THE NEXT TO DIE (14 page)

Tom found himself smiling. The cops didn’t know.

He’d wiped away his fingerprints. No one except the dog had seen him arriving and leaving. On the way home, he’d stopped by Santa Monica Beach, and from the pier, he’d tossed his gun in the ocean.

All morning, he’d sat in front of his TV, waiting for the story to break. There hadn’t been anything in the morning paper. For a change, one of the other tenants hadn’t stolen it today. Most of his fellow occupants in the ugly, three-story gray stucco apartment building were lowlifers. But Tom’s place was nicely furnished—if not a bit cluttered with mementos. Framed lobby cards from his films hung on the living room walls, and his career scrapbook sat on the coffee table. His old landlady used to browse through it with him occasionally, but her kids stuck her in a nursing home a few years back.

The telephone rang, startling him.

This was the third time today. Tom didn’t answer it. He hardly ever got any calls—except for the occasional wrong number or salesperson. This had to be the police. Last night, he’d been convinced that at any minute they’d break down his door and arrest him. Several shots of Jack Daniels had helped calm him down. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, drunk and weepy.

Even with the pretty reporter on TV assuring him that the police had no clues, the ringing phone made Tom feel hunted. He got to his feet. The painful gout had subsided a bit. He hobbled over to the window, moved the old lace curtain and glanced at the street below. He half expected to see a line of police cars in front of the building. But there was nothing. His Volare was still parked down there. He wondered if the police already had a description of it from one of Maggie’s neighbors.

At last the telephone stopped ringing, and the moment it did, Tom realized something: cops didn’t phone murder suspects, they came to their homes. No one had knocked on his door yet, and they probably wouldn’t either, because
they knew nothing
. Maybe those calls were from reporters wanting to interview him. After all, he’d discovered Maggie and made her famous. “Damn!” Tom muttered, falling back on the couch. The first time in years—decades—that the media would want to interview Tom Lance, and he’d been too scared to answer the phone.

Maggie’s death captured the lead spot on the noon news. He could look forward to a big, fat obituary in the evening papers, and certainly a tribute on
Entertainment Tonight
. Murdered movie stars were the stuff that made tabloid covers, best-sellers, and TV movies. Every time a film star died, their costars were interviewed on TV and quoted in newspapers and magazines. He’d made Maggie famous again. And he would become famous again too.

“You want the official findings, Sean? Leigh Simone OD’d in the ladies’ room at the Imperial. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She had almost two grand worth of heroin in her purse, and she wrote something on the bathroom mirror about her life being a lie, I forget the exact wording.”

“So the case is closed?” Sean asked, the phone to her ear. Sitting at the desk in her half-painted office, she had her pen poised on a legal pad. After Dayle’s last phone call, Sean wanted to find out just how much the Portland police knew about the deaths of Leigh Simone, and Tony Katz and his friend. Were they even close to suspecting a conspiracy? From her years as an attorney in Eugene, Sean had established ties with many law enforcement officials in Portland—from policemen to prosecuting attorneys.

On the other end of the line right now was Vincent Delk, a well-respected cop who became a desk jockey after getting shot in the knee during a drug bust. Vinnie had his hand on the pulse of the whole force. He was an excellent source. And it helped that he had a crush on her.

“You’re hesitating, Vinnie, my love,” she said, tapping her pen on the legal pad. “Is the Leigh Simone case closed or not?”

“Well, darlin’, it hasn’t officially reopened, but quite frankly, I want to dig a little deeper into this sucker. Now, don’t quote me…”

“I told you,” she said. She stopped taking notes for a moment, “This isn’t for anyone but me. I just want your personal take, Vinnie.”

“Well, from day one, this case smelled fishy to me. That message Leigh Simone wrote on the mirror, it always struck me as bogus. I mean, how often do we find a suicide note with someone who has OD’d on heroin?”

“Huh, not very?” Sean murmured.

