The Next To Die Part 33

One of the men opened the meeting room door. Jill said something to him, and pointed toward her booth. The man nodded, then stepped back inside. The emaciated girl turned and gave Nick a sly smile. Then she scurried toward her workstation.

"Nick, this is a terrible idea," Sean said.

"It's all we got, babe," he replied. "See you in Larry Chadwick's car."

"No-" she started to say, but Nick started toward the shoe-rental booth. Someone emerged from the little conference room, a tall man with wavy, strawberry-blond hair and wholesome good looks. He was about forty, and wore pressed khakis and a crisp white s.h.i.+rt. He looked very familiar.

Nick strolled up to the man-just as he reached for the phone on the shoe-rental counter. Sean moved a bit closer. Nick whispered something to the tall man. Even at this distance, Sean could see him tense up. She kept trying to remember where she'd seen him before. After a moment, he stiffly turned and started toward the exit-with Nick close behind him.

Jill returned to the meeting room and stuck her head in the doorway. "Excuse me?" she announced, loud enough for Sean to hear over all the noise. "Mr. Chadwick had to run home, but he said he'll call you guys later."

Sean heard one the men reply: "Thanks. Can you close the door?"

Sean retreated toward the exit. Jill caught up with her by the shoe-rental booth. She smiled and snapped her gum. "Tell your brother to pick me up here at ten. Okay?"

Sean nodded. "All right. Thanks-for playing along with the gag."

Her stomach in knots, Sean headed for the exit and stepped outside to the cold. "G.o.d, please, get me through this night," she whispered.

In the parking lot, a green Honda Accord flashed its headlights twice.

Dear Sirs,By the time you get this letter, I will be dead. I will have also killed Dayle Sutton. Much will probably be written about me in the next few days, and I want you to get the story right, why I did it, and who I am.

Tom stopped writing for a moment. He'd never sent a letter to the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times before, and he wanted it perfect. He'd thought about typing the letter to make it more official. But if Hal and his gang had planted bugs in Maggie's house, they'd certainly done the same in his place. The clicking of his Underwood's keys would give him away. So Tom had switched on the TV, and started his correspondence in longhand. before, and he wanted it perfect. He'd thought about typing the letter to make it more official. But if Hal and his gang had planted bugs in Maggie's house, they'd certainly done the same in his place. The clicking of his Underwood's keys would give him away. So Tom had switched on the TV, and started his correspondence in longhand.

The mailbox across the street had a morning pickup at 8:15. If he mailed the letter tonight, it would be posted before Dayle Sutton's death tomorrow. They'd know it wasn't some crackpot. But he still had to slip past Hal's guard outside.

Returning to the apartment after his aborted bourbon run, he'd noticed the telephone was gone-just as the young fellow had said. The phone would be returned once he left in the morning. No doubt, they would also search the place and erase any evidence of their a.s.sociation with him. It had to appear as if he'd acted alone in killing Dayle Sutton.

They might even plant something to confirm that he'd murdered Maggie. Why not? It was true. And they could do anything they wanted. He wouldn't be around to defend himself. He wouldn't be in Rio either. He'd be dead.

This letter to the Times Times was his only way of making people understand. Tom picked up his pen and continued writing: was his only way of making people understand. Tom picked up his pen and continued writing: I was forced into killing Dayle Sutton by a group who hate her politics. There are several people in this organization. I didn't act on my own. I'm the fall guy. My contact has been a man who calls himself Hal Buckman. Hal promised to smuggle me out of the country when it's all over. But I think they'll kill me after I've done what they want.I have no choice in what will happen tomorrow. But if anything comes from all this, at least, people will know who Tom Lance was.I was an actor, a good one too. But I had some unlucky breaks, so nowadays, not many people know who I am. I suppose all that will change after Dayle Sutton is dead.People should know that I helped Maggie McGuire get her start in movies. I was her fiance at one time, and I've never stopped loving her. I killed Maggie. It was an accident. I went to her house, we argued, and I shot her with a gun I meant to use on myself later. I wish I could take that moment back.These people were after Maggie the same way they're after Dayle Sutton. Maggie's place was wired, and they had a recording of me shooting her and used it to get my cooperation.I apologize to Dayle Sutton's family. I also apologize to Maggie's children, and her fans. Please know, I loved her.I hope when people talk about Tom Lance, they realize that I didn't want to be a murderer. I hope they realize that I made some good movies, and I helped Maggie McGuire become a star.Thank you.

