Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)
Page 23
Autumn patted the black leather of her handbag, eager to find a private corner to examine its contents. Without questioning her, Andrew had run interference, drawing the others out of the room so she could rummage through Zoe's purse. In an exterior flap, she'd found a series of pages torn from one of the stage manager's prized Moleskins, containing short phrases in a tidy script.
Whatever the pages contained, Autumn knew that Zoe had died for them. She would not let it be in vain. She would find this bastard, no matter what it took.
"Where's V and Evan?"
"In her dressing room. Interview with the cops. You're up next, I assume," Andrew told her. "Barrington just arrived."
From down the hallway, a sudden burst of music blared. The melody was familiar and Autumn immediately searched her mental catalogue of song, struggling to identify it. It was one of those one-hit wonders, but there was something else... Something important...
"Somehow, 80s pop seems highly inappropriate right now," Andrew spat.
Autumn struggled to her feet, rubbing her aching side. "They wouldn't be playing it without a reason. And I want to know what that reason is."
Predictably, Andrew cut her off at the door. "You need to rest."
"I'll rest when this murdering asshole is behind bars. Get out of my way." With a half-hearted push against his chest, she crossed her arms and huffed. "Are you really going to dare me to wrestle you in my condition?"
Exasperated, he stepped aside. "Fine. But when your parents get pissed off, I'm telling them you kicked me in the balls to get your way."
Walking gingerly down the corridor, she could hear Zach Parsons talking with someone, clearly distraught. Focusing in on his voice, she was able to pick up snippets of the conversation.
"I always visit... They were here first, you can ask... YES. Yes, I did."
It was only when she turned the corner that she understood his emphatic shout: Barrington was with him now, and in her hand, she held out a composite sketch of a dark-haired man in a ball cap. Is that the guy Gabriel saw in the parking garage?
"So you saw someone matching this description?" the detective asked.
Zach nodded furiously. "About ten minutes before I came in, I parked my car and went to grab a pack of smokes. This guy, definitely shorter than six foot, nearly runs into me on the sidewalk before jumping into a red car parked in the alley on the south side."
"Did you happen to get a look at his face?"
"Not clearly. The cap was pulled low, and he wore sunglasses. Premium Ray-Bans, not the cheap kind. But his hair was kinda long and shaggier than mine."
Noticing they had company, Barrington directed her attention to Autumn and Andrew. "Ms. Brody and Mr. Daniels. Did you see anyone prior to entering the theatre?"
"No one at all. We must have come in when Parsons went to grab his cancer sticks," Andrew replied.
The music kicked in again—a stereo?—and a synapse fired. The dream. Sophia's loft. The clock chime. It had been tinnier in her vision, and more of a MIDI version of the catchy pop track than a recording of it, but the twinkling notes were identical.
"Do you know the song?" Barrington asked. "Does it mean anything to you?"
"Aside from it being the one and only single by Boy Meets Girl that anyone remembers, no. It was just driving me crazy not being able to name it," Autumn lied.
"She's a bit of a music guru," Andrew clarified.
"It was left behind by the suspect," Barrington informed them. "Along with another letter for Ms. St. Clair. She refuses to read it."
Barrington seemed a little ticked off by this denial. While Autumn knew that solving a murder was the detective's priority, she completely understood why her friend wouldn't want to hear a delusional justification of homicide in the name of winning her love.
"Veronica's my best friend. If there's anything in it that is meant to connect on a personal level, I'm sure I could help you." And then I can also figure out what the hell this guy is going to do next, she added silently.
"Liu! Can you bring the letter over here?" Barrington called into the room.
Autumn and Andrew shifted up against the wall as her snarky paramedic approached, wheeling a gurney. Her heart fell as she remembered the way Zoe looked: shattered, discarded, unwanted. It was impersonal and yet horrifying in its intimacy. He'd bludgeoned her with a prop, almost as if on a whim. The letter, the music—these were what warranted care and time. Heartless.
Officer Liu handed her the familiar cream-coloured stationery, bagged for evidence. Tilting it to minimize glare, she forced herself to read it.
