Shrugging, the skinny clerk glanced over her shoulder. “Huh, maybe you can ask these guys. They’re with that group….”
Sean swiveled around. From outside, Mr. Stubby Macho and Boy Next Door came toward the lobby. Stubby Macho pushed at the glass door.
Sean turned to the clerk. “Don’t give me away,” she whispered. “This is supposed to be a surprise! Don’t say anything. Please!” Her head down, she quickly started for the door, hurrying past the two men.
Stubby Macho stopped and leered at her. Meanwhile, his pal continued toward the desk. “If I knew you were stocking this place with whores, I never would have booked us here,” he said loudly—obviously for her benefit.
Sean glanced back for a second. He slapped some money on the counter. “Listen, I’m expecting a limousine early tomorrow morning….”
Stubby Macho turned and started coming toward her. He was smirking. “Hey, girlie,” he whispered. “You want to party?”
Sean quickly shook her head, then ducked outside. The cold night air nipped at her. Shivering, she ran across the lot to her car, parked at the curb. She jumped inside and ground the key in the ignition. Her heart was racing as she pulled into traffic. Sean glanced in her rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following her.
“Oh, Sean, thank God,” Dayle said into the phone. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you….”
Dayle sat in the study, her second shot of brandy in a glass beside her on the desk. She’d poured the first one just minutes after the night watchman had escorted her up to her apartment. Then she’d checked her phone messages—eleven in all, but only two were important. One of those was from Bonny McKenna: “Hi, Dayle, this is your evil twin, Bonny. Hank and I lost those guys around nine thirty on La Brea Ave.; then I met up with my hubby, and he drove me home. No problems See you at work on Monday. Bye.”
The other message was from Dennis: “Hey, Boss Lady, it’s me. First off, Laura really enjoyed meeting you. Second, flowers and a card in your name went to Maggie’s kids this afternoon. Now, if I may eat some crow-burger, I think it wouldn’t hurt if you got yourself a full-time bodyguard. Hank’s the salt of the earth, but The Terminator he ain’t. Laura and I met a guy at a party last week, a pro, with references. He’s thinking of retiring, but I could persuade him to work for us. His name is Ted Kovak. His phone number is 555-3641, or I can contact him for you. Mull it over. We’ll talk later. Bye.”
Dayle jotted down the messages. She thought a shower might relax her. But as she stood under the warm spray from the duel shower heads, she couldn’t help remembering Estelle’s body. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see Estelle—pale, bloated, and naked—curled up on that tiled floor in a pool of blood.
Dayle didn’t linger in the shower. She’d dried off, slipped into her terrycloth robe, and poured that second brandy. She’d called Sean’s cellular number. It had rung three times before the line went dead. Dayle tried again every ten minutes after that.
She’d been ready to call Sean’s in-laws’ house—or the police—when her phone rang.
“I got your call, and I shut off my cellular,” Sean explained. “I’m sorry. I was in no position to talk to anyone at the time. I’ll explain later—”
“Well, are you okay?” Dayle asked. “Where are you?”
“In the car,” Sean replied. “I should be home in about an hour. I’m okay. Nobody’s following me. Anyway, sorry I cut you off. I saw it was you who phoned. I was going to call you anyway. Listen, Dayle, I pulled a switcheroo and followed one of these guys who’s had you under surveillance. They’re all holed up in this hotel called the My-T-Comfort Inn. There are at least four of them—if you include the guy parked outside your building tonight. I checked out this hotel, and some cops are staying there too. At least, there’s a police car in the lot. I don’t know what that’s about. But I wrote down the plate numbers on the rental cars. Do you still have that private detective working for you?”
“Yes,” Dayle said numbly.
“I’ll fax or e-mail these numbers to you when I get home tonight,” Sean said—over some static on the line. “Maybe your guy knows a good computer hack who can come up with the credit cards used at the car rental agency. We might be able to find out who these guys are—and where they’re from.”
“The reception’s getting choppy,” Dayle said. “Listen, why not just call the police now? They can go to that hotel and—”
“Dayle, the police are already at the hotel,” she replied. “For all we know, they could be involved. Let’s first just find out who these guys are. Dayle? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, but you’re breaking up.”
“I know. My phone’s running out of juice. I better hang up. I’ll send you that list tonight. Okay? Bye, Dayle.”
“Okay, be careful.” With uncertainty, Dayle hung up.
She took another sip of brandy, then moved to the window. Hiding behind the curtain, she glanced down at the white Taurus parked across the street. She remembered something Estelle had said earlier tonight:
Fourteen
Tom had bought five different Saturday morning newspapers from the kiosk down his street. They were scattered across his living room floor like a paper drop cloth, each one open to the story about Maggie’s death. Only the
Tom’s heart ached. All those tributes to Maggie, and he’d been reduced to playing a bit part. Still, he took solace in the
He was dressed in his new blue suit (only three years old), a crisp white shirt, and his favorite tie. Tom combed his hair again, then pulled out a scissors and trimmed his wild eyebrows and ear hair. He took another look at his wristwatch: 7:45. Where were they?
What if this Hal Buckman was some sadistic crackpot, the same one making those calls earlier? They’d never called back; no more recordings of Maggie or that barking dog. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate trap.
“It’s real,” Tom whispered resolutely. “It’s
Tom’s heart leaped when he saw a limousine finally pull up in front of his building. He watched the driver get out, and a moment later, the downstairs buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom. “Yes?”
“Mr. Lance? This is Arnie, your driver. Sorry for the delay, sir.”
Grinning, Tom pressed the intercom again. “I’ll be right down. Thanks.”
He grabbed his scrapbook, then paused in the doorway for a moment, long enough to whisper, “God, please, don’t let me screw this up.”
Hal Buckman waited for him in the limo’s backseat. He looked about fifty years old, with receding black hair, an affable smile, and thick jowls. He wore gray slacks, a black turtleneck, a blue blazer, and sunglasses. “We appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule for this interview, Mr. Lance,” he said, shaking Tom’s hand. The limo started to move. “I realize this isn’t easy for you. This whole thing must have been an awful shock.”
Tom sighed. “I still can’t believe it. What’s this world coming to?”
“You and Maggie McGuire remained close, didn’t you?”
“Yes. We kept in touch.” He tapped the cover of his scrapbook. “I brought pictures—some really good ones of Maggie and me together. Maybe you can show them during part of my segment.”
“Super,” Hal Buckman said. “I understand that you helped Maggie get started in movies. You landed her the part in
Tom felt himself blushing. “I talked to the director,” he said. “But Maggie’s beauty and talent won her the
