Video Kill (20 page)

“Katy? Honey, what's wrong?”

Drowsily, Katy said, “Uh . . . nothing. Just a bad dream.”

“Tell me about it.” Sam pulled her into his arms.

“I don't exactly remember it, Sam. I was doing something bad. Something terrible. And then you found out about it and . . .”

“And what?” Sam prompted her.

“And you didn't love me anymore!” Before Sam had time to reply, Katy found herself sobbing again.

“Don't cry, honey.” Sam stroked her hair. “It was just a dream, and that's impossible anyway.”

“What's impossible?”

“There's nothing you could do that would—”

The phone rang loudly, drowning out the rest of Sam's sentence, but Katy knew what he had almost said.
There's nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you
. His words were sincere. She knew that. But would he change his mind if he knew that she had taken advantage of his loving trust in her to copy the murder discs?

Sam reached for the phone and answered it before it could ring again. He listened for a moment, and then Katy saw his face harden into that of the professional cop as he barked out orders.

“Another one? Jesus! Get Jackson and the fingerprint team out right away, but tell them not to touch anything until I get there. I'm ten minutes away.”

Sam hung up the receiver and jumped up. Then he turned to Katy, and his expression softened.

“It's another murder, honey. Do you want to come along? I hate to leave you here alone, and I could sure use your help. Bob said the victim's roommate is pretty shaken up, and you've always been good at calming people down.”

Katy started to nod, and then she stared at Sam in disbelief. “But, Sam, you forgot. I might pick up some information at the scene and I'm a reporter!”

“I didn't forget.” Sam smiled at her. “I just decided to bend procedure for the sake of humanity. I know I can trust you to check your story with me before you file it.”

“Of course I will, Sam!”

As Katy climbed into the car and they raced toward the murder scene, she found herself thinking about what Sam had said. He trusted her to check her story with him before she filed it. And she'd promised she would. This time. If only she could do that with her feature on the Video Killer!

 

 

Allison shut off the television and returned the movie she had just watched to its case. It was past one in the morning, and she was exhausted. She wished she could go to bed, but she knew she couldn't sleep with work left to do. She had just watched the last Hitchcock movie for Tony's list, and now all that remained was to check the accuracy of her notes against the resource material she'd gathered.

Her eyes hurt from watching the screen so intently, and Allison took three aspirins before she opened the big cardboard box on the coffee table. She'd called Larry Edmunds Bookshop in Hollywood this afternoon and explained exactly what she'd needed. Within an hour a messenger had delivered seven books. Three were basic synopses of Hitchcock's plots, two contained stills from various features and a brief critique of his methods, another had a complete cast list with pictures of his stars, and the last was a biography of the man himself. These seven books, along with the notes she'd found from her college class, would prove that her list of Hitchcock's victims was valid and complete.

Allison yawned as she arranged the books in a pile. It would be a long night, and she wondered whether she ought to just throw the list in the wastebasket and quit. If what Erik had told her this afternoon was true and there was no UCLA research project, she had wasted her time. She was tempted to go straight to bed, but she couldn't let Tony down.

Without being consciously aware of what she was doing, Allison began to make excuses for Tony. She'd worked as a student assistant while she was in college, answering the telephones and taking messages. She remembered making several stupid mistakes. When Erik had called UCLA to ask about the project, he might have talked to a series of student helpers. Or even more likely, the person on the staff who knew about the Hitchcock study might be away on summer vacation.

Allison checked her first two references and then she sighed deeply. She could explain away the phone call Erik had made to the college, but there was the matter of Tony's lighter. He'd lied about that. Or had he? That might have been a simple mistake, a case of remembering something inaccurately. How many times had she been willing to swear that she'd left her purse on the ledge in the hallway and found it on the bed instead? Erik had looked for Tony's lighter on his desk, and it could have been anywhere in the office. She was jumping to conclusions, and that wasn't fair to Tony.

But was Tony at the office now? He'd told her he'd be working with Erik all night. If she called the office, and he wasn't there, she'd have definite proof that he'd lied.

Allison picked up the phone and dialed the number. Her hands were shaking. She gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. One ring. Two rings. Then Erik's voice came on the line.

