Video Kill

by Joanne Fluke

  As soon as the first scene was printed, Erik picked up and straightened the pages. When Alan’s uncle coughed up with the Video Kill contracts and they finally got their money, it might be wise to invest in some updated office equipment.

  About the time the Beethoven ended, Erik finished printing out the second scene. The classical station’s next selection was German Lieder, sung by a lusty soprano. Erik got up to switch the station and caught the very end of a news flash. The Video Killer has struck again. And Tony had been here all night! Erik let out a whoop and ran to wake Tony.

  “The Video Killer?” Tony sat up and blinked. “What was that, Erik?”

  “He struck again last night. I just caught the tail end of the news flash on the radio. Turn on the television and I’ll get up a cup of coffee.”

  Erik came back just in time. The words NEWS FLASH were blinking on and off with a recorded voice-over.

  WE INTERRUPT OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING FOR THIS ANNOUNCEMENT. THE VIDEO KILLER STRUCK AGAIN IN HOLLYWOOD AT APPROXIMATELY NINE O’CLOCK LAST NIGHT. THE FULL STORY IN A MOMENT.

  As the announcement was repeated, Erik sighed. The Video Killer has struck at nine o’clock. He could account for Tony’s whereabouts after midnight but not before. Tony was still a suspect.

  The anchor’s face appeared on the screen. He looked somber. “This just in. The latest in the Video Killer murders took place in Hollywood last night. Police arrived at the scene of the crime, the four hundred block of Irvine, at shortly after midnight this morning. L.A. Chief Detective Sam Ladera said that evidence found at the scene points to another in the series of murders that has been terrorizing the show business community. The victim, Miss Daniele Renee, was an actress.”

  There was a crash as Erik’s coffee cup fell to the table. Tony glanced over at his partner in alarm.

  “Erik? Are you all right?”

  “Huh? I’m . . . uh. . . .” Erik’s face was bloodless, and his mouth opened and closed as he struggled to answer. “I’m fine.”

  “You had me scared there for a minute. What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I . . . uh . . . I just have a blinding headache, that’s all. I get them sometimes. I . . . I think I’d better take a pill.”

  “Sure, Erik. I tell you what. Why don’t you go on home and get some rest. I can finish printing out and deliver to Alan. There’s no reason why you have to go along.”

  “Uh . . . well . . . maybe that’s a good idea.”

  Tony watched as Erik fumbled in his pocket and took out a packet of pills. He tried to punch one out of its plastic bubble, but his hands were shaking too badly.

  “Here. Let me.”

  Tony took the packet and got a pill out for Erik. Then he watched anxiously as his partner half staggered into the kitchenette for a glass of water. He’d never seen Erik like this before. It must be one hell of a bad headache.

  The packet of pills was still in his hand, and Tony glanced at it curiously. The name of the drug was printed on top. Mezopropathalomine. And the words For Experimental Use Only were written across the package in bright red letters. The doctor’s name was stamped on the back, Dr. S. Trumbull, with a telephone number. He looked up just in time to see Erik headed for the door.

  “Erik? You forgot your pills.”

  Tony got up and handed Erik the packet of pills. He noticed that Erik’s hands were trembling as he took them.

  “Thanks, Tony. I’d better get home right away. This stuff really zonks me out.”

  “Do you want me to drive you? I can shut off the printer and—”

  “No!” Erik sounded panic-stricken. “That’s not necessary, Tony. I’ll be home long before it hits if I start right now.”

  “Are you sure those pills are safe? I mean, they say experimental all over them. There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there, Erik?”

  “Of course not.” Erik tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I just get bad headaches, that’s all. And those pills are nothing but a new kind of aspirin.”

  As soon as Erik was gone, Tony reached for a piece of paper to jot down the name of the doctor and his phone number. Erik was lying. Something as ordinary as aspirin couldn’t zonk you out, and it certainly wouldn’t have experimental written all over it in red letters. He’d call this Dr. Trumbull just as soon as his office opened to find the truth.

