The Next to Die

at all on the brink of suicide.”

“So you two said good-bye at eleven o’clock,” Lieutenant Linn remarked, glancing down at her notepad. “Did Ms. Simone say where she was going?”

“Back to her suite, her party.”

“She never returned to her suite. It looks like you were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive.”

“Except for the people who killed her,” Dayle said,

“Ms. Sutton, Leigh’s fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She’d trashed that ladies’ room, and scribbled a note on the mirror in her own lipstick. Do you know what she wrote?”

Dayle shook her head.

“She wrote the word Lies twice. What do you think she meant?”

“Perhaps she didn’t write it,” Dayle said.

“Perhaps she did. Perhaps she’d been lying to you about not using drugs. How well did you really know Leigh Simone?”

“We met for the first time yesterday—after the concert. But I could tell she wasn’t lying to me. Why should she?”

Ross’s coffee finally arrived. The detective set it down in front of him. Ross pried off the lid and grumbled that he’d wanted cream and sugar.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Dayle muttered, swiping the Styrofoam cup from him. She took a sip. The stuff fortified her a bit. She put the cup down. “Lieutenant, I might not have been in that rest room this morning. But I was with Leigh Simone last night. And the woman who left my suite was in a great mood, very much full of life. Your people in Portland ought to be looking into that hotel. Tony Katz was staying there the night he was murdered. And I happen to know that Tony was receiving death threats. Maybe his murder wasn’t as random as it seemed. First Tony, then Leigh. Doesn’t anyone in the Portland police or the LAPD see a connection here?”

“With the hotel? We see a coincidence. Where did you get this information about death threats toward Tony Katz?”

Dayle hesitated. “From someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“That’s not much help.”

“But it should cast doubt on your theory that Leigh killed herself. Somebody connected with the hotel could have been involved in both deaths.”

Lieutenant Linn shut her notebook and sighed. “Ms. Sutton, I’m not investigating the death of Tony Katz. The Columbia County Police in St. Helens, Oregon, are handling that one. The bodies of Mr. Katz and his friend were discovered in a forest preserve seventy-five miles away from Portland and the Imperial Hotel. That was a double homicide. Leigh Simone took an overdose of heroin.” The lieutenant gave her a perfunctory nod. “I want to thank you for your time, Ms. Sutton.”

“Wait a minute,” Dayle said. “Is that all?”

Lieutenant Linn nodded. “I’ll send this information on to Portland.”

“And it won’t change anyone’s mind up there, will it?”

Linn got to her feet. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Sutton. What you’ve said hasn’t changed my mind. I still think Leigh Simone took her own life. Despite what Ms. Simone might have told you, we know she was troubled about her sexuality and that she used drugs—including heroin.”

“That’s a crock of shit,” Dayle said, rising from her chair.

“No, that’s gospel—according to someone who has known Ms. Simone for six years. We got it from her personal assistant, Estelle Collier.”

“I want a powwow with Estelle Collier ASAP,” Dayle told Dennis over the phone in the back of her limousine. Hank was in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the airport terminal.

“You want to meet with Estelle? Leigh Simone’s assistant?”

“Yes. I’m sure everyone and their brother are trying to see her this morning, but do what you can. I need to talk to her.”

“Want me to get you an audience with the pope while I’m at it?”

“We’re not talking. What’s my schedule like today?”

“Mildly horrifying. You were due on the set an hour ago. You have a lunch date with Maggie McGuire that I better cancel. Nearly every reporter in the free world wants to talk to you regarding Leigh Simone. And there’s about a ton of other crap, but I took care of it.”

“Thanks, you’re a prince,” Dayle said. “One more favor. I want to talk with Tony Katz’s widow, Linda Zane. She’s someplace in Greece. See if you can dig up a phone number.”

“Will do. When can we expect you on the set?”

“We just left LAX. I’m on my way.”

“What were you saying back there?” Ross barked into his cellular. He sat behind the wheel of his Miata, a mile ahead of Hank and Dayle on Highway 405, near Culver City. “Do you really believe that Leigh Simone was murdered? That both Tony Katz and she were victims of some sort of conspiracy?”

“Maybe. For lack of a better word, call it a conspiracy.”

“Dayle, do you realize how nuts that sounds? One was gay-bashed. The other took an overdose. Except for the city and the hotel, there’s no connection. Let’s just drop this. The police are handling it. I don’t want to sit through another session with Lieutenant Tokyo Rose, not on this. Besides, you hardly even knew Tony or Leigh. They both have a—a stigma attached to them. The wise thing to do right now is play down your brief association with Leigh—if you get my drift.”

“No, Ross. What is your drift?”

“As it is, people are going to talk about you and Leigh. Why give them more ammunition? I’m not your PR man, but even I can see that it won’t do your image any good to keep harping on this whole Leigh Simone situation. It’s bad press, box office hari-kari. Am I getting through to you?”

She had to salute Ross for his tact. He’d managed to put his point across without calling anyone a lesbian. “You sure sound like a PR man, Ross,” she remarked.

“No, I’m your lawyer. I’m the one who’ll have to sue some tabloid to put an end to the talk. And you’re not making it an easy case to win, Dayle.”

She told herself that gossip about her didn’t matter, but it did. “Listen, Ross,” she said. “Leigh didn’t do drugs, and she wasn’t gay. Her assistant is lying on both counts.”

“Well, why in the world would Estelle Collier lie?”

“I don’t know,” Dayle said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Six

Libby Stoddard didn’t look like an heiress. The plump twenty-seven-year-old had frizzy brown hair and a face that might have been pretty if she didn’t appear perpetually bored. Her idea of dressing up for this meeting was a ratty black pullover and acid-washed jeans that hugged her wide hips.

The law office conference room had a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Seated at the long mahogany desk were Avery and his attorney, Libby, her lawyer, and an arbitrator.

Avery and Joanne had decided not to tell the police about the stolen videotape. They’d hoped to avoid any public embarrassment by meeting with Libby in private and persuading her to give it back. Avery’s lawyer, Brent Cauffield, was very persuasive and charming. Always impeccably dressed, the tall, forty-year-old Brent had thinning brown hair and a confident smile. Avery wanted him to work his charisma on Libby: “We don’t want to prosecute. If she returns the video, we won’t press charges. I want to press her head in a vise, but we won’t press charges.”

Fueling Avery’s anger were the calls to his house—more recorded snippets of conversation from their sex tape. He’d put a trace on the phone, and beefed up their security system. The Homeguard Company positioned four