was the one who ached at the sight of his friend’s pregnant wife tonight. He saw the promise of a family there. For a short while, Joanne had been carrying his child, and he hadn’t even known.
Avery wiped his nose. He noticed a woman coming up the winding dirt path by the rock wall. She stared at him from behind a pair of black cat-eye glasses that seemed as sixties retro as her auburn page-boy wig. She kept her hands in the pockets of her shiny black raincoat.
Avery heard a car pull up. He stood and glanced back for a moment.
“Excuse me?” the woman said. “Aren’t you Avery Cooper?”
He turned to her. “Yes, but I—”
Her hand came up so quick, he didn’t even realize what she was doing until her fingernails tore at his cheek. He reeled back. The woman ran away, then ducked inside the white car that had just pulled up. Dazed, Avery watched the car peel away and speed down the street. There was no time to get a license plate number, no time to even process what had just happened.
Dazed, he wandered back to his car, climbed inside, and checked the rearview mirror. Whoever the woman was, she’d done a number on his face: four claw marks weeping blood on his cheek. He thought about calling the police to report the incident. But what could they do about it?
He drove home. The crowd outside his front gate had dwindled down to about twenty people, most of them reporters. Avery opened the gate with a remote device. The mob fought for a look at him, shouting questions, mostly about Joanne—where she was, how she was holding up. All the inquiries seemed to blend together—except for one reporter, whose voice dominated the others as he asked, “How did you get that scratch on your face, Avery?”
Avery stared straight ahead, pressing the remote device to shut the gate behind him.
Once inside the house, he tended to the scratches on his face. He’d forgotten he was still wearing makeup from his
“Still napping,” George said. “Where are you? Did you
“Yeah, I made a stop along the way,” Avery replied.
He’d spent almost ninety minutes in that park. It was a lapse of time the police would later question. They would also ask about the scratch marks on his face.
Twelve
As was now the custom, Hank entered the apartment first, and turned on the lights for her. Then Dayle stepped inside. She didn’t pay much attention to the ringing telephone. Hank forged ahead into the kitchen, letting Fred out. The cat scurried toward her. Dayle scooped him up and hugged him.
The answering machine in her study was picking up the call:
Dayle grabbed the telephone. “Hello? Nick?”
“Ms. Sutton?” Nick was saying. “Hey, cool. Glad I caught you…”
“I’m sorry, Danny, I don’t want you spending the night at this Greg’s house.” The cordless phone to her ear, Sean stood on a ladder, painting her office walls. “I don’t know Greg or his parents—”
“Well, geeze, Mom, maybe if you were home more, you’d know him. He’s practically my best friend.”
Working the roller over the wall, she sighed. “I thought Jason was your best friend.”
“He is, but Greg’s new. Ah, c’mon, Aunt Anne said it’s okay with her.”
“Well, it’s not okay with me—not yet. Tell you what, have Greg’s mom call me here at the office, and I’ll get back to you and let you know.” Sean paused for a moment by the roller-tray full of sea-foam-green paint. She wore a baseball cap, a paint-splattered T-shirt, and old jeans. “Are you still there, Danny?” she asked. “I just want to talk to Greg’s mother—”
“Forget it,” her son grunted. “I never get to go anywhere, and you’re never home. Fine. This sucks.”
“Hey, this isn’t very fun for me either,” she said.
After Danny hung up, Sean went back to painting her office. Her son had a point. She was hardly ever home, and missed so much of her children’s lives. But she had to set up her business. Dan wouldn’t be around too long, and she couldn’t expect to keep living off the generosity of her in-laws.
The phone rang again, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Sean? It’s Dayle. How are you?”
“Oh, my son hates me, but otherwise I’m all right.” She put down the paint roller. “Did you get my message?”
“Yes,” Dayle said. “In fact, the timing is impeccable. I think you’re right. Estelle Collier will be more cooperative if she has a lawyer to work out a deal for her. Could you meet me at Estelle’s place tonight around eight?”
Sean hesitated. She’d wanted to be home by eight.
“By the way,” Dayle added. “I don’t expect you to do this for free. I’m paying for your services here, Sean, whatever you charge.”
“Well, I’m not going to pretend that I can’t use the money.” She reached for a pen on her desk. “What’s Estelle’s address?”
As Hank pulled out of the driveway, Dayle watched the Corsica start after them. It stayed on their tail for a half hour. Twice, Dayle made Hank stop for amber lights, because she didn’t want to lose the Corsica just yet.
They turned into the Valley Ridge Condominiums complex. The three tall buildings, constructed in the early Reagan years, compensated for their lack of charm with a clean, spartan style. Hank pulled up to the entrance of the middle tower. Stepping out of the limo, Dayle spied the Corsica at the edge of the parking lot—one building over. Its headlights went out.
Hank escorted her to the lobby door. Dayle toted a Nordstrom bag. She buzzed number 501:
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Oh, howdy. I’m buzzin’ ya up.”
Dayle took the elevator to the fifth floor. Bonny was waiting in the hallway. “So what does our hair look like today?” she asked.
Within minutes, Bonny emerged from the building and strolled toward Hank and the limo. She looked exactly like her employer, right down to Dayle’s confident strut. Bonny climbed into the backseat of the limo. Once Hank pulled out of the lot, the Corsica started following them.
Dayle watched from the fifth-floor window. For the next two hours, Bonny would go shopping on Rodeo Drive—with Hank at her side. She knew enough about surveillance to keep her shadows at a distance—and eventually lose them without raising any suspicions.
Dayle changed into the outfit she’d brought along in her bag: jeans and a purple jersey. From the phone in Bonny’s kitchen, she called a cab.
The taxi dropped Dayle in front of a U-shaped two-story apartment building. The place looked as if it had once been a hotel in the early sixties. At the front gate, two tiki torches with Polynesian masks on the poles stood like relics of the bygone era. Each unit had its own entry off a balcony walkway overlooking the pool and patio.
Dayle found Estelle’s apartment on the second level. She rang the bell. It seemed a gauche place to live for someone who had worked alongside such a high-profile star. Then again, Estelle’s bad-seed son had depleted most of his mother’s income. Maybe this dump was all she could afford now.
