THE NEXT TO DIE (22 page)

Tom waited for Hal in front of his apartment building. They had a noon appointment. He had a rolled-up
Los Angeles Times
in his hand. The headlines told of an ambush on Dayle Sutton’s limo. There was nothing about a shooting death outside a deserted chemical plant in south Los Angeles. But on page two, they carried a blurred photo of Maggie—from that stag movie. The caption read:
MAGGIE MCGUIRE, EARLY SEX FILM BLOT ON A DISTINGUISHED CAREER
.

Leaning against the entryway, Tom felt so tired. Last night, Hal had given him something to make him sleep. It was probably still in his system. Killing that man had been like watching himself in a movie. Reality hit him a moment after pulling the trigger. Then he threw up. Drops of vomit—and the man’s blood—had gotten on his clothes, so Hal made him strip. Tom was shivering, nearly naked, standing in a darkened, deserted cul-de-sac. He tried not to cry. They gave him a pair of coveralls, and the “cleanup” crew took his clothes away. Thank God Hal’s sleeping pills had worked. For a few hours, he’d forgotten everything and slept.

Hal had said he needed to work on his aim; and so they were heading out to the desert for target practice this afternoon.

A white Corsica pulled up to the curb. Hal was behind the wheel. Tom reluctantly climbed in beside him. He saw coffee from 7-Eleven in the cup holder. Hal held up a bag. “Cream and sugar. Plus a couple of donuts. If you took those pills, you probably slept through breakfast.”

Pulling into traffic, Hal announced that there was a cooler of beer in the trunk for later. He cranked up the air conditioner, and popped in a Glen Miller tape. “I also have Perry Como here, and Sinatra. I wasn’t sure about your taste in music.”

Tom said nothing. He wondered why this sudden VIP treatment.

Hal kept his eyes on the road. “You did well last night,” he said. “I know it was rough, but you really proved yourself. Our SAAMO officers were impressed. Are you comfortable? Is the air-conditioning too cold?”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” He pried the lid off his coffee.

“So—what do you think of your old girlfriend’s porn movie?” Hal asked, glancing at the newspaper on Tom’s lap. “Have you seen her little epic?”

Tom cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t,” he replied. “She—she must have needed the money very badly. You weren’t behind this, were you?”

“Behind what?”

“Releasing that old stag movie, making her into a joke. Is your SAAMO group responsible for that?”

“Why, no. Like I told you, Tom, we were investigating Maggie. But we didn’t release the porn tape. Someone else must have.”

Tom wasn’t entirely convinced.

Hal briefly smiled at him, then studied the city traffic. “I’m glad you asked me. Until now, we’ve had to keep you in the dark about certain things, and I’m sorry. We don’t want you left out of the loop anymore. If there’s something on your mind, just ask.”

Eyes narrowed, Tom stared at him. “Okay, I have a question,” he said. “How do you expect me to kill Dayle Sutton? I’m no marksman. You saw how close I was to that man last night, and it still took me three shots.”

“We’ll get you close enough to her, Tom.”

“That’s another problem. If I’m too close, she might recognize me.”

“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.

“Dayle, her assistant, her casting director and his secretary—they all met me the afternoon Maggie died. I auditioned for them. It didn’t go well. I got a little miffed. I’m afraid there were some—heated words.”

Hal gave him a perturbed glance. “Better watch that temper of yours, Tom. It keeps getting you into trouble. Give me a blow-by-blow.”

When Tom finished explaining about the disastrous audition, Hal pulled a cellular phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker. “Sounds as if you wouldn’t mind killing Dayle Sutton—with or without our help.” He unfolded the little gizmo, then pressed the numbers on the dial pad. “Hi. I’m with Tom, and we’re on our way to target practice,” Hal said into the cellular. He was merging onto the freeway.

Tom sipped his coffee and pretended he wasn’t interested in Hal’s phone conversation. “Yeah, well, he’ll just have to agree to it,” he said at one point.

Tom glanced down at his half-consumed jelly donut and the cup of coffee in his hands. For a while there, Hal had almost made him feel important. He wondered what he’d “just have to agree to.”

After another minute, Hal clicked off and slipped the tiny phone back in his pocket. “You won’t mind wearing a disguise, will you, Tom? Maybe glasses or a fake mustache? Worst we might do is shave back your hairline a bit.”