Tom signed and printed his name on the bottom. Folding up the letter, he slipped it into an envelope he'd already addressed.

Moving over to the window, he glanced down at the mailbox across the street. Only a few car lengths away, Hal's guard leaned against the hood of a white Taurus. He looked up at the window, and Tom quickly stepped back.

He turned up the TV, then went to the door. He almost expected to find another one of Hal's henchmen in the hallway, but the corridor was vacant. The neighbor he knew best was an old woman who walked with a cane. He could hardly ask her to zip down to the mailbox for him. He tried the apartment across the hall from her. A stocky, young black man had moved in about two months ago. Knocking on the door, Tom tried to remember his name.

The door was answered by a huge black woman with big auburn hair that had to be a wig. She wore a red sequined gown and brandished a cigarette. "Yes, honey?" she said.

Tom took a step back. "Um, doesn't a young man live here?"

"You're looking at him," the woman said, a hand on her hip.

Tom shook his head.

"I'm a performer, I do drag, honey. This is my alter ego, Catalina Converter. Aren't you from down the hall?"

His mouth open, Tom nodded.

Catalina looked at the envelope in Tom's hand. "Is that letter for me?"

"Um, no," Tom managed to say. "I have a touch of the gout, and I need to stay off my feet. I was wondering if you could mail this for me."

Catalina shrugged. "Sure. I'm about to take off for the club. I'll drop it in the mailbox outside." Opening the door wider, he turned and put out his cigarette, then grabbed a long black feathered boa from the sofa.

Tom saw an apartment even more cluttered with movie memorabilia than his own. On one wall, Catalina had a poster of Marilyn Monroe, and another of Paul Newman. Glamour shots of actresses-mostly Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge-adorned the walls. The sofa tables were full of ceramic images of Marilyn, and James Dean, along with framed standing photos of various other stars. Movie books and videos overflowed on the brick and board bookshelves.

Tom had no idea this movie mecca had been down the hall from him. "I like your film art collection," he said to the drag queen, who was checking himself in the mirror by the door. "Do you have any Maggie McGuire?"

"Oh, the late, Marvelous Maggie," Catalina said, turning away from the mirror with a pained expression on his carefully made-up face. "No, sir. But I cried buckets when I received word she'd pa.s.sed on. Let me tell you, honey child, I didn't need to see clips from any naughty movie girlfriend made when she must have been starving. No, thank you very much. The lady had cla.s.s, and she deserves better."

Tom smiled slightly. "I agree."

"On top of that, she has a cute gay son." Catalina tossed one end of the boa over his shoulder; a rather melodramatic the-show-must-go-on gesture. Then he plucked the envelope out of Tom's hand. "Well, I have to get this tired old a.s.s of mine in gear. My public is waiting. I'll mail your letter for you, honey. Stay off your feet."

Tom thanked him. "Could I ask you for one more favor? You wouldn't happen to have some bourbon, would you?"

Five minutes later, Tom was back in his apartment with a couple of miniature bottles of Jim Beam. Catalina's last boyfriend had been a flight attendant. Now, at least Tom had something to get him through the night.

He turned off the lights, then crept to the window. Still leaning against the Taurus, Hal's friend puffed on a cigarette and read the Auto Trader Auto Trader. He looked up from his magazine-toward the building's front door. After a moment, Catalina came around the corner, sashaying in front of Hal's guard.

Tom could see the letter in Catalina's hand. The huge drag queen in red sequins was hardly an inconspicuous mailman.

"What the f.u.c.k?" Hal's buddy said loudly. Tom could hear through the gla.s.s. "G.o.dd.a.m.n f.a.ggot! Are you supposed to be a man or a woman?"

Catalina patted his big hair. "Honey, I'm a G.o.ddess G.o.ddess. And if I weren't in makeup, I'd beat the ever-lovin' s.h.i.+t out of you, and you know I can."

Hal's friend stood there with his mouth open, looking stupid.

