Dayle apologized and said she had to leave. Her memory of the night before was vague. She’d gone into the water with the others, but kept on her panties. Cindy had stripped all the way to nothing. Several of the guys were after her, but Cindy shot each one down, and eventually she swam to Dayle.
Having been married two years to a gay man, Dayle was curious about same-gender sex—and maybe just a tad interested in evening the score on her wandering spouse. She’d felt a rush of excitement sneaking away with Cindy. But by the time they began kissing and touching each other, it seemed silly. Dayle had to pretend she was someone else in order to overcome the awkwardness. The whole experience was like another acting assignment. She didn’t enjoy it very much.
And she really didn’t want to have pancakes with Cindy. Despite her urgency to get the hell out of there, Dayle tried to let Cindy down easy. She told her that the previous evening’s activities had been a fluke, a drunken experiment. She couldn’t get dressed fast enough. “Considering this kind of thing isn’t my bag,” she heard herself say. “I still had fun with you….”
Cindy stared at her sleepily. Puffing away on a Newport, she lay naked in the bunk, an ashtray balanced on her stomach. “Bullshit,” she said finally. “This is your bag. You’re into girls. That’s what I heard on the set. You dig girls, your old man is into guys, and the two of you got married to please the Hollywood establishment.”
Dayle didn’t remember how long she stuck around trying to convince Cindy that she was wrong. But she vividly recalled the wavering boat, and feeling so sick. When she finally climbed up to the deck, she braced herself against a light post by the dock, and succumbed to the dry heaves.
The half-true rumors about her “marriage of convenience” periodically haunted Dayle and Jeremy during the eight years they were together. But the talk never grew above a whisper, and it stayed within the Hollywood community. Ironically, it took Dayle’s affair with Simon Peck—along with the divorce, and Jeremy’s subsequent remarriage—for the gossip to die down about both of them. Ending in all that mess, it didn’t seem so much like a marriage of convenience anymore.
Of course, the tales about Dayle’s lesbian leanings were resurrected after the release of Survival Instincts. And just as the gossip started subsiding, Leigh’s “suicide” ignited all sorts of new speculation. What was Dayle’s role during Leigh’s last hours that night at the Portland hotel? Had a lover’s quarrel provoked Leigh’s overdose?
The publicity dates with John McDunn had helped take some of the heat off. The former lovers looked so right together, their claim that they were “just good friends” seemed like a smoke screen for some torrid affair. More damage control came from Dayle’s publicist, who concocted a story about the meeting with Leigh on that fateful night. According to the press release, the two women had gotten together to discuss Leigh recording the theme song for Dayle’s new movie. A lot of people bought the story. In fact, several recording artists expressed interest in taking over the vocal assignment.
Dayle had to look out for her reputation. Nevertheless, the more she thought about having to take these steps in the wake of Leigh’s death, the less she liked herself.
She ran harder, pouring it on until she was sprinting around that rooftop track. Her lungs burned, and beads of sweat flew off her forehead.
When she’d started her laps a half hour ago, Dayle had been alone up there. The track encircled a glass-enclosed pool area—complete with lounge chairs, umbrella tables, blooming plants, and potted trees. There were also rest rooms and a mini-gym around the corner by the stairwell, on the other side of the elevator. The maintenance crew kept this semiprivate paradise spotlessly clean. Still, the place always smelled like chlorine and wet socks.
No one was using the pool right now. As dusk gave way to night, the inside lights—set on a timer—went on. Dayle tallied her twenty-eighth lap and began to slow down. Passing by the vestibule for the elevators, she caught a glimpse of someone on the other side of the glass door. He’d been standing there, watching her—a short, pale, mustached man in an aviator jacket. Despite the darkness, he wore sunglasses. Dayle didn’t recognize him as one of her neighbors in the building.
Now that she’d spotted him, the stocky little man suddenly turned away and tried to look interested in the pool area. It wasn’t a very convincing show. He opened the other door and stepped into the tropical atrium, but he kept sneaking these furtive glaces at her.
