Death On the Dlist (2010) (8 page)

CABLE COVERAGE WAS AWFUL IN RURAL DAVIDSON COUNTY. EVEN
though the county seat was Nashville, Tennessee, a major hub for the music industry, you’d never know it from the cable service. The motel room he rented by the week advertised it came with free cable. What a joke. Clint Burrell Cruise leaned forward and stared at the TV set he’d propped on a folding metal TV tray table.

But even through the bad reception, he recognized her. It was Hailey Dean. Her blonde hair was a little longer, now falling down around her shoulders. She was discussing what goes on inside the mind of a killer with the same intense demeanor she had in the courtroom. Her green eyes stared directly into the camera and she never looked away. Cruise shifted in his seat . . . it appeared she was looking at him straight in the eyes. The camera sat on the shot of Hailey, then music played and her face dissolved into a commercial break.

Suddenly coming face to face with Hailey Dean again, even if it was through a TV screen, was more than a small shock. Cruise had tried his best to stop thinking about Hailey Dean. It always got him nothing but trouble. Hailey Dean at the jail with a subpoena, standing there watching as his blood was drawn into tiny thin vials, blood yielding DNA to convict him for murder. Hailey in court, Hailey’s shoulders and back as she argued to a jury, Hailey Dean reading his guilty verdict out loud in court, the moment he leaped across the defense counsel table and for an instant, just an instant, circled his hands around her neck until he was clubbed and dragged away by courtroom bailiffs.

He remembered the first time he ever laid eyes on her at the Fulton County Superior Courthouse. The courtroom was jammed that morning with attorneys, witnesses and inmates in prison garb, chained together by leg irons. Cruise was chained too, to a chair bolted onto the floor of the jury box.

When the clock hit nine o’clock exactly, double doors at the rear of the courtroom swung open, and Hailey Dean blew in. She wore a black dress just above the knees, her arms covered with long sleeves. He still remembered the blonde hair against the black of her dress. Nobody had to announce who she was, she strode straight to the State’s table to remain standing. The judge entered, took the bench and the calendar clerk called Cruise’s name and case number. Hailey Dean turned to look directly at him, shackled in his chair. Holding his gaze, Hailey announced in open court that the first arraignment of the morning was for him. He’d tried his best to stand, even chained. And then she said it . . . that she planned to try Cruise herself and that the State intended to seek the death penalty.

During months of court appearances, there were the constant TV shots of her, sound bites at local news pressers. He watched them all. She won the trial, of course. Then after the trial, she left him abruptly, dropping out of his life like he’d meant nothing.

Until he hopped a Greyhound bus straight out of Reidsville Penitentiary and headed to New York. When he’d landed that first blow to the side of her face it felt so good. Then at the end, he’d had to leave abruptly after his lawyer ended up going after Hailey himself. Cruise always hated Matt Leonard and oddly, hated him even more now. He was glad Leonard was dead. Good riddance.

The commercial ended and
The Harry Todd Show
resumed. An argument seemed to ensue between Hailey and Harry Todd. From what Cruise could make of what they were saying, Hailey nailed him.

Watching her in action again, his chest tightened. Being in court with her was one of his worst recurring nightmares. And now, here she was again, gorgeous, her blonde hair framing her face, her skin perfect and her teeth naturally white and barely showing between her lips when she spoke. Cruise noticed she never cracked a smile. Some things never changed. As much as he hated Hailey Dean, he stayed glued to his seat a few feet away from the TV, until the next commercial.

The chatter in the commercial break suddenly annoyed him and he wanted to kick the screen in. In fact, he wanted to tear the whole room up, kick in the walls, lift up the furniture and send it crashing to the middle of the floor, tear down the curtains, and put his fists through the windows.

Cruise clicked the remote and the screen went black. Who the hell did she think she was? He was living in a fleabag flophouse and she was on TV. He wondered if her hair still smelled the same as it did in court. He’d gotten close enough to smell her only once.