Tom watched Catalina move on, undaunted. He dropped the letter in the mailbox, then sauntered to the bus stop-half a block away. Catalina waved down the bus, then climbed aboard.

The letter had been mailed.

Tom opened the first of the two miniatures. He sat in the dark living room and drank. After a while, he turned on the lamp by the sofa and paged through his photo alb.u.m. He pried certain photos from the four-corner holders, his favorites: Maggie and him talking with Janet Leigh and Robert Mitchum;. Maggie alone; him visiting Lana Turner on a movie set, and a few others. To the pile, he added five movie lobby cards, his best shots from his best movies. Finally, he chose his favorite publicity shot, from 1950: him in a tux, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled, pretty d.a.m.n glamorous. He set the glossy on top of the pile, then pulled out a pen and autographed it: To Catalina, Thank you for being a good neighbor. Tom Lance To Catalina, Thank you for being a good neighbor. Tom Lance.

He carried these things he'd held so dear down the hallway to his neighbor's door. One by one, he slid the photos and lobby cards under the crack. He knew the drag queen down the hall would take good care of these mementos for him, because like him, he too loved the movies and Maggie.

Dayle sat at her kitchen table with the Waiting for the Fall Waiting for the Fall script, and Fred curled up in her lap. She had her big AA meeting speech tomorrow, and was reviewing her notes. But she couldn't concentrate. script, and Fred curled up in her lap. She had her big AA meeting speech tomorrow, and was reviewing her notes. But she couldn't concentrate.

She kept replaying in her head what Jonathan Brooks had told her about Ted's expertise. Ted knew how to break into secured penthouses undetected, where to plant bugging devices, how to tap a phone line. I tell you, if the guy was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner I tell you, if the guy was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner.

She imagined Ted organizing the surveillance on her. She could see him slipping past the guards downstairs and breaking into her apartment while she showered. Was it Ted who had left that note about Cindy on her bed? Was he one of the men up on the roof at twilight a couple of weeks ago?

Dayle told herself not to get carried away. She was basing her fears on the mere fact that Ted didn't like being teased by Gil Palarmo and his gay friends. Besides, even if he was working with this hate group, he wasn't about to try anything tonight. Too many people knew he was supposed to be protecting her.

"Oh, there you are."

Startled, Dayle glanced up at Ted Kovak, standing in the kitchen doorway. "You scared me for a second," she said, straightening in her chair.

"What time do you want the limo tomorrow?" he asked.

"Six-thirty."

"I'll try to stay out of your hair until morning."

She hugged Fred to her chest. "I might take a shower tonight, so if you hear the phone, just let the machine pick it up."

He nodded. "Well, everything's secure here."

"It's comforting to know that-especially while I'm in the shower."

Grinning, he leaned against the door frame. "Psycho backlash?" backlash?"

"No, more like the other day I told you about-when someone broke into the apartment."

"Well, don't worry," he replied with a confident wink. "You have some good guys protecting you tonight, and I'm just down the hall. You won't come out of the shower and find any weird notes pinned to your favorite party dress-not while I'm here."

Nodding, Dayle managed to smile back at him. "Thanks, Ted. Um, did the other guys get something to eat?"

"Yes, ma'am. They're taken care of. I'll be in my room if you need anything. Good night."

"G'night, Ted. Thanks again." She watched him retreat down the hall; then her smile waned. He shut the guest room door.

Ted Kovak had slipped. He knew about the break-in; but she'd never told him about finding the message pinned to her dress on the bed. Besides Sean and herself, the only other person who knew about that note was the one who had left it for her.

Twenty-four.

Sean approached the Honda Accord. Inside, the blond-haired man stiffly sat at the wheel-with Nick in back. She opened the front pa.s.senger door and climbed inside. Larry turned and glared at her. The handsome, strawberry-blond man seemed tense, but not particularly scared.

Sean now remembered where she'd seen him before, The My-T-Comfort Inn. He was The Boy Next Door-or The a.s.shole a.s.shole Next Door: Next Door: If I knew you were stocking this place with wh.o.r.es, I never would have booked us here If I knew you were stocking this place with wh.o.r.es, I never would have booked us here.