Dayle peered back over her shoulder at him. She veered along a bend in the track, and ran a half lap on the other side of the building. Taking another curve, she saw him again—still in the pool area. He hadn’t strayed far from the vestibule door. He seemed to be staking out the elevators.
The distant blare of a car horn made her aware of the traffic several stories below—just on the other side of the chest-high railing. The wind kicked up a little, and Dayle suddenly felt cold. The sweat on her forehead turned clammy.
Warily, she watched him move back into the vestibule. She could tell that behind those sunglasses, the creepy man was staring at her. She must have been frowning at him, because he suddenly turned again, and reached for the elevator button. But he didn’t actually press it, his thumb missed the button by an inch. The little arrow light didn’t go on. Almost too casually, he glanced back at her again. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was waiting for her.
Dayle couldn’t quite catch her breath—even as she slowed down to a trot. Her skin felt prickly.
She kept her eyes trained on him—until she rounded another curve in the track. She jogged past the mini-gym, the rest rooms, and a stairwell on the other side of the glass. At the next bend, there was a door to the pool area. She hoped to duck inside and make it to the stairs before he saw her.
Approaching the pool entry, Dayle took a more deliberate stride. She didn’t want to burst through the door and call attention to her flight. She couldn’t let him know she was scared. Like a dog scenting her fear, he’d give chase if she ran. She pulled open the door and walked at a brisk clip toward the stairwell. The humid, chlorine-stagnant air hit her, but she didn’t slow down. Navigating around the pool, she spied him—still by the elevators. He was talking on a cell phone. Dayle couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her yet.
Then, as she neared the stairs, Dayle caught a glimpse of the door to the vestibule swinging open. She didn’t look back. She heard his footsteps on the tiled floor—and him whispering some kind of urgent directions into his portable phone.
Dayle ducked into the stairwell and hurried down a few steps before she suddenly froze. She gaped over the banister. Two flights below, a figure pulled back from the stair railing and retreated into the shadows—along the cement wall.
Someone else was waiting for her.
For a second, Dayle was paralyzed. She turned and raced back up the stairs. She didn’t see the stubby man with the sunglasses. She didn’t even stop to look for him as she emerged from the stairwell. Everything was a blur. She found the ladies’ room door, pushed her way inside, then locked it.
Catching her breath, Dayle leaned against the door. She couldn’t stop trembling. She was covered with perspiration, and her jogging-wear clung to her body. She listened to the footsteps outside—then whispering. It sounded as though one of them said, “She’s in there.”
Dayle backed away from the door—toward the toilet stalls. One of the men outside began tugging and wrenching at the knob over and over—to no avail. Finally, a thin file slipped through the crack by the lock, and it started moving up and down.
Dayle frantically glanced around the lavatory, looking for anything she might use to defend herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the reflection of the mirror.
Gasping, she spun around. A shadow floated across the tiled floor—over by the corner stall. Was someone hiding in there? Did they have a third man working with them?
Dayle tried to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, the scream came from outside—from th
e pool area. It was the sound of a little girl. Dayle heard a woman and man talking, then water splashing.
Dazed, she stared at the door. The file wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t hear their whispered voices. They’d gone.
Dayle glanced back at that corner stall, then unlocked the rest room door and pushed it open. She peered out at the five people who had unwittingly saved her. Two children were splashing each other in the shallow end of the pool, while three adults—in their street clothes—settled down at an umbrella table. It looked like a young couple with a friend—one of Dayle’s neighbors, probably an uncle to those kids.
She still didn’t feel safe. Dayle stole one more glance at that stall in the corner. If someone was in there, he’d hidden himself well. And she wasn’t going to start looking for him.
Dayle hurried out of the rest room.
“Then what happened?” Lieutenant Linn asked.
“I asked my neighbor over by the pool if he could escort me back to my apartment.” Dayle spoke in a whisper. She glanced around the restaurant for a second, then sighed. “I told him that a reporter had somehow gotten into the building, and he was bothering me. Anyway, my neighbor rode down in the elevator with me, then walked me to my door.”
