The Next To Die Part 10

Sean Olson's law office was above a HairCrafters salon on Hollywood and Vine. Hank announced that they'd eluded the white Corsica at about the time he started searching for a parking place. Usually, he'd just double-park, and escort Dayle to the door. But he didn't leave her side nowadays, so they had to park the limousine in a lot down the block.

Two flights above HairCrafters, they could still smell the perfumed hair products and chemicals. The doors along the hallway were old fashioned, with windows of bubbled gla.s.s. On the door numbered 307 someone had taped a sign, written in green marker: SEAN OLSON, ATTORNEY-COME ON IN SEAN OLSON, ATTORNEY-COME ON IN!

She and Hank went on in. They heard a woman singing "Moon River," along with the radio. The small waiting room was a shambles. Paint-splattered plastic tarp covered every piece of furniture, and there was more of the same beyond the open door to the office. Dayle cleared her throat loudly.

"Who's out there?" someone called.

"Us," Dayle said, stopping in the office doorway.

The woman stood barefoot on a stepladder with a paint sc.r.a.per in her hand. She wore jeans and a frayed T-shirt that had WORLD'S GREATEST MOM WORLD'S GREATEST MOM written across it-along with a photo of herself. She was a very attractive woman, slender and tall with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. A red bandanna covered her hair, but from the tacky photo on her T-shirt, it appeared wavy, chestnut-brown, and shoulder length. Dayle guessed she was in her early thirties. Poised on the ladder, she put a hand on her hip. "And who is 'us'?" she asked, staring at them. written across it-along with a photo of herself. She was a very attractive woman, slender and tall with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. A red bandanna covered her hair, but from the tacky photo on her T-shirt, it appeared wavy, chestnut-brown, and shoulder length. Dayle guessed she was in her early thirties. Poised on the ladder, she put a hand on her hip. "And who is 'us'?" she asked, staring at them.

"I'm Dayle Sutton," Dayle said. "I have an appointment with Ms. Olson."

Stepping down the ladder, the woman scrutinized Dayle, then let out an embarra.s.sed laugh. "Ha! Well, hi. I'm Sean Olson." She tore off a work glove and shook Dayle's hand. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow."

"Our appointment was for today, Monday," Dayle pointed out.

Sean Olson shrugged. "Well, move aside some tarp and pull up a chair."

"Um, nice meeting you," Hank said quietly. Then he touched Dayle's arm. "I'll be out by the stairs, reading the latest, Ms. Sutton."

"Thanks, Hank. Let me know how it is." Dayle waited until Hank left, then gave Sean Olson a cool smile. "He's a big fan of true crime and detective novels. Looks like I caught you at a bad time."

"Oh, don't sweat it." Sean pulled back a piece of paint tarp to reveal a minirefrigerator. "What can I get you? I have Evian, Evian, Diet c.o.ke, Evian, Lemonade, Evian, and Evian."

"Evian, please."

"Sorry about the looks of the place. I just moved in. Kind of a dump, but at least I won't have to go far to get my hair done." She handed a bottle of Evian to Dayle. "Everything has gone to h.e.l.l because of this move. Some of my law books are still in Eugene. But I've pa.s.sed the California state bar, thank G.o.d."

Dayle raised her Evian bottle to toast her. Pushing aside the tarp, she found the corner of a gray leather sofa and sat down. "I like your T-shirt," she lied. She wondered to whom Sean Olson was The World's Greatest Mom.

Sean glanced down at the photo of herself. "Isn't it awful? I'm going straight to h.e.l.l for wearing it while painting. My kids gave this to me, and for the last few months I've been forced to wear it on practically every family outing. I figure after this week, I can say it has too much paint on it. They'll probably run out and buy me another just like it-except in pink."

"How many kids do you have?" Dayle asked.

"Two." She reached under the tarp covering her desk, then pulled out a framed photograph and handed it to her. "Danny, eleven, and Phoebe's seven."

The sweet, gawky, dark-haired boy and the little redheaded girl were quite cute, and Dayle said so. The screenplay hadn't mentioned any children or an ex-husband. Maybe the kids were adopted, or conceived by artificial insemination. Sean offered no explanation.

She took the framed photo back, then sat on the edge of her desk. "So are you here to check me out?" she asked.

"Well, yes. Also I might ask the director to take you on as a technical advisor-that is, if you're interested."

