by Stuart Woods
“Sounds good.”
“There’s a little sidewalk place on the next block.”
“Good.”
They strolled on to the restaurant and Danny found them a table.
“Order a sandwich,” he said quietly as Chris pretended to peruse the menu. “That way you won’t have to hunt your food with a fork. The Reuben is good here.”
The waiter came, and Chris ordered the sandwich.
Danny made a little grunting noise.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Just a little cramp; I ate some suspect shrimp last night, and I’ve had a tiny case of the trots. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Danny left the table, and Chris turned her face to the sunshine, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. Might as well work on the tan, she thought.
There was a tiny scraping sound from across the table, and, just as she had the day before, Chris knew someone was present. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him; waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, she turned slightly toward where she felt he was sitting. If she had to confront this guy she was happy it was in such a public place.
“Thank you for the roses,” she said. “They were lovely.”
There was no response.
“They brightened my stay in the hospital; it was very thoughtful of you.”
Still no reply. Chris was becoming annoyed.
“However, I have to say that if the only way you feel you can contact me is through anonymous letters and flowers, I’d rather not hear from you again. I prefer people in my life who are more straightforward and who don’t play games.”
There was still no response.
Chris closed her eyes and turned toward the sun again. If the bastard was going to clam up, then she would, too. Then she heard the little scrape again as a chair was pushed back, and a moment later she was startled by the sudden sensation of body heat near her cheek. It took all her willpower not to flinch.
The voice came in a tiny whisper. “This is not a game,” it said. And then the visitor was gone.
Chris made a point of not moving until Danny returned a minute or two later.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Chris sat up. “Danny, did you see anybody leave the table when you were coming back?”
“No, why?”
“He was here.”
“Who was here?”
“Admirer.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing, at first. Then I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer. I told him I didn’t like people who played games, and he leaned near me and whispered, ‘This is not a game.’”
Chris heard Danny rummaging in the canvas shoulder bag he carried everywhere. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for my phone,” Danny said. “I’m calling Larsen.”
Danny went nowhere without the little pocket cellular phone, and this time she was glad he had it.
She told Larsen what had happened.
“This is no game,” Larsen repeated.
“That’s what he said.”
“He knows you can’t see him,” Larsen said. “He’d never have done this otherwise.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she replied.
“I don’t think you should interpret this as ominous,” the detective said, “not unless he makes some specific threat.”
“This sounded like a threat to me,” Chris said.
“I think that, in your present frame of mind, it certainly would sound that way. But to Admirer, it may just have been some sort of personal declaration that he feels seriously about you.”
“I suppose you could interpret it that way,” Chris admitted.
“I think we should interpret it that way for the present,” Larsen said.
Danny, who was listening, turned the phone toward him. “Listen, Mr. Larsen, how long are you going to wait until you do something about this guy?”
“What do you suggest I do?” Larsen asked pleasantly, as if he really wanted to know.
“How about some protection for the girl?”
“We can’t be in the bodyguard business,” Larsen said. “Not unless some serious threat has been made.”
“Swell,” Danny said. “You mean this guy has to take a shot at Chris, or something like that?”
“Mr. Devere,” Larsen said, “my department requires me to act on my experience and judgment. At this stage of this stalking I cannot conclude that a real threat to Chris exists. However, if Chris feels that one exists, in spite of my judgment, then she is perfectly free to hire private protection. Frankly, I think it would be a waste of good money at this time, but if it would make her feel better, then maybe she should take that course.”
“It would not make me feel better,” Chris said. “Somehow, after today’s experience, I feel I can handle this guy.”
“Don’t become overconfident,” Larsen said. “You have a fine line to walk between too much and too little caution. And please keep me posted on any other events. The moment this man crosses the line of criminality, I can act, and believe me, I will.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Chris said.
“Please call me Jon.” He spelled it for her.
“Thank you, Jon,” she said, and hung up.
“Danny,” she said, “what does Detective Larsen look like?”
“Late thirties, six two, a hundred and eighty, blond in a Scandinavian sort of way—the whitest white man you ever saw.” Danny paused. “I wondered when you’d get around to asking.”
“Stop smirking,” Chris said.
CHAPTER
9
They parked in back of the restaurant and went in through the rear door. The Bistro Garden had been one of Chris’s favorite restaurants ever since she had come to L.A. Her agent had first taken her there, introducing her to the owner and headwaiter and showing her off to his friends and other clients, and she had loved every minute of it.
The tables in the garden were arranged in rows, with umbrellas where necessary, and Danny pushed her ahead of him as they had planned. “Charlton Heston at one o’clock and five yards, speak now,” he whispered.
“Chuck, how are you?” she beamed into space.
