THE NEXT TO DIE (33 page)

Tom signed and printed his name on the bottom. Folding up the letter, he slipped it into an envelope he’d already addressed.

Moving over to the window, he glanced down at the mailbox across the street. Only a few car lengths away, Hal’s guard leaned against the hood of a white Taurus. He looked up at the window, and Tom quickly stepped back.

He turned up the TV, then went to the door. He almost expected to find another one of Hal’s henchmen in the hallway, but the corridor was vacant. The neighbor he knew best was an old woman who walked with a cane. He could hardly ask her to zip down to the mailbox for him. He tried the apartment across the hall from her. A stocky, young black man had moved in about two months ago. Knocking on the door, Tom tried to remember his name.

The door was answered by a huge black woman with big auburn hair that had to be a wig. She wore a red sequined gown and brandished a cigarette. “Yes, honey?” she said.

Tom took a step back. “Um, doesn’t a young man live here?”

“You’re looking at him,” the woman said, a hand on her hip.

Tom shook his head.

“I’m a performer, I do drag, honey. This is my alter ego, Catalina Converter. Aren’t you from down the hall?”

His mouth open, Tom nodded.

Catalina looked at the envelope in Tom’s hand. “Is that letter for me?”

“Um, no,” Tom managed to say. “I have a touch of the gout, and I need to stay off my feet. I was wondering if you could mail this for me.”

Catalina shrugged. “Sure. I’m about to take off for the club. I’ll drop it in the mailbox outside.” Opening the door wider, he turned and put out his cigarette, then grabbed a long black feathered boa from the sofa.

Tom saw an apartment even more cluttered with movie memorabilia than his own. On one wall, Catalina had a poster of Marilyn Monroe, and another of Paul Newman. Glamour shots of actresses—mostly Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge—adorned the walls. The sofa tables were full of ceramic images of Marilyn, and James Dean, along with framed standing photos of various other stars. Movie books and videos overflowed on the brick and board bookshelves.

Tom had no idea this movie mecca had been down the hall from him. “I like your film art collection,” he said to the drag queen, who was checking himself in the mirror by the door. “Do you have any Maggie McGuire?”

“Oh, the late, Marvelous Maggie,” Catalina said, turning away from the mirror with a pained expression on his carefully made-up face. “No, sir. But I cried buckets when I received word she’d passed on. Let me tell you, honey child, I didn’t need to see clips from any naughty movie girlfriend made when she must have been starving. No, thank you very much. The lady had class, and she deserves better.”

Tom smiled slightly. “I agree.”

“On top of that, she has a cute gay son.” Catalina tossed one end of the boa over his shoulder; a rather melodramatic the-show-must-go-on gesture. Then he plucked the envelope out of Tom’s hand. “Well, I have to get this tired old ass of mine in gear. My public is waiting. I’ll mail your letter for you, honey. Stay off your feet.”

Tom thanked him. “Could I ask you for one more favor? You wouldn’t happen to have some bourbon, would you?”

Five minutes later, Tom was back in his apartment with a couple of miniature bottles of Jim Beam. Catalina’s last boyfriend had been a flight attendant. Now, at least Tom had something to get him through the night.

He turned off the lights, then crept to the window. Still leaning against the Taurus, Hal’s friend puffed on a cigarette and read the
Auto Trader
. He looked up from his magazine—toward the building’s front door. After a moment, Catalina came around the corner, sashaying in front of Hal’s guard.

Tom could see the letter in Catalina’s hand. The huge drag queen in red sequins was hardly an inconspicuous mailman.

“What the fuck?” Hal’s buddy said loudly. Tom could hear through the glass. “Goddamn faggot! Are you supposed to be a man or a woman?”

Catalina patted his big hair. “Honey, I’m a
goddess
. And if I weren’t in makeup, I’d beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of you, and you know I can.”

Hal’s friend stood there with his mouth open, looking stupid.

Tom watched Catalina move on, undaunted. He dropped the letter in the mailbox, then sauntered to the bus stop—half a block away. Catalina waved down the bus, then climbed aboard.

The letter had been mailed.

