called it pretty accurately:
The people who really knew her best were Bonny and Dennis. She was thinking about that last night, when Leigh Simone mentioned, “My best friend is my assistant, Estelle. And I pay her salary.” Leigh said it was the same way with her band and backup singers—to a lesser degree. No matter how close she felt to them, they were still her employees. “Oh, the dilemma of being a diva!” she’d declared—before bursting into laughter.
Dayle kept her eyes closed as the plane encountered a little turbulence. Nothing severe. She smiled at the thought of Leigh Simone, and her offer of friendship. Here was someone very much like herself. How silly of her to worry about what people might think.
She opened her eyes. The boring businessman in the aisle seat didn’t wait a beat before starting in: “The flight attendant came by for your drink order, but you were asleep. I ordered a Bloody Mary. What the heck, it’s free. My wife’s not going to believe I sat next to a movie star—”
“Excuse me, Ms. Sutton,” the flight attendant interrupted, God bless him. “May I get you something to drink?”
Dayle smiled gratefully. “Yes, may I have a Diet Coke please?”
“I’d think a big superstar would order champagne and caviar,” the man beside her remarked.
“I have a long day ahead,” Dayle explained patiently. She glanced at her wristwatch, then reached for the air phone. “You’ve been very nice to let me sleep, thanks.” She started dialing, then turned her shoulder to him.
“Oh, well, no problem,” she heard him reply.
Dennis answered on the third ring. “Dennis Walsh speaking.”
“Hi, it’s me. I’m calling from the plane, which was delayed two hours. So—favor number one, let them know on the set that I’ll be late. Favor two, call your buddy, Estelle, and see if you—”
“Estelle?”
“Leigh Simone’s assistant, Estelle. Between you and her, maybe you can figure out some time when Leigh and I can get together this week. I figure—”
“Jesus, you don’t know,” he interrupted in a whisper.
“Know what?”
“I thought you sounded too damn cheerful.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s bad news, Dayle. Um…Leigh’s dead.”
Dayle told herself that she didn’t hear him right.
But Dennis had confirmed it through a friend at Associated Press. Leigh had died from an apparent drug overdose in a rest room at the Imperial Hotel. “More bad news,” Dennis went on. “Someone on the plane ID’d you and called somebody else. Long story short, you’ll have a capacity crowd waiting for you at the gate—including our friends from the press.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Dayle muttered, rubbing her forehead.
“I’ll get some extra security over to the airport for you.”
“Thanks, Dennis,” she said, her voice quivering. “Better have my lawyer there too. And for God’s sake, see if you can get any more information about what happened to Leigh.”
Camera flashes went off as Dayle emerged from the jet-way. Photographers elbowed and shoved each other for a good shot. Reporters screamed questions at her: What was her reaction when she heard about Leigh Simone’s death? How well did she know Leigh? Did Leigh seem depressed last night? Did she know Leigh was taking drugs?
Dayle kept her gaze fixed directly ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. The extra security people controlled the crowd at the gate. Hank, her driver and part-time bodyguard, held the mob at bay with an intimidating look. A big guy with a blond crew cut, Hank was fifty-three. Without his glasses, he could have passed for an Aryan version of Oddjob, the deadly henchman in
“Dayle, don’t you have any comment about Leigh?”
On an impulse, she stepped up to the nearest microphone. “I don’t believe for one minute that Leigh Simone took her own life,” she announced. “Leigh didn’t use drugs. When I saw her late last night, she was doing just great. I hope the police thoroughly investigate Leigh’s death, because this overdose was not self-inflicted.”
“Ms. Sutton are you saying Leigh Simone was murdered?” one reporter asked. Then about a dozen others yelled out questions.
“I have no further comment,” Dayle said.
“Thank God!” It was her lawyer, Ross Durlocker, who came to Dayle’s side just as she turned away from the microphone. Balding and middle-aged, Ross compensated for his bland looks with frequent tanning sessions, eighty-dollar haircuts, and expensive designer suits. He hadn’t come alone. Behind him were three men in not-so- expensive suits, who just had to be police. Neither Ross nor the plainclothesmen seemed too happy with her. “Dayle, sweetheart,” Ross whispered. “The detectives here would like to talk to you before you say anything else to the media.”
Dayle threw him a strained smile, then nodded. Hank went to claim her bags. The policemen led Dayle and her lawyer through the crowd, into an elevator that had a sign posted on the doors: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They went up to the third floor, then followed the cops down the corridor to a narrow, windowless conference room with a long oak table and a dozen chairs. Blown-up aerial photos of the airport decorated the walls.
A thin, middle-aged Asian woman sat near the end of the table. She looked haggard. Her red jacket and skirt ensemble were slightly wrinkled. She gave Dayle and Ross a weary nod as she flipped open a steno pad.
“I could use some coffee,” Ross whispered to Dayle. “You want coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Dayle sat down at the table.
Ross settled next to her. He knocked on the table until the Asian woman looked up. “Honey, I’d like a cup of coffee, cream and sugar if you’ve got it.”
The Asian woman nodded and smiled. But she didn’t stand up.
“Don’t call her honey,” Dayle muttered. “You know that pisses me off.”
“Me too,” the Asian woman said. She shot a look at one of the cops. “Frank, get this asshole some coffee.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Linn.” He hurried out the door.
Dayle let out her first laugh since she’d stepped off the plane.
The woman turned to Dayle and her lawyer. “Well, you heard the man,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn of the LAPD. I’ve been on the phone with the Portland Police Department since six forty-five this morning. I’m handling the investigation of Leigh Simone’s death on this end.”
Ross cleared his throat. “I’m here as counsel to—”
“I know why you’re here, Mr. Durlocker,” the lieutenant cut in. “You’re Dayle Sutton’s lawyer. I’ll forget about your ‘honey’ crack if you forget what I called you. Now, let’s cut to the chase. According to findings from the Portland police, Leigh’s death was from an overdose of heroin—accidental or a suicide, they’re still not sure.”
Lieutenant Linn folded her hands and smiled at Dayle—the same smile she’d given Ross just seconds before calling him an asshole. “Now, Ms. Sutton. Since you were at the rally last night with Leigh, we wanted your cooperation in answering a few questions. It wouldn’t have taken long. Of course, that was before you decided to share with the press your opinion about this case.”
“I meant what I said,” Dayle replied coolly.
“Your reputation for being forthright precedes you,” the lieutenant said, glancing at her steno pad. “What makes you think, all evidence to the contrary, that Ms. Simone’s overdose was—as you put it—‘not self- inflicted?’”
Dayle leaned forward. “Leigh met me for a drink in my room late last night.” Ross and the cops were staring at her, perhaps wondering about the lesbian angle; but Dayle didn’t care. At least, she tried not to care.
“Go on,” the lieutenant said. “I’m listening.”
“We talked for thirty minutes or so,” Dayle explained. “Leigh mentioned rumors about her sex life that simply weren’t true. She said she didn’t use drugs, and joked about being a ‘disgrace to the rock star profession.’ She wouldn’t even take a drink when I offered. When she left my room at around eleven, she was in a good mood, not
