The quiet seriousness in Leigh’s voice took Dayle by surprise. What she said hit close to home. Dayle tried to laugh and shrug it off. “My God, Leigh, how did we get so—heavy all of a sudden?”
Leigh sat back and smiled. “It’s just part of that dream I was telling you about, Dayle. You know, the heart-to-heart talk? I know it sounds corny, but I’d like us to be friends.”
Dayle took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “It is corny, but I’d like that too.”
Living in Hollywood for the last sixteen years had made Dayle cautious. People she met always seemed to want something else from her. But all Leigh Simone wanted was her friendship.
They talked for fifteen more minutes. Leigh had snuck away from her party, and needed to rejoin her guests. She suggested meeting in the morning for a late breakfast. But Dayle had an early flight.
“Well, I’ll be back in L.A. this week,” Leigh said, standing in the doorway. “Let’s do dinner. We’ll really blow our diets, burgers and fries.”
“It’s a deal,” Dayle said, grinning. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
Leigh nodded. “Okay, but you better be careful about seeing too much of me, Dayle. Don’t forget, I have a reputation.”
They laughed and hugged. Dayle felt a twinge of concern. Indeed it might add more fuel to those career-damaging rumors if she were seen with Leigh. She told herself it didn’t matter—at least it shouldn’t have mattered.
She squeezed Leigh a little tighter, and kissed her cheek. They said good-bye once more. Smiling, Dayle watched her saunter down the hall. Then she stepped back inside her suite, and closed the door.
Someone knocked on the door less than three minutes later. Dayle was at the honor bar, ready to pour herself a brandy. “Leigh? Is that you?”
She checked the peephole. It was a young man in a waiter’s uniform. “Room service, Ms. Sutton!” he called.
Dayle opened the door. The hotel badge on his waiter’s jacket showed the name, Brian. With dark hair and dimples, he was quite a handsome young guy. He carried a large tray with a champagne bottle on ice, two flute glasses, and a basket full of fruit, crackers, salami, and cheeses.
“You’re a little late,” Dayle said.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton. The champagne and the food basket are compliments of the management. It’s our way of apologizing for the delay.”
She opened the door wider. “Tell management not to sweat it. C’mon in.”
He set the tray on the desk. “May I open the champagne for you?”
“Yes, thanks.” Dayle fished a few dollars out of her purse while he popped open the bottle. She started to hand him the money.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” the young man said. Reaching inside his waiter’s jacket, he pulled out a small black book and a pen. “In fact, I’d rather get your autograph—if that’s okay. I kind of collect them.”
Dayle took the little book—opened to a blank sheet. She turned back a page: To Brian, A Very Special Guy, Sincerely, Tony Katz. Dayle smiled. “I see you met my buddy, Tony Katz.”
“His suite was below this one. He was a good friend of yours, huh?”
“Only in a show business way.” She took the pen from him and scribbled in his autograph book, To Brian, Many Thanks, Dayle Sutton.
“I saw you on the news tonight,” he said. “You were reading those letters about Tony. It got me thinking about him again. I delivered dinner to his room a couple of times. He—um, well, he made a pass at me.”
“Well, consider it a compliment.” Dayle handed the book back to him.
The young man blushed and glanced down at the carpet. “Y’know, I’m not gay. I—I have a girlfriend. I went to school in Texas, and all my friends—to them, queers are about as low as you can get.”
Dayle frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you were his friend. And I have to tell somebody or I’ll go nuts. Tony knew he was going to die. These people threatened to kill him.”
“Tony told you this? When?”
Brian hesitated. “After we—well, we messed around a little. I was explaining to Tony about my college buddies, and what they think of queers. Tony said that a bunch of ‘good old boys’ can take turns humping a heifer in a pasture and it’s a bonding thing, but if two of those guys are caught kissing, then they’re sick perverts. He was making fun, y’know, sarcastic?”
Dayle just nodded.
“Then he got serious, and he told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay. They said that the whole world would know he was a fag. And it’s just what happened.”
