Death of a Blue Movie Star

by Jeffery Deaver

  Nicole opened the door.

  "Hey there," she said.

  "Hi, babe." He took off his cowboy hat, kissed her cheek and hugged her and felt that wonderful presence of a voluptuous woman against your body. She looked good: a pale blue silk dress with a high neckline, high heels, hair teased up and back. The makeup--well, she was a little over-the-line there, but he could tone it down with some gels on the lights. He picked up his camera bags and carried them inside.

  He noticed her dangling zirconia earrings. They were pretty but he'd get lens flare off of them. They'd have to go.

  "You look nice," he said.

  "Thanks, come on in. You want a drink?"

  "Sure. Juice. Mineral water."

  "So you've, like, completely stopped drinking?"

  "Yep," he said.

  "Good for you. You mind if I ..."

  "Oh, God, no. Go right ahead."

  Nicole poured two orange juices. Added vodka to hers. The bottle vibrated slightly in her hand as she poured. He smiled. "What, you nervous?"

  "A little I guess. Isn't that weird? I do a sex film and no big deal. I'm on camera with my clothes on and I get butterflies in my tummy."

  "Ah, it'll be a piece of cake." They clinked glasses. "To your new career."

  She sipped the drink, then set the glass down. Her eyes swiveled; she'd been thinking about something, it seemed. She decided to say it. "If this works out, Tommy, you think there'll maybe be others I could do?"

  Tommy drank down half the juice. "I don't see why not." Then: "I ought to start getting set up. Can you show me the kitchen?"

  She led him into the large, tiled room. It was chrome and white. In the center of the ceiling was a large steel rack hanging from chains. Dozens of heavy copper pans and bowls hung from it.

  "This'll work just fine."

  "We had it redone last year."

  He looked over the room. "We can use those pans. Copper looks good on camera."

  Together they began assembling the camera and lights.

  Nicole asked, "Was it hard for you to, you know, get out of the business?"

  "Out of porn? Yeah, financially it was a pain. What I did was assist at some film companies for a while."

  "Like what Rune's doing?"

  "Rune? Oh, that girl. Yeah, like her. And eventually I started getting some jobs as a cameraman, then I directed some documentaries."

  "I'd like to act. I keep thinking I could take lessons. I mean, how hard can it be? Shelly had a good coach. Arthur Tucker. She said he helped her a lot. I don't know why he hasn't been around. He didn't go to the memorial service. I thought he would've called."

  "The coach?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don't know," Tommy said. "When somebody dies it makes people feel funny. They can't deal with it." He turned to her, examined her closely. "You should act. You should be always in front of the camera. You're very beautiful."

  Their eyes met for a moment. A copper bowl paused in Nicole's hand. She looked away.

  He finished assembling the camera and lights. Nicole watched him, the smooth, efficient way he handled the equipment. She leaned against the island, absently spinning the round-bottomed copper bowl. She looked down at its hypnotizing motion.

  "I know Shelly got some kind of kick out of the porn films she made but, all in all, I don't see why she didn't give it up."

  "Because," Tommy said, stepping next to her, "she was a whore. Just like you." And he brought the long, lead pipe down on the back of Nicole's head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They ended up at her houseboat.

  First, after the country-western club they were drenched with sweat so they decided it'd make sense to go for a walk. Then a cool night breeze came up as they were walking in the West Village and that made Healy suggest coffee nearby and they went to a cappuccino place on Hudson Street with a fountain where water spit out of a goat's head into a trough filled with coins.

  One of the coins was an Indian head nickel and Rune spent a couple minutes nonchalantly fishing the coin out while Healy tried to distract the waitress.

  "Hmm," Healy muttered. "Petty larceny. And I'm an accessory."

  She retrieved the coin and then wrung the slimy fountain water out of her sleeve. "It was in deeper than I'd thought."

  After that they'd walked another five or six blocks and found themselves not far from her boat.

  "I only live three blocks away."

  "Where?" he asked.

  "In the river."

  He looked at her for the standard five seconds before asking the standard question. "In the river?"

  "I have a houseboat."

