Was he now making too little of Jennifer’s lonely brooding? There was no doubt that she hated O’Connell. And, to Peter’s mind, with good reason. He had tried to kill her, and once his money was secured from other sources, he had basically abandoned her. Just as Catherine had predicted, he had bitten hard for the money. But he was also sensing a burning jealousy of Catherine’s glamour and success as Jennifer fantasized the worst possible motives for her sister’s actions. The breakup of her marriage had been a tremendous shock. Had it pushed her beyond reason?
He had a quiet meeting with Catherine just as she was leaving for a West Coast flight. “I want you to reconsider my suggestion that we sever our relationship with O’Connell.”
She started to respond, but he held up his hand. “I know you have good business reasons for keeping him aboard. And I appreciate that you’ve put a great deal of work into it. But I think we have to consider what it’s doing to Jennifer. I’m alarmed at how much she blames you for the breakup. She thinks you stole her husband and that you’re flaunting him in front of her.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Catherine snapped. “You know why I had to get involved in Hollywood.”
Peter nodded. “I know, but I have to give priority to what Jennifer thinks your motives were. She’s been knocked down, and she’s not making any effort to pick herself up.”
Catherine glanced at her watch. “This isn’t a good time, Peter. I’ll be back on Sunday. We can talk on Monday.” She started away from him toward the elevators.
“Catherine!”
She stopped and waited until Peter had caught up with her.
“Jennifer mentioned some pictures you have. Are they important?”
She answered instantly. “They’re pictures that show just what a philandering prick Padraig O’Connell is, and why I’m going to take such delight in nailing his skin to a wall.”
In California, Catherine went straight to O’Connell’s office, stopping to admire the new furnishings in the lobby and the new receptionist behind the curved glass desk. He was on the phone when she reached his private office, well into the lyric cadence of an Irish poet. He gestured her into a simulated director’s chair made of chrome bars and black cushions, and swiveled his back to her. Then he went on chatting while she cooled her heels.
After a few minutes, Catherine stood, walked to the bar, and poured herself some of Padraig’s favorite Scotch. He gestured wildly, indicating that she should fix one for him, and she took down a second glass, scooped in the ice cubes, and topped them generously. She walked up behind him, listened for a few seconds to his half of the conversation, and then poured the drink over his head.
“Jay-sus!” He flew up out of the chair, wiping furiously at the alcohol and ice cubes sliding down his shirt. “Jay-sus Kay-ryst,” he screamed, forgetting he was on the telephone. And when he remembered, he made an excuse about spilling water all over everything and slammed down the handset.
“Have you gone crazy,” he screamed at Catherine.
She walked casually back to her chair. “Don’t ever turn your back on me, Padraig. And don’t ever keep me waiting as if I came in to take dictation.”
“That was Irving Simmler I was talking to.”
“I don’t care if it was Moses himself. And you can drop the brogue. We’re alone.”
He pulled off the tie and began unbuttoning the drenched shirt. “I think you’ve gone stark raving mad.”
“Who did the remodeling?” she demanded, ignoring his charge.
“Rooks. Rooks, Limited.”
“From Rodeo Drive?”
“Yes, from Rodeo Drive.”
“And the furniture?” Catherine persisted.
“Why in God’s name do you care? Are you planning on redecorating your hotel room?”
Catherine laughed. “Let me guess. Harry Chaplin?”
“It just happens it was. How did you know? More detectives, I suppose.”
“I just guessed because he’s the most expensive. And because all the other tycoons are using him. How much of our money did all this set us back?”
“A pittance, next to what you spent decorating that cathedral you work in back in New York.”
“We should have talked about it.” Catherine paused to sip her drink. “We want our investment going into material and talent, not into your delusions of grandeur.
“People don’t invest serious money in a hovel,” he argued.
“I did,” she countered as she reached into her briefcase and drew out the scripts she had been reading. She moved smoothly into the business at hand, carelessly tossing the scripts she didn’t like onto the floor and stacking those she had judged worthy of discussion on the desk.
They spent Saturday aboard a studio head’s yacht, sailing out to the islands. Catherine held court in the shaded cockpit under the blue canvas dodger. She was striking in a white bikini under a white denim jacket, and witty as she quoted the worst lines from the scripts she had read. She turned her attention to Padraig only when she needed her drink refreshed.
“I’m not your houseboy,” he protested when they were back on dry land.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she teased. “You’ll get your reward back at your house.”
He was in a better mood in the morning when he roused himself and joined her out on his deck. “You were extraordinary,” he said, kissing the top of her head as he passed.
“The best you’ve ever had,” she answered.
He looked thoughtful as he poured his coffee. “Well, there was this fifteen-year-old girl on Capri who was really the best, but still, considering your age …” They both enjoyed a laugh.
But tempers flared as soon as they got back to business. She pointed out that he was overbudget, and he answered that he couldn’t care less. Then he raved about the potential of one of the screenplays only to have Catherine veto it out of hand. He reminded her that he was supposed to have full artistic discretion, and she reminded him where the money came from.