“I’ll just have to agree to it,” Tom said, frowning. He let out a long sigh. “Listen, why me? I mean, why not hire a professional hit man?”

“You’re a good actor, Tom.” Hal said, his eyes still on the road. “It’s a shame Hollywood didn’t use your talent better. See, when you take care of Dayle Sutton for us, there will be a lot people around. One of our men will be a security guard at the scene, and he’ll shoot you with blanks. Our own special ambulance will whisk you away. Now, a hit man might be a good shot, but he won’t play dead very well, not like you. I saw your death scene in
Fall from the Saddle
. You made it look real, Tom. I even cried. I saw that picture a couple of times. Is it your favorite?”

“Well, it’s one of the better westerns I made….”

For the rest of the ride, he and Hal talked about his movies. They listened to Glen Miller, then Perry Como. He found himself liking Hal. Tom actually forgot for a few minutes that he had to put a bullet in Dayle Sutton’s head for these people. And when he did remember, it didn’t seem like such a terrible thing.

“What time is it?” Dayle muttered, rubbing her eyes. She wore her ivory silk robe. Her head felt like a wad of chewing gum, and her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. She tried to focus on Dennis, seated at the kitchen table. He looked as preppie as ever in jeans and a pink oxford shirt.

“It’s a quarter to one, and you can blame me for your hangover,” he said. “I got you drunk last night. Why don’t you go back to bed? You aren’t going anywhere today. Might as well take it easy. You want an aspirin?”

“I just took three,” Dayle said, sitting at the table with him. “Did you talk to the studio?”

“Oh, I’ve spoken with a ton of people today.” He got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “First off, don’t worry about the movie. They’ll shoot around you. They don’t expect you on the set any time before lunch tomorrow.”

Dayle swept back her tangled hair, then sipped some coffee. “What was I drinking last night? I can’t remember….”

“You had a couple of glasses of wine. But you gave blood yesterday, so it went right to your head.”

Dayle nodded with recollection. The new bodyguard, Ted, had arranged for transportation from the hospital to home. Her initial assessment of Ted now seemed unfair. Procuring the limo, he’d thoroughly inspected it for tampering or sabotage, and he interviewed the driver. While still at the hospital, he’d had his girlfriend fax them a copy of his résumé. Ted had protected some high-profile people: politicians, multimillionaires, and several entertainers—including Vegas singer-actor Gil Palarmo, who had died from AIDS last year. Despite his ladies’-man image, everyone in the industry knew Gil was gay and something of a lecher. The fact that this handsome, straight guy remained at Gil’s side for eleven months was a testament to Ted Kovak’s tolerance.

He was kind of a hard-ass, and maybe she needed that. She’d told him about yesterday’s break-in, but didn’t mention the note pinned to her dress. Before she could set foot inside her apartment, Ted spent twenty minutes combing the place over for booby traps, bugging devices, and bombs. Then Dennis arrived with carryout for everyone. And the wine started flowing.

Dayle took another sip of coffee. “I can’t believe I’m this hungover after only two glasses of wine,” she muttered.

“Oh, you were still pretty wired, so I put you to bed with a couple of brandies and unplugged the phone in the bedroom. I crashed in the guest room, and Ted pulled an all-nighter. He went home a few hours ago. He hired two more security guards, one for the hallway outside and another for the downstairs lobby. This place is like Fort Knox. Ted’s due back around six o’clock. Meanwhile, we’re under strict orders to stay put.”

“How’s Bonny?” Dayle asked quietly.

Dennis patted her hand. “She’ll be okay. They’re moving her out of intensive care this afternoon.”

Dayle nodded, then took a deep breath. “Um, Hank has a brother in Milwaukee. We need to get a hold of him—”

“It’s taken care of, Dayle,” Dennis cut in. “I talked with the brother this morning. He’s having Hank’s body flown home. They’re not planning a funeral or wake. The burial’s in Milwaukee on Thursday. It’s family only.”

Tears brimmed her eyes, and she shrugged. “I thought we were Hank’s family.” Dayle recalled with aching regret those few minutes yesterday when she’d suspected Hank of betraying her, and she began to cry.

“It’s all right, Dayle,” she heard Dennis say. He squeezed her hand. “Just rest up for now. I’m here. I’ll handle everything….”

