He’d already packed his scrapbook in the suitcase, and now Tom was pulling clothes out of his closet. Another call had come in an hour ago; but he’d let it ring. Right now, he just wanted to get out of there before they called again. These people knew he’d killed Maggie, and they were torturing him. Why? He had a feeling they were watching him this very minute.
The telephone rang again. Tom stepped into the living room and gazed at the phone for a moment. Finally, he picked it up, but didn’t quite bring the receiver up to his face. The voice seemed tiny and distant: “Hello? Mr. Lance? Mr. Tom Lance? Is anyone there?”
Tom brought the receiver closer to his ear. “Yes? This is him.”
“Hi. My name’s Hal Buckman. I’m a reporter for
“Yes, I—I’m still here,” he said numbly. “You want me to be on TV?”
“That’s right. We’d tape the interview tomorrow morning for tomorrow night’s show. Could you fit us into your schedule?”
Tom closed his eyes and smiled gratefully. “Yes,” he said, past the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yes, I—I think I can fit you in….”
Someone knocked. Dayle peeked out the window, then opened Estelle’s front door. Sean wore a navy blue silk blouse and a black skirt. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. “So where’s my new client?” she asked.
“In the bathroom, getting dressed. I’ve already put a call in to a police lieutenant I know. I think she’ll work with us on this.”
Sean glanced at the closed bathroom door. Estelle still had the hair dryer on. “Is she ready to talk?”
Dayle nodded. “She’s told me an earful. These people forced her to lie about Leigh’s problems with sex and drugs. They were calling her up long before Leigh died—practically admitting they were going to kill her.”
“Does she have proof that these people actually murdered Leigh?”
Dayle shrugged. “I can’t say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Sean nodded and sighed. “I’ll need to ask her a
“You can sleep over at my place if you want.”
“Thanks,” Sean said, putting down her briefcase. “But I want to fix breakfast for my kids tomorrow. Plus my husband has had a few bad nights lately, and I need to be with him.”
Dayle squinted at her. “You mentioned he was sick. Is it serious?”
“Dan was diagnosed three years ago with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” Sean spoke in a matter-of-fact way. She even managed a smile. “The doctor originally gave us only eighteen months, so we’re doing better than expected.”
“Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry,” Dayle murmured. “Are you getting any help?”
She nodded. “My in-laws came to our rescue. It’s one reason we moved here from Eugene. We had to sell our house. Don’t get me started talking about the debt. Anyway, the UCLA Medical Center is doing great things in the treatment of people with ALS. So this is the place for us to be right now.”
“Sean, I wish you would have told me. I wouldn’t be bothering you with all this—”
“No, you’re helping me out. We could use the money—”
The phone rang.
“That’s probably Lieutenant Linn.” Dayle grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Dayle? Susan Linn, here. I got your page. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes if traffic allows. Is Estelle there with you now?”
“Yes. She’s in the john,” Dayle said, watching Sean wander toward the closed bathroom door. “And I have a lawyer here to represent her.”
“Fine. I’ll see you soon.” Susan Linn hung up.
Sean turned to Dayle. “That dryer’s been on for at least ten minutes….”
Dayle put down the phone. She rapped on the bathroom door. “Estelle?”
No answer. Dayle pounded on the door again. “Estelle? Can you hear me? Estelle!” She jiggled the doorknob. Locked. At the crack under the bathroom door, blood seeped past the threshold onto the beige shag carpet. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Sean, call an ambulance….”
Dayle threw her weight against the door. “Estelle! Oh, Jesus, no….”
Sean hurried to the phone. Dayle kicked at the spot just below the doorknob until it finally gave. But the door didn’t move more than a couple of inches. Something was blocking it—something heavy and lifeless.
Dayle peeked into the bathroom and gasped. She saw the blood on the white tiled floor, and Estelle’s nude body, curled up in a fetal position. She hadn’t cut her wrists. All the blood leaked from a slice across her throat. And in her hand, she still clutched a razor blade.
Thirteen
“Are you okay, Dayle?” Sean asked. Sitting at the steering wheel, she took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her.
Dayle was slumped in the passenger seat. She gave Sean a limp smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, her voice scratchy from talking to Lieutenant Linn for the last ninety minutes. She’d been crying a little too. A pair of approaching headlights illuminated her pale, tearstained face; and for a moment, Dayle Sutton didn’t look anything like a glamorous movie star. “You’re keeping it together really well,” she said.
Sean studied the traffic on the highway. “Well, I didn’t know Estelle,” she reasoned. “And I’m not the one who was talking to her just ten minutes before we found her in there—like that. I’d say you absorbed most of the shock for us, Dayle.”
Sean patted her shoulder. Dayle probably thought she was a real cold customer for not breaking down at all. But that scene in Estelle’s place was all too familiar. Because of Dan’s seizures, Sean had almost become accustomed to dealing with death and near-death, 9-1-1, paramedics, and answering a ton of stupid questions while under stress.
She and Dayle had sat in Estelle’s beige living room an hour ago, watching them carry the draped corpse out on a stretcher. She’d told Susan Linn everything she could—which wasn’t much. She shared some of Vince Delk’s theories with her, but didn’t mention that she had a source within the Portland police. The burden was really on Dayle, who told the lieutenant everything Estelle Collier had so desperately concealed for such a long time.
“This is all hearsay, you know,” Lieutenant Linn had warned them. Her dark, almond eyes appeared tired. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and her black hair was tied back in a loose bun. She sat on the sofa with them, a tape recorder in her lap. She shut the machine off. “I’ll send this tape to the Portland police, suggesting they reopen the Leigh Simone investigation. But I can’t guarantee anything. Meanwhile, we’ll give this place a thorough going-over. Maybe Estelle kept a journal, something to back up what you’ve told me. Dayle, I’ll call you if we find anything.” She loaded the recorder into her purse. “Have you thought about hiring yourself a full-time bodyguard?”
Rubbing her eyes, Dayle nodded. “I probably will, yes.”
“I could try to fudge the police report on this,” Lieutenant Linn said, shaking her head. “But the press will still get wind of the fact that you discovered the body, Dayle. They’ll want you to make a statement.” She glanced at Sean for a moment. “I think your lawyer friend here would agree with me, it’s not a good idea to comment on this. It might screw up the investigation. And if what you say is true, you could be putting yourself in danger.”
Sean offered to drive Dayle back to her apartment building. For the last half hour in the car, Sean couldn’t stop thinking about the press coverage—and what it meant. She’d be included in the story on page one tomorrow: DAYLE SUTTON DISCOVERS SUICIDE OF LEIGH SIMONE’S AIDE. These people who had targeted Dayle would now go after her—and possibly her family.
Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she glanced over at Dayle, who had dozed off. Up ahead, a white
