Falling Star (38 page)

Natalie finally got across PCH and made her
way south toward Miles's house, the ocean to her right, her
sneakered feet crunching on gravel. This stretch of PCH had no
sidewalks, which didn't exactly make for a pleasant stroll. Traffic
careened past at killer speeds, a lowlife hooted obscenities out
his window, gravel dust blew up into her face. But soon she
arrived.

The one-story beige clapboard beachfront home
looked as gorgeous as ever, what with all the windows replaced and
the remodeling apparently completed. Natalie walked around to the
main door, on the south side. It was repainted a Colonial gray, and
at its left, just as she remembered from her window-breaking foray,
was a tall ficus in a terra-cotta pot.

She bent and felt carefully around the pot's
base, soon hitting pay dirt. She smiled, closing her fingers around
a key. That was the handy thing about being married to a man for a
dozen years. You knew his habits.

And yes, there was an alarm system—she could
tell from the Westec decal pasted on a small window next to the
door. But chances were excellent that the code was
101147
.
Miles's birthday. That had been his code in the house he'd owned
when she met him. And he'd insisted they use that code on Nichols
Canyon, saying it was the only one he could be expected to
remember. How like Miles, she realized now.

If by some trick of fate that wasn't his
code, she'd just bolt. She could run the quarter mile back to her
car with no difficulty. She didn't work out for nothing. By the
time the cops showed up to check out the intrusion, she'd be back
in the Mercedes heading for the Hollywood Hills.

She took a deep breath and advanced the key
toward the lock.

"Hey, wait a minute!" A man, a gruff-voiced
man. But not Miles. At least that.

She froze, her heart pounding, the key just
in the lock.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

She arranged her features in what she hoped
was an imperious mien and spun around to face the man who now stood
just behind her. Tall. Beefy. Workman's clothes. Scowling. "Who are
you?" she demanded, and the man's big dark eyes flew open. With,
she realized instantly, recognition.

"Oh, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am." He stepped
back and doffed his baseball cap, holding it in front of his
plaid-shirted chest. "Natalie Daniels—I mean, Ms. Daniels," he
stuttered. "I'm Dale, ma'am, pleased to make your acquaintance,
ma'am. I didn't realize you and Mr.—"

"Mr. Lambert and I are married, yes."
Absolutely true, at least until that happy day when California's
legal system worked its magic. "My husband didn't tell me you'd be
here this late." She tried to sound annoyed.

He made a waving motion with a big callused
hand. "It took longer than usual to finish up, ma'am. You know how
it goes."

"Yes, I suppose."

Still he stood there.
What in hell do I do
now? I don't want to open the door with him here. What if the alarm
goes off and it turns out I don't know the code?

"Actually, I need to get back inside, ma'am,"
he said, and her heart dropped. "I forgot my needlenose pliers and
I'm gonna need 'em tomorrow at another job."

He could see plain as day that she'd already
put the key in the lock, so she couldn't exactly have
him
open the door, now could she?

"I see." She turned her back to him to face
the door, then tried to work up a casual tone. "By the way, did you
reset the alarm before you locked up?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied proudly.

God, no
. She closed her eyes.
Please make the code be 101147.
She twisted the key, then
pushed the door open. The alarm system began its insistent beep,
beginning the inexorable 20-second countdown to a full-out siren
and the imminent arrival of the authorities. It was at that moment
that she realized she hadn't the slightest idea where the code pad
might be.

*

Kelly perched on one of the dozens of moving
boxes piled high in the living room of her Bel Air house, staring
at her new flat-panel television. The
Hard Line
anchorwoman
was reading a tag to a piece on killer tornadoes.

I could do better than her
, Kelly
thought. She had to be mid-thirties, minimum. And she didn't look
exactly
bad
but she'd look a helluva lot better if she had
on more makeup.

Kelly was nervous—she had to admit it. How
wild was it that her first national appearance was the very same
night she moved into her new house? Was that some kind of sign or
what?

