The Next To Die Part 8

"Don't you have someone handling security in your building?" she asked, while jotting in her notebook.

Dayle nodded. "We have a doorman and a guard. I called them immediately. But they never found the men. It's possible these guys slipped in past the front desk earlier. Someone on the eleventh floor was having a lot of work done on their place, and workmen were coming in and out all day."

Lieutenant Linn grabbed the brown plastic pitcher and refilled both of their coffee cups. "Why did you tell your neighbor that a reporter was pestering you? Why not just tell him the truth?"

"Because these men were after me me," Dayle replied. "I saw no point in scaring my neighbor-or his friends."

"What makes you so sure they were after you-and only you?"

Dayle frowned. "I'm not paranoid-if that's what you're getting at."

"Well, isn't it possible that these men could have been reporters?" Lieutenant Linn said. "I mean, as you know, some of those guys are awfully aggressive."

Dayle sighed and glanced out the window for a moment. She'd hoped to avoid publicity by calling Lieutenant Linn last night-instead of reporting the incident to the police. She didn't want the press picking it up.

Their breakfast arrived. Dayle's toast was smothered with b.u.t.ter, but at this point, she didn't give a d.a.m.n. "I know you think I'm overreacting," she said. "But something's happening here. Leigh's death wasn't a suicide, and what happened to Tony Katz was no random gay-bas.h.i.+ng. He was getting death threats. I wish I could tell you where I heard this, but I can't. This person prefers to remain anonymous."

Susan Linn doused her pancakes with syrup. "So you think the men stalking you last night are the same ones who threatened Tony Katz-and killed Leigh Simone?" She gave Dayle a dubious glance. "Why should they want to kill you?"

Dayle shrugged. "I was at that benefit concert. I gave a tribute to Tony. Maybe I p.i.s.sed somebody off. I had a ton of death threats a couple of years ago when I played a gay character in this movie."

Nodding, Lieutenant Linn jotted something in her steno pad. "Survival Instincts. I saw it. Listen, do you have a bodyguard?"

"My chauffeur doubles as my bodyguard."

"You should get somebody full time." She put down her pen. "When we last talked, you insisted we were wrong about Leigh's drug habits and s.e.xual problems. Do you still feel that way?"

"Yes, I do," Dayle said.

"That would make her a.s.sistant, Estelle Collier, a liar, wouldn't it?"

"Has anyone ever bothered to confirm Estelle's claims about Leigh's 'secret life'?"

Susan Linn shrugged. "I suppose we're all rather quick to believe the worst about people, especially the rich and famous. Then again, why would Estelle Collier lie?"

"I might be able to answer that for you, Lieutenant. Very soon."

Amos Brock's brother, Nick, attracted a lot of attention as he swaggered to Dayle's trailer door. About thirty, and attractive in a cheap, hoody way, he was tan (probably all over), and wore a Hawaiian silk s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He had a sinewy body and his straight black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. He looked like the male equivalent of a bimbo.

He'd shown up at the studio between scene setups. Dayle had managed to get in three hours of work since her breakfast with Lieutenant Linn this morning. She was in her trailer, chatting with Bonny, and primping for her next scene. She asked Bonny to leave them alone for a few minutes. Bonny gave her a lewd wink at the trailer door-as if Nick Brock were some hired stud service, not a private detective. Keeping a straight face, Dayle offered him a seat and a cup of coffee. He'd dowsed himself in Obsession, forcing Dayle to crank up the vent fan. She returned to her vanity, where she reapplied her lipstick. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Brock," she said to his reflection in the mirror. "I a.s.sume you found something."

"Correct-a-mundo, and you can call me Nick," he said, leering at her. "You know, you're one fine-looking lady, Ms. Sutton. And it doesn't take a lot of detective work to figure that out."

"Thanks," Dayle said. "But you can knock off the sweet talk, Nick. What did you find out about Estelle Collier?"

