Insidious

by Catherine Coulter

  She smiled. “Please tell Daniel I’ll hook up with him when I’m through speaking to Mrs. Buffet.”

  32

  * * *

  MRS. BUFFET’S HOUSE

  SANTA MONICA

  Mrs. Buffet’s 1940s stucco bungalow was directly across the street from Deborah Connelly’s house. It was painted a blinding bright pink that fit right in with the other rainbow colors of the neighborhood. The window frames were painted white, with built-in window boxes filled with impatiens and marigolds, adding color to a yard covered with gravel and cacti. An ancient pale blue Chevy Impala sat in the driveway.

  Cam breathed in the soft morning air, still too early to be hot, and knocked on the door. Oddly, there was no doorbell.

  A good two minutes later, she heard shuffling, like slippers sliding over a wood floor. The door opened and she looked down at a very slight lady, at least ninety, maybe older, wearing a pink jogging suit, pink UGG slippers on her tiny feet. Her hair was all over her head, tossed around like she’d been in a stiff wind, and sprayed to within an inch of its life. Her faded blue eyes were red with crying.

  Cam introduced herself, presented her creds. Mrs. Buffet waved them away. “I don’t have my glasses, but even in a blur, they look official and so do you. Come in, young lady, I know why you’re here. I’m surprised it took you so long. Come with me in here, it’s more comfortable.” She led Cam into a living room that looked as ancient as she did, the pale green sofa from the forties, at least, with springs that dug into Cam’s bottom. Yellowed doilies covered the backs of every chair, knickknacks and old hardcovers filled the shelves of a weathered bookshelf. The rugs were old and faded, but still, it was a very cozy and comfortable room. The first thing out of Mrs. Buffet’s mouth was “I hope you don’t want tea, because it would take me a long time to make it, and my feet hurt.”

  “My feet hurt, too, Mrs. Buffet. And I’m fine, thank you. I’m here about Deborah.”

  Mrs. Buffet’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Just yesterday, my Deborah was telling me how it didn’t matter she was moving, she’d come back to visit me at least three times a week and tell me everything she was doing. But now I’ll never see her again.” Mrs. Buffet picked at an old blue afghan and began smoothing her hands over the soft material, silent now, without words, her grief palpable, just like Doc’s.

  Cam leaned forward, relieving the pressure of the springs. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Buffet. Please, tell me about Deborah.”

  She gave Cam a small smile. “My sweet Deborah, she was always happy, always up, that girl, always singing. She had a great voice, a big voice, like Judy Garland, and she loved to sing. She’d come over and I’d give her lemonade and my famous sugar cookies and she’d sing me all my favorites. What’s the world coming to when someone would kill a girl like that?”

  “It was a terrible thing, Mrs. Buffet, for all of us.”

  “Not just terrible, no, it’s an evil thing. In all my years I’ve never found an answer to evil.” Mrs. Buffet turned her head away to blot her eyes, then looked back at Cam. “Maybe you can do something, who knows? I’ll tell you what I saw last night. It might help you catch that monster.”

  Cam felt her heart kick up a beat.

  “Unlike you, young lady, I’m old, so I don’t need much sleep, a good thing, since it gives me more time awake to appreciate that I’m still alive and kicking.” She nodded toward the lacy white curtains hanging still, since there was no breeze coming in through the open window. “Last night I was standing just there, looking out at the stars, once everyone’s lights were turned off for the night.

  “It was around midnight, calm and quiet, and so I heard what sounded like glass breaking, but really muffled so I couldn’t be sure. I thought some of those wild teenagers from one block over had busted a car window again, but to be honest, I didn’t think much more about it.” She huffed. “Where are their parents? I’d like to know.”

  Cam smoothly steered her back. “You didn’t call 911 to check it out?”

  “No, not then. Everything was quiet again. It was maybe ten minutes later when I saw a shadow coming around the side of Deborah’s house, and then a man. He was carrying something in his right hand. He walked away from the house, didn’t hurry, could have been the middle of the day to him. I thought he’d come out from the house behind Deborah’s—taking a shortcut. I watched him walk away down the street, never hurrying, just walking. Do you think it was him, that monster who murdered poor Deborah?”

