River's End (15 page)

“According to reports, he had a difficult time adjusting when he first came here. There were a number of incidents—altercations between him and the guards, between him and other prisoners. Inmate Tanner spent a large portion of 1980 in the infirmary being treated for a number of injuries.”

“He got into fights.”

“Consistently. He was violent and invited violence. He was transfered to solitary several times during his first five years. He also had an addiction to cocaine and found sources within the prison to feed that addiction. During the fall of 1982 he was treated for an overdose.”

“Deliberate or accidental?”

“That remains unclear, though the therapist leaned toward accidental. He’s an actor, a good one.” Diterman’s eyes remained bland, but Noah read sharp intelligence in them. “My predecessor noted several times that Tanner was a difficult man to read. He played whatever role suited him.”

“Past tense.”

“I can only tell you that for the past several years he’s settled in. His work in the library appears to satisfy him. He
keeps to himself as much as it’s possible to do so. He avoids confrontations.”

“He told me he has an inoperable brain tumor. Terminal.”

“Around the first of the year he complained of severe, recurring headaches, double vision. The tumor was discovered. Tests were run, and the consensus is he has perhaps a year. Most likely less than that.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Better than I think I would. There are details of his file and his counseling and treatment I can’t share with you, as I’ll require not only his permission, but other clearance.”

“If I decide to pursue this, to interview him, to listen, I’ll need your cooperation as well as his. I’ll need names, dates, events. Even opinions. Are you willing to give me those things?”

“I’ll cooperate as much as I’m able. To be frank, Mr. Brady, I’d like to hear the entire story myself. I had a tremendous crush on Julie MacBride.”

“Who didn’t?” Noah murmured.

He decided to stay the night in San Francisco, and after settling into a room with a view overlooking the bay, he ordered up a meal and set up his laptop. Once he’d plugged into the Internet, he did a search on Sam Tanner.

For a man who’d spent two decades behind bars without granting a single interview, there was a wealth of hits. A number of them dealt with movies, his roles, summaries and critiques. Those could wait.

He found references to a number of books on the case, including unauthorized biographies of both Sam and Julie. Noah had a number of them in his library and made a note to himself to read through them again. There were articles on the trial, mostly rehashes.

He found nothing particularly fresh.

When his meal arrived, Noah ate his burger and typed one-handed, bookmarking any areas he might want to explore again.

He’d seen the photographs that popped before. The one of Sam, impossibly handsome, and a luminous Julie, both beaming
beautifully into the camera. Another of Sam, shackled, being led out of the courthouse during the trial and looking ill and dazed.

And both of those men, Noah thought, were inside the cooleyed and calculating inmate. How many others would he find before his book was done?

That, Noah admitted, was the irresistible pull. Who lived behind those eyes? What was it that gripped a man and drove him to butcher the woman he claimed to love, the mother of his child? To destroy everything he swore mattered to him?

Drugs? Not enough, in Noah’s opinion. And not in the court’s opinion either, he recalled. The defense had fallen back on drugs during the sentencing phase, attempting to get the sentence reduced due to mitigating circumstances. It hadn’t swayed the results.

The brutality of the crime had outweighed everything else. And, Noah thought now, the pathetic video testimony of the victim’s four-year-old child. No jury could have turned their backs on that little girl, her tearful description of what she’d seen that night, and given Sam Tanner any pity.

Twenty to life, the first fifteen without possibility of parole.

Noah didn’t intend to be judge or jury but to align facts. As far as he was concerned, drugs didn’t matter. Drugs might blur the edges, remove inhibitions. They might bring out the beast, but the beast had to exist in order to act.

The hand that had plunged the scissors repeatedly into Julie MacBride had belonged to a monster. He didn’t intend to forget that.

He could research the crime objectively, he could distance himself from the horror of it. That was his job. He could sit and listen to Sam Tanner, talk with him, become intimate with his mind and put it all down on paper. He could dissect the man, prowl around in his brain and note the changes that may or may not have taken place inside him over the last two decades.

But he wouldn’t forget that one night in high summer, Sam Tanner hadn’t been a man.

He started to begin a new search on Julie MacBride, then on impulse changed it to River’s End Lodge and Campground. He
sat back and sipped his coffee as their home page came up. Technology, he mused, was a wonderful thing.

There was an arty and appealing photo of the lodge, exactly as he remembered it. A couple of interior photos showed the lobby and one of the guest suites. There was a chatty little description, which touched on the history, the accommodations, the beauty of the national forest.

