The Next To Die Part 4

"Wait...wait a second. I want to help you, Brian-"

He ducked into the hallway and closed the door on her.

Jarnell Cleary had been a maid with the Imperial Hotel for five weeks, and she hated it. Scrubbing out toilets at the crack of dawn was not how she'd planned to spend her young life. But only twenty-nine more weeks of this c.r.a.p, and she and her boyfriend could afford a trip to Europe together. She was thinking about Paris as she wedged opened the women's rest room door.

At the moment, there were only two other people on the mezzanine level, both of them janitors. Backing her cart through the doorway, Jarnell realized she had her work cut out for her. The place stunk, a rank odor. Someone had left a faucet on; she could hear the water trickling. The overhead lights had gone haywire and kept flickering on and off.

Jarnell almost tripped over the trash can, lying on its side. Garbage was strewn across the floor. She glanced over toward the sinks. Across the mirror, someone had scribbled in lipstick: LIES! LIES! LIES! LIES!

One of the sinks was stopped up with paper towels, and overflowing. Water dripped down to the tiled floor. Jarnell accidentally stepped in the puddle as she crept toward the first stall. By the toilet, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. Jarnell pushed the stall door open. She saw a fancy gold slipper on the floor. Beside it was a hypodermic syringe.

In the next stall, Jarnell glanced down at a purse lying on its side. Maybe it was because of the blinking lights, but she didn't notice anything else. She started into the next stall, expecting it to be empty.

Her shriek echoed off the tiled walls.

A woman sat on the toilet, her head tilted back and legs spread apart. Her black capri pants had been unzipped on the side, but not pulled down. The front of her tuxedo blouse was splattered with gray vomit.

At first, Jarnell thought the lady had pa.s.sed out. But then the lights flickered bright again, and she could see it was Leigh Simone-with her tongue drooped over her lips, and a dead stare from those olive-green eyes.

Four.

At 7:15 A.M. A.M., on Friday, October 10, the following Internet conversation appeared on Bullpen, a baseball historian's chat line: FRANK: I still say The Babe was the greatest player ever.JETT: But Hank Aaron broke Ruth's record with home run # 715 on 4/8/74.PAT: Breaking records doesn't necessarily make a player great.RICK: Request private chat with Pat.

Dialogue from a private mailbox, between "Rick" and "Pat," at 7:19 that Friday morning: PATRIOT: Speaking of n.i.g.g.e.rs and records...there's a n.i.g.g.e.r singer who ain't making records any more...no more rallies for queers either.AMERICKAN: Watch what U say. Will there B enough humiliation 4 subject once L.S. is discovered?PATRIOT: Yes...went smoothly...her a.s.sistant's cooperating.AMERICKAN: Good...you'll B coming to L.A. within week...work begun on A.C...details 2 follow...SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

Avery Cooper shivered as he climbed out of the pool. He hiked up his dark blue trunks and threw a towel over his shoulders. As a little reward for finishing his morning laps, he gulped down a gla.s.s of orange juice.

Catching his breath on the pool deck, he glanced up at the back of his house, a beautiful two-story, Spanish white stucco. Avery reminded himself how lucky he was. The high-cla.s.s hacienda had belonged to a big-name record producer, bankrupt after a misguided venture into filmmaking. Avery and Joanne had bought the place for a song. At least that was what his parents had said, and they were in the real estate business.

Married forty-two years, Rich and Loretta Cooper were still crazy about each other. Lo worked as a receptionist in Rich's office. Business was booming in Fairfax, Virginia. But they managed to have lunch together every day-sometimes later or earlier than they wanted, because a house needed to be shown; but they hadn't missed a lunch together in seventeen years.

It was a far cry from Avery's married life-with Joanne gone for months at a time. Sure, when they were together, the honeymoon went on and on. But he was lonely and miserable most of the time. And he had to keep reminding himself how G.o.dd.a.m.n lucky he was. After all, who wouldn't want his life? He was paid an obscene amount of money to work at something he loved. And he used his celebrity clout to advocate important causes. His gun-control commercials with Joanne made a difference.

Avery had a good friend in junior high school named Jimmy Fadden. Along with his sister and mother, Jimmy had stopped by for dinner one April night at an upscale burger joint called The Checkered Pantry, outside Fairfax. Avery had eaten there dozens of times-often with Jimmy. But he wasn't there that warm spring evening when a crazy man with a gun stepped into the restaurant and started shooting. He killed seven people and wounded six more before turning the gun on himself. Mrs. Fadden and nine-year-old Gina were among the seven fatalities. Jimmy took a bullet in the spine and spent the rest of his life a paraplegic. He told Avery that he'd been yelling at his kid sister for swiping fries from his plate when he'd heard the first shot.