“Nope. That dog don’t hunt. Another thing sticking in my craw is the timing. It happened less than two weeks after Tony Katz and his buddy bought it in those woods outside St. Helens.”

“You see a connection?”

“At first I thought it was the hotel. They were both staying at the Imperial at the time of their deaths.” Vincent Delk let out a long sigh. “So we checked the registration and found a handful of guests who were there during both Tony Katz’s and Leigh Simone’s stay. But all of the people cleared. Ditto the hotel staff. I still see a connection. But I’m a minority opinion.”

Sean stopped writing for a moment. “So what’s the connection?”

“One word:
planning
.”

“I’m listening,” Sean said.

“The scene in the ladies’ room looked like a suicide or an accidental overdose, right? But in case of any doubts, we get this weird message on the mirror, spelling it out for us. To me, that’s the result of deliberate planning.”

“Go on.”

“I’m not sure you want me to,” Vincent said. “It’s got to do with what happened to Tony and his friend. It’s not pretty, Shawny.”

“I’m a big girl,” Sean said. “I can take it.”

“Well, you probably heard that the two guys had been stripped naked, tied up, and killed. Looked like a gay-bashing.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard.”

“Well, Tony and his friend were abducted and taken to that forest. We know this, because both men had come to the gay bar by taxi. They didn’t have a car to drive fifty miles to that forest preserve. Some of the more gruesome details were kept out of the papers. This part’s on the hush-hush. Tony Katz was found with a whittled-down tree branch shoved up his butt. And he’d been sexually mutilated. The other guy died execution style, shot in the head. But he also sustained sixty-one stab wounds and a slit throat.”

“My God,” Sean muttered.

“Now get this. The coroner is pretty sure he was already dead when they went to work on him with their knives. Which brings me back to what I was talking about earlier:
planning
.”

“What do you mean?”

“The excessive stabbing occurred
after
they killed the boyfriend. Shows they didn’t so much want to prolong his agony as they wanted to make a sensational impression. Like I say,
planning
. Next. From checking out the tire tracks and footprints, the FBI estimated anywhere from six to ten people were there in the woods—in two or three cars. Yet not a beer can or cigarette butt in sight. This wasn’t the work of some drunk teens who let a gay-bashing get out of hand. No, this is a tight-knit group. Possibly eight people participating in one of the most grisly, sensational murders here in recent years. Headlines every day for well over a week—”

“Until Leigh Simone’s suicide,” Sean interjected.

“And despite all that sensationalism, none of those six, eight, or ten participants talked. No one bragged to anybody about it. That’s unheard of. No leaks. Tight as a drum. As freakish and insane as this double murder appeared, in actuality, it was carefully orchestrated and performed without a flaw. A bunch of people got together and planned it, Shawny. You can bank on that. And they’re still together, you can bank on that too.”

“So you think these same people killed Leigh Simone, and made it look like a suicide?”

“As I said, seems like deliberate planning there too. But I’m flying solo on this. I’m the only one around here who thinks Leigh’s assistant is a liar.”

“Listen. What if Estelle Collier stepped forward and said she’d been forced to lie about Leigh’s—drug and sexual problems?”

“Are you trying to strike a deal for her?”

“I’m hoping she’ll change her story. Knowing she can do so without incriminating herself might make it easier for her to tell the truth. Might make it easier for everyone.”

“Well, Shawny, if anyone can swing a deal for this gal, it’s you.”

“Thanks. Listen, Vinnie. What if I told you that I believe this same group is now after Dayle Sutton?”

“Then I’d say Dayle Sutton is a dead woman.”

“So—do you recognize us with our clothes on?” Joanne asked the audience at the beginning of
The Tonight Show
. She and Avery came across as good sports, and the host clearly enjoyed exchanging zingers with them:

When the interviewer asked who might have stolen the video, Avery became serious, yet not too solemn. He said it was a police matter, but he suspected the responsible party didn’t agree with Joanne’s and his politics.