Sean frowned. "Depends. Would I advise you movie folks about how true-to-life everything is?"

"Probably," Dayle answered, puzzled by a sudden edge in Sean's voice.

"Well, I'd probably last two hours on that set before you guys kicked me out on my b.u.t.t." She took a swig of Evian, then shook her head in resignation. "You know, for years I've watched this story get twisted inside out, soft-pedaled, commercialized, and b.a.s.t.a.r.dized by Hollywood and I'm fed up. How can you even stand this business? You want the truth, Ms. Sutton?"

Dayle laughed. "Do I have a choice?"

"I think you're all wrong to play me. You're a glamorous superstar. This part requires a serious actress, maybe someone from the theater. I'm not trying to insult you-"

"It's comforting to know that," Dayle said, sitting straighter. "For the record, Ms. Olson, I'm a serious, working actress with theater origins-"

"Are you going to play me as a lesbian?" Sean interrupted.

"Yes, I was planning on it."

Sean put down the Evian bottle and folded her arms. "I'm so sick and tired of this Hollywood hypocrisy. Talk about a bunch of phonies. Are there actually lesbian s.e.x scenes in this latest script?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Dayle heard herself say, suddenly defending them. "The scenes are thought-provoking, and necessary to the story line."

Sean rolled her eyes. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Dayle stood up. "Your slams against Hollywood don't impress me. They've paid you a lot of money. I think you're the hypocrite, Ms. Olson. You're also rude." Dayle headed for the door.

"Listen, I should explain...," Sean started to say.

But Dayle kept walking and pretended not to hear.

She hated asking Hank to escort her up to the apartment. Lately, she even had him come inside until she'd turned on the lights. Of course, Hank loved playing her protector. But Dayle found it humiliating.

They stepped into the lobby together, and the doorman greeted them. The s.p.a.cious atrium was decorated with a modern cubic fountain sculpture, several tall potted Fichus trees, and three long, leather-covered sofas.

Sean Olson sat on one of the couches, reading a book. Dayle's first instinct was to breeze toward the elevator and simply ignore her-as she had her two phone messages since their awful meeting yesterday. But Sean sprang up from the sofa. "Dayle? Do you have a minute?"

She stopped and gave her a frosty stare usually reserved for obnoxious reporters. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry if I offended you yesterday, Dayle." Groveling wasn't her forte. The apology had a brisk and businesslike tone.

Still, Dayle's stony expression softened a bit. Sean Olson cleaned up nicely. She wore a pale green suit, and in her beige heels, she stood close to six feet tall. Her shiny, chestnut brown hair was casually swept back.

Dayle patted Hank's shoulder. "I'm okay, Hank. Go home, get some rest."

He nodded. "G'night, Ms. Sutton."

Sean watched him lumber toward the door, then she turned to Dayle. "About yesterday," she said. "You're right. I was rude to you. I apologize."

Dayle managed a smile. "Okay. Apology accepted."

"Contrary to how I came across, I really do want to see this story realized into a film. But it should be an honest film."

"And I'm too much of a Hollywood hypocrite for you, is that it?"

"That's not it at all." Sean sighed and shook her head. "The only problem I have with you, Dayle, is that you're a beautiful movie star, and I'm no glamour queen. I can just see you trying to deglamorize deglamorize yourself for this film. I'd be really insulted." She rolled her eyes. yourself for this film. I'd be really insulted." She rolled her eyes.

Dayle laughed. "Are you kidding? If anything, I'll have to look younger for the role."

"Well, thanks, but I wasn't fishing for a compliment."

"What are you fishing for, Ms. Olson?"

"Please, call me Sean," she said. "You have the clout to demand script changes, don't you?"

"I suppose so," Dayle said. "Within reason."

"Well, I managed to snare a copy of the new screenplay. There have been several versions over the years. Each time, they shrink further away from the truth. This new script really takes the cake. If you knew the extent of creative license here, you'd die laughing. For example..." Sean trailed off and gave Dayle a wary look. "Is this okay? Am I offending you?"

"No, it's all right, I'm interested," Dayle said. "In fact, would you like to come up, maybe have a gla.s.s of wine?"

Sean's face lit up. "Oh, thanks, that would be great."

They lapsed into small talk on the elevator. Dayle gave her a brief tour of the apartment, and Sean praised her decorating choices-especially the Oscar pedestal created from dilapidated footwear. Dayle poured them each a gla.s.s of wine, and started toward the living room.

