The Next to Die

Dayle had the script in her lap, open to the sex scene. She sat on the steps outside her trailer while the crew set up the next shot. It was a scene with Maggie McGuire, an Oscar-winning, forty-year film veteran, who played her mother. Maggie wasn’t averse to taking on small, juicy character roles like this one in Waiting for the Fall.

Her nose in a crossword puzzle, Maggie sat at Dayle’s side, in a “star” chair with her name on it. For seventy-one years old, the silver-blond actress looked great thanks to a few nips and tucks. Maggie had recently gained media attention by marching with her HIV-positive son in the Gay Pride Parade in Los Angeles. The two of them had landed on the cover of People.

Dayle reread the lesbian love scene and sighed.

“The script can’t be that bad,” Maggie said.

“Actually, it’s okay, but—well, here.” Dayle handed her the manuscript, open to the sex scene. “They want me for the role of Rachel.”

Maggie set aside her crossword puzzle and read for a moment. “Huh, I’d buy a ticket.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dayle plucked the script out of her hands. “I mean, is this scene really necessary? Isn’t it enough that my character’s a lesbian? Do I have to prove it by making love to another woman on screen? Tom Hanks was gay in Philadelphia, but outside of a slow dance with Antonio Banderos, he hardly touched the guy. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to get naked and roll around with another woman to get the point across.”

Maggie gave her a world-weary smile. “Haven’t you figured out by now that heterosexual males call all the shots? Otherwise, there would be no wars, and we’d have a cure for breast cancer and AIDS.”

“And I wouldn’t have to kiss another woman’s tits in this movie.”

“Listen, you’ve got a gorgeous body. Why not show it off? As for the character, you’re a method actress, you know what to do. Talk to some lesbian lawyers. I can have my son introduce you to some women—”

“That’s all right, Maggie,” Dayle cut in. “In fact, the film’s based on a true story. This afternoon, I’m meeting the lawyer I play.”

“The breast-kissing Rachel?”

Sighing, Dayle nodded. “Her real name’s Sean Olson.”

“Something else about this movie bothers you,” Maggie said, studying her. She set aside her crossword puzzle book. “It’s not just this sex scene. What is it? Tell your mama.”

Dayle managed a chuckle, then shrugged. “Oh, maybe it’s the subject matter. It really seems to unnerve people. Stick your neck out, and someone always tries to chop it off.”

“No kidding,” Maggie said. “Certain folks have been grinding an ax for me since I appeared on the cover of People with my son. I’ve had a ton of hate mail. But that’s when I get on my high horse. No one’s going to tell me to shut up—especially when I’m defending the civil rights of my son. I’m a fighter, Dayle. I think you are too.”

Frowning, Dayle glanced down at the script in her lap.

Maggie started to reach for her crossword puzzle book. “I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can tell.”

“No, it’s okay. Really. You’re helping me figure this out, you are.”

Maggie sat back. “Well, then here’s my two cents. You’re a big star, Dayle. You could help launch this film. I know what the script’s about. It’s a movie that might make a difference for people like my son. If I’m picking away at you, that’s why. I have a personal investment in the subject matter. People will talk, and it’s a risk. I know you have an image to maintain, Dayle. But you shouldn’t rationalize your way out of doing this film.”

Dayle felt herself blushing. Maggie McGuire could see right through her. She shrugged. “Well, maybe I’ll feel more of a personal investment myself once I meet Sean Olson this afternoon.”

“I hope so,” Maggie said with a knowing smile.

“They’re still back there,” Dayle said to Hank, glancing out the rear window. “What’s it been—twenty-five minutes?”

“More like fifteen, Ms. Sutton,” he replied, his eyes on the road ahead. The glass divider between them was down.

He was driving her across town to Sean Olson’s office. A white Corsica had persistently remained two cars behind the limo ever since Hank pulled out of the studio gate. Dayle couldn’t quite see their faces, but two men sat in the front. “Do me a favor and keep a lookout, okay, Hank? I’m getting a crick in my neck.” Dayle turned forward.

She didn’t know this Sean Olson. Dayle almost hoped to be unimpressed by her; then she could turn down the film role. Why risk her career, her reputation, and even her life to play this stranger? She had no personal investment in Sean Olson at this point, and she wanted it to stay that way.

Sean Olson’s law office was above a HairCrafters salon on Hollywood and Vine. Hank announced that they’d eluded the white Corsica at about the time he started searching for a parking place. Usually, he’d just double-park, and escort Dayle to the door. But he didn’t leave her side nowadays, so they had to park the limousine in a lot down the block.

Two flights above HairCrafters, they could still smell the perfumed hair products and chemicals. The doors along the hallway were old fashioned, with windows of bubbled glass. On the door numbered 307 someone had taped a sign, written in green marker: SEAN OLSON, ATTORNEY—COME ON IN!

She and Hank went on in. They heard a woman singing “Moon River,” along with the radio. The small waiting room was a shambles. Paint-splattered plastic tarp covered every piece of furniture, and there was more of the same beyond the open door to the office. Dayle cleared her throat loudly.

“Who’s out there?” someone called.

“Us,” Dayle said, stopping in the office doorway.

The woman stood barefoot on a stepladder with a paint scraper in her hand. She wore jeans and a frayed T-shirt that had WORLD’S GREATEST MOM written across it—along with a photo of herself. She was a very attractive woman, slender and tall with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. A red bandanna covered her hair, but from the tacky photo on her T-shirt, it appeared wavy, chestnut-brown, and shoulder length. Dayle guessed she was in her early thirties. Poised on the ladder, she put a hand on her hip. “And who is ‘us’?” she asked, staring at them.

“I’m Dayle Sutton,” Dayle said. “I have an appointment with Ms. Olson.”

Stepping down the ladder, the woman scrutinized Dayle, then let out an embarrassed laugh. “Ha! Well, hi. I’m Sean Olson.” She tore off a work glove and shook Dayle’s hand. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“Our appointment was for today, Monday,” Dayle pointed out.

Sean Olson shrugged. “Well, move aside some tarp and pull up a chair.”

“Um, nice meeting you,” Hank said quietly. Then he touched Dayle’s arm. “I’ll be out by the stairs, reading the latest, Ms. Sutton.”

“Thanks, Hank. Let me know how it is.” Dayle waited until Hank left, then gave Sean Olson a cool smile. “He’s a big fan of true crime and detective novels. Looks like I caught you at a bad time.”

“Oh, don’t sweat it.” Sean pulled back a piece of paint tarp to reveal a minirefrigerator. “What can I get you? I have Evian, Evian, Diet Coke, Evian, Lemonade, Evian, and Evian.”

“Evian, please.”

“Sorry about the looks of the place. I just moved in. Kind of a dump, but at least I won’t have to go far to get my hair done.” She handed a bottle of Evian to Dayle. “Everything has gone to hell because of this move. Some of my law books are still in Eugene. But I’ve passed the California state bar, thank God.”

Dayle raised her Evian bottle to toast her. Pushing aside the tarp, she found the corner of a gray leather sofa and sat down. “I like your T-shirt,” she lied. She wondered to whom Sean Olson was The World’s Greatest Mom.

Sean glanced down at the photo of herself. “Isn’t it awful? I’m going straight to hell for wearing it while painting. My kids gave this to me, and for the last few months I’ve been forced to wear it on practically every family outing. I figure after this week, I can say it has too much paint on it. They’ll probably run out and buy me another just like it—except in pink.”

“How many kids do you have?” Dayle asked.

“Two.” She reached under the tarp covering her desk, then pulled out a framed photograph and handed it to her. “Danny, eleven, and Phoebe’s seven.”

The sweet, gawky, dark-haired boy and the little redheaded girl were quite cute, and Dayle said so. The screenplay hadn’t mentioned any children or an ex-husband. Maybe the kids were adopted, or conceived by artificial insemination. Sean offered no explanation.

She took the framed photo back, then sat on the edge of her desk. “So are you here to check me out?” she asked.

“Well, yes. Also I might ask the director to take you on as a technical advisor—that is, if you’re interested.”

Sean frowned. “Depends. Would I advise you movie folks about how true-to-life everything is?”

“Probably,” Dayle answered, puzzled by a sudden edge in Sean’s voice.

“Well, I’d probably last two hours on that set before you guys kicked me out on my butt.” She took a swig of Evian, then shook her head in resignation. “You know, for years I’ve watched this story get twisted inside out, soft-pedaled, commercialized, and bastardized by Hollywood and I’m fed up. How can you even stand this business? You want the truth, Ms. Sutton?”

Dayle laughed. “Do I have a choice?”

“I think you’re all wrong to play me. You’re a glamorous superstar. This part requires a serious actress, maybe someone from the theater. I’m not trying to insult you—”

“It’s comforting to know that,” Dayle said, sitting straighter. “For the record, Ms. Olson, I’m a serious, working actress with theater origins—”

“Are you going to play me as a lesbian?” Sean interrupted.

“Yes, I was planning on it.”

Sean put down the Evian bottle and folded her arms. “I’m so sick and tired of this Hollywood hypocrisy. Talk about a bunch of phonies. Are there actually lesbian sex scenes in this latest script?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dayle heard herself say, suddenly defending them. “The scenes are thought-provoking, and necessary to the story line.”

Sean rolled her eyes. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Dayle stood up. “Your slams against Hollywood don’t impress me. They’ve paid you a lot of money. I think you’re the hypocrite, Ms. Olson. You’re also rude.” Dayle headed for the door.

“Listen, I should explain…,” Sean started to say.

But Dayle kept walking and pretended not to hear.

She hated asking Hank to escort her up to the apartment. Lately, she even had him come inside until she’d turned on the lights. Of course, Hank loved playing her protector. But Dayle found it humiliating.

They stepped into the lobby together, and the doorman greeted them. The spacious atrium was decorated with a modern cubic fountain sculpture, several tall potted Fichus trees, and three long, leather-covered sofas.

Sean Olson sat on one of the couches, reading a book. Dayle’s first instinct was to breeze toward the elevator and simply ignore her—as she had her two phone messages since their awful meeting yesterday. But Sean sprang up from the sofa. “Dayle? Do you have a minute?”

She stopped and gave her a frosty stare usually reserved for obnoxious reporters. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry if I offended you yesterday, Dayle.” Groveling wasn’t her forte. The apology had a brisk and businesslike tone.

Still, Dayle’s stony expression softened a bit. Sean Olson cleaned up nicely. She wore a pale green suit, and in her beige heels, she stood close to six feet tall. Her shiny, chestnut brown hair was casually swept back.

Dayle patted Hank’s shoulder. “I’m okay, Hank. Go home, get some rest.”

He nodded. “G’night, Ms. Sutton.”

Sean watched him lumber toward the door, then she turned to Dayle. “About yesterday,” she said. “You’re right. I was rude to you. I apologize.”

Dayle managed a smile. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

“Contrary to how I came across, I really do want to see this story realized into a film. But it should be an honest film.”

“And I’m too much of a Hollywood hypocrite for you, is that it?”

“That’s not it at all.” Sean sighed and shook her head. “The only problem I have with you, Dayle, is that you’re a beautiful movie star, and I’m no glamour queen. I can just see you trying to deglamorize yourself for this film. I’d be really insulted.” She rolled her eyes.

Dayle laughed. “Are you kidding? If anything, I’ll have to look younger for the role.”

“Well, thanks, but I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”

“What are you fishing for, Ms. Olson?”

“Please, call me Sean,” she said. “You have the clout to demand script changes, don’t you?”

“I suppose so,” Dayle said. “Within reason.”

“Well, I managed to snare a copy of the new screenplay. There have been several versions over the years. Each time, they shrink further away from the truth. This new script really takes the cake. If you knew the extent of creative license here, you’d die laughing. For example…” Sean trailed off and gave Dayle a wary look. “Is this okay? Am I offending you?”

“No, it’s all right, I’m interested,” Dayle said. “In fact, would you like to come up, maybe have a glass of wine?”

Sean’s face lit up. “Oh, thanks, that would be great.”

They lapsed into small talk on the elevator. Dayle gave her a brief tour of the apartment, and Sean praised her decorating choices—especially the Oscar pedestal created from dilapidated footwear. Dayle poured them each a glass of wine, and started toward the living room.

“Could we sit in here?” Sean asked, pointing to the area off the kitchen. “Seems more like home to me. Do you mind?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Dayle said. She turned on the gas fireplace, and they settled on the sofa. Fred took an immediate liking to Sean, and curled up in her lap. Dayle kicked off her high heels, and watched Sean follow suit. “You were about to tell me how the latest screenplay isn’t very accurate.”

Stroking Fred’s back, Sean sipped her wine and nodded. “Well, for starters, the lesbian sex scenes and the glamorization of my character. During the trial, they have me—this super-beautiful, super-lesbian—taking an occasional break from the law books to have super sex with my gorgeous girlfriend in this huge tastefully decorated loft. In reality, Dayle, I was averaging three hours of sleep a night and living in a dump of a house with very little furniture or knickknacks, because my darling toddler boy was destroying everything he could get his sweet, sticky hands on. And I hardly spent any time with him, which had me in tears constantly. Plus I was in a very chubby, nauseous stage of pregnancy with Phoebe and starting to stretch out my good court clothes. In short, Dayle, I was a mess.”

Dayle let out a stunned laugh. “Well, um, I see. Well, yes, that’s a big difference. So—both your children are your own. They weren’t adopted?”

“No, I gave birth to them,” Sean replied. “What did you think?”

Dayle shrugged. “Well, I figured…I mean, who’s their father?”

“Why, my husband, of course.” Sean Olson’s mouth dropped open. She tossed back her head and laughed. Fred was startled for a moment, until she hugged him. “Oh, my God, I thought you knew!” she cried. “It’s one reason this screenplay is such a crock. Dayle, I’m married. I’m not a lesbian. That was the notion of screenwriter number two or three. He figured only a lesbian would so valiantly defend a gay man, and suddenly—poof!—my character’s this gorgeous lesbian. They figured a pregnant, married lady was too boring.”

Dayle shook her head. “Oh, no.”

Sean nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why I asked you yesterday if you intended to play me as a lesbian—with all those soft-focus, curtains-blowing-in-the-breeze sex scenes.” She settled Fred back into her lap, then sipped her wine. “That’s all from the imagination of some horny screenwriter. The death threats I received during the trial, the letters and phone calls, it’s true, they called me ‘lesbo,’ ‘dyke,’ and ‘fag-loving bitch,’ but they also promised to kill me—and my family. That wasn’t in the script. They said they’d burn down the house with my children in it, these ‘good Christians’ with their ‘family values’ told me that. But it’s not in the script….”

Dayle sat in a dazed silence as Sean explained the truth behind the cheaply glamorized screenplay. Gary Worsht, the gay doctor Avery Cooper would portray, was actually a waiter. He had picked up a fraternity pledge in a gay bar. They started necking in an alley by the tavern, when the kid went berserk and attacked him. Then the boy’s frat brothers came out of hiding to help “beat up the fag.” In self-defense, Gary killed the reluctant pledge with a broken beer bottle. The dead boy’s youthful handsomeness played against the defendant’s promiscuity, blurring the lines of guilt and innocence. It was a tough case to win, because the frat boys—all A-students from good homes—were the real culprits. They were fine, upstanding boys who happened to like getting drunk and beating up queers for fun. Ironically, the same group of lads also enjoyed forcing their pledges to march down to weekend breakfasts naked—in a line with each boy holding the penis of the pledge behind him.

“There isn’t a scene like that in the script,” Dayle remarked over her glass of wine. And yet, she was supposed to kiss this totally fictitious other woman’s breasts. She thought about what Maggie McGuire had said: Haven’t you figured out by now that heterosexual males call all the shots?

“The screenplay has no guts,” Sean said. “They made it so black and white—with Gary Worsht coming across as a saint, and the frat boys as these lowlife thugs—including the poor victim, who was just a scared, sweet-faced pledge forced into playing gay bait. This was a complex case, Dayle, and they whitewashed it. Can you see why I’m such a pain in the ass on the subject?”

Dayle nodded thoughtfully. “There’ll be some changes made; otherwise I won’t do this movie.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be glad to have a husband in this movie instead of a lesbian supermodel or whatever she was.”

Sean laughed. “Well, my husband will sure be delighted. He’s a real movie nut. In fact, could I get an autograph for him before I leave tonight?”

“I have some glossies in my desk. No problem. What does he do?”

“Dan? Oh, he…” She hesitated. “At the time of the trial he was a chef.”

Dayle gave her a slightly puzzled look. “What does he do now?”

“He—um, well, he stays at home and looks after the kids.” Sean shifted a little on the sofa, and she let out a slightly uneasy laugh. “So—enough about me. Let’s talk about you playing me.” She sipped her wine, then smiled. “Seriously, why did you want to take on this part—this fake-lesbian lawyer?”

Shrugging, Dayle stared at the fireplace. “I must admit, I had a tough time warming up to the role. But now, I can certainly relate to what you said about death threats, and the lesbian accusations. It’s happened to me recently. Everyone thinks I’m paranoid, but I’m sure somebody—some group—has been following me.” Dayle sighed and shook her head. “I wasn’t willing to put my career on the line for this role as written. But if I could play you, Sean, in a truthful account of what really happened, it would be worth the risk.”

They talked for over an hour. Dayle kept remembering the intimate chat with Leigh Simone that night at the Imperial Hotel, how they’d instantly bonded. It was like that tonight—with Sean Olson. The similarities were almost unsettling. Dayle told her so. She also told her about how Leigh Simone might have been murdered by the same people who had killed Tony Katz. “Do you think I’m nuts?” Dayle asked.

“Not at all,” Sean replied. “You said earlier you thought some people were following you.”

“Yes?”

Sean got to her feet and wandered over to the window. “While I was waiting for you in the lobby, I noticed this man sitting alone in a Chevy, parked across the street. He sat there for a half hour. Then a silver car came up behind him. The guy in the first car nodded, pulled out, and the second guy took his spot. It was like a changing of the guard. Fifteen minutes later, your limousine turned into the drive. The man in the silver car took out a cellular phone and called someone.”

Dayle stood up and moved to the window. Cradling the cat in her arms, she stared down at the front driveway to her building. A silver car was parked across the street.

“He’s still there,” Sean said. “You’re not nuts, Dayle. Someone’s watching you.”

“Hi, it’s me again, and I’m fine,” Sean reported to Dayle on her cellular. “Traffic’s running smoothly here along the coastal highway. No accidents, no tailgaters, no claw hooks dangling from my car door handle. I’ll have another traffic update for you in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks, I’m making a mental note to play you as a grade-A smart-ass,” Dayle replied. “How are you, really?”

“I’m making great time,” Sean said.

Dayle Sutton hadn’t liked the idea of her driving alone at night this long distance. She’d made Sean promise to call on her cellular every fifteen minutes until she reached her in-laws’ house.

“At this clip,” Sean said. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

“Well, call me for touchdown so I’ll know you’re okay,” Dayle said.

“Will do, Dayle. Thanks again.” Sean clicked off the line. She glanced out her window at the dark, choppy waters of the Pacific. This time of night, all she could see were the curled whitecaps. Behind her, a series of distant headlights pierced the darkness. Something about the long, lonely drive in the dark—and that cool, ocean breeze whipping through the car window—made her feel so lost and melancholy. She’d even allowed herself a good cry a few miles back. In this vulnerable state, she realized that Dayle Sutton was the first friend she’d made on her own in California. But Dayle was also a movie star, and in Hollywood, friendships were transitory. Maybe that was why she didn’t tell Dayle about Dan.

Sean glanced in the rearview mirror—at the Jeep that had been following her since she’d merged onto the coastal highway thirty-five minutes ago. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d left Dayle Sutton’s apartment building. Instead, she’d focused on the lone dark figure in the silver car. He’d called someone from his cellular as soon as she’d emerged from the building. Had he phoned the person in this Jeep?