“What do you mean, ‘they’? Was it more than one person?”
“That’s the way it sounded.” Brian’s voice started to crack. “God, it could have been me who was murdered with him out there in that forest….”
“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. My girlfriend, my friends—”
“Didn’t the police or FBI interview you? I’d think they would.”
“They only talked to the people who were working that night. I didn’t come in that Thursday.”
“You should be talking to the police, not me,” Dayle said.
“Couldn’t you talk to them for me?” he asked. “You could say that Tony told you about the death threats. That way, I’d stay out of it. And people would believe you, because you were his friend and you’re a movie star—”
“Wait a minute, honey—Brian.” Dayle touched his arm. “I wasn’t that close to Tony. Even if I was, I wouldn’t wait two weeks after his murder to come forward with news about these ‘death threats.’ It doesn’t make sense.”
The young man looked so utterly lost. He kept shaking his head.
“I want to help,” Dayle said. “But I can’t go to the police for you, Brian. That won’t work. If you want, I can have a lawyer talk with you—”
“Are you saying that I need a lawyer?” he asked warily.
“Only someone to give you legal advice when you go to the police—”
“No, I can’t go to the police. I can’t do that.” Turning away, he opened the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’m sorry—”
“Wait…wait a second. I want to help you, Brian—”
He ducked into the hallway and closed the door on her.
Jarnell Cleary had been a maid with the Imperial Hotel for five weeks, and she hated it. Scrubbing out toilets at the crack of dawn was not how she’d planned to spend her young life. But only twenty-nine more weeks of this crap, and she and her boyfriend could afford a trip to Europe together. She was thinking about Paris as she wedged opened the women’s rest room door.
At the moment, there were only two other people on the mezzanine level, both of them janitors. Backing her cart through the doorway, Jarnell realized she had her work cut out for her. The place stunk, a rank odor. Someone had left a faucet on; she could hear the water trickling. The overhead lights had gone haywire and kept flickering on and off.
Jarnell almost tripped over the trash can, lying on its side. Garbage was strewn across the floor. She glanced over toward the sinks. Across the mirror, someone had scribbled in lipstick: LIES! LIES!
One of the sinks was stopped up with paper towels, and overflowing. Water dripped down to the tiled floor. Jarnell accidentally stepped in the puddle as she crept toward the first stall. By the toilet, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. Jarnell pushed the stall door open. She saw a fancy gold slipper on the floor. Beside it was a hypodermic syringe.
In the next stall, Jarnell glanced down at a purse lying on its side. Maybe it was because of the blinking lights, but she didn’t notice anything else. She started into the next stall, expecting it to be empty.
Her shriek echoed off the tiled walls.
A woman sat on the toilet, her head tilted back and legs spread apart. Her black capri pants had been unzipped on the side, but not pulle
d down. The front of her tuxedo blouse was splattered with gray vomit.
At first, Jarnell thought the lady had passed out. But then the lights flickered bright again, and she could see it was Leigh Simone—with her tongue drooped over her lips, and a dead stare from those olive-green eyes.
Four
At 7:15 A.M., on Friday, October 10, the following Internet conversation appeared on Bullpen, a baseball historian’s chat line:
FRANK: I still say The Babe was the greatest player ever.
JETT: But Hank Aaron broke Ruth’s record with home run # 715 on 4/8/74.
PAT: Breaking records doesn’t necessarily make a player great.
RICK: Request private chat with Pat.
Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:19 that Friday morning:
PATRIOT: Speaking of niggers and records…there’s a nigger singer who ain’t making records any more…no more rallies for queers either.
AMERICKAN: Watch what U say. Will there B enough humiliation 4 subject once L.S. is discovered?
PATRIOT: Yes…went smoothly…her assistant’s cooperating.
AMERICKAN: Good…you’ll B coming to L.A. within week…work begun on A.C…details 2 follow…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.
