THE NEXT TO DIE (17 page)

Dayle jotted down the messages. She thought a shower might relax her. But as she stood under the warm spray from the duel shower heads, she couldn’t help remembering Estelle’s body. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see Estelle—pale, bloated, and naked—curled up on that tiled floor in a pool of blood.

Dayle didn’t linger in the shower. She’d dried off, slipped into her terrycloth robe, and poured that second brandy. She’d called Sean’s cellular number. It had rung three times before the line went dead. Dayle tried again every ten minutes after that.

She’d been ready to call Sean’s in-laws’ house—or the police—when her phone rang.

“I got your call, and I shut off my cellular,” Sean explained. “I’m sorry. I was in no position to talk to anyone at the time. I’ll explain later—”

“Well, are you okay?” Dayle asked. “Where are you?”

“In the car,” Sean replied. “I should be home in about an hour. I’m okay. Nobody’s following me. Anyway, sorry I cut you off. I saw it was you who phoned. I was going to call you anyway. Listen, Dayle, I pulled a switcheroo and followed one of these guys who’s had you under surveillance. They’re all holed up in this hotel called the My-T-Comfort Inn. There are at least four of them—if you include the guy parked outside your building tonight. I checked out this hotel, and some cops are staying there too. At least, there’s a police car in the lot. I don’t know what that’s about. But I wrote down the plate numbers on the rental cars. Do you still have that private detective working for you?”

“Yes,” Dayle said numbly.

“I’ll fax or e-mail these numbers to you when I get home tonight,” Sean said—over some static on the line. “Maybe your guy knows a good computer hack who can come up with the credit cards used at the car rental agency. We might be able to find out who these guys are—and where they’re from.”

“The reception’s getting choppy,” Dayle said. “Listen, why not just call the police now? They can go to that hotel and—”

“Dayle, the police are already at the hotel,” she replied. “For all we know, they could be involved. Let’s first just find out who these guys are. Dayle? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, but you’re breaking up.”

“I know. My phone’s running out of juice. I better hang up. I’ll send you that list tonight. Okay? Bye, Dayle.”

“Okay, be careful.” With uncertainty, Dayle hung up.

She took another sip of brandy, then moved to the window. Hiding behind the curtain, she glanced down at the white Taurus parked across the street. She remembered something Estelle had said earlier tonight:
But you’re going to die too…. They have you under surveillance…. It’s already started
.

Tom had bought five different Saturday morning newspapers from the kiosk down his street. They were scattered across his living room floor like a paper drop cloth, each one open to the story about Maggie’s death. Only the
Los Angeles Times
mentioned his name:
McGuire had her screen debut in the film noir sleeper, ‘Hour of Deceit,’ co-starring William Wagner and Tom Lance, her fiance for a brief time
.

Tom’s heart ached. All those tributes to Maggie, and he’d been reduced to playing a bit part. Still, he took solace in the
Entertainment Tonight
interview. The
E.T.
people were due to pick him up at 7:15. Tom checked his wristwatch.
Any minute now
.

He was dressed in his new blue suit (only three years old), a crisp white shirt, and his favorite tie. Tom combed his hair again, then pulled out a scissors and trimmed his wild eyebrows and ear hair. He took another look at his wristwatch: 7:45. Where were they?

What if this Hal Buckman was some sadistic crackpot, the same one making those calls earlier? They’d never called back; no more recordings of Maggie or that barking dog. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate trap.

“It’s real,” Tom whispered resolutely. “It’s
Entertainment Tonight
. That guy was telling the truth. And he’ll be here any minute.”

Tom’s heart leaped when he saw a limousine finally pull up in front of his building. He watched the driver get out, and a moment later, the downstairs buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Lance? This is Arnie, your driver. Sorry for the delay, sir.”

Grinning, Tom pressed the intercom again. “I’ll be right down. Thanks.”

He grabbed his scrapbook, then paused in the doorway for a moment, long enough to whisper, “God, please, don’t let me screw this up.”

Hal Buckman waited for him in the limo’s backseat. He looked about fifty years old, with receding black hair, an affable smile, and thick jowls. He wore gray slacks, a black turtleneck, a blue blazer, and sunglasses. “We appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule for this interview, Mr. Lance,” he said, shaking Tom’s hand. The limo started to move. “I realize this isn’t easy for you. This whole thing must have been an awful shock.”

Tom sighed. “I still can’t believe it. What’s this world coming to?”

“You and Maggie McGuire remained close, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We kept in touch.” He tapped the cover of his scrapbook. “I brought pictures—some really good ones of Maggie and me together. Maybe you can show them during part of my segment.”

“Super,” Hal Buckman said. “I understand that you helped Maggie get started in movies. You landed her the part in
Hour of Deceit
, didn’t you?”

Tom felt himself blushing. “I talked to the director,” he said. “But Maggie’s beauty and talent won her the role.”

“So—in a way, she owed you her career.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Tom replied. At least he wouldn’t say it on national TV.