Sean told herself to stay calm. The highway wasn’t exactly deserted; plus the Jeep kept a safe distance behind her. Testing things, Sean eased up on the accelerator. The speedometer dropped to sixty-five…sixty…fifty-five. Other cars began to gain on her, the Jeep among them. One by one, they pulled into the fast lane and passed her, but the Jeep stayed behind.

Dayle answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Dayle? It’s me, Sean. We have touchdown. I’m walking up the driveway as I speak.”

“And you don’t think anybody was following you?” Dayle asked.

“Well, for a few minutes after the last call, this Jeep behind me gave me a case of heebie-jeebies. I couldn’t shake him. But he pulled off an exit before me, so I guess it was nothing.” She paused. “Oh, Phoebe’s waving at me from the front window. Anyway, I’m fine, Dayle. Thanks for worrying about me.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Dayle said. “I’ll call you.”

“Sounds good. G’night, and thanks again.” Sean clicked off, and waved back to her daughter. The petite, redhaired seven-year-old wore her pink ballerina outfit from Halloween. She jumped up and down excitedly, then made fish faces against the window for her mother. Sean laughed and blew her a kiss. She started up the walk to the front door.

Dan’s brother Doug and his wife, Anne, owned a large, cedar shaker on beachfront property—with a wraparound terrace and beautiful gardens. At one time, Sean had dreamt of having a home like this one. But now all bets were off.

Approaching Anne and Doug Olson’s front door, she thanked God for having such great in-laws. Dan and Doug were close, but even the most devoted of siblings might have cracked under the pressure of putting up a brother, nephew, and niece, a rotating series of baby-sitter nurses, and a sister-in-law, who checked in on her family from time to time between business in the city. Yet Doug and Anne never complained.

Phoebe opened the door as Sean reached the front stoop. “Well, my goodness!” Sean declared. “Look at my pretty ballerina!” She gave Phoebe a kiss. “Did you wait up for me?”

Phoebe nodded, and began telling her about what had happened in school today. She chattered nonstop as they stepped inside. The TV was blaring in the family room toward the back of the house. It was a beautiful, spacious room with a stone fireplace and an ocean view. Since coming to stay at Doug and Anne’s, she’d tried to keep her kids from trashing the place—and for the most part, she’d succeeded. Sean noticed a few things scattered about: papers and school books, a pair of gym shoes, and one of Phoebe’s sweaters. She also found her eleven-year-old, Danny, lying on his stomach directly in front of the television. Despite a trace of adolescent acne and an unruly mop of brown hair, he was a cute boy, with long-lashed blue eyes and an endearing smile. Barely looking up from the TV, he muttered, “Hi, Mom.”

“You’ll go blind,” Sean announced. “No, don’t get up. You haven’t seen your mother since yesterday morning, but God knows, that shouldn’t tear you away from the boob tube and Babe-Watch.”

On TV, a bikini-clad, blond silicone case ran through a dark corridor from a man with a butcher knife. “This happens to be PBS,” Danny said. “And I’m watching it for homework.”

Sean laughed. “You’re a twisted young man. God knows why I love you. Please tune it down a bit—for Uncle Doug and Aunt Anne’s sake.”

Danny sighed and lowered the volume with the remote.

Without the TV noise, Sean heard a mechanical whosh-whosh from another part of the house—as constant as those waves crashing against the rocky shore outside. It was a sound she’d grown to love and hate; a reassurance of life continuing, and a reminder that living was hard as hell.

Sean stooped down and kissed Danny. “I’ve missed you. Is Dad asleep?”

“Nope. He’s right here!” Doug Olson announced over the steady whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator. Coming from the guest room down the hall, he pushed Dan in his wheelchair.

Their favorite nurse, Julie, trailed behind him. Julie Adams-Smart had saved Dan’s life twice already—when his respirator had malfunctioned. The petite, pretty, strawberry blonde had a lot of guts. Dan loved her, the kids loved her, Doug and Anne loved her.

Sean’s feelings for this young woman were more complicated. She was grateful, resentful, beholden, and in awe of Julie. Dan now depended more on Julie than he did on her. Only last week, she couldn’t understand something Dan was trying to say, but Julie had picked it up. She’d become better than Sean at reading his lips and anticipating his needs. Julie was smiling at her now. “Dan insisted on getting dressed for you,” she said.

Dan grinned. He wore his gray sweats, which had been cut to accommodate the feed tube in his back. Another tube—for his respirator—was connected at the base of his throat and hooked up to a portable machine. Julie had obviously shaved him today, and overcombed his hair until it was flat. Sean preferred Dan a bit more scruffy, because he used to look sexy with a five o’clock shadow and his thick light-brown hair mussed. Too much grooming now made him appear waxy and lifeless—ready for the coffin.

The disease had rendered him totally immobile. His head was propped back against a small pillow. His hands—now puffy and mannequinlike—had been placed palms-down on his thighs. He appeared older than forty. Sometimes, Sean looked at that helpless, old man in the wheelchair, and she didn’t recognize her husband. But then Dan would smile, or show a gleam in his eye, and she’d see the man with whom she had fallen in love. He was still there.

He gave her one of those looks now, and she read his lips. “Hi, honey,” he said. “How did round two go with Dayle Sutton?”

Sean kissed him. “I’ll tell you after the kids are in bed,” she whispered. She kissed him again and held her face against his. “Thank you for waiting up and getting dressed, sweetie. You’re a sight for these sore brown eyes.”

The constant whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator was like a clock ticking. Depending on the night, it could keep Sean awake or lull her to sleep. Tonight, she was awake. She’d been up forty-five minutes before, working the suction tube to clear Dan’s mouth of excess saliva and phlegm that might obstruct his breathing. When she was done, she read his lips: “Go to back to sleep, honey. I’m fine. Good night.”

Sean kissed his forehead, then crawled back under the sheets. The respirator machine separated his hospital-type bed from her single. Sean was so anxious and desperate for sleep, she couldn’t nod off. Finally, she threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. At least Dan was asleep, thank God.

Tiptoeing into the family room, Sean opened the cabinet where they kept the videos. She found the one she wanted, and popped it into the VCR. Switching on the TV, she turned down the volume so not to wake anyone. Sean sat back on the couch, and watched her handsome, young husband playing on the beach with their two kids. Phoebe was four at the time, and Danny, nine. They were on vacation here in Malibu. Sean watched Dan swimming with Danny, and building sand castles with Phoebe. He had such a beautiful, tan body, strong arms and a hairy chest. Dan’s brother must have taken the next shot, because Dan was picking her up and carrying her into the water. They were cracking up. With the volume down, she could only imagine his laughter—a sound she hadn’t heard in over a year.

At the moment, accompanying their old home video was the constant whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator machine down the hall.

At first, they’d thought Dan had arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome, because his hands kept cramping up. Why else would a healthy, athletic thirty-seven-year-old man find it hard to hold on to things? As a chef, it became utter misery. He’d drop utensils and pans. So many of his culinary creations ended up on the floor, and he’d have to start over again—at the price of an expensive cut of meat, fowl, or fish. Customers often complained about having to wait forever for their dinner.

The evening before his doctor’s appointment, he and Sean were talking in bed. “I know what’s wrong with me, honey,” he whispered. “The muscles are going. It’s like Gary Cooper in Pride of the Yankees.”

“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Sean said quietly, stroking his arm. “ALS, I looked it up last week.”

“I did my reading in the library a month ago,” Dan said.

Sean held him tighter. “We don’t really know yet. Both of us are being melodramatic. Let’s not drape the black crepe yet, honey.”

“Yeah, let’s hope we’re wrong,” he said. “We’ll laugh about this later.”

After a barrage of tests, when the doctor diagnosed his ailment as ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, they nodded and said the initials in unison with him. Dan’s body had already started wasting away, and would continue to deteriorate in the coming months. The ironic cruelty to this disease was that his mind would remain clear.

Sean and Dan had prepared themselves for the worst, and they got it. He wouldn’t be around to watch Danny and Phoebe grow up. At the most, he had two more Christmases with them.

Sean silently watched her handsome, athletic husband slip away. He needed to feel independent as long as he could. So while she longed to tie his shoelaces for him, she’d pretend not to notice his frustration as the simple task took him nearly ten minutes some mornings. Later, she let Dan decide for himself when he was ready for a wheelchair. And Sean sat beside him as he told Danny and Phoebe that he wouldn’t be getting any better.

Dan could no longer work at the restaurant. They went in debt experimenting with expensive drugs and holistic remedies. Dan began having difficulty speaking and breathing. Sean spent many nights waking up to the sound of him choking on his own phlegm. She’d drag her husband out of bed, plop him into his wheelchair, then push him into the bathroom and turn on the hot water full blast. The steam helped clear Dan’s lungs, so he’d eventually cough up whatever was choking him. With all the nightly interruptions, Sean had to function regularly at the office on an average of three hours of sleep. The ordeal harkened her back to those days and nights with the kids when they were babies. It had been easier then, because there would be an end to the nocturnal feedings, and Dan was helping her.

Now, the only end in sight was Dan dying.

They put him on a respirator and a feeder. Machines did his eating and breathing for him. Yet all the while, those eyes of his were so alert. He could communicate with her and the kids—not as an invalid, but as a husband and father. The kids still turned to him for advice or praise. Danny and Phoebe were able to read his lips almost as well as their mother could.

Sean missed his voice, and his touch.

In the silent video, she and Dan emerged from the surf together and kissed for the camera. Phoebe ran to him, and Dan hoisted her in the air. Danny jumped up and down in front of them, making a goofy face.

For a moment, she thought Phoebe’s faint cries were coming from the nearly muted television. Then she realized the screams emitted from her daughter’s room downstairs. Sean switched off the video, then raced down the steps. She found Phoebe sitting up in bed. Except for her Little Mermaid night-light, the room was dark.

“Honey, it’s okay, I’m here.” She sat down on the edge of her bed.

Phoebe immediately hugged her. She was trembling. “There’s a man looking in my window!”

Sean glanced over at the window across the room. This part of the house stood at ground level, with the ocean view blocked by shrubs. The leafy branches shook in the wind, occasionally scraping at the windowpane.

“It’s just the bushes outside, that’s all,” Sean assured her—and herself.

“No, I saw a man,” she whined. “I did.”

Sean kissed the top of her head. “Well, I’ll just sit here with you for a while and chase him away if he comes back. In the meantime, don’t you worry about it, honey. I’m here.”

Sean gently stroked Phoebe’s head and listened to her breathing grow more steady. All the while, she stared out the window—just in case Phoebe wasn’t dreaming.

Ten

Dayle had a great respect for the stars of yesteryear—even the ones long ago forgotten by the public. She’d revived the careers of several veteran performers by campaigning for them to play pivotal roles in her movies. Months before Maggie McGuire had found herself back in the limelight and on the cover of People with her gay son, Dayle had approached her to play the mother in Waiting for the Fall.

The crusty old actor set to play Dayle’s long-lost father had recently suffered a minor stroke, and they needed to find a replacement. Dayle had promised the director she would review applicants, “the Geritol guys,” Dennis called them. She sat with Dennis at a conference table—along with the casting director and his assistant.

“Our next old-timer did this commercial earlier in the year,” the casting director said. A handsome man with silver-black hair, he wore a blazer over his gray silk shirt. Leaning back in his chair, he popped a Tic-Tac in his mouth. “Check him out. His name’s Tom Lance.”

The casting director’s assistant, a pale, thirtyish blonde with a bad perm and too much rouge, slipped a tape into the VCR. A McDonald’s ad came on. A kindly looking, bespectacled old man shared some french fries with his grandson. A real heart-warmer. It was a shame that Dayle, with her reverence for forgotten stars, didn’t recognize the actor in that McDonald’s commercial.

“So—what do you think?” the casting director asked. “Name’s Tom Lance. Want to meet him? He’s right outside.”

Dayle nodded. “Fine. Show him in.”

The assistant opened the door, then called for Tom Lance. He looked younger than the grandfather in the ad, but not as gentle and sweet. The old man had an embittered, edgy quality to him. He hobbled through the doorway, trying to stand tall. He wore a tie with a powder-blue blazer and madras slacks—pro-shop clothes, the colors a bit too bright, the material too stiff.

Dayle smiled at him, then spoke loudly. “Hi, Mr. Lance. Thanks for coming today.”

He grinned. “You don’t have to shout. I may be old, but I’m not deaf.” He pronounced it so it rhymed with leaf.

Dayle nodded cordially. “Do you mind telling me how old you are?”

“I don’t mind telling you that I’m seventy,” he said, slurring his words. “Those McDonald’s people wanted somebody older, so I came up with the glasses and whitened my hair. I—I can play older or younger, you name it.”

Dayle kept a pleasant smile fixed on her face. Tom Lance clearly had indulged in a few shots of courage before this interview. He weaved a little as he stood in front of them. She felt sorry for him.

Dennis leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I think this guy’s had a belt or two or five. The hook or what?”

Sighing, Dayle sat back and caught the casting director’s eye. He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lance. We’ll—”

“That’s all? That’s it?” he asked.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Bullshit!”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“No, you wait a minute,” the old man shot back. “I made fifty pictures before any of you were born! I deserve some respect. Instead, I’m forced to sit out in that hallway for an hour. Then I’m called in here like a pet dog by blondie there. Nobody bothers to get off their rear ends to greet me. I—” He shook his head and swatted at the air. “Oh, forget it!” He swiveled around, almost lost his balance, then lumbered out the door.

“Sorry about that,” the casting director said.

“It’s all right.” Dayle sighed. “The seventh actor is good enough for me if Noah likes him.”

The casting director and his assistant started to collect all the résumés and videotapes.

“You seem in the dumps,” Dennis whispered to her. “Is it Grandpa? I’ll go beat the shit out of him if you want.”

Dayle worked up a chuckle. “My knight in shining armor.” She waved to the casting director and his assistant as they left the room. Then the smile fell from her face and she turned to Dennis again. “I—I’ve had these people following me around for a couple of days now. This morning, a tan Chevy tailed Hank and me from my place all the way to the studio.”

“Maybe it’s the tabloids. They’ve done this to you before, Dayle.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m sure it’s something far more serious. These people have me under a kind of surveillance.”

“Why don’t you call the police about it?”

“They’ll just say I’m paranoid.”

Dennis cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve been under a lot of stress, Dayle. I mean, ever since Leigh Simone committed suicide—”

“Suicide?” Dayle asked sharply. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all these last few weeks? Leigh was murdered! Suicide? Did you say that just to get a rise out of me?”

“I’m sorry.” Dennis shrugged. “It’s just—well, you seem to be the only person in the free world who doesn’t believe Leigh killed herself. Laura, she’s a nurse, and she has some background in psychology…”

Dayle just glared at him. The last thing she wanted right now was to hear his girlfriend’s theories.

“She said what you’re feeling is normal. You were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive. Naturally, you feel responsible. You can’t help asking yourself if you could have done something to prevent it—”

“No, Dennis. What I’m asking myself is—Where the hell do you get off talking to Laura about me? You’ve only known her two weeks.”

Dennis didn’t respond. He stared down at the desktop.

Dayle rubbed her forehead. “Just get out of here and leave me alone.”

Without a word, Dennis slunk out of his chair and headed toward the door. He glanced back at her for a moment.

“I’m not crazy, goddamn it,” Dayle whispered.

Dennis nodded, then left.

The old man’s Plymouth Volare was parked on a high, winding dirt road just below the HOLLYWOOD sign. Sitting at the wheel, he glanced around, then decided the coast was clear. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a .380 semiautomatic.

Nobody at the audition had recognized him. If they’d bothered to look at his résumé, they’d have seen who he was. Instead, he was just some old actor from a McDonald’s ad.

Why, only two nights ago, one of his movies had been on television. None of his films had made it to video yet, so he was always on the lookout for when they were broadcasted on TV. Tom Lance saw this one listed in the TV Guide, which he bought every Tuesday:

’26-MOVIE-Western; 1hr, 35min (BW) **“Fall From the Saddle” (1952). Rancher turns outlaw when wife is killed by a crooked sheriff. Predictable. Tom Lance, Louise Reimen, John Clemens.

The movie aired at 2:30 A.M., and was chopped to pieces with commercial interruptions for diet centers and 900-number sex lines. Yet Tom looked forward to each break, because the announcer would say: “We’ll return with more shoot’m-up action in Fall from the Saddle with Tom Lance.”

Yesterday, Tom had stayed inside his tiny apartment, not wanting to miss any calls from friends—or possibly a producer—who had seen the movie. But the phone never rang. So Tom called a few actor acquaintances. One of them mentioned that Harry somebody had just suffered a stroke. He’d been set for a featured role in the new Dayle Sutton movie, and now they were recasting the part. For a while, Tom had such high hopes.

How stupid he’d been, thinking he had a chance.

He looked down at the gun in his hand. It was right that he should blow his brains out here by the HOLLYWOOD sign. Not very original, but appropriate. Plus they’d find him here within a few hours. Hell, if he killed himself at home, it might be days before they discovered his decaying body.

He thought about writing a farewell note to Maggie, but didn’t want to cause her any bad publicity. Maybe Tom Lance and his films were forgotten, but folks still knew who Maggie McGuire was. She had a plum part in the new Dayle Sutton film, the one for which he’d just auditioned—and lost.

How ironic, since he’d helped start Maggie’s career—way back in 1950. He’d starred in Hour of Deceit, and had been engaged to Maggie at the time. He’d practically browbeaten the director into giving her the small but showy role as the mistress of an underworld boss. She’d gone on to bigger and better films, and won an Oscar. Meanwhile, he’d floundered in B-movies and low-budget westerns. Then she’d dumped him.

Not long ago, he’d brought Maggie a book, The Illustrated Movie Star Dictionary. It was still inside a gift bag on the backseat of his car. Tom dug it out. Over a Thousand Stars Listed, the book’s jacket bragged, between a photos of Sylvester Stallone and Greta Garbo. Lavishly Illustrated, Concise Accounts of the Stars’ Careers and Their Films. From Bogart to Brad Pitt! From It Girl Clara Bow to Material Girl Madonna!

He wasn’t listed, not even mentioned. But they gave Maggie a nice write-up, and featured a beautiful glamour shot of her. Seemed like such a waste that Maggie would never get her gift. Then again, he could deliver it to her, and say good-bye. He imagined Maggie wanting to pay him back—not just for this token gift, but for her whole career. She owed him. She might even have some influence in getting Dayle Sutton to change her mind.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires made him glance up. A police car cruised from around the bend a few hundred feet in front of him. Tom quickly stashed the gun inside the book bag. Then he straightened up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. As the squad car crept by, the cop spoke into a mike, and his voice boomed over a speaker: “No parking on this road. Please move your vehicle.”

Tom waved and nodded. He started his engine and followed the cop car—keeping his distance. Sweat slithered down his temples, and his shirt stuck to his back. Once they were off the dirt road and the police car went in another direction, Tom loosened his tie.

Driving to Maggie’s house in Beverly Hills, Tom imagined a revised edition to that movie book. This one would include him.

LANCE, Tom, it would say, under his favorite early portrait of himself, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled and wavy. (1925-, b. Thomas Lancheski, Chicago, Illinois). Handsome, dark-haired leading man in a number of RKO westerns and crime dramas in the early fifties. But within a decade, he was relegated to guest-star appearances on Perry Mason, Ben Casey, and Bonanza; then Lance seemed to fade into obscurity. Hollywood misused Tom Lance, and it is a great travesty that his talent went unappreciated until, at age 76, he took a supporting role in the Dayle Sutton starrer, Waiting for the Fall. Lance made every minute of his screen time count. Critics raved, and he nabbed a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination…

Tom’s daydream took him all the way to Beverly Hills. He turned onto the winding, palm-tree shaded road that was Maggie’s cul-de-sac. He drove past the beautiful houses and carefully manicured lawns. By comparison, Maggie’s ranch house looked rather modest—albeit respectable.