Tom opened the first of the two miniatures. He sat in the dark living room and drank. After a while, he turned on the lamp by the sofa and paged through his photo album. He pried certain photos from the four-corner holders, his favorites: Maggie and him talking with Janet Leigh and Robert Mitchum;. Maggie alone; him visiting Lana Turner on a movie set, and a few others. To the pile, he added five movie lobby cards, his best shots from his best movies. Finally, he chose his favorite publicity shot, from 1950: him in a tux, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled, pretty damn glamorous. He set the glossy on top of the pile, then pulled out a pen and autographed it:
To Catalina, Thank you for being a good neighbor. Tom Lance
.

He carried these things he’d held so dear down the hallway to his neighbor’s door. One by one, he slid the photos and lobby cards under the crack. He knew the drag queen down the hall would take good care of these mementos for him, because like him, he too loved the movies and Maggie.

Dayle sat at her kitchen table with the
Waiting for the Fall
script, and Fred curled up in her lap. She had her big AA meeting speech tomorrow, and was reviewing her notes. But she couldn’t concentrate.

She kept replaying in her head what Jonathan Brooks had told her about Ted’s expertise. Ted knew how to break into secured penthouses undetected, where to plant bugging devices, how to tap a phone line.
I tell you, if the guy was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner
.

She imagined Ted organizing the surveillance on her. She could see him slipping past the guards downstairs and breaking into her apartment while she showered. Was it Ted who had left that note about Cindy on her bed? Was he one of the men up on the roof at twilight a couple of weeks ago?

Dayle told herself not to get carried away. She was basing her fears on the mere fact that Ted didn’t like being teased by Gil Palarmo and his gay friends. Besides, even if he was working with this hate group, he wasn’t about to try anything tonight. Too many people knew he was supposed to be protecting her.

“Oh, there you are.”

Startled, Dayle glanced up at Ted Kovak, standing in the kitchen doorway. “You scared me for a second,” she said, straightening in her chair.

“What time do you want the limo tomorrow?” he asked.

“Six-thirty.”

“I’ll try to stay out of your hair until morning.”

She hugged Fred to her chest. “I might take a shower tonight, so if you hear the phone, just let the machine pick it up.”

He nodded. “Well, everything’s secure here.”

“It’s comforting to know that—especially while I’m in the shower.”

Grinning, he leaned against the door frame. “
Psycho
backlash?”

“No, more like the other day I told you about—when someone broke into the apartment.”

“Well, don’t worry,” he replied with a confident wink. “You have some good guys protecting you tonight, and I’m just down the hall. You won’t come out of the shower and find any weird notes pinned to your favorite party dress—not while I’m here.”

Nodding, Dayle managed to smile back at him. “Thanks, Ted. Um, did the other guys get something to eat?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re taken care of. I’ll be in my room if you need anything. Good night.”

“G’night, Ted. Thanks again.” She watched him retreat down the hall; then her smile waned. He shut the guest room door.

Ted Kovak had slipped. He knew about the break-in; but she’d never told him about finding the message pinned to her dress on the bed. Besides Sean and herself, the only other person who knew about that note was the one who had left it for her.

Sean approached the Honda Accord. Inside, the blond-haired man stiffly sat at the wheel—with Nick in back. She opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. Larry turned and glared at her. The handsome, strawberry-blond man seemed tense, but not particularly scared.

Sean now remembered where she’d seen him before, The My-T-Comfort Inn. He was The Boy Next Door—or The
Asshole
Next Door:
If I knew you were stocking this place with whores, I never would have booked us here
.

“Honey, meet Larry Chadwick,” Nick announced from the backseat. “Larry says he doesn’t know Charlie Stample or Lyle Bender.” Nick poked the man’s shoulder with his gun. “Larry, do you recognize my honey bun here? Here’s a hint. She’s a real smart lawyer.”

Sean frowned. She wanted to slug Nick for involving her in this awful abduction business. Nick handed her Larry’s wallet and keys. “Have a look through his wallet,” he said. “Lare, take the keys and start the car. We’re hitting the road. You still haven’t answered my question about our gal here.”