"Could we sit in here?" Sean asked, pointing to the area off the kitchen. "Seems more like home to me. Do you mind?"

"I don't mind at all," Dayle said. She turned on the gas fireplace, and they settled on the sofa. Fred took an immediate liking to Sean, and curled up in her lap. Dayle kicked off her high heels, and watched Sean follow suit. "You were about to tell me how the latest screenplay isn't very accurate."

Stroking Fred's back, Sean sipped her wine and nodded. "Well, for starters, the lesbian s.e.x scenes and the glamorization of my character. During the trial, they have me-this super-beautiful, super-lesbian-taking an occasional break from the law books to have super s.e.x with my gorgeous girlfriend in this huge tastefully decorated loft. In reality, Dayle, I was averaging three hours of sleep a night and living in a dump of a house with very little furniture or knickknacks, because my darling toddler boy was destroying everything he could get his sweet, sticky hands on. And I hardly spent any time with him, which had me in tears constantly. Plus I was in a very chubby, nauseous stage of pregnancy with Phoebe and starting to stretch out my good court clothes. In short, Dayle, I was a mess."

Dayle let out a stunned laugh. "Well, um, I see. Well, yes, that's a big difference. So-both your children are your own. They weren't adopted?"

"No, I gave birth to them," Sean replied. "What did you think?"

Dayle shrugged. "Well, I figured...I mean, who's their father?"

"Why, my husband, of course." Sean Olson's mouth dropped open. She tossed back her head and laughed. Fred was startled for a moment, until she hugged him. "Oh, my G.o.d, I thought you knew!" she cried. "It's one reason this screenplay is such a crock. Dayle, I'm married. I'm not a lesbian. That was the notion of screenwriter number two or three. He figured only a lesbian would so valiantly defend a gay man, and suddenly-poof!-my character's this gorgeous lesbian. They figured a pregnant, married lady was too boring."

Dayle shook her head. "Oh, no."

Sean nodded. "Oh, yes. That's why I asked you yesterday if you intended to play me as a lesbian-with all those soft-focus, curtains-blowing-in-the-breeze s.e.x scenes." She settled Fred back into her lap, then sipped her wine. "That's all from the imagination of some h.o.r.n.y screenwriter. The death threats I received during the trial, the letters and phone calls, it's true, they called me 'lesbo,' 'd.y.k.e,' and 'f.a.g-loving b.i.t.c.h,' but they also promised to kill me-and my family. That wasn't in the script. They said they'd burn down the house with my children in it, these 'good Christians' with their 'family values' told me that. But it's not in the script...."

Dayle sat in a dazed silence as Sean explained the truth behind the cheaply glamorized screenplay. Gary Worsht, the gay doctor Avery Cooper would portray, was actually a waiter. He had picked up a fraternity pledge in a gay bar. They started necking in an alley by the tavern, when the kid went berserk and attacked him. Then the boy's frat brothers came out of hiding to help "beat up the f.a.g." In self-defense, Gary killed the reluctant pledge with a broken beer bottle. The dead boy's youthful handsomeness played against the defendant's promiscuity, blurring the lines of guilt and innocence. It was a tough case to win, because the frat boys-all A-students from good homes-were the real culprits. They were fine, upstanding boys who happened to like getting drunk and beating up queers for fun. Ironically, the same group of lads also enjoyed forcing their pledges to march down to weekend breakfasts naked-in a line with each boy holding the p.e.n.i.s of the pledge behind him.

"There isn't a scene like that that in the script," Dayle remarked over her gla.s.s of wine. And yet, she was supposed to kiss this totally fict.i.tious other woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She thought about what Maggie McGuire had said: in the script," Dayle remarked over her gla.s.s of wine. And yet, she was supposed to kiss this totally fict.i.tious other woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She thought about what Maggie McGuire had said: Haven't you figured out by now that heteros.e.xual males call all the shots? Haven't you figured out by now that heteros.e.xual males call all the shots?

"The screenplay has no guts," Sean said. "They made it so black and white-with Gary Worsht coming across as a saint, and the frat boys as these lowlife thugs-including the poor victim, who was just a scared, sweet-faced pledge forced into playing gay bait. This was a complex case, Dayle, and they whitewashed it. Can you see why I'm such a pain in the a.s.s on the subject?"

Dayle nodded thoughtfully. "There'll be some changes made; otherwise I won't do this movie."

