Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  She shook her head. “Hasn’t he been in the news lately?”

  Vining nodded but didn’t explain. “What about Tink’s new boyfriend, King Getty? Did you meet him?”

  “Just once at Tink’s annual Oscars party. After, my husband and I couldn’t believe how slick he was and how Tink had fallen for him.”

  “Vicki, when Tink took you to the Berryhill compound, did you see anything that suggested that they might practice the occult?”

  “You mean like witchcraft? I didn’t see anything like that, but there is a sort of cultish feeling to the place. Who knows what goes on in the inner sanctum? I can understand how Tink might have been tempted. But no, Tink never talked about anything like that.”

  Vicki grew sad. “It’s strange. You think you know somebody as well as you know yourself, then you find out that they had a secret life. You realize they showed you the part of themselves that they wanted you to see, or how they wanted to see themselves. You try to trace back the thread through your entire relationship, all the way back to childhood, looking for the moment the disconnect started. Certainly, you tell yourself, you knew them at one point, and then they changed. But you have to wonder, did you ever really know them?”

  Vining understood what she meant. When she was tracking the man who had knifed her, at times she had felt that she barely recognized herself, given the lines she was crossing in her obsession to get him. Now, she was having the same unsettled feeling about her mother. She’d long known that Patsy would spin the truth and tell fibs out of pride, but now she wondered if her mother had something sinister going on and she’d never seen it.

  Vicki looked at Vining with a bemused expression. “My life is so simple. I don’t have time for a secret life.”

  She chuckled and Vining did too, waiting for a time to ask what was on her mind. There was no good time. She steeled herself and went ahead.

  “Vicki, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, doll. Anything.”

  “Did you ever meet my father?”

  Vicki was taken aback by her question. Her eyes softened. “No, honey. When your mom got married and had you, I was away at U.C. Santa Barbara. I stayed there during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years. Got a job as a waitress at one of the restaurants on the pier. Spent all my spare time at the beach. The next time I saw Patsy, she was bouncing you on her hip.”

  “What about Maria Alicia or Tink?”

  “You’ll have to ask Mary Alice, but I suspect it was the same as with me. She was studying art at Otis near downtown L.A., sharing an old Victorian house with a bunch of students. Tink was at Notre Dame. That first summer, I think she did an internship with a publisher in New York.”

  “And then there was my mother, dropping out of Pasadena City College after one semester, having a baby at nineteen.”

  “You know Patsy.”

  Vining smirked. “When you came home and saw my mom, where was my father?”

  “He was gone. Back to Vietnam.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “He was a marine officer. Your mother never told you that?”

  “She told me he abandoned us when I was barely three. She wouldn’t even speak his name.”

  “He was shot down in Vietnam. MIA. They never found a trace of him.”

  Vining put a hand to her forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense. If she was married to him, she could have had him declared dead after seven years and received survivor benefits. She married my sister Stephanie’s father when I was four. She didn’t even wait seven years. He could have been in some POW camp. She even tore up all her pictures of him.”

  “You’ve never seen a picture of your father?”

  She nearly shouted, “I don’t even know his name!” Calming down, she whispered, “Do you?”

  Vicki was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, both hands over her mouth. She parted her hands and said, “David.”

  “David?”

  Vicki nodded.

  “No last name?”

  “Honey, I don’t remember. How many years ago was this? Thirty-five?”

  “Why would my mother lie to me? She probably got knocked up and the guy split.”

  “Honey, I love your mother like a sister, but…”

  Vining was growing to hate that “but” word.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Patsy to make up a story about being married to a war hero to tell her girlfriends who were away at college making something of their lives.”

  “That would explain the gold band in her jewelry box,” Vining said. “For each of her other marriages, even if the rings were inexpensive, she had a proper wedding set. For her so-called marriage to my father, all she had was a simple gold band, which she only produced after I got old enough to ask about it. It’s time she came clean with me.”

  “I agree. You have a right to know.”