He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a white Mercedes. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he suddenly regretted this impulsive visit. He looked grimy and tired. He was about to restart the car and leave, but he heard a dog bark. All at once, the Doberman leaped up toward the car door, its paws on the window. Tom reeled back, clutching his heart. The huge dog growled and snapped at him on the other side of the glass.

“Tosha, get down from there!” Tom heard Maggie call. He glanced out his rear window. She came around from the side of the house. She wore jeans, a white sweater, and gardening gloves. “Tosha? Tosh, get down! Who’s there?”

The dog finally shut up. Tom opened the car door and stepped outside. He patted Tosha’s head and smiled at Maggie, who came up to his Volare.

She frowned for a moment. “Oh, Tom…” She pulled off the gloves. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

He wasn’t too good on his feet today—with his gout flaring up. He tried not to limp as he made his way around the Volare. “Hi, Maggie—”

“Say, listen,” she interrupted. “Did you call me last week?”

“Someone called pretending to be me?”

“Someone called threatening to kill me,” Maggie said. “He sounded like you. I wasn’t sure. Phoned twice. He said, ‘You promote perversion, and thus you will die.’ Then he quoted the Bible to me—I forget what exactly.”

Tom shook his head. “Why would I say something like that?”

She shrugged. “Forget it. Some crank. I’ve gotten a lot of crank letters since those cover stories in People and that gay magazine. But crank calls to my home phone are another story. I just thought—well, forget I asked.”

“I brought you a present.” Tom reached inside the car for the gift bag. It felt a bit heavy, and he remembered that the gun was in there. Turning his back to her, he transferred the gun to his pocket inside his jacket. Her dog sniffed at his crotch. Tom handed Maggie the gift bag.

“Sweet of you. Tosha, stop that,” she said in one breath, with an apathetic glance inside the bag. “I suppose I should ask you in. Would you like some ice tea?”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

She laughed. “Yeah? Since when?” She sauntered toward the side of the house and gave him a beckoning wave. “C’mon, it’s no bother. I was about to pour myself a glass.” She snapped her fingers at the dog. “C’mon, Tosh.”

Tom and the dog followed her to the fenced-in back section of the house. There was a large kidney-shaped pool, and a rock garden. “It’s the leash for you, Tosh,” she said, grabbing the Doberman by his collar. She led him to a chain attached to a palm tree at the garden’s edge. “Tosha, keep still.” She dropped the gift bag to fix the dog to his leash.

“I hear you’re in the new Dayle Sutton film,” Tom said.

“Yeah, sort of an extended cameo.”

“That’s quite a coincidence, because I’ve been considering a part in the same movie. Maybe you could put in a good word for—”

“Okay, Tosha, there you go,” she said to the dog. “Stay put now.”

Tom bit down on his lip.

Maggie retrieved the bag, straightened up, then opened the sliding glass door to the house. “Okay, here we go. After you, Tom.”

He tried not to hobble, but he caught her staring. “What’s wrong with your foot?” she asked.

“Oh, I twisted my ankle jogging this morning,” he lied.

“Jogging? You?” Maggie laughed. “I’d buy tickets to see that.”

Tom was careful of the step up to the recreation room. He loved this room, because it definitely belonged in a movie star’s home. The floor was Mexican tile, with a lambskin rug in front of the large stone fireplace. The sofa, love seat and chairs were covered with soft, cream-colored leather. Above the sofa hung an arrangement of framed photographs, Maggie’s magazine covers from a Life portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of People. There was Frank Sinatra planting a kiss on her cheek as she clutched her Academy Award; Maggie shaking Princess Grace’s hand at some formal reception; Maggie and her ex, Pierre Blanchard, attending a film premiere with Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd; Maggie and President Kennedy laughing over what seemed to be a private joke at some Hollywood political function. Her Academy Award took center spot amid the pictures, the only three-dimensional object on that wall. A sconce held it up.

“I saw you on that Burger King commercial,” Maggie said. She was in the kitchen, pouring their ice teas. Her kitchen was incorporated in the large, all-purpose room, separated by a counter bar.

Tom climbed onto one of the tall, cushioned stool-chairs at the counter. “It was a McDonald’s ad,” he said.

“Whatever,” she shrugged, handing him a glass of ice tea. “I thought it was cute.” She lit a cigarette. “Those ads can be pretty lucrative.”

“I’ve had film offers,” Tom lied. “They’re interested in me for Tom Hanks’s father in his next movie.”

“Tom Hanks,” she said, deadpan.

She knows I’m lying, Tom thought. “It’s nothing definite yet,” he said. Playing father to Kevin Costner or Tom Hanks was one of his fantasies lately.

“Tom Hanks,” Maggie repeated, then she shook her head. “Well, that’s just terrific. I’m thrilled for you.” She took a drag from her cigarette, then reached for the gift bag. “I may as well open this—before you head out.”

“I hope you don’t already have it,” he said, grinning.

She pulled out the book. “Oh, look, one of these things,” she said, glancing at the cover. “They reduce your whole career to a couple of brief paragraphs. Hope you got it on sale.”

“You don’t like it,” he murmured.

“Actually, I’m a sucker for these books,” Maggie said. She flipped through its pages, and Tom noticed her stopping in the M’s.

“‘…But her career never fulfilled its early promise,’” Maggie read aloud, sneering. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Thank you for buying this for me, Tom.”

“That’s just their way of saying Hollywood didn’t do right by you. I think it’s a nice review. The only thing they failed to mention was the guy who helped get you started. I should have gotten some credit. I mean, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be—”

“I’d still be a cocktail waitress,” she finished for him. Maggie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to see it in print. I hear it enough from you—practically every time you come over here on one of your surprise visits: ‘You’d still be a cocktail waitress!’” She laughed. “Don’t you think that by now, Tom, I’d have been promoted to hostess?”

“I don’t bring it up that often,” Tom argued. “And I don’t drop by that often either. Lord, you make me sound like a pest.”

“Huh, no comment,” she mumbled over her ice tea glass.

Wounded, Tom gazed at her. “Is that what you think I am? A pest?”

“Every time you come over here, you make me feel like I owe you something. And I’m sick of it, Tom.”

“I don’t mean to make you feel that way, Maggie.” Yet he liked the idea that she still felt beholden to him after all these years. He reached a hand over the counter toward her. “I’m proud to be the one who helped you—”

“May I remind you for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t exactly on poverty row when you ‘discovered’ me? I’d done some modeling and commercial spots. I would have made it into the movies with or without you—eventually.”

Tom stared at his empty hand, palm up. She didn’t seem to notice that he’d been reaching out to her. He climbed off the stool, and pain shot through his foot as soon as he put some weight on it. He grabbed the counter to keep his balance.

“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Should I call you a taxi?”

She thought that he was drunk. Tom shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Oh, Jesus, the martyr role now.” Maggie reached for her Merit 100’s.

“Do you feel even an ounce of gratitude toward me?” he asked.

“Now that’s a laugh.” She lit her cigarette. “I only lived with you and put up with your crap for practically three years. If that ain’t gratitude, I don’t know what.”

“I thought it was love,” Tom murmured.

Maggie shook her head and sighed. “Good exit line, Tom. Now, just let that hang in the air as you make your way to the door. And you can take this book with you.” She pushed it too far across the counter—over the edge. The book toppled to the floor, just missing Tom’s sore foot.

Clutching the stool, he bent down to retrieve the unwanted gift. The .380 fell out of his pocket. Tom wondered if she saw it. Quickly, he stashed the gun back inside his jacket. Then he retrieved the book and pulled himself up. “Do you know why I came here, Maggie?” he asked.

“Obviously, to bring some sunshine and happiness into my day.”

“No. It’s because I thought you were the only one who would miss me. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I killed myself.”

She started sorting through some mail left on the countertop. “Oh, Tom. Give me a break, will you?”

“I’m serious, for God’s sake!” He pulled out the .380.

But she wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah, you’re serious all right,” she said, studying her phone bill. “Like that business about playing Tom Hanks’s father. Sure. See you in the movies, Tom. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” he whispered.

Maggie looked up from the phone bill. Her eyes widened at the gun in his hand. “My God, you stupid—”

The moment the gun went off, Tom felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. He felt powerful. The shot still echoed in his ears, and an electriclike jolt rattled his hand. He blinked and looked down at her.

Maggie’s thin body twitched and convulsed on the kitchen floor. Blood covered her face, yet her eyes remained open. She still wore that baffled, openmouthed expression from when he’d turned the gun on her. The spasms in her arms and legs halted. But blood continued to leak from her forehead. Wedged between her fingers, the cigarette she’d been smoking still smoldered.

“Maggie?” he whispered.

He heard the dog barking outside.

Beneath her head, a pool of dark blood bloomed on the tiled floor. The cigarette was burning down to her fingers, but she didn’t move. He’d done this to her. His heart beating wildly, he gazed at the gun in his hand. He’d meant to take his own life today. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Tom glanced toward the sliding glass door. Had anyone heard the shot? Were her neighbors calling the police right now? The dog continued to bark furiously. It was as if the dumb animal knew what had happened to its master.

Tom began to tremble. Fingerprints. He shoved the gun back inside the bag, then pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the edge of the counter, the bar stool, every place he’d set his hands. He rinsed out his ice tea glass, then put it away. He found the gift bag and stuffed the book inside it.

With the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, Tom slid open the glass door. He clutched the bag to his chest. As soon as he stepped outside, the Doberman lunged at him. Then, with a yelp, the animal abruptly stopped a few feet shy of him, restrained and choked in midjump by the chain attached to his collar.

Tom hobbled around the side of the house. The dog’s barking started up again—like some beastly alarm that alerted the entire neighborhood. Tom expected to see a police car blocking his Volare in the driveway. But there was no one. He climbed inside his car, fumbled with the keys, then started up the engine. He crept out of the driveway. Reaching the palm-tree-lined street, he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear a police siren either. But the dog’s barking still echoed inside his head.

They had a huge whirling fan trained on her. Dayle’s hair fluttered in the breeze. Shadows of trees, phone poles, and headlights raced across her face and reflected on the windshield of her mock convertible sports car. That was the front screen projector working. The rear screen had the seaside road on which Dayle’s character drove while intoxicated. Clutching the steering wheel, Dayle rolled her eyes ever so slightly. She’d been “drunk driving” on and off for about two hours now.

During one of the off moments, she’d retreated to her trailer and telephoned Nick Brock. He was still digging around Estelle Collier’s hometown. Dayle caught him in his room at the Holiday Inn in Madison, Wisconsin.

“Nothing new on the father of Estelle’s kid,” he told her. “I’ll have to pick up the pieces in San Francisco. But this you’ll be interested in. I’ve talked to about twenty people, just casually fishing about our Miss Collier, and it turns out I’m not the first person to come here with a lot of questions about Estelle. This one yokel told me that a guy calling himself a reporter was digging around here four months ago with the same kind of questions.”

“You mean, before Leigh’s death?”

“At least three months before,” Nick said. “I think you’re right about a blackmailer. Somebody was looking for a skeleton in Estelle’s closet.”

“They must have found something,” Dayle said. “Listen, Nick. I need to know more about that ‘unknown’ father. It’s what they must have used to get her to lie. Maybe we can use the same thing to squeeze the truth out of her.”

Once Dayle had clicked off, she phoned Sean Olson’s office and left a message on her machine—relaying what Nick had just told her. In only two days, Sean had become her confidant. Concerning this conspiracy, no one else took her seriously except Sean.

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Beautiful, Dayle. Let’s break for lunch.”

Dayle sighed and let her hands drop from the steering wheel. Dennis helped her out of the mock sports car. A tall, stunning redhead stood behind him. She wore a lavender suit that showed off her jazzercised-thin figure and long, shapely legs. “Dayle,” Dennis said. “I want you to meet Laura.”

“So you are the Laura,” Dayle said, shaking her hand. She wondered what this woman saw in good old pudgy Dennis. Snuggling alongside him, Laura stood an inch taller than Dennis. She had a sweet, nervous smile, and seemed starstruck in Dayle’s presence. “Dennis has told me all sorts of nice things about you,” Dayle said. “How does it feel to be on a movie set?”

“Oh, I love it!” Laura exclaimed. “It’s so exciting!”

Dayle gave her shoulder a pat. “Someone once said that your first day on a movie set is an incredible thrill. And your second day is so dull it couldn’t cut butter. Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Laura. My big question for you is—how do you put up with this character?” She nudged Dennis.

Laura just giggled nervously.

Bonny handed Dayle her Evian water. Dayle winked, then turned and toasted Laura with the bottle. “Nice meeting you,” she said, heading to her trailer. “Keep this guy out of trouble.”

Laura giggled again. “Sometimes I call him Dennis the Menace!” she called. “You know, Dennis the Menace?”

Dayle looked back and nodded. “Yes, that—that’s very cute. Well, see you around, Laura.” She continued toward her trailer.

Dennis caught up with her at the door, leaving Laura behind to chat with the assistant director. “So what do you think of her?” he whispered.

“Oh, she’s nice—and very pretty.” Dayle stepped into the trailer.

Dennis followed her in, then shut the door. “So—am I still in the casa de fido?” he asked warily.

“Why should you be in the doghouse?” Dayle sat down at her vanity table. “You mean for suggesting I was paranoid yesterday?”

He nodded. “I was out of line, Dayle. I’m sorry.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “Okay, no sweat. You’re forgiven.”

He just stood by the door, looking at his feet. “Um, listen. I heard some bad news from the studio publicity folks a few minutes ago.” He took a deep breath. “Maggie McGuire’s dead. Somebody shot her.”

Dayle turned to stare at him. “What?” she whispered.

“It was on the AP wire. Happened in her house. Her dog was barking all night long, and one of her neighbors called the cops. They found Maggie on her kitchen floor early this morning, before dawn.”

Dayle kept shaking her head. Tears stung her eyes.

“The cops are pretty certain an obsessed fan did it,” Dennis sighed. “But considering everything that’s happened lately, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sorry, Dayle. I know you liked her.”

She nodded. “I want to send flowers to Maggie’s children.”

“Consider it done,” he replied.

She turned toward her vanity once more. “Dennis, I think I need to be alone for a while,” she said, her voice quivering.

“I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” He paused in the doorway, and caught her reflection in the vanity mirror. “For the record, Dayle,” he said quietly. “If I ever thought you were paranoid—I don’t any more.”

The Noon News Report on TV led with their coverage of Maggie’s death. Tom Lance watched a jerky clip of the sheet-covered corpse on a gurney as it was loaded into an ambulance. A police barricade held people back; it could have been a star-studded film premiere, judging from the curious crowd. A pretty, black woman reporter in a red suit stood in Maggie’s driveway—just about where Tom had parked his car yesterday. She announced that the police didn’t have any clues. “One theory here is that Ms. McGuire’s killer is an obsessed fan. But police are still gathering evidence.”

Tom found himself smiling. The cops didn’t know.

He’d wiped away his fingerprints. No one except the dog had seen him arriving and leaving. On the way home, he’d stopped by Santa Monica Beach, and from the pier, he’d tossed his gun in the ocean.

All morning, he’d sat in front of his TV, waiting for the story to break. There hadn’t been anything in the morning paper. For a change, one of the other tenants hadn’t stolen it today. Most of his fellow occupants in the ugly, three-story gray stucco apartment building were lowlifers. But Tom’s place was nicely furnished—if not a bit cluttered with mementos. Framed lobby cards from his films hung on the living room walls, and his career scrapbook sat on the coffee table. His old landlady used to browse through it with him occasionally, but her kids stuck her in a nursing home a few years back.

The telephone rang, startling him.

This was the third time today. Tom didn’t answer it. He hardly ever got any calls—except for the occasional wrong number or salesperson. This had to be the police. Last night, he’d been convinced that at any minute they’d break down his door and arrest him. Several shots of Jack Daniels had helped calm him down. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, drunk and weepy.

Even with the pretty reporter on TV assuring him that the police had no clues, the ringing phone made Tom feel hunted. He got to his feet. The painful gout had subsided a bit. He hobbled over to the window, moved the old lace curtain and glanced at the street below. He half expected to see a line of police cars in front of the building. But there was nothing. His Volare was still parked down there. He wondered if the police already had a description of it from one of Maggie’s neighbors.

At last the telephone stopped ringing, and the moment it did, Tom realized something: cops didn’t phone murder suspects, they came to their homes. No one had knocked on his door yet, and they probably wouldn’t either, because they knew nothing. Maybe those calls were from reporters wanting to interview him. After all, he’d discovered Maggie and made her famous. “Damn!” Tom muttered, falling back on the couch. The first time in years—decades—that the media would want to interview Tom Lance, and he’d been too scared to answer the phone.

Maggie’s death captured the lead spot on the noon news. He could look forward to a big, fat obituary in the evening papers, and certainly a tribute on Entertainment Tonight. Murdered movie stars were the stuff that made tabloid covers, best-sellers, and TV movies. Every time a film star died, their costars were interviewed on TV and quoted in newspapers and magazines. He’d made Maggie famous again. And he would become famous again too.

“You want the official findings, Sean? Leigh Simone OD’d in the ladies’ room at the Imperial. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She had almost two grand worth of heroin in her purse, and she wrote something on the bathroom mirror about her life being a lie, I forget the exact wording.”

“So the case is closed?” Sean asked, the phone to her ear. Sitting at the desk in her half-painted office, she had her pen poised on a legal pad. After Dayle’s last phone call, Sean wanted to find out just how much the Portland police knew about the deaths of Leigh Simone, and Tony Katz and his friend. Were they even close to suspecting a conspiracy? From her years as an attorney in Eugene, Sean had established ties with many law enforcement officials in Portland—from policemen to prosecuting attorneys.

On the other end of the line right now was Vincent Delk, a well-respected cop who became a desk jockey after getting shot in the knee during a drug bust. Vinnie had his hand on the pulse of the whole force. He was an excellent source. And it helped that he had a crush on her.

“You’re hesitating, Vinnie, my love,” she said, tapping her pen on the legal pad. “Is the Leigh Simone case closed or not?”

“Well, darlin’, it hasn’t officially reopened, but quite frankly, I want to dig a little deeper into this sucker. Now, don’t quote me…”

“I told you,” she said. She stopped taking notes for a moment, “This isn’t for anyone but me. I just want your personal take, Vinnie.”

“Well, from day one, this case smelled fishy to me. That message Leigh Simone wrote on the mirror, it always struck me as bogus. I mean, how often do we find a suicide note with someone who has OD’d on heroin?”

“Huh, not very?” Sean murmured.

“Nope. That dog don’t hunt. Another thing sticking in my craw is the timing. It happened less than two weeks after Tony Katz and his buddy bought it in those woods outside St. Helens.”

“You see a connection?”

“At first I thought it was the hotel. They were both staying at the Imperial at the time of their deaths.” Vincent Delk let out a long sigh. “So we checked the registration and found a handful of guests who were there during both Tony Katz’s and Leigh Simone’s stay. But all of the people cleared. Ditto the hotel staff. I still see a connection. But I’m a minority opinion.”

Sean stopped writing for a moment. “So what’s the connection?”

“One word: planning.”

“I’m listening,” Sean said.

“The scene in the ladies’ room looked like a suicide or an accidental overdose, right? But in case of any doubts, we get this weird message on the mirror, spelling it out for us. To me, that’s the result of deliberate planning.”

“Go on.”

