The Next to Die

Hal and the doctor finally emerged from their vehicle. They were sure taking their sweet time about it.

“Fuck,” Lyle growled, and he punched the horn.

Startled, the doctor jumped a little. Lyle could see him now as he walked into the headlights: an old man in a loose trench coat. He seemed timid and scared. Hal must have bullied him into coming. He had a grip on the old guy’s arm as they approached the car.

Lyle fumbled for the handle, then pushed the door open. The interior light went on. Hal walked up to the car, practically dragging the old guy. “Lyle, my God, look at you.” His eyes widened at all the blood. “Well, listen, it’s okay. I brought someone who’s going to take care of everything.”

Slumped over the steering wheel, Lyle managed to grin at his friend. “Praise the Lord,” he said in a raspy voice.

“I also have some bad news,” Hal said, frowning. He let go of the old man’s arm. “Our source close to Dayle Sutton phoned a few minutes ago. She’s very much alive. That was her stunt double you shot. She’s the wife of a cop. It’s a real mess you’ve created, Lyle. Once again.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lyle said, clutching his stomach. “You can’t be serious—”

“It’s okay. We’ve already started the cleanup.” Hal grimaced and shook his head. “Damn, Lyle, you’re hurt bad. Pray for forgiveness of your sins, all right? You hear me, Lyle?”

“What do you mean?” Lyle started to reach out toward them. Then he saw the old man pull a gun out of his coat pocket. All at once, Lyle realized he was going to die. “No, NO, NO!” he screamed.

The old man shot him in the shoulder. Then he fired again, putting one more bullet into Lyle’s gut. Stunned and mute, Lyle gazed at Hal as if to ask why they were doing this to him.

“It’s part of the cleanup, Lyle,” Hal said soberly.

Lyle Bender barely felt an impact from the next bullet, which blew off the side of his head. He recoiled, and then his lifeless body flopped across the seat, blood splashed up from the wet cushion.

The old man dropped the gun. He staggered back to the chemical plant’s chain-link fence, bent forward, and vomited.

“Well, that’s that,” Hal said. He picked up the gun. “You’ll need some work on your aim, Tom. Otherwise, you did a fine job.”

Tom Lance wiped the dark spittle from his mouth with a shaky hand. “Is it Dayle Sutton?” he asked. “Is it Dayle Sutton you want me to kill?” He nodded at the corpse in the front seat of the patrol car. “I can’t do that again! I can’t! Please, don’t ask me…”

“We aren’t asking you, Tom,” Hal said. “When the time comes, you’ll do what you’re told. You understand that, don’t you?” Hal frowned. For a moment, his face was illuminated by headlights. A minivan cruised down the cul-de-sac toward them.

The cleanup guys. Hal had explained to Tom on the way to Newell Avenue that a couple of their men were handling disposal of the body, repainting the car, cleaning it up. They would do whatever was necessary.

“Just in time,” Hal said, with a glance at the approaching minivan. “C’mon, Tom. I’ll take you home. You did well tonight.”

The cellular phone inside her purse rang.

Dayle lay faceup on a padded examining table while they pumped blood from her arm. A stout, middle-aged black nurse tended to the needle and tubes. She wore a lavender sweater over her white uniform, and had a kind but homely face. Dayle had volunteered to donate blood for the hospital reserve, which Bonny was tapping. She was still in surgery. Meanwhile, they’d given their celebrity donor a private room.

“Could you hand me my purse, please?” Dayle asked the nurse. One-handed, Dayle managed to retrieve the phone and click on by the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said, tipping her head back to the cushion. The sudden movement had made her a bit dizzy.

“Dayle, this is Susan Linn. I’m here at the My-T-Comfort Inn. The characters you told me about, if they were here, they’ve checked out—”

“What do you mean, ‘if they were here’?” Dayle asked. She remembered to keep clenching and unclenching her fist for the nurse. “Did you check those room numbers I gave you?”

“I came up with a couple of families in those rooms. None of them looked like killers to me. Obviously, these guys cleared out.”

“Have you examined the registration records?” Dayle asked. “Did you talk to the desk clerk?”

Susan Linn let out a long sigh. “Yes, Dayle. He said those families registered here two days ago, and before that, the rooms were vacant. They haven’t had any police staying there either.”

“But that’s not true—”

“Ms. Sutton?” the nurse whispered. “Please, keep pumping your hand.”

Dayle nodded distractedly. “Listen, Susan,” she said into the phone. “That desk clerk must be lying. Maybe they paid him off. Can’t you check his bank accounts or something?”

“I’m sorry, Dayle. It’s a dead end here.”

“But I can prove…” Dayle hesitated. She had that list of license plate numbers. By tomorrow, Nick might have the credit card numbers, names, and addresses of those men. “Listen, Susan,” she said. “I didn’t send you on a wild-goose chase tonight. Give me a day or two at the most, and I’ll prove that this group was there….”

“Well, you call me when you come up with that proof, Dayle.”

She chose to ignore the slightly patronizing tone. “I will, Lieutenant.” Working one-handed, Dayle clicked off.

The nurse removed the needle, then pressed a cotton swab to Dayle’s arm. “Keep applying pressure there for a minute or two, Ms. Sutton,” she said. “Just lie still, and I’ll be back with some cookies and juice.”

Following her instructions, Dayle managed to smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh, thank you for donating, It’s a very nice thing you’re doing for your friend.”

“She was doing a nice thing for me,” Dayle whispered.

In her bloodstained clothes. Dayle sat alone in the hospital corridor, sipping her orange juice and eating a Chips Ahoy cookie. She looked like a little girl outside the school nurse’s office after falling down on the playground. She tried not to cry. She’d checked with Frank a while ago; Bonny’s sister had arrived, and was with him. Bonny was still in surgery.

Gazing down the hospital corridor, Dayle recognized Dennis in one of his Argyle sweaters. He carried a shopping bag, and walked alongside a tall, lean man with receding blond hair and a healthy tan. The man wore a sweatshirt, plaid shorts, and sandals, very casual. He looked about thirty-five years old.

Dennis winced at the dried blood on Dayle’s skirt and blouse. In the shopping bag, he had a change of clothes from her studio wardrobe. “Oh, boss, I was so sorry to hear about Hank,” he said.

Dayle nodded. “Thanks for coming,” she said.

“I brought you some new threads. I also brought you Ted Kovak. This is the man I was telling you about….”

She reached up and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m Ted.” He smiled. “Sorry about my appearance. Dennis called and said you needed me immediately.” He casually lifted his sweatshirt to reveal a taut, hairy stomach and a gun in a shoulder holster. “So I just strapped this on and flew. Dennis has my list of references. If you don’t go with me, that’s fine. But while you decide, I’ll be happy to act as a temp.”

Dayle nodded cordially. Was that flash of stomach supposed to impress her? There was something about him she didn’t like. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Then again, maybe she just missed Hank, and wanted to make good her promise to dislike his replacement.

“Well, down to business,” Ted Kovak said. “Our boys in blue have this hospital sealed pretty tight. How soon do you want to go home?”

“Actually, once I get an update about my friend in surgery, I was going to call a cab.”

“Let me handle it,” Ted said calmly.

Dayle nodded. “Thanks.” She took the shopping bag full of clothes from Dennis, then retreated to the ladies’ room, and ducked into the last stall. Quickly, she peeled off her soiled clothes. The blood had already dried to a dark rust color. Down to her bra and panties, she stopped for a moment, lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down, and allowed herself to cry.

“Are you okay?” Dayle asked, sounding anxious on the other end of the line.

“I’m all right,” Sean said. “Don’t worry. I’m just getting ready to go home.”

She was alone in her office. The place was deathly quiet.

Two hours ago, when Dayle had called from the hospital with news of the shooting, Sean’s building had been buzzing with activity: music from the salon downstairs, phones ringing, people in the hallway, someone’s Xerox machine working overtime next door. Sean had had no reason to feel vulnerable. She’d only felt bad for Dayle and her friends.

While setting up her office computer, she’d periodically glanced out the window for what Dayle called the “rental mentals,” but saw nothing suspicious.

She hadn’t noticed how quiet the building had become until this second call from Dayle. Better news this time: her friend Bonny had made it through surgery all right; and Dayle wouldn’t have to be alone this evening. Her assistant had come to the hospital with a new bodyguard for her, and both of them were staying over at her place tonight.

“But I don’t like the idea of you all alone in that office,” she said. “And it’s getting late.”

“I know. I’m about to head out of here right now. Don’t worry, Dayle.”

“Well, thanks for being such a good friend. You were there for me this afternoon, and I really appreciate it. Be careful on that drive back to Malibu. Call me if you—oh, I still have your cellular…”

“I’ll survive without it for one night. You get some rest and I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

After Sean hung up, she glanced out her office window at the street below. She didn’t see anyone sitting in a parked rental car. But that didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t out there.

In the window’s reflection, she thought she saw a shadow pass behind her. Sean gasped. She grabbed a letter opener from her desk and crept out to the corridor. Her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. No one. None of the other office lights were on.

“You’re creeping yourself out,” she muttered. “Quit it.”

Ducking back in the office, she quickly collected her coat and purse. The telephone rang. The sudden noise hit her like a jolt. She snatched up the receiver. “Yes, hello?”

Silence.

She didn’t need this right now. “Hello?” she said louder.

“Sean Olson?” The voice was raspy and guttural.

“Who’s calling?”

He cleared his throat. “This is Avery Cooper. I—I’d like to make an appointment to see you tomorrow. I need a good lawyer.”

Seventeen

“It’s kind of ironic. I might be defending him for murder, and in the movies, he’ll be playing a man I defended for murder.” Sean sighed. “I tell you, only in Hollywood.”

She hovered over her husband, shaving him and talking over the buzz of his cordless razor. Dan sat propped up in bed, a towel tucked under his chin. Sean was still in her bathrobe. “He said on the phone last night that Gary Worsht sang my praises. Plus he’s been reading up on the case—all my old clippings. His regular attorney is one of those smooth-talking entertainment lawyers, not at all qualified to handle a murder trial. Unfortunately, Mr. Cooper very quickly agreed when I suggested that perhaps, in a rape-murder case like this one, he was indeed better off represented by a woman rather than by a crew of high-priced, slick male lawyers. It bothered me, he saw an angle in that.”

Dan smiled, and mouthed the words: “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Yeah, I know.” She chuckled. “But he didn’t have to be so quick to agree. Anyway, I have to admit, he came across as a real sweet guy on the phone, but his alibi is one for the birds. Really shaky. I just don’t know….”

She switched off the razor, then reached for the Old Spice aftershave—a present from Danny last Christmas. Sean shook some into her hand, then smoothed it over Dan’s face and neck. “Hold on, sweetie,” she said, pulling out a Kleenex. “You have a little glop in your eye here.” She dabbed it away. Dan joked to her and the kids about his “sleepy peas,” but he’d been a handsome and somewhat vain man before all this had started. She knew it killed him to have mucus around those once-beautiful eyes. The blinking reflex was just another part of his body shutting down.

“There now.” Sean tossed the crumpled Kleenex on the nightstand, then leaned back to look at him. “All finished.”

Sean read his lips: “This sounds like a high-profile case. Could make a lot of money, help you build up a reputation, a client base…”

“I know.” She sighed. “But it’ll keep me busy day and night. I’m away from you and the kids too much right now as it is.”

Dan’s eyes wrestled with hers. “This is about your future, honey,” he said, visibly straining to form the words. “It’s about your career. We owe money. I want you to be okay when I’m gone.”

Sean touched his cheek. “You know I hate that kind of talk.”

Those clear blue eyes were beautiful for a moment as he focused on her. His lips moved again. “So you can’t play nursemaid. If I leave this world knowing you’re building a future for you and the kids, that’s something I want, that’s something good.”

Sean felt herself tearing up, and she quickly hugged her husband. He smelled of the Old Spice aftershave, and she inhaled it, cherishing every breath.

RECOOPERATING: Actress, Joanne Lane, 32, (wife of TV and Film Star, Avery Cooper, 34) is recovering after a fall into the pool of her Beverly Hills home early yesterday morning. The Tony-nominated actress had recently suffered a miscarriage. She was heavily sedated at the time of the accident. Upon discovering his wife unconscious in the pool, Cooper called paramedics. Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, and held overnight for observation. She is expected to be released later today.

So said the blurb in the entertainment section of U.S.A. Today. Avery tossed the dog-eared newspaper back on the security guard’s desk. “Thanks,” he muttered to the lanky, uniformed black man. Avery was sitting beside him in a folding chair outside Joanne’s hospital room. Her door was closed.

Most papers ran similar versions of yesterday’s incident. None of them mentioned the murder of Libby Stoddard. Avery figured the police would officially question him within the next day or two. He had an appointment with Sean Olson later this morning, but he couldn’t give the case much thought beyond that. He had enough on his mind with Joanne.

The hospital’s head psychiatrist, Dr. Wetherall, had mentioned possibly transferring Joanne to a sanitarium if her condition didn’t improve. He’d been in the room with her for the last half hour. The door finally opened, and Dr. Wetherall emerged. He was a wiry, handsome, balding man in his late forties. “She’ll see you, Avery,” he whispered. “Only a couple of minutes. Okay?”

Avery stepped into the room. Joanne lay very still, staring at him as he approached the bed. She was pale, and her unwashed hair had been brushed back. She must have bitten down on her lower lip too hard, because it was bleeding a little. “Hi, sweetheart,” Avery said.

She wiggled her hands to show the straps around her wrists. “Was this your idea?” she asked, her voice raspy.

“Of course not,” he replied. “They’re just worried you’ll hurt yourself.”

She sneered at him. “Yes, I’m a dangerous character.”

“Are you getting any rest at all?”

She said nothing. She gazed up at the ceiling.

“Joanne?”

“You know who I feel like right now?” she said at last. She sounded as if she were in a trance. “I feel like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass. She just got crazier and crazier, and couldn’t help it. Remember how they finally had to send her away to that sanitarium? Actually, it looked nice, the art therapy classes, the sprawling lawns, people in rocking chairs…”

She turned and gave him an icy stare. “Why don’t you send me away to a place like that?”

Avery shook his head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m tired,” she said, closing her eyes. “You can go now.”

“Joanne—”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” she screamed. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Dr. Wetherall hurried in, then he steered Avery toward the door. A nurse rushed in after them. Down the hall, Avery could still hear Joanne screaming.

Later, he sat in a stupor as Dr. Wetherall gave him a folder for Glenhaven Spa in Palm Springs. The doctor knew the facility, very private with a tranquil environment and a top-notch staff. He talked up the place as if it were a Shangri-la for nutcases. Dr. Wetherall said that it was almost inhumane to keep Joanne here, drugged and strapped to a hospital bed, when they could do so much for her at Glenhaven.

Avery wandered out of the doctor’s office, the folder under his arm. He hadn’t signed anything yet. He passed by the hospital’s newsstand gift shop, where the clerk was placing the new issue of People on the magazine rack. On the cover was a flattering photo of Joanne and him, wrapped in each other’s arms. They looked so healthy, decked out in jeans and crisp white T-shirts, standing in front of their pool. He was kissing Joanne on the cheek. AVERY COOPER & JOANNE LANE, said the caption. HOLLYWOOD’S HAPPIEST & SEXIEST COUPLE.

Sean heard a knock on the anteroom door. She put down the new issue of People, stashed it in her desk drawer, then sprang to her feet. “Come in!” she called. Her chestnut hair pinned back, she wore a burgundy suit with an ivory blouse—a chic, professional look. Guilty or innocent, Avery Cooper was her first potential client here, and she needed to make a good impression.

They met in the doorway. “Hi, I’m Avery,” he said, very somber as he shook her hand. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.” He wore a denim shirt and khakis. His black hair was a bit mussed. She noticed the scratch marks on his left cheek.

Sean only knew Avery Cooper’s public persona: the cute, happy-go-lucky guy next door. Considering the purpose of this visit, she’d figured “happy-go-lucky” wasn’t on today’s menu. But she hadn’t expected him to be so damned attractive. Or perhaps she was simply drawn to his sadness. Sean had to remind herself that he was the suspect in a murder-rape case.

She briskly pumped his hand. “Come in, sit down. Did you have a tough time finding the place?”

“No,” he said, settled on her sofa. “Though I thought you were kidding on the phone when you said your office was above a hair salon.”

She paused by her mini-fridge. “Are you sorry now that you didn’t go for a crew of high-priced, slick male lawyers?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Something to drink?” She opened the refrigerator door. “I have Evian, Evian, Diet Coke, Evian, Evian, just plain Coke, and Evian.”

“Evian, please.”

Sean poured Evian into two glasses, and handed him one. She sat down across from him in the easy chair. “So tell me your story, Mr. Cooper.”

“Call me Avery.” He tried to smile, but his eyes watered up, and his voice cracked. “I’ve never been in this type of trouble before. And my wife, she’s…” He trailed off, then wiped his eyes and took a sip of water. “Damn,” he muttered, looking down at the carpet. “I’m sorry. It might work better if you just started asking me questions.”

Sean’s heart broke for him. “Would you rather do this some other time?”

He waved the question away. “No, this is good. Really, I’m all right. Ask me whatever you want to know.”

Sean studied him, at the way he held back. “You—” She was about to say, You remind me of my husband. But she cleared her throat, and asked, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said, straightening up.

She reached for a recorder on the coffee table. “Mind if I tape this?”

Avery shook his head. “No problem.”

Sean switched on the machine, then sat back. “I’ve thought about what you told me over the phone yesterday, Avery, and maybe you can explain a few things to me. First, can you think of anyone who might have seen you at that park—I mean, besides the woman who scratched you?”

“No. And I probably wouldn’t recognize her again. She wore these weird glasses. I’m afraid I didn’t catch a good look at her—um, getaway car either.”

“Did she drive off?”

“No, someone picked her up. I saw her duck into the passenger side.”

“On your way to this park, did you sense someone was following you?”

Avery sighed. “Not at the time. Everything was so muddled. That was the day Joanne had a miscarriage—”

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry,” Sean interrupted gently. “Avery, one of the most damning pieces of evidence against you is that you received that scratch at just about the time Libby Stoddard was fighting and clawing her killer. Under her fingernails, they found skin tissue matching your blood type, and traces of a certain makeup they use backstage in NBC Burbank Studio B, where you’d filmed The Tonight Show earlier that day. Do you have any explanation for that?”

Frowning, he shrugged. “Only a vague, half-baked theory. To be honest, I’ve been so worried about my wife these last couple of days, I haven’t given much thought to anything else.”

She smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But I’m going to steer you back to my question earlier. Even if it’s ‘half-baked,’ I want to hear your theory about those scratch marks and the skin tissue under Libby’s nails.”

Avery leaned forward. “You’ll think I’m nuts, but I figure someone was following me, waiting to catch me alone. And—this is the crazy part—they must have been watching Libby too. They saw a chance to frame me for Libby’s murder. I think the woman in the park was sent there to scratch my face. I don’t know forensics, but is it possible they could have transferred my skin tissue from that woman’s fingernails to Libby’s?”

“I suppose.” Sean studied him with uncertainty. “But that would mean Libby was raped and murdered for the specific purpose of framing you.”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Avery said. “For a while now, someone’s been trying very hard to make me look bad. They stole that home video, then distributed copies of the damn thing. At first, I blamed Libby. In fact, I told several people that I’d like to see her dead. If you were going to kill someone and frame me for it, Libby Stoddard was the perfect victim.”

“Let’s put the theories on hold for a minute,” Sean said. “Last night, on the phone with me, you said that you were hesitant about furnishing the police with a sperm sample. Why? If you’re really innocent of this rape-murder, a sperm sample would eliminate you as a suspect.”

“I know that,” Avery replied. “But I’m afraid my sample will somehow match with they’ve found.”

