Death in Daytime (11 page)

Thankfully, I had the next three days off from work, so my plan was to get my surfboard wet in the morning. I was hoping some time on the waves would clear my head and give me a clearer picture of what I had to do. If I wasn't able to see my next move clearly, it might be time to ask Paul for help. I was sure he'd like that a lot. He'd been waiting awhile for me to finally lean on him.

I went to sleep with that thought in mind and dreamed that when I finally asked Paul for help he refused. "Too late, babe," he said, in my dream. "That ship has sailed."

*

*

* When I woke the next morning I remembered the dream, but knew after a few minutes it would fade. That's the way it is with most dreams. Thankfully. I may have had the day off from work as an actress, but I, thankfully, never had the day off as a mom. I made breakfast for Sarah, ate with her, laughed with her, kissed her and took her to pre-K. With a few hours to myself I went back home and got out my surfboard. Yeah, it had been a while since I'd been in the water. I actually had to brush off a few cobwebs when I took my nine feet four off the racks in my garage. Now that's kind of depressing! Talk about needing a little

"me" time. A nine feet four is a fairly big board, and I had to be careful not to whack anything (like my head) as I gently put my board on my car and strapped it down. I grabbed my shortie (wet suit) because the water hadn't been too cold lately, threw some wax in my bag and hopped in my car. The beach was just a block or two away. I could have walked, but let's not get carried away. I wanted to conserve my energy for the waves . . . right? I pulled up in the parking lot, hopped out and got my board down from the top of my car. Walking out to the beach I surveyed the water. The waves weren't too big and they had nice shape. It also wasn't too crowded out there, which was rare these days. It seemed that everybody and their mother, literally their mother, was surfing. There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd be the only "chick" out with all the boys. Which was kind of nice, because guys were very chivalrous in the water and likely to share a wave or two. Anyway, I threw my wet suit on, being careful not to get my hair trapped in the zipper, plopped my board down on the sand, grabbed my wax and knelt down to put a little on my board. Then I put a little extra on just to make sure I wouldn't slip off. I'd need all the help I could get. I was rusty. Like I said, it had been a while since I'd paddled out, and I immediately felt it in my arms and back. It hurt, but it was a good kind of pain. When I got to a good spot, I sat up and waited for a wave. Being out there in the middle of the water was the best form of meditation. There's that word again. I need to meditate on why I feel I need to meditate. I started thinking about everything that had happened over the past few days. It seemed to me the most idiotic thing about it was that anyone would think I could kill Marcy. I'd never thought of it that way before, but it kind of hurt my feelings. Okay, so maybe the cops thought I did it. That's what they're paid to do, suspect people. But everyone I worked with? Come on!

The thought of it brought me closer to tears than I'd been since it happened. What if I did get arrested for the murder? What would happen to Sarah? She'd already lost her father. The thought of my beautiful little girl without a father or mother . . . Suddenly, I was tasting salt. At first I thought it was the ocean, but then I realized tears were flowing. No sobs or anything, just tears mixing with salt water. I let them come. Tears of sadness, of anger, frustration . . . I let them all come out there on the water where no one could see me, just to get them out of my system.

When I was done having a good cry I slammed my hand down on the board, wiped tears and salt water from my face with the heels of my hands and tried to bring my thoughts back to the business at hand. Who killed Marcy? Didn't I have to do the same thing as the cops in order to clear myself? I had to suspect everyone I worked with of being a killer. The onset of a wave interrupted my thoughts. When you're surfing it's a good idea to pay attention to what you're doing. I turned around to face the beach and started paddling. As the wave grew and took shape, I paddled faster and faster until I could feel I had the wave under me and behind, propelling me. I stood up, not as gracefully as I would have liked, but hey! For the first time in a long while I felt free as I worked the wave up and down. I kept going and going until the wave dissolved into the shore. This was just what I needed. I felt exhilarated and empowered . . . as if I could do anything. And oh, how I would need this kind of confidence for what I needed to do next.