Veronica,
You may believe you are clever, but with every passing day, I understand that you are merely a woman: flawed and frail. Surrounding yourself with a bevy of brutes to shield yourself from who—me? The one who appreciates you? The one who loves you as you are? I would be offended if it didn't all seem to me a child's game.
Quoting bad movies. Code names and songs from a tragic beauty. Do you identify with her because she, too, was a shining star who eventually fell? Do you fear her fate?
This is why you need me. I can keep you balanced between the desire to soar into the sun and burn, and gravity's irresistible urge to pull us closer to its chest.
You seem to love Whitney. This song was written for her, although she refused it. Perhaps she was too afraid to belong to anyone earthly.
Do not make the mistakes of the others, Veronica. I can only be so patient.
"Jesus..." Autumn glanced over at Andrew to steady herself. "How does he know all of this? The names, the jokes about The Bodyguard... Don't let Veronica see this. I'm begging you."
"Kevin has made sure that there are no devices in her apartment, dressing room or the vehicles they use," Andrew added quietly.
"Which means he's closer than we think," Autumn concluded anxiously.
Barrington nodded, handing the letter back to a forensics technician. "I seem to recall a momentary halt to the letters."
"Right after the security team was assigned to Veronica," Andrew confirmed. "No contact on Thursday at all."
"And no letter at Sophia Bradley's apartment," Autumn added. When Barrington raised an eyebrow, she elaborated. "If you'd recovered a letter at the scene, you would have asked Veronica to interpret it."
"That's correct. We've been operating under the assumption that the letter sent by courier to your hotel was meant to accompany the incident at the Bradley home."
"Wait, this lunatic sent you a letter by courier?" Parsons interrupted. "That's fucking creepy!"
Autumn bit back the urge to pot-kettle-black him. "Uh, yeah. It definitely wasn't on my list of New York vacation goals."
With a soft whimper, he punched the wall behind him and hung his head. "Zoe.. shit... She didn't deserve this." His gaze fixed on Autumn, his pain palpable. "Just because it was casual doesn't mean... I really liked her..."
"So did I, Zach.”
Flipping through her notebook, Barrington frowned. "So our next concrete contact with the suspect was a letter found in a makeshift dressing room at... Joe's Pub. A public place, although that area would have been somewhat restricted..."
Autumn mulled this over, assembling a quick mental timeline of events. Thursday... Evening performance, restricted movement. No access. Friday was my interview and the museum before her performance. Sophia disappeared Friday night. Saturday, Veronica had a double performance day and the benefit where Amanda...
In her mind, Sophia's words echoed from her dream: "I trusted. It was a lie." Who would actresses trust? Two of them had allowed a killer into their personal space. What was the lie?
"And then, he manages to slip a letter into her home, although this guy is capable of anything, it seems," Andrew added, disheartened.
"But if the stalker was capable of leaving the letters at home, why wouldn't it have happened sooner?" Barrington mused aloud. "With an actress' schedule, there would be plenty of opportunity to break in, wouldn't there?"
"Jeremy," she blurted out, suddenly queasy.
"Dixon? From your publisher?" Barrington asked.
She looked to Andrew, whose pallor confirmed her fears. "Jesus, Autumn... He drives a red Jetta."
Zach’s eyes widened. "Jetta? That car that buddy drove off in could've been a Jetta. Roughly that shape.”
"He drove us to Veronica's on Sunday," Autumn told the detective. "Offered to, even."
She pressed her back against the wall to steady herself, rewinding her interactions with the publicity rep. "If there are any issues, give me a call, day or night," he'd told her. Obediently, the moment she'd connected her book to the Sophia Bradley attack, she'd called him. She'd brought him right into the investigation, had given him authority over her actions in the media, as well as access to Veronica.
A hushed murmur erupted between the detective and two of the other officers on scene. Andrew ran his hand through his messy black waves, shaking his head in disbelief.
"He seems so nice. Do you really think—?”