“I’m not sure you want me to,” Vincent said. “It’s got to do with what happened to Tony and his friend. It’s not pretty, Shawny.”

“I’m a big girl,” Sean said. “I can take it.”

“Well, you probably heard that the two guys had been stripped naked, tied up, and killed. Looked like a gay-bashing.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard.”

“Well, Tony and his friend were abducted and taken to that forest. We know this, because both men had come to the gay bar by taxi. They didn’t have a car to drive fifty miles to that forest preserve. Some of the more gruesome details were kept out of the papers. This part’s on the hush-hush. Tony Katz was found with a whittled-down tree branch shoved up his butt. And he’d been sexually mutilated. The other guy died execution style, shot in the head. But he also sustained sixty-one stab wounds and a slit throat.”

“My God,” Sean muttered.

“Now get this. The coroner is pretty sure he was already dead when they went to work on him with their knives. Which brings me back to what I was talking about earlier: planning.”

“What do you mean?”

“The excessive stabbing occurred after they killed the boyfriend. Shows they didn’t so much want to prolong his agony as they wanted to make a sensational impression. Like I say, planning. Next. From checking out the tire tracks and footprints, the FBI estimated anywhere from six to ten people were there in the woods—in two or three cars. Yet not a beer can or cigarette butt in sight. This wasn’t the work of some drunk teens who let a gay-bashing get out of hand. No, this is a tight-knit group. Possibly eight people participating in one of the most grisly, sensational murders here in recent years. Headlines every day for well over a week—”

“Until Leigh Simone’s suicide,” Sean interjected.

“And despite all that sensationalism, none of those six, eight, or ten participants talked. No one bragged to anybody about it. That’s unheard of. No leaks. Tight as a drum. As freakish and insane as this double murder appeared, in actuality, it was carefully orchestrated and performed without a flaw. A bunch of people got together and planned it, Shawny. You can bank on that. And they’re still together, you can bank on that too.”

“So you think these same people killed Leigh Simone, and made it look like a suicide?”

“As I said, seems like deliberate planning there too. But I’m flying solo on this. I’m the only one around here who thinks Leigh’s assistant is a liar.”

“Listen. What if Estelle Collier stepped forward and said she’d been forced to lie about Leigh’s—drug and sexual problems?”

“Are you trying to strike a deal for her?”

“I’m hoping she’ll change her story. Knowing she can do so without incriminating herself might make it easier for her to tell the truth. Might make it easier for everyone.”

“Well, Shawny, if anyone can swing a deal for this gal, it’s you.”

“Thanks. Listen, Vinnie. What if I told you that I believe this same group is now after Dayle Sutton?”

“Then I’d say Dayle Sutton is a dead woman.”

Eleven

“So—do you recognize us with our clothes on?” Joanne asked the audience at the beginning of The Tonight Show. She and Avery came across as good sports, and the host clearly enjoyed exchanging zingers with them:

INTERVIEWER: What’s the deal with this home movie? So you just decided one night to set up a video camera, and get the whole thing on tape, huh?

AVERY: Well, it’s not like we were the first couple to come up with the idea. I just figured it might add a little spice to things.

JOANNE: I like being married to a guy who, after four years, is still interested in spicing it up. The fact that he’s still interested is wonderful. Though I must admit, had I known the damn thing would end up being seen by hundreds of thousands of people, I’d have insisted on better lighting, a good makeup person, and a stunt double.

When the interviewer asked who might have stolen the video, Avery became serious, yet not too solemn. He said it was a police matter, but he suspected the responsible party didn’t agree with Joanne’s and his politics.

“I think someone was trying to humiliate us,” Joanne added. “And it’s embarrassing this video—we made for ourselves—has been seen by so many people. But you know, I’m not sorry we made it. What’s the big deal? Why the scandal? We’re an old married couple, for God’s sake.”

They applauded her. Avery had forgotten about Joanne’s ability to connect with a live audience. She instinctively knew what to say, when to be serious or irreverent, when to shut up, and when to shut him up.

Braving a barrage of intimate questions, she’d held up through an insane schedule the last three of days. And the phone calls wouldn’t stop: film offers, and a long list of magazines wanting to shoot cover stories, including Vanity Fair, who asked for them both in a sexy Herb Ritts portrait.

The producers of Expiration Date couldn’t have been more pleased that Traci Haydn’s costar had grabbed the media spotlight. They talked about moving up the film’s release date, and giving Avery top billing over Traci. Suddenly he had clout. Dayle Sutton e-mailed Avery to use his influence with their director to hire another writer to rework the gay-bashing script and make it more honest. On her recommendation, he also phoned Gary Worsht, the gay man he’d be playing—a nice guy, but definitely not the milksop saint from the script.

Gary had high praise for Sean Olson: “That lady really went to bat for me.” The least Avery could do was go to bat for her and Dayle Sutton. To his utter amazement, the director listened to him, and a new screenwriter was hired. Almost overnight, he’d acquired that kind of pull.

If someone had been out to sabotage Avery’s career by releasing that video to the public, their plan had backfired. Proof of their failure might have been gauged by the loud applause for Avery and Joanne as they strolled off The Tonight Show set. Holding hands, they waved to the audience.

Joanne ducked behind the curtain, and her grip on Avery’s hand became tighter. A few members of The Tonight Show staff, two NBC pages, and the reporter and photographer from People waited for them backstage. Blinded by camera flashes, they made their way toward their dressing room. Joanne’s hand remained like a vise around his.

Avery opened the door for her. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

Joanne shut the door behind them, then suddenly bent over. “Oh, God, Avery,” she gasped. “Something’s wrong.”

He sat her down in a chair. All the while, Joanne trembled and clutched her abdomen. Avery grabbed the phone and got through to the studio operator. “This is Avery Cooper calling from my dressing room in—in Studio B. We have a medical emergency. We need an ambulance or a doctor here at once. Can you help us?”

“Yessir, I can.”

He noticed blood seeping down Joanne’s legs. “Tell them to hurry.”

Tom was fed up. He’d left three messages on his agent’s machine, and the son of a bitch still hadn’t called back. In fact, the phone hadn’t rung all day, not one lousy call since the one he should have answered around noon. Now he was about to videotape Entertainment Tonight, assuming they’d have a tribute to Maggie McGuire. But like an idiot, he’d forgotten to buy blank videos. He had to tape over one of his old movies from The Late, Late Show. He was frantically trying to find some leftover time on the tape of his 1950 western, Trigger Happy, when Entertainment Tonight started.

“The entertainment world is shocked and saddened today by the passing of one of its most durable talents. Academy-Award-winning actress Maggie McGuire was shot to death in her Beverly Hills home last night….”

Tom kept having to go back and forth from the broadcast to the videotape until he finally found the end of his western. Then he switched back to the broadcast and started recording. They were showing Maggie’s ranch house, police cars jammed in the driveway. “…as investigations continue,” the anchor-woman said. “Maggie McGuire’s career spanned four decades. She played a Mafia mistress in her first movie, Hour of Deceit….”

“My God, there I am!” Tom gasped. He stared at a scene from the movie. He’d cornered Maggie in a bar. His back was to the camera, but his face was visible in partial profile. “I’m not gonna sing to any cop,” Maggie said, puffing a cigarette. She wore a sexy, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. It was before Hollywood had groomed her for stardom, and she looked so fresh, raw, and beautiful. Her wavy black hair fell down to her bare shoulders. Tom now remembered why he’d fallen in love with that gorgeous young girl. “I’ve had a bellyful of you cops,” she continued. “Besides, Frankie treats me nice….”

Tom still remembered his line that followed: “I think you’re scared of him, Miss Gerrard.” But they cut to another film clip. “More bad-girl roles followed for McGuire,” the anchorwoman announced. “She received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Strange Corridor, in which she played—”

The telephone rang. For a moment, Tom was torn. Was it a friend who had just seen him on TV? His agent? A reporter? A movie offer?

He pressed the mute button on his remote and reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said, tentative. He watched a clip of Maggie with Robert Mitchum.

There was a mechanical click on the other end of the line. A strange humming sound followed, and over this, a muffled barking—as if a dog was outside the caller’s house.

“Hello?” Tom said again. “Who’s there?”

The dog continued to bark, only louder. Tom realized it was a recording. Someone turned up the volume. Why would anybody want to tape a dog howling and yelping repeatedly?

He was ready to hang up. The barking was like some sort of alarm that wouldn’t shut off. Then he realized that he was listening to Maggie’s dog, Tosha. The recording must have been made yesterday, at just around the time when he was killing her.

“Hello?” Tom whispered. He could hardly breathe.

The volume went down on the tape, and the dog’s barking faded away. Tom listened to the quiet for a moment. Then he heard another click, followed by Maggie’s recorded voice: “Tom. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

Entertainment Tonight had another headline story—besides Maggie McGuire’s death. Behind the anchorwoman’s right shoulder appeared a blowup photo of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane. “Doctors released Joanne Lane from Cedars-Sanai Medical Center today after emergency treatment for an undisclosed ailment,” she announced. “The Broadway actress and her husband, Avery Cooper, have been embroiled in a media furor over the public release of their very private home-video sex tape. E.T. correspondent, Charles Platt, has the story from outside the Coopers’ home in Beverly Hills.”

A swarthy, square-jawed young man stood by Avery and Joanne’s front gate. “Sally-Anne, I’m here outside the home of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane,” he said into his microphone. “The couple had just filmed a segment for The Tonight Show, and while backstage at NBC studios in Burbank, Avery Cooper telephoned for an ambulance for his wife. Joanne Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There have been conflicting reports as to the nature of this medical emergency. However, sources at the Cedars-Sinai have unofficially told E.T. that Joanne Lane suffered a miscarriage….”

The picture switched to a clip of Avery helping a shaky, frail Joanne into a black BMW at the hospital’s side entrance. Camera flashes illuminated them like a flickering strobe. “The Coopers left the hospital together at two-thirty this afternoon,” the reporter continued. The camera pulled back to show him standing in front of Avery’s driveway—along with about a hundred people. Bouquets of flowers and cards had been left by the front gate. “The Coopers’ house here in Beverly Hills is far from quiet tonight—”

“Which explains why the Coopers are here,” Sheila Weber said, switching off the TV set on their kitchen counter. Demurely pretty, Sheila had a creamy complexion and curly blond hair. She was five months pregnant with her first child. “How are you holding up?” she asked, refilling Avery’s wineglass.

Avery nodded. “I’ll be okay.” He sat at the Webers’ breakfast table. George Weber stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. With dark eyes and prematurely gray hair, he was a handsome guy. A psychologist, he must have had patients constantly falling in love with him. “Relax, eat something, buddy,” he said. “You look like shit.”

Avery managed to chuckle. He patted his friend’s hand, but didn’t touch the sandwich in front of him. Joanne was asleep in the Webers’ guest room.

George and Sheila Weber were his closest friends—and in a way, his second family. Avery had known George since high school. When he’d moved to Los Angeles, Avery stayed in George’s one-bedroom garage apartment. He’d had a roll-out futon in the living room, and paid half of the rent. For three years, the struggling actor and the medical student had lived together.

Avery had been best man at George’s wedding. The Webers had already asked him to be godfather to the baby. Sheila’s sister would be godmother. Avery hated seeing Joanne left out of the loop. Yet he had a hunch Joanne merely went through the social motions with the Webers, the same way he couldn’t quite bond with her Broadway cohorts. Maybe bringing her here wasn’t such a smart idea, what with Sheila so healthy, happy, and pregnant.

In the hospital emergency room, Joanne had told him that she’d taken a home pregnancy test last week. The results had been positive. She’d planned on seeing their doctor once this media blitz campaign was over. The Tonight Show was their last obligation. “I wanted to tell you tonight, honey,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I wanted to surprise you.”

As he and Joanne had left the hospital, photographers had fought each other for a good shot. One of the most painful times of their lives needed to be recorded for the public by these vultures. Pulling away in the black BMW, they’d had at least a dozen cars on their tail. Steve Bensinger had quickly assigned several other black BMWs to converge with Avery’s car on their escape route from Cedars-Sinai. The strategy worked. By the time Avery and Joanne reached the Webers’ block in Brentwood, they’d lost the bloodhounds.

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” George suggested, sitting down at the table with Avery. “You can crash in our bedroom. You won’t wake Joanne.”

“No,” he said. “I need to pick up some things from home if we’re spending the night.”

George offered to come along, but Avery said he wanted to be alone for a while. Before leaving, he checked in on Joanne once more. She was still napping. Neither of them had caught much sleep during the last three days. In fact, the strenuous schedule had probably contributed to her miscarriage.

Curled up beneath the blanket, she lifted her head and squinted at him.

“I’m going home for some stuff,” he said. “You need anything, honey?”

Joanne shook her head.

He leaned over and kissed her. Joanne’s cheek was wet with tears. Avery took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “You—you just rest, okay? I’ll be back in about an hour.”

He didn’t drive directly home. He swung by a small, secluded ocean-view park, halfway between home and the Webers’. There wasn’t much to the place: a couple of wooden benches, and a low rock wall at the bluff’s edge. Avery sometimes came here when he felt blue. He sat down on one of the benches. The smog made for an achingly beautiful sunset: layers of bright pink and topaz streaked the darkening sky, and reflected in the choppy waters of the Pacific. A cool ocean breeze stung the tears in his eyes. He could cry here. He didn’t think anyone was around to see him.

But a rented white Taurus idled at the side of the road less than half a block from the little park. Avery and Joanne had lost the pursuing reporters after leaving the hospital, yet this car had managed to remain inconspicuously on their tail. One of the two men in the Taurus was now talking on a cellular phone. He had urgent instructions regarding Avery Cooper’s exact location.

Avery had no idea how much time had passed while he sat on that park bench, but a drab darkness had consumed the beautiful sunset. He’d been so worried about Joanne grieving around the very pregnant Sheila. But he was the one who ached at the sight of his friend’s pregnant wife tonight. He saw the promise of a family there. For a short while, Joanne had been carrying his child, and he hadn’t even known.

Avery wiped his nose. He noticed a woman coming up the winding dirt path by the rock wall. She stared at him from behind a pair of black cat-eye glasses that seemed as sixties retro as her auburn page-boy wig. She kept her hands in the pockets of her shiny black raincoat.

Avery heard a car pull up. He stood and glanced back for a moment.

“Excuse me?” the woman said. “Aren’t you Avery Cooper?”

He turned to her. “Yes, but I—”

Her hand came up so quick, he didn’t even realize what she was doing until her fingernails tore at his cheek. He reeled back. The woman ran away, then ducked inside the white car that had just pulled up. Dazed, Avery watched the car peel away and speed down the street. There was no time to get a license plate number, no time to even process what had just happened.

Dazed, he wandered back to his car, climbed inside, and checked the rearview mirror. Whoever the woman was, she’d done a number on his face: four claw marks weeping blood on his cheek. He thought about calling the police to report the incident. But what could they do about it?

He drove home. The crowd outside his front gate had dwindled down to about twenty people, most of them reporters. Avery opened the gate with a remote device. The mob fought for a look at him, shouting questions, mostly about Joanne—where she was, how she was holding up. All the inquiries seemed to blend together—except for one reporter, whose voice dominated the others as he asked, “How did you get that scratch on your face, Avery?”

Avery stared straight ahead, pressing the remote device to shut the gate behind him.

Once inside the house, he tended to the scratches on his face. He’d forgotten he was still wearing makeup from his Tonight Show appearance. He washed his face, then put peroxide on the scratch marks. After collecting some things for Joanne, he phoned George to let him know he’d be back soon. “How’s Joanne doing?” he asked.

“Still napping,” George said. “Where are you? Did you just get home?”

“Yeah, I made a stop along the way,” Avery replied.

He’d spent almost ninety minutes in that park. It was a lapse of time the police would later question. They would also ask about the scratch marks on his face.

Twelve

As was now the custom, Hank entered the apartment first, and turned on the lights for her. Then Dayle stepped inside. She didn’t pay much attention to the ringing telephone. Hank forged ahead into the kitchen, letting Fred out. The cat scurried toward her. Dayle scooped him up and hugged him.

The answering machine in her study was picking up the call: Beep. “Hello, Ms. Sutton? Nick Brock calling from nowheresville, Wisconsin. Hold on to your socks. I got the goods on who Peter Collier’s daddy is, and it’s one for Ripley’s, a bad-seed story. Small wonder Estelle has kept junior a secret. I think you’re right about her being blackmailed—”

Dayle grabbed the telephone. “Hello? Nick?”

“Ms. Sutton?” Nick was saying. “Hey, cool. Glad I caught you…”

“I’m sorry, Danny, I don’t want you spending the night at this Greg’s house.” The cordless phone to her ear, Sean stood on a ladder, painting her office walls. “I don’t know Greg or his parents—”

“Well, geeze, Mom, maybe if you were home more, you’d know him. He’s practically my best friend.”

Working the roller over the wall, she sighed. “I thought Jason was your best friend.”

“He is, but Greg’s new. Ah, c’mon, Aunt Anne said it’s okay with her.”

“Well, it’s not okay with me—not yet. Tell you what, have Greg’s mom call me here at the office, and I’ll get back to you and let you know.” Sean paused for a moment by the roller-tray full of sea-foam-green paint. She wore a baseball cap, a paint-splattered T-shirt, and old jeans. “Are you still there, Danny?” she asked. “I just want to talk to Greg’s mother—”

“Forget it,” her son grunted. “I never get to go anywhere, and you’re never home. Fine. This sucks.”

“Hey, this isn’t very fun for me either,” she said.

After Danny hung up, Sean went back to painting her office. Her son had a point. She was hardly ever home, and missed so much of her children’s lives. But she had to set up her business. Dan wouldn’t be around too long, and she couldn’t expect to keep living off the generosity of her in-laws.

The phone rang again, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”

“Sean? It’s Dayle. How are you?”

“Oh, my son hates me, but otherwise I’m all right.” She put down the paint roller. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes,” Dayle said. “In fact, the timing is impeccable. I think you’re right. Estelle Collier will be more cooperative if she has a lawyer to work out a deal for her. Could you meet me at Estelle’s place tonight around eight?”

Sean hesitated. She’d wanted to be home by eight.

“By the way,” Dayle added. “I don’t expect you to do this for free. I’m paying for your services here, Sean, whatever you charge.”

“Well, I’m not going to pretend that I can’t use the money.” She reached for a pen on her desk. “What’s Estelle’s address?”

As Hank pulled out of the driveway, Dayle watched the Corsica start after them. It stayed on their tail for a half hour. Twice, Dayle made Hank stop for amber lights, because she didn’t want to lose the Corsica just yet.

They turned into the Valley Ridge Condominiums complex. The three tall buildings, constructed in the early Reagan years, compensated for their lack of charm with a clean, spartan style. Hank pulled up to the entrance of the middle tower. Stepping out of the limo, Dayle spied the Corsica at the edge of the parking lot—one building over. Its headlights went out.

Hank escorted her to the lobby door. Dayle toted a Nordstrom bag. She buzzed number 501: F. & B. LASKEY. Laskey was Bonny McKenna’s married name. It would take some time and research for anyone to connect Dayle’s stand-in with this address. “Hello?” the voice over the intercom asked.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh, howdy. I’m buzzin’ ya up.”

Dayle took the elevator to the fifth floor. Bonny was waiting in the hallway. “So what does our hair look like today?” she asked.

Within minutes, Bonny emerged from the building and strolled toward Hank and the limo. She looked exactly like her employer, right down to Dayle’s confident strut. Bonny climbed into the backseat of the limo. Once Hank pulled out of the lot, the Corsica started following them.

Dayle watched from the fifth-floor window. For the next two hours, Bonny would go shopping on Rodeo Drive—with Hank at her side. She knew enough about surveillance to keep her shadows at a distance—and eventually lose them without raising any suspicions.

