The Next to Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Did you hear a car?”

  “Yes. She asked if I was Avery Cooper. I heard the car. Then when I turned for a moment, she scratched my face.”

  “Was this car parked where yours is now?”

  “Yes. But I don’t recall the car type. It could have been a rental type. I’m not sure. I remember it was white. I was kind of dazed, and I didn’t think to look for the license plate.”

  Sean glanced over at the small parking lot. “You couldn’t have seen it very well from here anyway.”

  “You look cold,” he said. “Why don’t you put your arms in the sleeves?” Stepping in back of her, Avery helped her on with his jacket again. It carried a subtle musky fragrance she’d come to identify with him. “The zipper’s a little tricky,” he said, turning her around. “Let me help you.”

  Sean let him zip up the front of his jacket. He pinched and tugged at it for a moment. The jacket was roomy, its cuffs covering her knuckles. Without thinking, Sean reached up and touched his cheek. “You can barely see the scratch anymore,” she said.

  His eyes met hers. Avery hesitated, then smiled. Her fingertips lingered on his handsome face. She was filled with such longing and tenderness. She ached inside.

  Sean made herself turn away. She swept back her windblown hair, and gazed out at the water. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. “But there’s something—I don’t know—very lonely about this spot. Didn’t you say you often stop by here?”

  Avery nodded.

  “It’s funny. Your public persona is one of this carefree, light-hearted guy. But there’s a sadness in you—and I think it’s been with you a long time. These last few days have been like a crash course in getting to know you, Avery. I learned a lot tonight. I really like your friends.” She realized she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself. “They—they’ll make excellent character witnesses.”

  For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Finally, Avery turned away and glanced at the ocean. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything else you need to ask me about that night?” he said.

  “No,” she replied. “Not right now. We can go if you’d like.”

  They went back to the car, and he opened the door for her. Sean touched his arm. “Thanks, Avery,” she whispered. Then she climbed inside.

  As he started up the car, the James Taylor song came on again. Avery backed out of the parking spot. Neither of them said a word. The seventies tape serenaded them, and Sean kept her head turned toward the window, so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  They didn’t notice any rental cars following them on their way back to her office. Avery had broken the awkward silence by talking about the case. He kept it all business. They parked behind the hair salon, and used the service entrance into the building. Avery carried Sean’s briefcase for her.

  In the dimly lit upstairs corridor, Sean fished the keys from her purse, opened the office door, and switched on the light. She headed for the fax machine. “The photos your friend made for us are in my briefcase—in the blue folder on top.”

  On the security video, they’d spotted three different cars parked at various times in front of Avery’s house; rental-company favorites: a Taurus and two Corsicas. They’d enlisted the help of a starstruck, young videophile from production named Jamie. He’d blown up and enhanced three video images, each showing the cars’ plate numbers.

  Avery found Jamie’s photos in the blue folder, while Sean examined the latest incoming fax. Dayle had scribbled on the cover sheet:

  Dear Sean,Hope this is what you need. Attached is the list you originally gave me on a fax from my private detective friend. He’s in Idaho, following this up. I’m home if you want to call. Don’t show this list to the police until you’ve talked to me. Okay?Take Care, Dayle

  Sean glanced at Nick Brock’s note to Dayle, scribbled below the list of license plate numbers. He’d traced credit card payments for the rental cars to a PO Box 73 in Opal, Idaho. He was on his way there to stake out the post office. If Dayle needed him, he was registered as Tony Manero at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn in Opal.

  “Does the name Tony Manero sound familiar?” Sean asked.

  Avery shut her briefcase, and bought the photos over to her. “Wasn’t that John Travolta’s character in Saturday Night Fever?”

  She nodded. “Huh, figures.” Sean laid the photos down on her desk beside the listing. Two plate numbers matched: a Corsica, AOB-829, and a Taurus, EMK-903. Sean and Avery were both quiet for a moment, hunched over the desk together, shoulders touching. Finally, she patted his back. “At the very least, we’ve established some reasonable doubt, Avery.”

