Sorry,” he grumbled. He glanced down at his notes. “Um, where was I?”

“The son had some gambling debts. I gather Estelle covered his losses.”

Nick nodded. “Mama to the rescue. It was either that or sonny would get his legs sawed off at the kneecaps. To shell out the payments, Estelle borrowed from her boss—on the sly.”

“She embezzled from Leigh?”

“Correct-a—” Nick caught himself. “Yes. Looks that way.”

“How did you find out all this?”

Nick leaned back and sighed. “Detective work, Ms. Sutton. It’s what I do. I talked to an ex-friend of Peter Collier’s, and I found this in San Francisco.” He handed her a copy of Peter Collier’s birth certificate. “Plus I schmoozed with a clerk at the accounting firm for the late Leigh Simone.”

“A clerk?”

Nick shrugged. “She’s hot for me. I bat my baby blues, casually ask the questions, and she always spills more than she intends to. From what I could find out, when Leigh offed herself, right away, they noticed a lot of money had gone hasta-la-bye-bye from her accounts. So they pumped Estelle, and she cracked, fessed up to the whole thing.”

“Why wasn’t she arrested?”

“They were supposed to be keeping track of Leigh’s doeray-me. If they blew the whistle on Estelle, they’d look like idiots. My guess is, they must have made a deal with Estelle to replace the money before anyone was the wiser. The day after Leigh was discovered in the ladies’ lav, ever faithful Estelle played ball with the tabloids, slamming her dead boss. She raked in close to forty thousand that day, but you’d never know it, because it went right into Leigh’s account to cover what she’d been skimming. Y’know, when it came to blowing the whistle on Madame Simone, Estelle promised the tabloids more than she delivered. She couldn’t back up a thing she told them. No juicy photos or videos, no love letters in Leigh’s handwriting, no proof. Bupkis. The tabloids weren’t too happy with her.”

“So Estelle couldn’t prove she was telling the truth about Leigh?”

Nick nodded. “Correct-a…yes, correct, ma’am.”

“Okay,” Dayle said. “What I need is proof that she was lying to the tabloids and the police. Were you able to dig anything up?”

Nick Brock shrugged. “Hey, sorry. I thought you were looking for something in her past, some good ammo for a blackmailer. Between the loser son she has stashed away and the embezzlement, I figured we had something.”

Dayle glanced at the copy of Peter Collier’s birth certificate. She studied that line on the document: Father: Unknown.

“Mr. Brock, see what you can find out for me about this unknown father,” she said. “And consider it a rush job.”

Eight

Traci Haydn refused to come out of her trailer, and all they could do was wait. Traci’s assistant, a thin, pencil-faced brunette who had overdone the collagen injections, came out of the trailer at different intervals to explain that Traci had problems with her hair, problems with her makeup; she was on the phone with her astrologer, with her agent, with her husband; she had cramps, she had a headache. It was no secret on the set that Miss Big Lips was supplying Traci with cocaine.

Jotting notes on his script, Avery waited it out with the crew. A couple of technicians passed around the latest US magazine with Traci on the cover. “Says here,” one read, “‘Traci makes friends wherever she goes. No prima donna, she’s on a first-name basis with everybody on her movie set.’”

A soundman didn’t look up from his newspaper. “That would be true, if we were all named ‘Hey, Fuckhead.’” He glanced at Avery. “Want the paper?”

Avery shrugged. “Sure. Thanks, Fuckhead.”

Chuckling, the soundman handed him the newspaper, which was folded over to the Entertainment page. Avery checked out CHASING AROUND TOWN by Yvonne Chase. The gossip column featured tidbits on a dozen celebrities—their names in bold print. The last blurb was an occasional gem Yvonne featured to set Hollywood on a guessing game called I’M NOT SAYING WHO, BUT…

Avery read the blurb:

It’s true what you’ve heard about a certain guy-next-door TV-to-Film Star and his Broadway Babe wife. Proof their Bi-Coastal marriage is A-OK is in the Porn! A raunchy home video of these two in the sack is circulating throughout the Hollywood Hills. One movie exec is said to have paid ten thousand clams for a copy of the sexually explicit tape. No comment from the frisky, unabashed duo.

Avery started to crumple up the newspaper, then became aware of the soundman hovering over him. “Excuse me,” he managed to say. He headed toward his trailer.