  “It’s likely, ma’am. Can you describe him to me?”

  “Young.” Mrs. Buffet laughed, but it sounded more like a grunt. “Well, anyone south of eighty is young to me. But I mean he moved easy, not like he had a stiff knee or sore joints. Smooth. He was wearing a short coat, maybe black or dark blue, I think, and a cap. He looked pretty ordinary, common.”

  “Could you see if there was any lettering on the cap? The color?”

  “Hmmm, maybe the cap was green, with letters, like a John Deere, but it was so dark I can’t be sure.”

  “That’s good, Mrs. Buffet. Did you get an idea of how tall he was?”

  “Let me think about that. Everybody’s tall compared to me. I shrink an inch every single year, that’s what my doctor says, and he laughs and pats my hand, says by the time I’m one hundred, I’ll only be three feet high!” She beamed at Cam, then shook her head. “Maybe he was about as tall as Doc, not fat, but I really can’t be sure because he was wearing that dark coat. I thought that was odd, since it was very warm last night. You think he was wearing it to hide the knife he used to kill my poor Deborah?”

  And to hide her laptop and cell phone.

  “It’s possible. Mrs. Buffet, could you make out his hair color?”

  “He didn’t have any hair. He was bald as an eagle’s egg. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that, but he stopped up against that big oak tree three doors up and lifted off his ball cap—and then the weirdest thing—he rubbed his hand over his head, looked at his hand, and rubbed it on his pant leg. Then he put his ball cap back on and began walking again. Maybe a little faster that time.”

  Mrs. Buffet cocked her head. “I think something came off on his hand when he rubbed his head?”

  Blood splatter, but Cam didn’t say it. “Is it possible he wasn’t bald, that he was wearing something on his head to cover his hair, like a skull cap?”

  “Of course it’s possible, dear. This is Hollywood.”

  Nothing was ever easy. “Why didn’t you call 911, Mrs. Buffet? After you saw that man?”

  “I did. A man and a lady officer came around, asked me what the problem was. And I told them what I told you, and they took flashlights and walked around the neighborhood. They came back maybe ten minutes later, said everything was all right. One of them even patted my shoulder and told me to go back to bed. So I drank a dram or two of my husband’s favorite single malt, rest his soul, and slept until I heard all the commotion at Deborah’s house.”

  So the officers hadn’t seen the broken window or the broken glass. Would it have mattered if Deborah had been discovered last night rather than this morning? It could have, but probably not. She’d check the officers’ log-in for the exact time they were here.

  Mrs. Buffet said, “How is Doc dealing with all this?”

  Cam said simply, “I believe he’s torn to pieces.”

  “I would hope so. It’s not that Doc hasn’t been nice to me, because he’s always nice, and I hear he’s a good doctor. But I told Deborah more than once that she was making a mistake, moving in with him, maybe even eventually marrying him. He was always trying to push her out of acting, into something that would bring her a regular paycheck. She admitted that to me one day when she was mad at him and came over. Can you imagine? The girl was a born actress and I told her so. I know she would have made it, and soon.

  “But with Doc, it was always his patients who came first, never Deborah. And would you look at him—he dresses like a bum. I
told her he wouldn’t look good on her arm when she showed up for her Oscar. She laughed, said she’d clean him up herself if the day came. When the day came, I told her.” Mrs. Buffet looked back down at the afghan, began pulling on a loose thread. When she looked up again, her eyes were sheened with tears. “I always told Deborah she should have been my great-granddaughter. And she’d say maybe I needed to put another great in there. I’m ninety-one years old, she’d just turned twenty-six, barely born, and now she’s dead. I gave her a bottle of her favorite chardonnay for her birthday.” Tears ran rivulets in the deep seams on her face. Mrs. Buffet made a disgusted sound, pulled a pink handkerchief from her pocket, and gently daubed her eyes. “Gotta be careful. At my age, my eyes might pop out if I rub too hard.” She swallowed.

  Cam took Mrs. Buffet’s hand when she thanked her. She sat in her Toyota a moment to enter the man’s description on the FBI website, then texted Daniel to meet her at Missy’s cottage. She called Special Agent Aaron Poker in Las Vegas. She wanted to know if he’d caught up with their eyewitness from the Molly Harbinger murder, the would-be thief.

  Did Aaron Poker ever have good news for her.

  33

  * * *

  MISSY’S COTTAGE

  MALIBU

  Daniel’s Crown Vic pulled in right behind Cam’s Toyota in Missy’s driveway. Cam jumped out of the car. “Daniel, good timing. Wait until you hear what I got from Agent Poker in Las Vegas. We have an ID on our eyewitness—they got a DNA match on his blood on CODIS. He lives in Las Vegas, name is Marty Sallas, thirty-eight, with a rap sheet up to his elbow, so it makes sense he wouldn’t want to come forward, but he’s not violent, no guns or assaults. Aaron emailed me his photo.”

  She grabbed his hands and began dancing with him on the driveway. “We’ve got him, Daniel, we’ve got our eyewitness. And he didn’t see some guy in a ball cap off in the distance, he was in the house with him. Aaron’s got the local cops looking all over for him now. It’s only a matter of time before they find him.”

  Daniel grinned down at her, and stopped dancing. “Show me.”

  She punched up her cell phone, showed him a mug shot of Marty Sallas, being booked for petty theft. “We never would have identified him from the grainy video at Valley ER.”

  Daniel said, “I’ll bet he was bleeding too much to drive out of Las Vegas, a mistake. No matter how bad my hand was cut, I’d drive to Canada I’d be so afraid the Serial would find me.”

  She nodded. “Aaron said he’d bet his next paycheck Sallas is hunkered down, still in Nevada, trying to get himself together and figure out what to do, nursing that hand, cursing his luck. Aaron has already sent the local TV stations Sallas’s picture, asking them to make an appeal. He thinks he could get reward money because the casinos don’t want this sort of publicity. Do you think Sallas would call it in?”

  “Probably not, too risky for him. But this could be exactly what we need, Wittier, if the cops find him. Now you want to tell me why you texted me to come over here?”

  “This cottage belongs to Missy Devereaux. We’re friends from high school. I ran into her at the market and she invited me to stay with her. I didn’t want her to be alone because she’s young and an actress, and she knew a couple of the victims. I was thinking it might be a good idea if the two of us talked to her, tried to find out more about the circles these women travel in. Could give us a lead.”

  They looked up to see Missy dash outside, her blond ponytail bouncing up and down. Her face was clean of makeup. She was wearing shorts and a tube top, showing a tanned flat belly, and Skechers on her small feet, no socks. She was gorgeous. Had Deborah been this beautiful? This full of life?

  Missy yelled, “Cam, why are you just standing out here?” Then she paused. “Hey, who are you?”

  Daniel stepped up, introduced himself.

  She looked him over, then met his eyes. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Detective Montoya. I didn’t know you’d be coming over, but I’m glad you’re here. Come on in, Cam, I was out running, and heard talk about Deborah—it’s true? It’s really true? That monster killed Deborah Connelly?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  Missy shook her head, looking shaken. “It’s horrible, horrible. Poor Doc. He and Deborah were going to get married—sometime in the misty future, Deb’d say, and Doc would kiss her hard and say, Not so misty.”

  Cam couldn’t believe it. “You knew Deborah Connelly, Missy?”

  “Yes, I do. I did. I mean we weren’t BFFs, but I knew her well enough. We had the occasional drink to commiserate when we didn’t get a part, you know? Shopped for shoes several times on Rodeo Drive. Like I did with Connie.” Missy broke off, her eyes tearing up. She grabbed Cam’s arm. “My friends are dying, Cam. You’ve got to do something.”

  “We are. We’ve got a pretty good description of the guy and we’ve identified a man in Las Vegas who was an eyewitness to Molly Harbinger’s murder. Keep that under your hat, Missy, okay?”

  “Yes, of course, but Deborah—”

  Daniel said to Missy, “Could we go inside?”

  “Yes, sure. But Detective Montoya— Oh, you’re here about the restraining order, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m here because I’m working with Agent Wittier, but I do have your restraining order ready for you at the Lost Hills station against John Bayley, identified as your stalker. It’s in effect for ninety days, then you’ll have to renew it.”

