The Next to Die

“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 bastard grew into a big bastard, 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 ass 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 shell 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 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 document: 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 assistant, 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 passed around the latest 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.’”

A soundman didn’t look up from his newspaper. “That would be true, if we were all named ‘Hey, Fuckhead.’” He glanced at Avery. “Want the paper?”

Avery shrugged. “Sure. Thanks, Fuckhead.”

Chuckling, the soundman handed him the newspaper, which was folded over to the Entertainment page. Avery checked out 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 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 Porn! 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 sexually 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 sex tape were 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.

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 damn 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: