The Next To Die Part 17

Nick Brock stood in Dayle's doorway. Her cordless phone to her ear, Dayle waved him inside, then shut the door. He followed her to her study, all the while checking out her "plush pad" of an apartment. Dressed in a tight black T-shirt and gray pleated pants, he carried a slim leather briefcase. Dayle sat back behind her desk and finished up on the phone with Bonny, thanking her again for acting as decoy last night. Then she clicked off and smiled at Nick. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.

He pulled a magazine out of his briefcase and dropped it on her desk. "You might be interested in page thirty-four."

It was a Playgirl Playgirl. Dayle didn't understand, but she picked up the magazine and turned to page thirty-four. She stared at a full-page photo of Nick naked, except for a shoulder holster and gun. His back was to the camera, but he grinned over his shoulder. Shaking her head, Dayle turned back a page, and read the pictorial's t.i.tle, PRIVATE d.i.c.kS PRIVATE d.i.c.kS.

Dayle was momentarily stunned, but only momentarily. "Well, good for you, Nick. Nice b.u.t.t." She shoved the magazine across her desk. "Now, let's get down to business. I have more work for you." She handed him the license plate listing that Sean had faxed her. "Those are license numbers to five rental cars. These guys have been following me around for the last few days. I'm wondering if you can come up with the credit card numbers that paid for these rentals. I also want names and addresses off those cards. And I need to know if there were any hotel or car rental charges on these cards in Portland when Leigh Simone and Tony Katz were killed."

Nick frowned. "Ms. Sutton, unauthorized access to credit card files is against the law." He waited a beat, then broke into a c.o.c.ky grin. "It'll be a cinch for our resident computer nerd. The guy can tap into just about any system-from Aunt Ida's home computer to Command Center in the Pentagon. He hasn't gotten laid in like eight years, but the guy's a whiz on that PC."

"I'm both happy and sad for him," Dayle said with a patient smile. Then she sighed, and the smile fell away. "You heard about Estelle Collier."

Nodding, Nick frowned. "Yeah. It's a p.i.s.ser."

"Don't you feel accountable?" Dayle whispered. "I know I do."

"Huh?"

She shook her head and sighed. "Nothing. Only-I can't help thinking, 'What goes around, comes around.' Maybe they're digging up something about me right now-something from my private past. Estelle said they operate that way. For all I know, they're rattling some skeletons in my closet right now."

Nick grinned at her. "What do you have to hide?"

"Nothing much." Dayle answered. She glanced down at the desktop and gave a little shrug. "But enough, I guess-so that it worries me."

Tom poured himself another Jack Daniels. He kept hearing that tape over again in his head: Maggie insulting him, the gunshot, and her body hitting the floor.

Now they wanted him to do it again, all planned out this time.

He had the TV going, but there was nothing about Maggie on the six o'clock news. Glancing out the window, he wondered if Hal's men were watching him now.

"Stay tuned for First Edition First Edition," the TV announcer said, as the t.i.tles for the evening news scrolled up on the screen. "F.E. has an exclusive look at the film Maggie McGuire kept secret for forty years! Viewer discretion advised." has an exclusive look at the film Maggie McGuire kept secret for forty years! Viewer discretion advised."

Tom fumbled for the remote control and turned up the volume. What were they talking about? He'd seen every movie Maggie had made. What did they mean by viewer discretion advised?

He turned up the volume on the TV. "Tonight on First Edition! First Edition!" the announcer proclaimed. "A shocking exclusive! The Maggie McGuire film that she didn't want anyone to see!" A grainy, black-and-white image came on the screen. It was Maggie, fondling a beer bottle and licking the stem in a provocative fashion. She was topless; but a computerized checkerboard grid obscured the bottom half of the TV picture to hide her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Tom watched in stunned silence. Indeed it was a young Maggie in the rickety old stag movie; probably a desperate measure from her struggling modeling days, before she'd met him. The sight of her youthful beauty left him feeling weak; he still wanted to protect her. The love of his life, and here she was, naked and debasing herself, for all to see.

They broke away from the stag movie, so the First Edition First Edition anchor, a perky blonde in a pink blazer, could introduce the show. Then they started the film again-with portions of the screen still blurred by the computerized grid. But Tom could tell what was going on. After pouring beer over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Maggie appeared to be doing something down there with the empty bottle. The movie had no sound. The anchor handled the voice-over, explaining that anchor, a perky blonde in a pink blazer, could introduce the show. Then they started the film again-with portions of the screen still blurred by the computerized grid. But Tom could tell what was going on. After pouring beer over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Maggie appeared to be doing something down there with the empty bottle. The movie had no sound. The anchor handled the voice-over, explaining that First Edition First Edition had uncovered the one-reel film today, less than forty-eight hours after the shocking murder of its star, Maggie McGuire. The film had been made in 1947. Miss McGuire's costar hadn't yet been identified. had uncovered the one-reel film today, less than forty-eight hours after the shocking murder of its star, Maggie McGuire. The film had been made in 1947. Miss McGuire's costar hadn't yet been identified.