Avery Cooper shivered as he climbed out of the pool. He hiked up his dark blue trunks and threw a towel over his shoulders. As a little reward for finishing his morning laps, he gulped down a glass of orange juice.
Catching his breath on the pool deck, he glanced up at the back of his house, a beautiful two-story, Spanish white stucco. Avery reminded himself how lucky he was. The high-class hacienda had belonged to a big-name record producer, bankrupt after a misguided venture into filmmaking. Avery and Joanne had bought the place for a song. At least that was what his parents had said, and they were in the real estate business.
Married forty-two years, Rich and Loretta Cooper were still crazy about each other. Lo worked as a receptionist in Rich’s office. Business was booming in Fairfax, Virginia. But they managed to have lunch together every day—sometimes later or earlier than they wanted, because a house needed to be shown; but they hadn’t missed a lunch together in seventeen years.
It was a far cry from Avery’s married life—with Joanne gone for months at a time. Sure, when they were together, the honeymoon went on and on. But he was lonely and miserable most of the time. And he had to keep reminding himself how goddamn lucky he was. After all, who wouldn’t want his life? He was paid an obscene amount of money to work at something he loved. And he used his celebrity clout to advocate important causes. His gun-control commercials with Joanne made a difference.
Avery had a good friend in junior high school named Jimmy Fadden. Along with his sister and mother, Jimmy had stopped by for dinner one April night at an upscale burger joint called The Checkered Pantry, outside Fairfax. Avery had eaten there dozens of times—often with Jimmy. But he wasn’t there that warm spring evening when a crazy man with a gun stepped into the restaurant and started shooting. He killed seven people and wounded six more before turning the gun on himself. Mrs. Fadden and nine-year-old Gina were among the seven fatalities. Jimmy took a bullet in the spine and spent the rest of his life a paraplegic. He told Avery that he’d been yelling at his kid sister for swiping fries from his plate when he’d heard the first shot.
Mr. Fadden remarried, and the family moved away when Avery was in high school. But he’d been thinking of Jimmy when he made Intent to Kill, about the doctor paralyzed by a gunman’s bullet outside an abortion clinic. Amid all the hate mail, he also received a letter from Jim Fadden, complimenting him for his accurate portrayal of a paraplegic, and thanking him for his work advocating gun control.
The poison-pen letters had tapered off, and neither Joanne nor he had come across any more dead mice calling cards. They’d sent her bodyguard packing. Joanne had been home a week now. She wanted to stay awhile and work on having a baby. They’d been working on it all week.
Avery glanced up at the bedroom windows. The veranda doors opened, and Joanne stepped out on the balcony. She wore a long, teal silk robe. Her brown hair neatly fell down over her shoulders. Even from the distance, Avery could see she’d put on lipstick and mascara. She looked beautiful in the soft morning light. “Hey, sweetie, why are you up so early?” he called.
In reply, Joanne let the robe drop to the floor. She was naked.
Avery stared at her, mesmerized. She was a vision. After a moment, he threw off his towel, shucked down his swim trunks, and scurried over to the diving board. He was already semierect.
Joanne laughed, and covered her breasts from the cold. “Hurry up! I’m freezing!”
Avery thumped his chest like Tarzan, then dove into the water. He quickly swam the length of the pool, pulled himself out of the water, and ran naked into the house. He left a trail of water as he raced up the stairs, where Joanne waited for him at the landing, her arms open.
Lying with her legs up in the air after sex was supposed to increase her chances of conceiving. Joanne assumed this position at the foot of their bed. Avery’s body had been wet and slick with pool water, so they’d made love on the floor.
Avery propped a pillow under Joanne’s back, and tucked the silk robe around her. He knew other couples who had problems conceiving, and for the husbands, the sex-on-a-schedule became a tiresome ordeal. But Joanne worked to make it fun. The only thing Avery didn’t like was having to produce on demand sperm samples for their fertility specialist.
