Faces of Fear (8 page)

"Then shouldn't you be taking this to the police?"

"Oh, I will," she said. "I'll go to the police with the tape of my special precisely one hour before we air it."

Michael leaned back in his chair and gazed at Tina speculatively. "Are those other two murders still unsolved?"

"Yes!" Tina leaned even farther forward, sensing impending victory.

"Do you have crime scene photos?"

Tina nodded.

"Is the M.O. the same?"

Tina hesitated. "I don't know yet. I'll have to go to San Diego and San Jose to find all that out. That's why I need a budget."

Michael sighed, sagging like a tire losing its air. "Sorry. The whole thing's way too weak. I can't authorize a budget for something that goes back fifteen years without any kind of connection at all."

"Women murdered
for their glands,
Michael," Tina said, leaning in again. "This is going to be big. This isn't just going to be news—this is going to be a book and a movie, and the whole ball of wax. And I want it."

"You can want it all you want, Tina," Michael said, unimpressed by her theatrics. "Maybe there is a book, and a movie, and a ball of wax—whatever that is—but at least for now, it's not a news special. Not in a newsroom I'm running."

"You're going to regret it. I'm telling you."

He smiled thinly. "I've regretted decisions before, and I'm sure I will again. But for the moment, I don't think this will be one of them."

"What will it take to convince you?" Tina put her files back into her briefcase.

"One more body," Michael said. "More recent than fifteen years ago, and the same M.O. If you can give me one more body, and prove that the M.O. on all four is the same, I'll get you a budget and you can have your special."

"One more body." She nodded. "If it's out there, I'll find it." She stood up and grabbed her briefcase, her coffee still untouched.

He followed her to the door and opened it.

"I'll find it, Michael."

"I have no doubt," he said, then watched her walk across the porch and down to her car, parked next to a fire hydrant in front of the house.

He knew that if there was another body out there, Tina would find it, even if she had to make it herself.

He closed the door and went to find Scott.

They had a leisurely Saturday morning to resume.

ALISON HAD NO IDEA HOW MANY TIMES SHE MUST HAVE PASSED THE old mission-style church at the corner of Bedford and Santa Monica Boulevard, but as her mother searched for a parking spot, she found herself looking at it as if for the first time. Gazing up at the twin towers that flanked the main sanctuary, and the three crosses that surmounted the entire structure, she wished she weren't coming here for a funeral. The whole idea of someone's body lying in a coffin for everyone to stare at made her skin crawl, and for a moment she wished she'd found a way to beg off. But when she saw two familiar faces in the crowd moving up the steps and through the doors—two faces she'd seen just last week in a movie—her misgivings vanished.

By the time they got inside the church itself, it was almost overflowing, not only with people, but with more flowers than Alison would have thought the place could hold. Perfect arrangements filled tier after tier behind the altar, and were banked around the casket as well, and whoever had arranged them had managed to combine the rainbow of colors into gentle waves that seemed to cradle the coffin and the beautiful woman who lay inside it, her head resting on a satin pillow that raised her face high enough to be clearly visible even from the back of the church.

Even though they were half an hour early for the service, the only space they could find was on a pew way in the back. As she waited for the service to begin, Alison scanned the congregation, searching for more familiar faces. And just as her mother had promised, they were everywhere, some of them so close that she could have reached out and touched them.

Finally the service began, and as the music swelled, Alison tried to prepare herself for a long, dull hour or two. But it didn't happen. Instead, two people talked about Margot Dunn for no more than ten minutes each, the priest recited a mass for the dead, and then a woman who looked vaguely familiar sang, "You Are So Beautiful." When the priest finished the final prayer, a classical guitarist began to play softly, and everyone stood up. But instead of leaving the church, Alison followed her mother and Lexie Montrose down the aisle to file past the coffin in which Margot Dunn lay, her beauty on display for the last time.