Sean slowly shook her head. “I can buy the skin tissue transferred from under one set of fingernails to another. But manufacturing this other piece of evidence requires some cooperation from you, Avery.”

“I know it sounds hokey and paranoid—”

“I’m sorry,” Sean interrupted. “But if these people want to destroy you, they’re sure going at it in a very roundabout way. They killed an innocent woman for the sole purpose of framing you for murder? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier just to kill you?”

“But it’s not about killing me. Hell, they’ve broken into my hotel room and my home. They could have gotten at me any time. No, these people want to bring me down, ruin my reputation, make me look horrible.”

“Why do you think they’re doing this?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I was in a TV movie a couple of months ago that ticked off a lot of people. Joanne and my commercials for gun control have made us a lot of enemies too.”

“So—you think the same group that’s after Dayle has targeted you?”

Avery squinted at her. “What are you talking about?

“You mean, you haven’t talked to Dayle Sutton?” Sean asked.

He shrugged. “We’ve exchanged e-mail about the movie—”

“Dayle hasn’t told you about these people who want to kill her? She hasn’t mentioned a possible conspiracy linking the deaths of Tony Katz, Leigh Simone, and Maggie McGuire?”

Avery slowly shook his head.

For a moment Sean studied that guileless expression on his handsome face. Somehow she knew he was a good, honest man. She’d felt the same way when she’d first set eyes on Dan. “You’re telling me the truth,” she said.

“Well, yes, of course,” he replied.

“You said a minute ago that the police would probably find a match if they tested your sperm alongside what they discovered in Libby. How do you think these—conspirators were able to pull that off?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, since I’m going to be your attorney, Avery, we’ll have to figure out an answer to that question.”

Tom waited for Hal in front of his apartment building. They had a noon appointment. He had a rolled-up Los Angeles Times in his hand. The headlines told of an ambush on Dayle Sutton’s limo. There was nothing about a shooting death outside a deserted chemical plant in south Los Angeles. But on page two, they carried a blurred photo of Maggie—from that stag movie. The caption read: MAGGIE MCGUIRE, EARLY SEX FILM BLOT ON A DISTINGUISHED CAREER.

Leaning against the entryway, Tom felt so tired. Last night, Hal had given him something to make him sleep. It was probably still in his system. Killing that man had been like watching himself in a movie. Reality hit him a moment after pulling the trigger. Then he threw up. Drops of vomit—and the man’s blood—had gotten on his clothes, so Hal made him strip. Tom was shivering, nearly naked, standing in a darkened, deserted cul-de-sac. He tried not to cry. They gave him a pair of coveralls, and the “cleanup” crew took his clothes away. Thank God Hal’s sleeping pills had worked. For a few hours, he’d forgotten everything and slept.

Hal had said he needed to work on his aim; and so they were heading out to the desert for target practice this afternoon.

A white Corsica pulled up to the curb. Hal was behind the wheel. Tom reluctantly climbed in beside him. He saw coffee from 7-Eleven in the cup holder. Hal held up a bag. “Cream and sugar. Plus a couple of donuts. If you took those pills, you probably slept through breakfast.”

Pulling into traffic, Hal announced that there was a cooler of beer in the trunk for later. He cranked up the air conditioner, and popped in a Glen Miller tape. “I also have Perry Como here, and Sinatra. I wasn’t sure about your taste in music.”

Tom said nothing. He wondered why this sudden VIP treatment.

Hal kept his eyes on the road. “You did well last night,” he said. “I know it was rough, but you really proved yourself. Our SAAMO officers were impressed. Are you comfortable? Is the air-conditioning too cold?”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” He pried the lid off his coffee.

“So—what do you think of your old girlfriend’s porn movie?” Hal asked, glancing at the newspaper on Tom’s lap. “Have you seen her little epic?”

Tom cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t,” he replied. “She—she must have needed the money very badly. You weren’t behind this, were you?”

“Behind what?”

“Releasing that old stag movie, making her into a joke. Is your SAAMO group responsible for that?”

“Why, no. Like I told you, Tom, we were investigating Maggie. But we didn’t release the porn tape. Someone else must have.”

Tom wasn’t entirely convinced.

Hal briefly smiled at him, then studied the city traffic. “I’m glad you asked me. Until now, we’ve had to keep you in the dark about certain things, and I’m sorry. We don’t want you left out of the loop anymore. If there’s something on your mind, just ask.”

Eyes narrowed, Tom stared at him. “Okay, I have a question,” he said. “How do you expect me to kill Dayle Sutton? I’m no marksman. You saw how close I was to that man last night, and it still took me three shots.”

“We’ll get you close enough to her, Tom.”

“That’s another problem. If I’m too close, she might recognize me.”

“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.

“Dayle, her assistant, her casting director and his secretary—they all met me the afternoon Maggie died. I auditioned for them. It didn’t go well. I got a little miffed. I’m afraid there were some—heated words.”

Hal gave him a perturbed glance. “Better watch that temper of yours, Tom. It keeps getting you into trouble. Give me a blow-by-blow.”

When Tom finished explaining about the disastrous audition, Hal pulled a cellular phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker. “Sounds as if you wouldn’t mind killing Dayle Sutton—with or without our help.” He unfolded the little gizmo, then pressed the numbers on the dial pad. “Hi. I’m with Tom, and we’re on our way to target practice,” Hal said into the cellular. He was merging onto the freeway.

Tom sipped his coffee and pretended he wasn’t interested in Hal’s phone conversation. “Yeah, well, he’ll just have to agree to it,” he said at one point.

Tom glanced down at his half-consumed jelly donut and the cup of coffee in his hands. For a while there, Hal had almost made him feel important. He wondered what he’d “just have to agree to.”

After another minute, Hal clicked off and slipped the tiny phone back in his pocket. “You won’t mind wearing a disguise, will you, Tom? Maybe glasses or a fake mustache? Worst we might do is shave back your hairline a bit.”

“I’ll just have to agree to it,” Tom said, frowning. He let out a long sigh. “Listen, why me? I mean, why not hire a professional hit man?”

“You’re a good actor, Tom.” Hal said, his eyes still on the road. “It’s a shame Hollywood didn’t use your talent better. See, when you take care of Dayle Sutton for us, there will be a lot people around. One of our men will be a security guard at the scene, and he’ll shoot you with blanks. Our own special ambulance will whisk you away. Now, a hit man might be a good shot, but he won’t play dead very well, not like you. I saw your death scene in Fall from the Saddle. You made it look real, Tom. I even cried. I saw that picture a couple of times. Is it your favorite?”

“Well, it’s one of the better westerns I made….”

For the rest of the ride, he and Hal talked about his movies. They listened to Glen Miller, then Perry Como. He found himself liking Hal. Tom actually forgot for a few minutes that he had to put a bullet in Dayle Sutton’s head for these people. And when he did remember, it didn’t seem like such a terrible thing.

“What time is it?” Dayle muttered, rubbing her eyes. She wore her ivory silk robe. Her head felt like a wad of chewing gum, and her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. She tried to focus on Dennis, seated at the kitchen table. He looked as preppie as ever in jeans and a pink oxford shirt.

“It’s a quarter to one, and you can blame me for your hangover,” he said. “I got you drunk last night. Why don’t you go back to bed? You aren’t going anywhere today. Might as well take it easy. You want an aspirin?”

“I just took three,” Dayle said, sitting at the table with him. “Did you talk to the studio?”

“Oh, I’ve spoken with a ton of people today.” He got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “First off, don’t worry about the movie. They’ll shoot around you. They don’t expect you on the set any time before lunch tomorrow.”

Dayle swept back her tangled hair, then sipped some coffee. “What was I drinking last night? I can’t remember….”

“You had a couple of glasses of wine. But you gave blood yesterday, so it went right to your head.”

Dayle nodded with recollection. The new bodyguard, Ted, had arranged for transportation from the hospital to home. Her initial assessment of Ted now seemed unfair. Procuring the limo, he’d thoroughly inspected it for tampering or sabotage, and he interviewed the driver. While still at the hospital, he’d had his girlfriend fax them a copy of his résumé. Ted had protected some high-profile people: politicians, multimillionaires, and several entertainers—including Vegas singer-actor Gil Palarmo, who had died from AIDS last year. Despite his ladies’-man image, everyone in the industry knew Gil was gay and something of a lecher. The fact that this handsome, straight guy remained at Gil’s side for eleven months was a testament to Ted Kovak’s tolerance.

He was kind of a hard-ass, and maybe she needed that. She’d told him about yesterday’s break-in, but didn’t mention the note pinned to her dress. Before she could set foot inside her apartment, Ted spent twenty minutes combing the place over for booby traps, bugging devices, and bombs. Then Dennis arrived with carryout for everyone. And the wine started flowing.

Dayle took another sip of coffee. “I can’t believe I’m this hungover after only two glasses of wine,” she muttered.

“Oh, you were still pretty wired, so I put you to bed with a couple of brandies and unplugged the phone in the bedroom. I crashed in the guest room, and Ted pulled an all-nighter. He went home a few hours ago. He hired two more security guards, one for the hallway outside and another for the downstairs lobby. This place is like Fort Knox. Ted’s due back around six o’clock. Meanwhile, we’re under strict orders to stay put.”

“How’s Bonny?” Dayle asked quietly.

Dennis patted her hand. “She’ll be okay. They’re moving her out of intensive care this afternoon.”

Dayle nodded, then took a deep breath. “Um, Hank has a brother in Milwaukee. We need to get a hold of him—”

“It’s taken care of, Dayle,” Dennis cut in. “I talked with the brother this morning. He’s having Hank’s body flown home. They’re not planning a funeral or wake. The burial’s in Milwaukee on Thursday. It’s family only.”

Tears brimmed her eyes, and she shrugged. “I thought we were Hank’s family.” Dayle recalled with aching regret those few minutes yesterday when she’d suspected Hank of betraying her, and she began to cry.

“It’s all right, Dayle,” she heard Dennis say. He squeezed her hand. “Just rest up for now. I’m here. I’ll handle everything….”

The Budweiser can flew off the railing, hit the wall, then ricocheted to the floor and rolled around for a moment. It was the only thing moving on the front porch of the deserted, dilapidated old ranch house.

“Damn, you’re good!” Hal said, slapping Tom on the back.

Tom smiled. He focused on the next target along the railing, a Coke bottle. He aimed the .380 semiautomatic and carefully squeezed the trigger. The bottle toppled forward. The bullet had hit the railing, but not the target.

“Close enough,” Hal said. “Just think, if you were aiming for Dayle Sutton’s head, you’d have shot her in the throat. And that ain’t bad at all.”

Tom caught himself grinning. His aim had been a bit rusty at first, but he relaxed and eased into it.

“We’ll get you a better gun, Tom. We just needed to make sure you know how to handle fire arms. I must say, I’m impressed. How about a cold one?” Hal said, once Tom had shot all the targets off the railing.

They leaned against the car, and sipped icy Michelobs. Tom twirled the gun on his finger. He was exhausted and sweaty, yet he felt like a young man today.

For every diploma on the walls of his office, Dr. Nathan had two framed Monet prints. It certainly created a serene environment for frustrated couples consulting Dr. Nathan about their unsuccessful attempts to conceive.

The Coopers’ fertility specialist had his practice on the top floor of a new, six-story medical center. He’d carved out some time for his famous client. Dr. Nathan was a thin man with a mop of curly gray hair, glasses, and a droll manner. Sean guessed he was about fifty. She immediately liked him. He seemed very sincere in his condolences to Avery about the miscarriage, and he was optimistic about Joanne’s chances of becoming pregnant again. Avery didn’t mention his wife was on the verge of being institutionalized.

Sean didn’t say anything either. They were waiting for a call back from the lab where Avery’s sperm samples were stored. If any of those samples had disappeared, Sean would have her explanation for Avery’s semen having been found inside the murder-rape victim.

When Dr. Nathan’s phone finally rang, Sean and Avery anxiously leaned forward in their chairs. He grabbed the receiver: “Yes? Yes…uh-huh…we have nine samples on record here….”

“What’s the count over there?” Sean interrupted.

Dr. Nathan covered the mouthpiece. “Nine, none are missing,” he said, then spoke into the phone again. “That’s all I needed, thanks for—”

“Don’t hang up yet,” Sean cut in again.

“Just a second,” he said into the phone. He gazed at her over the rims of his glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry to keep interrupting,” she said. “Did they verify that all nine samples are from Avery?”

The doctor spoke into the receiver again. “Thanks for waiting. I need you to run a test on the nine samples, see if they all match. How long will that take?” He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. “Is tomorrow afternoon okay?”

“That would be great,” Sean said. She waited until Dr. Nathan hung up the phone. “Would it be possible to furnish us with a list of employees both here and at the lab who might have had access to those sperm samples?”

Dr. Nathan nodded. “I’ll talk to someone in administration about it.”

“Could we pick up that list tomorrow?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

“Thanks,” Sean said. “And security here is pretty tight?”

“We don’t leave specimens sitting around, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “And besides, who would want to steal or switch a sperm sample?”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” Sean replied.

Avery studied Sean at the steering wheel, a steely, determined look on that beautiful face. Her soft brown hair fluttered in the breeze from the open window as she watched the road ahead. She had an aristocratic face, yet there was something very down-to-earth about her.

He’d asked this woman to be his lawyer based on gut instinct and a brief conversation with a gay man she’d once defended. So far, she hadn’t disappointed him. He imagined a team of slick, expensive lawyers padding their billing hours and weaving strategies, never for one minute believing his innocence. But Sean Olson had integrity and guts.

She glanced at him. “Is your place much further?”

“Only a few more minutes. I’ll tell you when it’s coming up.”

“FYI,” Sean said, her eyes on the road again, “our boys in blue are probably obtaining a search warrant for your house this very minute. I wouldn’t put it past this group to plant incriminating evidence in your home.”

“I doubt anyone could have gotten past the cameras and the alarms. We upgraded security after the break-in.”

“Tell me about these cameras,” Sean said.

“We have six video cameras recording twenty-four hours a day at different points outside the house.”

“What happens to the tapes?”

“If I remember right, the security guy said they hold on to them for a month before they recycle them.”

“I want to review those tapes as soon as possible.”

“Okay, I can arrange that,” Avery said. “I’ll reserve us an editing room at the studio for tomorrow.”

“Good. Maybe we can catch something on videotape that might have slipped past your security people.” She stole another look at him. “Maybe you should find yourself a bodyguard, Avery. These people have killed before. If they did away with you now, you’d die a murder suspect, which would suit them fine.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” he replied, glancing out his car window. “Anyway, I’ll be okay. My biggest concern right now is my wife. Until she’s up and feeling better, nothing else really matters.”

“Huh. You remind me of my husband,” she said.

Avery turned to look at her. “Really? What does he do?”

“Dan used to be a chef. But he’s been sick. He has ALS. You know, Lou Gehrig’s Disease? We have him on a respirator and a feeding machine.”

“God, I’m sorry,” was all Avery could say.

“Yeah, it’s a lousy deal.” She sighed. “Take my advice, people recover from nervous breakdowns. Your wife’s chances of getting better are very good. Don’t you worry. She has doctors and nurses looking after her.”

A sad smile flickered across her face as she stole one more glance at him. “You need to look after yourself, Avery. Promise me you will.”

She thought she saw something on the monitor, a figure skulking outside the house by the pool. Then again, after viewing the security videos at fast speed for three hours, Sean’s eyes were probably playing tricks on her. She and Avery sipped coffee to sustain themselves while watching the flickering black-and-white images on four small monitors. They sat at the control desk in a tiny room stocked with film and video equipment.

“Take a look at this,” Sean said, setting the tape in reverse, then slowing it down.

Their chairs had wheels on the feet, and Avery scooted over to her side. He’d dressed casually for their video marathon today: a white shirt and jeans. Sean looked very much the legal eagle in a gray linen suit.

“Someone’s sneaking around your pool area at four fifty-two in the morning,” Sean read the time and date along the top of the screen. A woman in a robe emerged from the shadows on the Coopers’ patio.

“That’s Joanne,” Avery murmured.

Sean watched Joanne Lane stagger toward the edge of the pool. Obviously drunk, she lost her balance and fell down. She had a hard time standing up again.

“I haven’t seen this before,” Avery said, his voice strained. “I think it’s when she tried to kill herself.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Sean found the switch and shut it off. “Stupid of me—”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “Listen, I could use an intermission. Do you want to go for a walk or something?”

“No, thanks. You go. I need to make some calls.” Sean waited for Avery to leave, then she rolled her head from side to side. Staring at the blank screen, she finally pressed the play button. The tape came on: Avery’s wife lowering herself into the pool, dog-paddling toward the deep end. Her robe billowed out around her as she tried to make herself sink to the bottom. It was almost a struggle for her to kill herself. As much as Sean pitied this woman, she couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed by her too—this showy attempt at suicide. There was something very theatrical about it. After a while, Joanne seemed to relax and sank beneath the pool’s surface. For nearly two minutes, she drifted facedown in the water, her hair and robe spread out and swaying around her still body.

At last, Avery ran out of the house in his undershorts. Plunging into the pool, he swam to his wife and dragged her limp body onto the deck. According to the numbers across the top of the screen, it took him fifty-six seconds to revive her. But the time seemed to drag on and on as he struggled over that lifeless form. It was gut-wrenching to watch. This was punishment for her morbid curiosity—and for starting to think about him the way she did. She watched Avery hover over his wife until the paramedics finally arrived and loaded her on a stretcher.

Sean sighed, then switched off the tape.

Avery bought a pack of red licorice vines and a roll of butter rum Lifesavers from the vending machine on the first floor. Starting back up the steps toward the editing rooms, he popped a Lifesaver in his mouth—part of his balanced breakfast. He’d only eaten a few spoonfuls of Special K this morning when the police had buzzed him from the front gate intercom. They had a search warrant. At least he was shaved and dressed for their surprise visit. Avery remained calm. It was almost surreal now, the way his whole world had turned upside down. He put a pot of coffee on, and the four officers combing his house for evidence appreciated the Starbuck’s Kona Blend served to them by a genuine movie star murder suspect.

As far as he could tell, the police hadn’t found anything. They’d filed out the front door after an hour—with only some carpet fiber samples.

Avery washed out the policemen’s coffee cups, then called the hospital. The news from Dr. Wetherall wasn’t good. He advised Avery not to visit Joanne today. She’d tried to attack a nurse yesterday, and was still under sedation. Had he given any more thought to Glenhaven Spa?

Avery said that he’d have a decision for him by tomorrow. In other words, he was hoping for a miracle within the next twenty-four hours.

Munching his Lifesaver, Avery wandered up the corridor, past offices and editing rooms. He found Sean, seated at the video controls and talking on her cell phone.

“I have nothing to tell you,” she was saying. “No, you’re way out of line…and please, don’t call me again.” She clicked off, then tucked the phone in her purse.

Avery tossed the red licorice vines on the desk. “Thought you could use a sugar fix,” he said. “Who was that?”

“Some asshole reporter—if you’ll pardon me. I don’t know how he got my cell phone number.” She picked up the red vines. “Thanks.”

“What did he want?”

Sean tore at the cellophane wrapper. “I’m not even sure he was a real reporter. Hell, he could have been part of this hate group. He wanted to know if you’d been formally charged with Libby Stoddard’s murder yet—the yet part really burned me. He also wanted to know how we intended to plea.”

She got to her feet. “Listen, you were right earlier. I could really use a break. Let’s go for a walk.”

They strolled through a studio back lot, which depicted a small town circa 1958. Long, fin-tailed cars lined the curb, and the Movie Palace played Vertigo. Down the block were Smitty’s Malt Shop, Deedee’s Millinery, and Christoff’s Five-and-Dime.

Sean pulled a very anachronistic cellular phone out of her purse, then checked the last call. The reporter from before had a blocked number. Frowning, she slipped the phone back in her purse. “That stupid call still bothers me. Do you think it was really a reporter?”