  “Thank God,” he sighed, laughing. He slid his arm around Sean, and pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful. You really are….”

  For a moment, Sean’s whole body stiffened, and she could tell he sensed it. Except for the occasional consolation hug from her brother-in-law, she hadn’t felt a man’s arms around her for more than a year. And now this sweet, attractive man was holding her. “Um, Avery, I—”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to get so—enthusiastic.”

  “It’s okay,” she said awkwardly. “But I think we ought to call it a night. Maybe I can make it home in time to tuck my kids into bed.”

  “Oh, yeah, good idea,” he said.

  Sean took a deep breath, then started to put the papers in her briefcase. “Maybe you should spend the night at your friends’ house. You shouldn’t be alone. These same people tried to kill Dayle two nights ago. We have to be careful, Avery.”

  “Yeah, I know. George and Sheila are expecting me back.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll walk you down to your car.”

  Sean felt herself blushing. She wished she hadn’t pulled away earlier. She wanted so much for him to hold her again—just for a moment. But she could never tell him that.

  She closed her briefcase. “Yes,” she said resolutely. “We both have to be very careful, Avery.”

  Twenty

  George and Sheila’s guest room was like his home away from home, and sleep should have come easily. But Avery had been tossing and turning for hours. He glanced at the nightstand clock for umpteenth time: 3:27 A.M. The house was quiet. He’d heard Sheila a while ago, padding to and from the bathroom. As she recently pointed out, she was peeing for two now.

  It seemed so long ago that Joanne was healthy and they were trying to get pregnant. He remembered how she’d appeared to him on the balcony that morning he’d been swimming, how she’d dropped her robe and stood before him naked. It was hard to connect that sexy, fun woman with the catatonic he’d had committed to an institution three days ago.

  His dad had asked if Joanne would be out by Thanksgiving—only a week away. Not very likely. He wasn’t even sure if she’d be home in time for Christmas. He couldn’t imagine the holidays without her. Even when they’d had conflicting schedules, Joanne and he had always managed to spend Christmas Eve together. It was quite possible that he’d be spending the Yuletide in a federal prison—and Joanne would still be in that place. Think you’re lonely, scared, and hopeless right now? Just wait a few weeks….

  Avery sat up, switched on the light, and reached for the phone. Maybe all he needed was to hear another person’s voice, any familiar voice. He dialed home and listened to the messages he’d forgotten to retrieve last night. His agent and Steve Bensinger had left messages, and so had his parents.

  He didn’t know what to make of the last call—at 9:52 P.M.: “Hello, Avery Cooper? This is Gene Clavey. I’m a technical analyst here at Kurtis Labs. I recently examined your sperm samples for Dr. Nathan. Your attorney was asking some questions around here yesterday. I’m curious about a few things. We might help each other out. Why don’t you give me a call?”

  He tried Gene Clavey’s office number at 8:45. Hunched over the Webers’ breakfast table with his second cup of coffee, Avery anxiously counted four ring tones until a man answered: “Kurtis Labs, t
his is Gene.”

  “Hello, Gene Clavey? This is Avery Cooper returning your call.”

  “Oh, hello,” the man replied tentatively. There was an awkward pause.

  “Can you talk right now?” Avery asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Why? Is someone there?”

  “Oh, yeah, you bet,” he replied cheerfully.

  “You have information about the sperm samples?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me this much. Did all those sperm samples match?”

  “Not right now. But lunch would be great—if you’re buying. How about meeting me at Pink’s Famous Chili Dogs on Melrose? Say eleven-thirty to beat the crowd?”

  “Can I bring my lawyer?” Avery asked.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Do you know what I look like?”

  “Of course. See ya at Pink’s. Take it easy.”

  There was a click on the other end of the line.

  “Was anyone following you?” Sean asked. She locked her office door, and they started down the corridor toward the back stairs.

