by A. W. Gray
Nussbaum spotted Sharon, locked gazes with her across the foyer. His lips peeled back from his teeth. He yanked his arm away from Leeds, and backed up against the wall between the elevators. Terror in his look, his voice quaking, Nussbaum screamed at the top of his lungs, “Not me. Not fucking me, you hear? It was him.” As heads turned toward him from all directions, the agent extended his arm and pointed across the hall.
Sharon felt total confusion, and at first thought Nussbaum was pointing at her. And indeed the agent’s finger was extended loosely in her direction. She looked to Lyndon Gray. “What in hell is he…?” Sharon said, then was conscious of movement on her right as Benny Yadaka reached inside his coat.
Sharon’s head turned slowly. Yadaka’s hand cleared his lapel with a pistol in its grasp, a small automatic of blued steel. The Oriental’s expression was calm, like a postman’s delivering the mail. He slowly shook his head as if in regret and muttered softly, “That dumb son of a bitch.” Then, taking his time, he extended the gun in both hands in classic shooter’s pose and, from twenty steps away, shot Curtis Nussbaum in the forehead.
The sound was a soft pop, like someone breaking a paper bag blown up with air. There was a tiny whistling noise as the bullet flew across the corridor, and the instant stench of burnt gunpowder filled the air. A round hole appeared in Nussbaum’s forehead as if by magic. Blood spattered the masonry behind the agent’s head. Nussbaum slumped against the wall, grinned foolishly as if he’d forgotten something, then crumpled to the floor.
For a long instant, no one moved.
A woman screamed; her cries echoing down the corridor. Sharon glanced toward the sound and realized that the actress had pulled free of the baseball player and covered her mouth with both hands. Sharon looked once again at Yadaka, who stood poised with the gun extended, and had an odd thought. How in God’s name had Yadaka gotten that pistol through the courtroom metal detectors? A second thought came fleetingly: Hey, this guy is supposed to be on our side, isn’t he? Then a third idea died inside her consciousness as the Oriental stepped calmly behind her, put his arm around her throat, and placed the pistol’s barrel firmly against her temple. Yadaka raised his voice. “Nobody moves, or she’s dead.”
Lyndon Gray backed up with his palms out. “What is this, Benny?”
Detective Leeds moved forward, Curtis Nussbaum’s grinning corpse visible in the background. “Don’t do nothing foolish, friend.”
Yadaka ignored both men. He adjusted his forearm downward until it was draped across Sharon’s breastbone with his hand cradling the point of her shoulder. “Keep back,” he said. Slowly, a foot at a time, he steered his hostage in the direction of the elevator.
Later Sharon would be limp with fear, but at the moment she was oddly calm. It was as if she were having an out-of-body experience, Sharon Hays’s mind observing from some other viewpoint as the Oriental held a gun to her head and moved her across the corridor. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, men and women backtracking fast, their eyes riveted on Yadaka and his captive.
They reached the bank of elevators. Yadaka backed up to the sliding doors, keeping Sharon out in front. “To your left,” he said softly into her ear. “Press the Down button.”
Sharon nodded. Visible in the corner of her eye, Curtis Nussbaum twitched and tremored. She extended her left hand, felt first one button, then the other above it, and got ready to push the Down arrow. As she did, the overhead light dinged on and the doors slid open. Yadaka moved in obvious surprise, pulling Sharon along with him, captor and captive now flattened against the right-hand side of the car entry.
Rob Stanley strolled forward, accompanied by his bodyguard. The bodyguard exited first in a wary crouch, ready to fend off any overzealous fans, as Rob carefully adjusted his sunglasses on his nose. He wore chinos and a polo knit, and polished brown shoes with rounded toes. An actor’s smile was plastered on his face, bridgework gleaming. He moved in a casual swagger until he was half in, half out of the car, and surveyed the corridor. Sharon was abreast of Rob, his profile even with her as his head turned slowly in her direction, his smile fading a bit as he zeroed in on her. His lips parted. “What’s going on?” he said.
Sharon gave her former lover a tight grin. “Hi, Rob,” she said. The pressure of Yadaka’s arm around her shoulders intensified.