There were other coworkers to interview, but they didn't have the day off, like I did, and I didn't want to go to the studio.

Her ex had not been able to tell me anything about Marcy, presumably because he didn't know anything about her. Although they technically still lived in the same city, they had no contact with each other. I didn't know who exactly had abandoned whom. Maybe they'd abandoned each other. But Marcy had pretty much cut her daughter off. For a moment I wondered if a seventeen-or eighteen-year-old girl could kill her mother. Then I decided no, the girl I had talked to could not. The poor kid was angry, probably more hurt, but I didn't think she was a murderer. For one thing, she would have had to get on the lot, and to do that somebody would have had to leave her a pass. It didn't seem likely after turning her away--refusing to help her with her career--that Marcy would leave her a pass.

I wasted most of the morning after surfing. Well, maybe not wasted. I spent it thinking in a shower, and then over a cup of tea. Finally it was time to pick up Sarah. I'd left my mother alone, given her time to herself, because I knew I was going to ask her to stay with Sarah that afternoon.

"Where are you going?" she asked, while the three of us had lunch together in the big house.

"I'm going to talk to some people," I said.

"Suspects?" my mother asked.

"Yes, Mother, suspects."

I wondered what my mother was going to have to say to that after we'd already discussed my plan to conduct my own investigation. I didn't have very long to wait.

She looked at me with concern as I carried our lunch dishes to the sink and said, "Keep yourself safe, honey."

Little did I know. . . .

My plan was to take the kid car and go to Marcy's home. I knew where it was because she'd had a "let's get acquainted" cocktail party when she landed the job. It was there that I first realized she must still be holding a grudge, because she glared at me all night. I've never been there again--never been invited. However, when I opened my front door, I found my way blocked by the press. I guess word had finally gotten out about my address. Cameras flashed in my face; questions were lobbed at me; I even saw a tape recorder or two. And then I saw Detective Jakes, bullying his way through, knocking people aside.

"Watch it, asshole!"

"Who the hell is this guy?" a short, fat man yelled.

"Come with me," Jakes said, putting his arm firmly around me.

He got us through the crowd without letting anyone touch me, which was impressive. He used his elbow and shoulders and got us to his car. After he placed me in the passenger seat he turned and shouted at everyone, "That's all for today. Clear out of here."

Then he walked around and got behind the wheel. "Good morning, Ms. Peterson."

"Maybe for you. Excuse me, Detective, I have to call my mother." I fished my cell phone out of my bag and quickly hit speed dial. "Mom, the press is all over the place. Just stay put with Sarah. Now that they know I've left, things should calm down. Just stay inside until you hear from me, okay? . . . I love you, too.

"Detective Jakes," I said, closing my phone,

"How . . . nice. Thank you for saving me."

"I've had experience with press mobs before."

"Press mobs?"

"Press with a mob mentality," he said. "They'd trample you to get a story, even if it was only 'Soap Queen Trampled by Press.' "

Jakes laughed, showing very white teeth. He really was rather good-looking.

"Soap queen?"

"I thought you'd like that better than 'diva,' " he said.

"Actually, I don't like either. Um, how do you propose to get me to my car now?"

"There's no need. I'd like you to come with us, if you would."

"Where?"

"What is it they always say on TV?" he asked.

"Downtown?"

"And why would I want to go downtown with you and your partner?"

"Just to answer a few more questions."

"Can't you ask them here?"

"Here? On the street with that crowd around us? Or inside, in front of your daughter?" He smiled what seemed like a very condescending smile. "No, I'm afraid this has to be . . . official."

"Am I under arrest?" I asked. My mouth was dry.

"Oh, no," he said, "no, nothing like that. You are, however, what we refer to as a 'person of interest' in this case."

"Not a suspect?"

"We could upgrade you to suspect," he offered.

"Would you prefer that?"

"What I would prefer, Detective, is not to play games."

"Good," he said, "then why don't you come with us and just answer our questions?"

"Can I follow you in my own car?" I asked.

"I don't think you want to brave this mob again, do you?"

