by Janet Dailey
“Then let’s use him.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucas Wayne smile in amusement. “Is something wrong?”
He shrugged one shoulder, sending a ripple of muscle across his bare chest. “Seems to me you’re making a lot of work for yourself when you don’t believe there’s any threat.”
“Under the circumstances, there’s no such thing as being too careful,” Delaney replied.
“Especially when we’re dealing with Rina Cole,” Arthur added. “She should be locked up along with that nutcase who writes you those letters all the time.”
“What nutcase?” Delaney lifted her head in sharp alertness. “What letters?”
“Lucas has this kook who writes him love letters and sends him presents. It’s been going on for almost a year now. She’s a—”
Delaney broke in before Arthur could say more. “What kind of presents?” She directed the question to Lucas Wayne.
“Different things,” he replied with unconcern. “Once she sent a lock of her hair. Another time it was a pendant in the shape of half of a heart. You know, the kind where there are two matching halves, one for the guy to wear and one for the girl.” He paused and shook his head. “There were others, but I don’t remember what they were. My secretary handles all the fan mail and the gifts that come in. I never see ninety percent of it. I don’t have time.”
“Did you keep any of these letters from her?”
“I get hundreds, probably thousands of letters a week from fans. It’s impossible to keep them—hers or anyone else’s.”
Arthur spoke up. “I’ll bet if you had Christy go through the last few batches of mail, you’d find some from her. She writes you two and three times a week.” Then to Delaney he said, “She’s in love with him and writes like they’re having a big affair.”
Delaney didn’t like the sound of that. “Call your secretary and have her fax any letters she has. I’d like to look at them as soon as possible.”
“All right.” Lucas nodded.
“Now do you understand why I wanted you out here, Delaney?” Arthur said. “I have Rina Cole who goes crazy and tries to kill him. And she may be crazy enough to try it again. Then there’s this fan writing him love letters exactly like the guy did who killed that actress on My Sister Sam. Is it any wonder I’m concerned? There has been too much of this kind of thing these last few years—like the guy who showed up at the studio demanding to see Michael Landon, then shot and killed two guards when they refused to let him in…the stabbing of Theresa Saldana. What about that axe murderer who stalked Cher and Olivia Newton-John for three years before he was locked away? And who can forget that crazy woman who claimed she was David Letterman’s wife and broke into his house in Connecticut…or Hinckley shooting Reagan to impress Jodie Foster…or the one who killed John Lennon? Talk about fatal attractions.”
“You don’t have to list every one, Arthur.” Lucas Wayne came out of his chair, suddenly restless, impatient, irritated. “I agree this fan is sick. She needs to be stopped. But how? We don’t know who she is or where she lives.”
Riley picked up on that. “Are you saying these letters are anonymous?”
“They might as well be,” he said. “They’re all signed simply ‘Laura.’ No last name, no return address. Not even an initial.”
“What about a postmark?” Delaney asked.
Lucas Wayne glanced at her in surprise. “I remember one had an L.A. postmark, but I couldn’t swear that all of them did.”
“In that case, have your secretary include the envelopes that the letters came in.”
“Okay.”
“Christy has my fax number here at the apartment,” Arthur inserted. “We’ll have copies for you this afternoon.”
“Good.” Delaney made a note of that under Arthur’s name. “Now, back to the current situation—I assume the production company provides transportation for you back and forth to the set every day. Are they using a local limousine service?”
“Yes. Imperial Limousine.”
“Do you usually have the same driver?”
Lucas Wayne nodded and linked his fingers together. “His first name’s Bennie. I don’t remember the last.”
“I’ll find out from the line producer,” Riley volunteered.
“Okay.” She put that under his list, then faced Lucas Wayne and automatically took a deep breath. “Now comes the hard part. We need you to tell us as much as you can about Rina Cole, your relationship with her—”
“Confession time, is that it?” he challenged harshly, resentment stiffening his expression.
“I know the question sounds like an invasion of privacy, but it’s important for us to know as much as we can about Rina Cole. It will help us to anticipate what she might do, when, where, maybe even how. Obviously our knowledge of her is limited to various press stories, which mostly deal with her professional career. We are aware she has a past history of violent outbursts. Beyond that, we know little about her as a person, not even how much of the reported affair between the two of you was fact and how much was a publicist’s fiction. All of it will help us to determine how dangerous a threat she is.”
“She’s dangerous, all right. After last night I know that for a fact.” He flopped back down on the chair, his dark eyes hard and faintly defiant. “They say confession’s good for the soul. Maybe it is, but this all started because I used her—from the beginning. I’m not proud of it, but everybody gets used in this business one way or the other. Anyway, I had read the script for the movie we ended up making together. The minute I read it, I knew the part of Sam Connors was my breakout role from the rock scene. Rina had control of the casting and she was determined to hire a big screen actor for the part. So I arranged to meet her at a party, convinced her I wasn’t interested in the part, that the road tour schedule was too tight, then asked her out. To make a long story short, I let her talk me into taking the role.”