“So tell me, Tom,” Buckman said, moving even closer to him until their shoulders touched. “Can I call you Tom?”

He nodded. “Certainly, please do.”

“So tell me, Tom,” he whispered. “How did you feel when you shot that ungrateful bitch in the head?”

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dayle said, heading into the kitchen with Dennis.

She wore jeans, a black pullover, and no makeup. She didn’t plan on going outside the apartment today. She was the reluctant star of The Story on Page One. This morning, her “rental mental” surveillance man had a lot of company—at least a dozen reporters gathered in front of her building. But Dayle wasn’t talking with anyone—not even her own public relations people. She decided to let Dennis handle them. That was why she’d asked him to come over this morning. “I hope I didn’t screw up your Saturday with Laura,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“She wanted to go to the mall,” Dennis said. He took a mug from the cupboard, then helped himself from the Mr. Coffee pot. “So I owe you big time for getting me out of it. Where’s Hank?”

“He’s at his place. I’m staying home today. I don’t need him.” She moved aside the newspaper she’d been reading. “In fact, Hank’s one reason I wanted to talk with you today. That bodyguard you mention, your friend, Kojak—”

“Kovak,” Dennis said, sipping his coffee. “Ted Kovak. He’s a real pro. Nice guy too. Want me to set up an interview?”

Dayle nodded. “You read my mind.”

Dennis glanced down at a story in the newspaper she’d been reading:
AIDE TO LEIGH SIMONE COMMITS SUICIDE
.

“Must have been rough,” he said.

“Huh, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Did Estelle talk?”

“What?”

“Did she tell you anything?”

Dayle stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Before she killed herself, did Estelle tell you anything?”

Dayle hesitated. It was an innocent question, but he seemed to be asking it for someone else. Dayle shook her head. “Um, no, it’s just like the newspaper said, Sean Olson and I came in and found her in the bathroom.”

Frowning, Dennis shook his head. “Too bad.”

Dayle was thinking about what Estelle had said:
They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you….
Dennis had been working alongside her for over three years now; she trusted him. Then again, Estelle had been with Leigh Simone twice that long.

“Dennis, do you like working for me?” she asked.

“You’re the bane of my existence,” he said over his coffee cup.

“I’m serious,” Dayle said. “I want to know if you’re happy with me. I know I piss you off sometimes. Do you ever want to get even?”

He laughed. “Get even? What? Dayle, I happen to love working for you.” Dennis cocked his head to one side. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dayle muttered. “Nothing at all. Forget it, honey.”

The limousine glided down a street where palm trees adorned meridians, and gates didn’t quite obscure views of immaculate lawns and seven-figure houses. Inside the limo, Tom listened to a tape from that afternoon at Maggie’s. The man calling himself Hal Buckman smirked during Maggie’s harangue: “…See you in the movies, Tom…. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

“Oh, here it comes,” he whispered.

“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” Tom heard himself growl.

“My God, you stupid—”

The loud gunshot cut her off. Tom winced at the sound of her body hitting the kitchen floor. He hadn’t heard that when it was really happening.

Hal Buckman pressed a button on the armrest, and the tape stopped. He took off his sunglasses, then cleaned them with a handkerchief. “We had her under surveillance for three weeks,” he explained. “We planted eight thousand bucks’ worth of bugging devices in her place. Lucky for you, we had enough time to get back in and collect it all before the police came to check out your handiwork. Otherwise, we’d be pretty upset with you, Tom.”

“‘We?’” Tom asked timidly.

Buckman smiled, and puffed his chest out a bit. “Have you ever heard of SAAMO, Tom?”

He shook his head.

“Good,” Hal said. “You’re not supposed to hear of it. SAAMO stands for Soldiers for An American Moral Order, and we have chapters all over the United States. We’re the good guys, Tom. We’re going to clean up this country, make it a decent place for our children.” Buckman glanced out the car window. “Maggie McGuire’s son is a sexual deviant. He has AIDS, thanks to his homosexual lifestyle. Some folks think that’s mighty sad, but certain individuals get what they deserve.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” Tom asked quietly.

“You gave Maggie McGuire what she deserved, Tom. Here’s a lady—and I use that term lightly—who appeared on the cover of
People
magazine, saying how proud she was of her queer son. She was endorsing deviant behavior. This is a war we’re fighting, Tom. Maggie McGuire was the enemy, preaching her propaganda. We wanted to stop her somehow, but you took care of that for us.” He slapped Tom on the shoulder. “You fixed her—for good.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Tom argued. “I—I still don’t understand any of this. What do you want with me?”

“You’re a good shot, Tom. You obviously know how to handle a gun from all those great westerns you made. You sure hit the bull’s-eye with Maggie McGuire. We might need you to silence another morally corrupt actress.”

“Who?” he murmured.

“She’s a big name, Tom. That’s all you need to know right now. We’ll give you the details at the appropriate time. We have a very exciting plan. We’ll need you to do some acting too. I think you’ll enjoy it. Of course, you’re in no position to refuse. But we’d like to have your enthusiasm nevertheless.”