Quicker than thought, Yadaka released his grip on Sharon and pushed her roughly into the elevator. Backward she went, her spike heels slipping on carpet, the small of her back hitting the rear elevator wall. Down she tumbled, her skirt riding up to her crotch, her legs akimbo. She gasped.
Yadaka moved up and jammed his gun against Rob’s head, the actor’s smile still frozen in place, and quickly herded the TV star onto the car along with him. “You just stand there,” Yadaka said. He pressed a button. The bell dinged, the doors slid closed, and the car began its descent.
Rob’s grin dissolved as if by magic. He cringed against the wall and threw his arms up to shield his face. “Please don’t shoot me,” he begged.
Sharon had come up on one knee, feeling her pantyhose rip, and now lifted her head. The Oriental stood side-angle to her with his pistol aimed at Rob, the TV idol cowering and babbling. In spite of her fear she nearly giggled. God, if Rob’s fans could only see him now. Yadaka seemed to have totally forgotten her. In the breadth of a half second, she made up her mind.
She came up into a crouch, lowered her head, and charged, one step, two steps, the top of her head slamming into the Oriental’s midsection, the downward trajectory of the elevator throwing him off balance just enough. He stumbled and went back toward the button panel, ran into the wall with a soft oof, his gun hand raising instinctively. Sharon didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the band holding the gun and sank her teeth into Yadaka’s wrist as hard as she could. Flesh tore in her mouth.
The Oriental yelled in pain. The gun flew from his grasp and clattered across the elevator. Sharon released her tooth-hold and dove after the pistol as Yadaka instinctively grabbed his wrist. He grimaced, took a long stride after Sharon, too late. She was facing him from the floor with a gun aimed at his nose.
Yadaka backed away, hands outstretched. “Be careful with that,” he said.
Sharon came up on her feet. “I’ll be careful not to shoot myself. Shooting you is another story, Mr. Yadaka. Seems we’ve misjudged you.”
She glanced fleetingly at Rob, down on his knees now, eyes tightly closed, his arms up to shield his face. He whimpered, “Jesus Christ, I’ll pay anything, just don’t…” His body shook with terrified sobs. The elevator continued down, the light flashing across the overhead panel as they passed the sixth floor, the fifth.
Sharon reached with her free hand to pull a shrer of skin from between her teeth. There was a salt taste in her mouth. Carefully, keeping her gaze riveted on the Oriental, she stepped sideways and bumped Rob with her hip. “It’s over, Rob-oh,” she said. “You can get up now.”
“Jesus,” Rob pleaded. “Anything, Christ, I’ll…”
His hands came down. He looked slowly up. “Dammit, Rob,” Sharon said. “On your feet. In about three seconds that door’s going to open. You want to greet your public in that freaking pose?”
Rob looked from Sharon to Yadaka and back again. Yadaka stood unmoving, backed up to the button panel. The car stopped its descent. Sudden gravity sank Sharon’s feet deeper into the carpet.
Rob sprang to his feet. He adjusted his sunglasses, then held out his hand in Sharon’s direction. “Give me the gun, Muffin.”
Sharon expelled air. “Be my guest,” she said.
Rob took the pistol, aimed the barrel at the Oriental, and held the grip in both hands in a shooter’s pose. He showed Yadaka a stone-cold smile. “Make my afternoon, punk,” Rob said.
Yadaka gaped in disbelief. Sharon took a step back and folded her arms as the elevator doors opened.
“Not very original, but a defin
ite improvement,” Sharon said. “Smile as you exit, Rob. Your daughter may be watching at home.
28
There was a picture for the ages sprawled across the L.A. Times’s front page the following morning, Benny Yadaka exiting the Criminal Courts Building elevator with his hands up, Rob Stanley following with a pistol trained on Yadaka’s back, Sharon Hays bringing up the rear with her head down. A Pulitzer winner if ever there was one. The five-point headline below the picture read TV COP TURNS REAL-LIFE HERO, with the following caption underneath: “Minions of Justice star says he was protecting the mother of his child.”
Sharon saw the photo and read the accompanying story as she sat in the backseat of the limo on her way to LAX, with Darla beside her thumbing through a script which Aaron Levy had sent over. The panel between the front and back seats was open, Lyndon Gray driving. Sharon said to Darla, “Two mistakes, babe, is all that kept them from getting away with it. I won’t swear we couldn’t have gotten you acquitted, but finding the real killer would have been something else again.”
