Long, Lean, and Lethal

by Heather Graham

  There were eyes in the night.

  “Jennifer!”

  She almost screamed at the sound of her name. Then she exhaled instead. She should have felt anger—or fear. She heard a tapping at her door after the soft call of her name. Conar was in the hallway.

  She walked over to her door, but didn’t open it.

  “What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” She hesitated a moment, leaned against the door. Then she opened it.

  She was minus her robe. The Victoria’s Secret gown was scant on its own, revealing, and form-hugging.

  He was wearing boxers, as if he had hastily grabbed them and run down the hall.

  For a moment her breath caught. She forgot being scared. Her eyes started to slip downward. She jerked them back to his. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “I thought I heard you scream.”

  “Nightmare,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t help it that I have a nightmare.”

  “No, I’m sorry for being an ass.”

  She had to smile. “That’s all right. I’m not sure you can help that either.”

  Her eyes were slipping downward again. Great shoulders, great chest, muscles …

  He’d kissed her in the pool with such sudden determination she’d nearly swallowed his tongue. Touched her and she’d nearly …

  She backed away, moistening her lips. “I’m fine now, really.”

  “And I’m sorry, really. It wasn’t a big thing between Brenda and me. I did know her, and it just sort of happened.”

  “I really do understand,” she said.

  Did she? Was she even thinking about what he was saying? He was intense, serious. His pulse ticked at his throat. The air around him seemed full of sparks and heat. She took another step back. “You’d best get some sleep. After all, Molly is coming. With Ripper.”

  “Right. Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He turned away.

  She closed her door. Leaned against it.

  What if she turned again? Threw caution to the wind. Was she desperate, or was he just that appealing, or both? What would it really hurt if …

  Molly was coming. And who exactly was Molly?

  No.

  Yes.

  She spun around and threw open her door.

  His was just closing.

  She bit into her lower lip. It would have felt good just to be in his arms. It would have felt better to swallow his tongue again, feel his hands …

  She closed and locked her door, and forced herself back to bed.

  She dreamed through the night.

  Strange. She always knew that she was dreaming. She couldn’t awaken, though she was restless. She didn’t want to awaken, actually. She needed to listen, to pay attention. Because Brenda was in her dreams.

  Yes, it was Brenda, haunting the halls of Granger House. Wafting about in a flowing, floating white robe, the way ghosts appeared in old movies. She was trying to tell Jennifer something, trying to warn her. Jennifer strained to hear her, tried to listen. Brenda kept floating, floating away. She followed, followed, followed …

  Brenda was leading her off the cliffs.

  No …

  She awoke with a start, shaking. She’d awakened just in time. How? Why?

  Then she heard barking. It was just Lady.

  And another dog.

  Ah, Molly was here. With Ripper.

  Jennifer leapt out of bed as if she had been catapulted. Old Ripper was here. Conar’s killer dog.

  A sense of guilt suddenly plagued her. The dog had been Betty Lou’s. How could she be such a nasty pissant about it all? She didn’t mean to be. She had barely known the woman to whom Conar had been so briefly married, but she had seemed sweet and certainly admirable, and the actress’s death to random violence had been a true tragedy. She was very sorry. She closed her eyes, wincing, thinking, I’m sorry, honest to God, I’m sorry, but …

  The barking had started up again. A baying. Lady, outside, and upset, joined by another deep, harsh barking sound. They had the dogs together. Ripper could rip Lady to mincemeat.

  She threw on her terry robe and came flying down the stairs to the foyer. Edgar was there, along with Doug, showered and dressed, an unknown petite blonde, and Conar.

  Conar was hugging the blonde.

  Jennifer skidded to a stop. She felt like a fool. Her hair was a wild tangle, her robe was tied at an off-center angle, her feet were bare. She looked like hell.

  The petite blonde stepped away from Conar. She was in her mid-thirties, buxom and cute, with a heart-shaped gamine’s face. Her smile was deep and earnest and sincere. She had been excited to greet Conar; now she was anxious to meet Jennifer.

  “Hi!” she said softly.