“I think someone was trying to humiliate us,” Joanne added. “And it’s embarrassing this video—we made for ourselves—has been seen by so many people. But you know, I’m not sorry we made it. What’s the big deal? Why the scandal? We’re an old married couple, for God’s sake.”

They applauded her. Avery had forgotten about Joanne’s ability to connect with a live audience. She instinctively knew what to say, when to be serious or irreverent, when to shut up, and when to shut him up.

Braving a barrage of intimate questions, she’d held up through an insane schedule the last three of days. And the phone calls wouldn’t stop: film offers, and a long list of magazines wanting to shoot cover stories, including
Vanity Fair
, who asked for them both in a sexy Herb Ritts portrait.

The producers of
Expiration Date
couldn’t have been more pleased that Traci Haydn’s costar had grabbed the media spotlight. They talked about moving up the film’s release date, and giving Avery top billing over Traci. Suddenly he had clout. Dayle Sutton e-mailed Avery to use his influence with their director to hire another writer to rework the gay-bashing script and make it more honest. On her recommendation, he also phoned Gary Worsht, the gay man he’d be playing—a nice guy, but definitely not the milksop saint from the script.

Gary had high praise for Sean Olson: “That lady really went to bat for me.” The least Avery could do was go to bat for her and Dayle Sutton. To his utter amazement, the director listened to him, and a new screenwriter was hired. Almost overnight, he’d acquired that kind of pull.

If someone had been out to sabotage Avery’s career by releasing that video to the public, their plan had backfired. Proof of their failure might have been gauged by the loud applause for Avery and Joanne as they strolled off
The Tonight Show
set. Holding hands, they waved to the audience.

Joanne ducked behind the curtain, and her grip on Avery’s hand became tighter. A few members of
The Tonight Show
staff, two NBC pages, and the reporter and photographer from
People
waited for them backstage. Blinded by camera flashes, they made their way toward their dressing room. Joanne’s hand remained like a vise around his.

Avery opened the door for her. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

Joanne shut the door behind them, then suddenly bent over. “Oh, God, Avery,” she gasped. “Something’s wrong.”

He sat her down in a chair. All the while, Joanne trembled and clutched her abdomen. Avery grabbed the phone and got through to the studio operator. “This is Avery Cooper calling from my dressing room in—in Studio B. We have a medical emergency. We need an ambulance or a doctor here at once. Can you help us?”

“Yessir, I can.”

He noticed blood seeping down Joanne’s legs. “Tell them to hurry.”

Tom was fed up. He’d left three messages on his agent’s machine, and the son of a bitch still hadn’t called back. In fact, the phone hadn’t rung all day, not one lousy call since the one he should have answered around noon. Now he was about to videotape
Entertainment Tonight
, assuming they’d have a tribute to Maggie McGuire. But like an idiot, he’d forgotten to buy blank videos. He had to tape over one of his old movies from
The Late, Late Show
. He was frantically trying to find some leftover time on the tape of his 1950 western,
Trigger Happy
, when
Entertainment Tonight
started.

“The entertainment world is shocked and saddened today by the passing of one of its most durable talents. Academy-Award-winning actress Maggie McGuire was shot to death in her Beverly Hills home last night….”

Tom kept having to go back and forth from the broadcast to the videotape until he finally found the end of his western. Then he switched back to the broadcast and started recording. They were showing Maggie’s ranch house, police cars jammed in the driveway. “…as investigations continue,” the anchor-woman said. “Maggie McGuire’s career spanned four decades. She played a Mafia mistress in her first movie,
Hour of Deceit….
”

“My God, there I am!” Tom gasped. He stared at a scene from the movie. He’d cornered Maggie in a bar. His back was to the camera, but his face was visible in partial profile. “I’m not gonna sing to any cop,” Maggie said, puffing a cigarette. She wore a sexy, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. It was before Hollywood had groomed her for stardom, and she looked so fresh, raw, and beautiful. Her wavy black hair fell down to her bare shoulders. Tom now remembered why he’d fallen in love with that gorgeous young girl. “I’ve had a bellyful of you cops,” she continued. “Besides, Frankie treats me nice….”