The large actor loomed before her, a shadow that shut out all light. “How are you, Chris?” He kissed her on the cheek. “I heard about your fall.”
“Much better, Chuck,” she said. “How’s Lydia?”
“Very well. Will you come up to the house for some tennis soon?”
“Very soon. Give Lydia my best.”
Danny steered her onward toward the front wall of the garden. “Your agent is at ten o’clock, two rows over. Smile and wave.”
Chris obeyed, and they reached their table. Danny got her seated without seeming to steer her, and Chris began to relax.
“Here comes Ron,” Danny whispered. “Three, two, one, now.”
“Ron, hello!” Chris called to the approaching blob.
Ron kissed her hand. “My darling, you look wonderful.”
“I’m feeling pretty good, too. Ready to work.”
“I’ll get on it,” Ron said, then his voice fell to a whisper. “How are your eyes?”
“Coming along, Ron, coming along.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, and kissed her good-bye.
“Uh, oh,” Danny whispered, “here comes your late leading man, Mr. Quinn.”
“Chris!” Jason Quinn practically yelled as he approached the table. “How in the world are you?”
Chris held out a hand. “Very well, thank you, Jason.” She could not help being cool. The sound of a chair being dragged up reached her ears. “Do you know my good friend Danny Devere?”
“Hi,” Quinn said. “Listen, Chris, I want you to know that I fought to have you kept on the film, I really did. So did Brent Williams. It was the front-office boys that shot us down.”
“It’s all right, Jason, I und
erstand,” Chris replied, more warmly than she felt.
“Brent and I had already revised the schedule to shoot around you for twelve days in the hope that you’d make it back.”
“That was kind of you, Jason. Will you thank Brent for me?”
“Sally Woodson came in and has mostly made a hash of a great part,” he said conspiratorially. “Just between you and me.”
“You’re sweet, Jason.”
“I hope we can find something else to work on real soon,” he said. “Can I send you a script sometime?”
“Of course, send it to Ron.” She heard him rise.
“Let’s have lunch and talk about it when I’m through with this shoot.”
“Sure, call me.”
The actor beat his retreat, and Danny gave a sigh of relief.
“Did he notice?” she asked.
“Not for a second,” Danny said. “There were moments when you weren’t looking directly at him, but they were the right moments, when you were being a little bitchy anyway.” Danny sucked in a deep breath suddenly.
“Danny, what’s the matter?” Chris asked.
“Nothing to worry about,” Danny replied.
“Danny, tell me.”
“Oh, all right. I just looked up and saw roses coming.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry, I waved the waiter off.”
“Danny, do me a favor: talk to the front desk and see if you can find out what florist they came from.”
“As soon as we order,” he said. “Here comes our waiter.”
They ordered and Danny left the table. He was back in a moment. “They were from the florist at the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.
“Good God! You don’t think he’s staying at the Beverly Hills!”
“I doubt it. The florist is right next to the drugstore; anybody could order them. I know a front-desk man at the hotel; I’ll call him tomorrow and get him to check it out.”
“Thank you.” Chris knew well that Danny had a huge network of gay friends scattered all over Southern California.
Their food came, and Chris began to relax. It was no different from two dozen other Sunday lunches she’d had here, except that she couldn’t surreptitiously case the crowd the way she usually did. Today, Danny did it for her, chatting animatedly and cracking her up with his bitchy comments about the stars and hangers-on at the other tables.
As Danny asked for the bill, the headwaiter approached. “Excuse me, Miss Callaway, your car is here; he’s waiting out front.”
“I didn’t order a car,” Chris said. “Send him away.”
“Wait,” Danny said, “let me do it.” He got up from the table and left the restaurant.
He was back in a moment. “I talked to the driver: somebody sent cash and directions to the car service. I asked where he was supposed to deliver you, and he said home; that you’d give him directions.”
“The nerve of the bastard,” Chris said. “He’s really starting to get on my nerves.” She threw down her napkin. “Let’s get out of here.”
They left the restaurant and exited through the rear door to the parking lot. When they reached Danny’s car, two of its tires were flat.
CHAPTER
10
On Monday morning, Chris made Danny’s breakfast, as she always insisted on doing, and Danny read her excerpts from the papers while they waited for Melanie’s arrival.
A few minutes later Chris asked, “What time is it?”
Danny glanced at his watch. “Jesus, it’s twenty past nine. I’m due in Burbank at nine-thirty.”
“Why don’t you go ahead,” Chris said. “Melanie is never late; there must have been unusually heavy traffic coming in from the Valley.”
“I hate to leave you alone,” Danny replied, “but I can’t be late for this. They’re doing hair tests for a film this afternoon, and I have three heads to do.”
“Go on; Melanie will be here any minute.”
