by Joanne Fluke
Erik sat up in bed, suddenly alert. It was almost eleven in the evening, and the pills Dr. Trumbull had given him had been aptly named. His headache was gone, and he had been zonked for over five hours.
There was a plaintive meow from the side of the bed, and Erik looked down to see Al staring at him hopefully. He patted the bed and Al jumped up, quickly claiming the warm spot on the pillow.
“Okay, Al. It’s your turn. I’ve slept long enough.”
Erik headed for the kitchen, where he warmed a cup of his breakfast coffee. Then he dialed the office, but the answer phone was on. Tony wasn’t there. He must have finished his work and gone home. Even though it was late, Erik dialed Tony’s home number. Allison answered on the first ring.
“Hello? Is this the gorgeous Mrs. Rocca?”
“You must have the wrong Rocca.” Allison laughed. “Hi, Erik. What’s up?”
“You are, obviously. What makes you so happy tonight?”
“I guess it’s because I’m doing something worthwhile. Tony brought me a complete collection of Hitchcock films, and I’m watching all fifty-three, plus taking notes for him. It’s fun being involved in an alumni research project again.”
Erik frowned. He could understand why Tony might ask Allison to watch the three films they were using in the script, Psycho, Strangers on a Train, and Frenzy. But there was no possible reason to ask her to watch every film that Hitchcock had ever made. And what was this story he’d told her about an alumni research project?
“That sounds like a massive task, Allison.”
“It is, but I really don’t mind. Somebody from the UCLA alumni group is doing a study of the female victims in Hitchcock films, so I’m compiling a complete list for Tony.”
“Oh, I see. Can I talk to Tony, Allison? I need to ask him a question.”
Erik was careful to keep his voice neutral. He was willing to bet that there wasn’t a UCLA study.
“He’s not here, Erik, but you can probably catch him at the office. He said he’d be working all night. Something about blocking out the next scene so you could have it in the morning.”
Erik’s frown had turned to a scowl by the time he’d said good-bye to Allison. Tony could be at the office and not answering the phone, but Erik doubted it. And he was sure he wouldn’t find the blocking for the second scene on his desk, as Tony had promised.
Erik grabbed his car keys and headed for the garage. A terrible suspicion was beginning to grow in the back of his mind. It was Sunday night, and the Video Killer had struck the past three Sundays. And no one knew where Tony was.
Tony needed money. Erik had taken enough calls from creditors at the office to know that. And their one chance of making big bucks was the Video Kill sale. It had been an impossible long shot until the Video Killer had appeared on the scene.
As Erik drove toward the office, he thought about the way that Tony had changed over the past few weeks. All those excuses he’d given that had turned out to be lies. The times he’d promised to show up at the office and hadn’t. The way he seemed to know exactly how the Video Killer had murdered his victims, even though he swore he didn’t have inside information. The fact that Diana Ellington had been murdered, right after they’d discussed casting her in the movie. And now the way Tony had conned Allison into watching a complete collection of Hitchcock films and making a list of the victims. There was no reason to watch all fifty-three of the films, unless Tony needed the information for something other than the script, something that Erik didn’t even want to think about.
Erik told himself he was jumping to conclusions. It was insane to think that Tony was in so much financial trouble that he’d lost all touch with reality and become the Video Killer to sell the screenplay.
Traffic was light, and Erik pulled up in the parking lot at the office in record time. There was no car in Tony’s space. He let himself in the back door of the building and headed for the elevator. His shoulders were slumped, and he felt the weariness of the world as he rode up to the office. He supposed the smart thing would be to call the police and tell them his suspicions, but there was no way they’d believe him when they found out he’d been locked up in the psych ward of the V.A. hospital for six months. They’d assume the whole story was a figment of his imagination, and maybe it was.
The lights were off in the office, and Erik frowned as he checked the coffeepot. Cold. Tony hadn’t been here any time recently. And there was no second scene blocking on his desk and no sign of any work in progress.
Erik got out his video camera and took a few shots of the office. He wanted to show Jamie where he worked. Then he got a pillow and blanket from the closet and stretched out on the lumpy couch. He’d be right here to confront Tony, no matter what time he came in. As Erik stared out at the lighted dome of the Capitol Records building, he prayed that his suspicions were wrong, but as he dropped off to sleep, one hard fact remained. He needed some answers from Tony.
Katy was startled out of the deepest sleep she’d had in months by the shrill ringing of the telephone. She reached out to answer it, and her hand touched a very real, very warm arm. For a moment she was totally disoriented, and then she heard Sam’s voice, as if it had come straight out of her dreams.
“Okay, Bob. I’m awake. Another one? Jesus! Give me that address again. I’m on my way.”
Instantly alert, Katy rolled over and sneaked a look at her watch before she closed her eyes again. Past one in the morning. There was only one reason to call Sam at this hour. The Video Killer had struck again. All she had to do was play possum until Sam left, and then she could look for those murder DVDs.
“Katy?” Sam spoke her name gently.
“Hmmm?”
“I have to leave. Police business. I set the alarm for seven in case I’m not back by then.”
“That’s nice . . .”
Katy let her voice trial off and resumed deep, even breathing so Sam would assume she’d gone back to sleep. She peeked out through her eyelashes as he switched on the light in the dressing room and pulled on his clothes. This was a perfect opportunity. She could hardly wait until he left to get a look at those DVDs!
Sam bent down to kiss her good-bye, and Katy started to react before she caught herself. Sleepy women didn’t kiss that passionately. She let her body go limp and turned over to tunnel back down under the blankets. She didn’t raise her head again until she heard the apartment door close behind him.
The moment she was sure he was really gone, Katy jumped from the bed and hurried to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Her whole body was sated and lazy, the way only very good sex could make it. It had been a long time since she’d gotten out of bed with the urge to purr like a well-fed cat. She’d missed it. She’d known all along she’d missed it.
There was no time for dallying. Katy put the coffee on to reheat and opened the refrigerator. There was a quart of orange juice inside, and Katy poured herself a glass. Sam didn’t drink orange juice. He must have bought it especially for her, in the hopes that she’d stay the night. Was that proof that he wanted her back? Katy’s heart raced until she considered that he might have a girlfriend who liked orange juice for breakfast.
As Katy drank the juice, she cased the kitchen thoroughly, opening cupboards and drawers. She discovered that Sam had also stocked up on English muffins. She popped one in the toaster and jiggled it to make the element work. The same old toaster. She wondered if Sam had figured out how to work it. It wasn’t until she had buttered the muffin and taken the first bite that she realized Sam had bought the kind she liked, with raisins. He hated raisins. Either he’d been sure that she’d be here in the morning or he’d found a woman with similar tastes to replace her. And what did that prove? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Suddenly Katy felt tears come to her eyes as she pictured another red-haired woman, probably twenty years younger and much prettier. The woman would wear Opium, Katy’s favorite perfume, and she’d dress in long silk blouses, the kind Katy favored. She might even k
now all the lyrics to “The Wild Colonial Boy” like Katy did. Even worse, she might have discovered how to kiss that tiny sensitive spot on the side of Sam’s neck that drove him to distraction. She could see them now, the beautiful younger woman with eyes even greener than hers, sleeping in Sam’s arms on the very bed Katy had talked him into buying.
Katy stopped cold. Sam wasn’t her husband any longer. She had no right to be jealous. She took a deep breath and switched off the kitchen light as she walked quickly to the living room. There was work to do, and she couldn’t do it efficiently if she didn’t concentrate on the problem at hand. She had filed for a divorce so she could be Katy Brannigan, woman reporter, and she’d better start acting the part.
A small stack of disks were sitting on top of the oak entertainment center they’d bought when they’d moved into this apartment. Katy got a chair from the dining room table and totally ignored the dirty dishes sitting there. She told herself she wasn’t Sam’s wife any longer, and she shouldn’t feel she had to load them into the dishwasher, but she knew she probably would.