Despite the noisy crowd at Denny’s this Halloween morning, Dayle was certain someone would hear her. Already, a couple of loud, overly friendly women had come up to the table and asked for her autograph. They kept shrieking and laughing, like contestants on The Price Is Right. The women had left a few minutes ago, but people were still staring.
When Dayle had called her last night, Lieutenant Linn claimed that this particular Denny’s was where she had all her breakfast meetings. A cardboard and tissue jack-o’-lantern centerpiece decorated their window table. The waitress, an older woman with glasses and a pink rinse in her hair, had seemed far too busy to notice that the order for dry toast and orange juice came from a bona fide movie star. Lieutenant Linn had ordered a Grand Slam.
“Don’t you have someone handling security in your building?” she asked, while jotting in her notebook.
Dayle nodded. “We have a doorman and a guard. I called them immediately. But they never found the men. It’s possible these guys slipped in past the front desk earlier. Someone on the eleventh floor was having a lot of work done on their place, and workmen were coming in and out all day.”
Lieutenant Linn grabbed the brown plastic pitcher and refilled both of their coffee cups. “Why did you tell your neighbor that a reporter was pestering you? Why not just tell him the truth?”
“Because these men were after me,” Dayle replied. “I saw no point in scaring my neighbor—or his friends.”
“What makes you so sure they were after you—and only you?”
Dayle frowned. “I’m not paranoid—if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Well, isn’t it possible that these men could have been reporters?” Lieutenant Linn said. “I mean, as you know, some of those guys are awfully aggressive.”
Dayle sighed and glanced out the window for a moment. She’d hoped to avoid publicity by calling Lieutenant Linn last night—instead of reporting the incident to the police. She didn’t want the press picking it up.
Their breakfast arrived. Dayle’s toast was smothered with butter, but at this point, she didn’t give a damn. “I know you think I’m overreacting,” she said. “But something’s happening here. Leigh’s death wasn’t a suicide, and what happened to Tony Katz was no random gay-bashing. He was getting death threats. I wish I could tell you where I heard this, but I can’t. This person prefers to remain anonymous.”
Susan Linn doused her pancakes with syrup. “So you think the men stalking you last night are the same ones who threatened Tony Katz—and killed Leigh Simone?” She gave Dayle a dubious glance. “Why should they want to kill you?”
Dayle shrugged. “I was at that benefit concert. I gave a tribute to Tony. Maybe I pissed somebody off. I had a ton of death threats a couple of years ago when I played a gay character in this movie.”
Nodding, Lieutenant Linn jotted something in her steno pad. “Survival Instincts. I saw it. Listen, do you have a bodyguard?”
“My chauffeur doubles as my bodyguard.”
“You should get somebody full time.” She put down her pen. “When we last talked, you insisted we were wrong about Leigh’s drug habits and sexual problems. Do you still feel that way?”
“Yes, I do,” Dayle said.
“That would make her assistant, Estelle Collier, a liar, wouldn’t it?”
“Has anyone ever bothered to confirm Estelle’s claims about Leigh’s ‘secret life’?”
Susan Linn shrugged. “I suppose we’re all rather quick to believe the worst about people, especially the rich and famous. Then again, why would Estelle Collier lie?”
“I might be able to answer that for you, Lieutenant. Very soon.”
Amos Brock’s brother, Nick, attracted a lot of attention as he swaggered to Dayle’s trailer door. About thirty, and attractive in a cheap, hoody way, he was tan (probably all over), and wore a Hawaiian silk shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He had a sinewy body and his straight black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. He looked like the male equivalent of a bimbo.