Dayle changed into the outfit she’d brought along in her bag: jeans and a purple jersey. From the phone in Bonny’s kitchen, she called a cab.

The taxi dropped Dayle in front of a U-shaped two-story apartment building. The place looked as if it had once been a hotel in the early sixties. At the front gate, two tiki torches with Polynesian masks on the poles stood like relics of the bygone era. Each unit had its own entry off a balcony walkway overlooking the pool and patio.

Dayle found Estelle’s apartment on the second level. She rang the bell. It seemed a gauche place to live for someone who had worked alongside such a high-profile star. Then again, Estelle’s bad-seed son had depleted most of his mother’s income. Maybe this dump was all she could afford now.

Dayle rang the bell once more. Estelle opened the door. She’d obviously just gotten out of the tub. Her broad face was framed by dark, damp ringlets. She wore a pink robe, and her feet were bare. She frowned at Dayle.

“Can I come in and talk with you, please?” Dayle asked.

“God, what now?” With a roll of her eyes, Estelle opened the door wider, then plodded to the kitchenette. She poured herself a glass of wine, ignoring Dayle, across the counter from her. “We’ve already been through this at Leigh’s memorial service, Dayle. I have nothing more to say.”

Dayle sat down at the kitchen counter. It was a continental kitchen, the kind incorporated with the living room. Estelle’s apartment looked like a modest suite in some southwestern resort—all brown, beige, and rust colors, with Aztec art on the walls. The only personal touch to her living room was a framed photo of a younger Estelle holding a toddler, probably the son. He didn’t look much like his famous dad. Lucky kid.

“Does Peter know who his father is?” Dayle asked quietly.

Estelle’s eyes widened for a moment. She put down her wineglass. “You can’t prove a thing about Peter’s father. You’re just guessing.”

Dayle sighed. “I know where you spent the spring of sixty-nine, Estelle. Wasn’t Peter conceived during your time at the ranch?”

“I wasn’t at there when those murders happened—”

“I know,” Dayle said grimly. “The Tate-LaBianca murders were in August. You left Spawn Ranch in March. But you lived there nine weeks.”

“Guilt by association, right?” Estelle said. “You’re just like those monsters who were harassing me. They thought Charles Manson was Peter’s father too. It’s so damn ridiculous! I wasn’t one of his women!”

“But, Estelle, amid all that drug use and group sex, can you remember for sure?” Dayle studied her face and sighed. “The truth is, you can’t prove Charlie isn’t the father. That’s how these people got to you, isn’t it? Charlie had targeted dozens of celebrities. Who in the entertainment industry would have hired one of his disciples? Who could trust you?”

“I want you to leave,” Estelle said.

“And in the end, you couldn’t be trusted. Look what you did to Leigh.”

“That’s so unfair! Do you think they gave me a choice?”

“Are we finally talking about the same ‘they’?” Dayle asked. “How did they approach you? Did you meet any of them?”

Estelle took another gulp of wine, then shrugged. “I never met a single one. They started calling me about four months ago. I was in trouble. I’d taken some money out of Leigh’s account to pay my son’s debts. Somehow, these people found out about it, and they called me—”

“You said ‘they.’” Dayle remarked.

“Yes. About five different people phoned me over the next few months. They kept asking how I planned to replace the money from Leigh’s account before someone noticed. They knew I’d spent time at Spawn Ranch too.” She shook her head. “Who would have understood? I was a fat, unwanted teenager. That spring at the ranch was the first time I ever felt like I belonged. You and Leigh, women like you, pretty all your lives. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be repulsive to people, to be that hungry for love. At the ranch, they took me in. And yes, my son was conceived there.” She sighed. “Only I saw how some of the other girls got passed around. So I left. After I had Peter, I worked hard to make a good home for him. The truth is, I don’t know who his father was. And that’s what I told the police and FBI when they rounded everyone up after the Tate murders.”

“These people calling you, how did they get their information?”

Estelle took her wineglass around the counter and sat on the stool beside Dayle. “I heard someone was in my hometown asking questions about me a few months back. A couple of high school friends knew about my time at Spawn Ranch. Maybe somebody got to them. Is that how your man found out?”

Dayle nodded. “I just want your cooperation, Estelle.”

She let out a cynical laugh. “Ha, those monsters only wanted my cooperation too. Oh, they were very clever. They merely suggested I could replace the money I borrowed by selling the tabloids a story about Leigh Simone’s involvement with drugs, and her secret lesbian lifestyle.”

“This was before her death?” Dayle asked.

“Yes, months ago.”

“Did you try to talk to Leigh about this?”

Estelle’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I didn’t want her to know I’d stolen from her. She trusted me! I just kept hoping these people would go away. But it only got worse. They started following Leigh around like stalkers. And they were so blatant about it, as if they were untouchable. They’d park outside her house for hours at a time—”

“But Leigh had bodyguards.”

Estelle shook her head. “Only when she was on tour. Otherwise, she had a retired cop who handled security for the house, and a chauffeur who carried a gun. By the time one of them came out of the gate, the car would always take off. But another car just like it would be back an hour later.”

“Another car just like it? What do you mean?”

“They were rentals, you know, midsize cars, Corsicas, Cavaliers—”

“And Tauruses,” Dayle murmured. “Last couple of days, they’ve been following me around too. What did Leigh do about it?”

Estelle stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Leigh thought they were from the tabloids. She called them the ‘rental mentals.’ Sometimes she’d flip them the bird as she came out of her driveway in the limo. She wasn’t afraid of them. But I was.”

“You had to know they were going to kill her….”

“I thought they were out to destroy Leigh’s career. The night before we left for Portland, I got another call. They knew about the trip. This man told me, ‘If anything should happen to Leigh, her accountants will discover the money is missing. You’ll have to square things with them.’ He said that the tabloids would pay for the inside story on Leigh. I could replace the money very quickly if I gave them what they wanted. He told me, ‘Remember, she was a lesbian, and she used heroin. She was very unhappy.’ I thought at the time, ‘Why is he saying, she was, she was?’”

Dayle frowned. “In the back of your mind, you had to know.”

“I didn’t want to believe it.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even believe it when the police told me she was dead. The cop, right away, he said to me, ‘Did Leigh Simone use heroin?’ And I knew that I had to answer yes.”

Staring at her, Dayle almost felt her pain. “Did they contact you again?”

Estelle nodded. “Two days later, this woman called. She just said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy.’ They used to call me ‘Miss Piggy.’ She said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy. Now keep your fat mouth shut.’” Estelle refilled her wineglass. “I did what I was told. And I managed to replace the money in Leigh’s account.”

Dayle rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen. If you’re worried about changing your story for the police, I have a lawyer friend. I think she can swing you a deal. I’ll pay her fee. I asked her to come here tonight.”

“Generous of you,” Estelle murmured, in a stupor.

“Also if you’re worried about a job, you can work for me.”

Estelle let out an abrupt laugh. “But you’re going to die too,” she said, staring at her as if she was stupid for missing something so obvious. “You just said, they have you under surveillance. It’s already started.”

Dayle automatically shook her head.

“They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you, Dayle, the same way they got to me. It’s most likely someone you trust, a loyal, old friend, or a new acquaintance. Whoever it is, have some compassion for them.”

“I have compassion for you, Estelle. I want to help. I know a police lieutenant who’s handling Leigh’s case here. She’s a good woman. I’d like you to talk to her. Tell her what you told me.”

“Sure, why not?” Estelle ran a hand through her damp hair, then stood up. “There’s nothing more they can do to me. Go on, call the police. I’ll give them a statement. Let your lawyer friend in. I need to get dressed.”

Dayle watched her plod into the bathroom and shut the door. She heard the hair dryer start. Sifting through her purse, Dayle found Lt. Susan Linn’s business card. Then she reached for the phone.

He’d already packed his scrapbook in the suitcase, and now Tom was pulling clothes out of his closet. Another call had come in an hour ago; but he’d let it ring. Right now, he just wanted to get out of there before they called again. These people knew he’d killed Maggie, and they were torturing him. Why? He had a feeling they were watching him this very minute.

The telephone rang again. Tom stepped into the living room and gazed at the phone for a moment. Finally, he picked it up, but didn’t quite bring the receiver up to his face. The voice seemed tiny and distant: “Hello? Mr. Lance? Mr. Tom Lance? Is anyone there?”

Tom brought the receiver closer to his ear. “Yes? This is him.”

“Hi. My name’s Hal Buckman. I’m a reporter for Entertainment Tonight. I’m calling because we’ve discovered that Maggie McGuire made her movie debut with you. I was wondering if you’d be willing to give us an interview.” He paused. “Would that be all right? Mr. Lance? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I—I’m still here,” he said numbly. “You want me to be on TV?”

“That’s right. We’d tape the interview tomorrow morning for tomorrow night’s show. Could you fit us into your schedule?”

Tom closed his eyes and smiled gratefully. “Yes,” he said, past the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yes, I—I think I can fit you in….”

Someone knocked. Dayle peeked out the window, then opened Estelle’s front door. Sean wore a navy blue silk blouse and a black skirt. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. “So where’s my new client?” she asked.

“In the bathroom, getting dressed. I’ve already put a call in to a police lieutenant I know. I think she’ll work with us on this.”

Sean glanced at the closed bathroom door. Estelle still had the hair dryer on. “Is she ready to talk?”

Dayle nodded. “She’s told me an earful. These people forced her to lie about Leigh’s problems with sex and drugs. They were calling her up long before Leigh died—practically admitting they were going to kill her.”

“Does she have proof that these people actually murdered Leigh?”

Dayle shrugged. “I can’t say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

Sean nodded and sighed. “I’ll need to ask her a lot of questions before we talk to the police. Might be a long night ahead.”

“You can sleep over at my place if you want.”

“Thanks,” Sean said, putting down her briefcase. “But I want to fix breakfast for my kids tomorrow. Plus my husband has had a few bad nights lately, and I need to be with him.”

Dayle squinted at her. “You mentioned he was sick. Is it serious?”

“Dan was diagnosed three years ago with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” Sean spoke in a matter-of-fact way. She even managed a smile. “The doctor originally gave us only eighteen months, so we’re doing better than expected.”

“Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry,” Dayle murmured. “Are you getting any help?”

She nodded. “My in-laws came to our rescue. It’s one reason we moved here from Eugene. We had to sell our house. Don’t get me started talking about the debt. Anyway, the UCLA Medical Center is doing great things in the treatment of people with ALS. So this is the place for us to be right now.”

“Sean, I wish you would have told me. I wouldn’t be bothering you with all this—”

“No, you’re helping me out. We could use the money—”

The phone rang.

“That’s probably Lieutenant Linn.” Dayle grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

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

“Yes. She’s in the john,” Dayle said, watching Sean wander toward the closed bathroom door. “And I have a lawyer here to represent her.”

“Fine. I’ll see you soon.” Susan Linn 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. “Sean, call an ambulance….”

Dayle threw her weight against the door. “Estelle! Oh, Jesus, no….”

Sean hurried to the phone. 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. She saw the blood on the white tiled floor, and Estelle’s nude body, curled up in a fetal position. She hadn’t cut her wrists. All the blood leaked from a slice across her throat. And in her hand, she still clutched a razor blade.

Thirteen

“Are you okay, Dayle?” Sean asked. Sitting at the steering wheel, she took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her.

Dayle was slumped in the passenger seat. She gave Sean a limp smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, her voice scratchy from talking to Lieutenant Linn for the last ninety minutes. She’d been crying a little too. A pair of approaching headlights illuminated her pale, tearstained face; and for a moment, Dayle Sutton didn’t look anything like a glamorous movie star. “You’re keeping it together really well,” she said.

Sean studied the traffic on the highway. “Well, I didn’t know Estelle,” she reasoned. “And I’m not the one who was talking to her just ten minutes before we found her in there—like that. I’d say you absorbed most of the shock for us, Dayle.”

Sean patted her shoulder. Dayle probably thought she was a real cold customer for not breaking down at all. But that scene in Estelle’s place was all too familiar. Because of Dan’s seizures, Sean had almost become accustomed to dealing with death and near-death, 9-1-1, paramedics, and answering a ton of stupid questions while under stress.

She and Dayle had sat in Estelle’s beige living room an hour ago, watching them carry the draped corpse out on a stretcher. She’d told Susan Linn everything she could—which wasn’t much. She shared some of Vince Delk’s theories with her, but didn’t mention that she had a source within the Portland police. The burden was really on Dayle, who told the lieutenant everything Estelle Collier had so desperately concealed for such a long time.

“This is all hearsay, you know,” Lieutenant Linn had warned them. Her dark, almond eyes appeared tired. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and her black hair was tied back in a loose bun. She sat on the sofa with them, a tape recorder in her lap. She shut the machine off. “I’ll send this tape to the Portland police, suggesting they reopen the Leigh Simone investigation. But I can’t guarantee anything. Meanwhile, we’ll give this place a thorough going-over. Maybe Estelle kept a journal, something to back up what you’ve told me. Dayle, I’ll call you if we find anything.” She loaded the recorder into her purse. “Have you thought about hiring yourself a full-time bodyguard?”

Rubbing her eyes, Dayle nodded. “I probably will, yes.”

“I could try to fudge the police report on this,” Lieutenant Linn said, shaking her head. “But the press will still get wind of the fact that you discovered the body, Dayle. They’ll want you to make a statement.” She glanced at Sean for a moment. “I think your lawyer friend here would agree with me, it’s not a good idea to comment on this. It might screw up the investigation. And if what you say is true, you could be putting yourself in danger.”

Sean offered to drive Dayle back to her apartment building. For the last half hour in the car, Sean couldn’t stop thinking about the press coverage—and what it meant. She’d be included in the story on page one tomorrow: DAYLE SUTTON DISCOVERS SUICIDE OF LEIGH SIMONE’S AIDE. These people who had targeted Dayle would now go after her—and possibly her family.

Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she glanced over at Dayle, who had dozed off. Up ahead, a white Cavalier was parked across the street from the apartment building. Sean could just barely make out someone in the front seat. “Dayle?”

She sat up, suddenly alert. “What?”

“Is there a another entrance to your building?”

For a moment, Dayle didn’t seem to understand. Then Sean nodded at the Cavalier—and the lone figure inside it.

“There’s a side entrance,” Dayle said. “But I have to call the night watchman to let me in.”

“Cellular’s in my purse,” Sean replied. She turned down the cross street in front of Dayle’s building. The Cavalier was too far away for her to tell if its occupant had noticed them. While Dayle fished out the cellular and called the night man, Sean studied the other cars parked along the street. All of them looked empty. She found the building’s side door, and pulled up to the loading zone beside it.

“We’re waiting here now,” Dayle was saying into the phone. “Thanks.” She clicked off and handed the cellular to Sean. “He’ll just be a minute.”

“Let’s stay in here until he shows,” Sean said, putting her phone away. She nervously glanced around—particularly at shadowy bushes alongside the building. Then she checked to make sure the car door was locked. “Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Linn about these guys who have you under surveillance?”

“I really wasn’t thinking about them.” Dayle shrugged. “Besides, she’d only think I was paranoid. She’d say these guys are with the tabloids. I’ve been through this before with her. Ditto my assistant, Dennis. You’re the only one who really seems to believe me, Sean.” She sighed. “Listen, I can’t thank you enough. If you weren’t with me tonight—”

The sudden noise gave Sean a start, and she swiveled toward her window. It was only the night man, pushing open the side door for Dayle. He smiled and waved at them.

Dayle finished thanking her, and said good-bye. Sean watched her trot around the front of the car to the door. Once Dayle was inside, Sean pulled forward and turned at the next intersection. Near the end of the block on the cross-street, she saw someone leaning against a parked Taurus, talking to the driver inside. He looked about forty-five, with sneakers, white pants, and an ugly, shortsleeve turquoise blue shirt. He puffed on a cigarette. Only a couple of cars behind was the Cavalier with the front door cracked open and the interior light on.

Sean remained idling around the corner from them. She must have caught them during the changing of the guard. They didn’t seem to notice her. The man in the ugly shirt was still talking to his friend. He was laughing about something. He tossed away his cigarette, slapped the hood of the Taurus a couple of times, then started toward his own car. Then the Cavalier’s headlights went on, and it started to pull away from the curb.

Sean turned the corner and began to follow him. She passed the parked Taurus, then glanced in her rearview mirror. The man inside didn’t seem to notice her. He had his window rolled down, and he was looking up at Dayle’s building.

Forty-five minutes later, the Cavalier turned into the parking lot of a seedy-looking hotel called the My-T-Comfort Inn. It couldn’t have been all that comfortin’, located right off a busy highway, with cars and trucks whooshing by. Someone had rap music cranked up to full volume; it was either from the Dairy Barn Kwick Stop next door or a resident of the trailer park across the street. The hotel was a shoddy, late-sixties cabin-row-style setup with about forty rooms. Below the blinking VACANCY sign, a yellow-lit billboard heralded in black letters: FREE HBO—HAPPY BI THDAY ANITA!

Sean pulled over to the curb, near the motel sign. She watched the Cavalier wind around to the back of the hotel. Grabbing her purse, she climbed out of the car. The November night air had turned chilly, and Sean shivered as she crept along the wild shrubbery that bordered the parking lot by the hotel. She ducked behind a Dumpster, then watched the man with the ugly shirt step out of his car. He’d parked beside two Corsicas. He ambled to room 18, and let himself in. Sean pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her purse. She started scribbling down license plate numbers from the rental cars.

After a couple of minutes, Ugly Shirt Man emerged from his room again, an ice bucket in his hand. He knocked on the next door down, number 17. The door opened, and a stubby man with a mustache and greasy brown hair stepped outside. He wore army fatigues and a gray T-shirt, which revealed a tiny beer gut. Sean watched him punch his buddy in the arm, very macho friendly. The traffic noise from the street was too loud for her to hear what they were saying. Inside the room, she could see his TV was on. A laptop computer sat on the desk. The two men laughed about something, then both stepped inside the room and shut the door.

Sean finished jotting down the plate numbers and car descriptions. Another midsize, rental-type car pulled into the lot, the beams from its headlights sweeping across the bushes for a moment. Sean stepped back. The car, another white Taurus, parked in a space in front of her. She had a good view of the driver as he opened the car door. He didn’t look like the others. He was about forty, with strawberry-blond hair; the boy next door, grown-up handsome. He wore a navy crew neck and khakis. At first, Sean thought he wasn’t with them. But then he reached below the driver’s seat and took out a handgun. He glanced around for a second, then checked the gun for something. After a minute, he slipped it back under the seat, climbed out of the car, and locked the door.

Crouched in the bushes, Sean kept perfectly still and watched him. Suddenly, the cell phone in her purse rang. She almost jumped out of her skin. She ducked further back, and grabbed the phone out of her purse. It rang again—louder this time, without the purse to muffle the sound. Mr. Boy Next Door stopped and glanced in her direction. A truck roared by on the street, drowning out the third ring. Sean switched off the phone, then held her breath and waited to see what the man would do.

He gave a little shrug, then walked across the parking lot, where he knocked on the door to room 17. Mr. Stubby Macho answered it. They shook hands. Sean noticed that the nice-looking one wore a pager. Then she realized they both sported pagers. These guys were soldiers, on call. They had a ringleader somewhere, pulling the strings. The two men stepped into cabin 17, and shut the door.

After jotting down Boy Next Door’s license plate number, Sean scurried around to the front of the hotel. She peeked past the finger-smudged glass doors toward the front desk. She needed to know how many of them there were; she wanted names, where they lived—information the desk clerk might provide. At the moment, her potential source was leaning against the front counter, lazily paging through what looked like a skin magazine. He might have been handsome with some grooming, but he was too gaunt, and his long brown hair looked unwashed. Dayle guessed he was about thirty. His T-shirt hung on him as if draped over a skeleton.