Tom still remembered his line that followed: “I think you’re scared of him, Miss Gerrard.” But they cut to another film clip. “More bad-girl roles followed for McGuire,” the anchorwoman announced. “She received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for
Strange Corridor
, in which she played—”

The telephone rang. For a moment, Tom was torn. Was it a friend who had just seen him on TV? His agent? A reporter? A movie offer?

He pressed the mute button on his remote and reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said, tentative. He watched a clip of Maggie with Robert Mitchum.

There was a mechanical click on the other end of the line. A strange humming sound followed, and over this, a muffled barking—as if a dog was outside the caller’s house.

“Hello?” Tom said again. “Who’s there?”

The dog continued to bark, only louder. Tom realized it was a recording. Someone turned up the volume. Why would anybody want to tape a dog howling and yelping repeatedly?

He was ready to hang up. The barking was like some sort of alarm that wouldn’t shut off. Then he realized that he was listening to Maggie’s dog, Tosha. The recording must have been made yesterday, at just around the time when he was killing her.

“Hello?” Tom whispered. He could hardly breathe.

The volume went down on the tape, and the dog’s barking faded away. Tom listened to the quiet for a moment. Then he heard another click, followed by Maggie’s recorded voice: “Tom. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

Entertainment Tonight
had another headline story—besides Maggie McGuire’s death. Behind the anchorwoman’s right shoulder appeared a blowup photo of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane. “Doctors released Joanne Lane from Cedars-Sanai Medical Center today after emergency treatment for an undisclosed ailment,” she announced. “The Broadway actress and her husband, Avery Cooper, have been embroiled in a media furor over the public release of their very private home-video sex tape.
E.T.
correspondent, Charles Platt, has the story from outside the Coopers’ home in Beverly Hills.”

A swarthy, square-jawed young man stood by Avery and Joanne’s front gate. “Sally-Anne, I’m here outside the home of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane,” he said into his microphone. “The couple had just filmed a segment for
The Tonight Show
, and while backstage at NBC studios in Burbank, Avery Cooper telephoned for an ambulance for his wife. Joanne Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There have been conflicting reports as to the nature of this medical emergency. However, sources at the Cedars-Sinai have unofficially told
E.T.
that Joanne Lane suffered a miscarriage….”

The picture switched to a clip of Avery helping a shaky, frail Joanne into a black BMW at the hospital’s side entrance. Camera flashes illuminated them like a flickering strobe. “The Coopers left the hospital together at two-thirty this afternoon,” the reporter continued. The camera pulled back to show him standing in front of Avery’s driveway—along with about a hundred people. Bouquets of flowers and cards had been left by the front gate. “The Coopers’ house here in Beverly Hills is far from quiet tonight—”

“Which explains why the Coopers are here,” Sheila Weber said, switching off the TV set on their kitchen counter. Demurely pretty, Sheila had a creamy complexion and curly blond hair. She was five months pregnant with her first child. “How are you holding up?” she asked, refilling Avery’s wineglass.

Avery nodded. “I’ll be okay.” He sat at the Webers’ breakfast table. George Weber stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. With dark eyes and prematurely gray hair, he was a handsome guy. A psychologist, he must have had patients constantly falling in love with him. “Relax, eat something, buddy,” he said. “You look like shit.”

Avery managed to chuckle. He patted his friend’s hand, but didn’t touch the sandwich in front of him. Joanne was asleep in the Webers’ guest room.

George and Sheila Weber were his closest friends—and in a way, his second family. Avery had known George since high school. When he’d moved to Los Angeles, Avery stayed in George’s one-bedroom garage apartment. He’d had a roll-out futon in the living room, and paid half of the rent. For three years, the struggling actor and the medical student had lived together.

