“This one what?”
“Sandusky, Ohio. Sally Bower, a local personality with an advice show who was found drowned in her bathtub last week.”
Kelly looked at him. “Murdered?”
Mel shrugged. “Apparently the autopsy was inconclusive. She’d had a tremendous amount to drink and had taken some Valium. She was known to abuse prescription drugs.”
“Mel, that’s tragic. And I’m very sorry to hear about it. But I’m not an advice therapist. I’m just a soap actress.”
“Yes, I agree. But that’s the point. There’s been enough trouble over the years involving Valentine Valley. The producers aren’t taking any chances with your life. And that’s that.” Mel pushed away from the railing, looking out over the crowd on the yacht.
“But I’m not afraid!” Kelly told him.
“Kelly,” he said with a soft sigh. “I’m sorry. The sponsors have spoken.”
“The sponsors!” Kelly exclaimed, feeling another surge of anger, certain she knew the real “truth” behind her situation.
But she didn’t have a chance to try to explain what had happened to Mel, for he was looking past her, whispering quickly, “Hey! There he is! Coming over to meet you now.”
Kelly turned. It was the blond man with the perfect posture whom she had observed earlier. His expression was impassive as he approached.
“Doug, good to see you again. Meet Miss Kelly Trent. Kelly, Doug O’Casey. Your coach.”
Great. Just great. She took the man’s hand and forced a smile. She didn’t mean to be rude; she was just so miserable. “How do you do?” she murmured.
“Miss Trent,” he replied. His voice was distant. A little static seemed to snap between them, and she felt a new rise of bitterness, hostility and, admittedly, sorrow. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? She had stared at him in judgment, and he was doing it now, as well, no matter how polite his words. There was a certain amount of disdain about him as he stared down into her eyes.
Great, a no-talent personality, high-maintenance, hard work, his look seemed to say. Dental floss between the ears.
“You two will get on famously together, I’m certain!” Mel said cheerfully.
Her face was about to crack. She withdrew her hand, thinking it would burst into flame then and there. His eyes were intense. That deep, deep blue.
“What’s your dance experience, Miss Trent?” he asked politely.
“None. Absolutely none,” she assured him sweetly.
Mel landed a hard hand clap on her back. She nearly staggered forward. He didn’t even notice. “Kelly won’t have a problem in the least, Doug, not with you. I’ve been told you’re the best. And I’ve been told that with a male dancer such as yourself leading, any woman can be made to look good.”
Doug O’Casey gazed at Kelly again. She could almost hear his thought process. Any woman? Well, maybe, except for this one….
“Well, I just wanted to introduce myself and say hello, Miss Trent. I hear we’re to start working together very soon, so…I’ll be seeing you then.”
“It isn’t a done deal,” Kelly insisted.
“We just have to sign the papers!” Mel said cheerfully. She couldn’t believe it. He actually stepped on her toe to shut her up.
“Good evening, then.”
Doug O’Casey turned and walked away. He’d been perfectly polite. There was no reason for her to be feeling so hostile. But he had brought out a certain…wariness in her, at the very least.
One of the bikini-clad cocktail waitresses sidled up to him. Kelly heard laughter from them both and wondered why she felt so annoyed.
Mel was grinning at her exuberantly. “See, Kelly, it will be great.”
“Oh, yeah, just great,” she murmured. Her head was suddenly pounding. “Mel, please, can we go now?”
“We haven’t mingled enough.”
Music was playing on the deck below them. There were shouts, laughter, a rise of drink orders, and then people were pressing together, gyrating, dancing….
“Kelly, another drink,” Mel suggested.
“No, please, I really need a little time alone. You go ahead, Mel. I can see myself back to the hotel.”
“Kelly—”
“I’ll sign the contract, Mel, because I trust you. If you’re convinced it will be good—and a good move to stay in the public eye—I’ll do it. But let me out of here tonight, please? You just shot down my entire world, you know,” she reminded him reproachfully.
Seeing his expression, she softened her tone. “Please forgive me. I’ve really got to go.”
“It’s all right. I’ll see you home.”
“No, Mel, if you’re having fun—”
He glared at her. He hadn’t really wanted to come himself in the first place. “I want to see you safely back at the hotel. You know, I’m not much, but I’ll do my level best to protect you from any bogeyman!”
“I’m not afraid of bogeymen,” she told him.
He shrugged. “Well, maybe I am. You can protect me.”
She was finally able to say thank-you and goodbye with a real smile—be it one of relief—and depart the yacht. Somehow, though, it seemed that eyes watched every second of her departure. Having descended to the dock, she looked back. No one was even looking their way.
“What’s the matter?” Mel asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” But she shivered. “I was looking back. For the bogeyman.”
“Did you see him?” Mel teased.
“No, I guess he’s hiding,” she said. “But that’s all right.” She linked her arm with his. “I have you to protect me.”
“Right, my girl. Onward!” He led her to the limo that had brought them and would now return them to their hotel.
He seemed grave, however, as he looked back at the ship.
“What’s the matter, Mel?”
He gave a little shiver. “I don’t know. I think I just realized that I’m worried about you myself!”
“Don’t be.”
He nodded. “The video is being shot on a private island. I’ll be relieved once you’re there.”
“Mel! There is no bogeyman!” she assured him. Yet, even as she said the words, she felt a strange chill. And she wondered, would those words come back to haunt her?
Sitting in his chair, Marc Logan watched Valentine Valley, which he had watched for as long as he could remember. Not at the regular time, of course. He was a busy man, so he taped the program. But he loved Valentine Valley. It was his guilty pleasure—and a secret he kept to himself.
The show came on at two in the afternoon. He liked to watch the episodes the same night when he could. But sometimes, when he was especially busy, he taped the week’s worth and watched them all in one orgy.
It was late. The party was over, and everyone was gone. He was thrilled. Tonight had been special. He had met her before, of course, but tonight…she had been on his yacht. And she had agreed to do his video. Of course, the world would see it as a video done for Kill Me Quick, but that didn’t matter. It was his video.
The show had touched various emotions in him at times. It had made him cry. It had made him laugh, it had made him feel glad to be alive. It had made him feel justified at times, sympathetic, in tune, and then, at other times, angry.
The thing was, it was so real. He just loved it. She managed to have such a voice of truth, and also be a caricature. She epitomized every self-righteous egotist giving others advice. Asses who knew nothing about real situations and probably wouldn’t even begin to realize just how richly they were being lampooned.
He started to watch the newest episode, then realized that she wasn’t in it and flicked back. End of last week. He had been there when the episode had been filmed. When she’d fallen. Lord, she could have died, but it made for amazing footage. He imagined that it would be one of the most watched episodes ever in daytime TV. And he imagined the folks running the show must be tearing their hair out. Kelly was hot.
He rewound again
, listening to the whir of his tape. They were back to her being the advice diva! What an actress! She played Marla Valentine superbly. She was smug. So good. The damned poster child for all those idiots who seemed to believe they had the voice of God whispering in their ears, dishing out advice.
“Let’s see…oh!” Marla sat in the chair and glanced at the oh-so-professional clipboard in her hands, her red hair falling forward. “I have an answer for Sarah, in Ohio. This one did not take a rocket scientist to figure out. Sarah, I sure hope you’re out there today, because you need to listen to me. Leave him. Did you hear me, honey? Do it. Leave the no-good, dirty piece of slime. You’ve seen his past behavior. What do you think will happen? Please, get serious. Remember, one definition of insanity refers to doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. And, honey, when you walk out that door, you make sure you’ve already got yourself a good lawyer. Take that filthy varmint for everything that the law will provide. In short, scalp him! Go straight for the…well, you know what to go straight for, Sarah, don’t you? And don’t hesitate. He deserves it!”
Logan laughed out loud. “Oh, baby, skewer ’em all!”
He shook his head, smiling. Okay, so he was a rich old geezer, reaching desperately for his youth by way of a plastic surgeon. The operating word there was rich. He had been able to afford the price to open his own studios and music label, and could afford even the outrageous price tag that went with making a quality music video. So he liked to gripe about the budget. That was expected, but it didn’t matter. This was a dream. He was going to be the power behind a rock video that starred Kelly Trent.
Rising, he mused that he was getting everything he wanted, basically, because he had just always loved music. And there was nothing like a good tango.
CHAPTER 4
“So, how was the party?” Quinn asked.
Doug shrugged, then offered his brother and Jake Dilessio a dry grin. “Kind of what you’d expect. Actually, everything that you’d expect. A total stereotype.”
“A total stereotype,” Jake said, imitating Doug’s shrug as he turned to Quinn. “Expensive booze, beautiful babes, a millionaire’s yacht…ho, hum. Poor boy.”
“The booze was probably good—I don’t know, I wasn’t drinking,” Doug said, sitting back with a broader grin. “The babes were okay, but a little hard-core. The yacht was great. The millionaire is a creep.”
“Well, there you have it in a nutshell,” Quinn said. “I spent last night in a car watching a front door that never opened. How was your evening, Jake?”
“Very sad,” Jake told them. “Down in the projects, picking up a kid whose girlfriend thought he wouldn’t cheat anymore if she removed his penis. She took a swipe at him, missed and hit his femoral artery. He’s dead and she’s in jail awaiting arraignment.”
“Well, you definitely win for worst evening,” Doug murmured, looking out toward the water. They were lunching at Nick’s, a rustic place on the water frequented by both those who did and those who did not have boats. Jake Dilessio, married to Nick’s niece, still maintained a permanent berth at the dockside marina. Both Jake and his wife, Ashley, were with the metro police force, she in forensics, he in homicide. Doug’s brother, Quinn, actually kept his permanent residence in the Keys, where he worked as a private investigator, but since the Keys could be deadly quiet at times, and many cases brought to him in the Keys area tended to have ties up in the far more crowded Miami-Dade County area, he kept a berth for his boat here as well. Quinn had been through the FBI academy and worked with the bureau for several years before returning home and going into business with another friend in the private sector. The youngest of the three, Doug had worked hard to earn the respect of his older brother, Jake and others of their ilk. They all still thought that he was crazy, having suddenly given up his education and career to enter the realm of professional dancing. He had taken his first lessons at the studio first managed and now owned by Shannon, née Mackay and now O’Casey. The studio was where he now taught, where he practiced with Jane, and the institution he represented when he competed.
Quinn was watching him now, deep blue eyes sparkling. “You mentioned the yacht, the millionaire, the booze and the women. What about your little soap star?”
“She’s not exactly little. More than five seven, I’d say,” Doug told him.
“Thin, though, huh? The anorexic type?” Quinn asked.
“Thin…but, no. She’s got a shape to her,” Doug said.
“Is she nice or a bitch?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk that long,” Doug told him.
“How about the hair?” Quinn asked. “Is that red real?”
Doug smiled slowly. “It looks real.”
“You ever watch that show, Quinn?” Jake asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t admit it,” Quinn said.
“Me, neither,” Jake responded. “Yet everyone at the station seemed to know who she is when we received those warnings about her.”
“Warnings?” Doug asked.
Jake shrugged. “Kelly Trent’s manager, a woman named Ally Bassett, got in touch with the local police for some advice. She wants protection around her star, especially after the accident on set.”
Doug leaned forward. “What kind of an accident?”
“The kind that really appeared to be an accident,” Quinn said.
Jake groaned. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”
“Sure, I read the papers,” Doug said impatiently. But he hiked a brow toward Jake. “Okay, what papers?”
