THE NEXT TO DIE (32 page)

Dayle listened to the answering machine in her study while she slipped off her shoes. Leaning over her desk, she lowered the volume on the machine. She didn’t want Ted hearing if Sean came on. He was getting comfortable in the guest room down the hall. So far, there were three messages from studio publicity people. Dayle skipped ahead to the next:

Beep
. “Hi, Dayle—” It was her agent.

Beep
. “Hello, Dayle? This is Jonathan Brooks.”

She quickly grabbed a pen. Jonathan’s gravelly voice somehow managed to sound unmasculine; on the phone he could have been mistaken for a brash old aunt who smoked too much. “I just flew back into town today and got your message. It’s funny too, because I saw you on the E-Channel Friday night, giving a fabulous pro-gay speech, and next to you is one of the biggest homophobic assholes I’ve ever met. I’m talking about Teddy Kovak. It’s true, he worked for Gil, but—well, I’m just surprised you hired him. Anyway, I’m home tonight, so give a buzz….”

Dayle dialed the number on her cordless, then glanced down the hall. Ted’s door was open a crack. She heard a toilet flushing.

“Hello?”

“Jonathan?” Dayle whispered. “Hi. It’s Dayle Sutton.”

“Well, hello there, Dayle. You got my call back?”

“Yes, thanks.” She ducked into the study again, and closed the door. “I’m not sure I understood your message. Ted was Gil Palarmo’s personal bodyguard for nearly a year, yet you say he’s homophobic?”

A robust laugh came over the line. “Did Picasso paint? Of course, it took old Ted a while to figure Gil out. At first, he believed that ladies’-man routine Gil sold to the public. Plus Gil always had these bimbo groupies following him around, and he gave Ted his pick of the harem. If not for those fringe benefits, I think Ted might have quit, because after a spell, like I say, he realized he wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. And let me tell you, he didn’t try to hide his contempt for Gil and the rest of us.”

“Why didn’t Gil fire him?” Dayle asked in a hushed tone.

“Oh, we were having way too much fun teasing him. Gil used to flirt with Ted, drove him crazy!” Again, Jonathan bellowed that husky laugh. “I mean, Ted wasn’t hard to look at, and we delighted in getting a rise out of him. He was so uptight, so easy to piss off.”

“Then Gil just had him around for laughs?” Dayle whispered.

“No, Teddy was good,” Jonathan said. “He knew his business. Gil hired him in the first place because he’d had a bad brush with the mob. They wanted Gil to sing in certain clubs, and he wouldn’t play ball. Ted knew how they might get past all the security in Gil’s penthouse undetected, where they could plant bugging devices or a bomb, how to tap a phone line. He knew everything there was to know about surveillance. I tell you, if Ted was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner.”

A knock came upon the door. It gave her Dayle a start. She hadn’t heard any footsteps. “Just a sec,” she whispered into the phone. Then she opened the door. Ted had changed into a pair of khakis and a T-shirt. He also sported a shoulder holster and gun. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I was going to order Chinese. Do you want some?”

Smiling nervously, Dayle shook her head. “No, thanks,” she murmured, a hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll just heat up some soup later. Thanks.” She gently closed the door, then whispered into the phone, “You were saying?”

“Well, I was about to say that old Ted has to be pretty full of himself to put Gil down as a reference. Then again, Gil’s dead. And like I say, Ted did do a good job. Even I have to admit that much. But…well…”

“Go on,” Dayle urged him.

“I think of that speech you made about fighting homophobia, and I applaud you, Dayle. But I see Teddy Kovak standing with you, and I’m telling you, he’s not on our side.”

They followed Vicki Bender’s station wagon past the post office minimall. Sean stayed two or three cars behind her. She couldn’t help looking around at other cars and wondering if Avery was in one of them. Had he even made it to Opal? Certainly, she would have heard something on the radio if he’d been arrested or hurt. It was hard concentrating on her conversation with Nick in the backseat. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?” she asked.

“You were giving me the skinny on this men’s club.”