As Katy climbed up on the chair to grab the small stack of DVDs, she felt a rush of excitement. This could be it! But one glance told her it wasn’t. This was a series she’d ordered from a catalogue and never watched on oil painting.
It wasn’t until Katy had climbed down and was about to move the chair back to its place that she noticed a stack of disks in plain sight on top of the television.
Katy was so excited her hands trembled as she reached for them. Three disks and there had been three murders. The number was right. They were in black plastic cases with no labels. Sam always labeled his disks right after he recorded them, and he’d been furious with her when she’d forgotten to do the same.
Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped a blank DVD into the second slot of Sam’s recorder and set it up to record Sam’s disks. The murder videos were Sam’s property, and she had taken advantage of his feelings for her to get them.
Should she do it? Of course she should. This was what she was here for, wasn’t it? Katy pressed the button that would start the copying process. She knew she should be feeling excited and proud that she’d accomplished her goal. But all she felt was a terrible sense of guilt.
15
Monday, July 26
“Hey, Erik . . . it’s daylight in the swamp.”
Erik opened his eyes to see Tony standing over him, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He was wearing a pink T-shirt that said I’M THE ONLY GUY IN TOWN WHO DOESN’T WANT TO DIRECT. Erik reached out, blinking, and took the first scalding sip before he realized that he was sleeping on the couch in the office.
“What time is it?” Erik asked the first question that popped into his head.
“Just after seven in the morning. I figured you wouldn’t want to sleep the day away when there’s work to do. The Video Killer gave us another scene to write last night.”
“That’s nice.” Erik took another gulp of coffee and struggled to sit up. “What was that about the Video Killer?”
“He did it again, last night.”
“Another actress?”
“They didn’t think so at first, but then they found out she was taking acting classes. Her parents didn’t know about it, or they probably wouldn’t have left her alone.”
“She was young?”
Tony nodded. “Only nineteen. She worked part-time as a cashier at the Bijou Theater. I’ve got the whole news flash recorded.”
“Let’s see it.” Erik got to his feet. It took him a minute to remember why he was sleeping on the office couch when he had a comfortable bed at home. “I’ve got to talk to you, Tony, about the Video Killer.”
“Sure, Erik. The outline for the next scene is on your desk. It’s good, even if I do say so myself. And the next time you decide to sack out on the couch, leave a note on the door to warn me, will you? I came in about midnight and worked for three hours before I even knew you were here. Then I heard snoring, and I just about jumped out of my skin.”
“You came in to work at midnight?”
“Right around that time. I didn’t look at my watch. You know me, Erik. I get my best work done in the middle of the night. No noise and no telephone calls. Now, come on. I’ll show you that DVD.”
Erik took another swig of his coffee and followed Tony to the reception area. Even though his head still felt fuzzy, he managed to catch the salient points of the news flash. The Video Killer had struck sometime between eleven and one. The victim, Christie Jensen, had been discovered by her parents shortly after one-twenty in the morning. She had been choked to death in the family apartment and then partially dismembered.
“Pretty gruesome, huh?” Tony flicked off the television set. “Did you catch that shot of that apartment building, Erik? Our guy couldn’t have picked a better setting for the fourth scene. The minute I saw it, I thought of Rear Window. And guess what was playing at the Bijou yesterday?”
“Rear Window?”
“Right. And Christie Jensen looked a lot like Hitchcock’s victim, Irene Winston. For all we know the killer watched the movie, picked up Christie from her ticket booth, and then acted it all out for real in her parents’ apartment. How’s that for sheer balls?”
Erik looked up to find Tony grinning. His partner’s obvious pleasure made him feel ill.
“Balls isn’t quite the word I’d use. We have to talk, Tony.”
“Good idea.” Tony nodded. “We’ll have a conference over breakfast. Come on, Erik. I’ll treat you to three eggs and a full stack at Du-par’s.”
