Death on the D-List

by Nancy Grace

  Prentiss knew for a fact she did not smell like red meat. She smelled like her favorite perfume, Sensuous Musk. She put it on before every class with Rick-ay.

  Skinny bitches. They could take their mats and shove them for all she cared. But then, she got supreme satisfaction when she spotted them walking away from class. She took a little swerve at them in her SUV and they jumped away from the edge of the sidewalk. She just wanted to scare them a tiny bit.

  But forget about them. As long as Rick-ay wanted her in class, there on the front row, Prentiss was happy. Rick-ay was totally committed and inspired. She loved that. Even though she knew he was from Milwaukee, sweet boy, he might as well have been from Calcutta. His heart and soul were definitely Bengalese.

  Rick-ay was a devout follower who ascribed to Bikram Padhoury’s teachings to the letter, including keeping his studio at exactly the precise temperature prescribed by Padhoury, 101 degrees, but insisted the same type mirrors, carpet, and exact text be used during each and every hot yoga session. His dream (that he had shared with Prentiss) was to bring his discipline to Park Avenue with his own Multi-Specialty Physiotherapy and Accupressure Padhoury Method Yoga Studio. It was all so exciting.

  Plus, Rick-ay was ripped. She’d never seen a pair of glutes like what was on Rick-ay’s caboose. She begged and begged for repeat instructions on the Virabhadrasana II, commonly known by the masses as the Warrior Two yoga pose. It specifically worked Rick-ay’s glutes. Not that she’d ever do it on her own of course, but the view of Rick-ay in the Warrior Two pose was worth it.

  But no matter how much she came on to him, he seemed oblivious. For her last effort, she’d worn the skimpiest outfit possible, claiming she had to wear practically nothing to class because of the extreme heat and clothes trapped toxins in her skin. They simply couldn’t get out if she had on too many clothes. She approached him about her theories on yoga, then suggested they go to dinner.

  He suggested she should focus on improving her downward-facing dog.

  She hoped none of the paparazzi were straggling along, hiding in the bushes or between the other cars. They were relentless. And they’d do absolutely anything to catch her looking bad . . . or drunk. She parked out back and down an alley every single time she came, so as to hopefully avoid them and their long lenses.

  Wearing dark glasses and a scarf over her hair à la Marilyn Monroe, she made her way alone down the alley to her SUV. No matter what she was doing or where she was going, the press followed her. But, so far, so good. Their favorite trick was to act friendly, take a series of shots one after the other, then pick the one where she was mid-sentence or in the middle of blinking her eyes, and print that particular one so as to make her look drunk or stoned, with her mouth open and her eyes half-closed.

  The press was simply hateful. And when she did go to rehab, you’d have thought the world had come to an end. It was all “see, we told you so.”

  How she loathed them.

  She took one quick peek over her shoulder . . . The coast was clear. She hopped up into the driver’s seat of the SUV and glanced around for the gin and tonic she’d left in the glass holder between the seats. Ah, perfect, the ice was still floating around in the red plastic glass she’d pulled out of her kitchen cabinet that morning. She intentionally used the red plastic instead of clear so no one could see exactly what she was drinking.

  Prentiss pushed in a New Age CD to bring it down a notch and turned on the AC. She was sweating like a pig.

  Oh hell. Guess the sunglasses and scarf didn’t work. Here came a fan, bundled up head to toe in coat and scarf, rushing up to the side of the SUV with something, a piece of paper for her to autograph.

  Would it never end? Why did she have to be so famous? It was actually a curse to be a star.

  Prentiss wearily put on a brave face and pushed the button to lower the electric window. She stretched her arm out for the fan’s pen. She wished she had some lipstick. Maybe there was some in the glove compartment.

  The gun came out of nowhere. In fact, she didn’t even really hear the bullet being expelled from the chamber. The silencer on the weapon resulted in a noise just slightly louder than a trash can lid being dropped in the distance.

  The bullet sliced through her head, left temple first, front to back, left to right. It exited Love’s head just below and behind her right ear, lodging in the leather upholstered headrest cradling her skull. The coroner’s office would have to dig that one out with a knife, if they even thought of it.