  "I don't believe you. Nobody's got a houseboat in New York. This I've got to see."

  Which was a line that'd been tried on her before.

  Not that it mattered. She was going to invite him home anyway.

  After the tour of the houseboat Rune looked for something to offer him. Beer didn't seem right after coffee and her only bottle of brandy had been capped with foil a year or two ago and a dark residue floated in the bottom.

  "Sorry." She held up the bottle.

  "Bud's fine."

  They stood on the deck, looking over at New Jersey, feeling the nerves in their legs click from all the dancing and feeling tired and energized at the same time.

  She wasn't quite sure what started it. She remembered saying something about the stars, which you couldn't see very well because of the city lights, but they were both looking up, and then there was his face filling the sky as it moved toward her and they were kissing, pretty serious kissing too.

  She felt the slight prickle of his mustache, then his lips, and she felt his arms going around her. She'd expected he'd maybe be more cautious, like feeling his way along a pipe bomb, ready to jump back at any moment.

  But he wasn't that way at all. No reluctance, no hesitation. She guessed maybe she was the first girl he'd kissed like this since Cheryl had left. She knew he wanted her. Her arms went tight around his neck.

  She maneuvered them into the bedroom.

  A huge stuffed dragon sat in the middle of the bed.

  "A monster," he said.

  "A friendly monster."

  "What's his name?"

  "Her name is Persephone."

  "My apologies."

  Rune picked up the dragon and held the mouth up to her ear.

  "She forgives you. She even likes you."

  For a moment nothing moved, neither of them spoke. Then he knelt on the bed.

  Her arms went around him, kissing hard, pressing, hands hungry. The dragon was still in between them. She considered making a joke about it. About something coming between them, ha, ha, but he was kissing her fast, urgently.

  Rune grabbed the toy and dropped it on the floor.

  When Nicole D'Orleans opened her eyes--gasping, gulping in air, mouth wide--when she came to, she was naked. Her arms were over her head, her wrists tied to the ends of the pot and pan rack. Her feet just touched the ground.

  Good. He was worried that he'd hit her too hard.

  He looked at the knots. Tied expertly, not cutting off circulation, but no way could she pull free from the binding.

  "No! What're you doing?" She was crying.

  Tommy was wearing a black ski mask. He was naked to the waist, bending down under her, tying her feet the same way--with precision, care, devotion. He tied one ankle to a chromium rack on the bottom of the island.

  "Noooo!" A long wail, rising at the end. She kicked at him with her free foot. He dodged away easily.

  "Why are you doing this, Tommy? Why? ..."

  The camcorder was trained on her and was running. The camera lights were hot and she was sweating from the heat as well as the fear.

  Patiently he bound her other foot. He was irritated, though, that there was nothing to tie it to. He had to wrap it around a cabinet hinge. "Doesn't look right." He stepped back and adjusted the camera upward, to avoid shooting the clumsy jerry-rigged job.
r />   "What are you going to do?"

  He had his hands on his hips. With his chest naked, his tight blue jeans, the mask, he was a medieval executioner.

  "What do you want?" she squealed. "Leave me alone."

  It often got him how stupid some people were. What did he want?

  It was pretty fucking obvious to him.

  He told her, "Just making a film, honey. Just what you do all day long. Only there's one difference: You tease. This is for real. This film's going to show your soul."

  "You're ..." Her voice was soft, shook with sickening terror. "This is a snuff film, isn't it? Oh, God ..."

  He pulled more rope out of his bag. He paused for a moment, studying her.

  Nicole began to scream.

  Tommy took an S & M gag--a lather strap with a red ball attached to it--and shoved it into her mouth. He tied it tight behind her head.

  "They sell so much garbage. You know, leather panties. Face masks, jockstraps out of latex. You ask me it's too complicated. I go for the simple stuff myself. You got to get it just right. It's sort of a ritual. You do it wrong, they don't pay. This customer of mine--I'm making twenty-five thousand for this, by the way--he likes the knots to be just right. They're very important, the knots. One time, this guy wanted redheads only. Man, that's not easy. So I cruised two, three days along Highway 101. Finally found this student from some community college. Get her into this shack and made the film. I thought it was pretty good. But the customer was pissed. Know why? She wasn't a natural redhead. Her pussy hair was black. I only got five thousand. And what'm I gonna do? Sue?"