  “Please don’t tell her we discussed this.”

  “Of course I won’t. Do you want me to be with you when you talk to your mom?”

  “Thank you, Vicki. I think I’ll be okay. I need to pick a time and place. There’s too much going on to bring it up to her now.”

  They hugged goodbye. Vining headed back to the station.

  TWENTY-SIX

  John Chase arrived at Gig Towne and Sinclair LeFleur’s home to start his shift. The previous night, he’d gone home to the small rental house he shared with another cop rather than stay in his room in Towne’s house. He’d needed a break.

  He drove on a private road, slowing at a gate that was already rolling open. A guard sitting outside it on a lawn chair to take in the morning sun had opened it when he saw Chase’s truck. A couple of young male paparazzi who were hanging around lost interest when they saw who it was and that he was alone.

  Chase worked twelve-hour shifts for Le Towne on his three consecutive days off from the PPD, giving him no days off. His superiors at the PPD didn’t know how many hours he was here, as they wouldn’t approve. But the Le Towne job wasn’t hard. He was young and energetic, and long hours didn’t faze him, plus the money was great. After he’d paid off his student loans, he could start socking money away, hoping to save enough for a down payment on a house. He was twenty-eight and not ready to settle down, but the idea of being a family man had started to seem comforting rather than confining.

  His parents were concerned about his long work hours, but gently suggested that he might be maturing, at last. Gentle was a key word when dealing with their son, as he’d indulged in hot-headed flashes that had earned him a couple of formal reprimands at the PPD. His parents had also treaded lightly when suggesting to Chase that he patch things up with Alison Oliver, his girlfriend of nearly a year. They were certain that Alison was “the one,” and were upset when Chase announced several weeks ago that they’d broken up. It had happened after a rift that he wouldn’t discuss. He didn’t reveal that Alison had complained that he was distracted and inattentive, and had accused him of seeing someone else. He’d sworn that he wasn’t, but that wasn’t completely honest. While he wasn’t actually dating another woman, he was emotionally entwined with one: Sinclair LeFleur.

  Chase used to drive Gig and Sinclair and act as a bodyguard when they went out in public, but now that Sinclair was in the latter stages of her pregnancy, she rarely left the house. Her obstetrician, Dr. Janus, came there to see her. She’d told Gig that she preferred having Chase with her at the house, so he had other bodyguards drive and travel with him. Since the estate’s security system was excellent, his job was easy: walking the property and making sure Sinclair felt safe.

  While he initially loved working there, as Sinclair’s anxiety and distress grew along with her unborn child, he’d found the job increasingly troubling. It made him feel powerless, a feeling that used to be foreign to him. The tinnitus, the ringing in his ears, that had plagued him since he was a child had flared as it tended to do when he was under stress. It could get bad enough to force the thoughts from his head, leavin
g only something that sounded like a school bell or a fire alarm that wouldn’t stop ringing.

  The road circled behind the property and led to a second, rarely used gate at the back. He parked in a small lot by the northern wing near his room. Chase had chosen the smallest of the rooms Gig offered—a single, furnished with a twin bed, easy chair, desk, bookshelf, and TV. The other rooms were suites with kitchenettes, but he’d chosen the small room because it was farthest from the main house, which he secretly called “the mausoleum.”

  Gig had said that he could stay at the estate full-time and save the rent he was shelling out, but Chase had felt a tentacle snake around him. He breathed more freely after he declined, and the sticky suction cups lost their grasp. Sometimes when he thought of Sinclair, which he did often, in his mind’s eye he saw her encased in milky white tentacles that spewed from a leering Gig Towne, who was roaring the Gig Giggle over and over.

  As soon as Chase unlocked and opened the door to his room, he saw a note on top of his bed. He recognized Gig’s “From the Desk of…” notepaper and could read his sprawling handwriting from the doorway: “Come see me. G.”