"You mean that?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll be glad to have a husband in this movie instead of a lesbian supermodel or whatever she was."

Sean laughed. "Well, my husband will sure be delighted. He's a real movie nut. In fact, could I get an autograph for him before I leave tonight?"

"I have some glossies in my desk. No problem. What does he do?"

"Dan? Oh, he..." She hesitated. "At the time of the trial he was a chef."

Dayle gave her a slightly puzzled look. "What does he do now?"

"He-um, well, he stays at home and looks after the kids." Sean shifted a little on the sofa, and she let out a slightly uneasy laugh. "So-enough about me. Let's talk about you playing playing me." She sipped her wine, then smiled. "Seriously, why did you want to take on this part-this fake-lesbian lawyer?" me." She sipped her wine, then smiled. "Seriously, why did you want to take on this part-this fake-lesbian lawyer?"

Shrugging, Dayle stared at the fireplace. "I must admit, I had a tough time warming up to the role. But now, I can certainly relate to what you said about death threats, and the lesbian accusations. It's happened to me recently. Everyone thinks I'm paranoid, but I'm sure somebody-some group-has been following me." Dayle sighed and shook her head. "I wasn't willing to put my career on the line for this role as written. But if I could play you, Sean, in a truthful account of what really happened, it would be worth the risk."

They talked for over an hour. Dayle kept remembering the intimate chat with Leigh Simone that night at the Imperial Hotel, how they'd instantly bonded. It was like that tonight-with Sean Olson. The similarities were almost unsettling. Dayle told her so. She also told her about how Leigh Simone might have been murdered by the same people who had killed Tony Katz. "Do you think I'm nuts?" Dayle asked.

"Not at all," Sean replied. "You said earlier you thought some people were following you."

"Yes?"

Sean got to her feet and wandered over to the window. "While I was waiting for you in the lobby, I noticed this man sitting alone in a Chevy, parked across the street. He sat there for a half hour. Then a silver car came up behind him. The guy in the first car nodded, pulled out, and the second guy took his spot. It was like a changing of the guard. Fifteen minutes later, your limousine turned into the drive. The man in the silver car took out a cellular phone and called someone."

Dayle stood up and moved to the window. Cradling the cat in her arms, she stared down at the front driveway to her building. A silver car was parked across the street.

"He's still there," Sean said. "You're not nuts, Dayle. Someone's watching you."

"Hi, it's me again, and I'm fine," Sean reported to Dayle on her cellular. "Traffic's running smoothly here along the coastal highway. No accidents, no tailgaters, no claw hooks dangling from my car door handle. I'll have another traffic update for you in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, I'm making a mental note to play you as a grade-A smart-a.s.s," Dayle replied. "How are you, really?"

"I'm making great time," Sean said.

Dayle Sutton hadn't liked the idea of her driving alone at night this long distance. She'd made Sean promise to call on her cellular every fifteen minutes until she reached her in-laws' house.

"At this clip," Sean said. "I'll be home in ten minutes."

"Well, call me for touchdown so I'll know you're okay," Dayle said.

"Will do, Dayle. Thanks again." Sean clicked off the line. She glanced out her window at the dark, choppy waters of the Pacific. This time of night, all she could see were the curled whitecaps. Behind her, a series of distant headlights pierced the darkness. Something about the long, lonely drive in the dark-and that cool, ocean breeze whipping through the car window-made her feel so lost and melancholy. She'd even allowed herself a good cry a few miles back. In this vulnerable state, she realized that Dayle Sutton was the first friend she'd made on her own in California. But Dayle was also a movie star, and in Hollywood, friendships were transitory. Maybe that was why she didn't tell Dayle about Dan.

Sean glanced in the rearview mirror-at the Jeep that had been following her since she'd merged onto the coastal highway thirty-five minutes ago. She hadn't noticed it when she'd left Dayle Sutton's apartment building. Instead, she'd focused on the lone dark figure in the silver car. He'd called someone from his cellular as soon as she'd emerged from the building. Had he phoned the person in this Jeep?

Sean told herself to stay calm. The highway wasn't exactly deserted; plus the Jeep kept a safe distance behind her. Testing things, Sean eased up on the accelerator. The speedometer dropped to sixty-five...sixty...fifty-five. Other cars began to gain on her, the Jeep among them. One by one, they pulled into the fast lane and pa.s.sed her, but the Jeep stayed behind.