“That’s right,” Sean said, eyes on the road. “According to the neighbor, it’s a bunch of hunting buddies, very few of whom hold steady full-time jobs. Yet they all seem financially fit. For example, your late friend, Charlie Stample, owned a gun and tackle store, open three days a week—as long as there wasn’t a sign on the door saying
GONE HUNTING
.”

“Other incomes,” Nick said, nodding. “It explains all that expensive crap at Charlie’s place. This hate group must pay well.”

Up ahead, Vicki Bender turned into the parking lot of a bowling alley. On the side of the long building, blinking neon white bowling pins led to a sign:
OPAL STRIKE N’ SPARE—THE KINGPIN RESTAURANT—GAMES N’ FOOD
.

Sean parked five rows away from Vicki Bender’s station wagon. Clutching the bundle of mail, Vicki headed into the bowling alley.

The glass door was still swinging back and forth when Sean and Nick stepped in after her. Rock and roll oldies were piped over speakers, competing with the echoing din and clamor. The place smelled of cigarettes and shoe leather. Vicki knocked on a door by the vending machines. As the door opened Sean glimpsed five men inside, seated at a round table; it looked like a poker game in progress—except one of the men had a laptop computer in front of him. They seemed normal enough, between the ages of thirty and fifty, dressed casually, but clean. They didn’t look like monsters. In fact, all of the men stood up when Vicki walked into the room. Then the door closed.

Sean and Nick strolled over to a rack of bowling balls. She kept glancing back at that closed door. “Well, any ideas?” she asked, over all the noise. Someone had cranked up Del Shannon’s “Runaway” on the speakers. “We can’t hang around here too long. Someone’s bound to recognize us.”

Nick feigned interest in a bowling ball. “Just keep cool. I’m thinking.”

“Well, don’t blow a fuse,” she muttered. Sean checked the back room door again. The girl at the shoe-rental booth was staring at them. “Is it too soon to call in the state police or the FBI?” Sean asked. “We could try to explain the situation to them.”

“No way,” Nick replied. “If what Grandma Hildy says is true, these guys are friendly with the police. Someone would tip off the local authorities about what’s coming around the pike, and—chain reaction—these guys would scatter or clean house before anyone got near Opal. No, nice try.”

Sean sighed. Nick was right. And if Avery were here, he’d be the first person they’d arrest—not someone from the group. Outside of the late Charlie Stample’s Polaroid, they had no proof implicating these other people in the celebrity murders. “I have a little recorder in my purse,” she said, thinking out loud. “Too bad we can’t pry a confession out of one of them.”

“We could always grab the first guy who comes out to use the can,” Nick said, studying the closed door. “Then we can take him for a ride to a remote spot, and
scare
a confession out of him.”

“Abduct one of them—right here? Are you nuts? This is their turf. We’ll have the whole group on our tail—and the local police too. We’d never make it.” She took another look toward the shoe-rental booth.

Snapping her gum, the girl leaned on the counter and continued to stare at them. Sean guessed she was twenty-five—with more than her share of hard knocks. She might have been pretty at one time, but now she just appeared tired and burned out. The red
STRIKE N’ SPARE
T-shirt hung on her emaciated frame, and she’d carelessly pinned back her limp brown hair.

“That woman in the booth won’t stop looking at us,” Sean whispered.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Huh, she’s checking out my butt.”

“Oh, would you please get over yourself for just five minutes?”

But Nick wasn’t listening. He was on his way to talk to the girl, whose face lit up as he approached. Fascinated, Sean watched them. Nick whispered something to her. She giggled and tossed back her head—the official flirt laugh. After a minute, she took a pencil from behind her ear, then scribbled something down on a score sheet. She looked up and caught Sean staring.

Sean turned away—toward the rack of bowling balls. A couple of minutes passed, and then Nick came up to her. “Okay, the wheels are in motion,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. In schoolgirl penmanship with little circles over the
I
’s, the young woman had written down seven names. “See if those match with any of the guys Grandma told you about,” Nick whispered. “By the way, that’s Jill in the booth, and if she asks, you’re my sister. Jill says these guys meet here regularly three or four times a week. I asked which one has the nicest house, and is married with kids—in other words, the one with the most to lose.”

“What are you talking about?” Sean asked.

“We’re going for a ride with Larry Chadwick,” Nick whispered. He threw a smile at Jill, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. She winked back.