“Hello, Erik?” Allison had to work to control her breathing. “Is Tony there?”

“Hold on a second, Allison. I'll put him on. By the way, he found his lighter about ten minutes ago. He left it in the men's room. That silver's beautiful, but your inscription's something else. At first I thought it was a gift from Debby Boone.”

“Oh, thank you, Erik!” Allison breathed a big sigh of relief. Tony was at the office. And he'd found his lighter. Erik had been very clever about telling her that it had the proper inscription.

“Honey? There's nothing wrong, is there?” Tony came on the line. “It's past two in the morning.”

“Is it that late?” For a moment Allison didn't know what to say. She had to give him some reason for calling. “I just called with a progress report. I watched the last Hitchcock film, and I'm just finishing up my notes. I think I can have it ready for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

“That's wonderful, honey!” Tony sounded tired but grateful. “I knew I could count on you.”

Allison hung up the phone and smiled. Tony was at the office, just like he'd said. And he'd found his lighter. All the tension of the past few weeks began to disappear. She found herself so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. There was no need for her Valium tonight. She'd fall asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.

Five minutes later Allison was in bed. She'd set the alarm clock for six. It would be easier to finish checking the list when she was rested. It wasn't until she was dropping off to sleep, a contented smile on her face, that she remembered Erik's description of the lighter. Silver? The one she'd given Tony for their anniversary had been gold.

19

 

Erik finished proofing the
Frenzy
scene on the computer screen. “It works, Tony. As a matter of fact, I think it's the best thing we've done so far.”

“Good.” Tony nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Let's print the whole thing out and take it over to Alan's office.”

“Now?” Erik glanced at Tony's clock. “I haven't figured out how to read your clock, but it's got to be early. It's still dark outside.”

“You're right. It's only five in the morning. Remember what I told you about the pink oblong thing and the purple rectangles? The orange square is three green dots past . . .”

“Forget it, Tony.” Erik interrupted what he knew would be another lesson on telling time. “I'm too tired to concentrate on something that complicated.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Erik glanced at his partner closely. Tony looked as if he hadn't had any sleep in a week.

“Why don't you catch a nap on the couch, Tony? I'll wake you up after I print out and do the final proof.”

“That'd be a lifesaver.” Tony gave him a tired grin. Exhaustion was too tame a word for how he was feeling. “Are you sure you don't mind?”

“No. Go ahead. You can't walk into Alan's office looking like death warmed over.”

Erik watched as Tony stumbled out into the reception area and stretched out on the couch. By the time he'd gone to his own office to bring back a blanket and pillow, Tony was already asleep. It was no wonder. They'd met at the office around midnight and worked on the scenes for Alan all night. They'd both been in rough shape in the service, but Tony looked even worse now. He'd lost weight and his face was pale and haggard. It was obvious that he was worn down physically from too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and not enough sleep.

A wave of pity washed over Erik as he stared down at Tony's sleeping face. When a person drove himself as hard as Tony was doing, the stress was bound to take a serious mental toll. It seemed impossible that Tony was the Video Killer, but Erik had done some research into serial murderers for their movie concept. They were usually tortured individuals under extreme stress. Most had no concept of the hideous crimes they had committed, and one man was quite honestly horrified when he was confronted with the evidence against him. If Tony really was the Video Killer, he might be totally unaware of his actions.

As he covered Tony with the blanket and slipped the pillow under his head, Erik began to feel guilty over the way his mind was working. Tony looked much more like a tired boy, worn out after a big day at the amusement park, than an insane killer. He had tried and convicted his partner in his mind without a shred of real evidence.

It wasn't until Erik had gone into the kitchen to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee that he realized what day it was. Tony had been at his desk when Erik had arrived, shortly after midnight, and they'd been together since then. The thought made Erik cringe, but he found himself hoping that another actress had been killed. If the Video Killer had struck after midnight, he'd have proof that Tony was innocent.

Erik ran the spelling program on the pages they'd done and started the printout. The swishing sound of the paper emerging from the printer seemed suddenly deafening, so he switched on the radio to mask the noise. The classical music station he found was playing Beethoven's Fifth, and the booming crashes of the bass notes made his headache worse but at least he couldn't hear the printer.