“Maybe even a reporter working for them,” Avery said. They strolled past Tony’s Barber Shop. “If this group wants to ruin certain celebrities’ reputations, they’d need media people on their payroll. Yeah, that was probably a legitimate reporter just now. And I can tell you how they describe a conversation like the one you just had: ‘When asked about Avery Cooper’s homicidal tendencies, his attorney, Sean Olson, offered no comment.’” He shrugged and grinned. “That’s typical in this business.”

Sean found herself half smiling back at him. Avery didn’t seem to have let the business corrupt him. He was more worried about his wife than his career. In a town dominated by phonies often trying to pass themselves off as “just plain family folk,” this guy was the real thing. His sweetness and his wholesome good looks were perfectly suited for this small town setting from the fifties. He even looked a bit like Ricky Nelson. Sean almost wanted to hold on to his arm as they continued walking down this magical street together.

Her cellular rang, jarring her from the momentary daydream. She pulled the phone out of her purse again and clicked it on. “Sean Olson speaking.”

“Ms. Olson, it’s Doug Nathan at the clinic. I have the results from the lab tests on those nine sperm samples from Avery Cooper.”

“Yes, Dr. Nathan,” she said, her eyes meeting with Avery’s.

“All nine samples match,” he reported.

Sean turned away from Avery. “Are you sure?” she said into the phone.

“Yes. All nine samples are from the same subject-donor: Avery Cooper. Also, I’m trying to untangle some red tape from administration for those employee records you requested. Could I call you tomorrow on it?”

“Yes, of course,” Sean murmured. “Thanks, Dr. Nathan.”

“Talk to you tomorrow. Bye.” Then he hung up.

Sean clicked off the phone, then slipped it back into her purse. She couldn’t look at Avery. “All the sperm samples match,” she said.

“You’re kidding,” he muttered. “Are they sure?”

“They’re sure.”

Avery said nothing. Shaking his head, he backed away until he bumped against a Studebaker Coupe parked along the curb.

Sean rubbed her forehead. “Avery, is there something you haven’t told me? Did you have sex with Libby? Maybe consensual sex?”

Leaning against the car, he rolled his eyes. “God, no. The only time I even met Libby Stoddard was with our lawyers at that hearing. I didn’t even shake her hand.”

“Okay,” Sean said, nodding patiently. “And you’re pretty sure the police will find a match with the victim if you furnish them with a sperm sample?”

“Yes. I don’t think these people would go to all the trouble of murdering Libby and setting me up for it without somehow matching up that important piece of evidence. They must have paid off someone in the lab.” He shook his head. “I’m stalling for time here, Sean. Don’t you see? If I give the cops a sperm sample, and it’s a match, I’ll be thrown in jail immediately, right? I won’t be able to see my wife or do anything to help with this investigation.”

“I understand,” Sean said, patting his arm. “Well, I can question people at the lab. Maybe somebody’s lying. You’re not a sperm donor, are you?”

He kicked at the pavement. “No.”

“Can I get personal?” Sean asked.

“Hell, we’re talking about my sperm. We’ve already gotten to ‘personal.’”

“You and Joanne spend a good deal of time apart. Is it possible you were with someone who might have kept some of your semen from a diaphragm or a condom?”

Avery shook his head.

“The truth, Avery,” Sean said. “You haven’t strayed once?”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been with anyone else since I met Joanne.”

“Well, don’t be sorry,” Sean managed to say. “It’s actually very sweet.”

He looked at her again with the same guileless expression that had first won her over. “Sean, you don’t really think I killed Libby Stoddard, do you?”

“No, I believe you’re telling the truth, Avery.” It was beyond all logic, but Sean meant what she said.

Eighteen

Tom Lance emerged from Lowell’s Guns & Ammo Stop, carrying a .38 caliber and a box of bullets in a brown paper bag. This was the gun he would use to kill Dayle Sutton. Authorities would trace its purchase here by a Tom Lance whose appearance was slightly altered.

He wore his disguise for next week’s mission: nonprescription glasses with black frames, and a gray mustache. Hal, standing under the awning of a nearby pawnshop, joked that he almost didn’t recognize him. He suggested that they grab a late breakfast at the McDonald’s across the street.

“I see you’ve made a purchase,” Hal said, nudging Tom as they headed toward the restaurant. “Have any trouble? Any sticky legal red tape?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, good. You know, Tom, if people like Dayle Sutton get their way, we won’t be able to buy a gun anywhere—except from criminals.”

They ordered Egg McMuffins. For a moment, Tom harkened back to his glory days months earlier, when—because of his TV commercial—the folks at his local McDonald’s gave him a free apple pie with lunch. He almost told the haggard-looking black girl behind the counter about the ad, but she wouldn’t have given a damn.

The bag with the .38 caliber sat on the table between them. Hal had insisted Tom take it inside the McDonald’s. “You have to feel comfortable carrying it around.”

Hal now folded his hands in prayer over his Egg McMuffin. Some teenagers at the next table seemed to think this was pretty damn funny. Snickering, they imitated Hal, who became red in the face as he crossed himself. He glared at the kids, then picked up his sandwich.

He started to review their itinerary for the next few days. But after a while, he practically had to shout to compete with the loud teenagers across from them. “I can’t talk over these foul-mouthed niggers,” he grumbled.

Tom pushed away his Styrofoam plate and he too glared at the kids.

“What the fuck you looking at, asshole?” one of the boys sneered.

Tom turned away, but his face flushed with bottled-up rage.

“Little do they know,” Hal whispered. “You could just reach into this bag here, couldn’t you? Erase them. What good are they? Look at those ones.” Hal nodded at three punk teenagers at another table. Their clothes were filthy and they had pierced eyebrows and noses. One of them, an Asian girl, had blue hair. “Who would miss them?” Hal asked. “Killing them is just a reach away.”

Tom stared at the bag.

“And check out the two queers over there,” Hal whispered, his eyes darting toward a couple of young men with dyed-platinum hair, pierced ears, and white T-shirts that were a little too clean and a little too tight.

“In a way,” Hal went on, “when you eliminate Dayle Sutton, you’ll help rid our country of this scum we’re now forced to share breakfast with. We’re waging a war against these degenerates, Tom. The queer sodomites, these slant-eyed aliens, welfare blacks, you name it. Would you take your child or grandchild to eat here among these creeps?” Hal nodded at the bag between them. “I mean, without that for protection?”

Tom glanced over at the teenager again, the one who called him an asshole. The kid was arguing with his girlfriend. “They have no idea how close to death they are right now,” Hal was saying. “Doesn’t that make you feel powerful, Tom? Knowing what you could do?”

Tom smiled and nodded.

Carrying a flower arrangement and a small boom box, Avery stepped inside the hospital room. The blinds were open, baking the place in sunlight. A pine-scented air freshener failed to completely camouflage the sharp smell of urine. Someone had cranked up the bed, so Avery’s night-owl wife had no choice but to sit there, squinting in the harsh morning glare. They’d combed her unwashed hair back behind her ears. Her wrists were still bound, but now a padded material cushioned the encircling straps to prevent bruises. As Avery walked into the room, Joanne didn’t seem to notice. She continued to stare out the window, her pale face pinched up.

Setting the flowers and the boom box on her nightstand, Avery tried to smile. “I figured you might want to listen to some of those homemade tapes. You know, the ones you take on the road? Jesus, it’s hot in here. What are they trying to do to you?” He moved to a window, opened it a crack, then lowered the blinds. “Is that better, Joanne?”

She said nothing. She didn’t seem to know he was there. At least she’d stopped squinting. Avery returned to her bedside and kissed her cheek. “Do you feel like talking today?” he asked gently.

No response. She stared at the window.

“How about some music? This is your seventies tape.” He pressed the button on the boom box. Joni Mitchell came on, singing “Morning Morgantown.”

Grimacing, Joanne began to squirm. She sucked air between her clinched teeth. It was as if the music were fingernails on a blackboard.

“Oops, sorry.” Avery switched off the recording. “Joni isn’t cutting it, huh?” He felt so lame. He couldn’t reach her.

Joanne sighed, then went back to gazing at the window.

He caressed her arm, and at least she didn’t pull away. That faint, underlying smell of urine became more pungent. Avery realized that she’d wet herself. He kept stroking her arm. Joanne was gone. He could no longer hope that she was simply “playing to the balcony.” This was real.

After a while, he rang for the nurse. A tall, big-boned, twenty-something blonde came to the door. “Yes, Mr. Cooper?” she said.

“Um, my wife wet the bed,” Avery explained in a raspy voice.

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” the nurse said gently. “We have her in diapers. I’ll change her as soon as you leave.”

Avery hesitated. “Well, I—I’ll take off now so you can do that. Thanks.”

He leaned over Joanne and gently kissed her forehead. “See ya, honey.”

She still didn’t seem to know he was there.

Avery thanked the nurse again. He stepped out to the corridor, then started toward Dr. Wetherall’s office, where he would sign the necessary papers to have his wife transferred to a mental institution.

He aimed and squeezed the trigger. Something was off today. He missed the Dr Pepper bottle on the ranch’s front porch railing. “Damn,” Tom muttered. He was hot and sweaty. The Egg McMuffin from breakfast wasn’t sitting too well in his stomach.

“It’s okay, Tom,” Hal said patiently. He stood behind him, nursing a Sprite from the cooler. He wore sunglasses and a baseball hat. “It’s a new gun. You need to become accustomed to the feel of it. That’s why we’re here.”

Tom fired and missed again. “When am I supposed to do this for real?”

“Next Tuesday morning,” Hal said.

Lowering the gun, Tom turned to gape at him. “My God, so soon?”

“It’s six days away,” Hal said, with an amused grin. “You’ll be fine. It’s all planned out. No room for error. We have a friend in Dayle Slutton’s camp, which gives us access to her schedule—among many other things. On Tuesday morning, she’ll be shooting scene eighty-seven, in which her character addresses an AA meeting with about twenty-five extras. All those people will provide just the right amount of commotion once you start shooting. She’ll be at a podium, an easy target. We’ll give you instructions where to stand.” He gulped down some more Sprite, and stifled a burp. “Get in at least two shots. Go for the head. Before you even fire a third shot, our security guard will turn on you with the blanks, and you’ll go down quick. That’s the tricky part. You don’t want any Johnny-come-lately guards wanting to get their two cents in.”

“This sounds pretty complicated,” Tom said warily.

“We’ll practice. It’s all choreographed and staged, Tom. You won’t have to play dead for more than a minute before the second ambulance arrives. That’ll be us. Remember, everyone will be paying more attention to Miss Slutton, and she’ll get the first ambulance—though it might as well be a Hearse picking her up. Right?”

Tom shrugged. “Well, I can’t guarantee—”

“I have confidence in you, Tom.” He finished off his Sprite, and tossed his empty can on the dusty ground. “An hour after pulling that trigger, you’ll be cleaned up and on a plane with enough money to retire in Mexico or Rio de Janeiro or someplace. Not bad, huh? Can’t you see yourself living out your golden years at a tropical villa—sipping cocktails, a ceiling fan swirling overhead, exotic birds chirping? Take a day to think about where you’d like to go. By the way, we’re paying you a quarter of a million for your efforts.”

Tom stared at him in disbelief. Was this guy on the level? He wiped the sweat off his brow. “I had no idea,” he managed to reply.

“Sure,” Hal nodded. “Least we could do, Tom. Any more questions?”

“Only a ton,” Tom said, with a dazed chuckle. It was all coming a little too fast at him. “I mean, how are you getting me on the set when they’re shooting this scene eighty whatever it is?”

“Scene eighty-seven.” Hal smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, we have someone working close to Dayle Sutton. You’ll have clearance. It’s being taken care of right now, as we speak. You’ll use the name Gordon Swann.”

“His name is Gordon Swann,” Dennis told the head of studio security over the phone. “Be sure they allow him on the set Tuesday morning.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Dennis.”

“I’ve also cleared him with the assistant director, because I won’t be around. I have Tuesday off. I’m helping my girlfriend move. Page me if there’s a problem. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Dennis said into the phone. “Do me a huge favor, tell the guard not to stick him in another time zone. It’s important that he gets a good look at Dayle during the shoot. So give him a spot close to the action. Will you make sure about that?”

“For you, Dennis, I’ll make dead certain.”

The man on the other end of the line couldn’t see Dennis Walsh smile.

Dennis handed her a bottle of Evian water. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He sat on the steps to her trailer door.

“Thanks.” Dayle said, twisting open the bottle. She rested in her “star” chair outside the open door of her trailer. For another flashback sequence, she sported a sixties look: a Petula Clark-influenced auburn wig, coral frost lipstick, and Twiggy-style, inch-long false eyelashes. She wore fat plastic earrings, a miniskirt, and a ribbed turtleneck. According to Dennis, she looked like The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.

Providing her with a fresh Evian bottle every couple of hours had been Bonny’s self-appointed undertaking. Dayle had briefly talked to her on the phone this morning. Bonny sounded tired and doped up, but still managed to get in a dig about “human target” not being part of her job description. She was supposed to be out of the hospital by next week, in plenty of time for Thanksgiving at home. Meanwhile, Dayle had a temporary stand-in.

The telephone rang in her trailer. “I’ll pick it up,” Dennis volunteered. He ducked into the trailer. A few moments later, he emerged with her cordless phone. “It’s Slick Nick the Private Dick. Want to ‘rap’ with him?”

“Nick?” Dayle sat up. “Yes, I’ll take it. Thanks.”

Dennis gave her the phone, then settled back on the trailer steps.

“Hello, Nick?”

“Yo, you got me. Y’know, that assistant of yours is a real wiseass.”

“No kidding,” Dayle said. “Do you have any news for me?”

“Sure do,” he said. “One of the five license plate numbers you gave me doesn’t go with the others. It’s some schmuck from Burbank, probably boinking his secretary. But the other four rental plates matched with credit cards that seem to belong to a group. I don’t know if the names on these cards are real, but feature this: three of these same dudes were renting cars and staying at the Sandpiper Motel in Portland, Oregon, when Tony Katz and his boyfriend bought the farm. And two of them had a return engagement a couple of weeks later when Leigh Simone cashed in her chips. All those credit cards have the same mailing address, a post office box in Opal.”

“Opal?”

“It’s a little town in Idaho. So here’s the skinny. I’m catching a plane to Boise or Spokane tomorrow morning. But it might be a few days before I can track down who in Opal is paying these hotel and car rental bills.”

“A few days?” Dayle said.

“Yeah, we’d need a court order to find out who has that PO box. Even El Nerdo, our computer expert, can’t help us with this one. I’ll have to go to Opal and stake out the post office. Eventually, somebody’s got to pick up their mail. And Nick Brock will be on them like ugly on an ape.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Dayle said. “Listen, we better give this information to the police. Maybe you can fax it—”

“Woah, wait a minute, Ms. Sutton. The last thing you want right now is for the cops to catch on. Once the feds descend on Opal, this group will scatter in a dozen different directions, and we’re back to square one. They have to think it’s business as usual. That’s how I’m gonna catch them with their pants down. I’ll fax you the info at home, in case something should happen to yours truly—God forbid. But don’t hand it over to the cops just yet, okay? Give old Nick forty-eight hours at least.”

“Well, all right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll give you ’til Sunday.”

“Fantastic. I’ll call you from Opal tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck, Nick,” she replied. “And, hey, for the record, you’re pretty damn good at what you do.”

“Hey, think I’m good on the job? Check me out during playtime.”

Dayle shook her head. “Nick, you’re a pig, you really are. God knows why I like you. B’bye.” She clicked off and handed the phone to Dennis.

“So who’s Opal?” he asked with a curious smile.

“It’s a little town in Idaho,” Dayle said. “Nick’s on his way there tomorrow.”

“Well, this place is pretty nice, Mom,” Avery said into the cordless phone. Exhausted, he sat slouched in a deck chair by the pool. For the last hour, he’d been putting off this call to his parents.

Joanne had been transferred by ambulance to Glenhaven today. Avery had gone there to say good-bye and drop off some of her clothes. They discouraged visitors for the first week. He saw her only briefly, and she didn’t seem to recognize him. Coming home, he felt the house to be so empty. He was used to being alone here, but this was a totally different kind of solitude. Joanne wasn’t in New York, passionately working on a play. She was in a sanitarium. And if she came back, would she ever be the same? It was as if something about the house had died. Avery aimlessly wandered from room to room, and finally settled by the pool—with a beer and the cordless phone. Maybe Joanne truly didn’t want to be rescued out here the other morning.

By the time he called his parents, he was pretty much cried out. He even managed to sound upbeat for them. “The people at Glenhaven gave me a tour yesterday,” he said. “They have these beautiful gardens and walking paths, a pool, private jacuzzis, saunas, messages, lots of personal attention.”

“Did they say if she’ll be out in time for Thanksgiving?” his father asked on the other extension. “Or do they think it might be longer?”

“They’re really not sure, Pop. But I know she’s better off there than she was in the hospital.”

Someone buzzed from the front gate. Avery hopped off the pool chair and hurried into the house. “Somebody’s at the door. Can you hold on for a sec?” He stole a glance out the front window. A police car waited at the end of his driveway. Avery went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Cooper, this is Sergeant Rick Swanson of the Beverly Hills Police. We’d like to accompany you to the station for some questioning. It shouldn’t take too long. Could you let us in?”

Avery covered the mouthpiece of the phone so his parents wouldn’t hear. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cooper. They simply want to ask you some questions down at headquarters, that’s all. We’ve been instructed to escort you.”

“Um, I’m not dressed,” Avery said. “Let me put some clothes on, then I’ll buzz you in.” He brought the phone back up to his ear. “Mom? Pop? Can I call you back? It might not be until tomorrow. I have something going on here that’s kind of important—”

“What happened?” his father asked. “I can tell from your voice that something’s wrong….”

“I’m fine, Pop, really. Let me call you later. Okay?”

As soon as he disconnected with his folks, Avery phoned Sean’s cellular number. He caught her at the lab where they’d analyzed his sperm samples. He explained about the police waiting outside his house.

“Don’t let them in,” Sean said. “Dayle’s chauffeur and stand-in were gunned down by a man dressed like a cop, driving a patrol car. No. Don’t do a thing until I check on this. What’s this police sergeant’s name again?”

“Swanson,” Avery said.

“Okay. Sit tight until you hear back from me.’

She hung up. Avery glanced out the window again—at the police car parked by his front gate. The cop stood near the intercom on the post.

With the cordless in his hand, Avery went back and closed the sliding glass door to the pool area. A feeling of dread gnawed at his insides. He checked out front again. The cop was now staring up at the house, arms crossed.

The telephone rang, and Avery quickly answered it. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi. It’s me,” Sean said. “I checked. These guys are on the level. They’re taking you in for some questioning. I’ll meet you at the station. Don’t tell them anything until I get there. Okay?”

“Right. Thank you, Sean.”

Avery hung up, took a deep breath, and walked into the front hall. He pressed the switch for the front gate. Then at the window, he watched the police car slowly pull into his driveway.

Sean clicked off her cellular and apologized to the lab supervisor for the interruption. Avery’s sperm samples had been stored and analyzed here at Kurtis Labs. The receptionist up front had given Sean a lab coat to wear, then sent her to this supervisor, a fidgety man in his mid-fifties named Alan Keefer. He had dark hair, a rubbery smile, and beneath his white lab coat, he wore a yellow polyester shirt and a tie that just had to be clip-on.

They sat in his office, which looked into one of the main labs. Through the window, Sean had a view of everyone at work, hunched over microscopes, transferring test tubes back and forth from refrigerators to centrifuges, punching data into computers.