“What’s going on?” Sean said.

“In a minute, Jill’s gonna step into that room and tell Larry Chadwick he has an emergency phone call from his wife. Jill thinks it’s all part of a practical joke. When he comes out to take the call, I’ll walk up, tell him I have a gun, and we’ll go to his car—”

“My God, this is insane—”

“You hang by that meeting room door, and make sure Jill doesn’t screw up. She’s supposed to tell the boys that Larry will call them from home later.”

“How could she be dumb enough to cooperate with you in this—this ‘practical joke’? You’re a total stranger to her—”

“Doll, she’s twenty-seven years old, handles smelly shoes all day for minimum wage, and she’s hot for me. Believe me, she’s dumb enough to cooperate. Once you know these guys have bought Jill’s song and dance, head outside. I’ll make Larry flash his headlights. Are you following me?”

Sean saw the young woman come out from behind the booth. She started toward the meeting room door.

“We’ll drive out of town,” Nick went on. “You’re the lawyer. Promise Larry a deal, immunity for his confession. We’ll get it on that recorder of yours, then call the state police once we’re far enough away from Opal.”

“And they’ll arrest us for kidnapping, you idiot,” she said urgently. She watched Jill knock on the door. “My God, she’s going through with it. This is crazy. I don’t have the power to make any immunity deals—”

“Well, maybe Larry Chadwick won’t know that.”

One of the men opened the meeting room door. Jill said something to him, and pointed toward her booth. The man nodded, then stepped back inside. The emaciated girl turned and gave Nick a sly smile. Then she scurried toward her workstation.

“Nick, this is a terrible idea,” Sean said.

“It’s all we got, babe,” he replied. “See you in Larry Chadwick’s car.”

“No—” she started to say, but Nick started toward the shoe-rental booth. Someone emerged from the little conference room, a tall man with wavy, strawberry-blond hair and wholesome good looks. He was about forty, and wore pressed khakis and a crisp white shirt. He looked very familiar.

Nick strolled up to the man—just as he reached for the phone on the shoe-rental counter. Sean moved a bit closer. Nick whispered something to the tall man. Even at this distance, Sean could see him tense up. She kept trying to remember where she’d seen him before. After a moment, he stiffly turned and started toward the exit—with Nick close behind him.

Jill returned to the meeting room and stuck her head in the doorway. “Excuse me?” she announced, loud enough for Sean to hear over all the noise. “Mr. Chadwick had to run home, but he said he’ll call you guys later.”

Sean heard one the men reply: “Thanks. Can you close the door?”

Sean retreated toward the exit. Jill caught up with her by the shoe-rental booth. She smiled and snapped her gum. “Tell your brother to pick me up here at ten. Okay?”

Sean nodded. “All right. Thanks—for playing along with the gag.”

Her stomach in knots, Sean headed for the exit and stepped outside to the cold. “God, please, get me through this night,” she whispered.

In the parking lot, a green Honda Accord flashed its headlights twice.

Tom stopped writing for a moment. He’d never sent a letter to the
Los Angeles Times
before, and he wanted it perfect. He’d thought about typing the letter to make it more official. But if Hal and his gang had planted bugs in Maggie’s house, they’d certainly done the same in his place. The clicking of his Underwood’s keys would give him away. So Tom had switched on the TV, and started his correspondence in longhand.

The mailbox across the street had a morning pickup at 8:15. If he mailed the letter tonight, it would be posted before Dayle Sutton’s death tomorrow. They’d know it wasn’t some crackpot. But he still had to slip past Hal’s guard outside.

Returning to the apartment after his aborted bourbon run, he’d noticed the telephone was gone—just as the young fellow had said. The phone would be returned once he left in the morning. No doubt, they would also search the place and erase any evidence of their association with him. It had to appear as if he’d acted alone in killing Dayle Sutton.

They might even plant something to confirm that he’d murdered Maggie. Why not? It was true. And they could do anything they wanted. He wouldn’t be around to defend himself. He wouldn’t be in Rio either. He’d be dead.

This letter to the
Times
was his only way of making people understand. Tom picked up his pen and continued writing: