She missed Avery. She would have given anything to have him with her right now. Last night, she’d been in such a hurry to get away. She’d wanted time alone. Now Sean kept thinking about that tired, old saying, “Careful what you wish for….”
Even though they hadn’t carried it any further than some kissing and hugging, she and Avery were still guilty of betrayal. He’d just placed his wife in an institution days ago, and she was the voice, hands, and legs for her disease-paralyzed husband. Last night, the idea of working here in Opal with Dayle’s detective seemed like the perfect escape from guilt and temptation.
She couldn’t afford to let Dan know this junket was anything more than a boring weekend away—chasing down a lead. Last night, she’d made it back to Malibu just after dinnertime. She’d sat out on the deck with Dan, watching the kids play along the beach with her sister-in-law, Anne.
“What’s going on?” he’d asked silently, the constant whosh-whosh from his portable respirator competing with the sound of the ocean waves. “You’re acting funny. Did something happen while you were in the city?”
Her eyes watering up, Sean had shrugged and managed a smile. “Oh, you know me. I always get blue before a plane trip. That’s all, honey.”
She’d gazed out at her kids playing with their aunt on the beach. Sean had told herself that if anything ever happened to her, Danny and Phoebe would have a good surrogate mother.
She’d phoned Malibu an hour ago, and the nurse had conveyed Dan’s concerns: “He wants to know if you’re still feeling blue.”
“Tell him I miss him, but I’m doing okay,” Sean had replied. She’d talked with the kids, then hung up and burst into tears.
Lowering the volume on The Dukes of Hazard, she wandered into the bathroom, plucked a tissue from the dispenser, and blew her nose.
A car pulled up outside. She glanced at her door—all the locks securely in place. A moment later, another car pulled up. She heard the car doors opening and closing; a man and woman talking. The voices grew faint. Sean sighed. She wouldn’t let herself forget what had happened to Nick Brock.
She also had to keep in mind her mission here.
The Opal phone directory incorporated a score of surrounding towns and cities—along with their Yellow Pages, yet it was no thicker than the average issue of Time. The skimpy volume listed four Schneiders; two of them lived in Opal, none with the first name Lauren.
She tried Mr. and Mrs. James Schneider of Birch Lane, and an answering machine picked up. Their toddler read the cutesy announcement and kept screwing up and laughing while they corrected him in the background. Listening to it was sheer torture. Sean hung up before the beep. She dialed T. A. Schneider of Meadow Drive, and a woman answered. “Hello?”
On the desk in front of her, Sean had the list of employees from the lab and fertility clinic. “Yes, my name is Grace Casino,” she said. “I’m trying to locate a Lauren Schneider. I wonder if you could help me.”
“Well, I know a Laurie Anne Schneider,” the woman said. “That’s my daughter. But I don’t know any Lauren.”
“Was your daughter a nurse at the Adler Clinic in Beverly Hills?”
“That’s right. But her name is Laurie Anne, not Lauren.”
“Is Laurie Anne around thirty years old? And did she used to live on Linden Drive in Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “Who did you say you were again?”
Sean quickly scanned the listing. “Um, I’m Grace Casino. I used to work in the clinic with Laurie Anne. I’m trying to reach her, and I don’t have a current address or phone number.”
“Why do you need to get in touch with my daughter?” The woman’s tone suddenly became edgy. “She doesn’t work at that clinic anymore.”
“Um, well, the clinic owes Laurie Anne some money.” Sean figured this kind of news would make Mrs. Schneider more cooperative. “There was a—a mix-up in accounting, and Laurie Anne has over eleven hundred dollars in back pay owed her. I volunteered to track down her current address. Do you know how I can get a hold of Laurie Anne, Mrs. Schneider? I sure wouldn’t want her to miss out on eleven hundred dollars.”
“Well, neither would I!” Mrs. Schneider agreed. “But Laurie Anne is moving again next week, so the Los Angeles address I have is only good for a few more days. She’s always on the go, that one. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you have them send the check here?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But if you gave me Laurie Anne’s current address and phone, maybe I can catch her before moving day.”
“Well, all right. Hold on while I get my address book. Don’t go away.”
“Oh, I won’t, Mrs. Schneider,” Sean said. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”
Sunday morning, Sean decided to go to mass. But according to the Yellow Pages, the closest Catholic church was in another town forty miles away. No Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Lutheran, or Unitarian centers either. And no synagogues. Apparently, there were no Jews in Opal. Come to think of it, in her wanderings around town since yesterday afternoon, she hadn’t noticed a single black person, Hispanic, or Asian.
The only house of worship in Opal was the God’s Light Christian Faith Church. Sean climbed in her rental and drove by the place—a beautiful, pristine, modern white structure with gold trim, located at the edge of a winding brook. It looked like a smaller-scale Kennedy Center, and probably cost almost as much to build. She watched the congregation pour out at the end of the service. They were gussied up to the nines—the way people used to dress for church. At first glance, there was something very sweet about it.
On her way back to the hotel. Sean stopped by Flappin’ Jack’s Pancake House. Apparently, the chalet-style restaurant was the Sunday morning hot spot in Opal. The place was already gilded with cheesy Christmas decorations, including a big plastic nativity set by the front entrance. Beneath a red garland and blinking lights on the atrium ceiling, all those churchgoing families waited for tables to open up. But single folks and strangers like Sean found immediate seating at the counter.
Inside Flappin’ Jack’s Pancake House, she had a closer look at the clean-scrubbed, well-dressed Opal citizens. She heard snippets of dull conversation—mostly about Pastor Whitemoore’s sermon, which maintained that “diversity” meant “perversity.” The minister’s words must have fallen on welcome ears in this little Aryan township. Sean couldn’t help thinking about The Stepford Wives as she studied the women. But these robots seemed aware of their own misery. Despite their Sunday dresses, they looked tired and frayed. The husbands perfectly fit the mold of Eisenhower-era Family-Values Dads by saying very little to their spouses and children and drinking way too much. Still, some of the kids seemed happy—at least on the outside. One thing for Opal, it seemed like a good place to raise children—if they were white, the correct religion, and didn’t try to be different.
The pigs in blankets at Flappin’ Jack’s were delicious. Sean returned to The Opal Lakeside Lodge with a full stomach and a copy of The Quad City Register—the local newspaper, a thin weekly that came out every Sunday. She hunted through the front section and found a story on page six: CALIFORNIA MAN DIES IN OPAL HOTEL FIRE. The article was brief, focusing more on the damage to Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn (still open for business!) than the thirty-four-year-old guest from California who apparently had been smoking in bed. Nick’s identity was withheld pending notification of next of kin. Plans for a church raffle and Whitemoore’s Special Thanksgiving Services received more coverage.
The telephone rang. Sean almost jumped out of the desk chair. No one knew she was here except her family; and they wouldn’t call this early in the day unless it was an emergency. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Avery?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
She sighed. “I came here to work with Dayle’s detective, but he’s dead.”
“I know. Dayl
e got through to the hotel last night, and they told her he died in a fire—after smoking in bed. Dayle says the guy didn’t even smoke. For God’s sake, get out of there before some accident happens to you too.”
“I’m all right,” Sean said. “How did you track me down? Did you call my family? Please tell me you didn’t upset them—”
“Yes, we called them, but we didn’t let on anything was wrong.”
“We?” Sean asked.
“Dayle and I. In fact, your brother-in-law had us say hello to Dan, because he’s such a movie nut. He also gave us your the number at the Opal Lodge. Now check out of there and come home. We’re sending in the police—”
“No, wait. Not yet. I’m making some headway here, Avery. I found out that nurse’s address in Los Angeles, Laurie Anne Schneider on Franklin Avenue, the Ulta Vista Apartments. But we shouldn’t move in on her just yet. We can’t tip them off that we’re on to them. Besides you and Dayle, who else knows I’m here?”
“No one else. Just your family. That’s it.”
“Don’t tell another soul,” Sean said. “Give me until Tuesday. If I don’t come up with anything else by then, you can send in the troops—”
“Dayle and I already discussed this. It’s a matter for the police.”
“You’ll have to convince Dayle that I need more time.”
“Convince her yourself,” Avery said. “She’s right here.”
After a moment, Dayle came on the line: “Sean, are you nuts?”
“Are you guys together? Or is this a conference call?”
“No, Avery’s here at my place. What’s this about giving you more time? Good God, Sean.” Her voice started to crack. “I hate to admit that I actually liked Nick, but I did, damn it. I still can’t believe he’s dead. I won’t go through this with somebody else again—not after Leigh and Hank. You get your ass back here. This is a police matter now.”
“The cops are too busy stacking up a case against Avery. Do you think some pie-in-the-sky conspiracy theory will change their minds at this point? They don’t want to prove he’s innocent. Besides, how can we be sure the police aren’t in on this? A cop shot Hank—and Bonny. And I certainly wouldn’t trust the police around here.”
“All right, then we’ll call the FBI,” Dayle said.
“Call them on Tuesday. Just give me until then.”
“You sound exactly like Nick,” Dayle replied. “He wanted more time before I called the police. And look what happened. I’m sorry. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Then don’t tell anyone that I’m here, Dayle. Ask yourself, who else in your camp knew of Nick’s whereabouts. Didn’t Estelle warn you that they might have gotten to someone close to you? If Avery and you can keep quiet about where I am—and your phone isn’t being bugged right now—I shouldn’t be in any danger. Just give me until Tuesday, Dayle.”
The elevator doors opened, and Avery stepped out to the lobby of Dayle’s building. Unfolding his cellular phone, he dialed the Opal Lakeside Lodge and asked for Sean’s room number again. “Hello?” she answered.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said.
“I figured I’d hear back from you.”
“Listen, I can’t just sit by and allow you to put your life on the line because of me. You might have been able to convince Dayle to give you a couple of more days in that place. But not me. Either you’re coming home or I’m flying out there.”
“Avery, you’re a murder suspect,” she said. “If you try to leave the state, a troop of police will be all over you before you even reach the airport check-in. Besides, one reason I’m here is to put some distance between us.”
“I understand. But you don’t have to endanger yourself to avoid—what happened the other night with me. My God, aren’t you scared?”
“Of course I am, but it’s okay. I won’t take any chances—”
“Bullshit. You’re already pushing your luck too far. I’m coming out there—”
“Just—just hold on,” she said. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow. Whatever you do, please don’t come today. It’s Sunday. The post office is closed. It’s dead time right now. If you arrive here tonight, we won’t be able to accomplish anything—except maybe sleeping together. And I wouldn’t like either one of us very much if that happened.”
“Sean, give me credit for a little self-control, okay?”
“All I’m saying is, if you have to come out here, wait until tomorrow, and we’ll talk. It’s what I want.”
He let out a long sigh. “I’m flying to Spokane tonight. At least I’ll be closer—two or three hours away. I’ll call you later. Meanwhile, lay low, all right?”
“Avery, it’s against my better judgment that you do that. As your lawyer, I advise against it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Be careful, okay?” Then she hung up.
As Avery was about to click off, he heard the message tone on his phone beep twice. Heading toward the lobby doors, he dialed his access code. The first message came on: “Yes, Avery Cooper, this is Vic Tolmund of the Weekly World Inquirer….”
Avery rolled his eyes. Leave it to a tabloid reporter to dig up the number of his personal cellular.
“I’m calling from the Beverly Hills police station. Do you have any comment about the warrant for your arrest that was just issued? I’ll try you again at home, Avery. We want to tell the people your side of the story….”