He’d shown up at the studio between scene setups. Dayle had managed to get in three hours of work since her breakfast with Lieutenant Linn this morning. She was in her trailer, chatting with Bonny, and primping for her next scene. She asked Bonny to leave them alone for a few minutes. Bonny gave her a lewd wink at the trailer door—as if Nick Brock were some hired stud service, not a private detective. Keeping a straight face, Dayle offered him a seat and a cup of coffee. He’d dowsed himself in Obsession, forcing Dayle to crank up the vent fan. She returned to her vanity, where she reapplied her lipstick. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Brock,” she said to his reflection in the mirror. “I assume you found something.”
“Correct-a-mundo, and you can call me Nick,” he said, leering at her. “You know, you’re one fine-looking lady, Ms. Sutton. And it doesn’t take a lot of detective work to figure that out.”
“Thanks,” Dayle said. “But you can knock off the sweet talk, Nick. What did you find out about Estelle Collier?”
He opened a black leather-bound notebook. “Well, our gal, Estelle, has a lot of secrets. First off, she’s got a kid, a love child, the result of her hippie period. His name is Peter, and he was born in San Francisco in 1970.”
“Is this son still alive?” she asked.
Nick nodded. “Correct-a-mundo. And although she’s been hanging out with liberal types like Leigh Simone, Estelle has kept junior a secret.”
Dayle turned to stare at him. “What about the father?”
“It says ‘unknown’ on the birth certificate. But I know this much. The little bastard grew into a big bastard, despite mama busting her chops to make sure he got everything he wanted. Estelle has spent a small fortune bailing him out of jail again and again, and putting him into private rehab centers for substance abuse. Thanks to Peter, Mama Estelle was in debt up to her ass when Leigh Simone hired her. That was six years ago. At just about the time Estelle was climbing out of debt, Little Petee got bitten by the gambling bug. Three guesses how his luck was.”
“Disastrous?”
He nodded. “Correct-a-mundo. A major loser.”
“Could you do me a favor, Nick?” Dayle said. “Could you knock off the ‘correct-a-mundo’ bit? It’s annoying.”
Nick looked crestfallen. “Sorry,” he grumbled. He glanced down at his notes. “Um, where was I?”
“The son had some gambling debts. I gather Estelle covered his losses.”
Nick nodded. “Mama to the rescue. It was either that or sonny would get his legs sawed off at the kneecaps. To shell out the payments, Estelle borrowed from her boss—on the sly.”
“She embezzled from Leigh?”
“Correct-a—” Nick caught himself. “Yes. Looks that way.”
“How did
you find out all this?”
Nick leaned back and sighed. “Detective work, Ms. Sutton. It’s what I do. I talked to an ex-friend of Peter Collier’s, and I found this in San Francisco.” He handed her a copy of Peter Collier’s birth certificate. “Plus I schmoozed with a clerk at the accounting firm for the late Leigh Simone.”
“A clerk?”
Nick shrugged. “She’s hot for me. I bat my baby blues, casually ask the questions, and she always spills more than she intends to. From what I could find out, when Leigh offed herself, right away, they noticed a lot of money had gone hasta-la-bye-bye from her accounts. So they pumped Estelle, and she cracked, fessed up to the whole thing.”
“Why wasn’t she arrested?”
“They were supposed to be keeping track of Leigh’s doeray-me. If they blew the whistle on Estelle, they’d look like idiots. My guess is, they must have made a deal with Estelle to replace the money before anyone was the wiser. The day after Leigh was discovered in the ladies’ lav, ever faithful Estelle played ball with the tabloids, slamming her dead boss. She raked in close to forty thousand that day, but you’d never know it, because it went right into Leigh’s account to cover what she’d been skimming. Y’know, when it came to blowing the whistle on Madame Simone, Estelle promised the tabloids more than she delivered. She couldn’t back up a thing she told them. No juicy photos or videos, no love letters in Leigh’s handwriting, no proof. Bupkis. The tabloids weren’t too happy with her.”
“So Estelle couldn’t prove she was telling the truth about Leigh?”
Nick nodded. “Correct-a…yes, correct, ma’am.”
“Okay,” Dayle said. “What I need is proof that she was lying to the tabloids and the police. Were you able to dig anything up?”
The Next to Die Page 9