The Next to Die

She kept her eyes trained on him—until she rounded another curve in the track. She jogged past the mini- gym, the rest rooms, and a stairwell on the other side of the glass. At the next bend, there was a door to the pool area. She hoped to duck inside and make it to the stairs before he saw her.

Approaching the pool entry, Dayle took a more deliberate stride. She didn’t want to burst through the door and call attention to her flight. She couldn’t let him know she was scared. Like a dog scenting her fear, he’d give chase if she ran. She pulled open the door and walked at a brisk clip toward the stairwell. The humid, chlorine- stagnant air hit her, but she didn’t slow down. Navigating around the pool, she spied him—still by the elevators. He was talking on a cell phone. Dayle couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her yet.

Then, as she neared the stairs, Dayle caught a glimpse of the door to the vestibule swinging open. She didn’t look back. She heard his footsteps on the tiled floor—and him whispering some kind of urgent directions into his portable phone.

Dayle ducked into the stairwell and hurried down a few steps before she suddenly froze. She gaped over the banister. Two flights below, a figure pulled back from the stair railing and retreated into the shadows—along the cement wall.

Someone else was waiting for her.

For a second, Dayle was paralyzed. She turned and raced back up the stairs. She didn’t see the stubby man with the sunglasses. She didn’t even stop to look for him as she emerged from the stairwell. Everything was a blur. She found the ladies’ room door, pushed her way inside, then locked it.

Catching her breath, Dayle leaned against the door. She couldn’t stop trembling. She was covered with perspiration, and her jogging-wear clung to her body. She listened to the footsteps outside—then whispering. It sounded as though one of them said, “She’s in there.”

Dayle backed away from the door—toward the toilet stalls. One of the men outside began tugging and wrenching at the knob over and over—to no avail. Finally, a thin file slipped through the crack by the lock, and it started moving up and down.

Dayle frantically glanced around the lavatory, looking for anything she might use to defend herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the reflection of the mirror.

Gasping, she spun around. A shadow floated across the tiled floor—over by the corner stall. Was someone hiding in there? Did they have a third man working with them?

Dayle tried to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, the scream came from outside—from the pool area. It was the sound of a little girl. Dayle heard a woman and man talking, then water splashing.

Dazed, she stared at the door. The file wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t hear their whispered voices. They’d gone.

Dayle glanced back at that corner stall, then unlocked the rest room door and pushed it open. She peered out at the five people who had unwittingly saved her. Two children were splashing each other in the shallow end of the pool, while three adults—in their street clothes—settled down at an umbrella table. It looked like a young couple with a friend—one of Dayle’s neighbors, probably an uncle to those kids.

She still didn’t feel safe. Dayle stole one more glance at that stall in the corner. If someone was in there, he’d hidden himself well. And she wasn’t going to start looking for him.

Dayle hurried out of the rest room.

“Then what happened?” Lieutenant Linn asked.

“I asked my neighbor over by the pool if he could escort me back to my apartment.” Dayle spoke in a whisper. She glanced around the restaurant for a second, then sighed. “I told him that a reporter had somehow gotten into the building, and he was bothering me. Anyway, my neighbor rode down in the elevator with me, then walked me to my door.”

Despite the noisy crowd at Denny’s this Halloween morning, Dayle was certain someone would hear her. Already, a couple of loud, overly friendly women had come up to the table and asked for her autograph. They kept shrieking and laughing, like contestants on The Price Is Right. The women had left a few minutes ago, but people were still staring.

When Dayle had called her last night, Lieutenant Linn claimed that this particular Denny’s was where she had all her breakfast meetings. A cardboard and tissue jack-o’-lantern centerpiece decorated their window table. The waitress, an older woman with glasses and a pink rinse in her hair, had seemed far too busy to notice that the order for dry toast and orange juice came from a bona fide movie star. Lieutenant Linn had ordered a Grand Slam.

“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,” 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 butter, but at this point, she didn’t give a damn. “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-bashing. 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 pissed 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 sexual problems. Do you still feel that way?”

“Yes, I do,” Dayle said.

“That would make her assistant, 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 shirt, 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 assume you found something.”