Authors: Catherine Coulter
Blinker looked pathetic this morning, his chinos and shirt wrinkled and dirty from his face-plant in Missy’s yard. It was obvious he hadn’t slept, and he looked scared, his eyes darting back and forth between them. It was odd, but he looked even scrawnier this morning than he had lying in Missy’s yard.
Daniel said, “Mr. Bayley, you’ve had ample time to think of a better story than the lame one you told last night. So tell us exactly why you were at Missy Devereaux’s house after dark, well after midnight in fact, when it was obvious she’d be asleep?”
“I told you when you were shoving me into a cell last night, Detective Montoya, that I occasionally have insomnia and I’ve found that walking around helps. I like Malibu at night, it’s quiet and smells nice, you know? And all the movie stars are sound asleep and I can picture
how it must feel to live like that.” He shot Cam a look. “Don’t you ever wonder what the movie stars look like without makeup?”
“No,” Cam said.
“Okay, okay, just a little joke. Listen, I thought the house was empty and I liked it. My lease is coming due and I’ve been thinking about maybe renting something in Malibu. I didn’t know it was her house, I didn’t. It’s a weird coincidence.” Blinker fanned his hands in front of him and went hopefully silent.
Cam said, “But you didn’t walk far, did you? We found your car parked a block from Ms. Devereaux’s house.”
“I live in Santa Monica—you know that. It’s way too far to walk, so I drove to Malibu, then I began walking.”
“So you decided to climb in through a window to see if you’d like to rent this house?”
“No, no, you know I never went inside. Yeah, I did look inside, maybe, but that’s all. I just wanted to get a feel for the house, you know? I was ready to leave because I didn’t want to disturb anyone when you jumped out the window in your underwear and attacked me. You started pounding on me and I was only trying to defend myself, and then this blonde jumped out and attacked me, too. I couldn’t believe it—it was the same woman in Las Vegas, the one who accused me of stalking her. She even got a restraining order. That’s the truth. Look, I was a gentleman in Las Vegas. I agreed not to sue her for attacking me with a knife.”
Cam said, “You really want us to believe you didn’t know it was Missy Devereaux’s house?”
“Of course I didn’t know! I told you, I never break the law, I believe in the law. Sure, the restraining order is humiliating, but I wouldn’t have gone near that house if I’d known it was hers.”
Daniel said, “Apart from being ridiculous, what you’re saying doesn’t matter, Mr. Bayley. You violated the restraining order whether
you knew it or not, and you assaulted a federal agent. I’m wondering how you could be so stupid as to show up at Missy Devereaux’s house in the middle of the night? Did you forget there’s a serial killer out there? And Missy Devereaux is a young actress? And just maybe you’re the serial killer.”
“Me? No, that’s crazy! That’s nuts!”
“Mr. Bayley,” Cam said, “we know you were in Las Vegas last Saturday, and that night Molly Harbinger was murdered. You’ve already admitted to the little dustup with Missy Devereaux in the Wynn hotel garage.”
“No, no, I flew home to L.A. that afternoon. You can check with Sunset Airlines, my plane left McCarran airport at five in the afternoon. I wasn’t there!”
Daniel sat forward, pinned Blinker. “And where were you Tuesday night, Blinker?”
“Tuesday night? Why? Okay, I was at the movies, over in Century City. I saw Scarlett Johansson in something, I don’t remember the name of the movie. Wait, wait, I still have the ticket stub,” and he shoved his hand into his empty pockets. “You took all my stuff away from me last night. The stub has to be with my stuff. You have to look.”
Daniel left the interview room. He was back shortly with Blinker’s envelope in his hand. He poured his personal effects onto the table. And there was the ticket stub, for Tuesday night, the late show.
Given time of death, it was very unlikely Blinker could have driven to Santa Monica to Deborah Connelly’s house to kill her. He wasn’t the Serial, although neither Cam nor Daniel had ever seriously believed he could be. At least now he could be formally eliminated.
Blinker sat forward, his hands clasped, his look earnest. “I couldn’t hurt anybody, really. I’m a bond trader. I’m responsible, except this morning. I need to call my supervisor.” At their stony looks, he cleared his throat, straightened. “I want a lawyer.”
“Very well.” Daniel shoved his cell phone over to him, and he and Cam left the interview room.
