Hank had waited out by the limo during her lunch. Dayle couldn’t help wondering about old reliable Hank. Had he been forced into letting someone duplicate his key to her apartment? Or had he left that note himself? He’d been with her for seven years, but how well did she really knew him? He was just this simple, sweet—almost neuter—hump of a guy who liked mystery novels and The Beatles trivia. In all the miles they’d driven together, she’d barely scratched the surface with Hank. Yet her trust in him was unwavering—until now.
She’d raised the limo’s glass partition for her call to Nick. She needed him to track down the whereabouts of Cindy Zellerback: Caucasian, red hair or possibly blond, late thirties. It was a rush job.
Dayle wasn’t sure how much damage this Cindy affair could cause. After all, it was an isolated incident from fifteen years ago. Was this the only ammunition these people had to use on her? If so, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. At least, that was what she kept telling herself.
She wanted Sean to tell her the same thing. Cradling the limo’s phone against her ear, Dayle dug into her purse. “Listen, Nick, if you find something in the next hour or so, here’s where I’ll be…” She read Sean’s office phone and fax numbers from her business card.
“I’m on top of it,” Nick replied. “And I should have that license plate and credit card trace for you by tomorrow.”
“Good boy,” Dayle said.
“Ciao, Ms. Sutton.” Nick hung up.
Dayle listened to the dead air. She was still looking at Hank in the front seat. “Hank, can you hear me?” she said, into the phone.
He didn’t flinch at all. Dayle hung up the telephone. She continued to stare at him on the other side of the glass divider. “Hank?” she said. “Hank, you can hear me, can’t you?”
He didn’t flinch. He seemed totally focused on the road ahead.
Dayle pressed the button on the armrest, and the divider window descended with a low mechanical him. “Hank?” she said.
His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am?”
Those eyes were so guileless. He patiently waited for her to say something. Good old Hank. What was she thinking?
With a tired smile, Dayle sat back again. “Never mind. For a moment there, I thought you’d made a wrong turn, but I was mistaken.”
“It happened so long ago,” Dayle said, handing Sean a book from the packing box. “I vaguely recall someone taking my picture with Cindy while we were on the beach. God help me, I think we were topless at the time.”
Sean stood on a ladder, filing law volumes on the top shelf of her bookcase. Her office was taking shape: sea-foam green walls with white trim. No more drop cloths.
“Well, Dayle,” she said. “I don’t think your career will suffer. Like you say, it happened too long ago—and with some nobody, It’s old news.” She held her hand out. “Volume seventeen, please.”
Frowning, Dayle gave the law book to her. “You’re probably right. But I want to be prepared when this thing goes public. I mean, maybe it’s out there already. Right now, this Cindy could be talking to Jane Pauley.”
Climbing down from the ladder, Sean chuckled. “If it’ll make you feel better, have a look.” She found the remote, and switched on her TV. “But I think all the show business news is about your future costar, Avery Cooper.”
The TV came on: “I’m Mrs. Russell Marshall. But you can call me Elsie.”
“Hi, Elsie!”
“Oh, shit,” Dayle muttered, plopping down on the sofa.
“Maybe I’m just a housewife,” Elsie said. “But as a mother and a good Christian, I think my opinion counts for something….”
“She kind of makes you wish they’d start feeding ‘good Christians’ to the lions again,” Sean remarked, ready to switch channels.
“Wait a minute,” Dayle said. She heard Elsie mention Maggie McGuire.
“…and I’m sorry she’s dead. But if you’ll excuse me, I wouldn’t exactly say she was a shining example of motherhood—as some people maintain. She claimed to be proud of her homosexual son who now has AIDS. Well, I’m sorry, but ‘proud’? Come on! How exactly did he get AIDS? Was she proud of that?”
“My God,” Sean said. “How does she get away with it?”
On TV, Elsie was now meandering toward her desk. “Quite frankly, I hope people have sense enough to see the truth behind the tragedy here. We’ve all seen her hard-core porn movie. I have a difficult time respecting a woman who would make a movie like that….”