The anchorwoman finished the tag and segued
into a tease of Kelly's accident spot. That got Kelly's heart
really pumping.

"When we come back, a Los Angeles man
loses his life when a killer earthquake forces his car headlong
into a reinforced light pole. Metal meets metal with deadly
results. When
Killer Disasters
continues ... here on
Hard Line
."

Kelly stared at the screen, irritated. Why
didn't that bitch use her name in the tease? She could just as
easily have said,
As Kelly Devlin reports, a Los Angeles man
...

Well, she told herself, what really mattered
was that her spot was making national air. And
Hard Line
would have to use her name when they tossed to her package. She
guessed they must have just forgotten about the release from the
Manns, because of course they never got it. Because of course she
never sent it.

Impatiently Kelly played with the chain at
her neck, desperate for the commercial break to be over. Finally it
was. The anchor reappeared, her face serious. Fake serious, Kelly
could tell.

"When Los Angeles fell victim to a huge
earthquake in June, one man on his way home from a fun-filled
weekend in Las Vegas drove straight into a nightmare."

Then the screen filled with quake video, the
shaky kind where the camera captures the tremors and people scream
and stuff falls off shelves. Kelly watched, her chain in her mouth,
confused. Why hadn't the anchor said Kelly's name? Then, to her
amazement, she heard the anchor begin to voice over her piece.

"Darryl Mann was returning to his Santa
Monica apartment from Las Vegas when—"

That
Hard Line
woman is voicing my
piece?
Kelly listened, disbelieving. It took her a while to
grasp that, yes, she really was.

Then she got so mad she stopped listening.
The video from her spot, only slightly recut, flew past. But she
barely saw it. Because she was so mad she couldn't see straight.
They'd cut her out of it? They'd used her video but cut her
completely out of it?
This sucks! This totally sucks!

Then it was over.
That was it?

The bitch anchorwoman came back on screen,
not a care in the world. Kelly would've jumped through the screen
to kill her if she could've managed it.

Everything she went through? All that
trouble? Getting the dub? Running the risk of the Manns seeing it
and going ballistic? That was all to impress
Hard Line
! Get
a shot at a national job! Not for some
Hard Line
anchorwoman
to voice the video! Kelly was stunned at the unfairness of it all.
It was as if they thought she was a producer or something,
providing video for somebody else to voice.

She grabbed the remote and stabbed the POWER
button until the TV finally went black, then sat in her silent new
house, shaking with anger.

*

Natalie advanced slowly into Miles's Malibu
house, Dale the workman clomping in behind her. She could feel his
eyes on her back as her own gaze darted left, then right in
desperate search of the alarm code pad.

Where in the world would it be? It sure
wasn't obvious. At least not to her, at least not now with the
alarm beeping insistently and Dale as close on her heels as a
puppy. In front of her in the pristine high-ceilinged foyer was a
white wall with nothing on it. To the left was Miles's huge living
room, with massive windows offering a Pacific view. To the right
were steps down to a sleek, modern kitchen. She veered right, her
gut telling her that was more promising. Of course Dale
followed.

Her mind raced. She probably had only ten
seconds left before the siren began to wail.
Is there any way I
can ask Dale where it is, without him getting suspicious? Play the
ditz? Oh, silly me, we haven't lived here long and I forget where
the code pad is!

Then she found it, totally by chance, when
her frenzied eyes lit upon a phone alcove in the kitchen. At that
point her next problem reared its ugly head.
Make the code be
101147!

Holding her breath, she punched in the
numbers.

The gods must have been smiling, because the
alarm's high-pitched beeping gave way to a few final peeps, then
blessed silence. Briefly she remained motionless, leaning her
forehead against the wall.

"Got what I needed," Dale said. She jumped.
"Hey, sorry I startled you."

"My fault." She had her hand at her
throat.

"I'll be off then." He turned to go.

"Um, excuse me? Dale?" Natalie turned her
smile on full force.