“But I’m not a killer,” Tom whispered, shaking his head. “What happened with Maggie was an accident.”

“What happened with Maggie was
practice
,” Buckman said.

“Well, how do you expect me to pull it off?” Tom asked. “I’m not a
hit man
, for God’s sake. I’m seventy years old!”

“You’re seventy-six, Tom. And we’ll tell you in due time how you’ll pull it off. You’ll like this plan, I guarantee it.”

The old scrapbook had been poised on his lap for nearly an hour. It felt heavy—and useless. Tom glanced out the limousine window as they drove past his neighborhood Thrifty Mart. They were taking him home.

“I know you’re confused,” Hal said, with a gentle smile. “We’ll tell you more within the next couple of days. In the meantime, don’t do anything foolish, or worry about the police. They still don’t know who killed Maggie McGuire. Our men who retrieved the equipment from her house did a very thorough job of wiping away evidence. You were sloppy, Tom. Your fingerprints were on her counter. But they’re gone now. You should thank us, Tom, you really should.”

“Thank you,” Tom muttered obediently.

The limo slowed down as it approached his apartment building. Tom sighed. “You went to a lot of trouble to—to
procure
me for this job. What happens if I refuse? What if I surrender to the police, and tell them all about you and this SAAMO outfit?”

Hal Buckman appeared very concerned for a moment, almost tortured. “Oh, Tom,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’ll disappear before you even utter a second word to the police.”

Nick Brock stood in Dayle’s doorway. Her cordless phone to her ear, Dayle waved him inside, then shut the door. He followed her to her study, all the while checking out her “plush pad” of an apartment. Dressed in a tight black T-shirt and gray pleated pants, he carried a slim leather briefcase. Dayle sat back behind her desk and finished up on the phone with Bonny, thanking her again for acting as decoy last night. Then she clicked off and smiled at Nick. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

He pulled a magazine out of his briefcase and dropped it on her desk. “You might be interested in page thirty-four.”

It was a
Playgirl
. Dayle didn’t understand, but she picked up the magazine and turned to page thirty-four. She stared at a full-page photo of Nick naked, except for a shoulder holster and gun. His back was to the camera, but he grinned over his shoulder. Shaking her head, Dayle turned back a page, and read the pictorial’s title,
PRIVATE DICKS
.

Dayle was momentarily stunned, but only momentarily. “Well, good for you, Nick. Nice butt.” She shoved the magazine across her desk. “Now, let’s get down to business. I have more work for you.” She handed him the license plate listing that Sean had faxed her. “Those are license numbers to five rental cars. These guys have been following me around for the last few days. I’m wondering if you can come up with the credit card numbers that paid for these rentals. I also want names and addresses off those cards. And I need to know if there were any hotel or car rental charges on these cards in Portland when Leigh Simone and Tony Katz were killed.”

Nick frowned. “Ms. Sutton, unauthorized access to credit card files is against the law.” He waited a beat, then broke into a cocky grin. “It’ll be a cinch for our resident computer nerd. The guy can tap into just about any system—from Aunt Ida’s home computer to Command Center in the Pentagon. He hasn’t gotten laid in like eight years, but the guy’s a whiz on that PC.”

“I’m both happy and sad for him,” Dayle said with a patient smile. Then she sighed, and the smile fell away. “You heard about Estelle Collier.”

Nodding, Nick frowned. “Yeah. It’s a pisser.”

“Don’t you feel accountable?” Dayle whispered. “I know I do.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Nothing. Only—I can’t help thinking, ‘What goes around, comes around.’ Maybe they’re digging up something about me right now—something from my private past. Estelle said they operate that way. For all I know, they’re rattling some skeletons in my closet right now.”

Nick grinned at her. “What do you have to hide?”

“Nothing much.” Dayle answered. She glanced down at the desktop and gave a little shrug. “But enough, I guess—so that it worries me.”

Tom poured himself another Jack Daniels. He kept hearing that tape over again in his head: Maggie insulting him, the gunshot, and her body hitting the floor.

Now they wanted him to do it again, all planned out this time.

He had the TV going, but there was nothing about Maggie on the six o’clock news. Glancing out the window, he wondered if Hal’s men were watching him now.

“Stay tuned for
First Edition
,” the TV announcer said, as the titles for the evening news scrolled up on the screen. “
F.E.
has an exclusive look at the film Maggie McGuire kept secret for forty years! Viewer discretion advised.”

Tom fumbled for the remote control and turned up the volume. What were they talking about? He’d seen every movie Maggie had made. What did they mean by viewer discretion advised?

He turned up the volume on the TV. “Tonight on
First Edition!
” the announcer proclaimed. “A shocking exclusive! The Maggie McGuire film that she didn’t want anyone to see!” A grainy, black-and-white image came on the screen. It was Maggie, fondling a beer bottle and licking the stem in a provocative fashion. She was topless; but a computerized checkerboard grid obscured the bottom half of the TV picture to hide her breasts.