Jake grinned. “Well, mainly the rags. But all the show business and People-type weeklies had information on it, too. They were on location, some new development in the L.A. area. A mound of earth became nothing but a puff of sand and she nearly rolled off a cliff. The cops were called in to investigate, but there was nothing to indicate any tampering. People had been around the site all day. Seems there’s been trouble on the soap before, and, because of it, not to mention the death threats, the people surrounding Kelly Trent are on the nervous side.”
“Death threats? Against a soap star?” Doug said. He was angry. Ally Bassett had told him about the accident, and that she and Kelly’s people were worried about their star. But she hadn’t mentioned death threats.
Quinn looked at Jake and shrugged. “He really doesn’t watch daytime TV, huh?”
Doug glared at Jake. “Right. Like you sit home on a daily basis and watch television. Why would anyone want to kill a soap star?” he asked.
“Why does anyone ever want to kill anyone?” Jake muttered.
“All right, guys, come on,” Doug said. “People kill for greed, passion, fear. Motive is one of those things they usually ask you to prove in court, unless you’re dealing with a psychopath. Even then there’s still a motive. Sexual gratification through abusive power, something!”
“Hate,” Quinn said softly.
“A soap star can be that hated?” Doug asked.
“Apparently, in this case, yes,” Jake said. “The FBI has just started taking an interest in a couple of murders across the country.”
“Soap stars?”
“Advice columnists, talk-show hosts, that kind of thing.”
“And that has what to do with a soap star?” Doug demanded.
Quinn groaned, shaking his head. “You should watch the show—at least once.”
“Hey,” Doug protested. “I was offered the teaching job. Quinn, your wife suggested me for it, and the pay was awfully damned good. And yes, it intrigued me that I needed to be looking out for her as well. That doesn’t mean I have to watch the show!”
“Seriously, Doug,” Jake said, “the soaps apparently receive more mail than can be handled on a regular basis. Half of it is nasty, some of it threatening, and an awful lot of it is from people who take the characters far too seriously. Anyway, they’ve gotten all kinds of mail lately on your new protégé because the character she plays on her soap is an advice diva. From what I�
�ve heard, a vicious advice diva.”
“What’s the department doing?” Doug asked.
“Trying to offer a little protection, but nothing specific. Miss Trent has never come to us herself seeking assistance. But because of what has happened, the powers that be are not entirely ignoring the situation, either. She’s staying on the beach. The place has in-house security. The beach cops have cruised her hotel, and the chief of guards down there has been instructed to check on her now and then. There’s no solid danger that I know about, but you should be aware of what’s going on.”
“I intend to be aware. More so now that you’ve given me more information than Kelly Trent’s manager did!”
“Miss Trent should be in good hands, then. They miss you at the station, you know,” Jake said lightly.
“There’s always an opening with me,” Quinn said.
“I like what I do,” Doug told them. And it was true. Still…
“Well, son of a bitch!” Jake muttered suddenly, staring past Doug to the docks.
“What?” Doug started to turn.
“That’s Kevin Lane.”
“Yeah, it is,” Quinn muttered.
Quinn and Jake had both gone still. “All right, I’ve been out of the loop too long,” Doug said. “Who the hell is Kevin Lane?”
“A major player who winds up coming off as clean as a whistle most of the time. He’s wanted for questioning in the Leon Thibault murder,” Jake said.
Doug almost made a sudden swing, but caught himself in time, turning gradually. Leon Thibault had been a pure scumbag—suspected of being the money behind a dozen or more major South American drug buys. Some of the cops felt he was personally keeping half the Colombian cocaine dealers in business.
He’d been found dead, shot in the back of the head, in his custom Jag three weeks ago, just prior to the influx of a new drug on the streets of Miami known as sweet coke, a substance slipped into drinks that rendered the imbiber all but incoherent and yet as malleable and cooperative as a newborn pup.
“They got anything on Lane?” Doug asked quietly.
Killing Kelly Page 4