As soon as the first scene was printed, Erik picked up and straightened the pages. When Alan's uncle coughed up with the
Video Kill
contracts and they finally got their money, it might be wise to invest in some updated office equipment.

About the time the Beethoven ended, Erik finished printing out the second scene. The classical station's next selection was German Lieder, sung by a lusty soprano. Erik got up to switch the station and caught the very end of a news flash. The Video Killer has struck again. And Tony had been here all night! Erik let out a whoop and ran to wake Tony.

“The Video Killer?” Tony sat up and blinked. “What was that, Erik?”

“He struck again last night. I just caught the tail end of the news flash on the radio. Turn on the television and I'll get up a cup of coffee.”

Erik came back just in time. The words
NEWS FLASH
were blinking on and off with a recorded voice-over.

As the announcement was repeated, Erik sighed. The Video Killer has struck at nine o'clock. He could account for Tony's whereabouts after midnight but not before. Tony was still a suspect.

The anchor's face appeared on the screen. He looked somber. “This just in. The latest in the Video Killer murders took place in Hollywood last night. Police arrived at the scene of the crime, the four hundred block of Irvine, at shortly after midnight this morning. L.A. Chief Detective Sam Ladera said that evidence found at the scene points to another in the series of murders that has been terrorizing the show business community. The victim, Miss Daniele Renee, was an actress.”

There was a crash as Erik's coffee cup fell to the table. Tony glanced over at his partner in alarm.

“Erik? Are you all right?”

“Huh? I'm . . . uh. . . .” Erik's face was bloodless, and his mouth opened and closed as he struggled to answer. “I'm fine.”

“You had me scared there for a minute. What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I . . . uh . . . I just have a blinding headache, that's all. I get them sometimes. I . . . I think I'd better take a pill.”

“Sure, Erik. I tell you what. Why don't you go on home and get some rest. I can finish printing out and deliver to Alan. There's no reason why you have to go along.”

“Uh . . . well . . . maybe that's a good idea.”

Tony watched as Erik fumbled in his pocket and took out a packet of pills. He tried to punch one out of its plastic bubble, but his hands were shaking too badly.

“Here. Let me.”

Tony took the packet and got a pill out for Erik. Then he watched anxiously as his partner half staggered into the kitchenette for a glass of water. He'd never seen Erik like this before. It must be one hell of a bad headache.

The packet of pills was still in his hand, and Tony glanced at it curiously. The name of the drug was printed on top.
Mezopropathalomine
. And the words
For Experimental Use Only
were written across the package in bright red letters. The doctor's name was stamped on the back, Dr. S. Trumbull, with a telephone number. He looked up just in time to see Erik headed for the door.

“Erik? You forgot your pills.”

Tony got up and handed Erik the packet of pills. He noticed that Erik's hands were trembling as he took them.

“Thanks, Tony. I'd better get home right away. This stuff really zonks me out.”

“Do you want me to drive you? I can shut off the printer and—”

“No!” Erik sounded panic-stricken. “That's not necessary, Tony. I'll be home long before it hits if I start right now.”

“Are you sure those pills are safe? I mean, they say
experimental
all over them. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, Erik?”

“Of course not.” Erik tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I just get bad headaches, that's all. And those pills are nothing but a new kind of aspirin.”

As soon as Erik was gone, Tony reached for a piece of paper to jot down the name of the doctor and his phone number. Erik was lying. Something as ordinary as aspirin couldn't zonk you out, and it certainly wouldn't have
experimental
written all over it in red letters. He'd call this Dr. Trumbull just as soon as his office opened to find the truth.

 

 

Allison was the first customer in line at the bank when it opened at ten in the morning. It had taken two coats of foundation to cover the dark circles under her eyes, but Tony's list was completed, and she'd decided to investigate their financial situation herself. The incident with the lighter had convinced her that if Tony could lie to her about one thing, he might be lying about others, too. She knew she couldn't relax until she knew that there was enough money to pay for her mother's medical expenses.