“What’s she talking about?” Dayle asked. “What porn movie?”
Sean stared at her. “You don’t know?” She turned down the volume. “Maggie McGuire did a stag film back in the late forties. Now it’s suddenly resurfaced. Her body’s barely cold, and last night they were showing Maggie’s old skin flick on First Edition.”
Dayle glanced back at the TV. Elsie was still talking, but with the volume so low, Dayle could only make out her saccharine tone, and the audience laughing. She’d missed the joke. That was what Maggie McGuire had now become: a joke. The accomplishments of her forty-year career suddenly took second place to this scandal. “My God,” Dayle murmured, gazing at Elsie on the screen. She looked so superior and smug. This humiliation of the late Maggie McGuire was a victory for Elsie Marshall and the radical right.
Maggie’s personal crusades and causes suddenly seemed wrong, and Elsie’s logic rang true. Maggie McGuire had stood by her gay son, but this was a woman who had appeared in pornographic movies. Her opinions couldn’t count for much. She was a bad example of motherhood.
The same thing had happened to Tony Katz and Leigh Simone after their untimely deaths. “They all died in shame,” Dayle murmured, staring at the TV.
Sean squinted at her. “What?”
Dayle got to her feet. “There was a scandal when each one was killed—Tony, Leigh, now Maggie. Their reputations were ruined. Tony—caught with his pants down, and Leigh—a drug addict. Now, Maggie, a porn star.”
Sean was shaking her head. “I don’t understand. Slow down—”
“It wasn’t enough that they killed them. They had to ruin their reputations too, disgrace them, take away their credibility. Tony, Leigh, and Maggie, they were outspoken liberals, and they all got killed—”
The telephone rang.
“Go on, I’m listening,” Sean said. “It’s just my fax machine.”
“Their names were dragged through the mud,” Dayle continued. “They died in shame. Their careers and their causes became like a joke.”
“What do you mean by ‘causes’?”
“They advocated gun control—or gay rights. They were pro-choice, or they fought against censorship and capitol punishment, you name it. These are the kind of hot issues that make certain people crazy—crazy enough to quote the Old Testament—or march and protest, or even kill.”
“So where do you come in?” Sean asked.
“Maybe I pissed them off when I spoke out about Leigh’s death. They might know about the movie we’re going to make. I keep thinking about this Cindy business. Maybe that’s how they’re going to drag me though the mud—once they’ve killed me.”
Sean frowned. “No. It’s just not sensational enough. So you got drunk one night fifteen years ago and experimented with another woman. This is the new millennium. Who cares?”
The telephone rang again. “The machine will pick up,” Sean said.
“But whoever is behind this isn’t living in the new millennium,” Dayle said, over the phone recording. “They don’t want any liberal martyrs and cult heroes. So they’re making their celebrity victims look sleazy—”
“Yo, this is Nick Brock, and I’m calling for Dayle Sutton—”
“Oh, grab it, grab it!” Dayle steered Sean toward the phone on the desk. Sean picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Sean Olson speaking.” She listened for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not your ‘honey doll,’ but yes, she’s right here.” Sean put a hand ove
r the mouthpiece. “It’s your detective friend. He sent the fax.”
“Don’t hang up on him,” Dayle said. She checked the fax machine.
“I’m not supposed to hang up on you,” Sean said into the phone. “Though I’m sorely tempted.”
Dayle glanced at the first fax page. Nick had scribbled a note on the cover sheet: Cynthia Zellerback’s current address and phone number are on page 4. Chow! Nick.
“Tell him I’ll call him in a couple of minutes,” Dayle said. She watched the fourth page inch out of the machine.
“She’ll call you right back, Romeo,” Sean said, then hung up.
Two pages of the fax were from a four-month-old article in the Los Angeles Times. Dayle hardly recognized the dowdy, middle-aged woman in the news photo as that girl from the boat. The once lustrous, long red hair now appeared short and brittle. Cindy’s features had turned hard. The picture had been taken outside, with some steps in the background, perhaps a church or courthouse. Cindy looked so hardened and bitter, squinting in the sunlight.