Another click took him to the recreational offerings—fishing, canoeing, hiking, a naturalist center . . .

He paused there and grinned. She’d done it, then. Built her center. Good for you, Liv.

They offered guided tours, a heated pool, health-club facilities.

He skimmed down, noting that weekend, full-week and special packages were offered. The proprietors were listed as Rob and Val MacBride.

Nowhere did he find Olivia’s name.

“You still there, Liv?” he wondered. “Yeah, you’re still there. With the forest and the rivers. Do you ever think of me?”

Annoyed he’d had the thought, the question, he pushed away from the desk and stalked to the window. He looked out at the city, at lights, at traffic.

And wondered what had become of his ancient backpack.

Turning away, he flicked on the television, just for the noise. There were times when he couldn’t think in silence. Because he was a man, and there was a remote at hand, he couldn’t resist surfing the channels. He let out a short laugh when Julie MacBride, young, gorgeous and alive, filled the screen. Those striking amber eyes were glowing with love, with pleasure, with the sheen of tears as she raced down a long sweep of white stairs and into the arms of Sam Tanner.

Summer Thunder,
Noah mused. Last scene. No dialogue. The music swells . . . He watched, hearing the flood of violins as the couple embraced, as Julie’s warm flow of laughter joined it. As Sam lifted her off her feet, circling, circling in celebration of love found.

Fade-out.

Fate? Noah thought. Well, sometimes there was just no arguing with it.

He picked up a notebook, plopped down on the bed with it and began to make a list of names and questions.

Jamie Melbourne

David Melbourne

Roy and Val MacBride

Frank Brady

Charles Brighton Smith

Prosecution team? Who’s still alive?

Lucas Manning

Lydia Loring

Agents, managers, publicists?

Rosa Sanchez (housekeeper)

Other domestic staff?

At the bottom of the list, he wrote “Olivia MacBride.”

He wanted more from her than memories of one violent night. He wanted what she remembered of her parents together, what she remembered of them individually. The tone of their household, the undercurrents of marital distress.

There were always other angles to pursue. Had Julie been involved with Lucas Manning—giving credence to her husband’s jealousy?

Would she have told her sister? Would the child have sensed it? The servants?

And wasn’t it interesting, Noah decided, that his daughter hadn’t been among the things Sam Tanner claimed to miss?

Oh yes, Olivia was key, Noah thought, and circled her name. This time, he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by feelings, by basic attraction, by even the connection of friendship.

They were both older now, and that was behind them. This time when they met, it would be the book first.

He wondered if she still wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, if she still had that brief hesitation before she smiled.

“Give it a rest, Brady,” he muttered. “That’s history.”

He pushed himself up, then dug in his briefcase for the numbers he’d looked up and scribbled down before leaving L.A. Rain began to lash the windows as he made the call, and he adjusted his vague plans of going out and indulging in some San Francisco nightlife to a solo beer at the bar downstairs.

“Good afternoon, Constellations.”

“Noah Brady calling for Jamie Melbourne.”

“Ms. Melbourne is with a client. May I take a message?”

“Tell her I’m Frank Brady’s son, and I’d like to speak with her. I’m out of town at the moment.” He glanced at the phone, then reeled off the number. “I’ll be in for another hour.”

That was a test, he mused as he hung up. Just to see how quickly the Brady name got a call back.

He stretched back out on the bed and had surfed through the channels twice when his phone rang. “Brady.”

“Yes, this is Jamie Melbourne.”

“Thanks for getting back to me.” Within six minutes, Noah thought with a glance at his watch.

“Is this about your father? I hope he’s well.”

“He’s fine, thanks. This is about Sam Tanner.” He paused, waited, but there was no response. “I’m in San Francisco. I spoke with him earlier today.”

“I see. I was under the impression he spoke to no one, particularly reporters or writers. You’re a writer, aren’t you, Noah?”

The first name, putting him in his place, he decided. Maintaining control. A good and subtle move. “That’s right. He spoke to me, and I’m hoping you will, too. I’d like to set up an appointment with you. I should be back in town by tomorrow evening. Do you have any time free Thursday or Friday?”

“Why?”

“Sam Tanner wants to tell his story. I’m going to write it, Ms. Melbourne, and I want to give you every opportunity to tell your part of it.”

“The man killed my sister and broke the hearts of every member of my family. What else do you need to know?”

“Everything you can tell me—unless you want the information I gather coming only from his point of view. That’s not what I’m after here.”