“May I help you, ma'am?” The young woman seated on a high stool behind the teller's cage gave Allison a brilliant smile. She was wearing a pin that said JOIN OUR CHRISTMAS CLUB NOW.

“I hope so.” Allison smiled back. “I'm Mrs. Tony Rocca, and I need to know our account balance.”

“Would that be passbook savings or checking, Mrs. Rocca?”

Allison thought quickly. She knew they had a checking account, and she vaguely remembered signing something Tony said was a signature card for a savings account.

“Both, please.”

“And the accounts are under whose name?”

“Allison Greene Rocca and Tony D. Rocca.”

“R . . . O . . . C . . . A?”

“No. R . . . O . . . C . . . C . . . A.”

The woman jotted down the correct spelling on a piece of paper and looked up at Allison again.

“Do you have your passbook or your checkbook with you, Mrs. Rocca?”

Allison shook her head. Tony kept the checkbook, and now that she thought about it, she'd never even seen the savings passbook. Tony probably had it in his desk.

“That's all right.” The woman smiled. “I can get it from the computer, but I need a little more information. Are these joint accounts?”

“I really don't know. My husband opened them. What other types of accounts are there?”

“We offer joint accounts, partnership accounts, and trustee accounts.”

“Could you please tell me the difference?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Rocca.” The woman smiled again, but Allison could tell it was wearing thin. “On joint accounts either person can sign to complete a transaction. Most husbands and wives have this type of account. Partnership accounts require both signatures. And on trustee accounts, the second party may sign only upon the death of the primary party.”

“I believe we have joint accounts.”

Allison glanced behind her and noticed that the line was growing longer. She had no idea this would be so complicated.

“Do you know if the accounts are business or personal?”

“Personal. Definitely personal.”

“And what is your social security number, Mrs. Rocca?”

As Allison rattled off the nine-digit number, she heard people beginning to mutter in line behind her. She felt terribly guilty for taking up this much time, but there was no way around it. The bank wouldn't give out account balances over the phone.

“And now I need to see three pieces of identification, one with a photograph.”

Allison fumbled in her purse and came up with her driver's license and two credit cards. The woman glanced at them and pushed the credit cards back.

“The driver's license is fine, Mrs. Rocca, but I can't accept these credit cards. They're in your husband's name. Do you have any other personal identification?”

“I . . . I don't think so.”

The woman looked up, saw the size of the line behind Allison, and lost the last vestige of her smile.

“Then you'll have to fill out an exceptional cause application. Please follow me. I'll take you to see Mr. Thatcher.”

Allison winced as the woman put out a
NEXT WINDOW PLEASE
sign. Several people groaned, and she gave them an apologetic look as she followed the teller to a desk in the rear of the building.

“Mr. Thatcher?” The teller approached a middle-aged man who wore a dour expression. Evidently, only tellers were required to smile. “This is Mrs. Allison Rocca. She wants to check her account balances, but she doesn't have the proper identification.”

“Please sit down, Mrs. Rocca. Naturally we apologize for any delay that you may have encountered, but I'm sure you can understand why we must be scrupulous in the discharge of our duties. I am reasonably certain that you wouldn't want a stranger to walk into the lobby of this financial institution, request a copy of Allison Rocca's account balance, and receive it!”

“Of course not.”

“And that, Mrs. Rocca, is precisely why we demand unquestionable proof of identity. You, our valued customer, have charged us with this obligation. It's for your own protection, you see. Now, do you carry anything with the name Allison Rocca on it?”

“Just a moment. I'll check again.” Allison pulled out her card case and went through it. She felt so chastised that she wanted to get up and walk out, but she wasn't about to leave without learning their balance. Suddenly she remembered the discount card for a mail order jewelry store she'd received in the mail. She'd written her name on it herself and stuck it in her wallet. Surely a man who so scrupulously discharged his duties wouldn't accept it as proof of identification, would he?

“Will this do, Mr. Thatcher?” Allison handed him the discount card even though she was sure he'd reject it.

“That's acceptable. Now all you need is one more.”

Allison checked the flap behind her driver's license and found an old library card from the time she and Tony had spent a summer in Connecticut. It had expired ten years ago, but she gave it to Mr. Thatcher and crossed her fingers.