He paused and looked away as if gathering his thoughts. “As for the affair, the chemistry was there off-screen as well as on. We slept together. I’ve never denied that. Why should I? Affairs happen on a set all the time. Once the film was in the can, I saw her occasionally, but not often. Definitely not as often as she made it sound to reporters when we hit the talk show circuit together to promote the film. Hell, I didn’t care if she was using me. I’d used her. Besides, the chemistry was still there and she was one wild, sexy lady—”
“Lady is not the term I would use,” Arthur inserted.
Riley ignored that to ask, “What was she like? Personality-wise, I mean.”
“Volatile,” Lucas answered. “She could blow up without warning. One time she got mad at her hairdresser on the set and started shrieking and beating on her with a hot curler wand—all because she didn’t like the way she was doing her hair. She was always screaming at the director, too. At the time I thought she was simply a perfectionist. But she’s really paranoid—convinced that someone’s out to get her or ruin her. I understand it got worse when her last movie flopped.”
“That’s a gentle way of saying it was a box-office bomb,” Arthur inserted. “The grosses were so bad, they yanked it from the theaters after only three weeks. She’s poison in Hollywood. She blames Lucas for it. Practically every other day, she’s been calling him or coming by his place, banging on the door, screaming accusations that he’d done it to destroy her—that is, when she wasn’t begging him to make a sequel to their movie. When his last film turned out to be another smash, she went over the top and the threats starting coming.”
“The threats. She’s been threatening you?” Delaney questioned as the case began to take on a different complexion, blowing Riley’s theory that last night’s attempt had been an impulsive act committed in the heat of passion.
“Since around April,” Lucas admitted. “I didn’t really take them seriously. I didn’t even mention them to Arthur. I thought sooner or later she’d give up this craziness. I didn’t realize how sick she was…until last night.”<
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“Do we know how she got into the suite?” Delaney directed the question to Arthur.
“She talked a chambermaid into letting her in. She said she’d just flown in from Europe—which was true. She had some concert dates there. She told the maid she wanted to surprise Luke. The poor woman thought she was helping Cupid out.”
“Were you asleep?” Riley asked.
“Fortunately, no. I heard her come in—or maybe I should say, I heard ‘someone’ come in. A lamp had been left on in the other room. When she opened the bedroom door, I could tell it was Rina, not some cat burglar. And I could see the gun in her hand. Arthur told you the rest, so there’s no need to go into it.”
“No, there isn’t,” Delaney agreed.
“Do you know what the irony of this is?” he said with disgust. “The real irony? I gave Rina that gun. A pearl-handled .38. Special order. I even had her name engraved on the barrel. And she was going to kill me with it.”
“Does she own any other guns?”
“No. At least, she didn’t when I gave her that one,” Lucas qualified his answer.
Delaney knew that if Rina Cole wanted another gun, she could get one without much difficulty. “What about this apartment? Has she been here?”
“No. Arthur let me use it a few times when I’ve been in New York. She might have the phone number written down somewhere.”
“Mention that to your attorney, Arthur,” Delaney suggested. “If she starts calling here and making threats, he might want them taped. I’m not familiar with the evidentiary laws in New York. I don’t know whether a taped threat would be admissible or not.”
“I’ll speak to him about it,” he confirmed.
“Good.” She glanced at Riley. “Unless you can think of something, I think we have covered about everything for now.”
“I agree.” Riley straightened from the arm of the sofa.
Delaney closed her notebook and clicked her ballpoint pen, retracting the tip as she rose to her feet. “Arthur, could you show us the layout of the apartment? If you have a spare room that we can use for a temporary office, it would be helpful. I’d rather work from here than some other location.”
“You can use the library.” Arthur stood up and automatically rebuttoned his suit jacket to give it a smooth line. “If one of you wants to sleep there, the sofa converts to a bed. There’s also an extra bedroom now that the Evans girl has left.”
Delaney glanced at her watch, conscious of the time ticking away and the mountain of logistics yet to be handled. “Give us a quick tour of the apartment, then we’ll set up in the library. We have a lot to do.”
FOUR
DELANEY SAT AT A CONTEMPORARY rosewood desk, an elbow idly propped on its top, her back to the night-darkened window that mirrored the rest of the library. Its velvet-covered walls of deep navy created an illusion of infinite shadow and isolated the light from both the desk lamp and the floor lamp that stood next to the armchair Riley occupied.
A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his fingers. His suit jacket lay across the arm of the navy sofa. The cuffs of his light blue dress shirt were rolled halfway up his forearms and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened, his tie hanging askew in a loose circle. His briefcase sat open on the floor next to his chair and his feet were propped on a square footstool upholstered in cinnamon leather. On the coffee table, a flat cardboard box held wadded-up napkins and the few crusts that were left from a pizza that had been delivered over three hours ago.
Riley took a drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke. “Want to read it again?”
“Okay.” Delaney lowered her hand and began to read from the letter:
My dearest darling Lucas—
It has been agony not seeing you every week. That time we had together meant so much to me that now it hurts not to hear your laugh or see the way your eyes shine, to feel again your love for me.