“No, you’re after another best-seller, aren’t you? However you can get it.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t have called you. Just talk to me—off the record if you want. Then make up your mind.”

“Have you spoken with anyone else in my family?”

“No.”

“Don’t. Come to see me Thursday at four. At my home. I’ll give you an hour, no more.”

“I appreciate it. If I could have your address?”

“Get it from your father.” She snapped that out, her controlled voice finally breaking. “He knows it.”

Noah winced as she broke the connection, though the click was quiet, almost discreet. Definitely stepping onto shaky ground there, he decided. She was predisposed not to cooperate, not to be objective about what he intended to accomplish.

He flipped through channels without interest as he considered. Sam hadn’t told him about his death sentence in confidence. Perhaps he’d pass that information to Jamie, see if it made any difference to her. He could also use her reluctance to cooperate in his strategy with Sam.

Playing one against the other would result in more information from both of them—if he did it well.

And he’d just keep his own long-term and personal fascination with the case his little secret for now.

He drifted off with the rain pattering on the windows and the television blaring, and dreamed a dream he wouldn’t remember of giant trees and green light, and a tall woman with golden eyes.

The same guard took Noah to the same room. This time he’d brought a notepad and a tape recorder. He set them both on the table. Sam glanced at them, said nothing, but Noah caught a quick glint in his eyes that might have been satisfaction. Or relief.

Noah took his seat, switched on the recorder. “Let’s go back, Sam. Nineteen seventy-three.”

“
Fever
was released in May, and was the biggest moneymaker of the summer. I got an Oscar nomination for it. I listened to ‘Desperado’ every time I turned on the radio. The sixties were pretty well dead,” Sam said with what might have been amusement, “and disco hadn’t quite reared its ugly head. I was unofficially living with Lydia and having great sex and monumental fights. Pot was out, snow was in. There was always a party going on. And I met Julie MacBride.”

He paused, just a heartbeat of silence. “Everything that had happened to me before that moment took second place.”

“You were married that same year.”

“Neither one of us was the cautious type, or the patient type.” His gaze drifted off, and Noah wondered what images he could see playing against the ugly bare walls. “It didn’t take us long to figure out what we wanted. What we wanted was each other. For a while, that was enough for both of us.”

“Tell me,” Noah said simply, and waited while Sam took out his contraband cigarette, lighted it.

“She’d been in Ireland with her sister, taking a couple weeks between projects. We met in Hank Midler, the director’s, office. She came in—wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. Her hair was pulled back. She looked maybe sixteen. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.”

His gaze arrowed back, shot straight into Noah’s eyes. “That’s not an exaggeration. It’s the truth. I was used to
women—to having them, enjoying them. One look at her, and she might have been the first. I think I knew, right then, she’d be the last. You may not understand that.”

“Yes, I do understand it.” He’d experienced that rush, that connection, when this man’s daughter had opened her apartment door and given him a faintly annoyed frown.

“Been in love, have you, Brady?”

“I’ve been in something.”

Sam let out a short laugh, then looked past Noah again, seemed to dream. “My belly clutched up,” he murmured. “And my heart . . . I could actually feel it shaking inside me. When I took her hand it was like . . . yes. You. Finally. Later, she told me it had been exactly the same for her, as if we’d been moving through our lives to get to that moment. We talked about the script, went about the business as if both of us weren’t reeling. Afterward, I asked her to dinner, and we agreed to meet at seven. When I got home, I told Lydia it was over.”

He paused, laughed a little, drew deep on the cigarette. “Just over. I wasn’t kind about it, wasn’t cruel. The fact was, she’d simply ceased to exist for me. All I could think of was that at seven I’d see Julie again.”

“Was Julie involved with anyone at that time?”

“She’d been seeing Michael Ford. The press played it up, but it wasn’t serious. Two weeks after we met, we moved in together. Quietly, or as quietly as we were able to.”

“You met her family?”

“Yes, that was important to her. It was a lot of work for me to bring Jamie around. She was very protective of Julie. She didn’t trust me, thought Julie was just another fling. Hard to blame her,” he said with a jerk of his shoulders. “I’d had plenty.”

“Did it bother you that Julie’s name was linked to a number of men at that time? Ford was just the latest.”

“I didn’t think of it then.” Sam pulled the stub of the cigarette out of his mouth, crushed it out with a restrained violence that had Noah’s eyes narrowing. “It was only later,
when things got out of control. Then I thought about it. Sometimes it was all I could think about. The men who’d had her, the men who wanted her. The men she wanted. She was pulling away from me, and I wanted to know who was going to take my place. Who the hell was she turning to when she was turning away from me? Lucas Manning.”