Not that anyone had much chance to see his face. The scrawny, balding man's back was to the camera as he strolled onto the set. The grid obscured his b.u.t.tocks. Maggie, sitting at the edge of a bed, set aside the beer bottle and reached out to him.

They switched back to the announcer, who explained that they couldn't show any more footage from the movie, t.i.tled Thirsty Lady Thirsty Lady. Adam Blanchard, the late star's forty-year-old, HIV-positive son, had no comment regarding the newly discovered film.

Tom began to cry. His greatest contribution to the movies was Maggie McGuire. Yet after this, who would remember her years of hard work? Who would remember the Academy-Award-winning performance? Her impressive career was now eclipsed by scandal, and most people would only remember Maggie McGuire's dirty movie.

"This is the worst she's ever been, George," Avery said to his friend on the phone. He sat at his desk in the study. "You saw how she was today. They put her back on the antidepressants at the hospital. But I don't think it's doing any good."

"Be patient, give Joanne a little time," George said. "Where is she?"

"Right now, she's napping upstairs."

Joanne had slept the entire time at George and Sheila's-except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, and an episode at around three in the morning.

Avery had woken to the sound of her crying, distant whimpering that escalated to screams. Avery switched on the light and saw her across the room. Joanne stood by the guest room window, shrieking, with tears rolling down her cheeks. He managed to quiet her down and guide her back into bed. "I'm so tried," was all she could say.

In the morning, he told his friends that Joanne had had a nightmare. It was almost the truth. She didn't come down to breakfast. She didn't utter a word all morning-not even when George and Sheila hugged her good-bye at the door. Avery led her to the car. He hated to think that perhaps Joanne was pulling some theatrics here. His actress wife wasn't beyond "playing to the balcony" at times-as she herself had admitted. How much was a real breakdown-and how much was drama-he couldn't tell.

About a dozen reporters hovered around the front gate. They peered into the car, and shouted questions. A couple of them asked about the claw marks on Avery's cheek. All last night and this morning, Joanne hadn't even noticed. As they pulled into the driveway, she turned away from the cameras and covered her face. Once inside the house, she plodded up the stairs to their bedroom, pried off her shoes, and slipped into bed.

That had been over four hours ago. He'd checked on her several times. To be safe, Avery had gone into their bathroom and removed all the razor blades and an old bottle of sleeping pills.

"Keep a close eye on her," George recommended over the phone.

"I'm way ahead of you," Avery said soberly.

"Good. Well, call if you need anything. I love you, buddy."

"Thanks, George. Love you too. Bye." Avery hung up the phone, and wearily reclimbed those stairs. He crept into the bedroom. Joanne was still dressed, still in bed-but awake.

Avery sat down at her side. "Hey, sweetheart," he said. "Why don't you go freshen up? I'll throw something together for dinner. Okay?"

"Dinner?" she said vaguely. She didn't even look at him.

"Yeah," Avery caressed her arm. "C'mon, Joanne, I'm tired of talking to myself here. Please?" He started to laugh and cry at the same time. "You're scaring me...."

The telephone rang. Joanne didn't even seem to hear it.

Avery sighed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Avery? Hi. It's Steve Bensinger."

"Oh, Steve. You know, now is not a good time to talk."

"Well, then you're going to hate me, because I'm on my cellular, in front of your house. I'm sorry, Avery, but it's urgent I see you."

He rubbed his forehead. "Okay, give me a minute. I'll open the gate for you." Avery hung up the phone. He kissed Joanne's cheek, then hurried down the stairs and flicked the wall switch for the gate. He met Steve at the door.

"Holy s.h.i.t, what happened to you?" Steve asked, gaping at the scratch marks on Avery's cheek.

"Tell you later." Avery closed the door. "What's the emergency?"

Steve stepped into the foyer. He wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. "Okay, no song and dance," he said grimly. "I have a contact in the Beverly Hills police force, and he knows I work for you. He called me an hour ago and asked if I had any clue as to my client's whereabouts last night...."

Avery shook his head. "I don't understand."

"A certain Libby Stoddard was stalking and hara.s.sing you last month. I talked to your lawyer about it on the way here-"

"Yeah, okay, so?" Avery said impatiently.

"She's dead, Avery."

"What?"

"Libby Stoddard's gardener has a key. He discovered the body this afternoon. She'd been stabbed several times. There's also evidence of rape."

"G.o.d, no," Avery whispered.

"They think she let the guy in," Steve explained. "It happened last night. Coroner's still working on an approximate time...." He glanced up toward the top of the stairs.

Numb, Avery followed his gaze and saw Joanne at the second-floor landing. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. She clutched the banister as if it were the only thing supporting her. She had heard everything. Avery stared at her. "Joanne, you shouldn't-"

She began to laugh.