"Honey, meet Larry Chadwick," Nick announced from the backseat. "Larry says he doesn't know Charlie Stample or Lyle Bender." Nick poked the man's shoulder with his gun. "Larry, do you recognize my honey bun here? Here's a hint. She's a real smart lawyer."

Sean frowned. She wanted to slug Nick for involving her in this awful abduction business. Nick handed her Larry's wallet and keys. "Have a look through his wallet," he said. "Lare, take the keys and start the car. We're hitting the road. You still haven't answered my question about our gal here."

Sean gave Larry Chadwick the car keys. He shook his head at her. "I don't know you," he said. "But you look like an intelligent woman. Perhaps you can convince your friend here to let me go. You have my wallet. You can take the car. I don't want any trouble."

Sean glanced at his driver's license. "We're not here to rob you, Mr. Chadwick. And I don't want any trouble either. So please, start the car."

He took a long look back at the bowling alley, then turned the key in the ignition. Nick told him to make a left at the lot exit.

As they started down Main Street, Sean flipped through the photos in Larry's wallet: pictures of his wife, two children, a collie, and Larry with a rifle, posed beside a deer carca.s.s. As much as she hated this scheme, she had to go along with it now. "My colleague's telling the truth, Mr. Chadwick," she said, still browsing through the wallet. "I'm an attorney. I see here you're a hunter-like Charlie Stample and Lyle Bender."

"I told your friend already, I don't know them."

"Nevertheless, perhaps I can swing a deal for you." Sean looked at the wallet again. "You have a wife and two very nice-looking children. I can't guarantee anything, but if you cooperate with us, maybe you won't be separated from your loved ones too long. We might work out a reduced sentence for you, maybe even immunity."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Larry said. "Besides, I'm not the one breaking the law here."

"Take a left at the light," Nick piped up from the backseat.

Sean studied Larry Chadwick for a moment. Something was awry. He didn't seem very scared or intimidated-just miffed at what might be a temporary inconvenience for him. As they turned left, he checked the rearview mirror. Sean glanced back to see a Corsica a short distance behind them.

"A paper trail led us to you," she continued. "This is your chance to cut a deal before-if you'll excuse the expression-the s.h.i.+t hits the fan. We know your group is responsible for several celebrity murders and smears-along with an attempt to frame Avery Cooper for murder. Why not save your family and yourself a lot of grief? Tell us about this local men's club, and your 'hunting' expeditions."

"C'mon, Lare," Nick added. "We'll say you cooperated...."

Silent, he stared at the dark, lonely highway ahead.

They'd reached the outskirts of Opal. Sean checked over her shoulder again. The Corsica was still back there. "Pull over," she said edgily. "Pull over now. I want this d.a.m.n car behind us to pa.s.s."

"I may go over a b.u.mp or two," Larry calmly replied, eying Nick in the rearview mirror. "For the safety of all of us, could you please lower that gun for a few seconds? I don't want it going off by accident."

Nick grinned. "Sure, Lare."

Larry slowed the car, steered onto the shoulder of the road, then brought them to a stop. His left hand casually slid off the wheel.

Sean turned and watched the Corsica approaching. She squinted as its headlights illuminated the interior of Larry's car.

"HANDS ON THE G.o.dd.a.m.n WHEEL!" Nick yelled.

"I was just about to open the window-"

"You were just going for the door," Nick said. "Hands on the wheel."

Larry clutched the steering wheel as the Corsica cruised by. The teenage driver and his girlfriend briefly stared at them, then sped away.

Her nerves frayed, Sean took a deep breath and turned to Nick. "Give me that Polaroid, will you?" She switched on the interior overhead light, then showed the photo to Larry, the one from Charlie Stample's secret archives: Charlie the hunter, posing with his kill-the mutilated corpse of Tony Katz. "You were there that night, weren't you?" Sean said.

The tiniest flicker of a smile pa.s.sed across Larry's face as he studied the picture.

Sean began to tremble with anger. How could he smile at something so brutal and monstrous? Swallowing hard, she tucked the Polaroid into her purse, then pulled out the small tape recorder, and switched it on.

"We can't stay here," Nick said. "Let's get moving, Lare."

Ignoring him, Larry stared at Sean, the tiny smirk still on his face.