"I heard that Danielle DeLorian herself did Margot's makeup," Lexie whispered to Alison as they slowly made their way toward the front of the church. Alison stared at Lexie. How was that possible? The head of DeLorian cosmetics herself? Doing a dead person's makeup? Alison shuddered, just imagining someone putting makeup on a corpse. Yet when she finally reached the casket and got a clear view of Margot Dunn's face, she could barely believe what she was seeing. The woman looked as if she had merely fallen asleep on her white satin pillow while reading or watching television in bed.

Everything about Margot Dunn's face was flawless, and appeared so lifelike that for a moment Alison couldn't believe she was dead at all. She found herself looking for a flutter of eyelashes, for the rise and fall of the woman's chest as she took a breath.

But there was nothing. No movement at all.

Yet the face was perfect. There was no mark, no scar, not even any discoloration—no evidence that she had fallen onto the rocks last week, or that a propeller had gouged chunks of flesh from her right cheek a year ago. It was as if they were about to bury someone who was still alive, and Alison stood rooted to the spot until she felt a tug from her mother to move along.

For the five minutes it took to walk the four blocks to the reception at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, she couldn't get the vision of Margot Dunn's body out of her head, and was certain that from now on her face would haunt her dreams. Even now, in broad daylight, she could imagine the woman waking up in her coffin, desperate, gasping for air, screaming for help and clawing at the satin lining of her coffin with her perfectly manicured fingernails. Alison shivered yet again, and once more wished she hadn't agreed to come along.

Following the crowd moving through the hotel, they made their way to the International Terrace, where servers wearing white shirts and black bow ties strolled by with trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne, as if it were a wedding instead of a funeral.

At least a dozen poster-sized photographs of Margot stood on easels that dotted the perimeter of the ballroom. Wherever Alison looked, the image of the woman in the coffin gazed back at her, and it occurred to her that Margot Dunn had looked as perfect in her coffin as she did in all these pictures. She tried to pay attention as her mother introduced her to people, but her eyes kept straying toward the photographs, particularly one near the bar. Finally, she went over to get a closer look. It was a larger-than-life black-and-white photograph of Margot looking directly at the camera, chin on her hands.

But she wasn't just looking directly into the camera. Margot was also looking directly into her eyes.

Alison stood as if transfixed, gazing at the clear eyes, perfect skin, exquisite features, and thick, luxurious hair. How was it possible that someone could ever have been this beautiful? Or that anyone this beautiful could have been so unhappy over
anything
that she killed herself?

She was still staring at the photograph when she sensed someone standing beside her. "Magnificent, wasn't she?" Lexie Montrose said.

An unexpected sadness flowed through Alison. "Why would she kill herself?"

Lexie squeezed her shoulder. "She was afraid she was never going to look like that again, sweetheart. When she first got here, Margot couldn't even get an agent. Then she met Conrad, and the rest was—shall we say—the stuff of plastic-surgery legend."

Alison finally tore her eyes away from the photograph. "Where's Mom?"

"Waiting in the reception line to meet Conrad and his sister. C'mon."

With one more glance at the photograph, Alison followed Lexie back to the other side of the terrace, where the crowd had gathered, and wished she didn't have to stay to meet Conrad Dunn or anyone else.

All she wanted to do was go home.

* * *

RISA HAD a moment of déjà vu when she approached Conrad Dunn, who stood with his sister Corinne, quietly receiving the murmured condolences of his guests. Was it possible that it hadn't even been a week since she had stood in line to greet him in a different hotel at the Dunn Foundation banquet with his wife at his side instead of his sister?

"Risa!" A wan Conrad took her hand warmly and kissed her cheek. "So good of you to come."

"I'm so terribly sorry about Margot," Risa said.

He nodded. "Thank you."

"You remember Lexie Montrose, don't you?"

"Of course." Conrad nodded to Lexie, then his eyes shifted to Alison. "And who is this?"

"My daughter, Alison. Alison, this is Conrad Dunn."

Conrad took Alison's hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"It—It's nice to meet you, too," Alison stammered, instantly certain she'd said the wrong thing, but having no idea what the right thing might have been. She felt herself blushing, then breaking into a cold sweat of embarrassment.

"Is your husband here?" Conrad asked Risa.

Now it was Risa who blushed. "I'm afraid not," she began. "We're—well, we—"

"They're separated," Lexie Montrose said softly when it became clear that Risa was just going to go on stumbling.

"Oh," Conrad said, his voice shifting from the impersonal tone of social platitudes to something much warmer. "I'm so sorry. I hope it won't be permanent."

Risa bit her lip. What was she supposed to say? But again—and to her own further mortification—Lexie jumped in again.

"It will be," Lexie said. "Some things can't be fixed."

Risa felt her embarrassment deepen, but this time it was Conrad Dunn himself who stepped in to rescue her.

"Then we're all in mourning today," he said softly, and turned to Alison. "I'm so sorry—it has to be hard for you." His gaze shifted back to Risa and he put a hand on her shoulder. "If there's anything I can do, please call."

"I'll be fine, Conrad," Risa said. "And today we're here for you."

Conrad smiled at her, and then his tired eyes moved on to the next guest in line.

* * *

"YOU CERTAINLY SHARED a lot of personal information that wasn't necessarily yours to share," Risa said as the three of them walked the few blocks back to her car.

"Hey," Lexie said, dismissing her words with a wave of her black-gloved hand. "He's single now, and so are you, and in Beverly Hills there is no such thing as a decent interval."

"As I recall," Risa said coolly, "last week
you
were the one who talked about getting divorced the minute Conrad was ‘back on the market,' as you so graciously put it."

"And I could be," Lexie said, refusing to rise to Risa's bait. "But he doesn't have eyes for me." She paused to let the meaning of her words strike home. "I think you should call him, just like he said."

"Are you kidding?" Alison demanded. "He's creepy—the whole thing was creepy. What they did to his wife's face—I mean, it was like they were trying to make her look like she was still alive! And all those photographs! She was beautiful, but it was all fake, like you said, Lexie. She didn't look like that at all until she met him!"

"Oh, sweetie," Risa said. "He's not creepy. He's just a plastic surgeon, and fixing faces is what they do. And Conrad is not only a very good plastic surgeon, but a very good man as well."

"Maybe so, but you still don't need to call him," Alison replied.

"Okay," Risa said, giving her daughter's shoulder a squeeze. At this point, she knew there wasn't a man anywhere that Alison wouldn't resent, but if Lexie was right, she wouldn't have to call Conrad Dunn. If Conrad wanted to get in touch with her, he already knew her number.

If Lexie was right.

But of course she couldn't be, given that Conrad Dunn wasn't even over the shock of his wife's death yet, and wouldn't be for many weeks to come. Still, just the thought of hearing his voice on the other end of the telephone gave her more pleasure than she'd felt since the night Michael had moved out.

Perhaps, after all, there would be life after her divorce was final.

NEW BEGINNINGS

One Year Later

ALISON SHAW PUT HER LUNCH TRAY DOWN ON THE TABLE IN HER usual place—a place that hadn't changed by even a single chair since last year—but glared at Cindy Kearns before sitting down. "I don't even know why I'm sitting here," she said, picking up a fork and jabbing angrily at the limp lettuce that was supposed to be a "garden-fresh salad."

"You mad at me?" Cindy asked, a tiny forkful of macaroni and cheese pausing halfway to her mouth.

"That was a private message," Alison said coldly. "It was personal, and now the whole school knows."

"Knows what?" Anton Hoyer asked around a mouthful of his hamburger.

Alison threw a "don't you dare" look at Cindy.

Cindy blithely ignored the look. "Alison's mom is marrying Dr. Conrad Dunn," she said.

"Who?" Anton asked, looking blankly from Cindy to Alison. "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

Cindy rolled her eyes. "He's only like the most famous plastic surgeon in the world," she declared. "Don't you know anything?"

Anton ignored her tone. "So her mom's marrying a doc. So what?"

"So she's moving to Bel Air and she's transferring to Wilson Academy."

Anton's eyes widened. "Wilson? That's a great school. You can go anywhere from there. Harvard, Yale—you can practically pick it!"

"That's not the point," Alison said. "I like it
here.
"