Sean gave Larry Chadwick the car keys. He shook his head at her. “I don’t know you,” he said. “But you look like an intelligent woman. Perhaps you can convince your friend here to let me go. You have my wallet. You can take the car. I don’t want any trouble.”

Sean glanced at his driver’s license. “We’re not here to rob you, Mr. Chadwick. And I don’t want any trouble either. So please, start the car.”

He took a long look back at the bowling alley, then turned the key in the ignition. Nick told him to make a left at the lot exit.

As they started down Main Street, Sean flipped through the photos in Larry’s wallet: pictures of his wife, two children, a collie, and Larry with a rifle, posed beside a deer carcass. As much as she hated this scheme, she had to go along with it now. “My colleague’s telling the truth, Mr. Chadwick,” she said, still browsing through the wallet. “I’m an attorney. I see here you’re a hunter—like Charlie Stample and Lyle Bender.”

“I told your friend already, I don’t know them.”

“Nevertheless, perhaps I can swing a deal for you.” Sean looked at the wallet again. “You have a wife and two very nice-looking children. I can’t guarantee anything, but if you cooperate with us, maybe you won’t be separated from your loved ones too long. We might work out a reduced sentence for you, maybe even immunity.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Larry said. “Besides, I’m not the one breaking the law here.”

“Take a left at the light,” Nick piped up from the backseat.

Sean studied Larry Chadwick for a moment. Something was awry. He didn’t seem very scared or intimidated—just miffed at what might be a temporary inconvenience for him. As they turned left, he checked the rearview mirror. Sean glanced back to see a Corsica a short distance behind them.

“A paper trail led us to you,” she continued. “This is your chance to cut a deal before—if you’ll excuse the expression—the shit hits the fan. We know your group is responsible for several celebrity murders and smears—along with an attempt to frame Avery Cooper for murder. Why not save your family and yourself a lot of grief? Tell us about this local men’s club, and your ‘hunting’ expeditions.”

“C’mon, Lare,” Nick added. “We’ll say you cooperated….”

Silent, he stared at the dark, lonely highway ahead.

They’d reached the outskirts of Opal. Sean checked over her shoulder again. The Corsica was still back there. “Pull over,” she said edgily. “Pull over now. I want this damn car behind us to pass.”

“I may go over a bump or two,” Larry calmly replied, eying Nick in the rearview mirror. “For the safety of all of us, could you please lower that gun for a few seconds? I don’t want it going off by accident.”

Nick grinned. “Sure, Lare.”

Larry slowed the car, steered onto the shoulder of the road, then brought them to a stop. His left hand casually slid off the wheel.

Sean turned and watched the Corsica approaching. She squinted as its headlights illuminated the interior of Larry’s car.

“HANDS ON THE GODDAMN WHEEL!” Nick yelled.

“I was just about to open the window—”

“You were just going for the door,” Nick said. “Hands on the wheel.”

Larry clutched the steering wheel as the Corsica cruised by. The teenage driver and his girlfriend briefly stared at them, then sped away.

Her nerves frayed, Sean took a deep breath and turned to Nick. “Give me that Polaroid, will you?” She switched on the interior overhead light, then showed the photo to Larry, the one from Charlie Stample’s secret archives: Charlie the hunter, posing with his kill—the mutilated corpse of Tony Katz. “You were there that night, weren’t you?” Sean said.

The tiniest flicker of a smile passed across Larry’s face as he studied the picture.

Sean began to tremble with anger. How could he smile at something so brutal and monstrous? Swallowing hard, she tucked the Polaroid into her purse, then pulled out the small tape recorder, and switched it on.

“We can’t stay here,” Nick said. “Let’s get moving, Lare.”

Ignoring him, Larry stared at Sean, the tiny smirk still on his face.

“C’mon!” Nick rapped the back of Larry’s skull with the gun muzzle.

“Ah, fuck!” he growled, wincing. He pulled onto the highway again. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, rubbing his head.

“I hope it hurts like hell,” Sean said. She adjusted the volume on her recorder. “Though I happen to think you’re scum, I’m still willing to cut you a deal, Mr. Chadwick. If you tell us about these friends of yours and your organization, I might get you a reduced sentence.”

