THE NEXT TO DIE (23 page)

“I want to review those tapes as soon as possible.”

“Okay, I can arrange that,” Avery said. “I’ll reserve us an editing room at the studio for tomorrow.”

“Good. Maybe we can catch something on videotape that might have slipped past your security people.” She stole another look at him. “Maybe you should find yourself a bodyguard, Avery. These people have killed before. If they did away with you now, you’d die a murder suspect, which would suit them fine.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” he replied, glancing out his car window. “Anyway, I’ll be okay. My biggest concern right now is my wife. Until she’s up and feeling better, nothing else really matters.”

“Huh. You remind me of my husband,” she said.

Avery turned to look at her. “Really? What does he do?”

“Dan used to be a chef. But he’s been sick. He has ALS. You know, Lou Gehrig’s Disease? We have him on a respirator and a feeding machine.”

“God, I’m sorry,” was all Avery could say.

“Yeah, it’s a lousy deal.” She sighed. “Take my advice, people recover from nervous breakdowns. Your wife’s chances of getting better are very good. Don’t you worry. She has doctors and nurses looking after her.”

A sad smile flickered across her face as she stole one more glance at him. “You need to look after yourself, Avery. Promise me you will.”

She thought she saw something on the monitor, a figure skulking outside the house by the pool. Then again, after viewing the security videos at fast speed for three hours, Sean’s eyes were probably playing tricks on her. She and Avery sipped coffee to sustain themselves while watching the flickering black-and-white images on four small monitors. They sat at the control desk in a tiny room stocked with film and video equipment.

“Take a look at this,” Sean said, setting the tape in reverse, then slowing it down.

Their chairs had wheels on the feet, and Avery scooted over to her side. He’d dressed casually for their video marathon today: a white shirt and jeans. Sean looked very much the legal eagle in a gray linen suit.

“Someone’s sneaking around your pool area at four fifty-two in the morning,” Sean read the time and date along the top of the screen. A woman in a robe emerged from the shadows on the Coopers’ patio.

“That’s Joanne,” Avery murmured.

Sean watched Joanne Lane stagger toward the edge of the pool. Obviously drunk, she lost her balance and fell down. She had a hard time standing up again.

“I haven’t seen this before,” Avery said, his voice strained. “I think it’s when she tried to kill herself.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Sean found the switch and shut it off. “Stupid of me—”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “Listen, I could use an intermission. Do you want to go for a walk or something?”

“No, thanks. You go. I need to make some calls.” Sean waited for Avery to leave, then she rolled her head from side to side. Staring at the blank screen, she finally pressed the play button. The tape came on: Avery’s wife lowering herself into the pool, dog-paddling toward the deep end. Her robe billowed out around her as she tried to make herself sink to the bottom. It was almost a struggle for her to kill herself. As much as Sean pitied this woman, she couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed by her too—this showy attempt at suicide. There was something very theatrical about it. After a while, Joanne seemed to relax and sank beneath the pool’s surface. For nearly two minutes, she drifted facedown in the water, her hair and robe spread out and swaying around her still body.

At last, Avery ran out of the house in his undershorts. Plunging into the pool, he swam to his wife and dragged her limp body onto the deck. According to the numbers across the top of the screen, it took him fifty-six seconds to revive her. But the time seemed to drag on and on as he struggled over that lifeless form. It was gut-wrenching to watch. This was punishment for her morbid curiosity—and for starting to think about him the way she did. She watched Avery hover over his wife until the paramedics finally arrived and loaded her on a stretcher.

Sean sighed, then switched off the tape.

Avery bought a pack of red licorice vines and a roll of butter rum Lifesavers from the vending machine on the first floor. Starting back up the steps toward the editing rooms, he popped a Lifesaver in his mouth—part of his balanced breakfast. He’d only eaten a few spoonfuls of Special K this morning when the police had buzzed him from the front gate intercom. They had a search warrant. At least he was shaved and dressed for their surprise visit. Avery remained calm. It was almost surreal now, the way his whole world had turned upside down. He put a pot of coffee on, and the four officers combing his house for evidence appreciated the Starbuck’s Kona Blend served to them by a genuine movie star murder suspect.

As far as he could tell, the police hadn’t found anything. They’d filed out the front door after an hour—with only some carpet fiber samples.

Avery washed out the policemen’s coffee cups, then called the hospital. The news from Dr. Wetherall wasn’t good. He advised Avery not to visit Joanne today. She’d tried to attack a nurse yesterday, and was still under sedation. Had he given any more thought to Glenhaven Spa?

Avery said that he’d have a decision for him by tomorrow. In other words, he was hoping for a miracle within the next twenty-four hours.

Munching his Lifesaver, Avery wandered up the corridor, past offices and editing rooms. He found Sean, seated at the video controls and talking on her cell phone.

“I have nothing to tell you,” she was saying. “No, you’re way out of line…and please, don’t call me again.” She clicked off, then tucked the phone in her purse.

Avery tossed the red licorice vines on the desk. “Thought you could use a sugar fix,” he said. “Who was that?”

“Some asshole reporter—if you’ll pardon me. I don’t know how he got my cell phone number.” She picked up the red vines. “Thanks.”

“What did he want?”

Sean tore at the cellophane wrapper. “I’m not even sure he was a real reporter. Hell, he could have been part of this hate group. He wanted to know if you’d been formally charged with Libby Stoddard’s murder yet—the
yet
part really burned me. He also wanted to know how we intended to plea.”

She got to her feet. “Listen, you were right earlier. I could really use a break. Let’s go for a walk.”

They strolled through a studio back lot, which depicted a small town circa 1958. Long, fin-tailed cars lined the curb, and the Movie Palace played
Vertigo
. Down the block were Smitty’s Malt Shop, Deedee’s Millinery, and Christoff’s Five-and-Dime.

Sean pulled a very anachronistic cellular phone out of her purse, then checked the last call. The reporter from before had a blocked number. Frowning, she slipped the phone back in her purse. “That stupid call still bothers me. Do you think it was really a reporter?”

“Maybe even a reporter working for them,” Avery said. They strolled past Tony’s Barber Shop. “If this group wants to ruin certain celebrities’ reputations, they’d need media people on their payroll. Yeah, that was probably a legitimate reporter just now. And I can tell you how they describe a conversation like the one you just had: ‘When asked about Avery Cooper’s homicidal tendencies, his attorney, Sean Olson, offered no comment.’” He shrugged and grinned. “That’s typical in this business.”

Sean found herself half smiling back at him. Avery didn’t seem to have let
the business
corrupt him. He was more worried about his wife than his career. In a town dominated by phonies often trying to pass themselves off as “just plain family folk,” this guy was the real thing. His sweetness and his wholesome good looks were perfectly suited for this small town setting from the fifties. He even looked a bit like Ricky Nelson. Sean almost wanted to hold on to his arm as they continued walking down this magical street together.

Her cellular rang, jarring her from the momentary daydream. She pulled the phone out of her purse again and clicked it on. “Sean Olson speaking.”

“Ms. Olson, it’s Doug Nathan at the clinic. I have the results from the lab tests on those nine sperm samples from Avery Cooper.”

“Yes, Dr. Nathan,” she said, her eyes meeting with Avery’s.

“All nine samples match,” he reported.

Sean turned away from Avery. “Are you sure?” she said into the phone.

“Yes. All nine samples are from the same subject-donor: Avery Cooper. Also, I’m trying to untangle some red tape from administration for those employee records you requested. Could I call you tomorrow on it?”

“Yes, of course,” Sean murmured. “Thanks, Dr. Nathan.”

“Talk to you tomorrow. Bye.” Then he hung up.

Sean clicked off the phone, then slipped it back into her purse. She couldn’t look at Avery. “All the sperm samples match,” she said.

“You’re kidding,” he muttered. “Are they sure?”

“They’re sure.”

Avery said nothing. Shaking his head, he backed away until he bumped against a Studebaker Coupe parked along the curb.

Sean rubbed her forehead. “Avery, is there something you haven’t told me? Did you have sex with Libby? Maybe consensual sex?”

Leaning against the car, he rolled his eyes. “God, no. The only time I even met Libby Stoddard was with our lawyers at that hearing. I didn’t even shake her hand.”

“Okay,” Sean said, nodding patiently. “And you’re pretty sure the police will find a match with the victim if you furnish them with a sperm sample?”

“Yes. I don’t think these people would go to all the trouble of murdering Libby and setting me up for it without somehow matching up that important piece of evidence. They must have paid off someone in the lab.” He shook his head. “I’m stalling for time here, Sean. Don’t you see? If I give the cops a sperm sample, and it’s a match, I’ll be thrown in jail immediately, right? I won’t be able to see my wife or do anything to help with this investigation.”

“I understand,” Sean said, patting his arm. “Well, I can question people at the lab. Maybe somebody’s lying. You’re not a sperm donor, are you?”

He kicked at the pavement. “No.”

“Can I get personal?” Sean asked.

“Hell, we’re talking about my sperm. We’ve already
gotten
to ‘personal.’”