It was happening. Copies of his and Joanne’s sex tape were out there now. People were starting to talk about it. Soon bootlegged copies of the video would be available. And it wouldn’t be long before Internet users could download explicit photos of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane making love. The last few days had been quiet, but he’d seen this coming.

He had already told his agent, Louise, about the new Avery Cooper film for which she’d receive no commission. As Louise said, “Well, you never know. Maybe some country will bomb another country the day this video goes public, and no one will give a damn about your little home movie.”

Avery had also spoken to Brent Cauffield about legal avenues they could take to stifle the video distribution and bootlegging. His attorney wasn’t very optimistic, but promised to do what he could.

To handle “damage control,” Louise had recommended a public relations wizard named Steve Bensinger. Avery had already talked with him on the phone. He seemed like a nice guy, very smart. They were scheduled to sit down and discuss strategies early tomorrow night.

Avery now needed to move up that appointment.

Once inside his trailer, he called Louise. They’d been playing phone tag all morning. She picked up this time: “Seers Representation.”

“Hey, Louise. It’s me. Did you see the blurb in Yvonne Chase’s column?”

“Yes, I saw that tidbit,” she said. “And I also heard from a friend of mine this morning. He says they showed your video last night during a party at Vaughn Samson’s house….”

“Oh, great.” Avery muttered. “So we’re party entertainment….”

“If it’s any consolation, you were quite a hit with Vaughn and the boys. He may just want to direct you in your next film.”

“Swell,” he grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sat on his sofa. “Have any reporters called you about this yet?”

“Only about a dozen since breakfast,” she answered dryly.

“I need to see Steve Bensinger as soon as possible,” Avery said. “We shouldn’t talk to the press until we’ve worked out an angle on this.”

“I’ll call Steve for you,” Louise offered. “He owes me a favor. I’ll make sure he sees you tonight.”

“Good.” Avery sighed. “I don’t know how to thank you, Louise.”

“Hmmm, maybe you could get me a copy of that video.” She was the only one laughing. “Avery, it was a joke.”

“Sorry. At the moment, I don’t have a very good sense of humor.”

“Honey, a sense of humor is what you need most right now.”

He managed a chuckle. “Sound advice. Thank you, Louise.”

Avery clicked off the line, but held on to the phone. He needed to call Joanne, and dreaded it. Despite the quiet calm before the storm of these last few days, she’d shown signs of increasing strain. Last night, she’d thrown a glass of red wine at the kitchen wall, because he’d made the fatal error of mentioning her mother again.

He’d brought up the topic a few days ago. Avery felt they had to warn their parents about the bad publicity ahead. He certainly didn’t want Rich and Lo hearing about the video from someone else. They were still catching flack from church friends about his controversial TV movie. To brace them for this latest bombshell, he’d asked his brother to be at his parents’ home when he called, then he got both his mom and dad on the line. At first, his mother didn’t seem to comprehend what Avery was talking about: “What do you mean? What ‘personal item’ did these people steal?”

“They stole a video, Mom. It’s—kind of a risqué home movie of Joanne and myself—in bed.”

It was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. Finally, his father cleared his throat. “Um, you made a video of the two of you—”

“Yeah, Pop. And they stole it.” Avery’s stomach was turning.

“Why?” his mom asked, incredulous. “Why did you do that? I can’t believe Joanne would agree to such a thing. What were you thinking?”

“Honey,” his father cut in. “Let’s just listen to what he has to say.”

“I’m really sorry, you guys,” he muttered, “It gets worse. The people who took the tape, they say they’re going to make copies…”

The more he tried to explain, the more upset his mother became. Finally, his father gently interrupted. “Avery? We’ll have to call you back. Okay? Your mom’s crying. We’ll call you back, son.”

Avery heard a click on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry,” he said to no one.

They phoned back a half hour later. By then, his mother had calmed down, and his dad was even trying to joke about it. Avery apologized for the embarrassment they’d have to endure. But his dad reassured him, “Oh, so we’ll get some flack. This too will pass. Comes with the territory when you have a movie star for a son. For the most part, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

As much as he’d hated making that call to his parents, Avery had known deep inside that they would be supportive—no matter what.

Joanne’s relationship with her parents wasn’t so ideal. She’d been estranged from her mother for several years—some bad blood over her mother’s selling the house and all their furniture right after her father had died—without consulting Joanne. Though Avery had never met his mother-in-law, he encouraged Joanne to end their six-year standoff. Joanne told him to butt out. She claimed not to care one way or another what her mother thought once this sex video went public.