Dayle read the headline: KILLER OF HUSBAND AND CHILD PAROLED, WOMAN SERVED 12 YEARS FOR MURDERING HER FAMILY.
Dayle read on, cringing at the details surrounding the stabbing deaths of two-year-old Sunshine Zellerback and her father, Andrew, a 29-year-old motorcycle repairman. Cindy had been convicted of the murders in 1988. Claiming she’d been reborn to Christ while in prison, the “reformed” Cynthia Zellerback blamed her earlier actions on drug use and a promiscuous lifestyle, which had included lesbian sex.
It was the type of stuff tabloids devoured and spit out at the public with relish. Dayle imagined the headlines: DAYLE SUTTON IN LESBIAN LOVE-NEST WITH CONVICTED CHILD-KILLER! The murders had occurred only a few years after that episode on the boat down in Mexico. Dayle showed the fax to Sean. “This is the girl I was with,” she said.
Sean took a couple of minutes to read the news article, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not like you murdered anybody.”
Frowning, Dayle shook her head and sighed. “I had sex with a child killer. It’s guilt by association. The tabloids will eat it up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Dayle muttered. “I’ll probably spend tonight drinking too much and sleeping too little while I fret about it. And after that break-in today, I don’t feel very safe there. Maybe I should check into a hotel—”
“Don’t be silly,” Sean said. “Come spend the night with us in Malibu. My husband, the movie fanatic, will be so excited to meet you, he’ll probably climb out of his wheelchair and do the hokeypokey.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Dayle said.
“Nonsense,” Sean said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “My in-laws would love to have you. Phoebe can bunk in with Danny, and you can have her room. You and I can burn the midnight oil and hatch a strategy to deal with this Cindy business. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Dayle.”
She gave her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Sean. But…” She turned toward the window. Three stories below, a white Taurus was parked half a block away on the other side of the street from Hank and her limousine. She could barely see the man sitting behind the wheel. “If I came over tonight, I’d be bringing some excess baggage—and possibly endangering your family.”
Sean stepped up to the window. She stared at the rental car. “You could leave now—and lose him somehow. Then come back here, and we’ll drive to Malibu together.”
“I’ll phone my friend, Bonny,” Dayle said. “Maybe she’s available to play decoy again. After we make the switch, I’ll circle back here by cab.”
Sean nodded. “Use the delivery entrance. I’ll give you my cell phone. Call me, and I’ll let you in.” She dug the tiny phone from her purse, then handed it to Dayle. “It’s good that you’re getting a professional bodyguard. Your driver, Hank, seems very nice, but well…”
“I know,” Dayle replied.
Sean took her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful, okay? I have a weird feeling about tonight. It’s one reason I think you shouldn’t be alone.”
“It’s really not fair to you, Hank,” Dayle said from the backseat of the limo. The divider window was down. “You didn’t hire on as a bodyguard, and that’s what I need right now. Dennis says this guy is a pro, with years of experience. The people who are out to get me, they mean business. They may have hired professional killers. So I need a professional bodyguard, some guy who’s a real pain in the ass. And I’m not going to like him, because he’ll make me take all sorts of silly precautions. But most of all, I’m not going to like him, because he won’t be you.”
Hank’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “Is it okay if I don’t like him either?”
Dayle patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hank.”
They pulled into Bonny’s apartment complex. The Taurus had kept a steady pace behind them. Dayle made out only one person in the car. The driver turned off his headlights as he followed them into the parking lot. He took a spot near one of the other buildings.
Dayle quickly donned her trench coat and sunglasses. Hank walked her to the front door, and she rang the buzzer.
“Sunglasses at night? I’ll be as blind as a bat.” Bonny stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, arranging her hair to look like Dayle’s.
“Sorry,” Dayle said. “They’re parked pretty close. I didn’t want to take any chances they’d see a switch.”