He opened a black leather-bound notebook. "Well, our gal, Estelle, has a lot of secrets. First off, she's got a kid, a love child, the result of her hippie period. His name is Peter, and he was born in San Francisco in 1970."

"Is this son still alive?" she asked.

Nick nodded. "Correct-a-mundo. And although she's been hanging out with liberal types like Leigh Simone, Estelle has kept junior a secret."

Dayle turned to stare at him. "What about the father?"

"It says 'unknown' on the birth certificate. But I know this much. The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d grew into a big b.a.s.t.a.r.d, despite mama busting her chops to make sure he got everything he wanted. Estelle has spent a small fortune bailing him out of jail again and again, and putting him into private rehab centers for substance abuse. Thanks to Peter, Mama Estelle was in debt up to her a.s.s when Leigh Simone hired her. That was six years ago. At just about the time Estelle was climbing out of debt, Little Petee got bitten by the gambling bug. Three guesses how his luck was."

"Disastrous?"

He nodded. "Correct-a-mundo. A major loser."

"Could you do me a favor, Nick?" Dayle said. "Could you knock off the 'correct-a-mundo' bit? It's annoying."

Nick looked crestfallen. "Sorry," he grumbled. He glanced down at his notes. "Um, where was I?"

"The son had some gambling debts. I gather Estelle covered his losses."

Nick nodded. "Mama to the rescue. It was either that or sonny would get his legs sawed off at the kneecaps. To sh.e.l.l out the payments, Estelle borrowed from her boss-on the sly."

"She embezzled from Leigh?"

"Correct-a-" Nick caught himself. "Yes. Looks that way."

"How did you find out all this?"

Nick leaned back and sighed. "Detective work, Ms. Sutton. It's what I do. I talked to an ex-friend of Peter Collier's, and I found this in San Francisco." He handed her a copy of Peter Collier's birth certificate. "Plus I schmoozed with a clerk at the accounting firm for the late Leigh Simone."

"A clerk?"

Nick shrugged. "She's hot for me. I bat my baby blues, casually ask the questions, and she always spills more than she intends to. From what I could find out, when Leigh offed herself, right away, they noticed a lot of money had gone hasta-la-bye-bye from her accounts. So they pumped Estelle, and she cracked, fessed up to the whole thing."

"Why wasn't she arrested?"

"They were supposed to be keeping track of Leigh's doeray-me. If they blew the whistle on Estelle, they'd look like idiots. My guess is, they must have made a deal with Estelle to replace the money before anyone was the wiser. The day after Leigh was discovered in the ladies' lav, ever faithful Estelle played ball with the tabloids, slamming her dead boss. She raked in close to forty thousand that day, but you'd never know it, because it went right into Leigh's account to cover what she'd been skimming. Y'know, when it came to blowing the whistle on Madame Simone, Estelle promised the tabloids more than she delivered. She couldn't back up a thing she told them. No juicy photos or videos, no love letters in Leigh's handwriting, no proof. Bupkis. The tabloids weren't too happy with her."

"So Estelle couldn't prove she was telling the truth about Leigh?"

Nick nodded. "Correct-a...yes, correct, ma'am."

"Okay," Dayle said. "What I need is proof that she was lying lying to the tabloids and the police. Were you able to dig anything up?" to the tabloids and the police. Were you able to dig anything up?"

Nick Brock shrugged. "Hey, sorry. I thought you were looking for something in her past, some good ammo for a blackmailer. Between the loser son she has stashed away and the embezzlement, I figured we had something."

Dayle glanced at the copy of Peter Collier's birth certificate. She studied that line on the doc.u.ment: Father: Unknown Father: Unknown.

"Mr. Brock, see what you can find out for me about this unknown father," she said. "And consider it a rush job."

Eight.

Traci Haydn refused to come out of her trailer, and all they could do was wait. Traci's a.s.sistant, a thin, pencil-faced brunette who had overdone the collagen injections, came out of the trailer at different intervals to explain that Traci had problems with her hair, problems with her makeup; she was on the phone with her astrologer, with her agent, with her husband; she had cramps, she had a headache. It was no secret on the set that Miss Big Lips was supplying Traci with cocaine.

