Innuendo (38 page)

“Yeah, maybe,” agreed Todd, knowing the hysteria would feed precisely along those lines.

“Not maybe, definitely. You know damn well that's how it would go. Every fucking macho cop would want to shoot me on the spot, and every hungry person in the media would be trying to hang me. The charges alone would ruin my life.”

Yes, they most surely would. There was, Todd pondered, no question about that.

Foster leaned out the front door of the house and called: “Rawlins, get your butt in here!”

“I'm coming!” he shouted back.

“Rawlins, I don't know what to think. I don't know if I need to apologize for that,” Todd said, waving the back of his hand at the house and wondering just how big a fool he'd been. “Or…or…I mean, I thought you'd slept with Andrew, so that meant I could… well, you know…”

“We'll talk.”

“Sure, but I gotta get some rest. And God only knows how late you'll be working tonight. So don't come over and don't call, not tonight. Let's just cool off and we'll talk tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Todd then simply stood there, watching as the broad-shouldered Rawlins slowly lumbered back to the huge house. Was this, Todd wondered, something from which they could ever recover… or was this simply the beginning of the end?

And which did he truly want, or rather who, the movie star or the cop?

Seated on the big
couch in the expansive living room, Rawlins stared at Tim Chase and saw no hero, not by any means. Instead, he saw some rich guy not only trying to save his own neck, but a bastard who'd done his best to shatter Rawlins's world.

“I can bring my lawyer into this if you like,” said Chase, his tone calm and cool as he paced slowly in front of them, “but frankly I'd just as soon not. I'm afraid that would blow everything out of proportion, and obviously I'd like to avoid any and all publicity regarding this.”

“I can understand and appreciate that,” said Foster, who was seated next to Rawlins. “There is the matter, however, of a knife believed to be the weapon used to kill Andrew Lyman. That weapon has been linked to Victor Radzinsky, whom you employ.”

“My bodyguard.”

“Yes, your bodyguard.”

Omitting the fact that it was an anonymous tip, Rawlins said, “We have a witness who saw Radzinsky throw the knife into Lake Harriet. Our witness also can identify Radzinsky's car, a white Saab.”

Rawlins kept his eyes on Chase as the actor walked to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel. He stood there in thought for a few long moments, turned, and glanced to the hallway, perhaps wondering if Radzinsky, whom he'd told to wait in the kitchen, was doing just that.

“I'm going to tell you what you'll probably find out anyway,” began Chase after a careful moment of thought. “I'm just going to save you some time.”

“We appreciate that,” said Foster, sounding about as sincere as a burned-out cop could.

“I'm almost positive the knife you found is mine.”

Rawlins, trying to conceal his surprise at so easy an admission, said, “You own a fishing knife?”

“That's right. And I have a rod and a reel. A brown plastic tackle box too. I bought them all here in town just last week because we've been shooting out at Lake Minnetonka. In between scenes I've been fishing a bit—anyone on the set can verify that.”

“When did you last use the knife?”

“Actually, I never did. It was brand-new.”

Foster asked, “Do you know when you last saw it?”

“Sure, exactly three nights ago.”

Which was, Rawlins knew, the night Andrew was killed, and he pressed, “Where was it?”

“In the back of my Land Rover.” Chase shook his head. “A little before ten that night I thought I heard something in back of the house. You see, Gwen has had troubles on and off with a stalker, some real twisted guy, and I was worried that maybe he'd shown up here in Minneapolis. So I went out back. I couldn't see anyone, but the side door leading from the patio to the garage was open, so I went in and looked around. Everything looked fine at first. It's a three-car garage, rather big, but at a glance nothing looked wrong. Just to be sure I looked in my car, wondering if someone had broken in and stolen my CD player. It was there, undisturbed. I checked in the back as well and saw my fishing pole and tackle box too. But then I saw something that I hadn't seen before, a plastic bag.”

Foster cut in. “What color was it?”

“Dark green.”

“Was your vehicle unlocked?” questioned Rawlins.

“Yes, completely. I mean, I never lock it in the garage. Why bother?”

“So what did you do? Where was the bag?”

“The bag was in the back by the rod. It looked like a shoe bag or something, and I wondered if I'd left something back there. So I opened up the rear hatch, reached for the bag, and looked inside. And there was my fishing knife, which I had never used, covered with blood.”

“Were you worried?” asked Foster. “Concerned at all?”

“Very worried.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought he was back, the guy stalking Gwen.”

Rawlins studied him, and said, “What do you mean?”

“We still don't know who he is, but this guy is sick, real sick. Once he left a skinned rabbit on our doorstep in L.A., another time he butchered a cat and sent it in the mail to her. It's all true—you can ask the cops in L.A., they've been right on top of it. And then the last time, he wrote Gwen a love note in human blood. I mean, it was real human blood—the cops analyzed and tested the whole thing. So I saw the knife and assumed it was him again.”

Sure this guy was an actor, but no one, thought Rawlins, could make up anything this quick. Or, for that matter, that disgustingly real. Rawlins would have to check with the cops in L.A., but he had no doubt they'd verify Chase's story, at least what they'd heard thus far.

“So what did you do?” Rawlins asked.

“Well, I didn't want to tell Gwen. She'd just gotten here and I didn't want to freak her out. She seemed so relaxed, so calm, so glad to be away from Hollywood, and here I thought this guy had already followed her all the way out here. Maybe that was dumb, maybe it was stupid. I don't know…” He shrugged, looked at the floor, and shook his head. “And then…”

“Then?”