Darla looked up, her expression mildly curious.
Though she’d been brimming with gratitude upon her release from jail, her demeanor had changed drastically over the past eighteen hours. She was still in partial shock, retreating within herself. It might take weeks for her to regain her composure. The script in Darla’s lap was called “Passionate Temptress,” a softcore which, only a week ago, Darla wouldn’t have even read. Anything to keep her mind off the awful week she’s endured, Sharon thought. She offered Darla an encouraging smile. Darla’s lashes lowered as she returned her attention to the page.
“The first mistake wasn’t really that,” Sharon went on, “only a coincidence, David and Rob having the same agent. If I’d never tried to negotiate Rob’s check, I never would have uncovered the discrepancies in those bank accounts. The other mistake, well, it’s not in the paper. Detective Leeds called me last night.
Mr. Yadaka is talking a mile a minute, trying to make a deal to escape the death penalty.” Sharon didn’t mention the fact that Detective Leeds had talked pretty fast as well, trying to arrange a date with her. Sharon would have accepted if—dammit!—she hadn’t been leaving town.
Lyndon Gray turned his head slightly to the side and cocked an ear. “I feel responsible,” he said. “Benny’s credentials weren’t sterling, but in the future we’ll keep a more watchful eye.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over that,” Sharon said. “His only criminal record was as a juvenile, and as such was sealed. Nussbaum’s most colossal foul-up had to do with the writer, Harlon Swain. On the day of the murder, David’s murder, Nussbaum was supposed to meet Yadaka at LAX and give him the .38 to transport to Dallas. The same day Nussbaum received Mr. Swain’s completed book in the mail. His problem was, his contract with the writer didn’t contain the same cancellation clause as Nussbaum’s contract with the studio. Mr. Nussbaum was both overextended and overgreedy, it turns out. The studio had offered two million for the book, but Nussbaum had only offered the writer eight hundred thousand. In his haste to get the sucker’s name on the dotted line, Nussbaum didn’t mind his p’s and q’s on the contract clauses. So not only had the studio demanded its money back from Nussbaum—which he couldn’t pay without collecting on the life insurance policy he’d bought on David—now the writer had finished the book and was expecting the balance of his money. Which was quite a bit, since Nussbaum had not only lied to Harlon Swain about the purchase price, he’d also fibbed about the amount of the advance. The studio initially advanced twenty thousand dollars for the writer. Nussbaum told Harlon Swain that the advance was ten thousand dollars and pocketed the other ten. Lovely man.” She gazed thoughtfully to the west, at whitecaps rolling under a sky of crystal blue, the limo rolling south on Highway One.
Sharon looked to her left. Darla had returned to her reading, obviously trying to concentrate, though her gaze wandered occasionally out the window. Sharon leaned forward and spoke to Lyndon Gray through the partition. “Nussbaum made an appointment with Swain, and went to Swain’s house on his way to meet Mr. Yadaka at the airport. Or maybe I should call him Benny, you think? One thing led to another, an argument broke out, and Nussbaum killed the writer with the same gun Yadaka planned to use on David and then plant at Darla’s. Nussbaum didn’t tell Benny about killing Harton Swain, partly because he didn’t trust Yadaka and partly because he was just plain scared. If he had. Benny likely would have changed weapons.
“Yadaka flew commercially to Dallas,” Sharon said, “met Nussbaum’s security man, Chuck Hager, at the Mansion Hotel, and then the two of them murdered David after he’d beaten Darla up and she’d gone to California. Made a bloody mess of it, with the stabbing, which Yadaka claims was Hager’s doing. He’s probably telling the truth. Apparently Mr. Hager wasn’t the coolest of heads.
“Benny killed Hager,” Sharon said, “because he kept banging around where he wasn’t supposed to. Another man wanting his money. Nussbaum spent his life juggling money around, which worked all right with movie stars who wouldn’t miss an extra half million or so. With Chuck Haser and Harlon Swain he was dealing with two desperate men. Guys in their financial condition are harder to jerk around.”