  He finished the elaborate knotting, then rummaged through his bag. He found a whip, a leather handle with a dozen leather strips hanging from it. He took a long pull of vodka from the bottle. He checked the time. The customer was paying for a two-hour tape. Tommy'd make it last for two hours. He believed in the adage that the customer is always right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sam Healy and Rune lay in bed, watching the lights on the ceiling, reflecting off the Hudson River.

  Healy was feeling pretty good. He wanted to say, Not bad for an old guy. Or something like that. But he was remembering about times like this--and that was one thing he remembered clearly: You didn't talk about yourself.

  Now, for this moment, maybe only for this moment, there were two of them and that was all that mattered. He could talk about her or about both of them.... But then he remembered something else: Sometimes it's best not to say anything at all.

  Rune was curled against him, twirling his chest hair into piggy tails.

  "Ouch," he said.

  "Do you think people live happily ever after?"

  "No."

  She didn't react to that and he continued. "I think it's like a cycle. You know, happy sometimes, unhappy others."

  She said, "I think they can." A tug went by. Healy pulled the sheet over him.

  "They can't see in...." She pulled the sheet down and kept twisting hair. "Why do you disarm bombs?"

  "I'm good at it."

  She grinned and rubbed her head against his chest. "You're good at other things too but I hope not professionally."

  There. She was talking about him. That was okay.

  "It sets you apart. Not many people want to disarm bombs."

  "IEDs," Rune corrected. "Why'd you become a cop in the first place?"

  "Gotta make a living doing something."

  Rune disappeared for a moment and came back with two beers. The icy condensation dripped on him.

  "Hey."

  She kissed him.

  He said, "You want a present?"

  "I like Herkimer crystals and blue topaz. Gold is always good. Silver if it's thick."

  "How about information?"

  Rune sat up. "You found a suspect in a red windbreaker?"

  "Nope."

  "You found fingerprints on one of the Angel letters?"

  "Nope. But I did find out something about the explosives in the second bombing."

  "And you're going to tell me?"

  "Yep."

  "Why?" she asked, smiling.

  He didn't know. But at least this was something he was saying about her. And it seemed to make her happy.

  "Because."

  "What about them?" she asked.

  "They were stolen from a military base. A place called Fort Ord in Monterey. Whoever did it got away with--"

  "California?" Rune asked, sitting up, pulling the sheet off Healy and around herself.

  "Right."

  She was frowning. "Monterey is where Shelly and Tommy used to live."

  "Who?"

  "Tommy Savorne. Her old boyfriend. He still lives there."

  Healy tugged back more of the covers. "So?"

  "Well, it's just kind of a coincidence, doesn't it seem?"

  "The explosives were stolen over a year ago."

  "I guess." Rune lay back down. A moment later, she said, "He's in town, you know."

  "Tommy?"

  She nodded. "He's been in town since before the first bombing."

  A tug hooted.

  One of the Trump helicopters cruised low, making its run from Atlantic City.

  Rune and Healy looked at each other.

  Healy stood at the pay phone across from the dock while Rune tugged at his arm.

  "He might have been in Nam. He's about that age. He'd know how to--"

  "Shhh." Healy motioned at Rune, then began speaking into the phone, "Officer Two-five-five on a landline. Patch me into ops coordinator at the Sixth."

  "Roger, Two-five-five. He's in the field. Give me your number we'll have him call back on landline."

  "Negative, Central. This is urgent. I need that coordinator now."

  A long pause, then static, then a voice saying, "Hey, Sam. It's Brad. Whasshappenin?"

  "I may have a suspect in the porn bombings. Check CATCH, National Crime Database and Army CID. Tell me what you got on a Thomas or Tommy Savorne. I'll wait."

  "Spelled?"

  Healy looked at Rune. "Spelled?"

  She shrugged.

  "Guess."

  Two minutes later the ops coordinator came back on the line.