Keefer explained that they’d run tests on all nine sperm samples and come up with the same donor, Avery Cooper. He also insisted that his lab team was beyond reproach. But Sean had cross-examined enough people in her day to trust her instincts that Alan Keefer was hiding something. And while he talked, he seemed to be leering at her.

Someone else wouldn’t stop staring at her. An obese bearded man in a lab coat kept shooting her looks through the office window. Sean had been about to ask if she could talk with some of the other technicians when Avery had called on her cellular.

She slipped the phone back in her purse, pulled out a business card, and scribbled on the back of it. “I’m sorry, I have to run,” she said, placing the card on Keefer’s desk. “I wonder if I could come back at a later date, maybe interview some of your staff.”

“Well, speaking of dates, maybe I could interview you over dinner some time?” Keefer asked with his rubbery smile. He walked her to his office door.

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Sean said. “But I’m awfully busy with this case, and any free time I have, I spend with my husband and children.”

“Well, I’m busy too,” he replied coolly, the smile gone. “If you’d like to see me again, you’ll have to make an appointment in advance. And I’m sorry, but I can’t have you taking my people away from their jobs for these interviews. You’ll have to make some sort of other arrangements.”

Sean nodded. “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Keefer. I left my card on your desk. Avery Cooper’s phone number is on the back. If you have any new information about those samples, I trust you’ll call one of us.”

“Yes, of course,” he grunted.

Turning to leave, Sean caught the overweight lab technician staring at her again. Something told her that this visit to Kurtis Labs wasn’t quite the dead end it seemed. But she didn’t have any time to ponder that now. The police were about to interrogate Avery, and she needed to be there with him.

Rain pelted the hood of Sean’s car, and the windows were fogging up. Neon lights from the drive-in burger joint illuminated droplets on the windshield. Sean sat at the wheel, nibbling her french fries while Avery devoured his cheeseburger like a starving man. The session with the police had left him tired and ravenous.

Riding in the back of that patrol car on his way to the station, Avery had been so sure he wouldn’t return home for at least a couple of days—or however long it took to post bail. The policemen had led him into a small conference room. He’d seen enough movies to know that the large mirror on the wall was a two-way job—with someone else on the other side. They started asking about his activities on Friday night, November fourteenth. Avery politely refused to answer any questions until his lawyer was present.

Sean arrived within five minutes, and sat down beside him at the table. She was professional and courteous. Avery could tell the detectives liked her despite themselves. She whispered to him at the start, “Don’t mention any conspiracy right now. It’s too soon and we don’t have any evidence to back that up yet. Okay?”

She didn’t interrupt him much, and instinctively knew when to rescue him. “I’m sorry, guys,” she’d say with a smile. “My client can’t answer that at this time. Do you have another question?”

Eventually, they asked if Avery would furnish them with a sperm sample. Sean Olson jumped in before he could answer. “For the time being, I’ve advised my client not to submit to that,” she said.

The interrogation lasted three hours. Although he hadn’t been formally charged, Avery remained a suspect in Libby Stoddard’s murder.

“End of round one,” Sean told him, picking at her order of fries. She glanced out the rain-beaded window. “I think our boys in blue are jerking you around a bit. My guess is that they already have a DNA match on the sperm sample from Libby and your skin tissue under her fingernails. If you had a hairbrush lying around when they were in your house the other day, they probably collected and tested a sample of your hair too. They don’t really need your sperm, Avery. But it looks good for their case if they asked for a sample and you refused.”

“Looks even better for them if I furnish a sample and it matches.”

“Exactly,” Sean said, sipping her Coke. “Either way, you’re screwed. We’re on borrowed time here.”

Avery crumbled up his food bag. “Huh, could you tell me some good news?”

“Well, you have a lawyer who believes you’re innocent,” Sean offered. “I’d like to talk to your friends, the Webers, at their place tomorrow evening. Then we’ll go through and retrace everything you did that Friday night. Think you’re up for that?”

Avery nodded. “I’ll call George. I can also review those security videos with you again during the day—if you’d like. I’m not working this week. I don’t have any plans.”

“You aren’t seeing your wife?” Sean asked.

Frowning, he shook his head. “This new place doesn’t allow visitors the first couple of weeks.”

For a moment, there was just the patter of rain on the roof, and paper bags rustling as they put their uneaten food away. Avery turned and caught her gazing at him. Sean quickly turned away.

“It’s horrible to see someone you love slip away in front of you,” he said. “I feel so powerless, so sad and angry at the same time. I can’t quite describe it….”

“You don’t have to describe it for me, Avery,” she murmured.

It took a moment for him to realize what she was talking about. He felt so stupid. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sean.”

“Don’t sweat it,” she replied, setting the food bag aside. Sean started up the car, then switched on the lights and the windshield wipers. “I should take you home.” She backed out of the space, then turned out of the lot.

Avery stared at the wipers fanning back and forth. “I’m used to Joanne being away. But this is different. I’ve never felt this kind of loneliness. I don’t know how you handle it, Sean.”

“You keep going, Avery,” she replied, studying the road ahead. “You just keep going.”

Nineteen

POLICE QUESTION AVERY COOPER IN BRUTAL RAPE-MURDER. So said the headline running across the bottom half of the morning’s Los Angeles Times’s front page—along with a somber photo of him.

A mob was waiting at the end of the driveway as Avery left his house. Behind the wheel of his BMW, he slowly cruised toward the wrought-iron doors. About thirty reporters and fifty spectators had amassed outside the gate. Several of them carried signs: KILLER COOPER, BEVERLY HILLS BUTCHER, and AVERY COOPER: PRO-ABORTION, PRO-GUN CONTROL, PRO-RAPE, PRO-MURDER! This last wordy placard was held by a middle-aged woman in a pink sweatshirt that identified her as a FOXY GRANDMA. Avery caught a closer look at Foxy’s handiwork when she slammed the sign against his windshield.

Riding the brake, he tried to ignore the angry shouts, the people spitting on his car and pounding on the hood. Avery crawled through the crowd, then picked up speed. He watched them growing more distant in his rearview mirror. But a white Taurus emerged from the throng, one of the “rental mentals,” Sean had told him about. Avery had to cut someone off, then speed through a yellow light to elude the car. By the time he reached Sean’s office building, he figured he’d lost him. He parked in back of the hair salon.

Sean appeared tired when she met him in her office doorway. She wore houndstooth check, pleated pants and a clinging black, crew-neck sweater that showed off her figure. On their way to Avery’s car, she admitted she wasn’t in a good mood. She’d slept on her office sofa last night, and had to find out this morning that her husband’s respirator had gone on the blink at three A.M. He’d been turning blue from lack of oxygen. It had taken the nurse on duty fifteen minutes to find the blockage in his tubes and fix it.

“At least we avoided another trip to the hospital,” Sean said. “But I should have been there for him. I would have known what to do, because it’s happened before.” She put on her sunglasses and rolled down her window. “So how about you?” she asked. “Did you phone this Glenhaven place yet?”

“I’m waiting until this afternoon,” Avery said, eyes on the road. “I called my friends, George and Sheila, and they’re expecting us around six.”

“I hope my mood improves by then,” Sean said. “I feel eight different types of lousy this morning.”

“Well, maybe the tide will change,” Avery offered, with a shrug.

“Yeah, the tide can change,” she said, nodding tiredly. “What the heck? Maybe today’s the day we’ll find something in those security videos to prove you were set up. You never know.”

Avery glanced in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see anyone on his tail. But it suddenly hit him. “The ‘rental mentals,’” he said. “I never noticed those guys until you told me about them. But on the videos, I’ve seen cars parked down the street across from the front gate. Haven’t you?”

“I assumed they were your neighbors.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I never thought to check the car types or if anyone was sitting inside. Maybe we could prove—as part of a set up—someone was watching me and the house before Libby was murdered….”

“My God, you’re right,” Sean muttered. “I made a list of license plate numbers from the rental cars that have been following Dayle. If we match one of those plate numbers with a car in front of your house, we can introduce the conspiracy angle, establish reasonable doubt.” Sean patted his shoulder. “We might need certain images from the security video blown up. Do you know someone at the studio who could do that for us?”

Avery nodded. “Yes, it should be easy.”

“Except I don’t have my copy of the list.” Sean frowned. “I took it home for safekeeping—in case those people broke into my office. Only my little girl decided to clean off my desk for me, and threw it away, God love her.” Sean bit her lip. “Hmmm, I faxed the list to Dayle. If I remember right, she gave it to this private detective she hired. We might have to track him down….”

Wasn’t there a single Playgirl at Spokane’s airport? Nick Brock had time to kill before picking up his bags. But the search for his magazine proved in vain. None of the newsstands carried it. Disappointed, he plodded down to baggage claim, then rented a car. The three-hour drive to Opal, Idaho, had scenery right out of a beer commercial, real “Land of Sky Blue Waters” stuff.

Opal lay smack-dab in the middle of all this mountain splendor. The quaint city center, located three blocks off Opal Lake, seemed like the type of place that shut down by six P.M. Very clean and friendly. Dull as hell.

But on the edge of town, Nick noticed a couple of taverns, a McDonald’s (open until the unholy hour of ten P.M.), and several hotels to accommodate the tourists taking advantage of Opal’s natural wonders—hunting, fishing, hiking, and in the summertime, camping, boating, and swimming.

Nick had made reservations at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Tackle equipment and mounted fish decorated the lobby walls, and the furniture was made of unfinished logs with Indian-weave cushions thrown on top—stylized rustic crap. A cute, young blonde worked the front desk. Her hair had been teased and curled, and there was a touch of teenage acne on that pretty face. Nick couldn’t resist flirting with her. Her name was Amber. “Debbie” was her grandmother, and the old witch had skipped to Reno for the week.

Amber happily gave him directions to the post office. It wasn’t yet noon, and the leaser of PO Box 73 probably hadn’t picked up the mail today. Nick winked and thanked Amber. Blushing, she smiled and stepped back. He noticed her spandex miniskirt showed off a great set of legs and a sweet butt. He also glimpsed a small magazine rack behind the desk, and there it was: his Playgirl.

“Hey, you got it!” Nick said, pointing to the rack. “Check it out, the Playgirl. Page thirty-four. You might be interested, honey.” He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. Nick glanced over his shoulder at Amber. She was thumbing through the magazine; then she stopped suddenly—on his page, he was sure. “Omigod!” Amber squealed, obviously impressed.

Smiling, Nick moved on. Made his day.

“I think we found something to prove there’s a conspiracy,” Sean said on the other end of the line.

The phone to her ear, Dayle sat at the vanity table in her trailer. She’d been touching up her “old” face for a scene in which her character has aged into her mid-sixties. Her hair had been spray-dyed a mousey gray, and they’d added some crow’sfeet, laugh lines, and liver spots. She wore a tweed suit and pearls. “What did you find?” she asked, turning away from the mirror.

“Avery and I are here in this editing room at his studio, looking at security videos taken outside his home. We noticed some rental cars parked across from his house.”

“They’re following him too?”

“Looks that way,” Sean said. “We’re having a few of the video images blown up and enhanced so we can see the license plates. Here’s where you come in, Dayle. Do you still have that list of plate numbers I faxed you? Or did you give it to that Nick character, the centerfold?”

“I still have a copy at my place,” Dayle said. “I can fax it to your office when I get home tonight. Would seven-thirty be too late?”

“No. That would be fantastic, Dayle. Thanks a lot.”

“We’ll talk tonight, okay? Take care.”

As Dayle hung up the phone, she heard someone on the steps to her trailer. She went to the door and opened it. Dennis stood there.

He looked startled. “I was just about to knock,” he said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“All right,” she said, mystified. “C’mon in.”

Dennis stepped inside, and closed the door. “You better sit down for this. It’s not good news.”

“Okay.” She sat across from him at her vanity. “What happened?”

“Does the name Cindy Zellerback ring a bell? A distant bell?”

Dayle kept very still. “What about her?”

“She—um, recently completed a prison sentence for killing her husband and baby. She claims that she had sex with you a long time ago. Apparently, she’s now born again or something. The point is, at this very minute, Elsie Marshall is interviewing her in front of a studio audience. They’re taping this afternoon’s show.”

Dayle felt a little sick. She just stared at him.

“I only now found out,” Dennis continued. “The reporters are banging down the studio door for a statement. Publicity wants to talk to you as well.”

Dayle reached for an Evian bottle on her vanity. It was empty. Sighing, she pitched it in the wastebasket. “Wouldn’t you know, they’d leak the story to Elsie? She’ll get lots of mileage out of it.”

“Then the story is true,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Dennis. It’s true.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, I need some time alone right now.”

“You got it.” Dennis started for the door, but he hesitated and turned to her. “You can trust me, Dayle. You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

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

“Hi, and welcome back to Common Sense!” Elsie Marshall said. “I know I’m breaking a lot of hearts out there when I tell you my Drew won’t be here today. He’s in Washington, D.C.”

There was a wave of feminine sighs and murmurs of disappointment from the studio audience. Elsie held up her hands. “But we have an unusual guest this afternoon, and you won’t want to miss what she has to tell us!”

The camera pulled back to show Elsie sitting at her desk. She wore a white dress with red piping and a sailor collar. She hadn’t yet introduced her guest: a dowdy dishwater-blonde with bad posture. She sat across from Elsie, studying the studio audience with some readable contempt and trepidation. She had on a pale, flowery dress that had gone out of style ten years ago.

Dayle barely recognized Cindy. She watched Elsie’s show on a big-screen TV in the studio’s VIP visitors’ lounge. She was still in her matronly makeup and wardrobe. She’d agreed to work late if they filmed around her for the next couple of hours.

“Today we’re talking some common sense with a real survivor,” Elsie announced. Then she turned to Cindy with a sudden, phony concern. “I understand you had an intimate, lesbian relationship with an established film star when you were only nineteen years old.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dayle groaned. She reached for a memo pad and a pen.

“Yeah, I was nineteen,” Cindy said. She leaned toward Elsie. “But I want to make it clear that I’ve rejected the sinful lifestyle I once had.”

With a little pout, Elsie gazed into the camera. “My guest today is Cynthia Zellerback, who was drawn into drugs and the gay scene eighteen years ago. Cindy’s here to tell us her story—which included a sexual relationship with film personality Dayle Sutton….”

Elsie paused to give the studio audience a chance to gasp—and gasp they did—while she nodded emphatically. “Yes, it’s true!”

People were still murmuring when Elsie turned to Cindy. “Eventually, you tried to reject this lesbian lifestyle and lead a normal, Christian life. But even with a husband and baby, you wouldn’t ‘go straight,’ would you?”

Frowning, Cindy shook her head. “No. And if it weren’t for my drug and sexual dependencies, I don’t think—it wouldn’t have happened.”

“For the studio audience and our friends at home, Cindy,” Elsie said in a whisper. “What exactly happened?”

“I killed my husband and baby daughter,” she answered with hardly a tremor in her voice. “I was convicted, and I spent twelve years in prison….”

More gasps and murmurs from the studio audience. Dayle took notes, scribbling furiously while Cindy described the murders as if someone else had committed them. Cindy said how much she missed her husband and her two-year-old, Sunshine. She even cried a little. If only she hadn’t been doing drugs and having gay sex. She discovered the “power of God’s forgiveness” in the federal pen.

Elsie patted her shoulder, and chimed in to announce a commercial break. “When we return, we’ll talk some more common sense with Cindy about her lesbian affair with none other than Dayle Sutton. Don’t go away!”

Dayle didn’t go away. On her cellular, she phoned Dennis to let him know that she would read a brief statement for the press after Elsie’s show.

“Hi, Elsie!”

“God bless you,” Elsie chirped, coming back on and blowing a kiss to her audience. Now that everyone had Cindy Zellerback identified as a reformed drug-addicted, child-killing lesbian, Elsie didn’t waste any time linking this survivor with a certain liberal actress. After less than a minute of chitchat with the audience, she turned once again to her guest.

“Cindy, you were only nineteen when you met Dayle Sutton. That’s a young and impressionable age, isn’t it?”

Cindy shrugged. “Sure.”

“What was it like, meeting a movie star?”

“It was pretty cool,” Cindy answered. “I was in Mexico with some friends, and heard they were shooting a movie nearby. So I started hanging around the set. I even got to be in a couple of crowd scenes.”

“You also met Dayle Sutton,” Elsie said. “Tell us, Cindy, were you doing drugs at the time?”

She sighed. “Yes, I was.”

“Were a lot of people on this movie set doing drugs?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Including Dayle Sutton?”

Cindy nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

“And Dayle Sutton was married at this time, wasn’t she?”

“I think so,” Cindy replied.

“Who initiated this—gay sexual encounter?” Elsie asked, with a sour look, as if it pained her to discuss this sordid business.

“It was mostly her,” Cindy said. “I could tell before this, y’know, particular night that she was interested in me. And it was kind of exciting, because she was a movie star and all that. Plus, I heard people talk on the set about her being a lesbian….”

Dayle studied Elsie’s face, and as much as the old bitch tried, she couldn’t contain a smile.

Dayle faced the press, flanked by Dennis and Ted. About forty reporters and several cameramen gathered outside the soundstage where she was filming Waiting for the Fall for this impromptu press conference. In her “old lady” garb, she looked very sweet and matronly. Yet Dayle had modified the makeup a little so that the pretty movie star shined through. Security was tight, with guards stationed every eight feet at a roped-off section around the podium where Dayle addressed the crowd.

“I’m in the middle of making a movie right now,” Dayle announced. “Which explains why I’m dressed and made up this way. I’m sorry I won’t have time to answer questions. But I’d like to make a statement for anyone who cares to listen.” Dayle smiled at them. She needed these journalists on her side. “Actually, I’m not wearing any makeup. I’ve simply aged twenty-five years in the past hour while watching a certain ‘talk show.’”

There were some laughs and titters among the reporters, and she heard Dennis behind her chuckling—almost too enthusiastically.

Elsie’s show had ended only forty-five minutes ago. Dayle had scribbled out a brief speech. She felt a strange calm. The “scandal” was out there now, thanks to Elsie Marshall. That left Dayle with damage control, an assignment the studio brass tried to entrust to their public relations department. “It’s my ass on the line,” Dayle had told a studio bigwig over the phone. “I’ll handle this.”

They wanted to check her speech, but the only person she let read it was Dennis, whose thumbs-up gave Dayle the confidence she now needed.

“I take enormous pride in the fact that I’m on Elsie Marshall’s hate list,” Dayle announced. “Elsie had a guest on her program today, a woman named Cindy Zellerback, who murdered her husband and child thirteen years ago. Now, the widow Marshall—to my knowledge—has never had a murderer on her show—morons, yes, but not murderers.”

A few reporters laughed, but Dayle kept a straight face. “The reason Elsie put Cindy Zellerback on her show was that this particular convicted murderer claimed to have had sexual relations with me a few years before she killed her family. Ms. Zellerback’s story first came to my attention earlier this week, by way of an anonymous note from someone who seemed to have extortion in mind. I chose to ignore it. Obviously, this mudslinger turned to the widow Marshall with this story. So in her attempt to publicly humiliate me, Elsie Marshall has consorted with an extortionist and a murderer.”

Dayle shook her head and sighed. “Well, I’m a little embarrassed, but not humiliated. The story this woman told is indeed true. One night, sixteen years ago, while shooting a movie in Mexico, I went to a beach party and had too much to drink. While under the influence, I experimented with a nineteen-year-old named Cindy. The widow Marshall would like you to believe I corrupted this young woman, but I’d like to point out that I was the ripe old age of twenty-three at the time, and not much of a party girl. I have very little memory of my evening with Cindy Zellerback. I do, however, recall that the ‘experiment’ wasn’t my idea of a good time. I never saw—or heard about—Cindy Zellerback again, not until the anonymous note last week.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dayle shrugged. “That’s the extent of my association with this”—she shook her head—“this pathetic woman who killed her family. I can’t understand how someone who preaches the power of God’s forgiveness can also preach hate toward gays and lesbians. She blamed the murders of her husband and toddler daughter on drugs and her lesbian lifestyle—as if she herself weren’t responsible at all. That’s just not right. I’d feel sorry for Cindy Zellerback if she still weren’t doing harm—this time with her demented moralizing. I’m glad my association with this pitiful woman was so brief, and forgettable—when my mind was clouded with drink. The widow Marshall, however, chose to associate with her in front of a television audience, and seems to consider her a colleague. What’s clouding Elsie’s mind? A powerful dose of hate, I’d say. Listen, Elsie, when you resort to the testimony of convicted murderers to trumpet your homophobic rhetoric, it’s time to reevaluate your beliefs.”