Bonny laughed. “Make them wear these shades. They won’t see squat.”
“Be extra careful out there tonight,” Dayle said. “I think they might try something pretty soon.”
“Well, in that case I’ll bring a friend along.” Bonny pulled a gun and holster from her closet shelf. She strapped on the holster as if it were part of a backpack. Dayle watched her, amazed by the former policewoman’s cool composure. Bonny climbed into Dayle’s trench coat.
Dayle gave her a quick hug at the door. Then she phoned for a taxi. The dispatcher said a cab would be there in ten minutes. From Bonny’s living room window, she watched Hank, leaning against the limo. The white Taurus was still near the lot entrance. Dayle hadn’t noticed before, but a police car was parked only a few spaces down. It must have just pulled in. Someone stood outside the patrol car, talking to the cop inside.
Directly below, Bonny approached the limo. With the sunglasses and trench coat, she was Dayle’s duplicate. Hank opened the limo door for her.
Across the way, the person talking to the officer a moment ago was now gone. Dayle glimpsed a figure darting around some shrubbery by another building in the complex. Then he disappeared in the shadows.
Something’s wrong, Dayle thought, pressing her hand to the window. Below, Hank was steering the limo toward the exit. At the same time, the police car started to move, but its headlights remained dark.
Dayle remembered Sean mentioning a cop car had been parked in the lot at that cheesy hotel where they were all staying.
“Oh, Jesus, no,” she gasped. She grabbed Sean’s phone out of her purse.
Five stories down, Hank pulled onto the road. The patrol car crept to the lot exit; then the headlights went on—as did the red strobe on its hood.
Dayle dialed the number of her limo. Helplessly, she watched the police vehicle speed up behind Hank, less than half a block from the lot exit. On the third ring, a recorded message told Dayle that the number she’d dialed was no longer in service.
“Goddamn it!” she hissed. She dialed again. Then she looked at the limo, now stopped by the side of the road, the cop car in back of it. One ring. The officer got out of the patrol car. He was reaching for his gun.
Two rings.
“Pick up, Hank!” Dayle hissed. “Goddamn it, please pick up!”
The policeman had his gun out. He approached Hank’s side of the limo.
“Hello?” Hank said, on the other end of the line.
“Hank, it’s a trap!”
&nb
sp; The cop was at his window now.
“What?” Hank asked. “Just a minute—”
“No, no, it’s a trap. Please, Hank! Don’t you see?”
She could hear him: “What’s the matter, officer?”
“Hank, get out of there!” Dayle screamed.
“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, WAIT A MINUTE!”
The noise on the phone was like someone hitting a knife against hollow pipe. A metallic echo. Three times. The cop, or whoever he was, had a silencer on his gun. She heard Hank dropping the telephone.
Dayle could see the cop firing into the open window of the limousine’s front seat. He must have shot poor Hank in the face.
A loud shot rang out. It had to be Bonny firing in self-defense. The cop reeled back, then managed to aim his gun again—this time, at the figure in the backseat.
Over the phone, Dayle heard two more of those metallic echoes. Then a loud pop from Bonny’s gun. The cop retaliated with another two shots.
Still, Bonny must have hit him, because he was clutching his side as he staggered back to his patrol car. He peeled away from the curb, passing her limousine and speeding up the street.
Meanwhile, the limo didn’t move. Dayle could hear moaning on the telephone line. She wasn’t sure if it was Hank or Bonny. But someone was dying.
Sixteen
The 9-1-1 operator told Dayle to stay by the phone.
“I’m on a cellular,” Dayle said. She rattled off the number as she grabbed a couple of towels from Bonny’s bathroom. “I’m headed out to the limo right now. Please, tell them to hurry.”
Dayle threw the phone in her purse and raced down to the lobby. Five floors. She couldn’t wait for the elevator. She ran out to the street. The limo was up ahead, under a street lamp. She could see the beaded windshield-like raindrops, only they were on the inside of the car, and the droplets were blood.
The Next to Die Page 20