Even after twenty years, saying the name scored his tongue. “I knew there was something between them.”

“So you killed her to keep her.”

The muscles in Sam’s jaws quivered once, and his eyes went blank. “That’s one theory.”

Noah gave him a pleasant smile. “We’ll talk about the rest of the theories some other time. What was it like working with her on the movie?”

“Julie?” Sam blinked, lifted a hand to rub it distractedly over his face.

“Yes.” Noah continued in the same mild tone. He’d thrown Sam off rhythm, exactly as he’d intended. He wasn’t about to settle for well-rehearsed lines and perfect phrasing. “You were getting to know each other on two levels during the shoot. As lovers, and as actors. Let’s talk about what she was like as an actor.”

“She was good. Solid.” Sam dropped his hands into his lap, then lifted them onto the table as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “A natural. The term’s overused, but it applied to her. She didn’t have to work as hard as I did. She just felt it.”

“Did that bother you? That she was better than you?”

“I didn’t say she was better.” His hands stilled, and his gaze whipped up, two hot blue points. “We came at it from two different places, different schools. She had a phenomenal memory, and that helped her with lines. She never forgot a fucking line. But she tended to put herself into her director’s hands, almost naively trusting him to make it all come together. She didn’t know enough about the rest of the craft to risk input on angles, lighting, pacing.”

“But you did,” Noah interrupted before Sam could fall back into a rhythm.

“Yeah, I did. Midler and I went head-to-head plenty on that film, but we respected each other. I was sorry to hear he died a couple of years ago. He was a genius.”

“And Julie trusted him.”

“She practically worshiped him. The chance to work with him was the main reason she’d taken the part. And he knew how to showcase her, knew how to coax the best from her. She was like a sponge, soaking up the thoughts and feelings of her character, then pouring them out. I built the character, layer by layer. We made a good team.”

“Julie won the New York Film Critics’ Award for her portrayal of Sarah in
Summer Thunder.
You were nominated but didn’t win. Did that cause any friction between you?”

“I was thrilled for her. She was upset that I hadn’t won. She’d wanted it more than I had. We’d been married less than a year at that time. We were as close to royalty as you can get in that town. We were completely in love, completely happy, and riding the wave. She shared everything with me then, understood me as no one ever had.”

“And the next year, when she was nominated for an Oscar for best actress for
Twilight’s Edge,
and your movie got mixed reviews. How did that affect your relationship?”

A muscle twitched under Sam’s left eye, but he continued to speak coolly. “She was pregnant. We concentrated on that. She wanted a healthy baby a lot more than she wanted a statue.”

“And you? What did you want?”

Sam smiled thinly. “I wanted everything. And for a while, that’s just what I had. What do you want, Brady?”

“The story. From all the angles.” He leaned forward and switched off the tape recorder. “I’m heading back to L.A.,” he continued as he began to pack his briefcase. “I’ll be talking to Jamie Melbourne tomorrow.”

He noted the way Sam’s fingers jerked and curled on the table. “Is there anything you want me to pass along to her?”

“She won’t take anything from me but my death. She’ll be
getting that soon enough. She was jealous of Julie,” he said in a rush, and had Noah pausing. “Julie could never see it, or never wanted to admit it, but Jamie had plenty of built-up jealousy over Julie’s looks, her success, her style. She played the devoted sister, but if she’d had the chance, if she’d had the talent, she’d have knocked Julie aside, stepped over her and taken her place.”

“Her place with you?”

“She settled for Melbourne, music agent with no talent of his own. She played second lead to Julie all her life. When Julie was dead, Jamie finally got the spotlight.”

“Is that another theory?”

“If she hadn’t tagged on to Julie, she’d still be running that lodge up in Washington. You think she’d have a big house, her business, her pussy-whipped husband if Julie hadn’t cleared the way?”

Oh, there was resentment here, bitterness that had brewed for more than two decades. “Why should that matter to you?”

“She’s kept me in here, made damn sure I didn’t get a decent shot at parole these last five years. Made it her goddamn mission to keep me inside. And all the while she’s still sucking up what Julie left behind. You talk to her, Brady, you have a nice chat with her, and you ask her if she wasn’t the one who talked Julie into filing for divorce. If she wasn’t the one who pushed it all over the edge. And if she wasn’t the one who built her whole fucking big-time business off her dead sister’s back.”

The minute his plane took off, Noah ordered a beer and opened his laptop. He wanted to get his thoughts and impressions into words while they were still fresh, and he wanted to get home, spread his notes out around him, start making calls, setting up interviews.

The rush of anticipation racing through his blood was a familiar sensation and told him he was committed now. There was no going back. The endless stream of research, digging, backtracking and puzzling didn’t intimidate him. It energized him.

From now until it was done, Sam Tanner would be the focus of his life.

He wants to run the show,
Noah wrote.
So do I. It’s going to be an interesting tug-of-war. He’s smart. I think people have underestimated him, seeing him purely as a spoiled and selfish pretty boy with a filthy temper. He’s learned control, but the temper’s still under it. And if his reaction to Jamie Melbourne is any indication, his temper can still be mean.

I wonder how much of what he tells me will be the truth, what he sees as the truth, or outright lies.

One thing I’m sure of is that he wants the spotlight again. He wants to be recognized. He wants the attention that’s been denied him since he walked into San Quentin. And he wants it on his terms. I don’t think he’s looking for sympathy. I don’t think he gives a good goddamn about understanding. But this is
his
story. He’s chosen the time to tell it, and he’s chosen me to tell it to.

It’s a good twist—the son of the cop who took him down writing the book. The press will play on it, and he knows it.

His comments on Jamie Melbourne are interesting. Truth, perception or lie? It’ll be even more interesting to find out.

Most intriguing of all is the fact that he’s yet to ask about Olivia, or to mention her by name.

He wondered if Jamie would.

Noah understood that Jamie Melbourne’s publicity firm, Constellations, was one of the most prestigious in the entertainment business. It had branches in Los Angeles and New York and represented top names.

He also understood that prior to her sister’s death, Jamie had represented only Julie, and had worked primarily out of her own home.

It was an unarguable fact that Jamie’s star had risen after her sister’s murder.

What that meant, Noah mused as he drove through the gates to the elaborate home in Holmby Hills, was yet to be seen.

According to his research, the Melbournes had moved into the estate in 1986, selling their more modest home and relocating here where they were known for their lavish parties.

The main house was three stories in sheer wedding-cake white with a long flowing front porch at the entrance flanked by columns. Rooms speared out from the central structure in two clean lines on opposite sides, with walls of glass winking out on richly blooming gardens and fussy ornamental trees.

Two gorgeous golden retrievers bounded across the lawn to greet him, tails slapping the air and each other in delight.

“Hey there.” He opened the car door and fell instantly in love. He was bending over, happily scratching ears and murmuring nonsense when Jamie walked over carrying a ratty tennis ball.

“They’re Goodness and Mercy,” she said, but didn’t smile as Noah looked up at her.

“Where’s Shirley?”

A faint wisp of humor played around her mouth. “She has a good home.” Jamie held up the ball. As one, both dogs quivered and sat, staring up with desperately eager eyes. Then she threw it, sending it sailing for the dogs to chase.

“Good arm,” Noah murmured.

“I keep in shape. It’s too nice an afternoon to sit inside.” And she’d yet to decide if she wanted him in her home. “We’ll walk.”

She turned, heading away from where the dogs were wrestling deliriously over the ball.

Noah had to agree she kept in shape. She was fifty-two, and could have passed easily for forty—and was all the more attractive as she wasn’t going for twenty.

There were a few lines, but they added strength to her face, and it was her eyes that drew the attention rather than the creases fanning out from them. They were dark, intelligent and unflinching. Her hair was a soft brown, cut in a just-above-chin-length wedge that set off the shape of her face and added to the image of a mature woman of style and no fuss.

She was small framed, slimly built and wore rust-colored slacks and a simple camp shirt with confidence and comfort. She walked like a woman who was used to being on her feet and knew how to get where she wanted to go.

“How is your father?” she asked at length.

“He’s fine, thanks. I guess you know he retired last year.”

She smiled now, briefly. “Yes. Does he miss his work?”

“I think he did, until he got involved with the neighborhood youth center. He loves working with kids.”

“Yes, Frank’s good with children. I admire him very much.” She walked past a glossy bush that smelled delicately of jasmine. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here now.”

“I appreciate that, and your taking the time to see me, Ms. Melbourne.”

She didn’t sigh out loud, but he saw the rise and fall of her shoulders. “Jamie. He’s spoken to me about you often enough that I think of you as Noah.”