Danny pecked her on the cheek and rushed from the house. Chris busied herself with getting the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, then went into her study and switched on the television to CNN. It annoyed her in the extreme that she couldn’t read, and she kept the news on all day just to stay abreast of events.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“I’m afraid Melanie is going to be late today,” a voice said in a whisper.
Chris struggled to hear. “What? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t really need all these people around you,” the voice whispered. “I’m perfectly capable of meeting your needs—and I mean all your needs.”
“What did you say about Melanie?”
“She’s going to be late.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’d never lie to you, Chris.”
“What have you done to Melanie?”
“Done? I haven’t done anything to her. It’s time you fired her, though. There’s nothing she can do for you that I can’t do.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Chris said. “I don’t want to hear from you again; I don’t want to receive letters or flowers from you, or telephone calls; I’m giving you fair warning, because if I do hear from you again—for any reason—I’ll go to the police, and I don’t think you’d want that.”
There was a soft chuckle from the other end of the line. “The police? What on earth do I have to fear from the police? I’m a law-abiding citizen; they wouldn’t dare touch me. What would they charge me with? Sending you flowers? Writing you adoring letters? Put the police out of your mind, Chris; they’re oafs; they’re helpless in dealing with somebody of my caliber.”
“Go away,” Chris said stubbornly. “Do you understand those words? Do you grasp their meaning? Go away!”
“You don’t mean that,” the voice whispered. “You love my little expressions of affection; you wouldn’t know what to do without me. Very soon now, I will be your life.”
The line went dead.
Chris hung up the phone. Where the hell was Melanie? The woman knew she shouldn’t be alone in the house.
The phone rang again, and Chris snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Chris, it’s Melanie. I’m awfully sorry to be late, but I’ve had an accident.”
“What sort of an accident? Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. Some son of a bitch ran me off the road, coming down Beverly Glen; I had to walk to a phone. Don’t worry, the wrecker’s on its way, and the car doesn’t seem to be much damaged. It just has two wheels in a ditch.”
“I’m all right, Melanie; just come as soon as you can.”
“Is Danny still there?”
“No, he had to go to work.”
“Well, try not to worry; I’ll be there within the hour.”
Chris sat for a moment, frightened, trying to figure out what to do. Then she picked up the phone, dialed the Beverly Hills Police Department, and asked for Jon Larsen.
“Hello?”
“It’s Chris Callaway. Admirer has forced my secretary off the road in her car, and Danny has already gone to work. I’ve had my first phone call from this guy, and I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Larsen said. “If you’re really worried I can get a patrol car there in a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll be all right until you get here,” she said.
She hung up the phone and listened. Was that a noise? Was somebody outside the window? She struggled into a back hall where she kept wine in racks and retrieved a bottle, then returned to the study and sat down with the wine bottle in her lap. At least she’d have a club.
“‘I will be your life.’ Is that what he said?” Larsen was writing all this down.
“Yes.”
“Did he have any sort of recognizable accent?”
Chris tried to remember the voice. “I’m not sure; he was whispering, and that made it hard to tell, but I don’t think so. I think the accent
was pure, unaccented Californian.”
“Melanie is your secretary? What was it he said about her?”
“He said she would be late; then Melanie called a minute later and said somebody had run her off the road up Beverly Glen somewhere.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. I can’t see my watch.”
“Was she hurt?”
“No, she said she was all right.” Chris heard the front door open and Melanie’s footsteps on the marble floor.
“Well,” Melanie said as she walked into the study. “That was some experience. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a visitor.”
“Melanie, this is Detective Larsen. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, just annoyed as hell.”
“Please sit down,” Larsen said. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was driving in from the Valley, coming down Beverly Glen, and this guy pulled up next to me and forced me off the road into a ditch.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, just the van.”
“He was driving a van?”
“Yes, one of those windowless kind, sort of industrial-looking.”
“Do you know what kind?”
“I’m afraid not. I wouldn’t know a Ford from a Toyota.”
“What color?”
“Sort of a grayish green—I think.”
“New? Old?”
“Newish. It was clean, anyway, and I don’t remember any dents or rust.”
“Did you get a look at the license plate?”
“Just long enough to see that it was a California plate. I was too busy driving to get the number.”
“That’s understandable in the circumstances. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Nothing. He came out of nowhere; I never even saw him in my rearview mirror.”
Larsen turned back to Chris. “And what was it Admirer said?”
“That Melanie would be late.”
“He didn’t say why?”
“No. Just what I told you.”
Melanie stood up. “If you don’t have any more questions for me, I’ve got work to do.”
“No,” Larsen said, “thanks for your help.”
Melanie left the room, walking toward the little room off the kitchen that was her office.