“You and Joanne spend a good deal of time apart. Is it possible you were with someone who might have kept some of your semen from a diaphragm or a condom?”

Avery shook his head.

“The truth, Avery,” Sean said. “You haven’t strayed once?”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been with anyone else since I met Joanne.”

“Well, don’t be sorry,” Sean managed to say. “It’s actually very sweet.”

He looked at her again with the same guileless expression that had first won her over. “Sean, you don’t really think I killed Libby Stoddard, do you?”

“No, I believe you’re telling the truth, Avery.” It was beyond all logic, but Sean meant what she said.

Tom Lance emerged from Lowell’s Guns & Ammo Stop, carrying a .38 caliber and a box of bullets in a brown paper bag. This was the gun he would use to kill Dayle Sutton. Authorities would trace its purchase here by a Tom Lance whose appearance was slightly altered.

He wore his disguise for next week’s mission: nonprescription glasses with black frames, and a gray mustache. Hal, standing under the awning of a nearby pawnshop, joked that he almost didn’t recognize him. He suggested that they grab a late breakfast at the McDonald’s across the street.

“I see you’ve made a purchase,” Hal said, nudging Tom as they headed toward the restaurant. “Have any trouble? Any sticky legal red tape?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, good. You know, Tom, if people like Dayle Sutton get their way, we won’t be able to buy a gun anywhere—except from criminals.”

They ordered Egg McMuffins. For a moment, Tom harkened back to his glory days months earlier, when—because of his TV commercial—the folks at his local McDonald’s gave him a free apple pie with lunch. He almost told the haggard-looking black girl behind the counter about the ad, but she wouldn’t have given a damn.

The bag with the .38 caliber sat on the table between them. Hal had insisted Tom take it inside the McDonald’s. “You have to feel comfortable carrying it around.”

Hal now folded his hands in prayer over his Egg McMuffin. Some teenagers at the next table seemed to think this was pretty damn funny. Snickering, they imitated Hal, who became red in the face as he crossed himself. He glared at the kids, then picked up his sandwich.

He started to review their itinerary for the next few days. But after a while, he practically had to shout to compete with the loud teenagers across from them. “I can’t talk over these foul-mouthed niggers,” he grumbled.

Tom pushed away his Styrofoam plate and he too glared at the kids.

“What the fuck you looking at, asshole?” one of the boys sneered.

Tom turned away, but his face flushed with bottled-up rage.

“Little do they know,” Hal whispered. “You could just reach into this bag here, couldn’t you?
Erase
them. What good are they? Look at those ones.” Hal nodded at three punk teenagers at another table. Their clothes were filthy and they had pierced eyebrows and noses. One of them, an Asian girl, had blue hair. “Who would miss them?” Hal asked. “Killing them is just a reach away.”

Tom stared at the bag.

“And check out the two queers over there,” Hal whispered, his eyes darting toward a couple of young men with dyed-platinum hair, pierced ears, and white T-shirts that were a little too clean and a little too tight.

“In a way,” Hal went on, “when you eliminate Dayle Sutton, you’ll help rid our country of this scum we’re now forced to share breakfast with. We’re waging a war against these degenerates, Tom. The queer sodomites, these slant-eyed aliens, welfare blacks, you name it. Would you take your child or grandchild to eat here among these creeps?” Hal nodded at the bag between them. “I mean, without that for protection?”

Tom glanced over at the teenager again, the one who called him an asshole. The kid was arguing with his girlfriend. “They have no idea how close to death they are right now,” Hal was saying. “Doesn’t that make you feel powerful, Tom? Knowing what you could do?”

Tom smiled and nodded.

Carrying a flower arrangement and a small boom box, Avery stepped inside the hospital room. The blinds were open, baking the place in sunlight. A pine-scented air freshener failed to completely camouflage the sharp smell of urine. Someone had cranked up the bed, so Avery’s night-owl wife had no choice but to sit there, squinting in the harsh morning glare. They’d combed her unwashed hair back behind her ears. Her wrists were still bound, but now a padded material cushioned the encircling straps to prevent bruises. As Avery walked into the room, Joanne didn’t seem to notice. She continued to stare out the window, her pale face pinched up.

Setting the flowers and the boom box on her nightstand, Avery tried to smile. “I figured you might want to listen to some of those homemade tapes. You know, the ones you take on the road? Jesus, it’s hot in here. What are they trying to do to you?” He moved to a window, opened it a crack, then lowered the blinds. “Is that better, Joanne?”

She said nothing. She didn’t seem to know he was there. At least she’d stopped squinting. Avery returned to her bedside and kissed her cheek. “Do you feel like talking today?” he asked gently.

No response. She stared at the window.