  Behind her head, a dark, red stain was spreading down the car seat toward her shoulders and back, pooling at the seat. Thankfully, it was heading only down, not visibly out to the sides of her head. Blood came trickling down the left side of her temple. But delicately reaching inside toward Love’s face, a quick, careful rearranging of her long dark hair covered the thin, red rivulet completely. The silk scarf helped a lot.

  New Age music emanated out softly through the SUV’s speakers and the sound of some sort of bell tinkled over hushed harp strings. Blood and blow-back had spattered the inside of the driver’s side door, heading down to the carpet. Since the window was completely down at the time of the gunshot, none would appear on the glass to alert a casual passer-by.

  Was that a tiny bit of grayish pink brain matter on her cheek?

  The latex-gloved hand reached in once more, to wipe it away, opening the door just long enough to raise the window back all the way to the top, turn off the motor, and lock all four doors of the SUV with one punch to the automatic lock button located on the door’s elbow rest. The driver-side door shut firmly, but quietly.

  Walking briskly but casually down the alley to the intersecting street ahead, the urge to toss the latex gloves and gun into a big Dumpster just beyond Love’s SUV had to be wrestled down. That was the first place police would search. A nonchalant glance over the shoulder and down the alley confirmed not a soul in sight.

  Later on that morning and throughout the day, people passing by the SUV—the few New Yorkers who bothered to do a double-take—just thought it was Prentiss Love, poor thing, passed out drunk again.

  Chapter 13

  SO, BOTTOM LINE, DO YOU THINK IT’S THE SAME SHOOTER?” O’BRIEN looked at Lieutenant Kolker over the width of the diner’s table top, two cups of coffee steaming, black, between them. It had been a long night and this morning they saw the photos to prove it, in color, on the front of the Post. It was Prentiss Love, all right. Shot dead, and on his beat to top it all off. He worked the crime scene into the night.

  Kolker’s lack of response gave O’Brien the impression he was undecided, so he went on, more emphatically. “I mean, come on, first there’s Leather Stockton, now there’s Prentiss Love. Stockton’s a star, kind of, a D-Lister, anyways. Love is sort of a star. Hey, they’re both D-List celebrities! I hadn’t thought of that one!”

  O’Brien took a sip of the black brew, winced a little, and kept going. “I know we don’t have all the evidence from the other jurisdiction, the Hamptons, but look. Stockton’s a woman, Love’s a woman. Both shot, one bullet to the head. Both with a handgun, don’t know the caliber yet. Both within short range, well, fairly short range. Love was within twelve inches, based on the amount of gunshot residue, and a little stippling on the left cheek. Stockton within three feet. Not exactly the same, but still, Kolker, they’re both close range. Both boozers, both just out of bad relationships. Too many similarities not to be the same killer. And both within a month. What, are you blind?”

  “Sounds like you’ve been reading Snoop. Don’t know how those S.O.B.s got the scoop. Suffolk County PD better be looking at the reporter and the photographer as material witnesses, if not suspects. How the hell did Snoop get to the scene before the cops?”

  “Yeah. I was wondering that, too.”

  “But to answer your question, no, I’m not blind, O’Brien, I just want to be cautious and not stir anybody up into thinking we’ve got a serial killer stalking the city’s celebs, even if they are D-Li
st. We don’t need that.”

  “Have you heard anything about forensics yet?”

  “Too soon on the bullet.”

  “What about Stockton? There’s been plenty of time on that one.”

  “It’s Suffolk County. They gotta get their heads outta their butts first and figure out how to get the bullet to the crime lab without breaking the chain of evidence! Of course they haven’t gotten the caliber yet. Or at least they haven’t shared it with us! Last thing they want is NYPD trying to big-foot the only murder case they’ve had in five years.”

  “What about cell records and computer? Anything?”