“I went and talked to Gwen for a few minutes. And then I went and found Vic.”

“What did you tell him?”

Storming into Vic's room, Chase said, “That fucking freak has followed us out here!”

“What do you mean?” said Vic, using the remote to flick off his TV.

“My fishing knife is covered with blood, that's what I mean. It's in a plastic bag in the back of my car. Shit, that asshole was in the garage! He was inside the house, Vic! Inside!”

Vic leapt to his feet. “I'll get him this time.”

“Forget it, he's long gone, and we both know it.”

“But…”

“Just get rid of the knife. I don't want Gwen to see it
—
it'll scare the hell out of her. I'm going to have to tell her soon enough, but just get rid of it.”

“Certainly.”

“Just throw it in one of these fucking lakes, I don't care. Just get it out of here.”

“So that's what he did,” continued Chase, looking right at Foster and Rawlins. “He went down and got the knife, then drove out to one of the lakes and threw the knife in the water. End of story.”

No, thought Rawlins. Not quite. Whether all or even part of what Chase had just said was true or not remained to be proven. It did, however, open a host of other questions. Rawlins glanced at Foster and knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.

Foster said, “When did you last use your Land Rover that afternoon?”

“I don't know, five or six.”

“And was the green bag back there then?”

“No, I'm positive it wasn't. I returned from the set with an extra set of clothes in the back and I would have noticed the bag if it had been there.”

“How about the knife?’

“I don't know. The tackle box I had it stored in was back there, but I didn't look inside it.”

“Did anyone use your vehicle after that?”

Tim Chase hesitated, then said, “Actually, Vic did. Sometimes he uses my car just to lead the photographers away from the house, and he went somewhere around seven.”

“What about Andrew Lyman?” pressed Rawlins. “Did you ever meet or encounter in any way a young man, age seventeen, by the name of Andrew Lyman?”

Chase stared right at Rawlins, and said, “Please, all I'd like to say is that my private life is confidential. I can assure you, however, that I didn't kill anyone.”

“Did you meet him or not?”

“Did I ever meet this kid, this Andrew Lyman? Well,” he said, looking across the large room, “I wouldn't be surprised if I had.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means I believe I met him once. If I'm not mistaken, he wanted my autograph, that's all.”

Studying the face he'd seen and admired so many times on the silver screen, Rawlins wasn't sure at all what to believe. Did he, he wondered, dare trust this man who'd garnered so much fame and fortune by pretending to be other people, in other words, through his ability to lie and to do so beautifully?

On the other hand, Chase might lie but other things definitely wouldn't.

Rawlins said, “Mr. Chase, I just want to let you know that we've recovered a number of foreign hairs and semen samples from both Andrew's body as well as from his apartment. Those samples are now undergoing DNA testing, which I can assure you will tell us a great deal about who Andrew was with just prior to his death.” Seeing the cloud of concern sweep across Chase's face, Rawlins added, “So, if we think it necessary, we'll get a search warrant for this house… and perhaps for a body search as well.”

“What the hell's that mean?”

“It means you could be required to provide us with—”

“What? Hey, now wait a minute, wait just a single fucking minute.”

“Oh, I'm very serious. A judge could require you not only to give us a blood sample, but to provide us with a number of cut, combed, and plucked pubic hairs. And I do mean plucked, so that we're sure to get the follicles.” Pleased to see him squirm, Rawlins tossed in, “So, is there anything else you'd like to tell us?”

“Ah…” began Chase, clearing his throat. “No, not without my lawyer present.”

The following morning Todd
realized what he'd known all along, that not only was it a gift to find someone to love, but that a relationship was an extraordinarily fragile thing.

He sat in his office at WLAK, the blinds turned shut and the glass door not only closed but locked. And now it was pushing ten o'clock and Rawlins and he still hadn't spoken since their confrontation outside Chase's mansion last night. Todd wanted to pick up the phone, he wanted nothing more than to call Rawlins, but what in the hell would he say? He simply didn't know, for he was, after all, even more confused than he had been last night. And the reason for that was simple: Tim Chase had called an hour ago not simply to say hi, but to ask Todd to stop by the house again tonight.

Holy shit, why? Why did megastar Tim Chase want to spend a third evening with Todd? And where the hell was this thing going? Todd had no idea, just as he had no idea where he wanted it to go.

Suddenly the phone on his desk started screaming, and Todd all but jumped. Hoping it wasn't a tip caller, he cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.

“WLAK, this is Todd Mills.”

“Hey, it's me.”

Todd could recognize that deep, easy voice anywhere, anytime. What he didn't recognize, however, was Rawlins's tone, which was all but despondent.

“I just wanted to call and… and…,” stumbled Rawlins.

“I'm glad you did. I was sitting here, wanting to call you but not knowing what to say.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I don't know.”

Bluntly, Rawlins asked, “Are we over?”

“Oh, God,” said Todd, pressing the phone flat against his ear and feeling that, perhaps, his heart just might break. “I hope not.”

“Me too. I don't want that either.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“I don't know… I'm sorry. Rawlins, I've just got to say that: I'm sorry. You're a wonderful person, the best thing that's ever happened to me, but… but suddenly I'm just so confused.”

“Why? You don't have to be, you know. You really don't. Things just got a little muddy, but we can go on. We can just sort of learn from this, you know, and move on… can't we?”

“Rawlins,” ventured Todd, determined to be honest and straightforward, “Tim invited me over again. He wants me to come by tonight. I don't know if he's really doing research or… or—”