Avery had been best man at George’s wedding. The Webers had already asked him to be godfather to the baby. Sheila’s sister would be godmother. Avery hated seeing Joanne left out of the loop. Yet he had a hunch Joanne merely went through the social motions with the Webers, the same way he couldn’t quite bond with her Broadway cohorts. Maybe bringing her here wasn’t such a smart idea, what with Sheila so healthy, happy, and pregnant.

In the hospital emergency room, Joanne had told him that she’d taken a home pregnancy test last week. The results had been positive. She’d planned on seeing their doctor once this media blitz campaign was over.
The Tonight Show
was their last obligation. “I wanted to tell you tonight, honey,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I wanted to surprise you.”

As he and Joanne had left the hospital, photographers had fought each other for a good shot. One of the most painful times of their lives needed to be recorded for the public by these vultures. Pulling away in the black BMW, they’d had at least a dozen cars on their tail. Steve Bensinger had quickly assigned several other black BMWs to converge with Avery’s car on their escape route from Cedars-Sinai. The strategy worked. By the time Avery and Joanne reached the Webers’ block in Brentwood, they’d lost the bloodhounds.

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” George suggested, sitting down at the table with Avery. “You can crash in our bedroom. You won’t wake Joanne.”

“No,” he said. “I need to pick up some things from home if we’re spending the night.”

George offered to come along, but Avery said he wanted to be alone for a while. Before leaving, he checked in on Joanne once more. She was still napping. Neither of them had caught much sleep during the last three days. In fact, the strenuous schedule had probably contributed to her miscarriage.

Curled up beneath the blanket, she lifted her head and squinted at him.

“I’m going home for some stuff,” he said. “You need anything, honey?”

Joanne shook her head.

He leaned over and kissed her. Joanne’s cheek was wet with tears. Avery took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “You—you just rest, okay? I’ll be back in about an hour.”

He didn’t drive directly home. He swung by a small, secluded ocean-view park, halfway between home and the Webers’. There wasn’t much to the place: a couple of wooden benches, and a low rock wall at the bluff’s edge. Avery sometimes came here when he felt blue. He sat down on one of the benches. The smog made for an achingly beautiful sunset: layers of bright pink and topaz streaked the darkening sky, and reflected in the choppy waters of the Pacific. A cool ocean breeze stung the tears in his eyes. He could cry here. He didn’t think anyone was around to see him.

But a rented white Taurus idled at the side of the road less than half a block from the little park. Avery and Joanne had lost the pursuing reporters after leaving the hospital, yet this car had managed to remain inconspicuously on their tail. One of the two men in the Taurus was now talking on a cellular phone. He had urgent instructions regarding Avery Cooper’s exact location.

Avery had no idea how much time had passed while he sat on that park bench, but a drab darkness had consumed the beautiful sunset. He’d been so worried about Joanne grieving around the very pregnant Sheila. But he was the one who ached at the sight of his friend’s pregnant wife tonight. He saw the promise of a family there. For a short while, Joanne had been carrying his child, and he hadn’t even known.

Avery wiped his nose. He noticed a woman coming up the winding dirt path by the rock wall. She stared at him from behind a pair of black cat-eye glasses that seemed as sixties retro as her auburn page-boy wig. She kept her hands in the pockets of her shiny black raincoat.

Avery heard a car pull up. He stood and glanced back for a moment.

“Excuse me?” the woman said. “Aren’t you Avery Cooper?”

He turned to her. “Yes, but I—”

Her hand came up so quick, he didn’t even realize what she was doing until her fingernails tore at his cheek. He reeled back. The woman ran away, then ducked inside the white car that had just pulled up. Dazed, Avery watched the car peel away and speed down the street. There was no time to get a license plate number, no time to even process what had just happened.