  “I told you, it’s their baby. They’re not sharing. But the only text Love got that we haven’t been able to ID overnight is somebody named Jonathon. But from the body of the texts, it sounds like it’s some kid she befriended, maybe in high school. He wants another signed photo, talks to her about Celebrity Closets, talks about his classes, you know, stuff like that. Harmless. So, long story short, nothing in the texts so far.”

  “Is he a stalker? High school kids are weird these days. Look at Columbine for Pete’s sake.”

  “Nope. Nothing like that. They seem to have been texting for over a year. Must have given him her cell at one of those book signings or a red carpet or something.”

  “Yeah, that’s weird a fan would have her private cell number.”

  “A computer geek could find it online.”

  “Yeah. I know. That makes him a stalker in my book. But bottom line, are they connected?”

  “Nah. Doubt it. Just coincidence. Kid probably writes a lot of stars.”

  The waitress came by. “How much do I owe you, ma’am?”

  “For you, Kolker, it’s on the house. Come back when you can stay longer. We’ll have your favorite lemon meringue pie this afternoon.”

  The notoriety he got from the Hailey Dean case had made him a little bit of a celebrity. Whenever she was asked about the cops arresting her for the murders of two of her patients, she never once blasted him. It had been his big case, and he’d been so damn pig-headed. He was convinced she’d gone over the edge and started rubbing out her clients . . . although even the police shrinks had a hard time giving him a motive. It had to have been her.

  But it wasn’t. That perv defense lawyer had been behind it all. To hear Hailey tell it, NYPD was just doing their job. She could have torpedoed him, ruined him . . . if she wanted to. But she didn’t.

  He’d never had the guts to go and formally apologize, just sent flowers and peace offerings. And she always sent those back, always in the same box he’d sent them in. He didn’t really know what to say to her, alone, one-on-one.

  “Thanks, Sheila. Save me a piece.”

  The two cops got up, grabbed their jackets from the coat tree in the corner by the door and headed out. In twelve hours, they’d be back on duty.

  Chapter 14

  SO WHAT DID YOU DO FOR THE HOLIDAYS?”

  Fallon Malone’s BlackBerry emitted a sound like a tiny tinkling bell being played in the distance. Another text message.

  Malone looked down from one of the two TV screens directly in front of her elliptical machine. She was right in the middle of a Lifetime movie and didn’t want to be bothered. But maybe it was her agent . . . finally.

  It had been years since she got a script worth reading and now, due to her dwindling bank account and penchant for beautiful clothes, cars, and jewelry, she had to work.

  She’d even consider TV. She’d be great on a primetime soap. What did the Desperate Housewives have that she didn’t? Ridiculous. They should be kissing her feet.

  Even though she was in her mid-fifties, in her heart she knew she didn’t look a day over forty-one. She’d managed to scam the tabs about her true date of birth with a fake birth certificate, and lived in mortal fear that somehow, they’d dig up the truth.

  Maybe some sort of a reality series, focusing on her finding just the right Hollywood script, the right vehicle to showcase her talents.

  Ever since the role where she soaped down a red Vette on camera without the benefit of underwear, most of Hollywood believed her “talents” lay beneath her belly button and above her knees.

  The business was cruel. She had been stereotyped in the worst way. It was clearly a case of misogyny. They all hated her because she was beautiful. A beautiful woman has a hard time making it in the business world, Malone reminded herself as she reached for the BlackBerry.

  Oh, hell. It was that kid again. Jonathon. How in the hell had he gotten her number to start with? It had all begun when he said he was collecting stars’ autographs to fund some sort of Boy Scout charity. Or something like that. Maybe an illness was involved? Or a school project? Or the school band? He went on and on about the band.

  Whatever. Now the kid texted her fifty times a day, it seemed. She usually didn’t write back. And wouldn’t you know that if she ever wrote him a nasty note cutting him off, it would end up in the tabs that she was an evil shrew. More of what she didn’t need.

  She wrote back brightly, “Nothing much! Just enjoyed the holiday! Tried not to eat too much turkey!” She’d long ago learned not to ask him any questions like, “How’s school?” “How’s your family?” Or even “How are you today?”