A few reporters started to applaud, and others joined in. By the time Dayle stepped down from the podium, they were cheering her.

But in a deluxe penthouse suite at the Hyatt Regency in Washington, D.C., the reporters on hand scoffed at Dayle Sutton. Her speech was broadcasted live on the Entertainment News Network. Over thirty supporters of Drew and Elsie Marshall—many of them from the press—crowded the huge suite. Plied with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, they watched the telecast on a big-screen TV. They hadn’t expected Dayle Sutton to respond so soon. The group had originally assembled with their host, Drew Marshall, to watch his mother interview the convicted murderer who had once been Dayle’s lesbian lover.

Elsie’s interview had been a great victory for Drew. The excitement and enthusiasm buzzing through the room had everyone nearly giddy. Dressed in a white linen shirt and jeans, he held court in a stuffed easy chair. He led the group in applause every time his mother got in a zinger against Dayle Slutton.

Then a call had come in saying that ENN would provide a live telecast of Dayle Sutton’s response to today’s Common Sense segment. Everyone stayed to witness Dayle Sutton’s humiliation. They couldn’t wait to see her squirm.

In reverence to Drew—and out of respect for his mother—several of the guests hissed at Dayle during her speech. But some people seemed uncomfortable, their mood plummeting from the zealous fever of an hour before. A few of them even left the room—very quietly. But the loyal ones stayed on to criticize and ridicule Dayle Sutton. Drew insisted that today was a moral victory for everyone who believed in family values.

With his beer in hand and a confident smile on his face, Drew turned to one of his associates. “Listen carefully to me,” he said, under his breath. “When they shoot that whore next week, I want a piece of her goddamn brain for a souvenir. I don’t care if they have to scrape it off the fucking floor, make sure someone brings it to me.”

Drew caught a reporter’s eye from across the room. He hoisted his beer stein as if to toast him and broke into his charming, boyish smile. “Hey, you’re running on empty, Duane,” he called. “Have another round!”

A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror of the blue ’89 Chrysler LeBaron. It pulled into the Reservations Only space in front of Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Things were slow at the front desk. Amber had her nose in a Cosmopolitan quiz, “Are You Getting the Most out of Masturbation?”

She glanced up from her magazine as the driver of the LeBaron stepped into the lobby. With his mustache, receding gray-brown hair, and windburned face, he looked like a cowboy. He wore a denim jacket and tan sans-a-belt pants that rode low under his belly. He leaned against the counter. “I need Nick Brock’s room number, honey.”

Setting down her magazine, Amber consulted the guest file. “Brock?” she asked, snapping her gum. “There’s nobody here by that name.”

“You sure? Maybe he checked in under an alias.”

Amber simply shrugged.

“Good-looking guy, about thirty, my height. Black hair—”

“Omigod, yeah, sure,” Amber said with a smile. “Nick Brock. I remember thinking he didn’t use the same name when he checked in.” She grabbed a Playgirl from the magazine rack, then flipped through the pages until she found Nick Brock’s butt shot. She set the open magazine on the counter, under the man’s nose. “Is this the guy you mean?” Amber asked.

Sean felt as if she’d made a couple of friends this evening. Sheila Weber was a salt-of-the-earth type. Sean recalled going through that same stage of pregnancy, and Sheila lapped up the advice. George was cute, congenial, and obviously a wonderful friend to Avery. The Webers insisted that they stay for dinner. Sheila made a terrific chicken pasta.

Sean had to remind herself that the Webers were tight with Avery and his wife. There was no room for a fifth wheel.

Still, tonight had been special, and for a few minutes she’d stopped worrying about respirators and catheters. She hadn’t thought about conspiracies and grand juries. She’d actually fooled herself for a while, and felt like part of a normal couple again.

They were now on their way to the park, where Avery’s mystery woman had scratched his face. Sean had a tiny buzz from the Chianti the Webers had served with dinner. She glanced over at Avery in the driver’s seat, watching the road ahead. She studied his profile, the strong jawline, and those long eyelashes. He was playing a tape of seventies music. He’d brought it to his wife in the hospital, but she hadn’t wanted it.

Out of respect for James Taylor, and “Fire and Rain,” neither of them talked. Sean sat quietly, enjoying the pretty drive along the coast. The cool air smelled sweet through the car window.

Avery pulled off the highway to a little alcove with six parking spaces. “This is it,” he announced. He hopped out of the car, and hurried around to open the door for her. The wind had kicked up. Sean rubbed her arms from the chill. Avery dug a flannel-lined jacket out of the backseat, then placed it on her shoulders. They strolled down to the park benches and a little stone wall. The Pacific stretched out before them, rippling and moonlit.

“I watched the sunset that night,” Avery said. “So it was earlier.”

“When we go back to the car, remind me to call the weather bureau and find out what time the sun set on the fourteenth.”

Avery nodded. “I stayed until dark, I remember.” He pointed to a path by the rock wall. “That’s where the woman came from. The trail dips down, then comes up to the other side of the parking alcove.”

“Did you hear a car?”

“Yes. She asked if I was Avery Cooper. I heard the car. Then when I turned for a moment, she scratched my face.”

“Was this car parked where yours is now?”

“Yes. But I don’t recall the car type. It could have been a rental type. I’m not sure. I remember it was white. I was kind of dazed, and I didn’t think to look for the license plate.”

Sean glanced over at the small parking lot. “You couldn’t have seen it very well from here anyway.”

“You look cold,” he said. “Why don’t you put your arms in the sleeves?” Stepping in back of her, Avery helped her on with his jacket again. It carried a subtle musky fragrance she’d come to identify with him. “The zipper’s a little tricky,” he said, turning her around. “Let me help you.”

Sean let him zip up the front of his jacket. He pinched and tugged at it for a moment. The jacket was roomy, its cuffs covering her knuckles. Without thinking, Sean reached up and touched his cheek. “You can barely see the scratch anymore,” she said.

His eyes met hers. Avery hesitated, then smiled. Her fingertips lingered on his handsome face. She was filled with such longing and tenderness. She ached inside.

Sean made herself turn away. She swept back her windblown hair, and gazed out at the water. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. “But there’s something—I don’t know—very lonely about this spot. Didn’t you say you often stop by here?”

Avery nodded.

“It’s funny. Your public persona is one of this carefree, light-hearted guy. But there’s a sadness in you—and I think it’s been with you a long time. These last few days have been like a crash course in getting to know you, Avery. I learned a lot tonight. I really like your friends.” She realized she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself. “They—they’ll make excellent character witnesses.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Finally, Avery turned away and glanced at the ocean. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything else you need to ask me about that night?” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Not right now. We can go if you’d like.”

They went back to the car, and he opened the door for her. Sean touched his arm. “Thanks, Avery,” she whispered. Then she climbed inside.

As he started up the car, the James Taylor song came on again. Avery backed out of the parking spot. Neither of them said a word. The seventies tape serenaded them, and Sean kept her head turned toward the window, so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

They didn’t notice any rental cars following them on their way back to her office. Avery had broken the awkward silence by talking about the case. He kept it all business. They parked behind the hair salon, and used the service entrance into the building. Avery carried Sean’s briefcase for her.

In the dimly lit upstairs corridor, Sean fished the keys from her purse, opened the office door, and switched on the light. She headed for the fax machine. “The photos your friend made for us are in my briefcase—in the blue folder on top.”

On the security video, they’d spotted three different cars parked at various times in front of Avery’s house; rental-company favorites: a Taurus and two Corsicas. They’d enlisted the help of a starstruck, young videophile from production named Jamie. He’d blown up and enhanced three video images, each showing the cars’ plate numbers.

Avery found Jamie’s photos in the blue folder, while Sean examined the latest incoming fax. Dayle had scribbled on the cover sheet:

Dear Sean,Hope this is what you need. Attached is the list you originally gave me on a fax from my private detective friend. He’s in Idaho, following this up. I’m home if you want to call. Don’t show this list to the police until you’ve talked to me. Okay?Take Care, Dayle

Sean glanced at Nick Brock’s note to Dayle, scribbled below the list of license plate numbers. He’d traced credit card payments for the rental cars to a PO Box 73 in Opal, Idaho. He was on his way there to stake out the post office. If Dayle needed him, he was registered as Tony Manero at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn in Opal.

“Does the name Tony Manero sound familiar?” Sean asked.

Avery shut her briefcase, and bought the photos over to her. “Wasn’t that John Travolta’s character in Saturday Night Fever?”

She nodded. “Huh, figures.” Sean laid the photos down on her desk beside the listing. Two plate numbers matched: a Corsica, AOB-829, and a Taurus, EMK-903. Sean and Avery were both quiet for a moment, hunched over the desk together, shoulders touching. Finally, she patted his back. “At the very least, we’ve established some reasonable doubt, Avery.”

“Thank God,” he sighed, laughing. He slid his arm around Sean, and pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful. You really are….”

For a moment, Sean’s whole body stiffened, and she could tell he sensed it. Except for the occasional consolation hug from her brother-in-law, she hadn’t felt a man’s arms around her for more than a year. And now this sweet, attractive man was holding her. “Um, Avery, I—”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to get so—enthusiastic.”

“It’s okay,” she said awkwardly. “But I think we ought to call it a night. Maybe I can make it home in time to tuck my kids into bed.”

“Oh, yeah, good idea,” he said.

Sean took a deep breath, then started to put the papers in her briefcase. “Maybe you should spend the night at your friends’ house. You shouldn’t be alone. These same people tried to kill Dayle two nights ago. We have to be careful, Avery.”

“Yeah, I know. George and Sheila are expecting me back.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll walk you down to your car.”

Sean felt herself blushing. She wished she hadn’t pulled away earlier. She wanted so much for him to hold her again—just for a moment. But she could never tell him that.

She closed her briefcase. “Yes,” she said resolutely. “We both have to be very careful, Avery.”

Twenty

George and Sheila’s guest room was like his home away from home, and sleep should have come easily. But Avery had been tossing and turning for hours. He glanced at the nightstand clock for umpteenth time: 3:27 A.M. The house was quiet. He’d heard Sheila a while ago, padding to and from the bathroom. As she recently pointed out, she was peeing for two now.

It seemed so long ago that Joanne was healthy and they were trying to get pregnant. He remembered how she’d appeared to him on the balcony that morning he’d been swimming, how she’d dropped her robe and stood before him naked. It was hard to connect that sexy, fun woman with the catatonic he’d had committed to an institution three days ago.

His dad had asked if Joanne would be out by Thanksgiving—only a week away. Not very likely. He wasn’t even sure if she’d be home in time for Christmas. He couldn’t imagine the holidays without her. Even when they’d had conflicting schedules, Joanne and he had always managed to spend Christmas Eve together. It was quite possible that he’d be spending the Yuletide in a federal prison—and Joanne would still be in that place. Think you’re lonely, scared, and hopeless right now? Just wait a few weeks….

Avery sat up, switched on the light, and reached for the phone. Maybe all he needed was to hear another person’s voice, any familiar voice. He dialed home and listened to the messages he’d forgotten to retrieve last night. His agent and Steve Bensinger had left messages, and so had his parents.

He didn’t know what to make of the last call—at 9:52 P.M.: “Hello, Avery Cooper? This is Gene Clavey. I’m a technical analyst here at Kurtis Labs. I recently examined your sperm samples for Dr. Nathan. Your attorney was asking some questions around here yesterday. I’m curious about a few things. We might help each other out. Why don’t you give me a call?”

He tried Gene Clavey’s office number at 8:45. Hunched over the Webers’ breakfast table with his second cup of coffee, Avery anxiously counted four ring tones until a man answered: “Kurtis Labs, this is Gene.”

“Hello, Gene Clavey? This is Avery Cooper returning your call.”

“Oh, hello,” the man replied tentatively. There was an awkward pause.

“Can you talk right now?” Avery asked.

“No, not really.”

“Why? Is someone there?”

“Oh, yeah, you bet,” he replied cheerfully.

“You have information about the sperm samples?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me this much. Did all those sperm samples match?”

“Not right now. But lunch would be great—if you’re buying. How about meeting me at Pink’s Famous Chili Dogs on Melrose? Say eleven-thirty to beat the crowd?”

“Can I bring my lawyer?” Avery asked.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Do you know what I look like?”

“Of course. See ya at Pink’s. Take it easy.”

There was a click on the other end of the line.

“Was anyone following you?” Sean asked. She locked her office door, and they started down the corridor toward the back stairs.

“Yeah, but I think I lost him.” Avery reached for Sean’s briefcase.

“I got it, thanks,” she said, briskly. Sean had a strange, all-business energy about her this morning. And she’d barely even made eye contact with him so far. “I’ve been a busy girl,” she announced, starting up the car and backing out of the space. “I called your Dr. Nathan. He faxed me a list of employees at the clinic and the lab—everyone who had access to your sperm samples. Gene Clavey is on the list, so he’s no phony. I think he’s this overweight man I saw there the other day.” From the alley, she merged into traffic. “Six employees have either been let go or quit since you and Joanne started going to the clinic. If those samples were tampered with, my guess is that one of these six ‘former employees’ is the responsible party.”

She glanced in her rearview mirror. “By the way, keep your eyes peeled for any ‘rental mentals.’”

“Will do.” Avery checked the side mirror, and didn’t see anything.

“I called that hotel in Idaho where Dayle’s detective pal is staying,” Sean went on. “But he wasn’t in. How much further to this Chili Dog place?”

“A few more blocks,” Avery said. He stole a glance at her. “Are you okay, Sean? You seem a bit distant this morning.”

“I’m fine,” she answered, staring straight ahead. “I actually cooked pancakes for my kids before they went to school. And my husband slept through the night. So I have no complaints. How’s your wife doing?”

“Better. She let one of the nurses feed her some dinner last night. I’ll know more this afternoon when I call for an update.” He caught her eye and smiled sadly. “It’s ironic we got thrown together—with our similar situations.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said coolly.

“Well, sure you do. In fact, I think that’s why we’re drawn to each other. I understand what you’re going through, because our situations—”

“I don’t agree at all,” Sean said, eyes on the road.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your wife has been sick, what, a week? And she has a very good chance of getting well. My husband won’t be getting well. For the past year, he hasn’t been able to walk, eat, breathe, shit, or pee without some kind of assistance. In all that time, I haven’t heard him laugh or say my name. He can’t even squeeze my hand. Our situations are different, Avery.”

He stared at her. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just—”

“I’m your attorney, Avery,” she continued. “I don’t need you understanding me—or trying to understand me. My job here—my main concern—is proving your innocence in this murder case. Can we please keep this on a professional level?”

Frowning, Avery sat back. “I didn’t know it was against the rules for us to be friends.” He nodded at the upscale greasy spoon on the corner of Melrose, half a block away. “That’s Pink’s Chili Dogs on your right.”

Sean steered into the parking lot. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. They climbed out of the car, and walked around the squat chrome, glass, and neon diner to the front entrance.

“Mr. Cooper?”

Both Avery and Sean turned. A rotund man waved at them from one of the outside picnic tables. The sun reflected off his glasses, and illuminated the sweat on his forehead. He had a beard, and wild, curly strawberry-blond hair that needed trimming. He took up nearly half a picnic bench, which seemed ready to splinter from the strain.

“Are you Gene Clavey?” Avery asked.

“Yes, sir.” He made a token attempt to stand up by leaning forward as he pumped Avery’s hand. “Sorry I acted so weird over the phone. My boss was in the room, and I didn’t want him knowing about this.” He glanced at Sean. “You’re the lawyer. I saw you in Keefer’s office the other day.”

She nodded. “Sean Olson. Yes, I remember. Pleased to meet you.”

Again, he inched up for a second, then shook her hand. “They’ll be coming out with my food soon. You can order here. Sit. Take a load off.”

They sat down across from him.

Gene grinned at Avery. “You know, I’ve lived in L.A. for over two years, and you’re the first movie star I’ve ever met. It’s kind of a kick.”

“Well, the thrill’s all mine—depending on what you have to tell me. You examined those specimens for Dr. Nathan’s clinic?”

Gene nodded. “I saw the newspaper yesterday, and realized why you were asking about those samples a couple of days back.” He smiled at Sean. “After you showed up at the lab, I snuck a peek at your business card on Keefer’s desk. You folks think somebody stole one of those sperm samples and planted it in the dead woman. The old turkey baster transfer. Am I right?”

“Something like that, yes,” Sean said. “The report we received from Dr. Nathan was that all nine of Avery’s sperm samples matched.”

“It figures.” Gene scratched the side of his beard with his big, chubby hand. “Keefer must have covered it up and lied to Dr. Nathan. He’s probably afraid you’d sue—and you should.”

“Then the samples didn’t match?” Avery asked.

Gene chuckled cynically. “Hell, those nine samples were like a Kellogg’s Variety Pack. Only two were from the same donor—you. Someone must have switched the labels on the other seven.”

Sean grabbed Avery’s arm and squeezed it. He patted her hand, and she didn’t pull away. “Do you have proof?” he asked.

Gene took a folder out from under his thigh. “Presto chango. The lab report.” He handed it to Sean.

A waitress arrived with a tray of three chili dogs, large fries, and a supersize soft drink. Avery ordered a chili dog and a Coke; Sean asked for a hot dog and a Sprite. Once the waitress left, Sean opened the lab folder. “That’s an original,” Gene said, nibbling a fry. “The copy I made is in the files at Kurtis Labs. I hear photocopied documents don’t stand up in court.”

“You’re a very smart man, Gene,” Sean said, studying the report.

He bit into his chili dog, then wiped some food off his beard. “You might not understand the lingo,” he said. “Basically, I reported that only two of the nine samples are from the same donor—Avery Cooper. I think it’s on page four that I describe the other specimens. But this wasn’t just a plain old switcheroo, folks. It’s far more—um, dastardly than that….”

They waited while Gene took another bite of his chili dog. “Hell’s bells,” he said finally. “When you stop to think that some of these samples might have been used to inseminate Mrs. Cooper, it’s damn scary.”

“What do you mean?” Avery murmured.

“I ran some tests. One of the more healthy bogus specimens was from a black man with hepatitis. So if your wife became pregnant from that specimen, odds are your baby would have been black—a sick little black baby at that.”

“And wouldn’t the tabloids have had a field day?” Sean remarked.

Gene nodded over his hot dog. “Four specimens were infected with HIV,” he said, his mouth half-full. “The other two samples contained a German measles bacteria, which would have insured your baby was born retarded or deformed. Somebody was really out to destroy you and your wife, Avery.”

A napkin clenched in his fist, Avery slowly shook his head.

“Do you have any idea when a switch might have taken place?” Sean asked. “An educated guess?”

Gene sipped his Coke. “The two most current specimens—both around mid-September—are yours.” He nodded at Avery. “The tampering must have taken place before then.”

Sean riffled through her briefcase, then pulled out a folder and handed it to Gene. “This is a list of employees from both the clinic and Kurtis Labs. The ones with stars by their names have either quit or been fired since Avery and his wife started going to the clinic.”

Wiping his fingers on his napkin, Gene took the list and studied it.

“If you think anyone there might have been responsible for making the switch, it would really help us a lot. We think it’s someone ultra-ultra right wing. Do you know what I mean?”