  Conar turned. He’d been up to greet their guest. He was showered, dark hair combed back, casual knit shirt open at the chest, wearing denim cut-offs and sneakers.

  “Molly Talmadge, Jennifer Connolly. Jennifer, Molly …” He hesitated a meaningful moment. “A very, very good friend.”

  She smoothed back her hair, trying for some dignity. “Welcome, Miss Talmadge, although—”

  “Molly, please.”

  “Molly. Excuse me, I’m worried about Lady.”

  “Lady?” Molly said, looking at Conar, puzzled.

  “She’s afraid Ripper will tear Lady to pieces.”

  “Oh, but I don’t think that’s possible,” Molly protested. She was a real blonde, nearly platinum, eyes a powder-puff blue. Cute as a damned button.

  Jennifer heard the sound of ferocious barking once again.

  “Excuse me.”

  She tore through the hallway to the den and out to the patio. She came to a stop as she saw her mother sitting at one of the patio tables, Lady by her side.

  “Mother, Mother! That’s dangerous! Get away from Lady if that killer dog is out here.”

  “My dear, whatever are you talking about?” Abby began, but Jennifer was already on her way over, grabbing Lady’s collar.

  Her wolfhound instantly gave her a face bath with her huge sloppy tongue.

  “Mother, where is Ripper? If they fight—”

  “Sweetheart, they’re not going to fight.”

  “I have to get you in—” She broke off, turning back. The rest of the household and their new guests were staring at her, all lined up by the den doors to the patio. Edgar, Conar, Doug, and Molly Talmadge.

  “Conar, this could be dangerous. My mother is out here. Where is this Ripper of yours?” she demanded angrily.

  “Jennifer, dear, Ripper is right here,” Abby said.

  “Where?” she demanded.

  Her mother lifted her hand from her lap. Jennifer didn’t see anything at first. Then she did. A little fur ball or something.

  “Jennifer, he’s just adorable,” Abby crooned. She looked at Conar. “I don’t think the little thing is three pounds. He fits in the palm of my hand,” she marveled.

  The fur ball suddenly barked. The bark was deep, as if it belonged to a mastiff.

  “They call him a teacup Yorkie, Abby. And he’s small, even for that. I think he’s about three pounds,” Conar said.

  Jennifer was glad her back was to him. She felt like a fool, and she was furious. Yeah, well, Lady should be able to hold her own against a hairball like that.

  The creature had eyes as well. Jennifer saw them at last. A tiny, delicate face, black and tan, all surrounded by well-cut hair. Its tail was wagging away.

  Lady bayed again, wagging her tail in return.

  Jennifer turned around at last and faced Conar, ready to kill. He had made an ass out of her, and he knew it.

  She stared at him, hoping that she showed her utter contempt for him, Molly—and their hairball creature. She swung back to her mother. “Mom, your allergies—”

  “They aren’t bothered by him, Jen, can you imagine. They have a different kind of fur. Well, it’s not fur, real
ly, is it, Conar? It’s hair. Hair that gets cut, just like people hair. I haven’t been inside with the beautiful little bugger yet, but, oh … Conar, he is sweet.”

  “Lady is sweet,” she heard herself say defensively. She could have kicked herself.

  Abby looked at her, the way she might have if she had accidentally hurt the feelings of a small child. “Of course, dear, Lady is sweet. She’s a beautiful dog, a marvelous dog. She’s just … she’s just a big dog.”

  Jennifer realized suddenly that Doug was standing by her. He cleared his throat. “You’re, uh, exposing things there,” he whispered.

  She looked down. Her robe was open, and she’d pulled the corner of her nightgown down when she’d reached for Lady’s collar.

  Her own mother hadn’t noticed. She’d been too preoccupied with the barking, wagging ball of hair in her lap.

  Jennifer wrenched her robe closed, lobster red and humiliated, and irrationally furious. Edgar was watching her mother; Molly, too, seemed preoccupied with Abby and the dog.

  But Conar was watching her. And laughing.

  “Excuse me, I’ll get dressed,” she said politely. She strode from the patio to the house, passing Conar.