Avery had let the subject drop for a couple of days. Then he’d made the mistake of picking it up again last night. All he’d said was: “You sure you don’t want to try getting in touch with your mom?”

Then the wineglass hit the kitchen wall. Joanne went on a tirade, calling her mother a bitch, and blaming Avery for bringing on this whole humiliating ordeal. “Why did you have to make that stupid TV movie anyway?” she screamed, banging her fist on the kitchen counter. “It’s because of that movie they singled us out and stole the video. It’s probably why I can’t get pregnant. God’s punishing us, because you played an abortion doctor—”

“Joanne, you can’t mean that,” he whispered, reaching out to her.

She reeled away. “Leave me alone!”

“All right, all right, just calm down,” he said, pulling back. He glanced at the wine stain on the wall and the broken glass on the floor. “Listen to me for a second,” he said. “I was wrong. Phoning your mother was a bad idea. Let’s erase that. Okay? Everything’s going to be all right.”

She settled down a bit later, and took one of those pills that the doctor had prescribed. Avery cleaned up the broken glass, but the wine had made a noticeable mauve-colored stain on the white kitchen wall.

Joanne had gone to bed early. She’d still been asleep when Avery headed off for the studio this morning. He’d hated leaving her alone.

It was extra infuriating that he had to be here—while Traci hid in her trailer and held up production. An awful thought occurred to him: You’re dealing with two very temperamental actresses. He refused to put his wife in the same league as Traci Haydn. Besides, Joanne was under a tremendous strain right now. This latest news about their video wouldn’t help any.

Avery dialed home. The machine switched on. “Joanne? If you’re there, pick up….” He paused. “Okay, some things are starting to happen with the video. You can page me on the set—”

There was a click on the line. “Avery?”

“You’re home….”

“I’m screening calls,” she said briskly. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since eleven. And there are, one, two, three—I’m looking out the living room window—six TV news trucks parked outside the front gate.”

“Then I guess you know already,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing okay, believe it or not.”

“You sure?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes, I haven’t smashed one single glass all morning.”

“You had me worried last night,” he admitted.

“Huh, I was pretty worried myself. But now that it’s finally happening and the awful wait is over, I feel we can handle this. Really. Sorry if I gave you a scare. But c’mon, honey. You’re married to an actress. The theater’s in my blood. I can’t have just a little hissy fit. Last night, Joanne Lane was playing to the balcony. But I promise, no more theatrics.”

“Uh-huh,” was all Avery said. The actress hadn’t quite convinced him that she was all right. He was still worried about her. “Better not talk to any reporters until I get there,” he said. “I’ll be home soon.”

The number of reporters and TV news vans outside their front gate had doubled in the last couple of hours. The police had arrived to redirect traffic on the block. Avery couldn’t believe that a private home video of a married couple having sex was causing such a sensation.

“Is this a slow news day or what?” He nodded at the front windows. “It’s like the Miracle of Fatima just happened out there.”

Steve Bensinger chuckled. The public relations guru sat with them at their breakfast table. He had a tan complexion and a moussed mop of brown hair. “You’re right, Avery,” he said, sipping his coffee. “It’s a slow news day. But your increasing star power is more of a factor. Plus you and Joanne are very high profile in print and on TV with those gun-control endorsements.”

Joanne slouched back in her chair. “But how did it get so crazy so fast? This morning, it was only a blind item in Yvonne Chase’s column.”

“The thing just snowballed, Joanne.” Steve checked some of his notes. “Several stills from the video began circulating on the Intranet this morning. The owner of a video store in West Hollywood called into a radio station saying that within two hours he sold eighty-seven copies of the video at forty bucks a pop. News services picked it up within minutes.”

“So what can we do by way of damage control?” Avery asked.

“Well, I haven’t seen the video yet, but I viewed some of the stills floating around the Internet.”

Joanne squirmed at this news. Avery put his arm around her.

Steve glanced at his notes again. “The pictures are, of course, explicit, and undeniably you two. The good news is—well, you both looked great. We can make that work for us. You’re a hot, sexy couple, who are married and very much in love. You made a video for your own fun, and it got stolen.” He sipped his coffee. “I want you to keep that in mind during interviews. You did it for fun…. It was supposed to be private….”

Avery stared at him. “You want us to talk to the press about this?”