Mr. Fadden remarried, and the family moved away when Avery was in high school. But he'd been thinking of Jimmy when he made Intent to Kill Intent to Kill, about the doctor paralyzed by a gunman's bullet outside an abortion clinic. Amid all the hate mail, he also received a letter from Jim Fadden, complimenting him for his accurate portrayal of a paraplegic, and thanking him for his work advocating gun control.

The poison-pen letters had tapered off, and neither Joanne nor he had come across any more dead mice calling cards. They'd sent her bodyguard packing. Joanne had been home a week now. She wanted to stay awhile and work on having a baby. They'd been working on it all week.

Avery glanced up at the bedroom windows. The veranda doors opened, and Joanne stepped out on the balcony. She wore a long, teal silk robe. Her brown hair neatly fell down over her shoulders. Even from the distance, Avery could see she'd put on lipstick and mascara. She looked beautiful in the soft morning light. "Hey, sweetie, why are you up so early?" he called.

In reply, Joanne let the robe drop to the floor. She was naked.

Avery stared at her, mesmerized. She was a vision. After a moment, he threw off his towel, shucked down his swim trunks, and scurried over to the diving board. He was already semierect.

Joanne laughed, and covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s from the cold. "Hurry up! I'm freezing!"

Avery thumped his chest like Tarzan, then dove into the water. He quickly swam the length of the pool, pulled himself out of the water, and ran naked into the house. He left a trail of water as he raced up the stairs, where Joanne waited for him at the landing, her arms open.

Lying with her legs up in the air after s.e.x was supposed to increase her chances of conceiving. Joanne a.s.sumed this position at the foot of their bed. Avery's body had been wet and slick with pool water, so they'd made love on the floor.

Avery propped a pillow under Joanne's back, and tucked the silk robe around her. He knew other couples who had problems conceiving, and for the husbands, the s.e.x-on-a-schedule became a tiresome ordeal. But Joanne worked to make it fun. The only thing Avery didn't like was having to produce on demand sperm samples for their fertility specialist.

They had nearly a dozen specimens stored at a lab, just the answer for a bicoastal couple trying to conceive. It was Joanne's idea-for when she was ovulating and out of town. His "little swimmers" were kept on ice, ready-if he wasn't-at a day's notice for shipment out to the East Coast. So far, she hadn't dipped into that reservoir yet.

Stepping into his undershorts, Avery figured he'd shower later in his trailer. He was due on the set in an hour. He kept picking up a bad odor in the room-someplace. "Do you smell something funny?" he asked.

Joanne adjusted the pillow beneath her back. "Yeah, now that you mention it. It's like spoiled food or something."

Avery went to the balcony doors and opened them again. Their bedroom had tall windows curved at the tops, mission-style furniture, and a thick, woven rug. Mexican tiles framed the small fireplace.

"I had a call from Saul yesterday," Joanne said. "That new play he sent, it's pretty good. He wants me to fly out there next week for a reading."

Avery turned from the doors and frowned at her. "But you just got back from New York six days ago-"

"Now, don't flip out. It's nothing definite. It's just a reading-"

"How can you expect us to make a baby when we're hardly ever together? Do you really want to have a baby?"

Joanne pointed to her legs in the air. "No, it's just an excuse to lie here like this. I find it very comfortable."

With a sigh, Avery pulled on a T-shirt. Starting a family had been his idea. He'd originally talked with Joanne about it a year ago, when she'd returned home depressed over a Broadway show that had gone down in flames. She'd said she was ready, but when they'd run into difficulties conceiving, she'd retreated back to The Great White Way and another play. That one had been a hit, and she'd been gone eleven months.

"I just wish we could be together-in the same place-for a while," Avery grunted, zipping up his trousers. "I'm tired of all the flying back and forth. You know, for every trip you've taken out here, I've seen you in New York five times. Check my frequent flier points. I could fly first cla.s.s to Jupiter on the mileage I've accrued."

"I wish you wouldn't pick on me." Joanne lowered her feet. "You know, I'm off the antidepressants while we try for junior here. It hasn't been a picnic for me. How often have we had this argument anyway? I mean-"

The telephone rang.

Joanne sighed. "Ah, saved by the bell."

"It's probably the studio."

Avery grabbed the phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Avery Cooper?" It sounded like a s.p.a.ced-out teenage boy. "You're a f.u.c.king a.s.shole and your wife's a pig."

Avery hung up, then glanced at Joanne, who started to sit up. "Don't answer if it rings again." He ran out of the room.

"What? Was it a crank? Watch the water on the stairs!"

Downstairs, Avery checked the caller ID box in his study. The number had been blocked. The phone rang again. Avery stood over the answering machine, waiting for it to click on. When it did, the caller hung up.

Libby-or someone she'd paid to do her dirty work. Avery's number-one fan had not taken graciously the officious letter from his agent telling her to cease and desist. She'd left a phone message the day he returned home from Vancouver two weeks back: h.e.l.lo, Avery. This is Libby. I got a mean note from your agent or whoever. You're really an a.s.shole, y'know? I spent a lot of money on you, and this is the thanks I get. I should have realized what a s.h.i.t you are when you did that awful pro-abortion movie on TV. Oh, and those gun-control commercials with you and your stupid wife. I own a gun and I'd like to use it on you, only I won't. You aren't worth being locked away in jail for. You can just go to h.e.l.l h.e.l.lo, Avery. This is Libby. I got a mean note from your agent or whoever. You're really an a.s.shole, y'know? I spent a lot of money on you, and this is the thanks I get. I should have realized what a s.h.i.t you are when you did that awful pro-abortion movie on TV. Oh, and those gun-control commercials with you and your stupid wife. I own a gun and I'd like to use it on you, only I won't. You aren't worth being locked away in jail for. You can just go to h.e.l.l.

The calling number had been blocked.

In case he hadn't gotten the message, she'd dropped something in the mail to him-the autographed portrait he'd originally sent her. The photo had been torn in half and the eyes cut out.

After going to bed that first night back, Avery heard a noise outside-from the front of the house. He tossed aside the covers and crept into the guest room. From the window, he spied two teenage punks scurrying across the moonlit lawn toward the front gate. Avery immediately called the police.

The teenagers, who managed to elude the cops, were only errand boys. They'd delivered three gift boxes to Avery's door, items he'd returned to Libby. But the Ralph Lauren sweater had ketchup splattered all over the front of it; a sportshirt had been slashed to pieces; and an expensive jogging suit had been partially torched-with ashes still in the box.

Beverly Hills' finest collected the evidence and called on Leslie Benita Stoddard. But Libby had left for Maui three days before. Avery pressured the police to contact authorities in Maui. When questioned, Libby claimed to have impulsively given the clothes-along with the autographed photo-to a couple of punk boys outside a thrift shop. They'd been asking people for spare change. She'd told them the clothes "weren't good enough" for Avery Cooper. That was her only contact with the teenagers. She said that except for leaving an angry message a week ago on Avery's answering machine (which-golly, gee-she now regretted), she hadn't tried to contact him.

Avery didn't believe a word. He'd hoped Libby's recent brush with the law in Maui had convinced her to back off. But now one of her creeps was on the phone hara.s.sing Joanne and him at seven-forty in the morning.

"Avery!" Joanne yelled from upstairs. "Oh, Jesus...Avery!"

He ran to the foot of the stairs. Joanne leaned over the upper railing. Her hair was a mess, and tears streamed down her face. Naked, she clutched the robe in front of her.

Avery raced up the steps to her. "What is it?" he asked, out of breath.

"In our bedroom-" She let out a gasp, then shook away a small black ant that had been crawling on her arm. Joanne shuddered and started swatting at her hair, trying to flick away bugs that may or may not have been nesting there. "Your sweater drawer," she cried, trembling. "Someone broke into the house. They've been in our bedroom...."

Avery took hold of her arms. "What?"

Joanne cringed and backed away from him. "They left something in your sweater drawer." She took a deep breath, then pointed to the bedroom. "I think it's from your friend-what's her name, Libby. Take a look."

Stepping over the pillow on the floor, Avery glanced down at four or five ants scurrying along the wheat-colored carpet. They were moving toward his dresser, where their numbers grew. Just minutes ago, he hadn't noticed a single insect in the room. But now an army of ants crawled up the front of his cherry-stained dresser-all ma.s.sing on the open bottom drawer.