Sean turned away from the door. Opening her purse, she checked her wallet: eleven dollars and some change—hardly enough for bribe money. She sighed, then caught her reflection in the window of a nearby parked car. Frowning at herself, Sean put down the purse, then unbuttoned her navy blue blouse. Despite the cold, she tied the shirt up in a Calypso fashion so her bare midriff showed. She didn’t look much like a hooker, but this was the best she could do. Rolling her eyes, she retrieved her purse, then started into the lobby.

She was hit with a waft of warm, moist air that smelled of moldy carpet and stale coffee. The lobby had two orange plastic, bucket-style chairs and a Formica coffee table with a dusty, fake fern that had seen better days.

The desk clerk quickly stashed his skin magazine under the counter. “Want a room?” he asked.

Approaching the desk, Sean saw a ratty, tired-looking German Shepherd curled up at the clerk’s feet. The dog gazed up at her with disinterest. “Atta girl, Anita,” the clerk mumbled. Anita, the birthday girl, Sean thought. The clerk caught her eye again. “What can we do for you? You want a room?”

“Actually, I’m supposed to meet someone,” Sean whispered, with her best coy smile. “There’s these guys in a block of rooms—like sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen? I can’t remember this particular guy’s name or which room actually. Could you tell me the names of the guys in those rooms? I think they all checked in together a couple of days ago.”

The desk clerk gave her a wary look. “Well, I dunno…”

“Oh, c’mon, be a sport,” she said. “I don’t want to knock on the wrong door tonight. C’mon, whaddaya say?”

He frowned. “It’s against the law to give out peoples’ names. I’ve got to be careful about stuff like that with these cops around.”

“Cops?”

“Yeah, they checked in tonight. The squad car is on the other side from where your buddies are.”

“What are they here for?” Sean asked. “Are they with the others?”

Shrugging, the skinny clerk glanced over her shoulder. “Huh, maybe you can ask these guys. They’re with that group….”

Sean swiveled around. From outside, Mr. Stubby Macho and Boy Next Door came toward the lobby. Stubby Macho pushed at the glass door.

Sean turned to the clerk. “Don’t give me away,” she whispered. “This is supposed to be a surprise! Don’t say anything. Please!” Her head down, she quickly started for the door, hurrying past the two men.

Stubby Macho stopped and leered at her. Meanwhile, his pal continued toward the desk. “If I knew you were stocking this place with whores, I never would have booked us here,” he said loudly—obviously for her benefit.

Sean glanced back for a second. He slapped some money on the counter. “Listen, I’m expecting a limousine early tomorrow morning….”

Stubby Macho turned and started coming toward her. He was smirking. “Hey, girlie,” he whispered. “You want to party?”

Sean quickly shook her head, then ducked outside. The cold night air nipped at her. Shivering, she ran across the lot to her car, parked at the curb. She jumped inside and ground the key in the ignition. Her heart was racing as she pulled into traffic. Sean glanced in her rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following her.

“Oh, Sean, thank God,” Dayle said into the phone. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you….”

Dayle sat in the study, her second shot of brandy in a glass beside her on the desk. She’d poured the first one just minutes after the night watchman had escorted her up to her apartment. Then she’d checked her phone messages—eleven in all, but only two were important. One of those was from Bonny McKenna: “Hi, Dayle, this is your evil twin, Bonny. Hank and I lost those guys around nine thirty on La Brea Ave.; then I met up with my hubby, and he drove me home. No problems See you at work on Monday. Bye.”

The other message was from Dennis: “Hey, Boss Lady, it’s me. First off, Laura really enjoyed meeting you. Second, flowers and a card in your name went to Maggie’s kids this afternoon. Now, if I may eat some crow-burger, I think it wouldn’t hurt if you got yourself a full-time bodyguard. Hank’s the salt of the earth, but The Terminator he ain’t. Laura and I met a guy at a party last week, a pro, with references. He’s thinking of retiring, but I could persuade him to work for us. His name is Ted Kovak. His phone number is 555-3641, or I can contact him for you. Mull it over. We’ll talk later. Bye.”

Dayle jotted down the messages. She thought a shower might relax her. But as she stood under the warm spray from the duel shower heads, she couldn’t help remembering Estelle’s body. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see Estelle—pale, bloated, and naked—curled up on that tiled floor in a pool of blood.

Dayle didn’t linger in the shower. She’d dried off, slipped into her terrycloth robe, and poured that second brandy. She’d called Sean’s cellular number. It had rung three times before the line went dead. Dayle tried again every ten minutes after that.

She’d been ready to call Sean’s in-laws’ house—or the police—when her phone rang.

“I got your call, and I shut off my cellular,” Sean explained. “I’m sorry. I was in no position to talk to anyone at the time. I’ll explain later—”

“Well, are you okay?” Dayle asked. “Where are you?”

“In the car,” Sean replied. “I should be home in about an hour. I’m okay. Nobody’s following me. Anyway, sorry I cut you off. I saw it was you who phoned. I was going to call you anyway. Listen, Dayle, I pulled a switcheroo and followed one of these guys who’s had you under surveillance. They’re all holed up in this hotel called the My-T-Comfort Inn. There are at least four of them—if you include the guy parked outside your building tonight. I checked out this hotel, and some cops are staying there too. At least, there’s a police car in the lot. I don’t know what that’s about. But I wrote down the plate numbers on the rental cars. Do you still have that private detective working for you?”

“Yes,” Dayle said numbly.

“I’ll fax or e-mail these numbers to you when I get home tonight,” Sean said—over some static on the line. “Maybe your guy knows a good computer hack who can come up with the credit cards used at the car rental agency. We might be able to find out who these guys are—and where they’re from.”

“The reception’s getting choppy,” Dayle said. “Listen, why not just call the police now? They can go to that hotel and—”

“Dayle, the police are already at the hotel,” she replied. “For all we know, they could be involved. Let’s first just find out who these guys are. Dayle? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, but you’re breaking up.”

“I know. My phone’s running out of juice. I better hang up. I’ll send you that list tonight. Okay? Bye, Dayle.”

“Okay, be careful.” With uncertainty, Dayle hung up.

She took another sip of brandy, then moved to the window. Hiding behind the curtain, she glanced down at the white Taurus parked across the street. She remembered something Estelle had said earlier tonight: But you’re going to die too…. They have you under surveillance…. It’s already started.

Fourteen

Tom had bought five different Saturday morning newspapers from the kiosk down his street. They were scattered across his living room floor like a paper drop cloth, each one open to the story about Maggie’s death. Only the Los Angeles Times mentioned his name: McGuire had her screen debut in the film noir sleeper, ‘Hour of Deceit,’ co-starring William Wagner and Tom Lance, her fiance for a brief time.

Tom’s heart ached. All those tributes to Maggie, and he’d been reduced to playing a bit part. Still, he took solace in the Entertainment Tonight interview. The E.T. people were due to pick him up at 7:15. Tom checked his wristwatch. Any minute now.

He was dressed in his new blue suit (only three years old), a crisp white shirt, and his favorite tie. Tom combed his hair again, then pulled out a scissors and trimmed his wild eyebrows and ear hair. He took another look at his wristwatch: 7:45. Where were they?

What if this Hal Buckman was some sadistic crackpot, the same one making those calls earlier? They’d never called back; no more recordings of Maggie or that barking dog. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate trap.

“It’s real,” Tom whispered resolutely. “It’s Entertainment Tonight. That guy was telling the truth. And he’ll be here any minute.”

Tom’s heart leaped when he saw a limousine finally pull up in front of his building. He watched the driver get out, and a moment later, the downstairs buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Lance? This is Arnie, your driver. Sorry for the delay, sir.”

Grinning, Tom pressed the intercom again. “I’ll be right down. Thanks.”

He grabbed his scrapbook, then paused in the doorway for a moment, long enough to whisper, “God, please, don’t let me screw this up.”

Hal Buckman waited for him in the limo’s backseat. He looked about fifty years old, with receding black hair, an affable smile, and thick jowls. He wore gray slacks, a black turtleneck, a blue blazer, and sunglasses. “We appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule for this interview, Mr. Lance,” he said, shaking Tom’s hand. The limo started to move. “I realize this isn’t easy for you. This whole thing must have been an awful shock.”

Tom sighed. “I still can’t believe it. What’s this world coming to?”

“You and Maggie McGuire remained close, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We kept in touch.” He tapped the cover of his scrapbook. “I brought pictures—some really good ones of Maggie and me together. Maybe you can show them during part of my segment.”

“Super,” Hal Buckman said. “I understand that you helped Maggie get started in movies. You landed her the part in Hour of Deceit, didn’t you?”

Tom felt himself blushing. “I talked to the director,” he said. “But Maggie’s beauty and talent won her the role.”

“So—in a way, she owed you her career.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Tom replied. At least he wouldn’t say it on national TV.

“So tell me, Tom,” Buckman said, moving even closer to him until their shoulders touched. “Can I call you Tom?”

He nodded. “Certainly, please do.”

“So tell me, Tom,” he whispered. “How did you feel when you shot that ungrateful bitch in the head?”

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dayle said, heading into the kitchen with Dennis.

She wore jeans, a black pullover, and no makeup. She didn’t plan on going outside the apartment today. She was the reluctant star of The Story on Page One. This morning, her “rental mental” surveillance man had a lot of company—at least a dozen reporters gathered in front of her building. But Dayle wasn’t talking with anyone—not even her own public relations people. She decided to let Dennis handle them. That was why she’d asked him to come over this morning. “I hope I didn’t screw up your Saturday with Laura,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“She wanted to go to the mall,” Dennis said. He took a mug from the cupboard, then helped himself from the Mr. Coffee pot. “So I owe you big time for getting me out of it. Where’s Hank?”

“He’s at his place. I’m staying home today. I don’t need him.” She moved aside the newspaper she’d been reading. “In fact, Hank’s one reason I wanted to talk with you today. That bodyguard you mention, your friend, Kojak—”

“Kovak,” Dennis said, sipping his coffee. “Ted Kovak. He’s a real pro. Nice guy too. Want me to set up an interview?”

Dayle nodded. “You read my mind.”

Dennis glanced down at a story in the newspaper she’d been reading: AIDE TO LEIGH SIMONE COMMITS SUICIDE.

“Must have been rough,” he said.

“Huh, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Did Estelle talk?”

“What?”

“Did she tell you anything?”

Dayle stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Before she killed herself, did Estelle tell you anything?”

Dayle hesitated. It was an innocent question, but he seemed to be asking it for someone else. Dayle shook her head. “Um, no, it’s just like the newspaper said, Sean Olson and I came in and found her in the bathroom.”

Frowning, Dennis shook his head. “Too bad.”

Dayle was thinking about what Estelle had said: They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you…. Dennis had been working alongside her for over three years now; she trusted him. Then again, Estelle had been with Leigh Simone twice that long.

“Dennis, do you like working for me?” she asked.

“You’re the bane of my existence,” he said over his coffee cup.

“I’m serious,” Dayle said. “I want to know if you’re happy with me. I know I piss you off sometimes. Do you ever want to get even?”

He laughed. “Get even? What? Dayle, I happen to love working for you.” Dennis cocked his head to one side. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dayle muttered. “Nothing at all. Forget it, honey.”

The limousine glided down a street where palm trees adorned meridians, and gates didn’t quite obscure views of immaculate lawns and seven-figure houses. Inside the limo, Tom listened to a tape from that afternoon at Maggie’s. The man calling himself Hal Buckman smirked during Maggie’s harangue: “…See you in the movies, Tom…. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

“Oh, here it comes,” he whispered.

“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” Tom heard himself growl.

“My God, you stupid—”

The loud gunshot cut her off. Tom winced at the sound of her body hitting the kitchen floor. He hadn’t heard that when it was really happening.

Hal Buckman pressed a button on the armrest, and the tape stopped. He took off his sunglasses, then cleaned them with a handkerchief. “We had her under surveillance for three weeks,” he explained. “We planted eight thousand bucks’ worth of bugging devices in her place. Lucky for you, we had enough time to get back in and collect it all before the police came to check out your handiwork. Otherwise, we’d be pretty upset with you, Tom.”

“‘We?’” Tom asked timidly.

Buckman smiled, and puffed his chest out a bit. “Have you ever heard of SAAMO, Tom?”

He shook his head.

“Good,” Hal said. “You’re not supposed to hear of it. SAAMO stands for Soldiers for An American Moral Order, and we have chapters all over the United States. We’re the good guys, Tom. We’re going to clean up this country, make it a decent place for our children.” Buckman glanced out the car window. “Maggie McGuire’s son is a sexual deviant. He has AIDS, thanks to his homosexual lifestyle. Some folks think that’s mighty sad, but certain individuals get what they deserve.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” Tom asked quietly.

“You gave Maggie McGuire what she deserved, Tom. Here’s a lady—and I use that term lightly—who appeared on the cover of People magazine, saying how proud she was of her queer son. She was endorsing deviant behavior. This is a war we’re fighting, Tom. Maggie McGuire was the enemy, preaching her propaganda. We wanted to stop her somehow, but you took care of that for us.” He slapped Tom on the shoulder. “You fixed her—for good.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Tom argued. “I—I still don’t understand any of this. What do you want with me?”

“You’re a good shot, Tom. You obviously know how to handle a gun from all those great westerns you made. You sure hit the bull’s-eye with Maggie McGuire. We might need you to silence another morally corrupt actress.”

“Who?” he murmured.

“She’s a big name, Tom. That’s all you need to know right now. We’ll give you the details at the appropriate time. We have a very exciting plan. We’ll need you to do some acting too. I think you’ll enjoy it. Of course, you’re in no position to refuse. But we’d like to have your enthusiasm nevertheless.”

“But I’m not a killer,” Tom whispered, shaking his head. “What happened with Maggie was an accident.”

“What happened with Maggie was practice,” Buckman said.

“Well, how do you expect me to pull it off?” Tom asked. “I’m not a hit man, for God’s sake. I’m seventy years old!”

“You’re seventy-six, Tom. And we’ll tell you in due time how you’ll pull it off. You’ll like this plan, I guarantee it.”

The old scrapbook had been poised on his lap for nearly an hour. It felt heavy—and useless. Tom glanced out the limousine window as they drove past his neighborhood Thrifty Mart. They were taking him home.

“I know you’re confused,” Hal said, with a gentle smile. “We’ll tell you more within the next couple of days. In the meantime, don’t do anything foolish, or worry about the police. They still don’t know who killed Maggie McGuire. Our men who retrieved the equipment from her house did a very thorough job of wiping away evidence. You were sloppy, Tom. Your fingerprints were on her counter. But they’re gone now. You should thank us, Tom, you really should.”

“Thank you,” Tom muttered obediently.

The limo slowed down as it approached his apartment building. Tom sighed. “You went to a lot of trouble to—to procure me for this job. What happens if I refuse? What if I surrender to the police, and tell them all about you and this SAAMO outfit?”

Hal Buckman appeared very concerned for a moment, almost tortured. “Oh, Tom,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’ll disappear before you even utter a second word to the police.”

Nick Brock stood in Dayle’s doorway. Her cordless phone to her ear, Dayle waved him inside, then shut the door. He followed her to her study, all the while checking out her “plush pad” of an apartment. Dressed in a tight black T-shirt and gray pleated pants, he carried a slim leather briefcase. Dayle sat back behind her desk and finished up on the phone with Bonny, thanking her again for acting as decoy last night. Then she clicked off and smiled at Nick. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

He pulled a magazine out of his briefcase and dropped it on her desk. “You might be interested in page thirty-four.”

It was a Playgirl. Dayle didn’t understand, but she picked up the magazine and turned to page thirty-four. She stared at a full-page photo of Nick naked, except for a shoulder holster and gun. His back was to the camera, but he grinned over his shoulder. Shaking her head, Dayle turned back a page, and read the pictorial’s title, PRIVATE DICKS.

Dayle was momentarily stunned, but only momentarily. “Well, good for you, Nick. Nice butt.” She shoved the magazine across her desk. “Now, let’s get down to business. I have more work for you.” She handed him the license plate listing that Sean had faxed her. “Those are license numbers to five rental cars. These guys have been following me around for the last few days. I’m wondering if you can come up with the credit card numbers that paid for these rentals. I also want names and addresses off those cards. And I need to know if there were any hotel or car rental charges on these cards in Portland when Leigh Simone and Tony Katz were killed.”

Nick frowned. “Ms. Sutton, unauthorized access to credit card files is against the law.” He waited a beat, then broke into a cocky grin. “It’ll be a cinch for our resident computer nerd. The guy can tap into just about any system—from Aunt Ida’s home computer to Command Center in the Pentagon. He hasn’t gotten laid in like eight years, but the guy’s a whiz on that PC.”

“I’m both happy and sad for him,” Dayle said with a patient smile. Then she sighed, and the smile fell away. “You heard about Estelle Collier.”

Nodding, Nick frowned. “Yeah. It’s a pisser.”

“Don’t you feel accountable?” Dayle whispered. “I know I do.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Nothing. Only—I can’t help thinking, ‘What goes around, comes around.’ Maybe they’re digging up something about me right now—something from my private past. Estelle said they operate that way. For all I know, they’re rattling some skeletons in my closet right now.”

Nick grinned at her. “What do you have to hide?”

“Nothing much.” Dayle answered. She glanced down at the desktop and gave a little shrug. “But enough, I guess—so that it worries me.”

Tom poured himself another Jack Daniels. He kept hearing that tape over again in his head: Maggie insulting him, the gunshot, and her body hitting the floor.

Now they wanted him to do it again, all planned out this time.

He had the TV going, but there was nothing about Maggie on the six o’clock news. Glancing out the window, he wondered if Hal’s men were watching him now.

“Stay tuned for First Edition,” the TV announcer said, as the titles for the evening news scrolled up on the screen. “F.E. has an exclusive look at the film Maggie McGuire kept secret for forty years! Viewer discretion advised.”

Tom fumbled for the remote control and turned up the volume. What were they talking about? He’d seen every movie Maggie had made. What did they mean by viewer discretion advised?

He turned up the volume on the TV. “Tonight on First Edition!” the announcer proclaimed. “A shocking exclusive! The Maggie McGuire film that she didn’t want anyone to see!” A grainy, black-and-white image came on the screen. It was Maggie, fondling a beer bottle and licking the stem in a provocative fashion. She was topless; but a computerized checkerboard grid obscured the bottom half of the TV picture to hide her breasts.

Tom watched in stunned silence. Indeed it was a young Maggie in the rickety old stag movie; probably a desperate measure from her struggling modeling days, before she’d met him. The sight of her youthful beauty left him feeling weak; he still wanted to protect her. The love of his life, and here she was, naked and debasing herself, for all to see.

They broke away from the stag movie, so the First Edition anchor, a perky blonde in a pink blazer, could introduce the show. Then they started the film again—with portions of the screen still blurred by the computerized grid. But Tom could tell what was going on. After pouring beer over her breasts, Maggie appeared to be doing something down there with the empty bottle. The movie had no sound. The anchor handled the voice-over, explaining that First Edition had uncovered the one-reel film today, less than forty-eight hours after the shocking murder of its star, Maggie McGuire. The film had been made in 1947. Miss McGuire’s costar hadn’t yet been identified.

Not that anyone had much chance to see his face. The scrawny, balding man’s back was to the camera as he strolled onto the set. The grid obscured his buttocks. Maggie, sitting at the edge of a bed, set aside the beer bottle and reached out to him.

They switched back to the announcer, who explained that they couldn’t show any more footage from the movie, titled Thirsty Lady. Adam Blanchard, the late star’s forty-year-old, HIV-positive son, had no comment regarding the newly discovered film.