  "Got yourself a bad boy, homes. Thomas A. Savorne, private first class, LKA Fort Ord in California. Present whereabouts unknown. Dishonorably discharged a year and a half ago as part of plea bargain with JA's office for an agreement to drop court-martial proceedings. The charge was theft of government property. A codefendant was court-martialed and served eleven months on one count of theft and one count of weapons possession. Sam, the codefendant still lives out there and is believed to be dealing in arms. FBI hasn't been able to nail him yet."

  "Damn ... What'd Savorne do in service?"

  "Engineer."

  "So he knows demolition."

  "Something about it, I'd guess."

  Healy spun to Rune. "Where is he? You have any idea?"

  "No ..." And then she remembered. "Oh, Jesus, Sam--he was going over to Shelly's friend's place tonight. Maybe he's going to hurt her too." She gave him Nicole's name and address.

  "Okay, Brad, listen up," Healy said. "Got a possible Ten-thirty in progress, one-four-five West Fifty-seventh. Apartment?"

  He looked at Rune, who said, "I don't remember. Her last name's D'Orleans."

  Healy repeated the name. "Subject probably armed, maybe with plastic, and it looks like a possible hostage situation."

  "I'll get ESU rolling."

  "One other thing ... The guy's probably emotionally disturbed."

  "Oh, some kind of fucking wonderful, Sam. An EDP with plastic and a hostage. I'll do you a favor someday. Ten-four."

  "Two-five-five out."

  Rune was getting her arguments ready--to talk him into letting her come with him. But there was no problem with that. Healy said, "Come on, let's hustle. I'll get a squad car at the Sixth."

  West Fifty-seventh Street was lit up like a carnival. Flashing lights, blue-and-white cars and Emergency Ser
vice Unit trucks parked in the street. The big BOMB SQUAD truck, with its TCV chamber on a trailer, was parked near the canopied entrance.

  But there wasn't much of a sense of urgency.

  Two of the ESU guys, holding those black machine guns--like they used in Vietnam--leaned against the doorway, smoking. Their hats were on backwards. They looked awfully young--like stickball players from the Bronx.

  So, Rune understood, they'd gotten here in time. They'd moved fast and caught Tommy. It was all over. She looked for Nicole. What a surprise she'd have had. The knock, the door bursting open, cops pointing guns at Tommy.

  He'd been the one all along, the killer. How had she read him so wrong? How had he looked so innocent? The one in the red windbreaker. Ah, the cowboy hat too. And the ruddy face--not from a tan at all but from the tear gas.

  Jealousy. He'd killed her out of jealousy.

  Healy stopped her as they got close to the building. "Hold up here. This isn't for you."

  "But--"

  He just waved his hand and she stopped. He vanished into the building. The night was punctuated with radio messages broadcast over the police cars' loudspeakers. Lights whipped around in elliptical orbits.

  Rune turned on the camera and opened the aperture to take natural-light shots of the scene of them bringing Tommy out.

  Motion. Men appeared.

  She aimed the camera toward the door.

  But he wasn't in handcuffs. God, they'd shot him! Tommy was dead, on a gurney, covered with a bloody sheet.

  She felt her legs weaken as she kept the camera on the door, trying hard for a steady shot--the matter-of-fact attendants wheeling Tommy's body down from the apartment.

  A grim, moving end to the film.

  And Shelly Lowe's murderer died just the same way he had killed--violently. It is a fitting epitaph from the Bible--fitting for someone who concocted religious fanatics to cover up his crimes: He who lives by the sword dies by the sword....

  The image through the viewfinder went black as a figure from the crowd walked up to her.

  Rune looked up.

  Sam Healy said softly, "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "We didn't make it in time."

  Rune didn't understand. "You mean to get a confession?"

  "To get him."

  "But?--" Rune nodded with her head toward the back of the ambulance.

  "Tommy was gone when they got here, Rune. That's Nicole's body."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Another cop stood next to Healy. He wore a light suit that was mostly polyester, and he stood with the tired, unrushed posture of a government worker. Thin, humorless. His eyelids were heavy from fatigue and boredom.