Reaching for a pen in his pocket holder, he nodded. “Yeah, off the scale. Just on the sunny side of white supremacy. Can I mark on this?”

“Go ahead,” Sean replied.

While he scrutinized the list, the waitress returned with their meals. Avery paid the check, then pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. “What about your boss as a possibility, Gene?” he asked. “I mean, he lied to Dr. Nathan about the lab results.”

Gene shook his head. “He’s too stupid. I read Keefer pretty well. He went into a total tailspin when I told him the results of my tests on those samples. He was genuinely surprised. No, he lied to avoid a lawsuit.”

“I’ll need you to testify about this lab report,” Sean said. “Will that get you in trouble with Keefer?”

Gene grinned at her. “Hell, ma’am, that’s why I’m here. I want to show him for the worthless, lying scumbag he is. Maybe I’ll even get him fired. The S.O.B. doesn’t do a damn thing around there except give me crap about my weight. He calls me ‘UFO,’ says it stands for Ugly Fat Oaf. Well, okay, now I’ve caught him in a lie, and this Ugly Fat Oaf is going fry his ass.”

Between sips from his soft drink and picking at his fries, Gene Clavey studied the list and mumbled to himself. “Hmmm, no way is it Maggie Freeman, and not Mitch, he’s too P-C….” He glanced up from the paperwork. “You know who you guys should be looking for? The part-timer who was holding down another similar job. Probably a nurse working at another clinic, where he or she had access to these unhealthy specimens.” He shrugged. “Just a theory.”

“It’s a good one,” Sean said, nodding. “A part-timer who quit around mid-September. That’s very good. Thanks, Mr. Clavey.”

He reached for his second chili dog. “You’re welcome.”

The head of administration at Dr. Nathan’s clinic had a thing for frogs. A stout woman in her mid-fifties with short blond hair, she wore black-rimmed glasses and a frog pin on her blouse. The bookcase behind her desk was adorned with ceramic frogs, a philodendron in a frog-shaped planter, seashells glued together to look like frogs, and a frog made out of pipe cleaner and bottle caps. She also had a wall poster of a toad on a lily pad, with a slogan beneath it in script: LEAP AHEAD TO SUCCESS!

The frog lady’s name was Brenda Dreyfus. She wanted Avery’s autograph for herself and three friends. While he scribbled his personalized Best Wishes on Brenda’s frog stationery, Sean persuaded her to dig out records on two part-time employees who had quit the clinic in September: Bob Donnellon and Lauren Schneider, both nurses.

“Bob Donnellon worked here as a nurse for three years,” Brenda said, consulting his file. “Though some of the guys prefer ‘medical assistant.’ He worked part time for both Dr. Nathan and Dr. Konradt. He gave us a month’s notice, and his last day here was September third. He now works full time for the Visiting Nurses Association.”

She took out another tablet of frog stationery and started writing. “I’ll jot down the number at the VNA for you.”

“And his current address and phone,” Sean said. “If you have it.”

“I sure do,” Brenda said, scrawling on the pad. “Oh, by the way, Avery, could I have one more autograph? This one for Marlys. M-A-R-L-Y-S. Thanks.” She reached for another folder. “Okay, onto the next. Lauren Schneider. She worked part time for Dr. Jans and Dr. Nathan. She was here from May twenty-seventh until September fourteenth.”

Avery looked up from his writing. “May twenty-seventh?” He turned to Sean. “That’s only three weeks after my TV movie aired, the one that ticked off so many people. Joanne and I had been seeing Dr. Nathan for about two months. Hell, we could have bumped into her.”

“Do you have a photo of this Lauren Schneider?” Sean asked Brenda.

The frog lady shook her head. “No, I’m sorry—”

“How about her age? Is her date of birth listed?”

Brenda glanced at the folder. “Um, yes, she’s thirty.”

Sean turned to Avery. “Any help?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Joanne might remember. I—” He caught himself, and tried to smile. “I’m sorry….”

Sean patted his arm.

“She worked part time,” Brenda said. “And she gave us a week’s notice. I don’t show another employer listed.”

“What about her address and phone number?” Sean asked.

Studying the records, Brenda Dreyfus frowned. “I have a Linden Avenue address in Beverly Hills, but it’s no longer current according to this note my assistant jotted down here. Her last paycheck was sent to a post office box in Opal, Idaho.”

While none of the network newscasts yesterday had focused on such a gossipy item as the Dayle/Elsie war, the local affiliates went crazy. Most stations seemed to take Dayle’s side. Channel 8 even had an editorial, blasting Elsie and suggesting that she make a public apology.

As Dayle turned off the shower in her trailer bathroom, she could hear Dennis in the next room. He was singing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” in a falsetto.

“Hey, Dionne,” she called, slipping into her bathrobe. “Where’s Ted?”

“Outside, on the phone, making security arrangements for that citadel that used to be your home.”

“Have there been any public rejoinders from Just-Call-Me-Elsie?”

“No, not a peep from The Scary Widow,” Dennis answered from the other side of the door. “I hear from a couple of sources that she’s mega-pissed. Seems no matter how it’s served, fried or fricasseed, Elsie won’t eat crow. You came out ahead yesterday.” She heard him laugh. “‘The widow Marshall,’ I loved the way you kept saying that to the press. They ate it up too.”

“Yeah, it was pretty good, wasn’t it?” Dayle said, emerging from the bathroom. She sat at her vanity and vigorously worked a towel over her wet hair. “Did Nick Brock call today?”

Dennis was ensconced on the sofa with the ever-present clipboard in his lap. He munched on a Kit-Kat bar. “Nope, no messages from Opal, Idaho, and Mr. Golden Buns.”

She turned to him. “Did I tell you Nick was in Opal?”

“Sure did.” He glanced at his clipboard. “Listen, The Hollywood Walk of Fame Award dinner next week, it’ll be packed with press folk. Might be a good idea to attend. John McDunn indicated he’s available, if you’d like.”

She stopped drying her hair for a moment. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

“There are several events coming up, and it wouldn’t hurt to be seen with John at your side. It’s good for appearances—for the movie, I mean.”

She caught his eye in the mirror. “I know what you meant, Dennis.”

“Just trying to help.” He consulted his clipboard. “Um, a reminder. I’ll be here Monday, but I’m not working Tuesday. I have to help Laura move. She’s getting an apartment closer to mine.”

“That’s nice,” Dayle replied. “Listen, you can go over all this with me on Monday. It’s late. You don’t have to stick around.”

Dennis stood up. “Oh, before I forget, a friend of my parents is coming from out of town. He’s like an uncle. I’ve cleared it with security and Ted. He’s visiting the set Tuesday.”

“Remind me on Monday. Let me know what time so I can look for him.”

“Midmorning. But that’s okay, Dayle. Don’t make a fuss. I only wanted to let you know that he’ll be on the set. No biggie.”

She shrugged. “Okeydoke. No biggie.” She started to brush her hair and smiled at him in the mirror. “Now, go on. Get out of here before I give you something to do. Have a great weekend.”

At a stoplight on the way back to her office, Sean glanced over at Avery and caught him gazing at her. He smiled tentatively, then turned toward the window. The light changed, and she moved on. They were tired, and hadn’t said much for the last few miles. As the streetlights flickered on against the darkening sky, Sean didn’t want this car ride to end.

Avery had talked to his wife’s doctor this afternoon. Apparently, Joanne was better, eating more and responding to the nurses. In a strange way, this news made Sean feel sad, and more alone. Avery was due back on the set Monday. He’d asked if she needed his help over the weekend. Sean had said that she didn’t know yet. She found herself trying to think of an excuse to be with him tomorrow or the next day.

But there wasn’t much to do. They’d uncovered enough circumstantial evidence to establish reasonable doubt. Actual proof of a conspiracy now depended on what Nick Brock could find in Opal, Idaho. Unless Sean decided to join him in Opal, all she and Avery could do now was wait.

She should have been happy tonight. They were on the verge of exposing these criminals and proving Avery’s innocence. But she was on the verge of losing him too.

Sean switched on her indicator and began to slow down as they approached the parking garage where Avery had left his car this morning.

“Don’t stop, keep going,” he said urgently.

He didn’t have to explain. Sean glanced at him, and out the passenger window, she saw a white Corsica parked across the street. Two men sat in the front seat. Sean stepped on the gas.

“We’ll go back to my office,” she said. “We’ll call a taxi to meet you around back.” She checked her rearview mirror. The Corsica hadn’t moved yet. “This weekend, I want you start shopping for a bodyguard, okay? What time are George and Sheila expecting you tonight?”

“They have theater tickets. I’m going home.”

“Alone?”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I have a dozen reporters and a lynch mob camped out by my front gate. I won’t be lonely.”

Sean turned into the alley by her building, then parked around back. As they climbed out of the car, she let him carry her briefcase. They started up the back stairwell. “Listen, Avery,” she said. “I want to apologize for snapping at you this morning—you know, in the car?”

He paused on the landing and smiled at her. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I have it a lot worse off than you. What you said was right. Our situations are similar—in many ways. I don’t know why I was so disagreeable.”

“Maybe you were just setting some boundaries,” Avery said. They started down the hallway to her office. “I probably had it coming. I was a bit too familiar last night.”

Sean gave him a questioning look. “When?”

“Here. After we read the fax, I hugged you. It was inappropriate.”

She opened her office door. “It felt nice, Avery,” she admitted. “I think I just got a little scared.”

For a moment, he gazed at her in the darkness of her office. He set down her briefcase, then touched her arm. “All this time, you’ve never been unfaithful to him, have you?”

Sean shook her head. Her first instinct was to step back, but she didn’t.

“And he hasn’t been able to hold you or kiss you?”

“Not for the last fifteen months.”

He sighed. “Jesus, what a waste.”

She let out a sad little laugh. “That’s what Dan says.”

“Sean, do you think it would be okay if I—put my arms around you? Just for a little while?”

“I think so,” she whispered.

Avery gently pulled her toward him, and she gratefully sank into his embrace. He stroked her hair. She couldn’t keep from crying. He kissed the tears on her cheeks, then his moist, soft lips slid down to her mouth.

Sean trembled at the feelings awakening inside her. She kept thinking that this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was wrong. Yet she surrendered to every sensation.

He whispered her name and kissed her neck hungrily. His beard stubble was scratchy, but felt wonderful. It seemed like forever since she’d heard her name spoken in the height of passion. His warm breath was swirling in her ear. Sean ran her fingers through his wavy black hair. Avery’s mouth met hers again, and she parted her lips against his. She clung to his shoulders. It was as if a giant, warm wave had washed away that huge wall of protection she’d built around herself and her feelings.

Sean’s head was spinning. They sank back on the sofa together. He kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, and she sighed with pleasure.

Avery pulled back for a moment to unbutton his shirt. She ran her fingers through his chest hair. She could feel his heart racing. Avery had a movie star physique, but what captivated her most were his beautiful hands—manicured, masculine, and so skillful in the way they caressed and aroused her. Sean brought those exquisite hands to her mouth, kissing his fingertips, sucking on them. It had been so long since she’d experienced a man’s touch. She couldn’t help thinking about how Dan’s hands had become bloated, pale, and hairless—deadened by disease. Suddenly, a panic swept through her.

Avery kissed her again. Sean fiercely clung to him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, crying. “Please. I’m sorry, Avery. We have to stop. I’m so sorry.”

He just held her, his face pressed against her breast. He rocked her in his arms. “I know,” Avery replied, his voice raspy. “It’s okay.”

Sean realized he was crying too.

From a window in the back stairwell, she watched Avery climb into the taxi. Looking up, he gave her a melancholy smile, then shut the cab door.

They’d spent the last hour and a half on her office sofa, just holding each other. Occasionally, he’d kiss her forehead, or bring her hand up to his lips. Neither of them said anything. They huddled together in the darkness, listening to the traffic outside. There were moments when she remembered how it been with Dan, and she could feel Dan’s arms around her again. But she never forgot that it was Avery rescuing her from the emptiness of the past fifteen months. With his tender kisses and caresses, he’d resurrected those feelings in her.

She’d missed dinner with her family. But she wouldn’t have given up one minute of intimacy with Avery—not even for Dan and her children. It had scared her to realize that.

Sean had been the one to say it was getting late. She’d phoned for his taxi, and given him a fleeting good-bye kiss in the stairwell.

She watched the cab pull away; then she wandered back toward her office. She didn’t want to go home right now. Maybe she should have made love with him tonight. She couldn’t imagine feeling any more guilty and torn than she was now.

If only she could go away for a couple of days, and not have to face Avery or her family. Right now, she felt such an urgent need to put some distance between the people she loved and herself.

Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness in her office. Without turning on the lights, she found Dayle’s fax from Nick Brock on her desk. Sean sat on the edge of her desk for a few minutes.

Finally, she picked up the phone, dialed Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn, and asked for Tony Manero’s room. He answered after two rings. “Yeah?”

“Is this Nick Brock?” she asked.

“Who’s calling?”

“I’m Sean Olson, Dayle’s attorney friend. We talked the other day.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re the one who said you wouldn’t hang up on me, though you were tempted. What can I do you for, doll?”

“I just thought you should know,” she said. “I’m flying out there tomorrow to work with you.”

Twenty-one

After a three-and-a-half-hour drive over snowy mountain roads, Sean arrived in Opal to find the post office closed. She’d been trying to reach Nick Brock since this morning. She’d phoned from LAX, Portland, and Spokane. No Nick. No one even picked up at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn.

Last night, he’d been surprisingly agreeable to having her work with him in Opal: Might be a couple of days before I nab these creeps. In the meantime, this burg is dullsville, I could use some company, doll.

Sean didn’t need the company. She made reservations at another hotel, a mile away from Debbie’s. But she wanted to touch base with Nick Brock today. She knew his motel was on the same street as the post office, but almost drove past the place. The sun had set an hour ago, but no one had switched on the illuminated sign yet. Sean turned into the parking lot. The two-story modern stucco stretched a quarter of a block. It didn’t appear deserted. Lights were on in the lobby, and plenty of cars were parked in front. But yellow police tape sectioned off the back part of the lot. Sean drove up to the tape line, and stepped out of her rented Chevy. She didn’t see anything unusual. Still, she felt uneasy.

She spotted a 7-Eleven across the street. Ducking back into the warm car, Sean steered out of the lot and pulled up to the convenience store. From a pay phone outside, by the store entrance, she dialed Debbie’s Paradise View. After six rings, a woman picked up. She sounded young, and frazzled. “Uh, yeah, Debbie’s Motor Inn.”

“Yes, hello,” Sean said. “Nick—I mean, Tony Manero’s room, please.”

“Oh, um…,” the girl replied. Sean heard her talking to someone else, the words muffled.

“Hello?” Sean said. “Are you still there?”

“Can I help you?” a man piped up on the other end of the line.

“Yes, could you connect me with Tony Manero’s room, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Um, this is his employer,” Sean said. “Is he there or not?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” she asked. Across the street, through the naked trees, she could see the motel lot and the yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze.

“From what we can figure,” the man said. “Mr. Manero must have been smoking in bed. I don’t know why the smoke detector didn’t work. The only damage was to his room and a vacant room next door.”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“He was burned up pretty bad. He—he was dead before the firemen even got to him. Happened around seven this morning. Tony Manero doesn’t seem to be his real name. The police are trying to track down a next of kin. Perhaps you could help, ma’am—”

Sean hung up before he finished. She gazed at the motor inn across the street. The cold November wind kicked up, and she started to shiver.

The people in the room next door could probably hear her crying. So Sean switched on the TV and cranked up the volume to a Dukes of Hazard rerun. Then she went on sobbing.

The Opal Lakeside Lodge wasn’t so horrible—just cheesy enough to keep her wallowing in remorse, loneliness, and fear. Screwed to the paper-thin wall were two framed faded prints of rabbits in a grove. The carpeting was an ugly brown shag—with beige stains by the bathroom door. On the desk with all her paperwork was a plastic turquoise ashtray with burn marks.

She hated being alone in this place. Part of her wanted to jump in her rental, drive to Spokane, and fly home. But she’d be going back to Avery and Dayle with nothing.

Dayle had no idea she was even out here—and for that, Sean felt guilty. They were supposed to be friends, yet Sean still couldn’t confide in her about Avery. She couldn’t explain her urgent need to get away. Even now, with Nick dead, she didn’t want Dayle knowing she’d come here. Dayle would only send in the police—or insist that she fly back home immediately. And Sean felt duty-bound to stick it out here—at least through Monday, so she could see who was picking up mail for this group. Also she needed to track down that nurse, Lauren Schneider.

She missed Avery. She would have given anything to have him with her right now. Last night, she’d been in such a hurry to get away. She’d wanted time alone. Now Sean kept thinking about that tired, old saying, “Careful what you wish for….”

Even though they hadn’t carried it any further than some kissing and hugging, she and Avery were still guilty of betrayal. He’d just placed his wife in an institution days ago, and she was the voice, hands, and legs for her disease-paralyzed husband. Last night, the idea of working here in Opal with Dayle’s detective seemed like the perfect escape from guilt and temptation.

She couldn’t afford to let Dan know this junket was anything more than a boring weekend away—chasing down a lead. Last night, she’d made it back to Malibu just after dinnertime. She’d sat out on the deck with Dan, watching the kids play along the beach with her sister-in-law, Anne.

“What’s going on?” he’d asked silently, the constant whosh-whosh from his portable respirator competing with the sound of the ocean waves. “You’re acting funny. Did something happen while you were in the city?”

Her eyes watering up, Sean had shrugged and managed a smile. “Oh, you know me. I always get blue before a plane trip. That’s all, honey.”

She’d gazed out at her kids playing with their aunt on the beach. Sean had told herself that if anything ever happened to her, Danny and Phoebe would have a good surrogate mother.

She’d phoned Malibu an hour ago, and the nurse had conveyed Dan’s concerns: “He wants to know if you’re still feeling blue.”

“Tell him I miss him, but I’m doing okay,” Sean had replied. She’d talked with the kids, then hung up and burst into tears.

Lowering the volume on The Dukes of Hazard, she wandered into the bathroom, plucked a tissue from the dispenser, and blew her nose.

A car pulled up outside. She glanced at her door—all the locks securely in place. A moment later, another car pulled up. She heard the car doors opening and closing; a man and woman talking. The voices grew faint. Sean sighed. She wouldn’t let herself forget what had happened to Nick Brock.

She also had to keep in mind her mission here.

The Opal phone directory incorporated a score of surrounding towns and cities—along with their Yellow Pages, yet it was no thicker than the average issue of Time. The skimpy volume listed four Schneiders; two of them lived in Opal, none with the first name Lauren.

She tried Mr. and Mrs. James Schneider of Birch Lane, and an answering machine picked up. Their toddler read the cutesy announcement and kept screwing up and laughing while they corrected him in the background. Listening to it was sheer torture. Sean hung up before the beep. She dialed T. A. Schneider of Meadow Drive, and a woman answered. “Hello?”

On the desk in front of her, Sean had the list of employees from the lab and fertility clinic. “Yes, my name is Grace Casino,” she said. “I’m trying to locate a Lauren Schneider. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Well, I know a Laurie Anne Schneider,” the woman said. “That’s my daughter. But I don’t know any Lauren.”

“Was your daughter a nurse at the Adler Clinic in Beverly Hills?”

“That’s right. But her name is Laurie Anne, not Lauren.”

“Is Laurie Anne around thirty years old? And did she used to live on Linden Drive in Los Angeles?”

“Yes,” the woman replied. “Who did you say you were again?”

Sean quickly scanned the listing. “Um, I’m Grace Casino. I used to work in the clinic with Laurie Anne. I’m trying to reach her, and I don’t have a current address or phone number.”

“Why do you need to get in touch with my daughter?” The woman’s tone suddenly became edgy. “She doesn’t work at that clinic anymore.”