  He caught her arm. He was still smiling, suppressing an outright laugh. “I told you it would be all right.”

  “Jerk!” she hissed, wrenched free, and walked on by him.

  She was startled to realize that he had followed her. He caught her arm again before she could start up the stairs.

  “Look, damn you, if you’d just leave me alone—”

  “Are you angry because my dog didn’t eat yours?”

  “I’m angry because you didn’t tell me your dog was a three-pound hairball.”

  He shrugged, eyes narrowed, releasing his grip on her. “You never asked, Jennifer. You just assumed. Sometimes when you make assumptions, people just feel obliged to correct you.”

  “Is that all?” she asked, staring back at him. “Is there anything else? If not, I’d like you to leave me the hell alone.”

  “Yeah, that’s all,” he said, starting back for the den. But then he paused, turning back to her. And to her annoyance, of course, she was still standing there. Just waiting. Watching him.

  “One more thing,” he said seriously.

  “What?”

  A smile curved his lips. “Nice breasts,” he told her. “You show them often?”

  She didn’t dignify the taunt with a reply. She managed to turn with grace and start fleeing up the stairs.

  Too bad she tripped on the fifth step.

  She didn’t look back, but she knew he was still watching her. Silently laughing, she was certain.

  Chapter 9

  HUGH TANENBAUM WOKE IN his own bed. He dimly remembered driving home.

  Whoa. His head was pounding. When he tried to sit up, it felt like his head weighed more than a bowling ball. His tongue seemed to be the size of a foot. A nasty, hairy foot at that.

  He closed his eyes again, praying the pounding would cease. It did not. Water. Water and aspirin. A touch of the hair of the dog that bit him.

  A shower. That had to improve things. He could smell a really foul odor, and that odor seemed to be him.

  He made it to the shower. He stayed under the spray forever and ever. Finally, he stepped out and brushed his teeth. He almost drank a bottle of Scope, squishing it through his teeth over and over again. On the third try, some of the hair on his tongue seemed to have gone away at last.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. Pathetic. The bags under his eyes were like giant suitcases, carrying an extra little set of overnight bags themselves. There was little white in his eyes; they were pathetically red-rimmed.

  “I am too old for this shit,” he told his reflection seriously.

  “Work tomorrow,” he murmured. “Thank God you’ve an afternoon and night to get yourself together. You’re off the booze, old man. Off, off, off!”

  He shook his head. His towel slipped. His midriff was pouching. Come to think of it, everything was pouching.

  With a disgusted shake of his head, he headed into his dressing room, found boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt, then sat down on the chair there to put on his shoes and socks.

  He was a neat man, always organized. His shirts and suits were hung by color and style. His trousers were well pleated.

  He stared at his clothing without really seeing it. His head was still pounding like thunder. Time was passing, and he was too old and too smart to tie it on as he had last night. To forget everything. Know nothing.

  He stood, exiting his dressing room and heading for the kitchen. Suddenly, halfway there, he paused. Something was wrong about the bed. Frowning, he headed back.

  He stood in the door to his bedroom, staring at the bedclothes.

  The sheets were covered with a large dark patch. It looked like …

  He went to feel it. It was cold and sticky to the touch. He jerked back. He looked at his bed, and felt tremors of dread shoot through his body.

  He remembered a blond actress in a bar. What was it? Blood? Wine? Stage blood?

  And …

  What the hell had he done?

  Liam Murphy’s precinct station was a zoo.

  Still, it wasn’t that difficult to find him. He was sitting at a desk burdened down by paperwork. Seeing Conar, though, he rose, pleased but surprised.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” He pointed across the table where a slim Eurasian man was sitting. “Joe Hong, Conar, my partner. Joe, Conar …”

  “Markham. Hi. I know the face.”

  Liam said, “Let’s go have coffee.”

  Down the hall there were machines. “That one actually makes pretty good cappuccino,” Liam advised.

  “Aren’t hard-boiled cops supposed to drink black coffee?”

  “Yeah, when I have to, I do,” Liam said, putting quarters in the cappuccino machine. “Actor sorts … hmm. Want some herbal tea?”

