The Next To Die Part 22

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 a.s.sistant, 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 gla.s.ses 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 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 gla.s.ses 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 a.s.sessment 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 resume. 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-a.s.s, 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 b.o.o.by 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 gla.s.ses 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.

"d.a.m.n, you're good!" Hal said, slapping Tom on the back.

Tom smiled. He focused on the next target along the railing, a c.o.ke 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, gla.s.ses, 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 inst.i.tutionalized.

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 s.e.m.e.n 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 gla.s.ses, 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."

"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."

"G.o.d, 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, G.o.d, 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 b.u.t.ton. 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 b.u.t.ter 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.