Her parting shot was an order that he get rid of his new receptionist.
“Like hell I will. She does a fine job.”
“Better than the fifteen-year-old on Capri?”
“Damn you,” he shouted.
“Take her sailing. Or bring her here, for all I care. But get her out of our office.”
“It’s not our office. It’s my office.”
“Check the rent receipt,” she said. “And be thankful that I let you keep the furniture.”
It was after midnight when Catherine reached her apartment building. She smiled wearily at the doorman who helped her out of the limo, and checked with the concierge for messages. The elevator up to her penthouse seemed to take forever. She fumbled with her key and let herself in. The security-system switch was in her foyer and she went directly to it.
“Damn!” It wasn’t set. Her housekeeper must have forgotten when she left for the weekend. Catherine set it carefully, promising herself to leave a scathing note for Inga. She went upstairs to her bedroom, discarding her jacket across the back of a chair and stepping out of her skirt. She reached for the light switch but was stopped by a sound behind her—a stir in the air, a footfall on the soft carpet. She didn’t have time to turn before an arm locked around her neck.
The powerful hook snapped her backward, lifting her feet off the floor. She started to scream, but a rubbery hand clamped across her mouth. She twisted violently but couldn’t break free. She was being carried, her spike heels dragging, across the bedroom toward the French doors that led to her balcony.
The hand left her mouth, and she gulped down air. But before she could scream, the arm tightened around her neck. She heard her own gasping and the gurgle of air in her throat. Then she heard the click of the latch and felt the blast of air as one of the French doors was opened. As she struggled, she caught glimpses of a few stray lights in the skyline and, through the bars of the railing, the dark path of the river forty stories below.
She raised an arm
and fired her elbow. A man’s voice winced, but his grip only tightened. A second stab with her elbow brought an angry groan. But she was already out on the balcony and could feel herself being twisted toward the rail.
She got a foothold on the brick deck, raised a knee, and stamped down with the spike heel that she was still wearing. She felt it crunch through her attacker’s foot. He struggled to swallow his scream. His grip slackened. Catherine aimed another elbow and spun out of the grasp.
She caught a quick look at him. A black ski mask with two eyes squeezed shut in pain. A black shirt. Incongruous white Latex gloves. Tall, half a head higher than she in her heels. Fit. He seemed to be all shoulders and arms. Catherine ran through the open door and tried to slam it shut behind her. But he had recovered enough to block it with his hand and was pushing through after her. He snatched the collar of her blouse, jerking her back. She twisted out of the blouse and flailed at his eyes with her nails. He stopped, giving her the half-step she needed to bolt out of the bedroom.
She started down the stairs, but she was still in her heels. Two steps and she was falling, grasping at the banister and then rolling down the steps. As soon as she tumbled onto the floor, she scampered back to her feet and ran for the door. One of the heels had broken off in her fall, and she staggered. This time the hand clutched into her hair.
Catherine wheeled and swiped again with her nails. He let out a shrill scream. For an instant, the man was on the defensive and that was when she drove her knee into his groin. He toppled backward, immobilized. Catherine broke for the door.
She was working the lock when he caught up to her again. He grabbed her arm and spun her away from the door and back into the living room. She saw the windows ahead, with the glass doors out to the lower balcony, and knew she couldn’t flee in that direction. Then she remembered the service door.
She ran into the kitchen, managing to scream, hoping that someone in the two apartments below would be awake. He was right behind her, his hand touching her back as she hobbled on the broken shoe. Catherine reached for the door but he had her again, this time with a hand on each of her shoulders. Again she stabbed down with the spike heel but this time she missed her mark. She was spun around and flung back against the door. The hands left her shoulders and locked around her throat. With grunts of rage, her attacker began slamming the back of her head against the door frame.
She punched and kicked, hitting and missing, but the hands at her throat grew stronger. She was choking for air and stunned by the blows to her head. Her screams had been cut off and her only sound was a rattling deep in her throat. She got one hand up between his arms and scratched at his eyes. He jerked his head back, but not far enough. Her beautifully manicured thumbnail stabbed into his eye. The man screamed and fell back away from her.
Catherine turned to the door and snapped open the deadbolt. She was fumbling with the chain when his gloved fist exploded against the side of her face. Her knees buckled, and nausea filled her stomach. She felt herself sliding down the wall and fell dizzily into a heap.
His arms were under hers, and she realized she was being dragged across the tile floor. She told herself to fight, but her limbs were paralyzed. She tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t respond. They had reached the kitchen doorway and he was lifting her to her feet when the telephone rang.
He stopped, frozen momentarily by the sound, uncertain whether it was a doorbell or maybe even an alarm. Desperately, Catherine made a last stab with the stiletto heel and felt it cut into his shoe. She pulled away and staggered back into the kitchen, where she nearly fell into the knife handles protruding from a chopping block. She seized a handle and rolled around against the counter. She held a foot-long carving knife.