“Practically every newspaper and magazine outside of the Christian Science Monitor wants to interview you two. Ditto the talk shows. We should be selective. I suggest you keep it down to very few—”

“How about keeping it down to none?”

“It’s part of ‘damage control,’ Avery,” Steve said. “Now, I suggest you appear on Oprah, Jay, and Today. And in print, give People magazine a few hours. They’ll put you both on the cover, guaranteed.”

Avery frowned at him. Though Steve was right, of course. They couldn’t hang their heads in shame and go into hiding. They’d be playing right into the hands of whoever was behind this.

“Well, I’ll consent to some interviews,” Avery finally said. “But I don’t see why Joanne has to subject herself to any of this—”

“Now, hold on,” Joanne said. “I can talk for myself. And I want to do it. You shouldn’t be on these interviews alone, Avery. Only the two of us together can make it work. Maybe we can turn this whole thing around.”

He took hold of Joanne’s hand. “You sure you’re up to it?”

She laughed. “Darling, last year, I pulled off six performances—and a matinee—while fighting a fever of a hundred and two. I think I can handle a few interviews. This will be good. I’m all for it.”

Avery nodded and tried to smile. He listened to her and Steve hatch a media strategy. But all the while, he kept looking across the kitchen—at a faint wine stain on the wall.

Avery and Joanne agreed to do the talk-show circuit. They wouldn’t air any theories about who might have stolen the home video and why. Avery figured they should gloss over references to the break-in and the harassing phone calls. Those were police matters. Too much focus there, and they’d come across as victims. They had to keep the interviews light and entertaining.

Steve booked them on the talk shows he’d recommended. And People arranged to interview and photograph them at home. All these commitments would be fulfilled in the next seventy-four hours—including a trip to Chicago for Oprah.

Avery’s agent reported that her phone was ringing off the hook with movie offers—hot, leading-man roles in big-budget productions. Joanne’s agent in New York described a similar phenomenon at her office. Several publishers wanted them to write their autobiographies—as well as a how-to manual for married couples who wanted to keep the honeymoon alive. There was also an idea for a “tasteful, coffee table book” of them nude and making love, shot by a big-name photographer. They had countless proposals from clothing manufacturers, and cosmetic, cologne, and underwear companies to be spokesmodels. They politely declined all offers. No one could accuse them of cashing in on this scandal. Almost no one.

“I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

“God bless you,” Elsie said, blowing a kiss to her studio audience. Today, she wore a royal blue First Lady suit and pearls. She picked up a newspaper on the desktop. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m pretty disgusted by all the attention these two—well, pornographers—have been receiving the last couple of days.” She held up the front page of a tabloid with the headline: INDECENT EXPOSURE: AVERY COOPER AND WIFE BARE ALL IN EXPLICIT HOME VIDEO.

“Can you believe that some people actually consider these two ‘role models for romance’?” Elsie asked. “I’m just a housewife, but it seems to me that decent people—people we’re supposed to admire—don’t make sexually explicit videotapes of themselves and accidentally let them get duplicated thousands of times for wide distribution. And they seem just as proud as punch about it! Did you see them laughing and making jokes on The Today Show this morning? I could barely eat my breakfast, watching those two snickering about this—pardon me—‘sex tape.’” Elsie shook her head and sighed. “Now, from what I understand, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are supposed to have—what do they call it—a bicoastal marriage?” She glanced stage left, off camera. “Drew? Is that right? Bicoastal?”

Drew Marshall ambled onto the set to a swelling of applause. He wore a blue Armani suit today. “That’s right, Mom, bicoastal,” he said. He kissed her, then took the newspaper, glanced at it, and shook his head. “It means they’re married, but live on opposite sides of the country. In most cases, it also means they can date other people. It’s like how most of these so-called ‘gay marriages’ are. They say they’re together, but they sleep with other people.”

“Well, that’s not right,” Elsie muttered.

“No, it isn’t. You know, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are the ones who do those ads endorsing restrictions on our constitutional right to bear arms.”

“Oh, I’ve seen those commercials. They’re awful!” Elsie said.

Drew chuckled. “Well, at least they have their clothes on in the commercials. We can be grateful for that.”

Elsie frowned. “Wasn’t Avery Cooper the one in that TV movie glorifying an abortion doctor?”

“That’s right, Mom. And in his next movie, he plays a homosexual!”

“Well, all I can say is, ‘It figures.’”