I turned my head and jumped. One of them had his face pressed against the window, and was shouting questions at me.

"Actually, I trust you to get me to my car safely."

He sighed, then opened his door and said, "Okay, let's do this . . . again."

They took me to an interview room in Parker Center, LA police headquarters, which actually was located in downtown LA. They asked me if I wanted coffee or tea; I took tea. I actually felt like having it. It was Davis who brought it to me, and I thought he gave it to me along with a reassuring look.

They each had a cup of coffee and we all sat down at a table, them on one side, me on the other.

"Ms. Peterson, we need to be a little more specific with our questions than we were the other day," Jakes said. "Is that all right?"

"Excuse me but isn't this the part where you're supposed to ask me if I want a lawyer?" I interrupted. Jakes paused and sighed.

"You're not under arrest, Ms. Peterson," he said.

"Technically you're not even a suspect yet. We're just asking you to . . . help us out. Is that all right?"

I was tempted to ask what would happen if it wasn't all right, but instead said, "That's fine." After all, I had nothing to hide.

"You and the victim had a history, did you not?"

"Yes, we did. But I'm sure you've heard about this from others."

"We need to hear it from you, Alex. Do you mind if I call you Alex?"

"No, I don't mind."

"If I hear it from you, Alex," Jakes said, "it'll be the truth, won't it?"

"Yes," I said, "it will."

"Okay," Jakes said, "tell me the history between the two of you."

I did, as straightforwardly as possible. Both men listened and did not interrupt. I thought that Davis, as a soap opera fan, was probably enjoying it more than his partner.

"All right," Jakes said, "that explains your past. Now tell me about the shouting match the two of you had last week."

I had no reason to tell them anything but the truth. I told them how Marcy had been treating me since she took over the show, how I'd had enough the previous week and had gone to have it out with her.

"Tell me how your fingerprints got on the murder weapon," Jakes asked.

"It was last week, while we were yelling at each other. I picked it up. I was going to throw it, but I was afraid it would break, so I just sort of . . . tossed it in her direction and ran out."

Jakes looked at Davis. I didn't see anything pass between them, but something must have. Maybe they'd been partners longer than I originally thought. Davis got up and left the room.

"How did you pick it up?" Jakes asked.

"I grabbed it around . . . the legs, just above the base."

"Was that the way you would have grabbed it to hit her with it?"

"What? I don't know. I had no intention of hitting her with it."

"What if she had come at you?" he asked. "What if she'd tried to get it away from you?"

"Are you saying that I hit her with it and killed her during a struggle?"

"Like I said, Alex," he replied, "I'm just asking more specific questions than I did the other day."

"Yes," I said, "yes, you are."

The door opened and Detective Davis came walking back in. He was carrying the Emmy, which was encased in a plastic evidence bag. He set it upright on the table and went back to his chair.

"I never saw one of these up close until this case,"

Jakes said, pointing to the statuette. "Which is actually kind of odd, since I work in Hollywood. I've seen three Oscars, but never an Emmy." He turned around. "Hey Len, how many Oscars you seen?"

Davis held up two fingers.

"Any Emmys?"

"Nope."

Jakes looked at me.

"Maybe it's not so odd, then."

"Do you have a question for me, Detective?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah, I do," he said. "Sorry. This is the actual murder weapon."

"I assumed that when I found the body with it under the desk."

"Really? Why would you assume that?"

"It had blood on it," I said. "The blood hadn't coagulated yet. I figured she'd just been killed, probably while we were all watching the light fixture fall. Also, rigor hadn't started yet."

"Well, okay," Jakes said. "Maybe you do know a little bit about my business. My point, though, is still that your prints are on this."

"So?"

"Would you come around here and stand next to me, please?"

I was going to protest, but then decided just to do as he asked and get it over with.

"Now turn and face Detective Davis, please."

I did so. Davis looked bored, very unlike the soap fan I'd had coffee with three days ago--was it three days ago, already? No, two. And three since Marcy had been killed. It didn't seem possible that that much time had gone by.