They had nearly a dozen specimens stored at a lab, just the answer for a bicoastal couple trying to conceive. It was Joanne’s idea—for when she was ovulating and out of town. His “little swimmers” were kept on ice, ready—if he wasn’t—at a day’s notice for shipment out to the East Coast. So far, she hadn’t dipped into that reservoir yet.
Stepping into his undershorts, Avery figured he’d shower later in his trailer. He was due on the set in an hour. He kept picking up a bad odor in the room—someplace. “Do you smell something funny?” he asked.
Joanne adjusted the pillow beneath her back. “Yeah, now that you mention it. It’s like spoiled food or something.”
Avery went to the balcony doors and opened them again. Their bedroom had tall windows curved at the tops, mission-style furniture, and a thick, woven rug. Mexican tiles framed the small fireplace.
“I had a call from Saul yesterday,” Joanne said. “That new play he sent, it’s pretty good. He wants me to fly out there next week for a reading.”
Avery turned from the doors and frowned at her. “But you just got back from New York six days ago—”
“Now, don’t flip out. It’s nothing definite. It’s just a reading—”
“How can you expect us to make a baby when we’re hardly ever together? Do you really want to have a baby?”
Joanne pointed to her legs in the air. “No, it’s just an excuse to lie here like this. I find it very comfortable.”
With a sigh, Avery pulled on a T-shirt. Starting a family had been his idea. He’d originally talked with Joanne about it a year ago, when she’d returned home depressed over a Broadway show that had gone down in flames. She’d said she was ready, but when they’d run into difficulties conceiving, she’d retreated back to The Great White Way and another play. That one had been a hit, and she’d been gone eleven months.
“I just wish we could be together—in the same place—for a while,” Avery grunted, zipping up his trousers. “I’m tired of all the flying back and forth. You know, for every trip you’ve taken out here, I’ve seen you in New York five times. Check my frequent flier points. I could fly first class to Jupiter on the mileage I’ve accrued.”
“I wish you wouldn’t pick on me.” Joanne lowered her feet. “You know, I’m off the antidepressants while we try for junior here. It hasn’t been a picnic for me. How often have we had this argument anyway? I mean—”
The telephone rang.
Joanne sighed. “Ah, saved by the bell.”
Avery grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Avery Cooper?” It sounded like a spaced-out teenage boy. “You’re a fucking asshole and your wife’s a pig.”
Avery hung up, then glanced at Joanne, who started to sit up. “Don’t answer if it rings again.” He ran out of the room.
“What? Was it a crank? Watch the water on the stairs!”
Downstairs, Avery checked the caller ID box in his study. The number had been blocked. The phone rang again. Avery stood over the answering machine, waiting for it to click on. When it did, the caller hung up.
Libby—or someone she’d paid to do her dirty work. Avery’s number-one fan had not taken graciously the officious letter from his agent telling her to cease and desist. She’d left a phone message the day he returned home from Vancouver two weeks back: Hello, Avery. This is Libby. I got a mean note from your agent or whoever. You’re really an asshole, y’know? I spent a lot of money on you, and this is the thanks I get. I should have realized what a shit you are when you did that awful pro-abortion movie on TV. Oh, and those gun-control commercials with you and your stupid wife. I own a gun and I’d like to use it on you, only I won’t. You aren’t worth being locked away in jail for. You can just go to hell.
The calling number had been blocked.
In case he hadn’t gotten the message, she’d dropped something in the mail to him—the autographed portrait he’d originally sent her. The photo had been torn in half and the eyes cut out.
After going to bed that first night back, Avery heard a noise outside—from the front of the house. He tossed aside the covers and crept into the guest room. From the window, he spied two teenage punks scurrying across the moonlit lawn toward the front gate. Avery immediately called the police.
The teenagers, who managed to elude the cops, were only errand boys. They’d delivered three gift boxes to Avery’s door, items he’d returned to Libby. But the Ralph Lauren sweater had ketchup splattered all over the front of it; a sportshirt had been slashed to pieces; and an expensive jogging suit had been partially torched—with ashes still in the box.
The Next to Die Page 5