“That goddamn homemade porn video has practically doubled their popularity! What the fuck is going on?”

His voice carried over the cries of seagulls and the sound of water lapping against the docks. A limousine and a rented Ford Taurus were parked side by side in the marina lot. The uniformed driver and another man leaned against the front hood of the Taurus. The second man was forty-five, with dark receding hair and a chalky complexion. He puffed on a cigarette, and glanced over his shoulder at the limo. The back window was cracked open, and he could hear his boss getting chewed out by one of the very-top dogs.

“The idea behind stealing and distributing the video was to ruin their reputations!” the bigwig went on. “But now they’re America’s goddamn fucking sweethearts. Their stupid gun-control commercials are pissing off my campaign contributors. I’ve made promises to them. And you can bet your ass, I’m going to deliver. Now, this porno-flick scheme was your fucking piece-of-shit brainchild. I want you to fix this. I want you to fix them. I want that faggot, Cooper, to suffer. I want his cunt of a wife to suffer. I want them disgraced. I want them both to wish they were fucking dead! Do you hear me?”

Propping his foot back against the rental car’s front bumper, the man took another drag from his cigarette. “Just listen to him in there,” he said to the chauffeur, cracking a little smile. “Hell, if old Elsie heard the way her son was talking, she’d wash his mouth out with Lifeboy.”

On Friday, November 7, at 5:52 P.M., a debate ensued over the Internet Movie-talk line about a film remake:

JOHN S.: Anne Heche played it too light. Janet Leigh was much better…with all that guilt and angst.

PAT: Plus Janet Leigh has a better set of knockers.

KARLA: Who is this pig? I liked Anne Heche’s interpretation.

RICK: I don’t go to movies that star lesbians. Request private chat with Pat, regarding another Hitchcock film.

The following private mailbox discussion took place a minute later:

PATRIOT: What’s going on?

AMERICKAN: SAAMO high-ups not pleased over results of campaign to humiliate A.C…. Early reaction shows increase in his popularity due to video exposure…Very upsetting…Plans to enlist Leslie Bonita Stoddard to cooperate in another scenario are now a no-go…thorough background check on L. B. Stoddard shows she contributed $25,000 to handgun-ban campaign last yr. & also had abortion 3 yrs. ago.

PATRIOT: A bitch like that doesn’t deserve 2 live.

AMERICKAN: Exactly…new plans re: A.C. under way…Details follow…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

Nine

SCENE 28: INTERIOR: RACHEL’S LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

Rachel is at her desk, hunched over piles of legal briefs and a fast food dinner that she didn’t finish. Enter Dianne. She comes behind Rachel and kisses the top of her head.

DIANNECome on, Rache. It’s getting late. Let’s go to bed.

RACHELIn a minute.

DIANNE (kissing the back of her neck)I know how important this case is. But so is our relationship. Now, take a break and come to bed.

Rachel surrenders, then turns and kisses her passionately. She unbuttons Dianne’s blouse and kisses her breasts.

Quick Dissolve to:

SCENE 29: INTERIOR: RACHEL’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

Rachel and Dianne are in bed, making love. Various shots show the two women in the throes of passion….

“Oh, shit,” Dayle grumbled, quickly closing the manuscript. She was considering the role of Rachel, the fictitious name they’d given to the real-life lesbian lawyer. This was Dayle’s first glance at the script, tentatively titled In Self-Defense.

For the past few days, she’d been trying to follow everyone’s advice, and stick to the business of making movies. She didn’t hire a bodyguard, but advised her chauffeur, Hank, that his watchman skills were required. She let him carry a 9-mm Glock. Hank assured her that he’d been practicing his marksmanship, and was ready for any kind of “protective service emergency.” In other words, he was just itching for someone to take a potshot at her so he could put his newly rehoned skills to use.

Nick Brock had called long distance from Estelle Collier’s old hometown, Monoma, Wisconsin. He’d left a brief message on Dayle’s machine: “Greetings from Dullsville, U.S.A. So far, all I got is that Estelle had a fat, miserable childhood. I hear later in high school, she was a pothead and bolted before graduating. Nobody knows where. I’ll try to dig up more. Ciao, Ms. Sutton.”

There hadn’t been any more incidents like the one up on her roof. But if things seemed calm for now, her playing a lesbian in this next film would be inviting trouble back. The trades had already reported her and Avery Cooper’s interest in the project.