“Um, well, the clinic owes Laurie Anne some money.” Sean figured this kind of news would make Mrs. Schneider more cooperative. “There was a—a mix-up in accounting, and Laurie Anne has over eleven hundred dollars in back pay owed her. I volunteered to track down her current address. Do you know how I can get a hold of Laurie Anne, Mrs. Schneider? I sure wouldn’t want her to miss out on eleven hundred dollars.”

“Well, neither would I!” Mrs. Schneider agreed. “But Laurie Anne is moving again next week, so the Los Angeles address I have is only good for a few more days. She’s always on the go, that one. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you have them send the check here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But if you gave me Laurie Anne’s current address and phone, maybe I can catch her before moving day.”

“Well, all right. Hold on while I get my address book. Don’t go away.”

“Oh, I won’t, Mrs. Schneider,” Sean said. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

Sunday morning, Sean decided to go to mass. But according to the Yellow Pages, the closest Catholic church was in another town forty miles away. No Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Lutheran, or Unitarian centers either. And no synagogues. Apparently, there were no Jews in Opal. Come to think of it, in her wanderings around town since yesterday afternoon, she hadn’t noticed a single black person, Hispanic, or Asian.

The only house of worship in Opal was the God’s Light Christian Faith Church. Sean climbed in her rental and drove by the place—a beautiful, pristine, modern white structure with gold trim, located at the edge of a winding brook. It looked like a smaller-scale Kennedy Center, and probably cost almost as much to build. She watched the congregation pour out at the end of the service. They were gussied up to the nines—the way people used to dress for church. At first glance, there was something very sweet about it.

On her way back to the hotel. Sean stopped by Flappin’ Jack’s Pancake House. Apparently, the chalet-style restaurant was the Sunday morning hot spot in Opal. The place was already gilded with cheesy Christmas decorations, including a big plastic nativity set by the front entrance. Beneath a red garland and blinking lights on the atrium ceiling, all those churchgoing families waited for tables to open up. But single folks and strangers like Sean found immediate seating at the counter.

Inside Flappin’ Jack’s Pancake House, she had a closer look at the clean-scrubbed, well-dressed Opal citizens. She heard snippets of dull conversation—mostly about Pastor Whitemoore’s sermon, which maintained that “diversity” meant “perversity.” The minister’s words must have fallen on welcome ears in this little Aryan township. Sean couldn’t help thinking about The Stepford Wives as she studied the women. But these robots seemed aware of their own misery. Despite their Sunday dresses, they looked tired and frayed. The husbands perfectly fit the mold of Eisenhower-era Family-Values Dads by saying very little to their spouses and children and drinking way too much. Still, some of the kids seemed happy—at least on the outside. One thing for Opal, it seemed like a good place to raise children—if they were white, the correct religion, and didn’t try to be different.

The pigs in blankets at Flappin’ Jack’s were delicious. Sean returned to The Opal Lakeside Lodge with a full stomach and a copy of The Quad City Register—the local newspaper, a thin weekly that came out every Sunday. She hunted through the front section and found a story on page six: CALIFORNIA MAN DIES IN OPAL HOTEL FIRE. The article was brief, focusing more on the damage to Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn (still open for business!) than the thirty-four-year-old guest from California who apparently had been smoking in bed. Nick’s identity was withheld pending notification of next of kin. Plans for a church raffle and Whitemoore’s Special Thanksgiving Services received more coverage.

The telephone rang. Sean almost jumped out of the desk chair. No one knew she was here except her family; and they wouldn’t call this early in the day unless it was an emergency. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Avery?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

She sighed. “I came here to work with Dayle’s detective, but he’s dead.”

“I know. Dayle got through to the hotel last night, and they told her he died in a fire—after smoking in bed. Dayle says the guy didn’t even smoke. For God’s sake, get out of there before some accident happens to you too.”

“I’m all right,” Sean said. “How did you track me down? Did you call my family? Please tell me you didn’t upset them—”

“Yes, we called them, but we didn’t let on anything was wrong.”

“We?” Sean asked.

“Dayle and I. In fact, your brother-in-law had us say hello to Dan, because he’s such a movie nut. He also gave us your the number at the Opal Lodge. Now check out of there and come home. We’re sending in the police—”

“No, wait. Not yet. I’m making some headway here, Avery. I found out that nurse’s address in Los Angeles, Laurie Anne Schneider on Franklin Avenue, the Ulta Vista Apartments. But we shouldn’t move in on her just yet. We can’t tip them off that we’re on to them. Besides you and Dayle, who else knows I’m here?”

“No one else. Just your family. That’s it.”

“Don’t tell another soul,” Sean said. “Give me until Tuesday. If I don’t come up with anything else by then, you can send in the troops—”

“Dayle and I already discussed this. It’s a matter for the police.”

“You’ll have to convince Dayle that I need more time.”

“Convince her yourself,” Avery said. “She’s right here.”

After a moment, Dayle came on the line: “Sean, are you nuts?”

“Are you guys together? Or is this a conference call?”

“No, Avery’s here at my place. What’s this about giving you more time? Good God, Sean.” Her voice started to crack. “I hate to admit that I actually liked Nick, but I did, damn it. I still can’t believe he’s dead. I won’t go through this with somebody else again—not after Leigh and Hank. You get your ass back here. This is a police matter now.”

“The cops are too busy stacking up a case against Avery. Do you think some pie-in-the-sky conspiracy theory will change their minds at this point? They don’t want to prove he’s innocent. Besides, how can we be sure the police aren’t in on this? A cop shot Hank—and Bonny. And I certainly wouldn’t trust the police around here.”

“All right, then we’ll call the FBI,” Dayle said.

“Call them on Tuesday. Just give me until then.”

“You sound exactly like Nick,” Dayle replied. “He wanted more time before I called the police. And look what happened. I’m sorry. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Then don’t tell anyone that I’m here, Dayle. Ask yourself, who else in your camp knew of Nick’s whereabouts. Didn’t Estelle warn you that they might have gotten to someone close to you? If Avery and you can keep quiet about where I am—and your phone isn’t being bugged right now—I shouldn’t be in any danger. Just give me until Tuesday, Dayle.”

The elevator doors opened, and Avery stepped out to the lobby of Dayle’s building. Unfolding his cellular phone, he dialed the Opal Lakeside Lodge and asked for Sean’s room number again. “Hello?” she answered.

“Hi, it’s me,” he said.

“I figured I’d hear back from you.”

“Listen, I can’t just sit by and allow you to put your life on the line because of me. You might have been able to convince Dayle to give you a couple of more days in that place. But not me. Either you’re coming home or I’m flying out there.”

“Avery, you’re a murder suspect,” she said. “If you try to leave the state, a troop of police will be all over you before you even reach the airport check-in. Besides, one reason I’m here is to put some distance between us.”

“I understand. But you don’t have to endanger yourself to avoid—what happened the other night with me. My God, aren’t you scared?”

“Of course I am, but it’s okay. I won’t take any chances—”

“Bullshit. You’re already pushing your luck too far. I’m coming out there—”

“Just—just hold on,” she said. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow. Whatever you do, please don’t come today. It’s Sunday. The post office is closed. It’s dead time right now. If you arrive here tonight, we won’t be able to accomplish anything—except maybe sleeping together. And I wouldn’t like either one of us very much if that happened.”

“Sean, give me credit for a little self-control, okay?”

“All I’m saying is, if you have to come out here, wait until tomorrow, and we’ll talk. It’s what I want.”

He let out a long sigh. “I’m flying to Spokane tonight. At least I’ll be closer—two or three hours away. I’ll call you later. Meanwhile, lay low, all right?”

“Avery, it’s against my better judgment that you do that. As your lawyer, I advise against it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Be careful, okay?” Then she hung up.

As Avery was about to click off, he heard the message tone on his phone beep twice. Heading toward the lobby doors, he dialed his access code. The first message came on: “Yes, Avery Cooper, this is Vic Tolmund of the Weekly World Inquirer….”

Avery rolled his eyes. Leave it to a tabloid reporter to dig up the number of his personal cellular.

“I’m calling from the Beverly Hills police station. Do you have any comment about the warrant for your arrest that was just issued? I’ll try you again at home, Avery. We want to tell the people your side of the story….”

“What?” Avery said to no one. He stopped dead by the lobby doors.

The second message was from his friend, George: “The cops came by, looking for you, Avery. They even asked to search the house—in case we were hiding you. They have a warrant for your arrest. Sheila and I are by the phone here. Call us. We’re worried sick.”

Dayle kept thinking about what Sean had said over the phone: Ask yourself, who else in your camp knew of Nick’s whereabouts….

Only two people knew: Dennis and Ted. Dennis had been her right-hand man for almost four years. She’d come to depend on him. She’d known Ted only four days. Still, she’d entrusted her life to him. He’d spent three of the last four nights sleeping down the hall from her—in her guest room. She hadn’t set foot outside of her apartment without Ted at her side. He’d handpicked the two security guards in her building—as well as every one of her temporary chauffeurs.

Then again, he’d caught her at an extremely vulnerable time. And his most impressive reference was Gil Palarmo, who was dead.

Dayle wandered into her study. She shuffled through some papers on her desk until she found Ted’s résumé. If Ted Kovak had tolerated Gil and his gay buddies for ten months—and put him down as a reference—it wasn’t very likely he’d be connected to some intolerant hate group.

Biting her lip, Dayle reached over and checked her Roladex. One of her acquaintances, Jonathan Brooks, had been close friends with Gil Palarmo. The Rolodex card in front of Jonathan’s was a new one, still white and crisp. Dayle had added it to the file less than a week ago. She plucked out the card and stared at the address and phone number for Nick Brock. Last night, she’d burst into tears when she’d heard the news. She’d grown very fond of that “cool jerk.” She returned the card to her Rolodex. She didn’t want to part with it—at least, not yet.

Dayle moved on and found Jonathan’s card. She dialed the number in Palm Springs, and his machine answered: “Hello, I’m unable or unwilling to come to the phone right now,” he said in a haughty tone. “But leave word after the irritating beep, and I might return your call.”

Beep. Dayle cleared her throat. “Hello, Jonathan,” she said. “This is Dayle Sutton calling. It’s been a long time. Listen. Do you remember if Gil had a bodyguard named Ted Kovak? Tall, good-looking, blond hair? I hired this guy recently, and I’m checking on his résumé. Cart before the horse. Anyway, he says he worked for Gil nearly a year. If you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. It’s Sunday afternoon—around one-thirty. And here’s my number…”

After Dayle hung up, she stared at an old phone message on her desk. Dennis had scribbled it down for her earlier in the week. She’d come to know his handwriting quite well. As much as she hated to think about it, if she couldn’t trust Ted Kovak, she had to question the loyalty of the faithful assistant who had recommended him.

Avery was third in line, and he couldn’t stop sweating.

The agent at the ticket counter had been dealing with a couple of elderly tourists for ten minutes now. He was a young, East Indian man with a mustache, and he kept having to repeat everything to them loudly. Apparently, they wanted special seats or a special meal—or something.

Avery wiped the perspiration off his forehead. So far, no one had recognized him—People cover boy, movie star, and fugitive. If he stopped to think about it too much, he’d die laughing—or just go crazy as Joanne did.

She was sick, and he’d let himself fall in love with someone else. He could try making excuses, blame it on the timing or his vulnerable situation. He might even try blaming Sean a bit—for being so vulnerable herself. But in truth, he’d allowed this to happen. He was responsible. Because of him, Joanne was in an institution—and Sean was risking her life alone in that awful little town. He couldn’t do anything for Joanne now. But maybe he could help Sean—before it was too late for her too.

He had to leave town immediately. Turning himself in to the police wasn’t an option. He couldn’t let himself not in jail while Sean risked her neck for him in Opal.

He hadn’t seen any rental-type cars on his tail. He’d taken a roundabout way to the airport—just in case. He would buy a change of clothes and supplies during his stopover in Portland—if the police hadn’t already put a freeze or a trace on his debit card.

A husky, blond woman with airport security sauntered by and scrutinized him with a narrow gaze. He tried to avoid eye contact with her.

The older couple were still talking to the ticket agent, whose name tag read SERGI. He was shaking his head and apologizing to them about something. Perhaps Sergi would be so rushed and haggard after these two customers, he wouldn’t notice that he was sending a famous fugitive to Spokane, Washington.

The security guard wandered by again, glancing back at him over her shoulder. She unhooked a walkie-talkie from her belt and whispered something into it as she strolled away.

The man in front of him stepped forward. The old couple shuffled off with their tickets, thank God. Maybe the line would start moving now.

He spied the security guard near the outside doors. She was talking to a cop, and pointing directly at him. Avery’s heart seemed to stop. His first instinct was to run, but all he could do was watch the policeman and the security guard descend on him. The cop had something in his hand. “Hey, mister, you’re not going anywhere,” he said.

Avery started to shake his head. But the policeman passed him by. “Your ticket,” the cop said, grinning at a man in the line, four people in back of Avery. “You dropped this when you got off the shuttle bus. Can’t go very far without a ticket. I’ve been trying to track you down….”

Avery felt himself crumble a little inside. He wanted to sit down someplace, but Sergi waved him forward. “Next?”

Approaching the counter, he tried to smile at the ticket agent. “Hi, how are you?” he said. With a shaky hand, he reached for his wallet. “I need to go to Spokane, Washington, today.”

Sergi started typing on the computer. “How many people are traveling?”

“Just one, me.” He set his credit card on the counter. The card used his full name: Avery O’Reilly Cooper.

“Do you have any bags going to Spokane, Mr.—” he glanced at the credit card. “Mr. Cooper?”

“No, I—I don’t.” He wiped the perspiration from his forehead again.

“I’ll need to see some photo ID, sir.”

Avery nodded more than necessary. “Yes, of course.” He set his driver’s license on the counter.

Sergi studied the license, then handed it back to Avery. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper. Will you be returning from Spokane?”

“Um, I don’t know when. So—it’s one way—a one-way ticket.”

Sergi went back to his keyboard and computer screen. “Hmmm, I can book you on our Portland flight, leaving in thirty-five minutes. You’ll have an hour layover for your connection, which arrives in Spokane tonight at eight-eleven. Does that sound good, Mr. Cooper?”

Avery smiled gratefully. “Yes, that’s—just fine.”

He hadn’t anticipated any problems at the boarding gate. But then he learned his flight would be delayed by forty-five minutes, and one of the biggest attractions at the airport newsstand was People magazine—with Joanne and him on the cover. The issue was displayed—one after another—behind a plastic case above the entire length of the periodical section. Avery saw two customers buying the magazine in the shop, and he counted three more people slouched in the boarding area seats reading it.

He ducked into the men’s room and hid in a stall. Sitting on the edge of the toilet, he waited out the next forty-five minutes.

They were boarding his row number when Avery emerged from the lavatory. The plane wasn’t too crowded. He had a row to himself. For most of the flight—and through the dinner service—he turned his head toward the window and feigned sleep. But he was too wired to nap. He kept wondering if someone had recognized him in the boarding area and called the police. Would a bunch of cops be waiting for him at the gate in Portland?

It seemed like the longest flight he’d ever taken, and he still had to switch planes. When they finally landed in Portland, he was relieved to find no welcoming committee of cops. He got cash from the ATM, bought supplies, then hid out in the men’s room again until his Spokane flight was boarding.

Once they’d landed in Spokane, Avery quickly threaded around a barrage of people and carts in the terminal. He followed the signs to the rental car area. He hadn’t made reservations, figuring some customer service representative might blow the whistle on the “Beverly Hills Butcher.”

Avery caught his breath, and came up to the car rental counter. The attendant was a thin, thirtyish woman in a burgundy jacket with PEGGY on her name tag. She had bright red lipstick and tinted auburn hair that might have been a wig from the cut of her bangs and the way the sides perfectly framed her head, curling in at the shoulders. She greeted him with a professional perkiness. “How can I help you today, sir?”

“Hello.” He dug out his driver’s license and credit card. “I don’t have a reservation. Do you have any cars available?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, her fingers poised on the computer’s keyboard. “For how many days?”

“Um, just two days, I think.”

Peggy started typing. She glanced down at Avery’s credit card and license. Her smile seemed to freeze, then immediately wither. She stopped typing, and her eyes met his for a moment.

Either she was starstuck or suddenly very aware that she was face-to-face with a man accused of rape and murder. Avery did his damnedest not to appear rattled. “Is there a problem?” he dared to ask.

She quickly shook her head. “No, not at all.” She went back to her typing. But she kept peering up at him nervously. “Um, I think I can upgrade you, Mr.—Cooper,” she said. “Could you excuse me for a moment?”

Avery nodded.

Peggy turned and stiffly retreated into an office behind the counter. She glanced over her shoulder at him before closing the door. Avery caught a glimpse of a middle-aged woman seated at the desk in the office. She also wore a burgundy jacket. Now he stared at that closed door. A voice inside him said: Get the hell out…now.

He peeked over the countertop—to where Peggy had left his credit card and license by her keyboard. He decided to count to ten. If she wasn’t out of that office by then, he’d find the nearest exit. One, two, three…

Avery turned and looked around. He noticed a tall man in a blue uniform, standing by the far baggage carousel. Avery couldn’t tell if he was with the Spokane police or airport security, but someone just called him. The guard unhooked his walkie-talkie from his belt, then spoke into it.

Avery glanced back at the closed office door. …six, seven…

The walkie-talkie to his ear, man in the blue uniform seemed to be searching the crowd, his gaze shifting to the row of car rental booths.

…nine, ten.

Avery quickly reached over the counter and scooped up his credit card and license. He swiveled around and walked as quickly as he could to the nearest exit. He didn’t dare look back.

A blast of cold air hit him as he came outside. It chilled the beads of sweat on his forehead. He kept walking—toward a shuttle van for the Red Lion Motor Inn. The sliding passenger door was open while the driver loaded up someone’s bags in back. Avery approached the driver. “I didn’t call for you, but I have a reservation with the Red Lion,” he said, out of breath. His heart was racing. “Can you take me?”

“Sure can. Climb aboard. Sit back and relax.”

“Thank you.” He ducked into the warm van, then plopped down in the backseat. The only other passengers were a middle-aged couple. Avery wiped his sweaty forehead, and turned to the window. He expected to see the walkie-talkie man out by the curb—or perhaps the car rental woman. But he didn’t spot either one. Maybe he’d hear on the local news tonight about someone seeing Avery Cooper in the Spokane airport. Then again, maybe not.

He’d brought enough cash along. He’d take a room at the Red Lion tonight, and try again for a rental car in the morning.

Avery heard the front door shut. The driver settled into his seat, and a moment later, they started moving.

Twenty-two

Riding to the studio in her limo, Dayle had a copy of the shooting script on her lap. But she kept peeking up at the two men in front of her—on the other side of that window divider. Ted sat with the driver—another in a series of strangers acting as her temporary chauffeur.

Now Dayle felt stupid for having such blind trust in him. She’d barely slept last night—uncertain about the man just down the hall from her bedroom. Any tolerance points he’d earned protecting the notoriously gay Gil Palermo laid in the balance. Dayle still hadn’t received a call back from Gil’s friend, Jonathan Brooks. She’d left him another message this morning.

Dayle stared at Ted and the driver. She closed her script, then pressed the button to lower the divider window. Ted looked over his shoulder as the glass partition descended. “I was just thinking, Ted,” she announced. “You don’t need to stay with me tonight. I’ll be okay with the extra guards in the hall and the lobby.”

He shook his head. “You need someone in the apartment with you.”

“Well, I’d like some privacy tonight. I’d rather be alone.”

“You hired me to guarantee your safety, Dayle,” he said, a bit patronizing. “Sometimes that means I have to be a pain in the ass. Let me do my job tonight. I’ll make sure you have the breathing space you need.”