But I know I must be strong, that we won’t always have to be apart like this.
I know, my darling, that you miss me as much as I miss you. I see how lonely you are. But each passing day brings us closer to the moment when we can be together forever and neither of us will ever have to be lonely again.
Forever yours
Laura,
When she finished, Riley said, “The obsession is there, along with the delusion of a relationship. And that ‘being together forever’ phrase says to me the letter has all the earmarks of being written by the type of fan who could pose a genuine threat.”
“True.”
“So what’s bothering you—other than the fact that we might be dealing with a faceless stalking fan?”
Delaney stared at the letter, an absent frown creasing her forehead. “I don’t know. I guess it bothers me that it’s typed. What kind of woman would type a love letter? It seems so impersonal. That’s what makes it feel wrong.”
“Maybe this Laura knows that an expert could identify her through her handwriting.” Riley crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray already mounded with butts. “Or maybe”—he swung his feet off the footstool and pushed out of the chair to walk to the desk—“her handwriting is simply lousy. Judging from that signature, I’d say that was a good bet.”
“It is.” Delaney admitted the name “Laura” was barely legible. “But I question whether that would occur to her?”
“It would if somebody had drummed it into her head often enough.”
“I suppose.”
Riley could tell she still had some doubts. He watched as she rubbed a hand over her eyes. Reading the signs of tension and fatigue in the gesture, he said, “It’s late. I think it’s time we called it a night.”
“You go ahead.” She immediately sat a little straighter. “I want to go over these letters again and recheck our strategy for the location shoot in Central Park.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That I get the bedroom and you’re stuck with the sofa tonight.”
“The sofa will be fine.” She managed a smile, but it was a tight one.
“If you think I’m going to be a gentleman and argue with you, you’re crazy.”
Delaney laughed faintly and laid the letter aside, as he’d meant her to do, then rocked her chair back to look at him. “And you are crazy if you think you’re going to talk me into going to bed.”
“Why not? You’re as tired as I am,” he reasoned.
She shook her head and sat forward, reaching for the letter again. “But I know I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’d lie awake thinking.”
“About what?” Riley was certain he knew that answer, but he doubted she would tell him.
She didn’t. “About all this.” She waved a hand, indicating the papers, maps, and letters on the desk. “Going over all the details, trying to figure out if there’s any holes in the security.”
“This job isn’t any different from a dozen others we’ve handled. It’s all fairly standard procedure. Certainly nothing to lose sleep over.” He paused a beat, then went on the attack. “Are you sure you aren’t looking ahead to the advance trip you’ll have to make to scope out things in Aspen?”
“Of course not.”
There wasn’t the smallest break in her composure. She showed no reaction whatsoever to his challenge, which was telling in and of itself.
“Liar,” Riley taunted softly, drawing a quick glare from Delaney. “Your old flame lives in Aspen, and Aspen isn’t that big. You’re worried that you might run into him. Admit it, ’Laney.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Riley,” she replied smoothly. “All of that’s in the past. It was over long ago.”
“The affair is over, but you never got over him. Seeing him again could be the best thing that could happen. Maybe you’d finally get him out of your system.”
“Honestly, Riley, I don’t know how you come up with this nonsense,” Delaney said with a coolly amused look.
Just as doubts began to f
orm, Riley noticed the faint glimmer of pain in her eyes. Most people would have missed it, but most people didn’t know her as well as he did.
“It’s a lot of things, but nonsense isn’t one of them. We both know that, ’Laney.” He gave serious consideration to making a long, thin slice through her control. But he was afraid that his aim might be off and he’d end up slicing through his own.
“Look, Riley, we’ve been friends a long time—”
“That’s the problem,” he muttered, well aware that she had never looked at him as anything other than a friend. He also knew this wasn’t the time to change that, not with the specter from the past looming before her.
“Problem?” Delaney frowned in confusion.
Unable to explain himself, Riley swung away from the desk and headed for the door, scooping up his suit jacket as he passed the chair. “Good night, ’Laney,” he said over his shoulder. “I’d wish you sweet dreams, but I know whose face you’d see when you close your eyes.”
Stunned into silence by the trace of bitterness in his voice, Delaney stared after him, wondering what on earth was the matter with him. She almost called him back to demand an explanation, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to get drawn into a further discussion of the past. It wasn’t something she wanted to face right now.
Instead, she pulled out the site map for the scheduled location shoot and spread it across the desk. She studied it for a while, occasionally jotting more notes to herself. After a time the lines began to blur. Delaney rubbed her eyes again and tried to shake off the fatigue.
Then came the sound of footsteps in the hall. Delaney glanced up, half-expecting to see Riley appear in the doorway.
But it was Lucas Wayne who paused in the opening. In place of the silk pajama bottoms he’d worn earlier, he had on double-pleated trousers and a polo-style pullover, banded in the middle with a wide chocolate stripe.
He leaned a shoulder against the frame, unconsciously striking a pose straight out of GQ. “Burning the midnight oil, I see,” he observed lazily. “It’s eleven o’clock, you know.”
