The Next To Die Part 19

"They advocated gun control-or gay rights. They were pro-choice, or they fought against censors.h.i.+p 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 p.i.s.sed 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 over 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 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 Los Angeles Times. Dayle hardly recognized the dowdy, middle-aged woman in the news photo as that girl from the boat. The once l.u.s.trous, 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 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 Suns.h.i.+ne 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 s.e.x.

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 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 you murdered anybody." murdered anybody."

Frowning, Dayle shook her head and sighed. "I had s.e.x with a child killer. It's guilt by a.s.sociation. 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 a.s.s. 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 sungla.s.ses. Hank walked her to the front door, and she rang the buzzer.

"Sungla.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ces 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 sungla.s.ses 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.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 One ring. The officer got out of the patrol car. He was reaching for his gun.

Two rings.

"Pick up, Hank!" Dayle hissed. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, please pick up!"

The policeman had his gun out. He approached Hank's side of the limo.

"h.e.l.lo?" Hank said, on the other end of the line.

"Hank, it's a trap!"

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! 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, pa.s.sing 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 winds.h.i.+eld-like raindrops, only they were on the inside of the car, and the droplets were blood.

She saw Hank, and let out a strangled cry. He was slumped forward over the steering wheel. A steady stream of blood dripped off the tip of his nose and chin. The limo phone had fallen on the floor-beside Hank's latest true-crime book.

"You called somebody, I hope," she heard Bonny whisper.

Dayle opened the back door. "The ambulance is coming," she said. She swallowed hard at the sight of her friend. The sungla.s.ses had fallen on the car floor. Sprawled across the car seat, Bonny had a laceration above her eyebrow, along her right temple, where a bullet must have grazed her. Under the open trench coat, her pale green sweater was soaked with blood.

Dayle quickly reached into the limo bar and found some bottled water. She drenched a hand towel and pressed it to the side of Bonny's face. Bonny s.h.i.+vered a bit. "I-I nailed the SOB, Dayle. Got him in the gut. He'll bleed to death if he doesn't get help soon." She winced. "d.a.m.n, this hurts."

"Oh my G.o.d, Bonny, I'm so sorry." Dayle held her hand. "Hang on. The ambulance will be here soon."

Bonny's husband, Frank, had on his policemen's blues. He'd been on patrol when Dayle called 9-1-1. Tall and lanky, Frank Laskey had receding, wiry black hair. At the moment, his blue eyes were bloodshot from crying. His wife was in surgery. He sat beside Dayle in the trauma unit waiting area, a drab room with orange Naugahyde couches, fake plants, and faded Norman Rockwell prints on the walls.

Dayle's clothes were still stained with blood. She kept her arm around Frank. "She'll pull through," Dayle a.s.sured him. "Our Bonny's a fighter. She'll be okay. Can I get you anything? You want some coffee?"

He nodded. "Thanks."

She wandered out to the corridor in search of a vending machine. The place might have been mobbed with reporters if Frank's buddies on the force weren't guarding the hospital entrances and taking down names. The rumor among the press was that Dayle Sutton and a police officer had been shot.

Dayle had already talked to their chief of surgery on the phone. He'd promised to call in their best doctor for Bonny. Dayle had also arranged for a private room and notified hospital administration to bill her.

It was too late to do anything for Hank. His only family was a married brother in Milwaukee; no close friends except for a book group that met every other Sunday to discuss mystery novels.

Dayle couldn't afford to break down yet. She hunted through her purse and found Susan Linn's business card. With a shaky hand, she dialed the number, then got a recorded greeting: "...if you'd like to speak with another officer, press zero, otherwise-"

There was a break in the message. "Lieutenant Linn speaking."

"Susan?" Dayle said. "Thank G.o.d. Listen, this is Dayle. Someone shot my friends. My chauffeur, Hank, he's dead. And my other friend, Bonny, they shot her too-"

"Hold on," Susan said. "Calm down, Dayle. Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital," she said. Dayle did her best to retell the shooting and keep her composure. "Listen, there's a place I'd like you to send somebody, okay? Maybe send a whole squad if you can."

"Where?"

"These people who have me under surveillance, I found out where they're staying. A friend of mine followed one of them. They're all holed up in this hotel in the Valley, a dive called the My-T-Comfort Inn. They're in a bunch of rooms around the back-numbers fifteen through twenty, I think. I didn't want to tell you about it until I had more information on these guys. I have a private detective working on it. But we shouldn't wait anymore."

"I'll go check out this place right now. From what you tell me, I better give myself some backup."

"Good," Dayle replied. "Get those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Lieutenant. Get them before they hurt someone else."