Avery felt something tickle the top of his bare foot, and he swatted an ant away. Peering down into the drawer, he found what had attracted the swarm of black, crawling invaders. On top of his Irish knit sweater, someone had left a toy gun and a small baby doll-the kind usually dressed in a little bonnet and frock. But this doll had been stripped of its clothes, and swaddled in b.l.o.o.d.y, butcher-shop entrails. As the insects honed in on the rotting meat, they seemed to be devouring that cherub-faced toy baby.

With the police on their way, Avery and Joanne quickly got dressed. He'd managed to calm her down. He'd also taken care of the ant problem, using up a near-empty can of Raid. The smell of bug repellent drifted downstairs, where they now searched the house for anything that might have been stolen. None of Joanne's jewelry was missing, and all their silverware remained intact. Avery checked the shelves in the living room. Every item was still in place.

"I think you're right," he called to Joanne. "Libby must be behind this. Nothing's missing. She's rich. She doesn't want to steal anything, she just wants to hara.s.s us. She must have had one of her punks break in and plant that-that thing. She was always sending me sweaters. Not too subtle leaving it in my sweater drawer."

He couldn't stop wondering how the h.e.l.l they'd made it past the security system. "Joanne?" he called. "Did you go out yesterday?"

"We met with Dr. Nathan, remember?" she called back to him. Her voice was still a little shaky.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he muttered. They'd had an appointment with their fertility specialist. "Did you set the alarm before you left the house?"

"No, and I'm sorry, okay?" she called back, exasperated. "I'm never home long enough to memorize the stupid code."

The telephone rang.

"Ignore it," he yelled. "It's probably one of Libby's boys again." He could hear the answering machine in his study.

"...leave a message after the beep," the recording said. Then his own voice came on the phone: "Hey, honey...G.o.d, look at you. You're so s.e.xy..."

He started toward the study. Joanne met him in the hallway. "Avery? What's going on?"

In the study his recorded voice kept talking over her: "I'm so hard. See what you're doing to me? Come here..."

Joanne clutched his arm. "What is that?" Tears came to her eyes as she listened to the sound of her own laughter.

"Oh, you wicked, wicked girl," he said on the recording.

"Jesus, they have our videotape," Avery murmured.

He hurried upstairs to the bedroom, still stinking of bug repellent. He headed toward the dresser, where Libby's errand boy had left that grisly calling card. A few surviving ants crawled amid the dead.

Avery could hear the police siren drawing near. He pulled open the drawer second to the top. He frantically dug through the underwear. T-shirts and shorts fell to the floor as he searched in vain for the videotape.

"Oh, G.o.d, no," he muttered.

The tape of Joanne and him making love was gone.

Five.

"Thank you for your patience this morning," the flight attendant announced. "As soon as we've reached cruising alt.i.tude, we will begin our beverage service...."

The plane had been delayed two hours. A limo had whisked Dayle to the airport at 6:30 A.M. A.M., only so she could wait and wait. She spent the time studying her script and reviewing today's scenes to the point of overkill. From the VIP Lounge, she was the last person to board the plane; and thanks to first cla.s.s seating, she'd be the first to leave.

Her head tipped back and eyes closed, Dayle didn't dare look at the d.a.m.n script again. Nor did she feel like chatting with the boring businessman in the aisle seat, who unfortunately recognized her. If she feigned sleep, the guy might leave her alone, and maybe she'd even drift off for a while.

But she kept replaying in her head that bizarre conversation with the room service waiter. She remembered what he'd said about Tony Katz receiving death threats: He told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay.... He told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay....

Amid all the hate mail pouring in after Dayle had made Survival Instincts Survival Instincts, one note stood out. It wasn't among her fan letters-or even in the mailbox at her apartment. She found this one inside her car.

They'd been shooting at the studio into the early evening, and it was dark when Dayle went to her green BMW, parked in its spot outside the soundstage. She unlocked the door. The interior light went on, and she saw the piece of paper taped to the steering wheel. The note was printed up by a computer. What it said made her heart stop: WHEN DAYLE SUTTON IS DEAD, EVERYONE WILL KNOW THAT SHE WAS A LESBIAN DEGENERATE, AND THUS YOU WILL DIE WHEN DAYLE SUTTON IS DEAD, EVERYONE WILL KNOW THAT SHE WAS A LESBIAN DEGENERATE, AND THUS YOU WILL DIE.

She didn't dare turn the key in the ignition. A police bomb squad came to inspect the car, but found nothing. Dayle had a couple of officers escort her home that night. It remained a mystery how someone could have snuck past studio security and broken into her locked car.