Chief Murray met them outside the interview room. “He might get the Nitwit of the Year Award, but he isn’t the Serial, not that either of you thought he was.”
“No, he isn’t,” Cam said. “He doesn’t fit the body type and there wasn’t a knife or goggles.”
Dreyfus patted her arm. “Still, we’ve got him on trespassing, maybe breaking and entering, violating the restraining order, and attacking a federal agent.”
Cam said, “He didn’t really enter, only break.” She sighed. “I really did attack him, Dreyfus, jumped right out the window and took him down.”
“Doesn’t matter, too bad for him. If he gets himself a good lawyer, he could plea-bargain down to maybe three months, and out on bail until his hearing.”
Missy, who’d been pacing up and down the bullpen with every male eye following her progress, overheard Sheriff Murray. She grabbed Cam’s sleeve. “He’ll get three months or maybe nothing? And he’ll be out on bail? I’m going to go break his arm, Cam, he deserves it. He was going to come into your bedroom, you know it.”
“But he didn’t, Missy,” Cam said.
“He would have. And what if you hadn’t been there, Cam? What was he going to do? Sneak to my bedroom and try to kiss me? Lick me? Rape me? Then when the schmuck gets out of jail, if he ever even goes in, he can come after me again? Sheriff Murray, can’t we get him committed to a loony bin?”
Daniel took her hand. “Calm down, Missy. He wasn’t at your house to kill you. He worships you, he’s obsessed with you, and that’s got to stop. We’re all on edge because of the serial killer, but it isn’t Blinker. Do you know he doesn’t have a mark on his record, even a
speeding ticket? He’s a putz, that’s about it. I’ll see to it he has a psych evaluation. Don’t worry.”
Missy said, “Maybe he did have a knife and goggles, maybe you just didn’t find them. I’ll go back and search, see—”
Cam interrupted her. “Missy, I just called Sunset Airlines. Sure enough, Mr. Bayley flew back on their flight 415 to L.A. early last Saturday evening. Also, none of the murdered actresses reported a stalker. He’s got the wrong build, too, and his features aren’t remotely close to the sketch we have of the killer. He’s just a putz, like Daniel said. We’ll see what the psychiatrist says after his evaluation. Stop your worrying, all right?”
“Easy enough for you to say,” Missy said, and began pacing again, much to the pleasure of the men in the bullpen.
Daniel looked after her, talking to herself, her hands waving to make a point, pacing in her skinny jeans and her 49ers sweatshirt. He said to Cam, “What with that Ka-Bar of hers, I’d be willing to bet she’d cut off some of Blinker’s prized real estate if he tried anything again. I think he knows that, but before he leaves, I’ll tell him I’ll hold him down for her if he ever gets near her again.”
Cam smiled at him. “I know you would. Missy told me she wants Blinker sent to prison in Antarctica.” Her cell beeped and she excused herself. When she strode back into the bullpen a couple minutes later, she looked upset.
Daniel said, “So who’s the fool who pissed you off?”
“No, I’m not pissed off. Confused is more like it. That was David Elman, the LAPD supervisor of Homicide Special Section. The administrator at Children’s Hospital in Santa Monica called to tell him there was a private investigator asking questions about the surgical staff’s working hours and schedules on Tuesday night, when Deborah was killed. Elman said it was Gus Hampton, a P.I. with a good rep for being thorough and very expensive. When Elman had Loomis
confront him about it, Hampton freely admitted he was working for Theo Markham. Hampton said Markham believes Doc killed Deborah and that we—the cops—wouldn’t take him seriously. He used my name, as lead investigator, and that Doc had fooled me with his grief routine, had us believing his alibi about being in the hospital all night. He said Mr. Markham doesn’t think the cops will ever take him seriously unless Hampton proves him right.”
Missy called out, “I’m sorry, but I heard you. I don’t care what Markham thinks. You know it can’t be Doc, Cam. I mean, he saves lives, he’s a surgeon. It’s not possible. Listen, I talked to him, held him while he cried. Doc was nuts about Deborah. You’ve met him, you’ve talked to him, you know he’s devastated. Deb meant everything to him. I never heard a word about her dumping him or being afraid of him. Afraid of Doc? That’s stupid. Markham’s got this all wrong.”
Murray said slowly, “Why would Markham care enough about Deborah Connelly’s murder to hire an expensive P.I.? He barely knew her from what he told you and Daniel. Where does that interest of his come from? And why focus on her boyfriend, this Doc? It’s obvious Markham hates him. My question is why?”