Sharon leaned back, slightly out of breath, and turned a page in the newspaper. On page two was a story to the effect that Harton Swain’s niece and only living heir, a topless dancer in Burbank, was taking bids from publishers for the rights to Dead On. The niece’s agent, Cherry Vick, expect the book auction to set records. Sharon scanned the piece, then turned her attention to another story. This was an article about a California senator under federal investigation for taking bribes. The politico was negotiating with several lawyers to defend him, one being Darla Cowan’s famous attorney Preston Trigg. Trigg’s picture was beneath the article. Sharon thought that Pres had better seek new office space. She grinned and tossed the paper away. “I still don’t know how Yadaka got that pistol into the courthouse through the metal detectors. Something Detective Leeds would like to know as well.”
Darla closed the script, folded her arms, and stared vacantly at the back of the front seat. Sharon reached out and gently touched the actress’s arm. Darla smiled fleetingly, then looked away.
“I can supply the answer to that dilemma,” Gray said, “assuming the answer stays between us.”
Sharon leaned forward, all ears. “Assuming it’s not a capital crime,” she said.
“Only a minor felony, miss.” The Englishman kept both hands on the wheel. “Every security person in L.A. knows the trick, at least those who do work for celebrities. You must be armed at all times, even in a courthouse situation. It’s a sad fact, but movie stars are subject to physical attack anywhere. If the authorities learn our little tricks of the trade, the tricks won’t work any longer. I had my own pistol with me in the courtroom yesterday, Miss Hays.” He turned for long enough to smile at her, then returned his attention to the road. “If you’d moved in the slightest so that I had an open shot, Benny never would have made it onto the elevator.”
Sharon watched the broad back, the slightly graying head of hair. Having Lyndon Gray covering one’s backside on a regular basis would be comforting. “My lips are sealed, sir,” Sharon said.
“It’s pretty simple, really,” Gray said. “You disarm your weapon, open the cylinder on a revolver or remove the clip on an automatic, and place the gun inside a sealed evidence bag with a sticker attached. Your ammunition goes into a second evidence bag. When you pass through the metal detectors you place the weapon and bullets in plain sight on the table along with your keys and other metal objects. So many weapons come into court as evidence, the guards pay you no heed.”
“That simple, huh?” Sharon felt a little chill. “Not particularly reassuring, knowing it’s that easy.”
“It’s unfortunate that the protection business can also become the killing business,” Gray said, “but it happen
s. Occasionally a Benny Yadaka…” Gray trailed off thoughtfully, then continued in a firmer voice. “One of the tricks of the trade, Miss Hays. One of the tricks of the trade.”
The paparazzi were out in force, having trailed the limo from the beach house to the airport, and cameras flashed all around as Sharon and Darla exited onto the curb at the entrance to the American terminal. Reporters stood back, notebooks in hand, and fired questions which the women ignored as, heads down and sunglasses in place, they ducked into the building. Sharon noted with amusement that the photographers were just going through the motions, as if their hearts weren’t in their work. The abrupt closing to Texas v. Darla Cowan had brought the media circus to a screeching halt; anticipating another O.J. with all the bells and whistles, the networks had beefed up their coverage staffs for nought. A week of excitement, suddenly over and done, on to the next grisly murder story. Aaron Levy had left a message for Sharon at the beach house that morning, to the effect that the best he could hope for now was a paperback deal. Sharon hadn’t returned his call.
Lyndon Gray handled Sharon’s luggage, then ushered the women out the walkway to the gate and into American’s VIP lounge. Sharon’s flight wouldn’t take off for three-quarters of an hour. She followed Darla down a plush-carpeted aisle, headed for a back booth. The bar was in front of a picture window, bottles in a row with gleaming chrome spouts extending from their necks. The bartender was a bearded youngster wearing a black vest and tie. Visible beyond him through the window, a 747 revved its engines on the runway. Halfway to the booth, Sharon stopped in her tracks as Darla moved on ahead.
Rob was seated at the bar along with his bodyguard. He spun around on a stool and showed her an anxious look. He was dressed in new jeans and a soft cotton pullover. His actor’s grin was hesitant and uncertain. Sharon gave Darla a just-a-minute wave and went over to the bar. “Good afternoon, hero,” she said.