  Allison was the first customer in line at the bank when it opened at ten in the morning. It had taken two coats of foundation to cover the dark circles under her eyes, but Tony’s list was completed, and she’d decided to investigate their financial situation herself. The incident with the lighter had convinced her that if Tony could lie to her about one thing, he might be lying about others, too. She knew she couldn’t relax until she knew that there was enough money to pay for her mother’s medical expenses.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” The young woman seated on a high stool behind the teller’s cage gave Allison a brilliant smile. She was wearing a pin that said JOIN OUR CHRISTMAS CLUB NOW.

  “I hope so.” Allison smiled back. “I’m Mrs. Tony Rocca, and I need to know our account balance.”

  “Would that be passbook savings or checking, Mrs. Rocca?”

  Allison thought quickly. She knew they had a checking account, and she vaguely remembered signing something Tony said was a signature card for a savings account.

  “Both, please.”

  “And the accounts are under whose name?”

  “Allison Greene Rocca and Tony D. Rocca.”

  “R . . . O . . . C . . . A?”

  “No. R . . . O . . . C . . . C . . . A.”

  The woman jotted down the correct spelling on a piece of paper and looked up at Allison again.

  “Do you have your passbook or your checkbook with you, Mrs. Rocca?”

  Allison shook her head. Tony kept the checkbook, and now that she thought about it, she’d never even seen the savings passbook. Tony probably had it in his desk.

  “That’s all right.” The woman smiled. “I can get it from the computer, but I need a little more information. Are these joint accounts?”

  “I really don’t know. My husband opened them. What other types of accounts are there?”

  “We offer joint accounts, partnership accounts, and trustee accounts.”

  “Could you please tell me the difference?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Rocca.” The woman smiled again, but Allison could tell it was wearing thin. “On joint accounts either person can sign to complete a transaction. Most husbands and wives have this type of account. Partnership accounts require both signatures. And on trustee accounts, the second party may sign only upon the death of the primary party.”

  “I believe we have joint accounts.”

  Allison glanced behind her and noticed that the line was growing longer. She had no idea this would be so complicated.

  “Do you know if the accounts are business or personal?”

  “Personal. Definitely personal.”

  “And what is your social security number, Mrs. Rocca?”

  As Allison rattled off the nine-digit number, she heard people beginning to mutter in line behind her. She felt terribly guilty for taking up this much time, but there was no way around it. The bank wouldn’t give out account balances over the phone.

  “And now I need to see three pieces of identification, one with a photograph.”

  Allison fumbled in her purse and came up with her driver’s license and two credit cards. The woman glanced at them and pushed the credit cards back.

  “The driver’s license is fine, Mrs. Rocca, but I can’t accept these credit cards. They’re in your husband’s name. Do you have any other personal identification?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  The woman looked up, saw the size of the line behind Allison, and lost the last vestige of her smile.

  “Then you’ll have to fill out an exceptional cause application. Please follow me. I’ll take you to see Mr. Thatcher.�
�

  Allison winced as the woman put out a NEXT WINDOW PLEASE sign. Several people groaned, and she gave them an apologetic look as she followed the teller to a desk in the rear of the building.

  “Mr. Thatcher?” The teller approached a middle-aged man who wore a dour expression. Evidently, only tellers were required to smile. “This is Mrs. Allison Rocca. She wants to check her account balances, but she doesn’t have the proper identification.”

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Rocca. Naturally we apologize for any delay that you may have encountered, but I’m sure you can understand why we must be scrupulous in the discharge of our duties. I am reasonably certain that you wouldn’t want a stranger to walk into the lobby of this financial institution, request a copy of Allison Rocca’s account balance, and receive it!”

  “Of course not.”

  “And that, Mrs. Rocca, is precisely why we demand unquestionable proof of identity. You, our valued customer, have charged us with this obligation. It’s for your own protection, you see. Now, do you carry anything with the name Allison Rocca on it?”