  Even the most general and innocuous questions resulted in reams and reams of text messages back that totally clogged her BlackBerry. She dropped it into the elliptical’s magazine holder and got back to her movie. It was all about a marriage that went bad and the husband turns out to be a stalker. Again.

  She must have seen this one, or one just like it, before. But now she was invested in the characters and wanted to see the end. Damn Lifetime. That network sucked up every daylight hour.

  Bling-ding-ding. The BlackBerry tinkled again.

  “I thought you were a vegetarian!”

  Damn! Busted by a fifteen-year-old boy sitting at home in his room. What? Had he read every single article ever in existence about her? You could dig up twenty-year-old articles on the Internet, and apparently this kid made her his own personal research project.

  She’d told the press for years about all her healthy eating habits, how she did yoga for hours, went “clean” vegetarian, and only ate organic vegetables. No dairy, no gluten, no meat, no chicken, no fish . . . You had to live like a food monk to be “in” in this business. She had to hide if she even ate a French fry. If they ever got wind she ate cheeseburgers whenever she wanted, she’d be a laughingstock.

  “Oh, just joking! Ha, ha! It was Tofurkey! A tofu substitute!”

  Gritting her teeth, she punched in the letters and hit “send.” This was ridiculous. Could she block his never-ending text messages? But if she didn’t keep writing this kid back, the press could make hay over her breaking the heart of an Eagle Scout in Slidell, Louisiana, or wherever . . .

  No sense risking that. Sweat was rolling down her back. Why did this actress get a lead role on a Lifetime movie? She was horrible.

  She, Fallon Malone, would have been so much better. Were these people that blind? Couldn’t they see what a box office draw she still was? She’d even be willing to wash another car without a stitch on underneath . . . or a van . . . even an eighteen-wheeler . . . anything . . .

  Turning the volume up on Lifetime, she waited for the next BlackBerry jingle.

  Chapter 15

  THIS WOULD DRIVE HIS MOTHER CRAZY. THE FACT THAT HE, FRANCIS Merle McGinnis, was texting back and forth with Fallon Malone. And Malone wasn’t the only one. He texted, e-mailed, hand-wrote letters to them all. And they wrote back. Why?

  Because they were into him.

  He made it a ritual to devote time to each one of the women every day; he recorded every TV appearance he could find, even going so far as having a satellite dish installed to get hundreds more channels than local cable offered. Now Francis had access to thousands of channels on which to find them. Even the repeats. Of course, live TV was the best because then he could get fresh signals, message
s especially to him from the ladies via the airwaves.

  It was their secret. The casual viewer would never catch on. A tilt of the head, a wink of the eye, pushing hair back from the face or behind the ear, touching a necklace or earring—each move had significance. He loved communicating with them like this, and told them so in all the letters he sent. It was in the letters that he prearranged what each signal would mean. There were different love signals from each lady.

  They were into it.

  He had loved watching Celebrity Closets over and over. Prentiss was always gorgeous, but over the last few months, he had gotten really concerned she was dressing a little slutty. She was totally coming across as a tramp. Not that he’d ever tell his mother he agreed with her even in the slightest.

  He’d written to Prentiss several times about her image problem, nice, long letters. He had tried to stop her from looking so cheap, flaunting herself. She was ruining her image, plus other men could mistake the look for a come-on.

  After all, Prentiss was already taken. They’d had an intimate relationship for years, since long before Celebrity Closets hit the airwaves. He stuck with her through thick and thin. And what did she do? Wear low-cut blouses, tube tops, miniskirts, you name it. Plus, she flirted outrageously with the male celebrities and Francis was convinced she did a better job on their closets than she did for female celebrities. It was subtle, maybe the shelf liner was more upscale, more shoe space . . . Francis noticed details like these. Subtle . . . but important details.

  She even flirted with some of the workmen on the show, construction guys responsible for tearing down walls and building shelves. But that was all for ratings, it didn’t mean anything at all . . . and Francis had been very understanding and patient . . . up to a point. Then, he had to endure the trumped-up claim she’d had an affair with one of the young and talented celebrities whose closet she “designed,” but Francis stayed strong and sure enough, it all blew over.