  Chase dropped his duffel onto the bed and snatched the note, which he crumpled and tossed into the trash bin. He unzipped the duffel and took out a white pharmacy bag with the Xanax prescribed by his doctor. He’d finally sought medical help for his tinnitus. It was one of those bedeviling conditions with the cause hard to pinpoint. After the doctor had ruled out physical causes, he’d concluded that it was caused by stress.

  In the tiny bathroom, Chase grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. The sound in his head felt like pain. He ripped the stapled receipt from the bag and took out the plastic bottle. The little white pills rattled like teeth. He tapped one into his hand. He was reluctant to take it, not knowing how it was going to affect him, but he was desperate for relief. He tossed it down his throat and followed with a tumbler of tap water.

  Opening the medicine cabinet door, he set the Xanax on a shelf. Two shelves were filled with Berryhill brand nutritional supplements—white plastic bottles with distinctive raspberry-colored lids and labels. The expensive products were terrific job perks for Chase, who was a health-and-fitness enthusiast. He worked out almost every day, and was fastidious about his diet. The estate’s full gym was another perk.

  He opened the bottles one by one, ending up with a handful of tablets and capsules. He skipped the vitamin E, as his doctor had told him that it could aggravate his tinnitus. He picked up the bottle of multivitamins and read the label. It contained 30 milligrams of vitamin E. While he hated interrupting his vitamin regimen, he thought it wise. He returned the multivitamins to the shelf. He filled a glass with water, pounded the pills into his mouth, and swallowed them all at once.

  Starting to leave the bathroom, he had second thoughts. He returned to the medicine cabinet and took out the Xanax bottle, and also gathered the pharmacy bag and receipt. Sinclair’s conviction that she was being watched was rubbing off on him. Before now, he hadn’t cared whether Gig was searching his room or not, as he’d had nothing to hide. Now he did. He’d heard Gig’s diatribe about the evils of pharmaceuticals often enough to worry that discovery of his Xanax prescription would be grounds for termination.

  Gig had quizzed him about his diet and exercise habits before hiring him. It was inappropriate, but the entire interview had been unusual. It had been held in Gig’s office with Gig seated at his throne. Paula had been there too, in a chair off to the side turned to face Chase. After Gig had introduced them and they’d exchanged pleasantries, she hadn’t spoken a word. All she’d done was sit and watch him, her face cryptic, her catlike amber eyes glittering.

  Gig had asked him personal questions about his family, childhood, and social life. That was eight months ago, when he was still dating Alison. Their relationship had seemed serious at the time, and he’d told Gig so. He’d asked Gig about the personal nature of the interview. Gig didn’t apologize and said that because of his and Sinclair’s public profiles, he had to feel extremely comfortable with whomever he brought into their lives. While he didn’t look for pedigrees, far from it, he did look for character and mental and physical integrity. Gig had gone so far as to ask him about his medical history and drug use, including prescription drugs. The only drugs Chase had ever taken were antibiotics for an ear infection he’d had as a child. Gig had tsk-tsked about how antibiotics were overprescribed, especially to children, and how there were excellent holistic remedies, specifically mud packs for earaches.

  At that time, Chase had wondered if this job was really something he wanted to pursue. Then Sinclair had been summoned to meet him and he’d had no further doubts. He used to think that love at first sight was something from fairy tales for adolescent girls and bored housewives who read romantic potboilers. He hadn’t known then that Sinclair was pregnant. After he was hired and had signed the confidentiality agreement, the pregnancy was the first Le Towne secret he was made privy to. It was a big one. Worth a bundle. He’d kept that secret even after the tabloids had offered him a pile of money, as Gig had warned they would. Chase had thought the pregnancy, strange eating habits, preoccupation with security, and Gig’s sometimes nasty disposition would be the extent of the A-list secrets he’d have to keep. He’d had no idea what he was in for.

  He hid the Xanax and the packaging inside a gym sock, which he crammed into a zippered pocket of his duffel where he kept dirty socks. He left and walked down the colonnade toward the main house.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After knocking at the door of Gig’s office, Chase was summoned inside with a jovial, “Avante!”