Tom began to cry. His greatest contribution to the movies was Maggie McGuire. Yet after this, who would remember her years of hard work? Who would remember the Academy-Award-winning performance? Her impressive career was now eclipsed by scandal, and most people would only remember Maggie McGuire’s dirty movie.

“This is the worst she’s ever been, George,” Avery said to his friend on the phone. He sat at his desk in the study. “You saw how she was today. They put her back on the antidepressants at the hospital. But I don’t think it’s doing any good.”

“Be patient, give Joanne a little time,” George said. “Where is she?”

“Right now, she’s napping upstairs.”

Joanne had slept the entire time at George and Sheila’s—except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, and an episode at around three in the morning.

Avery had woken to the sound of her crying, distant whimpering that escalated to screams. Avery switched on the light and saw her across the room. Joanne stood by the guest room window, shrieking, with tears rolling down her cheeks. He managed to quiet her down and guide her back into bed. “I’m so tried,” was all she could say.

In the morning, he told his friends that Joanne had had a nightmare. It was almost the truth. She didn’t come down to breakfast. She didn’t utter a word all morning—not even when George and Sheila hugged her good-bye at the door. Avery led her to the car. He hated to think that perhaps Joanne was pulling some theatrics here. His actress wife wasn’t beyond “playing to the balcony” at times—as she herself had admitted. How much was a real breakdown—and how much was drama—he couldn’t tell.

About a dozen reporters hovered around the front gate. They peered into the car, and shouted questions. A couple of them asked about the claw marks on Avery’s cheek. All last night and this morning, Joanne hadn’t even noticed. As they pulled into the driveway, she turned away from the cameras and covered her face. Once inside the house, she plodded up the stairs to their bedroom, pried off her shoes, and slipped into bed.

That had been over four hours ago. He’d checked on her several times. To be safe, Avery had gone into their bathroom and removed all the razor blades and an old bottle of sleeping pills.

“Keep a close eye on her,” George recommended over the phone.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Avery said soberly.

“Good. Well, call if you need anything. I love you, buddy.”

“Thanks, George. Love you too. Bye.” Avery hung up the phone, and wearily reclimbed those stairs. He crept into the bedroom. Joanne was still dressed, still in bed—but awake.

Avery sat down at her side. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you go freshen up? I’ll throw something together for dinner. Okay?”

“Dinner?” she said vaguely. She didn’t even look at him.

“Yeah,” Avery caressed her arm. “C’mon, Joanne, I’m tired of talking to myself here. Please?” He started to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re scaring me….”

The telephone rang. Joanne didn’t even seem to hear it.

Avery sighed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”

“Avery? Hi. It’s Steve Bensinger.”

“Oh, Steve. You know, now is not a good time to talk.”

“Well, then you’re going to hate me, because I’m on my cellular, in front of your house. I’m sorry, Avery, but it’s urgent I see you.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, give me a minute. I’ll open the gate for you.” Avery hung up the phone. He kissed Joanne’s cheek, then hurried down the stairs and flicked the wall switch for the gate. He met Steve at the door.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” Steve asked, gaping at the scratch marks on Avery’s cheek.

“Tell you later.” Avery closed the door. “What’s the emergency?”

Steve stepped into the foyer. He wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. “Okay, no song and dance,” he said grimly. “I have a contact in the Beverly Hills police force, and he knows I work for you. He called me an hour ago and asked if I had any clue as to my client’s whereabouts last night….”

Avery shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“A certain Libby Stoddard was stalking and harassing you last month. I talked to your lawyer about it on the way here—”

“Yeah, okay, so?” Avery said impatiently.

“She’s dead, Avery.”

“What?”

“Libby Stoddard’s gardener has a key. He discovered the body this afternoon. She’d been stabbed several times. There’s also evidence of rape.”

“God, no,” Avery whispered.

“They think she let the guy in,” Steve explained. “It happened last night. Coroner’s still working on an approximate time….” He glanced up toward the top of the stairs.

Numb, Avery followed his gaze and saw Joanne at the second-floor landing. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. She clutched the banister as if it were the only thing supporting her. She had heard everything. Avery stared at her. “Joanne, you shouldn’t—”

She began to laugh.

Avery hurried up the steps to her. As he led her toward their bedroom, Joanne’s laughter became louder and louder. She sounded like a crazy woman.

He’d just fallen asleep when the telephone rang. Blindly, Avery reached toward the nightstand. “I have it, hon,” he mumbled, trying to focus on the digital alarm clock: 5:13. He cleared his throat. “Yes? Hello?”

“Mr. Cooper? This is Aaron Harvey from Homeguard Securities. Our cameras have picked up some activity in your backyard pool area—”

“What?” Avery rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to put everything together. The guy was talking about the cameras they’d installed outside their house after the break-in last month. “What kind of activity?” he asked.

“I’ve taken the liberty of sending over an ambulance—”

“An ambulance? What?” He sat up, then swiveled around. Joanne’s side of the bed was empty.

“I think your wife’s had an accident,” the man said. “She seems to have fallen in the pool.”

“Wait, wait a second.” Avery jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors to the balcony. He pushed them open and stared down at the pool.

Joanne’s robe billowed out as she floated facedown on the water’s surface. She barely moved—expect for the water lapping around her. She drifted in the shallow end like a fallen leaf.

In the distance, he could hear the wailing siren. Avery snatched up the phone again. “Tell them we’re around back.”

He hung up and bolted down the stairs. In the hallway, he flicked the switch that held open the front gate. Then he ran through the kitchen and out to the pool. Jumping into the frigid water, Avery grabbed Joanne. He hoisted her out of the pool, and set her down on her stomach. She wasn’t breathing. He frantically pushed and pushed on her back.

He could hear the ambulance down the street, then voices and footsteps. People were coming up the driveway.

He continued his efforts to resuscitate her, but Joanne didn’t stir. Headlights swept across the backyard bushes as the ambulance came down the driveway. Avery heard more voices: “Something’s happened!” one reporter shouted to another. “I need this on video!”

Avery wouldn’t give up. He kept trying to force the water from her lungs. The paramedics rushed through the back gate, followed by several reporters and photographers. Camera flashes popped in the murky dawn light.

Joanne coughed, regurgitating a stomachful of water onto the pool deck. Hovering over her, Avery let out a grateful cry. She was still coughing when the paramedics relieved him.

Drenched, and clad only in his undershorts, Avery rolled over and caught his breath. He could see Joanne moving. Camera flashes illuminated everything. He managed to stand up, then glared at the handful of paparazzi at his back gate. “You guys are trespassing,” he said evenly—between gasps for air. “You’re blocking the ambulance. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

Incredibly, they obeyed him.

One of the paramedics asked him how it had happened. Avery just shook his head.

“Your wife seems to have swallowed a mixture of barbiturates and alcohol. We need to move her to the hospital right away.”

“Yes, of course,” Avery whispered. He gazed down at the other medic inserting a fat plastic tube in Joanne’s mouth. Her eyes were half open.

Avery began to shiver from the cold.

He stepped into the dimly lit hospital room. Joanne was asleep. As Avery moved closer to the bed, he saw the restraining straps around her wrists—attached to the bed’s side railings. She looked so frail and sickly. Her damp hair had dried into flat, greasy tangles.

He still smelled of chlorine from his plunge into the pool five hours before. He’d found the empty bottle of sleeping pills in the kitchen garbage. Joanne had had the prescription filled in New York. She’d washed down the pills with several shots of vodka—before jumping into the pool.

The doctor had allowed him only a brief visit, so Avery stayed just a few minutes. He gently kissed her forehead. “G’night, honey,” he whispered, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

Outside Joanne’s private room, a slim Asian woman, about fifty, waited by the security guard’s desk in the hallway. She had a pen and pad, and wore a red cardigan with black pants. Avery was a bit disappointed the guard hadn’t chased away this reporter. He frowned at both of them.

“Mr. Cooper?” She dug into her purse. “I know my timing is awful. But I need to ask you some questions.” She pulled out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, Beverly Hills police. Could I buy you a coffee in the cafeteria? I promise this won’t take long.”

Avery sighed. “I’ve talked to you people all day. How many times do I have to go over this? My wife wasn’t herself. She’s been through a lot—”

“This isn’t about your wife, Mr. Cooper. I need to ask you some questions about Libby Stoddard. I believe you knew her.”

They’d caught the hospital cafeteria during a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. Only a handful of other customers were scattered about. A janitor was mopping up; he’d placed chairs upside down on several tables.

Avery sipped his Coke. “So what did you want to ask me?”

Susan Linn frowned. “Well, first you should know that—um, you’re not required to answer any of my questions. You’re entitled to counsel, and anything you say might be used against you.”

Avery gave her a wary look. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Linn shrugged. “It’s standard jargon. You’ve seen the cop shows. Hell, you’ve acted in the cop shows.”

Avery nodded. “I’ll let you know if I feel the need for a lawyer. For now, go ahead, ask away.”

“The scratch,” she said, unwrapping her prepackaged Rice Krispies Treat. “How did that happen?”

Avery touched his cheek, then shrugged. “I was at this little ocean-view park last night, just to—well, collect my thoughts. Suddenly, this nut—this woman—came out of nowhere, and she scratched my face. Then she ducked into a car and drove off.”

“When did this happen?” Linn asked.

“Around five-thirty. Joanne and I were staying with friends. I was on my way home to pick up some things, and I swung by this park.”

Lieutenant Linn nodded pensively. “Your friend, George Weber, concurs—you left his house at five-fifteen. One of the reporters outside your front gate saw you come home at seven-twenty. You spent a lot of time at this scenic spot, collecting your thoughts. Did you go somewhere else?”

Avery shook his head. “Only the park. I had a lot on my mind. My wife had just had a miscarriage—”

“I know all about that,” Lieutenant Linn said, over her coffee cup. “You were filming a talk show when your wife had to be rushed to the hospital. Were you wearing any stage makeup for this television appearance?”

Sipping his Coke, Avery nodded. “A little.”

“Did you have a chance to wash it off before this trip to the park?”

“No, I didn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

She put down her Rice Krispies Treat. “Can you believe these things are low-fat? They’re so sweet. Only a few more questions.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Um, what’s your blood type, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, not looking up.

“Type O.”

“Hmmm.” She kept scribbling. “Between the time you left the Webers’ and arrived at your home, did you meet up with anyone besides this scratch-happy woman in the park?”

“I’m afraid not.” Avery straightened in his chair. “Am I a suspect in Libby’s murder?”

Lieutenant Linn sighed. “Well, I’ve done my homework. I know Libby was your ‘number-one fan’ as well as a thorn in your side. According to her attorney, you threatened Libby at an arbitration hearing last month.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Avery said quietly.

Lieutenant Linn flipped through her notebook and scanned a particular page. “Um, on top of being your number-one fan, Ms. Stoddard was also a very rich young woman. With no evidence of a break-in, and not a single item missing from her home—we can eliminate robbery as a motive. So it looks like a crime of passion or revenge. Libby was stabbed eleven times. The coroner estimates the time of death was between five and eight o’clock.” Lieutenant Linn glanced at him for a moment. “Apparently, Libby put up a fight. There’s evidence of a struggle. We know she scratched her assailant, because skin fragments were found under her fingernails. We also found traces of stage makeup mingled in with the loose skin tissue. Ms. Stoddard was also raped. We were able to draw a semen sample, and determine the blood type.”

“Type O?” Avery whispered.

She nodded.

Avery swallowed hard. “Why is this happening?” he murmured.

“Would you agree to giving us a semen sample?” she gently asked. “It might eliminate you as a suspect.”

“I can’t say right now.” Avery muttered, shaking his head. “I think I need a lawyer. I better not say anything else.”

Fifteen

Dayle turned off the duel shower heads, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the stall. Patting herself dry, she moved through a cloud of steam and wiped the condensation from the mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep last night. Thank God for Oil of Olay—or the stuff she called Oil of Olay. It was from some clinic in France, and worked just like Oil of Olay on wrinkles—only it cost seventy bucks an ounce.

She had an interview with Premiere magazine in ninety minutes. It was just a one-page fluff piece—with an accompanying full-page photo that had been shot in a studio over a month ago. But she still had to look good for the interview—to be held over an intimate lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They always reported how she looked, what she was wearing, and what she was eating during these things. Dayle planned to pin her hair up, pick at her Cobb salad, and on her bed, she’d already laid out the black Givenchy short-sleeve dress that always made her look thin.

Dennis had already let them know that she wouldn’t be answering any questions about Leigh Simone or Estelle Collier. She’d hibernated inside her apartment all day yesterday, screening her calls.

Dayle dried her hair and fixed her face. With the towel wrapped around her, she stepped out to the bedroom, and glanced over at her dress on the bed. She suddenly froze. A chill raced through her. Pinned to the dress was a page torn from a magazine. Someone had just been in her bedroom. For all she knew, they could still be in the apartment.

For a moment, Dayle stood paralyzed. Then she took a step toward the bed and gazed down at the calling card they’d left. The magazine clipping was of a woman on a sailboat. It looked like part of an ad for a vacation getaway. In black marker, they’d scribbled across the top of the page: WE FOUND CINDY ZELLERBACK.

Dayle didn’t know what it meant. She backed toward her nightstand, reached for the phone, and called down to the front desk.

“This is the lobby, Ms. Sutton.”

“Hello, Todd?” she whispered urgently. “I’ve had a break-in….”

“Hey, Mom, your cell phone’s ringing!” Danny called from the front door.

“Well, find out who it is, sweetie!” Sean was loading her collection of law books into the car. She planned to haul them over to the office this afternoon. Shoving another box in the back, she straightened up and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She glanced over at her son.

Danny stood in the doorway, the cellular phone to his ear. The color seemed to drain from her son’s face, and his mouth dropped open.

“Who is it?” she asked, hurrying up the front walkway.

Danny covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Dayle Sutton!” he exclaimed.

Sean laughed. “It’s okay, honey. Thanks.” She took the phone, and gave him a thumb signal to go play. “Hello, Dayle? How are you doing?”

“I’ve had better days,” Dayle said. “Could I possibly come see you?”

Sean hesitated. Watching Danny run out to the front yard, she thought about the people who were following Dayle around. Except for three reporters who had called her office, there had been no backlash from having her name mentioned in that news story yesterday; no calls at home, and no strange cars parked on her block. She wanted to keep it that way. “Um, rather than you come out here, I’d just as soon meet you in the city.”

“Will I be dragging you away from your family?”

“No. Actually, I’m dropping off some things at my office at four-thirty. I’ll be a couple of hours. Could you meet me there?”

“Yes, your office would be great. Thanks.”

“Are you okay? You sound tense.”

“I just need a friend right now.”

“If it’s any help, Nick, this woman spent some time in Mexico years ago. My guess is that she’s back in California now.” Dayle fought the inclination to whisper into the limousine phone. She stared at the back of Hank’s head. The glass partition was up, but she wondered if he could still hear her.

They weren’t far from Sean’s office. Dayle had been with Hank for the last four hours. He’d arrived while the police were still searching her apartment. They didn’t find anything, and nothing was missing. In fact, there was no evidence of a break-in. Todd, at the front desk, said he couldn’t understand how somebody might have slipped past him. The cops probably had her pegged as a total paranoid.

Dayle didn’t show them the note. Once she’d remembered Cindy and their one-night stand on the boat, she didn’t want to explain the message to anyone. She lied to the police and said she’d discovered the front door open after emerging from her shower. Actually, she hadn’t dead-bolted the door—in case Hank came early to pick her up for the interview. He had his own key to the apartment. He was the only one with a key—besides her.

She’d been a half hour late for her interview—and terribly distracted through the whole ordeal. She kept thinking about the “positively revolting” shoot down in Mexico so many years ago, Cindy something with the Winnie the Pooh tattoo, and that sailboat. Dayle barely touched her Cobb salad, and twice she had to ask the interviewer to repeat a question. Nevertheless, by the time it was all over, she’d still managed to charm the guy.

Hank had waited out by the limo during her lunch. Dayle couldn’t help wondering about old reliable Hank. Had he been forced into letting someone duplicate his key to her apartment? Or had he left that note himself? He’d been with her for seven years, but how well did she really knew him? He was just this simple, sweet—almost neuter—hump of a guy who liked mystery novels and The Beatles trivia. In all the miles they’d driven together, she’d barely scratched the surface with Hank. Yet her trust in him was unwavering—until now.

She’d raised the limo’s glass partition for her call to Nick. She needed him to track down the whereabouts of Cindy Zellerback: Caucasian, red hair or possibly blond, late thirties. It was a rush job.

Dayle wasn’t sure how much damage this Cindy affair could cause. After all, it was an isolated incident from fifteen years ago. Was this the only ammunition these people had to use on her? If so, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. At least, that was what she kept telling herself.

She wanted Sean to tell her the same thing. Cradling the limo’s phone against her ear, Dayle dug into her purse. “Listen, Nick, if you find something in the next hour or so, here’s where I’ll be…” She read Sean’s office phone and fax numbers from her business card.

“I’m on top of it,” Nick replied. “And I should have that license plate and credit card trace for you by tomorrow.”

“Good boy,” Dayle said.

“Ciao, Ms. Sutton.” Nick hung up.

Dayle listened to the dead air. She was still looking at Hank in the front seat. “Hank, can you hear me?” she said, into the phone.

He didn’t flinch at all. Dayle hung up the telephone. She continued to stare at him on the other side of the glass divider. “Hank?” she said. “Hank, you can hear me, can’t you?”

He didn’t flinch. He seemed totally focused on the road ahead.

Dayle pressed the button on the armrest, and the divider window descended with a low mechanical him. “Hank?” she said.

His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am?”

Those eyes were so guileless. He patiently waited for her to say something. Good old Hank. What was she thinking?

With a tired smile, Dayle sat back again. “Never mind. For a moment there, I thought you’d made a wrong turn, but I was mistaken.”

“It happened so long ago,” Dayle said, handing Sean a book from the packing box. “I vaguely recall someone taking my picture with Cindy while we were on the beach. God help me, I think we were topless at the time.”

Sean stood on a ladder, filing law volumes on the top shelf of her bookcase. Her office was taking shape: sea-foam green walls with white trim. No more drop cloths.

“Well, Dayle,” she said. “I don’t think your career will suffer. Like you say, it happened too long ago—and with some nobody, It’s old news.” She held her hand out. “Volume seventeen, please.”

Frowning, Dayle gave the law book to her. “You’re probably right. But I want to be prepared when this thing goes public. I mean, maybe it’s out there already. Right now, this Cindy could be talking to Jane Pauley.”

Climbing down from the ladder, Sean chuckled. “If it’ll make you feel better, have a look.” She found the remote, and switched on her TV. “But I think all the show business news is about your future costar, Avery Cooper.”

The TV came on: “I’m Mrs. Russell Marshall. But you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

“Oh, shit,” Dayle muttered, plopping down on the sofa.

“Maybe I’m just a housewife,” Elsie said. “But as a mother and a good Christian, I think my opinion counts for something….”

“She kind of makes you wish they’d start feeding ‘good Christians’ to the lions again,” Sean remarked, ready to switch channels.

“Wait a minute,” Dayle said. She heard Elsie mention Maggie McGuire.

“…and I’m sorry she’s dead. But if you’ll excuse me, I wouldn’t exactly say she was a shining example of motherhood—as some people maintain. She claimed to be proud of her homosexual son who now has AIDS. Well, I’m sorry, but ‘proud’? Come on! How exactly did he get AIDS? Was she proud of that?”

“My God,” Sean said. “How does she get away with it?”

On TV, Elsie was now meandering toward her desk. “Quite frankly, I hope people have sense enough to see the truth behind the tragedy here. We’ve all seen her hard-core porn movie. I have a difficult time respecting a woman who would make a movie like that….”

“What’s she talking about?” Dayle asked. “What porn movie?”

Sean stared at her. “You don’t know?” She turned down the volume. “Maggie McGuire did a stag film back in the late forties. Now it’s suddenly resurfaced. Her body’s barely cold, and last night they were showing Maggie’s old skin flick on First Edition.”

Dayle glanced back at the TV. Elsie was still talking, but with the volume so low, Dayle could only make out her saccharine tone, and the audience laughing. She’d missed the joke. That was what Maggie McGuire had now become: a joke. The accomplishments of her forty-year career suddenly took second place to this scandal. “My God,” Dayle murmured, gazing at Elsie on the screen. She looked so superior and smug. This humiliation of the late Maggie McGuire was a victory for Elsie Marshall and the radical right.

Maggie’s personal crusades and causes suddenly seemed wrong, and Elsie’s logic rang true. Maggie McGuire had stood by her gay son, but this was a woman who had appeared in pornographic movies. Her opinions couldn’t count for much. She was a bad example of motherhood.

The same thing had happened to Tony Katz and Leigh Simone after their untimely deaths. “They all died in shame,” Dayle murmured, staring at the TV.

Sean squinted at her. “What?”

Dayle got to her feet. “There was a scandal when each one was killed—Tony, Leigh, now Maggie. Their reputations were ruined. Tony—caught with his pants down, and Leigh—a drug addict. Now, Maggie, a porn star.”

Sean was shaking her head. “I don’t understand. Slow down—”

“It wasn’t enough that they killed them. They had to ruin their reputations too, disgrace them, take away their credibility. Tony, Leigh, and Maggie, they were outspoken liberals, and they all got killed—”

The telephone rang.

“Go on, I’m listening,” Sean said. “It’s just my fax machine.”

“Their names were dragged through the mud,” Dayle continued. “They died in shame. Their careers and their causes became like a joke.”

“What do you mean by ‘causes’?”

“They advocated gun control—or gay rights. They were pro-choice, or they fought against censorship and capitol punishment, you name it. These are the kind of hot issues that make certain people crazy—crazy enough to quote the Old Testament—or march and protest, or even kill.”

“So where do you come in?” Sean asked.

“Maybe I pissed them off when I spoke out about Leigh’s death. They might know about the movie we’re going to make. I keep thinking about this Cindy business. Maybe that’s how they’re going to drag me though the mud—once they’ve killed me.”

Sean frowned. “No. It’s just not sensational enough. So you got drunk one night fifteen years ago and experimented with another woman. This is the new millennium. Who cares?”

The telephone rang again. “The machine will pick up,” Sean said.

“But whoever is behind this isn’t living in the new millennium,” Dayle said, over the phone recording. “They don’t want any liberal martyrs and cult heroes. So they’re making their celebrity victims look sleazy—”

“Yo, this is Nick Brock, and I’m calling for Dayle Sutton—”

“Oh, grab it, grab it!” Dayle steered Sean toward the phone on the desk. Sean picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Sean Olson speaking.” She listened for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not your ‘honey doll,’ but yes, she’s right here.” Sean put a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your detective friend. He sent the fax.”

“Don’t hang up on him,” Dayle said. She checked the fax machine.

“I’m not supposed to hang up on you,” Sean said into the phone. “Though I’m sorely tempted.”

Dayle glanced at the first fax page. Nick had scribbled a note on the cover sheet: Cynthia Zellerback’s current address and phone number are on page 4. Chow! Nick.

“Tell him I’ll call him in a couple of minutes,” Dayle said. She watched the fourth page inch out of the machine.

“She’ll call you right back, Romeo,” Sean said, then hung up.

Two pages of the fax were from a four-month-old article in the Los Angeles Times. Dayle hardly recognized the dowdy, middle-aged woman in the news photo as that girl from the boat. The once lustrous, long red hair now appeared short and brittle. Cindy’s features had turned hard. The picture had been taken outside, with some steps in the background, perhaps a church or courthouse. Cindy looked so hardened and bitter, squinting in the sunlight.

Dayle read the headline: KILLER OF HUSBAND AND CHILD PAROLED, WOMAN SERVED 12 YEARS FOR MURDERING HER FAMILY.

Dayle read on, cringing at the details surrounding the stabbing deaths of two-year-old Sunshine Zellerback and her father, Andrew, a 29-year-old motorcycle repairman. Cindy had been convicted of the murders in 1988. Claiming she’d been reborn to Christ while in prison, the “reformed” Cynthia Zellerback blamed her earlier actions on drug use and a promiscuous lifestyle, which had included lesbian sex.

It was the type of stuff tabloids devoured and spit out at the public with relish. Dayle imagined the headlines: DAYLE SUTTON IN LESBIAN LOVE-NEST WITH CONVICTED CHILD-KILLER! The murders had occurred only a few years after that episode on the boat down in Mexico. Dayle showed the fax to Sean. “This is the girl I was with,” she said.

Sean took a couple of minutes to read the news article, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not like you murdered anybody.”

Frowning, Dayle shook her head and sighed. “I had sex with a child killer. It’s guilt by association. The tabloids will eat it up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dayle muttered. “I’ll probably spend tonight drinking too much and sleeping too little while I fret about it. And after that break-in today, I don’t feel very safe there. Maybe I should check into a hotel—”

“Don’t be silly,” Sean said. “Come spend the night with us in Malibu. My husband, the movie fanatic, will be so excited to meet you, he’ll probably climb out of his wheelchair and do the hokeypokey.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Dayle said.

“Nonsense,” Sean said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “My in-laws would love to have you. Phoebe can bunk in with Danny, and you can have her room. You and I can burn the midnight oil and hatch a strategy to deal with this Cindy business. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Dayle.”

She gave her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Sean. But…” She turned toward the window. Three stories below, a white Taurus was parked half a block away on the other side of the street from Hank and her limousine. She could barely see the man sitting behind the wheel. “If I came over tonight, I’d be bringing some excess baggage—and possibly endangering your family.”

Sean stepped up to the window. She stared at the rental car. “You could leave now—and lose him somehow. Then come back here, and we’ll drive to Malibu together.”

“I’ll phone my friend, Bonny,” Dayle said. “Maybe she’s available to play decoy again. After we make the switch, I’ll circle back here by cab.”

Sean nodded. “Use the delivery entrance. I’ll give you my cell phone. Call me, and I’ll let you in.” She dug the tiny phone from her purse, then handed it to Dayle. “It’s good that you’re getting a professional bodyguard. Your driver, Hank, seems very nice, but well…”

“I know,” Dayle replied.

Sean took her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful, okay? I have a weird feeling about tonight. It’s one reason I think you shouldn’t be alone.”

“It’s really not fair to you, Hank,” Dayle said from the backseat of the limo. The divider window was down. “You didn’t hire on as a bodyguard, and that’s what I need right now. Dennis says this guy is a pro, with years of experience. The people who are out to get me, they mean business. They may have hired professional killers. So I need a professional bodyguard, some guy who’s a real pain in the ass. And I’m not going to like him, because he’ll make me take all sorts of silly precautions. But most of all, I’m not going to like him, because he won’t be you.”

Hank’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “Is it okay if I don’t like him either?”

Dayle patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hank.”

They pulled into Bonny’s apartment complex. The Taurus had kept a steady pace behind them. Dayle made out only one person in the car. The driver turned off his headlights as he followed them into the parking lot. He took a spot near one of the other buildings.

Dayle quickly donned her trench coat and sunglasses. Hank walked her to the front door, and she rang the buzzer.

“Sunglasses at night? I’ll be as blind as a bat.” Bonny stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, arranging her hair to look like Dayle’s.

“Sorry,” Dayle said. “They’re parked pretty close. I didn’t want to take any chances they’d see a switch.”

Bonny laughed. “Make them wear these shades. They won’t see squat.”

“Be extra careful out there tonight,” Dayle said. “I think they might try something pretty soon.”

“Well, in that case I’ll bring a friend along.” Bonny pulled a gun and holster from her closet shelf. She strapped on the holster as if it were part of a backpack. Dayle watched her, amazed by the former policewoman’s cool composure. Bonny climbed into Dayle’s trench coat.

Dayle gave her a quick hug at the door. Then she phoned for a taxi. The dispatcher said a cab would be there in ten minutes. From Bonny’s living room window, she watched Hank, leaning against the limo. The white Taurus was still near the lot entrance. Dayle hadn’t noticed before, but a police car was parked only a few spaces down. It must have just pulled in. Someone stood outside the patrol car, talking to the cop inside.

Directly below, Bonny approached the limo. With the sunglasses and trench coat, she was Dayle’s duplicate. Hank opened the limo door for her.

Across the way, the person talking to the officer a moment ago was now gone. Dayle glimpsed a figure darting around some shrubbery by another building in the complex. Then he disappeared in the shadows.

Something’s wrong, Dayle thought, pressing her hand to the window. Below, Hank was steering the limo toward the exit. At the same time, the police car started to move, but its headlights remained dark.

Dayle remembered Sean mentioning a cop car had been parked in the lot at that cheesy hotel where they were all staying.

“Oh, Jesus, no,” she gasped. She grabbed Sean’s phone out of her purse.

Five stories down, Hank pulled onto the road. The patrol car crept to the lot exit; then the headlights went on—as did the red strobe on its hood.

Dayle dialed the number of her limo. Helplessly, she watched the police vehicle speed up behind Hank, less than half a block from the lot exit. On the third ring, a recorded message told Dayle that the number she’d dialed was no longer in service.

“Goddamn it!” she hissed. She dialed again. Then she looked at the limo, now stopped by the side of the road, the cop car in back of it. One ring. The officer got out of the patrol car. He was reaching for his gun.

Two rings.

“Pick up, Hank!” Dayle hissed. “Goddamn it, please pick up!”

The policeman had his gun out. He approached Hank’s side of the limo.

“Hello?” Hank said, on the other end of the line.

“Hank, it’s a trap!”

The cop was at his window now.

“What?” Hank asked. “Just a minute—”

“No, no, it’s a trap. Please, Hank! Don’t you see?”

She could hear him: “What’s the matter, officer?”

“Hank, get out of there!” Dayle screamed.

“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, WAIT A MINUTE!”

The noise on the phone was like someone hitting a knife against hollow pipe. A metallic echo. Three times. The cop, or whoever he was, had a silencer on his gun. She heard Hank dropping the telephone.

Dayle could see the cop firing into the open window of the limousine’s front seat. He must have shot poor Hank in the face.

A loud shot rang out. It had to be Bonny firing in self-defense. The cop reeled back, then managed to aim his gun again—this time, at the figure in the backseat.

Over the phone, Dayle heard two more of those metallic echoes. Then a loud pop from Bonny’s gun. The cop retaliated with another two shots.

Still, Bonny must have hit him, because he was clutching his side as he staggered back to his patrol car. He peeled away from the curb, passing her limousine and speeding up the street.

Meanwhile, the limo didn’t move. Dayle could hear moaning on the telephone line. She wasn’t sure if it was Hank or Bonny. But someone was dying.

Sixteen

The 9-1-1 operator told Dayle to stay by the phone.

“I’m on a cellular,” Dayle said. She rattled off the number as she grabbed a couple of towels from Bonny’s bathroom. “I’m headed out to the limo right now. Please, tell them to hurry.”

Dayle threw the phone in her purse and raced down to the lobby. Five floors. She couldn’t wait for the elevator. She ran out to the street. The limo was up ahead, under a street lamp. She could see the beaded windshield-like raindrops, only they were on the inside of the car, and the droplets were blood.

She saw Hank, and let out a strangled cry. He was slumped forward over the steering wheel. A steady stream of blood dripped off the tip of his nose and chin. The limo phone had fallen on the floor—beside Hank’s latest true-crime book.

“You called somebody, I hope,” she heard Bonny whisper.

Dayle opened the back door. “The ambulance is coming,” she said. She swallowed hard at the sight of her friend. The sunglasses had fallen on the car floor. Sprawled across the car seat, Bonny had a laceration above her eyebrow, along her right temple, where a bullet must have grazed her. Under the open trench coat, her pale green sweater was soaked with blood.

Dayle quickly reached into the limo bar and found some bottled water. She drenched a hand towel and pressed it to the side of Bonny’s face. Bonny shivered a bit. “I—I nailed the SOB, Dayle. Got him in the gut. He’ll bleed to death if he doesn’t get help soon.” She winced. “Damn, this hurts.”

“Oh my God, Bonny, I’m so sorry.” Dayle held her hand. “Hang on. The ambulance will be here soon.”

Bonny’s husband, Frank, had on his policemen’s blues. He’d been on patrol when Dayle called 9-1-1. Tall and lanky, Frank Laskey had receding, wiry black hair. At the moment, his blue eyes were bloodshot from crying. His wife was in surgery. He sat beside Dayle in the trauma unit waiting area, a drab room with orange Naugahyde couches, fake plants, and faded Norman Rockwell prints on the walls.

Dayle’s clothes were still stained with blood. She kept her arm around Frank. “She’ll pull through,” Dayle assured him. “Our Bonny’s a fighter. She’ll be okay. Can I get you anything? You want some coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She wandered out to the corridor in search of a vending machine. The place might have been mobbed with reporters if Frank’s buddies on the force weren’t guarding the hospital entrances and taking down names. The rumor among the press was that Dayle Sutton and a police officer had been shot.

Dayle had already talked to their chief of surgery on the phone. He’d promised to call in their best doctor for Bonny. Dayle had also arranged for a private room and notified hospital administration to bill her.

It was too late to do anything for Hank. His only family was a married brother in Milwaukee; no close friends except for a book group that met every other Sunday to discuss mystery novels.

Dayle couldn’t afford to break down yet. She hunted through her purse and found Susan Linn’s business card. With a shaky hand, she dialed the number, then got a recorded greeting: “…if you’d like to speak with another officer, press zero, otherwise—”

There was a break in the message. “Lieutenant Linn speaking.”

“Susan?” Dayle said. “Thank God. Listen, this is Dayle. Someone shot my friends. My chauffeur, Hank, he’s dead. And my other friend, Bonny, they shot her too—”

“Hold on,” Susan said. “Calm down, Dayle. Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital,” she said. Dayle did her best to retell the shooting and keep her composure. “Listen, there’s a place I’d like you to send somebody, okay? Maybe send a whole squad if you can.”

“Where?”

“These people who have me under surveillance, I found out where they’re staying. A friend of mine followed one of them. They’re all holed up in this hotel in the Valley, a dive called the My-T-Comfort Inn. They’re in a bunch of rooms around the back—numbers fifteen through twenty, I think. I didn’t want to tell you about it until I had more information on these guys. I have a private detective working on it. But we shouldn’t wait anymore.”

“I’ll go check out this place right now. From what you tell me, I better give myself some backup.”

“Good,” Dayle replied. “Get those bastards, Lieutenant. Get them before they hurt someone else.”

“I’ve been hit,” Lyle Bender gasped into the pay phone.

“Where?”

“Twice in my gut. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Can you get someone?”

There was a pause on the other end. “We’ll find a doctor for you, Lyle. Can you still drive, or should we send someone to pick you up?”

“I’ll stay with my vehicle,” Lyle said resolutely.

“Good boy. Think you can make it to the designated spot?”

“Affirmative,” Lyle said. “Get me somebody good. No quack. I promised my son I’d take him hunting next week, and I don’t intend to let him down.”

“See you in twenty minutes?”

“Affirmative. Over and out.” Lyle hung up the telephone, smearing his blood on the handle.

Thirty-eight years old, Lyle Bender had a stubby build, straight brown hair, and a pale complexion. An hour ago, he’d thought he looked good in his police uniform. He’d always wanted to be a cop. Now the blue uniform was blood-soaked from the chest down to his knees. His belly was on fire. Lyle could hardly get a breath without it hurting. He staggered back to the police car and got behind the wheel, only to sink into a puddle of his own blood. Starting up the engine, he headed south toward Long Beach.

This was a test of his strength. He’d deliver his vehicle to the designated spot. Hal and the doctor would marvel at his dedication and stamina. Hal might even admit how wrong he was about a lot of things and apologize. Lyle resolved to forgive him. It was the Christian thing to do.

Hal had accused him of getting “carried away” with his job. Maybe he was overzealous at times, but he believed in what they were doing. He believed Tony Katz had to be taken down a few notches after they drove him and his fellow deviate to the forest. So he whittled a tree branch and shoved it up the pervert’s ass. But Hal didn’t understand; he was too concerned about following the SAAMO big shots’ instructions to the letter.

Hal just didn’t get it. In that hotel room with Leigh Simone, after they’d dragged her in from the corridor, Lyle had threatened to rape her. He had no intention of actually going through with it. He was simply having a little fun, as guys do. And the threat worked. When he began to feel her up, that smug black bitch suddenly seemed terrified. She looked as if she might whimper an apology for promoting her twisted lifestyle to the youth of America. But Hal pulled him off her, whispering that there couldn’t be any evidence of an attack. Her death had to look like a suicide.

He could tell Hal looked down on him. It was the way some of those SAAMO higher-ups treated the guys in the trenches. They were too full of themselves and their college educations to get their hands dirty. Hal was a SAAMO lieutenant. All he ever did was give orders and handle communications on the Internet, calling himself Rick—or sometimes Americkan. Lyle knew the real backbone of the organization was made up of people like himself, the soldiers. And after all, they called themselves Soldiers for An American Moral Order. There were fourteen SAAMO chapters in various cities and small towns throughout the United States, with a total of fifty-three members. But those thirty-nine men in the field, all soldiers like him, they were the unsung heroes.

Hal hadn’t wanted him to pull the job tonight. SAAMO had enlisted an amateur from the outside to do it next week. Hal kept saying that Dayle Sutton was too much in the spotlight right now. It was too risky for one of them to handle the job.

Lyle had set off tonight to prove Hal and the SAAMO big shots wrong. He’d expected some interference from the bodyguard; but he hadn’t counted on Miss Lesbo Pro-Abortion Gun Control to be carrying a piece. He’d put down the bodyguard, close and fast, almost a mercy killing. The guy didn’t even know what hit him. Then suddenly from the backseat, Dayle Sutton was firing at him. In those silly movie star sunglasses, she still got a couple of lucky hits. But he managed to get her back, and he was still alive.

“Stay with me, Jesus,” Lyle whispered. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was as if something were eating away at his gut, sharp teeth gnawing at him. He was losing a lot of blood. He felt it slithering down the back of his legs, wetting his socks.

Lyle pressed hard on the accelerator. Switching on the siren and red strobe, he headed for the highway exit. He ran a light at the end of the off-ramp, then made a sharp turn, almost tipping over the car. A stop sign didn’t slow him down. He sped through it, heading into an industrial area. Only a few more minutes, and he’d be at the prescribed meeting place.

“You better be there with a doctor, Hal,” Lyle whispered, gritting his teeth at the agonizing pain. He’d bleed to death if he didn’t get help soon. Up ahead, he saw Newell Avenue, and he turned into the cul-de-sac. NO OUTLET, the sign said. He drove over a set of railroad tracks. The full moon illuminated a silo and a couple of smokestacks in an abandoned chemical plant. Lyle saw the entrance gate, closed and padlocked; and he saw the Corsica, parked across the street, waiting for him.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he murmured, tears in his eyes. Lyle killed the police lights on his roof, then straightened up the best he could. He imagined the bullets lodging deeper inside him with every movement. Despite his agony, he had to smile when the Corsica’s headlights flashed on and off.

Lyle shifted to park and shut off the engine. He started counting the seconds as he waited for his friends to climb out of the car. He counted up to seventy. The puddle of blood in which he sat had turned cold. He was losing feeling in his legs. “C’mon, guys,” he grumbled. “I’m dying here.”