“How about some music? This is your seventies tape.” He pressed the button on the boom box. Joni Mitchell came on, singing “Morning Morgantown.”

Grimacing, Joanne began to squirm. She sucked air between her clinched teeth. It was as if the music were fingernails on a blackboard.

“Oops, sorry.” Avery switched off the recording. “Joni isn’t cutting it, huh?” He felt so lame. He couldn’t reach her.

Joanne sighed, then went back to gazing at the window.

He caressed her arm, and at least she didn’t pull away. That faint, underlying smell of urine became more pungent. Avery realized that she’d wet herself. He kept stroking her arm. Joanne was gone. He could no longer hope that she was simply “playing to the balcony.” This was real.

After a while, he rang for the nurse. A tall, big-boned, twenty-something blonde came to the door. “Yes, Mr. Cooper?” she said.

“Um, my wife wet the bed,” Avery explained in a raspy voice.

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” the nurse said gently. “We have her in diapers. I’ll change her as soon as you leave.”

Avery hesitated. “Well, I—I’ll take off now so you can do that. Thanks.”

He leaned over Joanne and gently kissed her forehead. “See ya, honey.”

She still didn’t seem to know he was there.

Avery thanked the nurse again. He stepped out to the corridor, then started toward Dr. Wetherall’s office, where he would sign the necessary papers to have his wife transferred to a mental institution.

He aimed and squeezed the trigger. Something was off today. He missed the Dr Pepper bottle on the ranch’s front porch railing. “Damn,” Tom muttered. He was hot and sweaty. The Egg McMuffin from breakfast wasn’t sitting too well in his stomach.

“It’s okay, Tom,” Hal said patiently. He stood behind him, nursing a Sprite from the cooler. He wore sunglasses and a baseball hat. “It’s a new gun. You need to become accustomed to the feel of it. That’s why we’re here.”

Tom fired and missed again. “When am I supposed to do this for real?”

“Next Tuesday morning,” Hal said.

Lowering the gun, Tom turned to gape at him. “My God, so soon?”

“It’s six days away,” Hal said, with an amused grin. “You’ll be fine. It’s all planned out. No room for error. We have a friend in Dayle
Slutton
’s camp, which gives us access to her schedule—among many other things. On Tuesday morning, she’ll be shooting scene eighty-seven, in which her character addresses an AA meeting with about twenty-five extras. All those people will provide just the right amount of commotion once you start shooting. She’ll be at a podium, an easy target. We’ll give you instructions where to stand.” He gulped down some more Sprite, and stifled a burp. “Get in at least two shots. Go for the head. Before you even fire a third shot, our security guard will turn on you with the blanks, and you’ll go down quick. That’s the tricky part. You don’t want any Johnny-come-lately guards wanting to get their two cents in.”

“This sounds pretty complicated,” Tom said warily.

“We’ll practice. It’s all choreographed and staged, Tom. You won’t have to play dead for more than a minute before the second ambulance arrives. That’ll be us. Remember, everyone will be paying more attention to Miss
Slutton
, and she’ll get the first ambulance—though it might as well be a Hearse picking her up. Right?”

Tom shrugged. “Well, I can’t guarantee—”

“I have confidence in you, Tom.” He finished off his Sprite, and tossed his empty can on the dusty ground. “An hour after pulling that trigger, you’ll be cleaned up and on a plane with enough money to retire in Mexico or Rio de Janeiro or someplace. Not bad, huh? Can’t you see yourself living out your golden years at a tropical villa—sipping cocktails, a ceiling fan swirling overhead, exotic birds chirping? Take a day to think about where you’d like to go. By the way, we’re paying you a quarter of a million for your efforts.”

Tom stared at him in disbelief. Was this guy on the level? He wiped the sweat off his brow. “I had no idea,” he managed to reply.

“Sure,” Hal nodded. “Least we could do, Tom. Any more questions?”

“Only a ton,” Tom said, with a dazed chuckle. It was all coming a little too fast at him. “I mean, how are you getting me on the set when they’re shooting this scene eighty whatever it is?”

“Scene eighty-seven.” Hal smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, we have someone working close to Dayle Sutton. You’ll have clearance. It’s being taken care of right now, as we speak. You’ll use the name Gordon Swann.”

“His name is Gordon Swann,” Dennis told the head of studio security over the phone. “Be sure they allow him on the set Tuesday morning.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Dennis.”

“I’ve also cleared him with the assistant director, because I won’t be around. I have Tuesday off. I’m helping my girlfriend move. Page me if there’s a problem. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Dennis said into the phone. “Do me a huge favor, tell the guard not to stick him in another time zone. It’s important that he gets a good look at Dayle during the shoot. So give him a spot close to the action. Will you make sure about that?”