The Budweiser can flew off the railing, hit the wall, then ricocheted to the floor and rolled around for a moment. It was the only thing moving on the front porch of the deserted, dilapidated old ranch house.

“Damn, you’re good!” Hal said, slapping Tom on the back.

Tom smiled. He focused on the next target along the railing, a Coke bottle. He aimed the .380 semiautomatic and carefully squeezed the trigger. The bottle toppled forward. The bullet had hit the railing, but not the target.

“Close enough,” Hal said. “Just think, if you were aiming for Dayle Sutton’s head, you’d have shot her in the throat. And that ain’t bad at all.”

Tom caught himself grinning. His aim had been a bit rusty at first, but he relaxed and eased into it.

“We’ll get you a better gun, Tom. We just needed to make sure you know how to handle fire arms. I must say, I’m impressed. How about a cold one?” Hal said, once Tom had shot all the targets off the railing.

They leaned against the car, and sipped icy Michelobs. Tom twirled the gun on his finger. He was exhausted and sweaty, yet he felt like a young man today.

For every diploma on the walls of his office, Dr. Nathan had two framed Monet prints. It certainly created a serene environment for frustrated couples consulting Dr. Nathan about their unsuccessful attempts to conceive.

The Coopers’ fertility specialist had his practice on the top floor of a new, six-story medical center. He’d carved out some time for his famous client. Dr. Nathan was a thin man with a mop of curly gray hair, glasses, and a droll manner. Sean guessed he was about fifty. She immediately liked him. He seemed very sincere in his condolences to Avery about the miscarriage, and he was optimistic about Joanne’s chances of becoming pregnant again. Avery didn’t mention his wife was on the verge of being institutionalized.

Sean didn’t say anything either. They were waiting for a call back from the lab where Avery’s sperm samples were stored. If any of those samples had disappeared, Sean would have her explanation for Avery’s semen having been found inside the murder-rape victim.

When Dr. Nathan’s phone finally rang, Sean and Avery anxiously leaned forward in their chairs. He grabbed the receiver: “Yes? Yes…uh-huh…we have nine samples on record here….”

“What’s the count over there?” Sean interrupted.

Dr. Nathan covered the mouthpiece. “Nine, none are missing,” he said, then spoke into the phone again. “That’s all I needed, thanks for—”

“Don’t hang up yet,” Sean cut in again.

“Just a second,” he said into the phone. He gazed at her over the rims of his glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry to keep interrupting,” she said. “Did they verify that all nine samples are from Avery?”

The doctor spoke into the receiver again. “Thanks for waiting. I need you to run a test on the nine samples, see if they all match. How long will that take?” He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. “Is tomorrow afternoon okay?”

“That would be great,” Sean said. She waited until Dr. Nathan hung up the phone. “Would it be possible to furnish us with a list of employees both here and at the lab who might have had access to those sperm samples?”

Dr. Nathan nodded. “I’ll talk to someone in administration about it.”

“Could we pick up that list tomorrow?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

“Thanks,” Sean said. “And security here is pretty tight?”

“We don’t leave specimens sitting around, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “And besides, who would want to steal or switch a sperm sample?”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” Sean replied.

Avery studied Sean at the steering wheel, a steely, determined look on that beautiful face. Her soft brown hair fluttered in the breeze from the open window as she watched the road ahead. She had an aristocratic face, yet there was something very down-to-earth about her.

He’d asked this woman to be his lawyer based on gut instinct and a brief conversation with a gay man she’d once defended. So far, she hadn’t disappointed him. He imagined a team of slick, expensive lawyers padding their billing hours and weaving strategies, never for one minute believing his innocence. But Sean Olson had integrity and guts.

She glanced at him. “Is your place much further?”

“Only a few more minutes. I’ll tell you when it’s coming up.”

“FYI,” Sean said, her eyes on the road again, “our boys in blue are probably obtaining a search warrant for your house this very minute. I wouldn’t put it past this group to plant incriminating evidence in your home.”

“I doubt anyone could have gotten past the cameras and the alarms. We upgraded security after the break-in.”

“Tell me about these cameras,” Sean said.

“We have six video cameras recording twenty-four hours a day at different points outside the house.”

“What happens to the tapes?”

“If I remember right, the security guy said they hold on to them for a month before they recycle them.”