  “Just a moment. I’ll check again.” Allison pulled out her card case and went through it. She felt so chastised that she wanted to get up and walk out, but she wasn’t about to leave without learning their balance. Suddenly she remembered the discount card for a mail order jewelry store she’d received in the mail. She’d written her name on it herself and stuck it in her wallet. Surely a man who so scrupulously discharged his duties wouldn’t accept it as proof of identification, would he?

  “Will this do, Mr. Thatcher?” Allison handed him the discount card even though she was sure he’d reject it.

  “That’s acceptable. Now all you need is one more.”

  Allison checked the flap behind her driver’s license and found an old library card from the time she and Tony had spent a summer in Connecticut. It had expired ten years ago, but she gave it to Mr. Thatcher and crossed her fingers.

  “It’s out of state.” Mr. Thatcher frowned. “Don’t you have anything else?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well . . . I think we can make an exception this time. Now I need the answer to a few short questions. We’ll start with the checking account.”

  Twenty minutes later Allison walked out of the bank, clutching a slip of paper with their account balances. She still couldn’t believe what Mr. Thatcher had written on the paper. Their joint savings account contained four dollars and seventeen cents. And the checking account would show a negative balance once the monthly service charge was deducted. Tony had lied. They were broke. Flat broke.

  For the first time in her life, Allison didn’t listen to the traffic report before she got on the freeway. There was the usual jam at the top of the pass, but she barely noticed when she had to creep along at ten miles an hour. She was too busy rehearsing what she would say to her agent when she dropped in at the office to beg for work.

  It was ten o’clock by the time Tony dropped off the script at Alan’s office. He was only fifteen minutes from the house, and even though he still had what seemed like millions of things to do, he needed to talk to Allison. He wanted to tell her about Erik’s medicine and ask her what she thought. When he’d told Dr. Trumbull’s nurse that it was critical, she’d given him the earliest appointment possible. The doctor was away on vacation and wouldn’t be back until next Sunday, but she could squeeze Tony in then, right after his morning rounds. She was sorry, but there was no way she could give him any information about a patient over the phone. Tony had tried all his usual tricks, but he’d run into a stone wall. Then he’d thought of Allison. It was a long shot, but perhaps Erik had confided in her about what Tony was sure was a serious illness.

  Tony didn’t make the connection until he was pulling up in front of the house. The Video Killer’s latest victim. Daniele Renee. The name sounded very familiar when he’d heard it, but he’d figured that he’d probably met her at a party or something. Now he remembered. Daniele Renee was the actress Erik had married.

  Tony’s hands were shaking as he got out his key and unlocked the front door. No wonder Erik had been so upset! He’d tell Allison about it, and maybe she could run over to Erik’s apartment to see if there was anything she could do. He’d go, but he had to meet Sam in less than an hour.

  Allison didn’t answer when Tony called out for her. He checked every room, but she was obviously gone. There was no note on the refrigerator. She was probably at the convalescent center visiting her mother. If he’d called first, he could have saved himself the trip.

  Tony was ready to turn around and go back out to his car. He didn’t have time to wait for her to come home. But now that he’d driven all the way here, he might as well check to see whether she’d finished her list.

  A packet of paper was on the table, and Tony picked it up. Five copies of the Hitchcock list, collated and stapled. Allison had come through for him again. She always was a whiz at doing research. He’d get this right over to Sam, and they could start warning look-alike actresses.

  Tony scrawled a hasty note and slipped it under a magnet that was shaped like a watermelon slice on the door of the refrigerator. It said, THANKS FOR THE LIST, BABY—AT OFFICE UNTIL LATE—WILL CALL. Then he rushed back out and tried not to speed as he drove to police headquarters.