Autumn cut him off abruptly as the gesture clicked with her. "Hair. Jeremy's hair. How did Gabriel describe the guy in the parking garage? A messy-haired guy, someone who needed a haircut."
"Buddy outside had hair in definite need of a cut. Like a 90s Keanu Reeves, only less cool," Zach interjected, his fists closing tightly.
The benefit. He'd not only known about it; he'd made a comment about it being a failed opportunity to garner interest in the film adaptation of Dissected. As someone involved in publicity, wouldn't it be his job to know how to gain access to the inaccessible people of the arts? Wouldn't it have made Amanda Lafleur ecstatic to think of beating out Veronica for the role, given her relationship to the author? Autumn buried her face in her hands, struggling to maintain composure.
"I trusted. It was a lie." Sophia haunted her now, her words heavy with meaning.
"Hey? What's wrong?"
Veronica. Autumn turned in the direction of her approaching friends, acid swelling within her and cresting in guilt. I helped him get closer to her. Oh, God. I endangered her! Fighting back the urge to cry, she hoped Andrew would speak for her.
"You okay?" Andrew dodged her question, shooting Autumn a look that made it clear he had no intentions of being the proverbial messenger, doomed to have a bullet lodged in his brain.
Veronica grimaced, leaning on Evan. "I'm exhausted and broken-hearted, but more than that, I am so fucking done with this shit. Do we have a lead? Anything?"
"Maybe..." Autumn gestured to the homicide department huddle unfolding a few feet away. "Ask them."
"Oh! Evan found a lead of sorts," Veronica announced. "Or proof of my idiocy. Or maybe the idiocy of those cops. Show them."
Evan held out an all-too-familiar tome, its cover dog-eared and worn. My book, Autumn noted sadly. The original ARC I gave Veronica. "Where did you find it?"
"Buried in a clothing chest in my dressing room. Hence my lack of faith in the boys and girls in NYPD blue," Veronica replied, her voice collapsing into a worried hush. "Autumn, are you feeling okay?"
If Veronica's ARC was never stolen, the stalker would have to be someone with access to my story. Kevin's team ruled out the bloggers, leaving only someone from Forked Creek Press...
Betrayed. She'd been betrayed again by someone whom she'd believed to be an ally.
"Detective Barrington!" she shouted frantically.
A hand flew up, halting the heated discussion around her. "What is it, Ms. Brody?"
"It's him. It has to be him," she insisted, taking a step forwards. "He matches the description. He knows my book at least as well as I do. He's had the opportunity... Damn it, he may have even used the book to gain access to Sophia."
"Who are you talking about?" Evan demanded.
"Jeremy Dixon. Her publicist," Andrew explained. "He fits. I didn't want to believe it, but it makes more sense than anything else. Now I think about it, he had no trouble finding Veronica's place, even down that weird stretch of back streets..."
"Jeremy? He was in my home," Veronica murmured, hugging herself. "He acted so concerned about Gabriel, about getting him safely home... Are you sure?"
Autumn wasn't certain of anything now, aside from a need to curl up in bed with the covers drawn tight over herself, blocking out everything wrong and evil with the world. The idea that Jeremy could have murdered two women and mutilated a third...
"I want a car over to his address right now," Barrington demanded, ushering an officer away. "Liu, maintain the integrity of this crime scene. I have to notify the next of kin. You five," she added, gesturing to Autumn's group and Zach, "are not to leave town. Go back to your respective residences, temporary and otherwise, and remain there until I contact you. Do not travel alone. Am I clear?"
"Come back to the hotel with us," Andrew urged their friends. "I know you just checked out, but he knows where you live. Even with Kevin—"
"You don't have to ask me twice," Veronica interrupted. "Let's get the hell out of here."
* * *
Folded pages were carefully smoothed out upon the floor, lined up from left to right along the electric blue carpet. Her fingers gingerly traced each crease as a twinge of guilt flooded her. These pages had deserved more care than a hurried shove into a crowded bag. They were filled with facts, names and dates, curated by a woman who wanted nothing more than to protect a member of her team.