The thought of her made his whole body tense. For the first time in months, the old feeling was back . . . His hands were starting to tingle. He was superhuman . . . again. He had the power. Cruise forced his hands into balls and stuffed them down the sides of the chair’s seat cushion. The electric sensation pulsed through his fingertips and into his palms . . . Even his wrists were on fire. In the dark of the penitentiary cell block, after lights out, he’d had plenty of time to think about Hailey Dean

Cruise walked to the front window of his room and looking out into the night, stood rooted at the curtain’s edge, trying to shake off the electric sensation now tripping through his arms and chest. To hell with her. He was sick of Tennessee and sick of hiding out in the middle of nowhere. Seeing her again made him realize . . . He had unfinished business. In New York.

IF IT WEREN’T AT THE EDGE OF HELL’S KITCHEN, SHE’D NEVER HAVE FOUND A
parking spot. Prentiss Love had just finished her “hot yoga” class and was headed for her shiny new, metallic sand-colored Mercedes SUV parked around back of the yoga studio. She needed to relax. The last season of her reality show
Celebrity Closets
had nearly killed her. The pressure, the fans, and of course the celebrities whose closets she was expected to magically organize and transform . . . It was all driving her crazy.

Couldn’t they see she was an artist? She needed space . . . space to promote artistic thinking and creativity. She hadn’t done anything really creative since she performed in a music video with an animated cartoon raccoon as a dance partner. Now that was something she was proud of.

She’d only recently discovered hot yoga, a series of intense yoga poses done in a room heated to temperatures of around 100 degrees. It was all about profuse sweating. It ridded the “bodily temple” of all the toxins introduced to it by consumption of toxic foods such as doughnuts, Twinkies, processed meats, and of course, Mexican food of any type.

Her instructor, Enrique, said the purpose was to make the body warm, and therefore more flexible. Prentiss was all about having a warmer, more flexible body.

This particular yoga studio was out of the way and word hadn’t yet seeped out about it. It was only a matter of time before every woman in New York heard about Enrique, or “Rick-ay” to Prentiss, and flocked to him, completely ruining the ambience for Prentiss.

Rick-ay had promised Prentiss private hot yogas if necessary. She could hardly wait. He’d actually studied under the greatest living yoga master of all times, the genius Bikram Padhoury. Padhoury pioneered hot yoga, including
pranayama
exercises. Screw
pranayama
, whatever the hell that was, as far as Prentiss was concerned. She just wanted to somehow do the poses well enough not to topple over facedown into her yoga mat in front of Rick-ay.

Much less in front of the others, who seemed to Prentiss to be way too serious about the whole thing. She got the feeling they looked down their snouts at her.

She actually overheard one of them after class whispering about her at the water jug, a clear glass receptacle displaying filtered spring water with lemons floating in it. The tall one said to the short mousy one that she, Prentiss Love, smelled like red meat. How in the hell can somebody smell like red meat? What . . . The scent of lamb just oozes from your pores?

Prentiss knew for a fact she did
not
smell like red meat. She smelled like her favorite perfume, Sensuous Musk. She put it on before every class with Rick-ay.

Skinny bitches. They could take their mats and shove them for all she cared. But then, she got supreme satisfaction when she spotted them walking away from class. She took a little swerve at them in her SUV and they jumped away from the edge of the sidewalk. She just wanted to scare them a tiny bit.

But forget about them. As long as Rick-ay wanted her in class, there on the front row, Prentiss was happy. Rick-ay was totally committed and inspired. She loved that. Even though she knew he was from Milwaukee, sweet boy, he might as well have been from Calcutta. His heart and soul were definitely Bengalese.

Rick-ay was a devout follower who ascribed to Bikram Padhoury’s teachings to the letter, including keeping his studio at exactly the precise temperature prescribed by Padhoury, 101 degrees, but insisted the same type mirrors, carpet, and exact text be used during each and every hot yoga session. His dream (that he had shared with Prentiss) was to bring his discipline to Park Avenue with his own Multi-Specialty Physiotherapy and Accupressure Padhoury Method Yoga Studio. It was all so exciting.

Plus, Rick-ay was ripped. She’d never seen a pair of glutes like what was on Rick-ay’s caboose. She begged and begged for repeat instructions on the Virabhadrasana II, commonly known by the masses as the Warrior Two yoga pose. It specifically worked Rick-ay’s glutes. Not that she’d ever do it on her own of course, but the view of Rick-ay in the Warrior Two pose was worth it.

But no matter how much she came on to him, he seemed oblivious. For her last effort, she’d worn the skimpiest outfit possible, claiming she had to wear practically nothing to class because of the extreme heat and clothes trapped toxins in her skin. They simply couldn’t get out if she had on too many clothes. She approached him about her theories on yoga, then suggested they go to dinner.

He suggested she should focus on improving her downward-facing dog.

She hoped none of the paparazzi were straggling along, hiding in the bushes or between the other cars. They were relentless. And they’d do absolutely anything to catch her looking bad . . . or drunk. She parked out back and down an alley every single time she came, so as to hopefully avoid them and their long lenses.

Wearing dark glasses and a scarf over her hair à la Marilyn Monroe, she made her way alone down the alley to her SUV. No matter what she was doing or where she was going, the press followed her. But, so far, so good. Their favorite trick was to act friendly, take a series of shots one after the other, then pick the one where she was mid-sentence or in the middle of blinking her eyes, and print that particular one so as to make her look drunk or stoned, with her mouth open and her eyes half-closed.

The press was simply hateful. And when she
did
go to rehab, you’d have thought the world had come to an end. It was all “see, we told you so.”

How she loathed them.

She took one quick peek over her shoulder . . . The coast was clear. She hopped up into the driver’s seat of the SUV and glanced around for the gin and tonic she’d left in the glass holder between the seats. Ah, perfect, the ice was still floating around in the red plastic glass she’d pulled out of her kitchen cabinet that morning. She intentionally used the red plastic instead of clear so no one could see exactly what she was drinking.

Prentiss pushed in a New Age CD to bring it down a notch and turned on the AC. She was sweating like a pig.

Oh hell. Guess the sunglasses and scarf didn’t work. Here came a fan, bundled up head to toe in coat and scarf, rushing up to the side of the SUV with something, a piece of paper for her to autograph.

Would it never end? Why did she have to be so famous? It was actually a curse to be a star.

Prentiss wearily put on a brave face and pushed the button to lower the electric window. She stretched her arm out for the fan’s pen. She wished she had some lipstick. Maybe there was some in the glove compartment.

The gun came out of nowhere. In fact, she didn’t even really hear the bullet being expelled from the chamber. The silencer on the weapon resulted in a noise just slightly louder than a trash can lid being dropped in the distance.

The bullet sliced through her head, left temple first, front to back, left to right. It exited Love’s head just below and behind her right ear, lodging in the leather upholstered headrest cradling her skull. The coroner’s office would have to dig that one out with a knife, if they even thought of it.

Behind her head, a dark, red stain was spreading down the car seat toward her shoulders and back, pooling at the seat. Thankfully, it was heading only down, not visibly out to the sides of her head. Blood came trickling down the left side of her temple. But delicately reaching inside toward Love’s face, a quick, careful rearranging of her long dark hair covered the thin, red rivulet completely. The silk scarf helped a lot.

New Age music emanated out softly through the SUV’s speakers and the sound of some sort of bell tinkled over hushed harp strings. Blood and blow-back had spattered the inside of the driver’s side door, heading down to the carpet. Since the window was completely down at the time of the gunshot, none would appear on the glass to alert a casual passer-by.

Was that a tiny bit of grayish pink brain matter on her cheek?

The latex-gloved hand reached in once more, to wipe it away, opening the door just long enough to raise the window back all the way to the top, turn off the motor, and lock all four doors of the SUV with one punch to the automatic lock button located on the door’s elbow rest. The driver-side door shut firmly, but quietly.

Walking briskly but casually down the alley to the intersecting street ahead, the urge to toss the latex gloves and gun into a big Dumpster just beyond Love’s SUV had to be wrestled down. That was the first place police would search. A nonchalant glance over the shoulder and down the alley confirmed not a soul in sight.

Later on that morning and throughout the day, people passing by the SUV—the few New Yorkers who bothered to do a double-take—just thought it was Prentiss Love, poor thing, passed out drunk again.