Jotting notes on his script, Avery waited it out with the crew. A couple of technicians pa.s.sed around the latest US US magazine with Traci on the cover. "Says here," one read, "'Traci makes friends wherever she goes. No prima donna, she's on a first-name basis with everybody on her movie set.'" magazine with Traci on the cover. "Says here," one read, "'Traci makes friends wherever she goes. No prima donna, she's on a first-name basis with everybody on her movie set.'"

A soundman didn't look up from his newspaper. "That would be true, if we were all named 'Hey, f.u.c.khead.'" He glanced at Avery. "Want the paper?"

Avery shrugged. "Sure. Thanks, f.u.c.khead."

Chuckling, the soundman handed him the newspaper, which was folded over to the Entertainment page. Avery checked out CHASING AROUND TOWN CHASING AROUND TOWN by Yvonne Chase. The gossip column featured tidbits on a dozen celebrities-their names in bold print. The last blurb was an occasional gem Yvonne featured to set Hollywood on a guessing game called by Yvonne Chase. The gossip column featured tidbits on a dozen celebrities-their names in bold print. The last blurb was an occasional gem Yvonne featured to set Hollywood on a guessing game called I'M NOT SAYING WHO, BUT I'M NOT SAYING WHO, BUT...

Avery read the blurb: It's true what you've heard about a certain guy-next-door TV-to-Film Star and his Broadway Babe wife. Proof their Bi-Coastal marriage is A-OK is in the p.o.r.n! A raunchy home video of these two in the sack is circulating throughout the Hollywood Hills. One movie exec is said to have paid ten thousand clams for a copy of the s.e.xually explicit tape. No comment from the frisky, unabashed duo.

Avery started to crumple up the newspaper, then became aware of the soundman hovering over him. "Excuse me," he managed to say. He headed toward his trailer.

It was happening. Copies of his and Joanne's s.e.x tape were out there out there now. People were starting to talk about it. Soon bootlegged copies of the video would be available. And it wouldn't be long before Internet users could download explicit photos of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane making love. The last few days had been quiet, but he'd seen this coming. now. People were starting to talk about it. Soon bootlegged copies of the video would be available. And it wouldn't be long before Internet users could download explicit photos of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane making love. The last few days had been quiet, but he'd seen this coming.

He had already told his agent, Louise, about the new Avery Cooper film for which she'd receive no commission. As Louise said, "Well, you never know. Maybe some country will bomb another country the day this video goes public, and no one will give a d.a.m.n about your little home movie."

Avery had also spoken to Brent Cauffield about legal avenues they could take to stifle the video distribution and bootlegging. His attorney wasn't very optimistic, but promised to do what he could.

To handle "damage control," Louise had recommended a public relations wizard named Steve Bensinger. Avery had already talked with him on the phone. He seemed like a nice guy, very smart. They were scheduled to sit down and discuss strategies early tomorrow night.

Avery now needed to move up that appointment.

Once inside his trailer, he called Louise. They'd been playing phone tag all morning. She picked up this time: "Seers Representation."

"Hey, Louise. It's me. Did you see the blurb in Yvonne Chase's column?"

"Yes, I saw that tidbit," she said. "And I also heard from a friend of mine this morning. He says they showed your video last night during a party at Vaughn Samson's house...."

"Oh, great." Avery muttered. "So we're party entertainment...."

"If it's any consolation, you were quite a hit with Vaughn and the boys. He may just want to direct you in your next film."

"Swell," he grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sat on his sofa. "Have any reporters called you about this yet?"

"Only about a dozen since breakfast," she answered dryly.

"I need to see Steve Bensinger as soon as possible," Avery said. "We shouldn't talk to the press until we've worked out an angle on this."

"I'll call Steve for you," Louise offered. "He owes me a favor. I'll make sure he sees you tonight."