The man was still in the doorway, one foot held painfully off the floor, balancing against the doorjamb. There were streaks of blood in the window of his mask. The telephone was still ringing, its urgency driving him to act quickly. He planted the wounded foot, steadied himself, then rushed forward, disregarding the knife that Catherine could barely keep raised. But as he lunged for her hand, she managed a feeble thrust toward him. Just enough to elude his grasp. Just enough to send the point of the knife through his shirt and into his flesh.
He stopped dead, as much from shock as from the impact of the wound, and stood with his one clear eye wide in amazement. In that instant, Catherine hurled herself against him. His muscles resisted, but once the point of the knife broke through, the blade slid in easily, all the way to the hilt. They stood chest to chest, almost in an embrace, a river of warm blood running down between them. Catherine didn’t let go of the handle until her attacker was slumping to the floor.
She stood over him, her bloody slip plastered against her body, suddenly disinterested in the man who was dying at her feet. It was several seconds before she heard that the telephone was still ringing. She stepped over the body and took the handset from the kitchen wall phone.
“Yes …” She breathed.
“Miss Pegan?
“Yes …”
“This is security, ma’am. We have a signal that someone opened one of your locks. Is everything all right there?”
She felt the blood running down her arm from the handset to her elbow. She saw her own handprint in bright crimson. And then her violent world went peacefully blank.
Catherine awoke in her bedroom, staring up at faces she didn’t recognize. She jumped with a start.
“Easy … easy …” a black man’s voice soothed. “You’re doing fine. just fine.”
She sat up. The man speaking to her was one of three white coats. There was also a policeman wearing a uniform cap. Two men in suits were conversing in her doorway.
“Take it easy, now,” the black man said in a singsong cadence. “We’re going to take good care of you.”
Catherine liked him. She lay back and closed her eyes.
“Thatta girl! It’s just routine. Everything’s fine.”
She trusted him completely.
Her hospital room was chaotic. Jennifer and Peter were at the bedside, both trying to assure her comfort. Jennifer held a cup of ginger ale, slipping the straw into Catherine’s mouth at every opportunity. Peter had the bed control and kept raising the head and adjusting the knee level. There were two detectives at the foot of the bed, waiting for permission to pounce with questions. Next to them were two doctors who were debating the entries in her chart. A nurse on her left was pumping air into a cuff that was squeezing her arm. In the background, uniformed policemen were milling about. They were checking everyone coming in and out of the room, even the candy stripers who were trying to deliver magazines.
Catherine was badly battered. Her right eye was black and squeezed shut. Her cheekbone was swollen so that one side of her face was twice as big as the other. There were contusions at the back of her head, wrapped in a bandage that wound around her forehead. But the injuries were superficial, at least as far as the X rays showed. What she badly needed was a sedative to help her recover from the shock of the ordeal, and ice packs to stop the swelling in her face.
Her vague recollection was that she had surprised a burglar. She remembered that the security alarm inside the front door had been tripped. She guessed the intruder had fled upstairs to the bedroom when he heard her opening the door. She had gone upstairs immediately, probably following him into her bedroom so that he had no choice but to try to eliminate her.
“You never saw the guy before?” one of the detectives asked.
“I never saw him at all,” Catherine answered. “Just his eyes looking out through the ski mask.”
Peter objected that she was in no condition to answer questions. Then the doctor stepped in with a hypodermic, promising it would help her relax. She fell asleep within a few seconds.
The next day was more orderly. She awoke at noon to find her sister still sitting by her bedside. There was a nurse at the foot of her bed, and through the glass door she could see a policeman outside in the corridor.
“Am I going to be all right?” she asked.
Jennifer bolted up from her chair, startled by the question. “You’re fine. Nothing is broken. No internal injuries. They just want to keep an eye on you for a few days, and then they’ll be sending you home.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“At the office. He wants to be called as soon as you’re awake.”
Jennifer picked up the phone. The nurse came around the bed with a thermometer in her hand. The two detectives opened the door slowly and stepped in quietly.
The first shock to Catherine was that the intruder hadn’t been a burglar, at least not according to the police investigation.
“He came through the front door and turned off the alarm fifty minutes before you arrived,” one of the detectives told her. “But he never opened a drawer or looked for a safe. Burglars with enough experience to get through your lock and disarm the security system are usually in and out in five minutes.”
“So?” Jennifer asked on behalf of her sister.
“So, it’s most likely that this guy was waiting for you.”
“Why?” Catherine asked.
The detectives looked to each other and then one of them volunteered an answer. “We think he came to kill you. The physical evidence shows he was waiting in your room. And you told us he dragged you out onto the balcony. If he was just trying to escape, all he had to do was hit you over the head.”
Catherine was bewildered and looked to her sister for support.
“Have you ever seen this man?” When Catherine turned back to the detectives, one of them was holding a copy of a photograph. The man, leaning into the camera like an actor’s photo in a theater lobby, was strikingly good-looking. Blond hair brushed softly back from his forehead. Piercing, animated eyes. A smile that was both serious and frivolous. Perfect teeth, each one precisely capped by a master.
Good Sister, The Page 14