“You want to have breakfast after seeing that?”
“Why not? They didn’t actually show anything. Come on, Erik. I can tell you’re hungry. Your stomach’s growling.”
Erik hesitated a moment, but his appetite won out over his sensitivity. Dr. Trumbull’s zonker had knocked him out over the dinner hour, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.
“Okay. Just let me get cleaned up a little first.”
“You’ll have to use the bathroom at Du-par’s.” Tony grabbed his arm and steered him out the door. “The city shut off our water line for repairs, and it’ll be off for most of the day.”
Erik frowned. “But that’s crazy, Tony. This whole block is office buildings. Why don’t they do their repairs on Sunday or in the middle of the night, when no one’s working?”
“Oh, they couldn’t do that.” Tony looked serious. “The city’s on a tight budget, and they can’t afford to pay overtime.”
Twenty minutes later Erik came out of the bathroom at Du-par’s to find a tall stack of pancakes, three eggs over easy, five strips of extra-crisp bacon, a side order of hash browns, and a cup of fresh coffee waiting for him. He slid into his side of the booth and took a forkful of hash browns before he said a word.
“Mmmm!”
“You bet.” Tony took another forkful. He was having the special California omelet, and the waitress had said he was the only customer who hadn’t asked what was in it. Allison had tipped him off, early in their marriage. Anything on the menu with the word California in it was mostly avocados.
As soon as Erik had eaten one pancake, he took the bull by the horns.
“I talked to Allison last night. Why did you give her all those Hitchcock films to watch?”
“Because she loves Hitchcock, and I needed her to do some research.”
“But all we need are three scenes for our Video Kill script.”
“Four scenes. You’re forgetting Rear Window.”
“Okay, four scenes. But she told me you wanted her to watch all fifty-three films.”
Tony took a sip of coffee to stall for time. He’d have to give Erik the same story he’d given Allison. “She’s not watching them for the script, Erik. The UCLA alumni association conned me into researching a list of Hitchcock’s female victims, and Allison’s helping me out on it. As a matter of fact, that’s what gave me the idea for the Video Killer’s motivation.”
“Th
e alumni association asked you to do it?”
“Right.” There was a moment of silence in which Tony refused to meet Erik’s eyes. He picked up a piece of toast and smeared it with a package of jelly that was labeled MIXED FRUIT, but when he looked up, Erik was still staring at him. He had to lighten this up and divert Erik somehow.
“You ever wonder what’s in this stuff, Erik? It says mixed fruit, but that could be anything. Even tomatoes. Tomatoes are a fruit, aren’t they?”
“I’m not sure. My mother used to say that if you sprinkled sugar on them, they’re fruit. And if you use salt, they’re vegetables.”
“A wise woman, your mother.” Tony nodded solemnly. “But how about if you eat them plain?”
“Then they’re a fregtible.”
“Nice, Erik. Very nice. Please pass the peppalt.”
Erik laughed as he handed over the salt and pepper. At the moment Tony seemed perfectly normal, smiling and cracking jokes. But hadn’t the neighbors of that guy who’d murdered all those migrant workers claimed that he’d seemed like a perfectly normal, likeable guy? There were just too many unexplained facts to ignore, too many times when Tony had claimed he was going somewhere and then never showed up. Even last night was suspicious. Tony claimed he’d come in to work at midnight, but that was a lie. Erik had been alone in the office when he’d sacked out on the couch at twelve-thirty.
“More Swedish plasma?”
Erik nodded and Tony reached over to fill his cup. As the sleeve on Tony’s T-shirt pulled up, Erik found himself looking for the scratches a young woman being strangled might leave on her attacker’s arms. There was nothing there. Erik reminded himself that all his suspicions were circumstantial, and he might very well be a victim of his own overactive imagination. But his doubts still remained. Maybe Tony wasn’t the Video Killer, but it was clear that he was hiding something. Erik had to find out what it was.
