“I could use some coffee,” Ross whispered to Dayle. “You want coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Dayle sat down at the table.
Ross settled next to her. He knocked on the table until the Asian woman looked up. “Honey, I’d like a cup of coffee, cream and sugar if you’ve got it.”
The Asian woman nodded and smiled. But she didn’t stand up.
“Don’t call her honey,” Dayle muttered. “You know that pisses me off.”
“Me too,” the Asian woman said. She shot a look at one of the cops. “Frank, get this asshole some coffee.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Linn.” He hurried out the door.
Dayle let out her first laugh since she’d stepped off the plane.
The woman turned to Dayle and her lawyer. “Well, you heard the man,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn of the LAPD. I’ve been on the phone with the Portland Police Department since six forty-five this morning. I’m handling the investigation of Leigh Simone’s death on this end.”
Ross cleared his throat. “I’m here as counsel to—”
“I know why you’re here, Mr. Durlocker,” the lieutenant cut in. “You’re Dayle Sutton’s lawyer. I’ll forget about your ‘honey’ crack if you forget what I called you. Now, let’s cut to the chase. According to findings from the Portland police, Leigh’s death was from an overdose of heroin—accidental or a suicide, they’re still not sure.”
Lieutenant Linn folded her hands and smiled at Dayle—the same smile she’d given Ross just seconds before calling him an asshole. “Now, Ms. Sutton. Since you were at the rally last night with Leigh, we wanted your cooperation in answering a few questions. It wouldn’t have taken long. Of course, that was before you decided to share with the press your opinion about this case.”
“I meant what I said,” Dayle replied coolly.
“Your reputation for being forthright precedes you,” the lieutenant said, glancing at her steno pad. “What makes you think, all evidence to the contrary, that Ms. Simone’s overdose was—as you put it—‘not self-inflicted?’”
Dayle leaned forward. “Leigh met me for a drink in my room late last night.” Ross and the cops were staring at her, perhaps wondering about the lesbian angle; but Dayle didn’t care. At least, she tried not to care.
“Go on,” the lieutenant said. “I’m listening.”
“We talked for thirty minutes or so,” Dayle explained. “Leigh mentioned rumors about her sex life that simply weren’t true. She said she didn’t use drugs, and joked about being a ‘disgrace to the rock star profession.’ She wouldn’t even take a drink when I offered. When she left my room at around eleven, she was in a good mood, not at all on the brink of suicide.”
“So you two said good-bye at eleven o’clock,” Lieutenant Linn remarked, glancing down at her notepad. “Did Ms. Simone say where she was going?”
“Back to her suite, her party.”
“She never returned to her suite. It looks like you were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive.”
“Except for the people who killed her,” Dayle said,
“Ms. Sutton, Leigh’s fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She’d trashed that ladies’ room, and scribbled a note on the mirror in her own lipstick. Do you know what she wrote?”
Dayle shook her head.
“She wrote the word Lies twice. What do you think she meant?”
“Perhaps she didn’t write it,” Dayle said.
“Perhaps she did. Perhaps she’d been lying to you about not using drugs. How well did you really know Leigh Simone?”
“We met for the first time yesterday—after the concert. But I could tell she wasn’t lying to me. Why should she?”
Ross’s coffee finally arrived. The detective set it down in front of him. Ross pried off the lid and grumbled that he’d wanted cream and sugar.
“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Dayle muttered, swiping the Styrofoam cup from him. She took a sip. The stuff fortified her a bit. She put the cup down. “Lieutenant, I might not have been in that rest room this morning. But I was with Leigh Simone last night. And the woman who left my suite was in a great mood, very much full of life. Your people in Portland ought to be looking into that hotel. Tony Katz was staying there the night he was murdered. And I happen to know that Tony was receiving death threats. Maybe his murder wasn’t as random as it seemed. First Tony, then Leigh. Doesn’t anyone in the Portland police or the LAPD see a connection here?”
“With the hotel? We see a coincidence. Where did you get this information about death threats toward Tony Katz?”
Dayle hesitated. “From someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“That’s not much help.”
“But it should cast doubt on your theory that Leigh killed herself. Somebody connected with the hotel could have been involved in both deaths.”
Lieutenant Linn shut her notebook and sighed. “Ms. Sutton, I’m not investigating the death of Tony Katz. The Columbia County Police in St. Helens, Oregon, are handling that one. The bodies of Mr. Katz and his friend were discovered in a forest preserve seventy-five miles away from Portland and the Imperial Hotel. That was a double homicide. Leigh Simone took an overdose of heroin.” The lieutenant gave her a perfunctory nod. “I want to thank you for your time, Ms. Sutton.”
“Wait a minute,” Dayle said. “Is that all?”
Lieutenant Linn nodded. “I’ll send this information on to Portland.”
“And it won’t change anyone’s mind up there, will it?”
Linn got to her feet. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Sutton. What you’ve said hasn’t changed my mind. I still think Leigh Simone took her own life. Despite what Ms. Simone might have told you, we know she was troubled about her sexuality and that she used drugs—including heroin.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Dayle said, rising from her chair.
“No, that’s gospel—according to someone who has known Ms. Simone for six years. We got it from her personal assistant, Estelle Collier.”
“I want a powwow with Estelle Collier ASAP,” Dayle told Dennis over the phone in the back of her limousine. Hank was in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the airport terminal.
“You want to meet with Estelle? Leigh Simone’s assistant?”
“Yes. I’m sure everyone and their brother are trying to see her this morning, but do what you can. I need to talk to her.”
“Want me to get you an audience with the pope while I’m at it?”
“We’re not talking. What’s my schedule like today?”
“Mildly horrifying. You were due on the set an hour ago. You have a lunch date with Maggie McGuire that I better cancel. Nearly every reporter in the free world wants to talk to you regarding Leigh Simone. And there’s about a ton of other crap, but I took care of it.”
“Thanks, you’re a prince,” Dayle said. “One more favor. I want to talk with Tony Katz’s widow, Linda Zane. She’s someplace in Greece. See if you can dig up a phone number.”
“Will do. When can we expect you on the set?”
“We just left LAX. I’m on my way.”
“What were you saying back there?” Ross barked into his cellular. He sat behind the wheel of his Miata, a mile ahead of Hank and Dayle on Highway 405, near Culver City. “Do you really believe that Leigh Simone was murdered? That both Tony Katz and she were victims of some sort of conspiracy?”
“Maybe. For lack of a better word, call it a conspiracy.”
“Dayle, do you realize how nuts that sounds? One was gay-bashed. The other took an overdose. Except for the city and the hotel, there’s no connection. Let’s just drop this. The police are handling it. I don’t want to sit through another session with Lieutenant Tokyo Rose, not on this. Besides, you hardly even knew Tony or Leigh. They both have a—a stigma attached to them. The wise thing to do right now is play down your brief association with Leigh—if you get my drift.”
“No, Ross. What is your drift?”
“As it is, peop
le are going to talk about you and Leigh. Why give them more ammunition? I’m not your PR man, but even I can see that it won’t do your image any good to keep harping on this whole Leigh Simone situation. It’s bad press, box office hari-kari. Am I getting through to you?”
She had to salute Ross for his tact. He’d managed to put his point across without calling anyone a lesbian. “You sure sound like a PR man, Ross,” she remarked.
“No, I’m your lawyer. I’m the one who’ll have to sue some tabloid to put an end to the talk. And you’re not making it an easy case to win, Dayle.”
She told herself that gossip about her didn’t matter, but it did. “Listen, Ross,” she said. “Leigh didn’t do drugs, and she wasn’t gay. Her assistant is lying on both counts.”
“Well, why in the world would Estelle Collier lie?”
“I don’t know,” Dayle said. “But I’m going to find out.”
Six
Libby Stoddard didn’t look like an heiress. The plump twenty-seven-year-old had frizzy brown hair and a face that might have been pretty if she didn’t appear perpetually bored. Her idea of dressing up for this meeting was a ratty black pullover and acid-washed jeans that hugged her wide hips.
The law office conference room had a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Seated at the long mahogany desk were Avery and his attorney, Libby, her lawyer, and an arbitrator.
Avery and Joanne had decided not to tell the police about the stolen videotape. They’d hoped to avoid any public embarrassment by meeting with Libby in private and persuading her to give it back. Avery’s lawyer, Brent Cauffield, was very persuasive and charming. Always impeccably dressed, the tall, forty-year-old Brent had thinning brown hair and a confident smile. Avery wanted him to work his charisma on Libby: “We don’t want to prosecute. If she returns the video, we won’t press charges. I want to press her head in a vise, but we won’t press charges.”
Fueling Avery’s anger were the calls to his house—more recorded snippets of conversation from their sex tape. He’d put a trace on the phone, and beefed up their security system. The Homeguard Company positioned four cameras around the house, one at the front gate, and another by the pool. All the cameras had twenty-four-hour videotapes that would be kept on file for a month before recycling. Joanne said it was like living in the Chase-Manhattan Bank.
The police never did figure out how the culprit had broken in. They said it must have been a pro. Avery surmised that Libby had upgraded from her punk errand boys.
As exasperating as Libby had been, Brent suggested that they bury the hatchet. It was why Avery had come along today—so Libby could finally meet him, and perhaps satiate her love-hate fixation for him.
Libby and her attorney had arrived fifteen minutes late. Her lawyer was a savvy black woman named Fiona Williamson, dressed in a yellow tailored suit. Libby seemed quite dumpy and under-dressed as she waddled through the door after Fiona.
Avery stood up and nodded politely.
Libby reeled back and vehemently shook her head.
“Ms. Stoddard and I would appreciate it if Mr. Cooper remained seated throughout the proceedings,” her lawyer explained. “My client objects to his aggressive manner here—and his efforts to intimidate her.”
“What?” Avery murmured, incredulous.
Rolling his eyes, Brent motioned for him to sit down. Avery took his seat. So much for burying the hatchet.
Fiona immediately started in about how her client felt persecuted and hounded by police during her Maui vacation. She stuck to Libby’s original tale of unloading the returned gifts on some teenagers outside a thrift shop.
Brent asked why these destitute boys would ruin six hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise and deliver it to Avery’s door, rather than return the clothes and collect the refund money. Wouldn’t that have made more sense?
“Probably,” Libby replied, shrugging. That tired, bored expression didn’t change. “I mean, whatever….”
“Your client doesn’t deny leaving an irate message on Mr. Cooper’s home phone answering machine two weeks ago, does she?” Brent asked.
Libby snorted. Fiona shook her head. “Ms. Stoddard has already apologized for that unfortunate incident.”
“We believe your client—still angry at Mr. Cooper—may have destroyed some gifts he’d returned to her. We also believe she paid those teenage boys to deliver the items to his door while she was in Maui.”
“My client has already told you what she did with the merchandise in question,” Fiona Williamson shot back.
“Does your client recall the name and location of the thrift shop?”
Frowning, Libby shook her head.
“It’s important,” Brent said. “Maybe we can track down these teenagers at the same place. We believe these boys may have broken into Mr. Cooper’s home four days ago. They stole a very personal item.”
Libby whispered something to her lawyer, then giggled.
Avery glared at her. She seemed to think this was all pretty amusing. He imagined her watching the video over and over. As much as she snickered at him and Joanne having sex, Libby probably relished the voyeuristic thrill. He could see her gleefully supervising the phone calls her errand boys made.
There had been several more in the last few days. They always hung up before a trace could be completed. At first, the same menacing voice crept over the line, spewing obscenities and quoting them in their intimate moments. A second person started phoning; he sounded older than the first. He said the videotape had been duplicated, and “My, won’t the tabloids be interested.”
Trying to maintain a brave front, Joanne said over and over that she refused to let the calls upset her. Nevertheless, Joanne’s doctor had suggested that she go back on her antidepressants. But she ended up not taking them for fear it might hurt her chances of conceiving.
Seeing Libby so smug—almost enjoying this confrontation—Avery despised her. Beneath the mahogany table, he tapped his foot impatiently while his lawyer tried to tie her punk errand boys to last Thursday’s break-in. Brent seemed headed in the wrong direction. Avery had already told him the cops thought a professional burglar had pulled the job. Why was Brent going on about these teenagers?
“Can you describe these boys outside the thrift store?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.” Libby shrugged and let out a little laugh.
“Ms. Stoddard, we’re trying to track down the person or persons who stole an item from the Coopers’ home last week.”
“Listen…Libby,” Avery broke in. “I’m not interested in pressing charges or anything like that. I just want this personal item back. I’m asking for your cooperation.”
“Well, too bad you didn’t want to talk to me last month,” she sneered. “Too bad you sent back all the presents I bought you. I’ll bet you’re sorry now. Suddenly, you want to be my friend.”
Fiona gently took hold of Libby’s arm and whispered in her ear. Libby glanced down at the tabletop for a moment. “I don’t know about any stolen stuff,” she said coolly. “I can’t help you.”
Avery slapped the tabletop with his palm. “Goddamn it,” he said.
“Mr. Cooper,” the arbitrator said with a chastising look.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Avery took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He glanced across at Libby, who had a tiny smirk on her face. Avery leaned close to Brent. “God help me,” he growled. “I’d like to strangle her….”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cooper?” Libby’s attorney asked hotly. She glowered at him. “Would you care to repeat it for the record?”
“No, that was between my attorney and myself,” Avery said.
He didn’t say another word for the rest of the hearing.
An hour after the meeting adjourned, Avery was back on the set for a love scene with Traci Haydn. It wasn’t his day.
During a break in the shooting, he retreated to his trailer and caught Joanne on her cellular. She was in the car, returning from a lunch date. Avery gave her t
he bad news: “The arbitration was a disaster. And we aren’t any closer to recovering that stupid video.” He sighed, and sank down on his sofa. “The only thing to come out of this is—well, now I’m pretty certain Libby’s not responsible for stealing the tape.”
“What do you mean?” Joanne asked.
“When Brent asked her about those punks and their night delivery to the house, I could tell every answer Libby gave was a lie or an evasion. But when he focused on the break-in last Thursday and a ‘stolen personal item,’ I think Libby genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Well, if it’s not Libby, who’s behind all this?” Joanne asked.
He’d been wondering the same thing. How could Libby know about their little home movie? Who else knew about the tape? Joanne admitted that she’d told a couple of girlfriends in New York, but no one else. Avery didn’t trust most of Joanne’s Broadway buddies. It was a gossipy, narcissistic crowd. Still, he doubted Libby or one of her people could have gotten to someone in New York. But seven weeks ago, the dead mice people had worked both coasts at the same time. They’d been in Joanne’s dressing room, and they’d broken into his Vancouver hotel suite undetected. They could have first seen the videotape in his suitcase there. All those weeks went by, and nothing. How stupid of him to think that they had decided to pick on someone else.
“Are you still there?” Joanne asked.
“Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Listen, I talked to Saul again today,” she said. “They still want me for that comedy. They’ve been holding off finding another actress, and the first read through is day after tomorrow in New York.”
Avery sighed. “Well, I won’t blame you if you need to go—”
“Honey, I told them no.”
“Really?”
Joanne laughed. “You figured since things are getting rough, I’d start packing. Didn’t you? Well, I’m sticking around, hon.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Listen, are you headed home?”
The Next to Die Page 7