“Hmmmm,” was all he said, as if to ponder whether or not he wanted to cooperate. Sean didn’t like it; he seemed too cool under fire.

“I don’t think Larry’s interested in making any deals,” Nick said. “Still, you
want
to tell us about your organization, don’t you, Lare? In fact, you’re just itching to tell us how powerful and righteous you guys are.” Nick nudged his shoulder with the gun muzzle. “C’mon, educate us, Lare.”

Larry Chadwick glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled a little. “Neither one of you have heard of SAAMO, have you?”

“Is that an acronym?” Sean asked. “What does it stand for?”

He turned his attention away from the road and gazed at her for a moment. “It stands for the future. That’s something you don’t have any more of,
Ms. Olson
, because you’re going to die. You, your buddy here, and your other unfortunate friend, Avery Cooper.”

Avery sat on the dusty wooden bench with his hands cuffed behind him. He numbly gazed at the young policeman, facedown on the dirty floor, a bullet in his back. Taggert was in the little office, on the phone with one of his cronies. At one point, he raised his voice: “Hey, he identified the prisoner, I had no choice! What was I supposed to do?”

He’d taken the other cop’s gun, but hadn’t unclasped the keys from his belt. Avery wondered if one of those keys might fit his cuffs. He inched his foot over toward the fallen policeman’s belt. With the tip of his shoe he tried to nudge the key ring from its clasp. For a second, it looked as though the dead policeman flinched. Avery hesitated. He checked on Taggert again, then slowly stood. Twisting to one side, he squatted down to reach for the keys.

“Fine,” he heard Taggert say on the phone. “So we make it look like he killed the son of a bitch, or you send somebody here to get rid of the body and the squad car.” He chuckled. “Yeah, no kidding. Bye.”

Avery vainly groped and tugged at the key ring. He heard Taggert hang up the phone. The cop sneezed and blew his nose. Avery almost stumbled backward, but quickly regained his footing and landed on the bench. He was still catching his breath as Taggert ambled around the corner.

Avery reminded himself to act dumb. It was his only chance of throwing this creep off guard. He innocently gazed up at Taggert, who kicked at the young policeman’s foot. “Why did you shoot him?” Avery asked, with a meek, obtuse look. “Was he a crooked cop or something?”

The stocky officer gaped at him, not quite sure someone could be so ingenuously stupid. Finally, he folded his arms and snickered. “Yeah, him heap big crooked lawman. Injun no good. Me fix.”

Avery wanted to vomit, but he merely nodded. His eyes downcast, he thought he saw the young cop breathing. Then again, it might have just been air escaping a dead man’s lungs. He wondered if Taggert had seen it too. “I hope we can clear all this up once the federal men arrive,” he said quietly. “When are they due?”

“In an hour.” Taggert blew his nose. “Just hold your water.”

“Well, that’s why I’m asking,” Avery replied timidly. “I almost peed in my pants when you shot this guy. And I’ve had to go for about an hour now.” He nodded toward the men’s room door. “Could I? Would it be okay?”

Taggert sighed. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Avery stood and stepped around the body on the floor. “Thank you,” he said. He pushed the men’s room door with his shoulder.

Taggert followed him inside and switched on the light. The bathroom had a sharp rusty odor. It seemed cold and damp after the heated waiting room. A toilet stall occupied the corner, and two tall porcelain urinals lined the graffiti-marred wall. Avery stepped up to one of the urinals, then glanced over his shoulder. “Um, Officer Taggert? Could you—help me out here?”

The cop looked at him as if he were crazy. “Oh, yeah, sure. Fuck that.”

Avery shrugged helplessly and wiggled his hands in the cuffs behind him. “I’m sorry….”

Shaking his head, Taggert grabbed A very’s arm and unlocked the cuffs. He left one hand shackled, then stepped aside and drew his gun. “Okay,” he said in his congested voice. “I don’t have all day.”

“Thanks very much,” Avery said, unzipping his trousers.

Taggert nodded distractedly. He put the keys back in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He looked as if he was about to sneeze again. His eyes were closed and he had his mouth open in a sinus-blocked grimace.