He turned to face her, one foot on the
kitchen stairs leading up to the foyer, dark eyes expectant. "I
have a favor to ask you."

"Shoot."

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell
anybody you saw me here at the house today."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Security reasons," she added hastily.
"Because—"

"Because you're on TV!" Dale laughed,
obviously pleased to have added two and two correctly. "You don't
want folks to know where you live." His face grew solemn. "Can't be
too careful these days. Our little secret, Ms. Daniels." He nodded
sagely.

"Thank you." She walked forward to shake his
hand. "Thank you very much."

Dale let himself out, and Natalie found
herself alone in Miles's Malibu beach house.

She conducted a brief tour. Kitchen, dining
room, living room, study, three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths,
deck with Jacuzzi, pool. Whitewashed pine floors and lots of big
windows so nearly every room had killer ocean views. She stood in
the living room, hands on hips, surveying the Pacific as the sun
made its last stand for the day. Typical multimillion-dollar Malibu
beach house. Typical Miles for wanting it, no doubt less for his
own enjoyment than to flaunt his new success. And either the
housekeeper had come that day or her husband was getting fastidious
in his old age. Nothing was out of place, not that there was much
to
be
out of place. The furniture was minimal and
designer-procured, clearly: metal and glass and marble to go with
the property's sleek contemporary lines. Not at all the tile and
stucco and beams and dark gleaming hardwood of the house on Nichols
Canyon. She grimaced.
We picked it out together but maybe he
secretly hated it. Or now is on to a new phase.

Which includes Kelly and Suzy and who
knows who else.
A jolt of bitterness rippled through her. What
a lowlife her husband was. What a comeuppance he deserved.

Then she'd better get cracking to give it to
him.

Natalie made her way to the study, whose
built-in bookshelves were crammed with more scripts than books, and
whose white space-age desk held pride of place in the center of the
room. She knelt by a file cabinet beside the desk and pulled open a
drawer.

It didn't take long to find a set of thick
files labeled
Forget Maui
with Roman numerals I through VI.
She pulled out all six and hauled them to the desk.

Number I had interesting stuff, but not what
she was looking for. She moved on to II. Ditto. She was getting a
kink in her neck. She rubbed it and glanced at her watch. 8:17. On
to III.

III was …
very
interesting. One
document in particular, with Heartbeat Studios letterhead, that
looked like a contract. Carefully she pulled it out and ran her
eyes down the first neatly typewritten page. Then the second.

Phrases leaped out at her:
...
one-million-dollar signing bonus in one lump-sum payment …
executive producing
Forget Maui
for a total 22 episodes …
two-million-dollar fee to be paid over a 52-week period ...

No mention anywhere of the "unorthodox" deal
Johnny Bangs had described, that Miles had deferred compensation
until the studio renewed the sitcom for a second season, so that
Miles could receive a balloon bonus payment.

She frowned, flipped open file IV and caught
her breath. Check stubs. Lots of them. And all from Heartbeat
Studios, made out to Miles Lambert.

She caught her breath. One for a million
dollars, dated March fifteenth.
The signing bonus!
Quickly,
she checked the date Heartbeat Studios had signed the contract. It
jibed. March sixth.

And there were so many more, all for roughly
38 thousand dollars.
One a week,
she realized flipping
through them,
starting June third. It's probably the two million
divided over 52 weeks. Just like the contract says.

She reared up, heart pounding. Miles and
Johnny Bangs had been lying. There was no unorthodox arrangement
with the studio. Miles hadn't deferred compensation. He was getting
paid right along, like all executive producers did. And he'd
already cashed checks worth over a million-and-a-half dollars,
which probably explained how he'd made the down payment on the very
house in which she was standing.

And I'd be entitled to half if there were no
prenup, since he earned it while we're still legally married.

But Miles couldn't lie anymore. She'd found
him out. This would give her and Berta the ammo they needed to end
his thievish claim for half the marital property.