  “Good. Come with me, I’ll make us some tea.” As Missy led them to the kitchen, she said to Daniel, “I know his name, it’s Blinker, the putz. And yes, legally, it’s John Bayley, like you said.”

  “Where’d he get the nickname?”

  “Good question,” Missy said, eyeing him. “You know he’s some sort of bond trader, lives in the Valley. He swore to the Las Vegas cops that he didn’t even know who I was, just this crazy girl who chased him down with a Ka-Bar. The lying little jerkface. I couldn’t believe it, but they said they had to let him go.”

  Daniel, who knew all this, let her tell her story, then said to this exquisite girl who came to his chin, “Now if Mr. Bayley comes close enough for you to see him, take a photo of him, with a date stamp, and call me. I’ll personally throw his butt in one of our cozy cells. I gotta say, you sure picked the right person to invite to stay with you.”

  Cam grinned at Missy, and they high-fived each other.

  Cam said, “Missy, I’m going to tell you something that’s been kept out of the media and you need to keep secret, okay?”

  Missy cocked her head to one side, sending her hair cascading over her shoulder. “Yes, I can do that, Cam.”

  “The killer took all the victims’ computers and cell phones—and nothing else. He’s done that every time. I’m hoping you can help us figure out why.”

  “He took Deborah’s Toshiba? She was practically attached at the hip to that thing. She bought it with royalties from Mission: Impossible. I remember she was so proud. But I know that Doc was always making fun of her about how she documented her life on that freaking laptop, and only he and her parents cared. And she’d punch him and laugh. Oh, Cam!” And she threw herself against Cam, nearly sending her over backward.

  Cam held her, rubbed her back. And she waited. Missy shook her head, swiped her hands over her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just such a shock. And Connie was killed only six weeks ago.”

  “I know. Listen now, Missy, the police working the other murders haven’t been able to connect the victims through anything on their laptops. You knew both Connie Morrissey and Deborah Connelly personally. And you’d met Molly Harbinger in Las Vegas. Did you know any of the other actresses who were killed?” Cam repeated their names. “Davina Morgan, Melodie Anders, Heather Burnside?”

  “No. Isn’t it strange, though, that I knew three of them? There are so many of us trying to break into this business, thousands of us, I imagine, and we all sit around and talk and worry about how we’re doing. How we could improve our chances, who could
help us and how; who got a part at an audition, who didn’t, and why we didn’t, at least why we think we didn’t win a part we wanted. Stuff like that.”

  Cam felt a spark. “Show us what you have on your laptop, Missy.”

  34

  * * *

  “My laptop’s right here in the kitchen. Let me put on some tea and show you what I’ve got.”

  Once the kettle was on, they leaned over her as Missy booted up her laptop. “Lots of actresses use their cell phones, but I find the bigger screen is easier.” Missy’s screen filled with shortcuts, organized by type, in columns and rows.

  “Creative Artists Agency is right on top. That’s your agency, Missy?”

  “Yes, my agent’s with them. Dick North’s his name. They’re one of the largest.”

  “Heather Burnside was with them, too. Was Deborah?”

  “No, Deborah was with Abrams. And Connie was with a smaller agency, I don’t remember which one.”

  “It was Gush,” Daniel said. “A William Burley was her agent, for nearly three years, before her murder.”

  Missy nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Burley has a rep for a mover and shaker. She was lucky to have him.”

  Cam said, “SAG-AFTRA, what is that?”

  “That’s the new name of the Screen Actors Guild since they merged. You know, they represent actors, but just about everybody else, too—newswriters, dancers, DJs, voiceover people, everybody.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time on that site?”

  “Not really. I occasionally go on for some industry news. I think a lot of us spend more time on Backstage. They focus on casting, job opportunities, career advice. And the Hollywood Reporter.”

  Daniel said, “I see a lot of these shortcuts are to shopping sites, magazines. Do you post on any blogs, or on online forums?”

  “The only place I blog is on my Facebook fan page. I’m trying to build a fan base, so I go on and blog every couple of days and answer when people have comments. Anytime I win a part, I post it, along with any new photos to build up name and face recognition.”