  Tony shuddered as the monitor in Sam’s office went blank. They had just finished watching the fifth murder DVD, the worst of the lot as far as Tony was concerned. It wasn’t just the cold-blooded murder of Erik’s ex-wife that was so horrifying. It was the list he held in his hand. Tony glanced at Allison’s neat printout again.

  THE 39 STEPS (1935) G.B.

  Victim—Lucie Mannheim

  Method of Murder—Stabbing

  If they’d had that list yesterday, Sam might have been able to warn Daniele Renee in time to save her life.

  “What’s the matter?” Sam turned to Tony as he shuddered again.

  Tony hesitated. He’d been about to tell Sam that the latest victim was his partner’s ex-wife, but he’d quickly thought better of it. Sam would find out soon enough, and poor Erik didn’t need some cop hammering on his door, asking him questions.

  “I was just thinking that this one didn’t have to die. We could have warned her if I’d had this damn list sooner. She’s a Lucie Mannheim look-alike.”

  Sam put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Sam Spade’s first rule of good detective work. Don’t get hung up on what might have been. You finished that list a lot faster than I expected, and now I’ll start warning actresses personally. How many Hitchcock victims are left?”

  “Too many.” Tony sighed and referred to his copy. “We could narrow it down if we knew which movie he’d choose next, but I haven’t been able to find a pattern. Hitchcock killed off a lot of actresses in his films, and for every victim, there are at least twenty or thirty look-alikes.”

  “That many?” Sam looked shocked as Tony nodded.

  “I went to a costume party once, where everyone was supposed to come dressed like a famous character in a movie. There must have been twenty girls that came as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, and every one of them looked the part. All those Vivien Leigh’s, Sam, at one random party. Those are the kinds of numbers you’re up against.”

  “Okay, I’ll just take those books of photos you gave me and start making calls. Why don’t you run home and get some sleep? You look as if you’ve been up all night.”

  “Well, most of it.” Tony got to his feet and yawned. “Call me if you need me, Sam. If I’m not at the office, the answering machine’ll be on.”

  On his way out Tony noticed that Andy Mertens was at the desk again. He waved and started for the door, but before he could get outside, the older officer stopped him.

  “Hey, Archer! Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure. What is it, Andy?”

  “It took a couple of weeks, but I think I got it figured out.” Andy lowered his voice. “If you’re Archer, the chief’s got to
be Sam Spade! Am I right?”

  20

  Saturday, August 7

  Alan Goldberg gave a weary sigh as he waited for the butler to call his uncle to the phone. He’d sent a copy of Rocca and Nielsen’s sample scenes to Hawaii on Monday, and Uncle Meyer still hadn’t called with his decision. Alan needed an answer today. Cinescope’s option ran out at midnight tomorrow.

  “Hi, Uncle Meyer.” Alan made his voice deliberately cheerful. “I called to see what you thought of the Video Kill partial.”

  Static crackled from the receiver, and Alan held it away from his ear until it stopped. “What was that, Uncle Meyer? We have a bad connection.”

  Alan listened for a minute and then he winced. The old man was cranky this morning.

  “Of course, Uncle Meyer. I’m very interested in the air pollution reading in Honolulu. I just forgot to ask, that’s all.”

  Alan sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair as Uncle Meyer went into a lengthy lecture on the levels of ozone and nitrogen dioxide and carbon monoxide. While he was listening, he flipped through the paper for a summary of the week’s air quality ratings for the L.A. area.

  “You’re lucky you’re not here, Uncle Meyer.” Alan lit a cigarette and glanced down at the figures. “It was really bad yesterday. West L.A., downtown, and the airport had third-stage episodes. They kept broadcasting that the air was hazardous for everyone.”

  As his uncle reacted predictably and went into another of his tirades on pollution, Alan crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. Actually, the whole L.A. Basin had been in the safe zone, but Uncle Meyer didn’t need to know that. He was looking out the window, watching a bird build its nest on the ledge below, when his uncle asked a question that made him sit up with a jolt.