  Gig was on his throne at the head of the giant library table, his laptop computer in front of him. He exuded energy, as always. That was one thing Chase could say about Towne—he was the picture of vitality. He held up his hand and crooked his fingers, summoning Chase toward him.

  Chase moved to stand near the middle of the table and clasped his hands behind his back, a good ten feet from Gig.

  Gig’s bright eyes darkened and he frowned with concern. “Why so glum, chum?”

  Chase shrugged. “A little headache.”

  Gig morphed his rubbery face into a comically overdone look of concern, frowning severely while at the same time arching an eyebrow impossibly high. He did a spot-on imitation of John Wayne. “Looks like more than a little headache to me, pilgrim.”

  Chase grinned at Gig’s antics because he knew that that’s what his employer sought. Gig craved attention like a needy child. During Chase’s first few months there, he didn’t have to fake amusement, but Gig’s act had grown tired as Chase began to glimpse the darkness behind the clown mask. Sinclair’s distress had done much to color his view, but the bloom had begun to fade from the Towne rose even before she’d started confiding in him.

  “It’s nothing, Gig. I’m fine.”

  “Your spine is probably out of alignment. Would you like my chiropractor to adjust you?” Gig took out his iPhone.

  “I’m good. It’s already going away. Umm…Thanks. Thank you for offering.”

  Speaking normally, Gig asked, “Did you take something?”

  Chase wondered if there was a CCTV in his room that he hadn’t detected. “I laid down for a few minutes with a warm towel over my forehead.”

  “You might try a cold compress on the back of your neck. Right here.” Gig placed his hand on his neck. “Right at the back of the skull.”

  “I’ll try that. Thank you.”

  Gig leaned back, his hands resting on the lions’ paws at the ends of the chair arms, and silently stared at Chase.

  Chase remained standing with his legs shoulder-width apart and his hands behind his back. He met Gig’s gaze for a few seconds, then looked at the ground, not wanting to appear rude by staring back at him. He recalled that in certain ancient cultures, looking the king in the eye was grounds for death. While Gig continued his mind game, which was all it was, in Chase’s view, he looked at the pattern
s in the antique Persian carpet and listened to the sound that only he could hear—the incessant ringing in his ears. The Xanax must have started to kick in because the noise was fading, losing its iron grip on his mind. He had the welcome sensation of walking away from it, leaving it at the end of a long corridor.

  He deepened and slowed his breathing, trying a calming method he’d learned from Gig. Gig remained silent. Chase didn’t know if he was still staring at him, but suspected he was. A compelling thought entered the newfound space in his mind: Resign. Quit.

  He would have done it on the spot, but Sinclair’s face from the last time they’d met came to him. He thought of her full, pink lips and the softness of her skin, which had a luminous quality, as if lit from within, and had grown more so as her pregnancy advanced. He thought of the tears on her cheeks and how easy it would have been to kiss them away. He recalled the surprising firmness of her round belly against him. When he’d found out she was pregnant, it hadn’t stanched his desire for her. It made her more of an enigma, more fragile, and more dependent upon him. She would be lost without him. He knew it was his ego talking, yet…Who would watch out for her if he wasn’t there?

  “John.”

  Chase looked up at Gig.

  “Why are you talking to my wife in secret?”

  It was easy for Chase to lie to him. He’d come to despise Gig Towne and his juvenile and cloying need for attention and his mania to control how the world saw him, which spilled over into micromanagement of his environment and all the human beings in it.

  The best way to answer Gig’s question was with another question. “What do you mean by ‘in secret’?”

  “You’ve been secretly meeting Sinclair in the birthing room.”

  The Xanax had not only toned down the ringing in his ears, but had also changed his perception of everything. He boldly met Gig’s eyes. The clown mask was off. Rather than seeing an overdone expression of sadness wrapped around a joke, he saw shark-like coldness and determination. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of hardened gangbangers who had turned over everything to the life, even their soul.