Instead of reaching inside his pants, Avery suddenly lunged at Taggert. The cop was in the middle of his sneeze when Avery punched him in the face.

The gun went off, and the shot echoed within the tiled bathroom. Avery felt a sharp burning pain in his left thigh, but it didn’t slow him down. He slammed his fist into Taggert’s face again. The policeman dropped his gun, then flew back against the toilet stall partition. Avery kept hitting him. He was like a crazy man. He wasn’t thinking about escaping. He was pummeling the smarmy son of a bitch who had amused himself with an injun impersonation after shooting that young cop in the back. Avery punched away at Taggert until the crooked cop slid down to the dirty tiles, half dead.

Standing over him, Avery suddenly realized he’d been shot. Blood trickled down his leg and wet the top of his sock.

Taggert stirred a little and reached for the gun on the floor. Avery kicked it away. But he was overwhelmed with fatigue, and his movements were labored as he grabbed Taggert by the front of his shirt and dragged him toward the urinals. “Who killed Libby Stoddard?” he asked. “Who set me up?”

“Fuck you!” Taggert snarled. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose.

Infuriated, Avery let out a crazed yell and swung him against the urinal. Taggert’s head hit the porcelain, and he howled in pain.

“Give me a name!” Avery demanded. He pushed the policeman’s face toward the bottom of the smelly receptacle.

Officer Taggert started crying. “All right, all right! It was all arranged by higher-ups in the organization….” Blood and saliva dribbled down from his mouth to the rusty drain. “The one who did the job on her is dead now. His name was Lyle Bender. They used your sperm samples from a fertility clinic to make it look like you’d raped her. That’s all I know about it, I swear.” Taggert started coughing and choking. Avery let go of him. It took a few moments for the cop to recover. He sat up a little, wiped the tears from his eyes, then spat a wad of blood and phlegm into the urinal. “Goddamn prick,” he gasped. “You fuckin’ broke my nose.”

With his last drop of adrenalin, Avery reeled back with his fist and punched Taggert in the face. The policeman flopped over on the tiled floor.

Avery snatched up the gun, then braced himself against the wall.

Almost out of nowhere, a set of handcuffs flew past him and hit the unconscious Taggert in his shoulder. Avery glanced up. The Native American cop had dragged himself to the doorway. “Cuff him to that pipe over there, will you?” he said, nodding toward a corner conduit by the urinals.

“Jesus,” Avery murmured, starting toward him.

Officer Pete impatiently pointed to the set of cuffs by Earl Taggert. “Hurry up, okay?”

Avery backed away and grabbed the handcuffs. He managed to drag Taggert over to the corner of the bathroom, then cuffed him to the pipe.

“It was—a—a rewarding experience, watching you—beat the crap out of Earl,” Officer Pete said between gasps for air. Sweat covered his forehead. “I’ve been wanting to do—to do that for three years. Pat him down, take away his keys.”

Avery followed his directions. “This guy’s with a hate group out of Opal. They’re responsible for several celebrity deaths. They tried to set me up for murder and rape. Did you hear any of what he said to me?”

The young cop nodded. “I knew he belonged to some kind of—of good ol’ boys’ club, but I thought it was just about keeping Opal white.”

Pocketing Taggert’s keys, Avery hobbled over to Officer Pete and helped him up. He walked him to the bench in the waiting room. His leg started to go numb, and he tried to ignore the burning pain in his thigh. “You need to lie on your side and not move around,” he said, lowering him on the bench. “Is there someone I can call? Someone you trust?”

Pete nodded. “Just dial 9-1-1. It’ll patch through to my boss, Sheriff Goldschmidt. Tell him Peter Masqua is badly wounded—and so are you. We have someone in custody. We’re in the old train station. Tell him I said to move his ass. We’re expecting some more trouble here within the hour.”

In the last two hours, Dayle hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. Now she pushed aside the script, picked up Fred, and tiptoed down the hallway to the guest room door. She checked for a strip of light at the threshold. It was dark and almost too quiet. She didn’t hear any snoring. Maybe Ted was lying there with the lights off, listening for her.