“What?” Avery said to no one. He stopped dead by the lobby doors.
The second message was from his friend, George: “The cops came by, looking for you, Avery. They even asked to search the house—in case we were hiding you. They have a warrant for your arrest. Sheila and I are by the phone here. Call us. We’re worried sick.”
Dayle kept thinking about what Sean had said over the phone: Ask yourself, who else in your camp knew of Nick’s whereabouts….
Only two people knew: Dennis and Ted. Dennis had been her right-hand man for almost four years. She’d come to depend on him. She’d known Ted only four days. Still, she’d entrusted her life to him. He’d spent three of the last four nights sleeping down the hall from her—in her guest room. She hadn’t set foot outside of her apartment without Ted at her side. He’d handpicked the two security guards in her building—as well as every one of her temporary chauffeurs.
Then again, he’d caught her at an extremely vulnerable time. And his most impressive reference was Gil Palarmo, who was dead.
Dayle wandered into her study. She shuffled through some papers on her desk until she found Ted’s résumé. If Ted Kovak had tolerated Gil and his gay buddies for ten months—and put him down as a reference—it wasn’t very likely he’d be connected to some intolerant hate group.
Biting her lip, Dayle reached over and checked her Roladex. One of her acquaintances, Jonathan Brooks, had been close friends with Gil Palarmo. The Rolodex card in front of Jonathan’s was a new one, still white and crisp. Dayle had added it to the file less than a week ago. She plucked out the card and stared at the address and phone number for Nick Brock. Last night, she’d burst into tears when she’d heard the news. She’d grown very fond of that “cool jerk.” She returned the card to her Rolodex. She didn’t want to part with it—at least, not yet.
Dayle moved on and found Jonathan’s card. She dialed the number in Palm Springs, and his machine answered: “Hello, I’m unable or unwilling to come to the phone right now,” he said in a haughty tone. “But leave word after the irritating beep, and I might return your call.”
Beep. Dayle cleared her throat. “Hello, Jonathan,” she said. “This is Dayle Sutton calling. It’s been a long time. Listen. Do you remember if Gil had a bodyguard named Ted Kovak? Tall, good-looking, blond hair? I hired this guy recently, and I’m checking on his résumé. Cart before the horse. Anyway, he says he worked for Gil nearly a year. If you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. It’s Sunday afternoon—around one-thirty. And here’s my number…”
After Dayle hung up, she
stared at an old phone message on her desk. Dennis had scribbled it down for her earlier in the week. She’d come to know his handwriting quite well. As much as she hated to think about it, if she couldn’t trust Ted Kovak, she had to question the loyalty of the faithful assistant who had recommended him.
Avery was third in line, and he couldn’t stop sweating.
The agent at the ticket counter had been dealing with a couple of elderly tourists for ten minutes now. He was a young, East Indian man with a mustache, and he kept having to repeat everything to them loudly. Apparently, they wanted special seats or a special meal—or something.
Avery wiped the perspiration off his forehead. So far, no one had recognized him—People cover boy, movie star, and fugitive. If he stopped to think about it too much, he’d die laughing—or just go crazy as Joanne did.
She was sick, and he’d let himself fall in love with someone else. He could try making excuses, blame it on the timing or his vulnerable situation. He might even try blaming Sean a bit—for being so vulnerable herself. But in truth, he’d allowed this to happen. He was responsible. Because of him, Joanne was in an institution—and Sean was risking her life alone in that awful little town. He couldn’t do anything for Joanne now. But maybe he could help Sean—before it was too late for her too.
He had to leave town immediately. Turning himself in to the police wasn’t an option. He couldn’t let himself not in jail while Sean risked her neck for him in Opal.
He hadn’t seen any rental-type cars on his tail. He’d taken a roundabout way to the airport—just in case. He would buy a change of clothes and supplies during his stopover in Portland—if the police hadn’t already put a freeze or a trace on his debit card.
The Next to Die Page 29
