Hot Secret

by Sherryl Woods

  “I was doing my job,” he retorted, lifting his sunglasses so she couldn’t miss the banked fury in his eyes. “And the next time you decide to interfere, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  Molly gaped at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “You’re damned right. I wanted to put the fear of God into her in there. She knows something and I want to know what. With you and Meyerson rushing to her defense, she squirmed off the hook.”

  “She’s a human being, dammit. Not some fish you’re trying to reel in.”

  “She is a murder suspect,” he said flatly. “Maybe the best one we’ve got.”

  “She didn’t do it,” Molly countered.

  “Thank you for your unbiased, fact-based opinion,” he snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get over to headquarters so I can take a look at the reports Les just faxed to me.”

  “How are you going to get back?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, Otis Jenkins followed us over here in his car. He’ll take me. I think he’ll be very interested in what Les has to say about your innocent star.”

  Before Molly could demand to know what he meant by that, he’d crossed the street and climbed into Jenkins’s unmarked car, which was indeed waiting.

  Molly stared after them as the car’s tires spun on the dirt shoulder before making a U-turn and heading out at a speed a good twenty miles an hour over the limit. Molly hoped they bounced over a speed bump at that pace and had some sense knocked into their hard heads.

  • • •

  If Veronica Weston refused to answer Michael’s questions, there was one other person who had the same information, Molly realized as she brushed away yet another mosquito. After days of rain and weeks of still, hot, humid air, the pesky insects had multiplied into irritating swarms. The production assistant with the can of bug spray was the most popular man on the set.

  Duke Lane had raised the issue of some secret he and Greg Kinsey had shared involving Veronica. Molly had no doubt that his quick denial had been a lie. She walked down the dirt path from the set until she located his trailer parked in the scant shade offered by a row of Australian pines.

  Duke’s terse “Yes” was all she got in response to her knock. She opened the trailer door and stepped inside, savoring the dark interior and chill air. A flute sonata that Molly recognized as Mozart’s played softly.

  The actor was lounging back in a padded swivel chair, his feet propped on an ice chest. His hands were folded in his lap. A dog-eared, open book lay on his chest. Thoreau’s Walden. She would have considered it an odd choice had she not read that he was among those fighting to save the lovely, historic pond and its serene surrounding forest from developers.

  Molly couldn’t tell if Duke’s eyes were open or not. Despite the dim lighting, he was wearing his sunglasses.

  “We need to talk,” she said, taking the chair opposite him.

  “About cabbages and kings?”

  “About Greg Kinsey and Veronica Weston.”

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  “Why not? You obviously know something. Veronica’s terrified.”

  Duke whipped off his glasses, lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward, his expression intent. “You know the hell of it? I really did throw that comment out just to see what happened. I really don’t know a damned thing. I just picked up on some weird vibes about those two over the last few weeks. I took a chance that my observation would shake Veronica enough to get her to cooperate in that last scene. I was as stunned as anybody when she reacted the way she did.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about those vibes, then. What did you see or think you saw?”

  “You want a beer?”

  Molly shook her head. He opened the cooler, withdrew a light beer in a glass bottle, and popped off the cap. After he’d taken a long, slow swallow, he sat back in his chair.

  “I guess it started with the way Greg watched her. I mean the woman’s a beauty, especially for someone her age, but Greg always had this slightly awestruck look on his face. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really,” Molly admitted. “Maybe he’d always admired her films and was thrilled to be working with her.”

  Duke considered the explanation. “Oh, there was some of that. No doubt about it. But this was something else, something personal.”

  “Are you saying he was attracted to her? It wouldn’t be the first time an older woman appealed to a younger man.”

  “Hell, no. Greg had a type. Dark-haired, thin to the point of emaciation. Like Laura and that Italian model he fell for. He also liked to play the role of mentor, liked the adoration. Veronica doesn’t fit into that mold at all. She seemed to appreciate his talent, but she certainly wasn’t in awe of him.”

  “Are you saying this feeling, whatever it was, was more on Greg’s side than on Veronica’s?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Yeah. I think it was.”

  “How well did you know Greg?”

  “Professionally. We didn’t socialize, either before production started or since. We have different agendas.”

  “Meaning he chases women and you don’t,” Molly suggested with as much subtlety as she could manage.

  Duke grinned ruefully. “You can say it, Molly. I’m gay. It’s not something I bother to hide. People can accept me or not. My agent says I’m nuts to go public. He thinks it’ll hurt me in the long run, but so far I’ve done okay. I don’t regret being so straightforward about my sexuality.”

  “You tried to hide it when we were with Michael the other day. You referred to your squeeze several times in a way that implied it was a woman.”

  He shrugged. “Cops make me nervous.”

  “You guessed he was a cop? He hadn’t even been assigned to the case at that point.”

  “Observing people is what makes a good actor. I know all the signs. Besides, he had too many questions for some casual acquaintance of yours. I figured I’d play out the scene and see what happened.”

  “Okay, since you know, then you probably also know he wondered if you had a thing for Greg.”

  “So he said. I didn’t. Why waste energy on something that can’t be?”

  “But there is someone here with you? A man?”

  Duke nodded. “Don’t bother trying to speculate. He’s not on the film, not even in the business.”

  “But he is your alibi for Saturday night when Greg was shot. Have you told Michael about him?”

  “O’Hara has all the information he needs to conclude that I wasn’t anywhere near Miami Beach at the time Greg died. I’m sure he’s checked it out. He strikes me as a pretty thorough guy.”

  Molly nodded. “Which means if you are lying about what you know about Veronica and Greg, he’ll find out. He won’t be happy that you’ve withheld information.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  She gazed into his guileless eyes and decided that whatever else Duke Lane might skirt the truth about, he wasn’t lying about this. On some things she simply had to go with her instincts, and he had convinced her.

  “Yes,” she told him finally. “I believe you. But if you think of anything else, anything that might explain these feelings of yours about the two of them, will you pass it along?”

  “To you or the cop?”

  “I have a hunch the cop would prefer it if you gave the information to him firsthand.” She grinned. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it second, though.”

  Duke nodded. “That’s a promise, then.”

  She glanced at the table and spotted a cellular phone. “Mind if I make a call?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She dialed Liza. “I need another favor,” she said, when she got her. “I’m stranded out here on Virginia Key and I need to get over to the Beach. Can you pick me up and give me a lift to the police station over there?”

  “A break in the case?”

  “Could b
e. Michael’s friend in L.A. picked up on something and he’s checking it out now. He wouldn’t tell me before he left here.”

  “What’d you do to tick him off? Meddle in his investigation?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you’re on your way to do more meddling?”

  “Only if you’ll come get me. Otherwise I’ll be stuck over here dying of curiosity.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  Molly described the location and Duke’s trailer.

  “Can I meet him?” Liza asked. “We’ve crossed paths at a couple of these big environmental fundraisers, but we’ve never met. I’d like to tell him how much I admire his idealism.”

  “If you get here before Hank calls him to the set, I’m sure Duke would be happy to hear he has yet another fan.”

  “On my way.”

  Duke’s gaze had narrowed at Molly’s end of the conversation. “Not some teenybopper? You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Actually this fan admires your mind. She’s tackling the rain forest this month.”

  Duke sank back in his chair and replaced his sunglasses. “Call me when she gets here. I’m gonna meditate.”

  The hum of the air-conditioner had almost lulled Molly to sleep in the couple of minutes it took Liza to arrive. She and Duke compared notes on the environment, mutual friends, and the ozone layer while Molly stared longingly at Liza’s car.

  “Why doesn’t your friend just hang out here with me?” Duke finally suggested. “If she doesn’t mind lending you her car, that is. I’ll give her a lift home later.”

  Liza tossed the keys to Molly in mid-sentence. “I guess that’s a ‘Yes,’” Molly concluded. “I don’t suppose either of you has a theory about how I should get my own car back to Key Biscayne later?”

  “Have the hunk drive it,” Liza said.

  “The hunk?” Duke repeated with evident fascination.

  “Never mind,” Molly said hurriedly. “I’ll work it out.”

  If the look on Michael’s face when he and Jenkins tore away an hour before was any indication, she doubted she could count on the hunk for much of anything at the moment.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Before heading back to Miami Beach, Molly decided to make a quick run home to check on Brian. Although Kevin’s mom looked after both boys during the summer, she worried about his becoming in essence a latchkey kid. Fortunately, Brian had become a favorite of Nestor, the condo’s head of security. He was a former Nicaraguan Freedom Fighter, and she knew no harm would come to her son as long as Nestor was on duty.

  She pulled up in the circular drive in front of the building and parked the car. Nestor greeted her with a worried look and a barrage of Spanish. The only word she understood clearly was esposo.

  “Whose husband?” she demanded of the obviously distressed guard. “Not mine? Here?”

  “Sí, sí,” Nestor said. “Senor DeWitt. Aquí.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Molly said and took off at a run. What was Hal up to now?

  Upstairs she found her son planted on the sofa. A stubborn, sullen expression on his face exactly matched that on his father’s. Hal was pacing, his long angry strides taking him from living room to dining room, from the front door to the balcony’s sliding glass doors.

  “Brian, go to your room, please,” Molly said, every muscle in her body tied in knots.

  He didn’t waste a second complying, which told her just how tense things had been before her arrival.

  “What are you doing here, Hal?” she said quietly, determined to fight the urge to scream at him at the top of her lungs.

  He glared at her belligerently. “I came to see my son.”

  “Why were the two of you arguing if it was as simple as that?”

  “He wanted me to leave with him,” Brian said from the hallway. Obviously he’d never made it all the way to his room.

  “Okay, Brian, leave us alone now, will you?”

  He looked undecided.

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “I promise.”

  As soon as she was certain he had finally gone, she whirled on Hal. “Don’t you ever, ever do something like this again. If I have to I’ll go to court, have our custody agreement invalidated, and get a restraining order against you.”

  “You weren’t here. What the hell difference does it make to you if I spend a few extra hours with my son?”

  Molly took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “If I thought for one minute that was all you’d intended, I would be delighted. Brian would be thrilled.”

  “What makes you think it was anything more?” he said sullenly.

  “The fact that you came roaring in here on Sunday threatening to take him away. The fact that you usually cancel half the days you’re supposed to spend with him. The fact that you haven’t called him once except on Friday nights to let him know when you’ll pick him up. Should I go on?”

  Hal remained stonily silent.

  “You don’t want a son,” she said in a low voice. “You want a weapon to hold over my head, and I can assure you, Hal, that I will never, ever allow you to use Brian that way. He’s a great kid and he still loves you. Don’t do anything to cost yourself that love.”

  Hal sighed and sank down on the sofa. He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “All this stuff you get yourself mixed up in, it makes me crazy. What’s happened to you?”

  Molly regarded him sadly. “I’ve grown up.”

  “You consider it grown-up to get yourself involved in two murder investigations within six months?”

  “Dammit, Hal, I don’t go out searching for dead bodies. But when something like these murders happens, I’m going to do whatever I can to see that the killer is caught.”

  “That’s why we have police, or hadn’t you heard? Maybe that’s the real truth. You’ve got thehots for that Cuban cop who was hanging around here on Sunday.”

  “Whether I do or don’t is none of your concern. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to spend a few minutes with Brian before I go back to work. You can let yourself out.”

  With that she left him where he was sitting and went to Brian’s room. She found him staring at a video game on the TV screen. Some kind of ooze was swallowing up the good guys and her son was doing nothing to stop it. She sat down beside him.

  “You okay?”

  “I guess.” He looked at her solemnly. “He wanted me to go home with him. I told him I couldn’t, not without asking you.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I don’t have to go, do I?”

  “Of course you don’t have to go. Not today. But your father does love you. Sometimes he just doesn’t see how to let you know that. Can you try to remember that and give him a chance?”

  “I love him, too, but not when he acts all crazy the way he did today.”

  “He did that because he was worried about you and mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks because Greg Kinsey was killed that you might be in danger too.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “I know that and you know that, but your dad worries. Remember how you used to be scared of the dark until he showed you that there was nothing hiding in the closets or under the bed? We need to show him that the things he’s scared about aren’t there either. Okay? Can you help me do that?”

  He swiped his tears away with the back of his hand. “Has he gone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can I go to Kevin’s now?”

  She ruffled his hair, which was about as much affection as he would allow these days without squirming. “You bet,” she told him. “I’ll try to get home early. We’ll order a pizza.”

  “Neato,” he said, his grin back in place. “See you, Mom.”

  “Yeah, see you.” I love you, she said to herself.

  • • •

  A half hour later Molly stood outside Jenkins’s office and tried to work up the courage to knock on the door. Not only did Michael look busy, he looked angry.
Either the papers in front of him didn’t contain the information he’d hoped for or it was worse than he’d expected. She figured it was a toss-up as to which it was. The only way to find out was to go inside.

  She opened the door and stepped into the cramped room. “Should I go or stay?” she asked when he finally looked up.

  “Stay,” he said grimly. He waved in the general direction of a chair buried under layers of files.

  “Wasn’t the report what you’d hoped it would be?”

  “It’s interesting,” he said, tossing it over. “Take a look.”

  Surprised, Molly took the faxes and began to read through them. They were the investigator’s reports on Jeffrey Meyerson. While they didn’t offer anything concrete to prove that he hadn’t sneaked into town, shot Kinsey, and then feigned a much later arrival, they also shot the hell out of the theory that he’d latched on to Veronica for her money.

  Jeffrey Meyerson owned enough property in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, and Malibu to support a hundred households in lavish style. He’d inherited some, parlayed his investments into a level of wealth that few men even imagined, and shared his bounty with half the charities in Los Angeles. He had an apartment in Rome, another in Paris, one in London, and an entire floor in a co-op facing Central Park in New York.

  According to half a dozen bankers, real estate experts, and civic leaders, the only tarnish on Meyerson’s glittering record was a brief bout with an addiction to pain-killers prescribed following a particularly nasty bumpy landing of his private plane. He’d considered that a warning and had sold the jet thereafter and booked himself into first class on commercial flights. His most recent had been on Saturday night into Miami.

  He had never dabbled in Hollywood’s riskiest business, films, until this past year when he’d taken a gamble on a small studio that reportedly insisted on a high level of artistic integrity.

  Molly glanced up. “Let me guess. That studio was financing this picture for GK Productions.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Is that how Veronica got the part?”

  “Les says everyone at the studio is very tight-lipped about which came first, the financing or Greg’s casting of Veronica.”