  “Yeah, but I think I lost him.” Avery reached for Sean’s briefcase.

  “I got it, thanks,” she said, briskly. Sean had a strange, all-business energy about her this morning. And she’d barely even made eye contact with him so far. “I’ve been a busy girl,” she announced, starting up the car and backing out of the space. “I called your Dr. Nathan. He faxed me a list of employees at the clinic and the lab—everyone who had access to your sperm samples. Gene Clavey is on the list, so he’s no phony. I think he’s this overweight man I saw there the other day.” From the alley, she merged into traffic. “Six employees have either been let go or quit since you and Joanne started going to the clinic. If those samples were tampered with, my guess is that one of these six ‘former employees’ is the responsible party.”

  She glanced in her rearview mirror. “By the way, keep your eyes peeled for any ‘rental mentals.’”

  “Will do.” Avery checked the side mirror, and didn’t see anything.

  “I called that hotel in Idaho where Dayle’s detective pal is staying,” Sean went on. “But he wasn’t in. How much further to this Chili Dog place?”

  “A few more blocks,” Avery said. He stole a glance at her. “Are you okay, Sean? You seem a bit distant this morning.”

  “I’m fine,” she answered, staring straight ahead. “I actually cooked pancakes for my kids before they went to school. And my husband slept through the night. So I have no complaints. How’s your wife doing?”

  “Better. She let one of the nurses feed her some dinner last night. I’ll know more this afternoon when I call for an update.” He caught her eye and smiled sadly. “It’s ironic we got thrown together—with our similar situations.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said coolly.

  “Well, sure you do. In fact, I think that’s why we’re drawn to each other. I understand what you’re going through, because our situations—”

  “I don’t agree at all,” Sean said, eyes on the road.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your wife has been sick, what, a week? And she has a very good chance of getting well. My husband won’t be getting well. For the past year, he hasn’t been able to walk, eat, breathe, shit, or pee without some kind of assistance. In all that time, I haven’t heard him laugh or say my name. He can’t even squeeze my hand. Our situations are different, Avery.”

  He stared at her. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just—”

  “I’m your attorney, Avery,” she continued. “I don’t need you understanding me—or trying to understand me. My job here—my main concern—is proving your innocence in this murder case. Can we please keep this on a professional level?”

  Frowning, Avery sat back. “I didn’t know it was against the rules for us to be friends.” He nodded at the upscale greasy spoon on the corner of Melrose, half a block away. “That’s Pink’s Chili Dogs on your right.”

  Sean steered into the parking lot. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. They climbed out of the car, and walked around the squat chrome, glass, and neon diner to the front entrance.

  “Mr. Cooper?”

  Both Avery and Sean turned. A rotund man waved at them from one of the outside picnic tables. The sun reflected off his glasses, and illuminated the sweat on his forehead. He had a beard, and wild, curly strawberry-blond hair that needed trimming. He took up nearly half a picnic bench, which seemed ready to splinter from the strain.

  “Are you Gene Clavey?” Avery asked.

  “Yes, sir.” He made a token attempt to stand up by leaning forward as he pumped Avery’s hand. “Sorry I acted so weird over the phone. My boss was in the room, and I didn’t want him knowing about this.” He glanced at Sean. “You’re the lawyer. I saw you in Keefer’s office the other day.”

  She nodded. “Sean Olson. Yes, I remember. Pleased to meet you.”

  Again, he inched up for a second, then shook her hand. “They’ll be coming out with my food soon. You can order here. Sit. Take a load off.”

  They sat down across from him.

  Gene grinned at Avery. “You know, I’ve lived in L.A. for over two years, and you’re the first movie star I’ve ever met. It’s kind of a kick.”

  “Well, the thrill’s all mine—depending on what you have to tell me. You examined those specimens for Dr. Nathan’s clinic?”

  Gene nodded. “I saw the newspaper yesterday, and realized why you were asking about those samples a couple of days back.” He smiled at Sean. “After you showed up at the lab, I snuck a peek at your business card on Keefer’s desk. You folks think somebody stole one of those sperm samples and planted it in the dead woman. The old turkey baster transfer. Am I right?”

  “Something like that, yes,” Sean said. “The report we received from Dr. Nathan was that all nine of Avery’s sperm samples matched.”

  “It figures.” Gene scratched the side of his beard with his big, chubby hand. “Keefer must have covered it up and lied to Dr. Nathan. He’s probably afraid you’d sue—and you should.”

  “Then the samples didn’t match?” Avery asked.

  Gene chuckled cynically. “Hell, those nine samples were like a Kellogg’s Variety Pack. Only two were from the same donor—you. Someone must have switched the labels on the other seven.”

  Sean grabbed Avery’s arm and squeezed it. He patted her hand, and she didn’t pull away. “Do you have proof?” he asked.

  Gene took a folder out from under his thigh. “Presto chango. The lab report.” He handed it to Sean.

  A waitress arrived with a tray of three chili dogs, large fries, and a supersize soft drink. Avery ordered a chili dog and a Coke; Sean asked for a hot dog and a Sprite. Once the waitress left, Sean opened the lab folder. “That’s an original,” Gene said, nibbling a fry. “The copy I made is in the files at Kurtis Labs. I hear photocopied documents don’t stand up in court.”

  “You’re a very smart man, Gene,” Sean said, studying the report.

  He bit into his chili dog, then wiped some food off his beard. “You might not understand the lingo,” he said. “Basically, I reported that only two of the nine samples are from the same donor—Avery Cooper. I think it’s on page four that I describe the other specimens. But this wasn’t just a plain old switcheroo, folks. It’s far more—um, dastardly than that….”

  They waited while Gene took another bite of his chili dog. “Hell’s bells,” he said finally. “When you stop to think that some of these samples might have been used to inseminate Mrs. Cooper, it’s damn scary.”

  “What do you mean?” Avery murmured.

  “I ran some tests. One of the more healthy bogus specimens was from a black man with hepatitis. So if your wife became pregnant from that specimen, odds are your baby would have been black—a sick little black baby at that.”

  “And wouldn’t the tabloids have had a field day?” Sean remarked.

&nbs
p; Gene nodded over his hot dog. “Four specimens were infected with HIV,” he said, his mouth half-full. “The other two samples contained a German measles bacteria, which would have insured your baby was born retarded or deformed. Somebody was really out to destroy you and your wife, Avery.”

  A napkin clenched in his fist, Avery slowly shook his head.

  “Do you have any idea when a switch might have taken place?” Sean asked. “An educated guess?”

  Gene sipped his Coke. “The two most current specimens—both around mid-September—are yours.” He nodded at Avery. “The tampering must have taken place before then.”

  Sean riffled through her briefcase, then pulled out a folder and handed it to Gene. “This is a list of employees from both the clinic and Kurtis Labs. The ones with stars by their names have either quit or been fired since Avery and his wife started going to the clinic.”

  Wiping his fingers on his napkin, Gene took the list and studied it.

  “If you think anyone there might have been responsible for making the switch, it would really help us a lot. We think it’s someone ultra-ultra right wing. Do you know what I mean?”

  Reaching for a pen in his pocket holder, he nodded. “Yeah, off the scale. Just on the sunny side of white supremacy. Can I mark on this?”

  “Go ahead,” Sean replied.

  While he scrutinized the list, the waitress returned with their meals. Avery paid the check, then pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. “What about your boss as a possibility, Gene?” he asked. “I mean, he lied to Dr. Nathan about the lab results.”

  Gene shook his head. “He’s too stupid. I read Keefer pretty well. He went into a total tailspin when I told him the results of my tests on those samples. He was genuinely surprised. No, he lied to avoid a lawsuit.”

  “I’ll need you to testify about this lab report,” Sean said. “Will that get you in trouble with Keefer?”