“Good questions, Murray,” Cam said. “I don’t know the answers, but could he be that upset because Deborah couldn’t finish her role in his movie? That sounds lame to me. I’m going to try to find out. Do you think I’m wrong about Doc, Daniel?”
“No, you can’t be,” Missy said when Daniel remained silent. “Listen, I can ask around, see who else spent time with him and Deb together.”
Daniel got in her face. “No way you’re going to ask anybody anything, Missy. You’re already too involved in this.”
Missy cocked her head at him. “But I’m already in the case, Daniel, Cam asked me to be. It won’t hurt to ask. What could happen?”
“No,” Daniel said.
Sheriff Murray said, “Ms. Devereaux, Daniel’s right. You’re a civilian, you should keep out of this.”
Cam was shaking her head. “I still have a hard time picturing Doc planning to slit Deborah’s throat, covering his tracks. I saw him, I spoke to him, saw his grief. Like Missy, I’d swear to my last breath it was real. He was raw with pain.”
Daniel rose, “Unless he’s the one who’s the fine actor. I’ll call Arturo, tell him to dig deeper at the hospital, put him on the hook—he’s got to prove or disprove Doc’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Definitively. The last thing he wants is to have a private cop find out things he didn’t. Arturo doesn’t deal well with civilians sticking their noses in his business. This will fire up his burners.”
46
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY
It was a beautiful day in Washington, not too hot, perfect for another walk she really didn’t want to take, but Delsey had no sooner gotten back to Griffin’s condo than he’d called her, told her he knew if she stayed inside she’d only brood. Take a taxi back into the middle of Washington, get out and walk, he’d suggested, look at all the monuments, enjoy all the people, and while she was walking he suggested her best payback was to write a song about how rotten Rob Rasmussen was.
So here she was, on K Street, walking with hordes of tourists and government employees, humming a few bars of her new song, spinning words and notes in the back of her mind, her step lagging now and then as she let her mind worry the line about a two-timing dog.
When she stopped at the corner for a red light, a dozen people quickly filled in behind her. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving right along. Her eyes were on her silver sandals—she needed a new coat of polish on her toenails. Maybe a deep purple?—when something hit her hard in her back, hurling her into the path of an oncoming black limo.
Delsey saw her mother’s face clear as day as the big car bore down
on her. She heard screams and shouts, felt strong hands under her armpits literally jerking her off the ground and backward. The big car’s brakes screamed like a banshee, and the front end spun into the oncoming traffic as it slid past her. There was a tremendous crash and the sound of metal rending as several cars slammed into one another. People were yelling, horns blaring. It was pandemonium.
She stared up into Rob Rasmussen’s face. “Delsey, are you all right?”
Was she all right? When she’d nearly met her maker? Had he saved her? “I’m not dead,” Delsey said, “so that’s something.” She couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. She knew she couldn’t stand on her own yet, so she let him hold her up. People crowded in beside them, some asking if she was okay, others seeing if people were all right in the crashed cars. Someone called 911, not for her, but for the mad jumble of cars smacked together in the middle of K Street. Drivers were getting out of their wrecked cars, some of them angry, screaming for the cops, others dazed, wondering what had happened. It seemed like only a second had passed when she heard sirens.
Rob said, “You’re white as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tried to pull herself free, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She sagged against him. “What happened?”
“You fell into the street, right in front of a black limo.”
An older guy wearing cowboy boots called out, “I’ll bet she can’t walk a straight line!”
That straightened her back and her legs. She pulled away from Rob and rounded on the man. “I’m not drunk. Someone pushed me. Did anyone see who it was?”
There was a punch of shocked silence, then voices, talking over one another so she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She felt light-headed, and, admittedly, a bit crazed as she looked at the faces around her, wondering which of them had pushed her.
More than likely that person was long gone now. She’d nearly died. Someone had tried to kill her. The shouts from the wrecked cars in the street stopped when a cop car arrived on scene. An officer leaped out, called for quiet and calm.
No one had seen anything. And that’s what everyone told Metro officer George Mankins, all at once when he pushed through. He listened, then raised his hand. He looked at Delsey, saw her dilated eyes, her pallor, the dirt on her hands, the streak of grime on her cheek. “You okay?”