“Of course you will.” Dayle gave him a pale smile, then pressed the switch to raise the partition. “Thanks, Ted.”

“You’re just nervous, that’s all,” Hal assured him.

Tom’s aim had been miserable for the last half hour. He’d gone through nearly fifty bullets trying to hit ten lousy bottles off the ranch house railing.

“Isn’t there some show business saying?” Hal continued. “‘Bad dress rehearsal, great show’? You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Tom muttered. He shot at another bottle and missed. “Guess I’m still worried about getting past her bodyguard. Is he good?”

“Oh, yes, and he’s an excellent shot too. But quit your worrying, Tom. He’s with us—one of our best men, Ted Kovak.” He sighed. “Some of the triggermen in SAAMO aren’t exactly Rhodes Scholars. Like our late friend Lyle, they’re dedicated, but ignorant. Still, we need these bottom-of-the-barrel types for certain jobs. But Ted Kovak is good, top of the heap. He’s the one shooting you with blanks tomorrow.”

Hal patted Tom on the back, then pointed to his fake mustache. “You need more glue on that lip warmer. It’s starting to peel off.”

Tom wiped his brow, and pressed on his upper lip to secure the fake mustache. “Will I need to wear this disguise for the plane ride tomorrow?”

“You’re probably better off without it.” Hal kicked at the dirt. “Have you made a decision where you’d like to go?”

“Yes, Rio de Janeiro.” Just saying that made Tom feel better.

“Good choice. You’ll be on your way in twenty-four hours. We’ll supply you with a passport. We’ll take care of everything.”

“Won’t you need a picture of me for the passport?” Tom asked.

“Right you are. Remind me later, okay? Now, try that target again.”

But Tom couldn’t get his mind off tomorrow. Hal had gone over the assassination of Dayle Sutton several times—down to the smallest detail. Tom knew what to expect—until the moment his “corpse” was carried into the fake ambulance. Then the plans became vague, and he didn’t like that uncertainty.

He aimed at the bottle, carefully squeezed the trigger, and missed.

“Cut!” yelled the assistant director.

Dayle’s character, struggling with alcoholism and middle age, sat through her first AA meeting at a “town hall” set. About thirty extras surrounded her. With her gray tweed suit and a matronly makeover, Dayle perched on a folding chair and listened to speeches. Tomorrow, they would film her turn at the podium—a long, very emotional speech, Best Actress Oscar bait.

While they set up another shot, Dayle headed for her trailer. Dennis stood by the door. He gave a long look at her middle-aged makeover. “Here you go, Mom,” he said, handing her a bottle of Evian.

“Thanks,” she muttered, not smiling at his Mom crack.

“You okay, Dayle?” he asked. “All morning long, you’ve been on edge—”

“I’m not okay,” she sighed, pausing on the steps to her trailer. “Nick Brock was killed on Friday.”

“What?” Dennis seemed genuinely stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“Someone set fire to his hotel room. He burned to death.”

“My God, Dayle,” he murmured.

“I’m trying to figure out how this hate group knew where to find Nick. Did you tell anyone that he was in Opal?”

“No, of course not. Shouldn’t you talk to the police about this?”

She shook her head. Dennis seemed so concerned and earnest. Was it just an act?

“I don’t want to involve the police yet,” she said steadily. “A cop shot Hank and Bonny. They could be part of the conspiracy. I can’t trust the police. I can’t trust anybody.” She opened the trailer door.

Dennis gave her a wary glance. “Even me?”

“Even you,” Dayle said.

“You goddamn idiot,” Avery muttered to himself. He never should have turned off Highway 95. But on his map, the rural route looked like a quicker way to Opal. But he’d been on this road for an hour now, and still no Opal, just a long, deserted, snaky highway without any markings. For all he knew, he could be driving away from Opal. The fuel needle hovered near empty. On the radio, just static. He couldn’t get anything on his cellular phone. No surprise, he was outside a roaming zone.

Avery sat at the wheel of a six-year-old Lincoln Town Car. It was like steering the Titanic, the thing felt so big. But it had been the only car with snow tires at Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals.

Avery had first noticed the car rental sign last night—half a block from The Spokane Red Lion. Merv’s didn’t open until 9:30 in the morning, and it looked like a fly-by-night outfit. But Avery figured they might not be so particular about who he was once the credit card cleared.

They had a room available at the Red Lion Inn. No one at the front desk recognized him. The eleven o’clock news didn’t report any sightings of Avery Cooper at the Spokane airport. But the warrant for his arrest was one of the lead stories. He telephoned Sean, and they arranged to meet tomorrow in the lot outside the Opal post office.

In the morning, he called Glenhaven Spa for a progress report on Joanne, but then he remembered his status with the law, and hung up.

At Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals, the puffy, middle-aged man behind the counter didn’t seem to recognize him. After climbing inside the Lincoln Town Car, which smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes, Avery glanced at the rental paperwork. The salesman had filled in his name as Andrew O. Cooper.

The snow tires were a good call. Compact snow, slush, and ice covered the road. With white knuckles, Avery clutched the steering wheel and wove through the mountain passes. Along the way, he drove by several abandoned cars that had spun out and stalled in ditches. Finally, the highway dipped to a lower altitude and straightened. No more snow—at least for a while.

Then he’d decided to try this shortcut.

The short cut to hell, was more like it. Except for an occasional farm house in the distance, there was no sign of civilization. Up ahead, he saw more mountains—more snow and ice. He checked the fuel needle again. He’d passed a service station about an hour ago on Highway 95; perhaps this gas-guzzler could make it back. At least he’d know where he was headed.

With a sigh, Avery slowed and made a U-turn. He heard gravel grinding beneath the tires as he swung the Town Car around. After a few minutes, the road beneath him began to feel bumpy. It sounded as if something was dragging along his right front tire. The car listed to one side. “Oh, God,” Avery whispered. “Please, don’t let it be a flat. Not here….”

He pulled over to the roadside and climbed out of the big car. He could see his breath as he walked around to inspect the tire. It was totally deflated, with the hubcap digging into the gravel. “Shit,” Avery growled. He kept spitting out the word—again and again. He went back into the car, threw on his sweater, then checked the trunk for a spare tire. He wasn’t sure Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals would have one. But they did.

What they didn’t have was a jack. “GODDAMN IT!” he bellowed. He kicked a dent in the car door. He let a few more expletives fly as he searched for the jack: in the trunk, under the seats, in the front hood. He was still searching in vain when he spotted in the distance another car down the road, coming his way.

Avery started waving for help. He caught a better look at the approaching vehicle, a Corsica. Along with the Ford Taurus, it was the automobile of choice for the “rental mentals.” He stopped waving for a moment. The Corsica slowed down. Avery saw only one person in the front seat. It looked like a woman. The car crawled to a stop and she rolled down her window. The driver was a brunette in her late twenties. She had a long, thin, pretty face, and wore a red sweater. “Are you okay?” she called.

“I didn’t think anyone would come by,” Avery said, starting toward the car. “I have a flat. This is a rental, and there’s no jack….”

As he stepped closer, she inched her car forward a bit. She looked apprehensive, so he stopped in his tracks. “Um, if you have a jack, I could fix this tire in a few minutes. I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’d like to help,” she said, wincing in an apologetic way. “But my husband doesn’t want me stopping for strangers….”

Nodding, Avery managed to smile at her. “I understand. But—well,” he pointed to his car. “I’m kind of stranded here. I really do have a flat….”

He made the mistake of approaching her car again. The Corsica lurched forward. “Tell you what,” the woman nervously called to him. “I have a cellular. I’ll phone the police for you. It shouldn’t take more than an hour—”

Avery automatically shook his head. “No, not the police, I—I—”

The woman glared at him. She quickly rolled up the window.

“No, wait!” Avery shouted over the Corsica’s screeching tires. He watched her speed down the road. At this moment, she was probably describing her would-be attacker to a 9-1-1 operator.

“You goddamn idiot,” Avery muttered to himself.

At first, Sean hardly noticed the woman coming out of the video store with her two children. Even when she saw them go into the post office, Sean ruled out the haggard-looking mother as a candidate for PO Box 73.

All morning long, she’d been sitting in her Chevy rental, parked in the minimall lot. With the video store, U-Pay-Less Shoes, Pizza Hut, Sheer Delight Hair Stylists, and the post office as its main attractions, the little mall did a brisk business. Avery still hadn’t shown up. Occasionally, Sean started up the car to get the heater going, or she’d step out to stretch her legs. Three times, she’d ducked into the post office to make certain Box 73 hadn’t been cleaned out, three false alarms.

The mailboxes in Opal’s post office were the old-fashioned kind, brass with numbers on little windows. Box 73 was crammed with several large manila envelopes—along with some bills. Anyone emerging from the post office with a bundle like that was an immediate suspect.

Sean drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She watched the woman come out again with her kids—a thin, dark-haired, preteen boy, and a chubby little urchin with her blond hair in braids. The kids fought, not just pushing and shoving, but with fists swinging. Their poor mother tried to break it up without getting coldcocked. The sallow-looking blonde wore a pink down vest over her white turtleneck, and a pair of jeans that didn’t flatter her pear-shaped figure. She was screaming at her kids, and clutching a big bundle of mail—several manila envelopes and some bills.

Sean climbed out of her rental, and she could hear the woman: “I’ll tell Daddy about this when he comes back from California. You’ll be sorry. You know how he gets when he’s angry….” She prodded them toward a brand-new station wagon, which bore two bumper stickers: MY FAMILY, MY COUNTRY, MY GUN, and JESUS CHRIST: NOW MORE THAN EVER. The woman was still screaming and threatening her kids when Sean ducked into the post office.

Box 73 was empty.

Sean hurried back out the door, across the lot toward her rental. Suddenly, something came at her. Tires screeched. She spun around and almost collided with the from fender of an old-model blue Chrysler LeBaron. She reeled back, momentarily stunned.

Sean couldn’t see the driver past the sun’s glare on the windshield. But she noticed a pair of fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. Whoever sat behind the wheel didn’t yell or honk. Catching her breath, Sean waved at the driver and stepped aside.

She glanced over her shoulder at the mother. The frumpy blonde stood by her station wagon, staring back at her.

Sean quickly looked away, then walked up to a beige Tempo that wasn’t hers. She paused by the driver’s door, then pretended to search through her purse for the car keys. After a minute, the woman climbed into her station wagon, pulled out of her space, and started toward the lot exit. Sean ran back to her rental car, jumped inside, and gunned the engine.

She caught up with the station wagon at the stoplight by the mall exit. The woman swiveled around to swat at her kids in the back. When the light changed, she turned left. Sean followed, keeping about three car lengths behind her. They drove by a McDonald’s, then past Debbie’s Motor Inn, where Sean once again glimpsed the police tape in the parking lot. She checked her rearview mirror. An old lady in a Buick was behind her. Sean didn’t notice the next car back. She didn’t see the blue Chrysler LeBaron that had almost run into her a few minutes ago.

Somebody was coming, but at this distance, Avery couldn’t tell if it was a police car. He’d taken out the spare tire and leaned it against the fender to advertise his predicament. In the past forty minutes, only three people had driven by; and none of them had even slowed down for him.

The approaching vehicle came into view. Avery noticed the police lights on the hood. He stepped in front of his disabled rental and waved. The squad car slowed to a stop about a hundred yards in front of him. Avery couldn’t see what the cop inside was doing, but figured he’d better not move. He stood there for at least two or three minutes.

“Raise your hands above your head and turn toward your vehicle,” the cop announced over his speaker.

Avery nodded, then did what he was told. He thought about what had happened to Dayle’s chauffeur and her stand-in. He heard the car door open, then the patrolman approaching, pebbles crackling underfoot.

“I’ve been stranded here with a flat for an hour,” Avery called. “This is a rental car. They have a spare tire, but no jack.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This woman stopped earlier. I must have scared her. She might have called you. Anyway, I’m glad you showed up.”

“Oh, really?” the policeman finally replied. He sounded all congested. “This lady told us you didn’t want her calling the police.”

“I didn’t want her bothering the police,” Avery said. “All I need is a jack to change this tire.”

“That sure looks like a flat to me. You can lower your arms, sir.”

“Thank you,” Avery sighed. Hesitating, he turned and managed to smile at the patrolman. He prayed the guy wouldn’t recognize him.

The officer tipped his hat, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Avery guessed he was around thirty, and with a cold in full bloom. Against his pale complexion, his nose was almost as red as his neatly trimmed hair, and those blue eyes were bloodshot. He stood about six feet tall, and had a solid build. He sneezed loudly.

“God bless you,” Avery muttered.

“Thanks.” The cop moseyed over to the flat tire. “Where are you from?”

“California,” Avery said. “I’m headed for Opal, but I think I took a wrong turn. My aunt lives there. I’m spending Thanksgiving with her.”

“That’s nice.” He blew his nose again, then squinted at Avery. “Say, anyone ever tell you that you look like that movie star, Avery Cooper?”

Avery shrugged. “I don’t follow the movies much.”

The cop studied his face for another moment, then cleared his throat and spit. “Yeah, well, Opal’s about two hours from here. I have a map in my squad car. Sit tight for a second, and I’ll show you how to get there.”

Avery watched him start back toward the patrol car. “If you have a jack,” he called, “I could change this tire in no time….”

The policeman didn’t look back at him, but waved, then ducked into the front seat. Avery strained to catch a glimpse of him through the windshield’s glare. The guy must have had a hard time finding his road map, because he was in there at least five minutes. Finally, Avery started toward the patrol car. “Um, excuse me?” he called.

The cop climbed out of the front seat. He let out a guttural roar to clear his throat and spit once again. “I can’t find the stupid map anywhere.”

Avery smiled. “Hey, listen, it’s okay. I have a map in my car. If I head back to Highway 95, I should find Opal pretty easily.” He glanced over his shoulder at the lopsided Lincoln Town Car. “You know, if you have a jack I could borrow for a few minutes, I’d be on my way.”

The policeman took a deep breath that puffed out his chest. “No, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do here. You’re gonna lean against this vehicle and put your hands behind your back.”

Bewildered, Avery stared at him. “What?”

“Do as I say, Mr. Cooper,” the patrolman replied, his hand poised by his gun belt. “Lean forward, hands behind you, legs apart.”

In a daze, Avery obeyed him. The once-friendly policemen tugged at his arms, then slapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists. At the same time, he felt the cop leaning up against him, and his mouth touched Avery’s ear. “You’re in a helluva lot of trouble,” he whispered. “You know that, mister big shot movie star?”

The following Internet conversation occurred at 1:42 P.M., on Monday, November 18, on the Recipe Hot-line:

HANNAH: The big difference is using beef stock instead of water. That’s what makes it so flavorful.

VICKI: Is it really rich? If it’s too rich, my husband won’t want it. Lyle has a delicate constitution.

PAT: Request private chat with Vicki.

Dialogue from a private mailbox between “Vicki” and “Pat,” one minute later:

PATRIOT: What’s going on? R-U OK?

VICTORY: I saw A. Cooper’s lawyer in the parking lot when I got mail ½ hour ago. I’m certain it was her. It was almost like she was looking for me.

PATRIOT: Where are U now? Did she follow U?

VICTORY: I’m home. If she was following me, I didn’t see.

PATRIOT: OK, Vicki…thanx for reporting…This confirms Ray D. thinking he saw her at Flappin Jacks yesterday…I’ll let Hal know.

VICTORY: Have U heard any more about Lyle? So worried…

PATRIOT: I’m sure Lyle OK…Maybe Hal has news…stay home til U hear back from me…God Bless.

It always threw Tom for a loop whenever that newfangled little phone of Hal’s rang. They were in the car, diving back to the city after target practice and lunch at a seafood place. Hal sat at the wheel. He didn’t flinch at all when the phone went off. He fished the gizmo from the pocket of his fancy jogging suit, then unfolded the thing. “Yeah, Hal here.”

Eyes on the road, he frowned. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Call Vicki back. I need a full description of what Cooper’s legal whore is wearing and the type of car she’s driving. I want her under surveillance within the hour. But no one is to touch her….”

Pressed against the passenger door, Tom watched him. Hal’s jaw seemed to clench at the news he was hearing. “So you’re telling me that both Avery Cooper and his lawyer are there?” he asked hotly. “What is this? First Dayle Sutton’s private detective, and now these two….”

Hal listened for a moment. “We have Cooper in custody? Who’s with him?” He grimaced. “Taggert? Shit. Taggert’s a loose cannon, he’s worse than Lyle Bender. Tell him I don’t want anything happening to Cooper until we’ve come up with a plan. No rough stuff. Have someone relieve Taggert of the prisoner ASAP. We need Cooper alive—for now. I don’t trust the stupid, trigger-happy son of a bitch. Only reason Taggert’s on the payroll is because he’s a cop….” Hal listened for a moment. “I don’t care how far away he is. Send somebody out there to take over. And I want this lady lawyer tracked down. I’ll expect your call within an hour. All right?”

Hal smiled. “Good boy,” he said. “Over and out.”

He managed to keep steering while he folded up the little phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The car started to gain speed. He grinned at Tom, very confident, almost smug. “Interesting developments at home,” he said. “And on the eve of your eliminating Dayle Sutton. Huh, we just might end up with two movie stars dead tomorrow—and one dead bitch-lawyer.”

Sean watched the two-story, tan brick house across the street. The place had brown shutters and THE BENDERS wood-burnt on a plaque hanging over the front door. The lawn was littered with a dozen soggy boxes that must have been part of a kids’ game a while ago. With the sun starting to set, Sean felt the late autumn chill creep inside the parked car. She’d been staking out the house for close to three hours.

She wondered if Avery was waiting for her in the post office parking lot, or if he’d gone on to the hotel.

“I don’t want any fighting!” Mrs. Bender announced from her front door as she let the two children out. The boy ran to one of the boxes and kicked it, while the little girl shrieked. Sean rolled down her car window. Mrs. Bender was yelling: “I have important calls to make, and better not have to come out here for the next hour!” She ducked inside and shut the door.

After a few minutes, the kids calmed down. The boy started building a fort out of the boxes.

Sean watched an Oldsmobile crawl up the tree-lined street, then stop in front of the Benders’ house. An old woman stepped out of the car, but left the motor running. “Scotty Bender!” she called angrily. “I saw you in my backyard this morning! That’s private property, and not your personal shortcut to school. The same goes for your older brother. I’m sick and tired of it! You tell your mother I said so.”

The kid shouted something back at her. Sean didn’t catch what he said, but the tone wasn’t particularly apologetic.

“Well!” the indignant old woman replied. “Next time I see any of you Bender children in my yard, I’m calling the police. I don’t care if your father’s friends with them or not!” She jumped back into her car and continued down the road.

Sean watched the Oldsmobile pull into the driveway of a modest white stucco. The garden in front had been covered with plastic tarp to fight frost. Here was a woman who knew the Benders and clearly had some issues with them. And right now, she was in a mood to vent.

Sean hunted through her purse, and found some old business cards rubber-banded together. She plucked one out: JOAN KINSELLA, ATTORNEY, MUNICIPALITY OF EUGENE, OREGON.

The Bender girl let out another shriek, then attacked one of the boxes as if it were a punching bag.

Sean climbed out of the car and started toward the white stucco house, where the old woman was hoisting a sack of groceries from the passenger side of her Oldsmobile. The overloaded bag ripped along the side, and several items spilled onto her driveway.

“Can I help?” Sean called. The woman barely had time to respond before Sean was on her hands and knees, retrieving a Campbell’s soup can that had rolled under the car. “I hate it when they overpack those bags,” she said, handing her the soup can.

Bracing the torn bag on the hood of her car, the woman nodded and gave Sean a wary smile. She had close-cropped brown hair that looked like a wig, wire glasses, and lipstick that had been applied with a shaky hand. She wore a wool coat, blue pants, and an ugly floral top.