  “Coffee, black,” Conar told him, shrugging.

  “Got to keep up that macho image, eh?”

  “No, just a little lactose intolerant,” Conar admitted.

  They walked down to the end of the hallway. “So, what’s up?” Liam asked.

  “Brenda’s case. It’s been bothering me.”

  “You and all of LA. We’ve sent samples off to the FBI behavioral analysis lab, we’ve combed her place, the Sawyer property, and half the canyon. So what else is interesting you?”

  “The particulars. She was found in the canyon, but murdered in the shower.”

  “Right. So …”

  “Shades of Psycho.”

  “We’re not stupid. We’re aware of that.”

  “Have there been other such murders here recently—or in the not too distant past? Not just knife murders, but staged murders?”

  “Hey, I’m a detective. Don’t you think I went through the computer right away, looking for similar situations?”

  Conar stared at his old friend. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “Yeah, of course. Except that I still don’t think …”

  “What?”

  “What happened to Brenda was so violent. Passionate, frenzied. I’m not any kind of an expert on psychotic behavior, but I read, and … I don’t know. Wouldn’t a killer like that have committed other crimes?”

  Liam hesitated a moment. “Who knows? Yes, a lot of the time.” He hesitated again, then said, “I accessed the computer to cross-reference open cases, but I haven’t had any real hits.”

  “I’m sure you’re working your tail off. It’s just that Abby thinks there is a killer after Jennifer.”

  “Tell me, do you think that there is going to be another attempt?”

  Liam hesitated.

  “Maybe it was a vengeance thing. Brenda did have enemies.”

  “I wish I thought so—but I don’t. This is a strange one.”

  Liam studied him a moment. “Is this about Abby and Jennifer?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

/>   “I wish I could tell you that we’ve made some progress, but we really haven’t. That’s not just cop speak. Right now this is a cold case going nowhere.”

  There was nothing to be said to that. “Well, thanks, anyway. I’ll give you a call. We’ll get together.”

  Conar left the station, feeling a deeper and deeper unease. He sped most of the way back to the house. He burst into the foyer, and through the hall to the den.

  He heard voices from the patio. Abby, Jennifer, Molly.

  A sense of relief filled him, and he wondered why he had felt such an awful panic. The situation was simply playing on his nerves. Get a grip, he warned himself. Hell of a lot of help you are.

  At the sound of water splashing, he walked toward the rear and looked out on the back. He saw Jennifer leap from the pool, slim arms strong and tanned. She was laughing at something someone had said. She strode to the diving board in her bikini. She posed in perfect form. Tall, lithe, graceful …

  Um. She was alive. And very well.

  But that didn’t mean anything unless Liam could get a break in the case.

  Dinner was a pleasant enough affair.

  Doug was in high spirits after a morning spent planning the week’s episodes. He was excited about the way the show was going, refusing to give out any information about the Friday shoot, but providing Conar and Jennifer with their scripts for the next day’s rehearsal, which they would have gotten at their nine o’clock calls.

  Abby left the table after the main course, feeling tired but not ill, she assured Jennifer. No reaction to Ripper’s fur at all.

  But she was shaking a lot. The shaking had increased over the weekend. Also, Edgar informed Jennifer discreetly, Abby had been experiencing more difficulty swallowing, and was asking for her pills before she should be taking them.

  Tomorrow afternoon was her mother’s appointment with the neurologist, an appointment Jennifer dreaded. Her mother would press for the surgery. Now that Conar was here, he would press for it as well.

  After Abby had gone to her room, Jim Novac came by. Doug had told him that he was coming for dinner, and Jim thought that they might not mind if he showed up later.

  So over coffee they glanced at the scripts for the next day’s shooting. Jennifer’s first scene was with Kelly at the breakfast room in the Valentine mansion. Jennifer was home, having left her husband after his abduction of her from the caretaker’s cottage. Kelly was sorry for the disaster of her sister’s marriage, but excited, mentioning the return of the son of the family scion from the next vineyard down. He’d been studying in France ways to improve their chardonnay. She’d seen him at Prima Piatti the night before, and he’d asked her out.