Avery hurried up the steps to her. As he led her toward their bedroom, Joanne's laughter became louder and louder. She sounded like a crazy woman.

He'd just fallen asleep when the telephone rang. Blindly, Avery reached toward the nightstand. "I have it, hon," he mumbled, trying to focus on the digital alarm clock: 5:13. He cleared his throat. "Yes? h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Cooper? This is Aaron Harvey from Homeguard Securities. Our cameras have picked up some activity in your backyard pool area-"

"What?" Avery rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to put everything together. The guy was talking about the cameras they'd installed outside their house after the break-in last month. "What kind of activity?" he asked.

"I've taken the liberty of sending over an ambulance-"

"An ambulance? ambulance? What?" He sat up, then swiveled around. Joanne's side of the bed was empty. What?" He sat up, then swiveled around. Joanne's side of the bed was empty.

"I think your wife's had an accident," the man said. "She seems to have fallen in the pool."

"Wait, wait a second." Avery jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors to the balcony. He pushed them open and stared down at the pool.

Joanne's robe billowed out as she floated facedown on the water's surface. She barely moved-expect for the water lapping around her. She drifted in the shallow end like a fallen leaf.

In the distance, he could hear the wailing siren. Avery s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone again. "Tell them we're around back."

He hung up and bolted down the stairs. In the hallway, he flicked the switch that held open the front gate. Then he ran through the kitchen and out to the pool. Jumping into the frigid water, Avery grabbed Joanne. He hoisted her out of the pool, and set her down on her stomach. She wasn't breathing. He frantically pushed and pushed on her back.

He could hear the ambulance down the street, then voices and footsteps. People were coming up the driveway.

He continued his efforts to resuscitate her, but Joanne didn't stir. Headlights swept across the backyard bushes as the ambulance came down the driveway. Avery heard more voices: "Something's happened!" one reporter shouted to another. "I need this on video!"

Avery wouldn't give up. He kept trying to force the water from her lungs. The paramedics rushed through the back gate, followed by several reporters and photographers. Camera flashes popped in the murky dawn light.

Joanne coughed, regurgitating a stomachful of water onto the pool deck. Hovering over her, Avery let out a grateful cry. She was still coughing when the paramedics relieved him.

Drenched, and clad only in his undershorts, Avery rolled over and caught his breath. He could see Joanne moving. Camera flashes illuminated everything. He managed to stand up, then glared at the handful of paparazzi at his back gate. "You guys are trespa.s.sing," he said evenly-between gasps for air. "You're blocking the ambulance. Get the h.e.l.l out of here. Now."

Incredibly, they obeyed him.

One of the paramedics asked him how it had happened. Avery just shook his head.

"Your wife seems to have swallowed a mixture of barbiturates and alcohol. We need to move her to the hospital right away."

"Yes, of course," Avery whispered. He gazed down at the other medic inserting a fat plastic tube in Joanne's mouth. Her eyes were half open.

Avery began to shiver from the cold.

He stepped into the dimly lit hospital room. Joanne was asleep. As Avery moved closer to the bed, he saw the restraining straps around her wrists-attached to the bed's side railings. She looked so frail and sickly. Her damp hair had dried into flat, greasy tangles.

He still smelled of chlorine from his plunge into the pool five hours before. He'd found the empty bottle of sleeping pills in the kitchen garbage. Joanne had had the prescription filled in New York. She'd washed down the pills with several shots of vodka-before jumping into the pool.

The doctor had allowed him only a brief visit, so Avery stayed just a few minutes. He gently kissed her forehead. "G'night, honey," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him.

Outside Joanne's private room, a slim Asian woman, about fifty, waited by the security guard's desk in the hallway. She had a pen and pad, and wore a red cardigan with black pants. Avery was a bit disappointed the guard hadn't chased away this reporter. He frowned at both of them.

"Mr. Cooper?" She dug into her purse. "I know my timing is awful. But I need to ask you some questions." She pulled out her badge. "I'm Lieutenant Susan Linn, Beverly Hills police. Could I buy you a coffee in the cafeteria? I promise this won't take long."

Avery sighed. "I've talked to you people all day. How many times do I have to go over this? My wife wasn't herself. She's been through a lot-"

"This isn't about your wife, Mr. Cooper. I need to ask you some questions about Libby Stoddard. I believe you knew her."

They'd caught the hospital cafeteria during a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. Only a handful of other customers were scattered about. A janitor was mopping up; he'd placed chairs upside down on several tables.

Avery sipped his c.o.ke. "So what did you want to ask me?"

Susan Linn frowned. "Well, first you should know that-um, you're not required to answer any of my questions. You're ent.i.tled to counsel, and anything you say might be used against you."

Avery gave her a wary look. "Am I a suspect?"