"Good." Avery sighed. "I don't know how to thank you, Louise."

"Hmmm, maybe you could get me a copy of that video." She was the only one laughing. "Avery, it was a joke."

"Sorry. At the moment, I don't have a very good sense of humor."

"Honey, a sense of humor is what you need most right now."

He managed a chuckle. "Sound advice. Thank you, Louise."

Avery clicked off the line, but held on to the phone. He needed to call Joanne, and dreaded it. Despite the quiet calm before the storm of these last few days, she'd shown signs of increasing strain. Last night, she'd thrown a gla.s.s of red wine at the kitchen wall, because he'd made the fatal error of mentioning her mother again.

He'd brought up the topic a few days ago. Avery felt they had to warn their parents about the bad publicity ahead. He certainly didn't want Rich and Lo hearing about the video from someone else. They were still catching flack from church friends about his controversial TV movie. To brace them for this latest bombsh.e.l.l, he'd asked his brother to be at his parents' home when he called, then he got both his mom and dad on the line. At first, his mother didn't seem to comprehend what Avery was talking about: "What do you mean? What 'personal item' did these people steal?"

"They stole a video, Mom. It's-kind of a risque home movie of Joanne and myself-in bed."

It was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. Finally, his father cleared his throat. "Um, you made a video of the two of you-"

"Yeah, Pop. And they stole it." Avery's stomach was turning.

"Why?" his mom asked, incredulous. "Why did you do that? I can't believe Joanne would agree to such a thing. What were you thinking?"

"Honey," his father cut in. "Let's just listen to what he has to say."

"I'm really sorry, you guys," he muttered, "It gets worse. The people who took the tape, they say they're going to make copies..."

The more he tried to explain, the more upset his mother became. Finally, his father gently interrupted. "Avery? We'll have to call you back. Okay? Your mom's crying. We'll call you back, son."

Avery heard a click on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry," he said to no one.

They phoned back a half hour later. By then, his mother had calmed down, and his dad was even trying to joke about it. Avery apologized for the embarra.s.sment they'd have to endure. But his dad rea.s.sured him, "Oh, so we'll get some flack. This too will pa.s.s. Comes with the territory when you have a movie star for a son. For the most part, it's a pretty sweet deal."

As much as he'd hated making that call to his parents, Avery had known deep inside that they would be supportive-no matter what.

Joanne's relations.h.i.+p with her parents wasn't so ideal. She'd been estranged from her mother for several years-some bad blood over her mother's selling the house and all their furniture right after her father had died-without consulting Joanne. Though Avery had never met his mother-in-law, he encouraged Joanne to end their six-year standoff. Joanne told him to b.u.t.t out. She claimed not to care one way or another what her mother thought once this s.e.x video went public.

Avery had let the subject drop for a couple of days. Then he'd made the mistake of picking it up again last night. All he'd said was: "You sure you don't want to try getting in touch with your mom?"

Then the winegla.s.s. .h.i.t the kitchen wall. Joanne went on a tirade, calling her mother a b.i.t.c.h, and blaming Avery for bringing on this whole humiliating ordeal. "Why did you have to make that stupid TV movie anyway?" she screamed, banging her fist on the kitchen counter. "It's because of that movie they singled us out and stole the video. It's probably why I can't get pregnant. G.o.d's punis.h.i.+ng us, because you played an abortion doctor-"

"Joanne, you can't mean that," he whispered, reaching out to her.

She reeled away. "Leave me alone!"

"All right, all right, just calm down," he said, pulling back. He glanced at the wine stain on the wall and the broken gla.s.s on the floor. "Listen to me for a second," he said. "I was wrong. Phoning your mother was a bad idea. Let's erase that. Okay? Everything's going to be all right."

She settled down a bit later, and took one of those pills that the doctor had prescribed. Avery cleaned up the broken gla.s.s, but the wine had made a noticeable mauve-colored stain on the white kitchen wall.