“For you, Dennis, I’ll make dead certain.”

The man on the other end of the line couldn’t see Dennis Walsh smile.

Dennis handed her a bottle of Evian water. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He sat on the steps to her trailer door.

“Thanks.” Dayle said, twisting open the bottle. She rested in her “star” chair outside the open door of her trailer. For another flashback sequence, she sported a sixties look: a Petula Clark-influenced auburn wig, coral frost lipstick, and Twiggy-style, inch-long false eyelashes. She wore fat plastic earrings, a miniskirt, and a ribbed turtleneck. According to Dennis, she looked like
The Girl from U.N.C.L.E
.

Providing her with a fresh Evian bottle every couple of hours had been Bonny’s self-appointed undertaking. Dayle had briefly talked to her on the phone this morning. Bonny sounded tired and doped up, but still managed to get in a dig about “human target” not being part of her job description. She was supposed to be out of the hospital by next week, in plenty of time for Thanksgiving at home. Meanwhile, Dayle had a temporary stand-in.

The telephone rang in her trailer. “I’ll pick it up,” Dennis volunteered. He ducked into the trailer. A few moments later, he emerged with her cordless phone. “It’s Slick Nick the Private Dick. Want to ‘rap’ with him?”

“Nick?” Dayle sat up. “Yes, I’ll take it. Thanks.”

Dennis gave her the phone, then settled back on the trailer steps.

“Hello, Nick?”

“Yo, you got me. Y’know, that assistant of yours is a real wiseass.”

“No kidding,” Dayle said. “Do you have any news for me?”

“Sure do,” he said. “One of the five license plate numbers you gave me doesn’t go with the others. It’s some schmuck from Burbank, probably boinking his secretary. But the other four rental plates matched with credit cards that seem to belong to a group. I don’t know if the names on these cards are real, but feature this: three of these same dudes were renting cars and staying at the Sandpiper Motel in Portland, Oregon, when Tony Katz and his boyfriend bought the farm. And two of them had a return engagement a couple of weeks later when Leigh Simone cashed in her chips. All those credit cards have the same mailing address, a post office box in Opal.”

“Opal?”

“It’s a little town in Idaho. So here’s the skinny. I’m catching a plane to Boise or Spokane tomorrow morning. But it might be a few days before I can track down who in Opal is paying these hotel and car rental bills.”

“A few days?” Dayle said.

“Yeah, we’d need a court order to find out who has that PO box. Even El Nerdo, our computer expert, can’t help us with this one. I’ll have to go to Opal and stake out the post office. Eventually, somebody’s got to pick up their mail. And Nick Brock will be on them like ugly on an ape.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Dayle said. “Listen, we better give this information to the police. Maybe you can fax it—”

“Woah, wait a minute, Ms. Sutton. The last thing you want right now is for the cops to catch on. Once the feds descend on Opal, this group will scatter in a dozen different directions, and we’re back to square one. They have to think it’s business as usual. That’s how I’m gonna catch them with their pants down. I’ll fax you the info at home, in case something should happen to yours truly—God forbid. But don’t hand it over to the cops just yet, okay? Give old Nick forty-eight hours at least.”

“Well, all right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll give you ’til Sunday.”

“Fantastic. I’ll call you from Opal tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck, Nick,” she replied. “And, hey, for the record, you’re pretty damn good at what you do.”

“Hey, think I’m good on the job? Check me out during playtime.”

Dayle shook her head. “Nick, you’re a pig, you really are. God knows why I like you. B’bye.” She clicked off and handed the phone to Dennis.

“So who’s Opal?” he asked with a curious smile.

“It’s a little town in Idaho,” Dayle said. “Nick’s on his way there tomorrow.”

“Well, this place is pretty nice, Mom,” Avery said into the cordless phone. Exhausted, he sat slouched in a deck chair by the pool. For the last hour, he’d been putting off this call to his parents.

Joanne had been transferred by ambulance to Glenhaven today. Avery had gone there to say good-bye and drop off some of her clothes. They discouraged visitors for the first week. He saw her only briefly, and she didn’t seem to recognize him. Coming home, he felt the house to be so empty. He was used to being alone here, but this was a totally different kind of solitude. Joanne wasn’t in New York, passionately working on a play. She was in a sanitarium. And if she came back, would she ever be the same? It was as if something about the house had died. Avery aimlessly wandered from room to room, and finally settled by the pool—with a beer and the cordless phone. Maybe Joanne truly didn’t want to be rescued out here the other morning.