Words from beyond the grave.
The details were sparse, the sources abbreviated with initials and nicknames meant to obscure identities in the wrong hands. Zoe Ferguson was a helpful ally, but also wise enough to protect her own interests.
"What do they say?" Veronica asked quietly.
"The first page is sourced to someone she calls Radar: '2013. Production of R and J'—assuming she means Romeo and Juliet. 'Understudy was repeatedly greeted at stage door by someone she called a creeper. Wouldn't say more about it or ID them; afraid to be replaced.' That makes me sad."
Veronica shrugged sadly. "But it's not surprising. This is such a cutthroat business. Jobs are hard to come by. If the understudy gig was the best she'd managed in a while, she wouldn't dare rock the boat or risk developing a reputation as a difficult actress."
"Not wanting to be the victim of harassment isn't being difficult; it's basic decency," Evan grumbled.
"Spoken like a good man who's never had to live the life of a woman," Autumn replied harshly. "Next page is from a source referred to as F.D. '2014, Once. Ensemble member complains of unwanted flowers. Assumes they're from an ex who keeps calling. Turns out the ex is getting hate mail and thinks she's to blame. Letters and flowers abruptly stopped.' That's creepy as hell."
"Agreed." Andrew placed a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it gently. "The last one?"
Autumn squinted at the page; the writing was hurried and difficult to decipher. "Hmm... Source is someone she calls Lollipop Guild... 'Three months ago - Avenue Q. Wouldn't name cast member. Says she began receiving flowers and love letters for weeks... Whoa, this one talked to their admirer, alright."
"Seriously?" Veronica leaned forward, struggling to read the page over her shoulder. "What happened?"
"Here's the part Zoe underlined: 'Stalker tried to ask her out. When cast member stated she had a girlfriend, stalker apologized and was never seen again.' This makes no sense. Veronica is clearly in a relationship. It isn't deterring this guy at all."
Veronica reached for her can of Diet Coke with a huff. "He has a name: Jeremy."
"We don't know that it's him," Evan reminded her.
"I
do," she replied angrily. "Because no one else makes sense. Right, Autumn?"
Gathering the pages from the floor, Autumn sighed. "As sick as it makes me to consider it, he really fits everything we know. He's unusually interested in my book and Veronica's situation; he matches two separate witness descriptions; he drives the right car... I don't know what to think anymore."
A knock on the suite door silenced the room. Andrew answered the door, peering through the peephole before releasing the security bolts and opening it. Outside stood Kevin, his tablet in hand.
"I think you all need to hear this," he announced ominously.
Stepping aside, Andrew let him in, locking the door behind him. "What's wrong?"
Gesturing to his tablet, Kevin grimaced. "A buddy of mine knows someone in the Midtown North Precinct. He's been keeping tabs on the investigation into Jeremy Dixon for me. Nothing we say here leaves this room, you understand?"
"Of course," Evan assured him. "None of us are taking chances with Veronica's safety."
With several swipes of the screen, Kevin began to read off what appeared to be an email, from Autumn's vantage point. "They got a judge to expedite a warrant for search and seizure on his place, arguing probable cause and the potential for him to destroy evidence relevant to a homicide. Once they stepped inside... Well, they confirmed that probable cause."
"So it's him?" Veronica needled.
"They found a copy of Autumn's novel, highlighted and annotated, particularly around the chapters involving attacks and killings. They also found stationery that appears similar to the paper used for the letters."
Andrew’s grip on the arm of the couch tightened. "Christ!"
"But the most damning part, aside from Dixon being missing and his closet torn apart, was in the bedroom..." Hesitating, he reluctantly explained. "He has a wall covered in photos."
"Of me?" Veronica's voice was scarcely a squeak.
At his nod, she lunged from the couch, rushing towards the bathroom and slamming the door. Evan immediately moved to follow, but Autumn waved him off. From experience, she knew Veronica would prefer the comfort of a friend over letting Evan watch her wretch. She gingerly rose to her feet, taking measured steps to the bathroom to avoid aggravating her injuries.