The Next to Die

and tell them all about you and this SAAMO outfit?”

Hal Buckman appeared very concerned for a moment, almost tortured. “Oh, Tom,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’ll disappear before you even utter a second word to the police.”

Nick Brock stood in Dayle’s doorway. Her cordless phone to her ear, Dayle waved him inside, then shut the door. He followed her to her study, all the while checking out her “plush pad” of an apartment. Dressed in a tight black T-shirt and gray pleated pants, he carried a slim leather briefcase. Dayle sat back behind her desk and finished up on the phone with Bonny, thanking her again for acting as decoy last night. Then she clicked off and smiled at Nick. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

He pulled a magazine out of his briefcase and dropped it on her desk. “You might be interested in page thirty-four.”

It was a Playgirl. Dayle didn’t understand, but she picked up the magazine and turned to page thirty-four. She stared at a full-page photo of Nick naked, except for a shoulder holster and gun. His back was to the camera, but he grinned over his shoulder. Shaking her head, Dayle turned back a page, and read the pictorial’s title, PRIVATE DICKS.

Dayle was momentarily stunned, but only momentarily. “Well, good for you, Nick. Nice butt.” She shoved the magazine across her desk. “Now, let’s get down to business. I have more work for you.” She handed him the license plate listing that Sean had faxed her. “Those are license numbers to five rental cars. These guys have been following me around for the last few days. I’m wondering if you can come up with the credit card numbers that paid for these rentals. I also want names and addresses off those cards. And I need to know if there were any hotel or car rental charges on these cards in Portland when Leigh Simone and Tony Katz were killed.”

Nick frowned. “Ms. Sutton, unauthorized access to credit card files is against the law.” He waited a beat, then broke into a cocky grin. “It’ll be a cinch for our resident computer nerd. The guy can tap into just about any system—from Aunt Ida’s home computer to Command Center in the Pentagon. He hasn’t gotten laid in like eight years, but the guy’s a whiz on that PC.”

“I’m both happy and sad for him,” Dayle said with a patient smile. Then she sighed, and the smile fell away. “You heard about Estelle Collier.”

Nodding, Nick frowned. “Yeah. It’s a pisser.”

“Don’t you feel accountable?” Dayle whispered. “I know I do.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Nothing. Only—I can’t help thinking, ‘What goes around, comes around.’ Maybe they’re digging up something about me right now—something from my private past. Estelle said they operate that way. For all I know, they’re rattling some skeletons in my closet right now.”

Nick grinned at her. “What do you have to hide?”

“Nothing much.” Dayle answered. She glanced down at the desktop and gave a little shrug. “But enough, I guess—so that it worries me.”

Tom poured himself another Jack Daniels. He kept hearing that tape over again in his head: Maggie insulting him, the gunshot, and her body hitting the floor.

Now they wanted him to do it again, all planned out this time.

He had the TV going, but there was nothing about Maggie on the six o’clock news. Glancing out the window, he wondered if Hal’s men were watching him now.

“Stay tuned for First Edition,” the TV announcer said, as the titles for the evening news scrolled up on the screen. “F.E. has an exclusive look at the film Maggie McGuire kept secret for forty years! Viewer discretion advised.”

Tom fumbled for the remote control and turned up the volume. What were they talking about? He’d seen every movie Maggie had made. What did they mean by viewer discretion advised?

He turned up the volume on the TV. “Tonight on First Edition!” the announcer proclaimed. “A shocking exclusive! The Maggie McGuire film that she didn’t want anyone to see!” A grainy, black- and-white image came on the screen. It was Maggie, fondling a beer bottle and licking the stem in a provocative fashion. She was topless; but a computerized checkerboard grid obscured the bottom half of the TV picture to hide her breasts.

Tom watched in stunned silence. Indeed it was a young Maggie in the rickety old stag movie; probably a desperate measure from her struggling modeling days, before she’d met him. The sight of her youthful beauty left him feeling weak; he still wanted to protect her. The love of his life, and here she was, naked and debasing herself, for all to see.

They broke away from the stag movie, so the First Edition anchor, a perky blonde in a pink blazer, could introduce the show. Then they started the film again—with portions of the screen still blurred by the computerized grid. But Tom could tell what was going on. After pouring beer over her breasts, Maggie appeared to be doing something down there with the empty bottle. The movie had no sound. The anchor handled the voice-over, explaining that First Edition had uncovered the one-reel film today, less than forty-eight hours after the shocking murder of its star, Maggie McGuire. The film had been made in 1947. Miss McGuire’s costar hadn’t yet been identified.

Not that anyone had much chance to see his face. The scrawny, balding man’s back was to the camera as he strolled onto the set. The grid obscured his buttocks. Maggie, sitting at the edge of a bed, set aside the beer bottle and reached out to him.

They switched back to the announcer, who explained that they couldn’t show any more footage from the movie, titled Thirsty Lady. Adam Blanchard, the late star’s forty-year-old, HIV-positive son, had no comment regarding the newly discovered film.

Tom began to cry. His greatest contribution to the movies was Maggie McGuire. Yet after this, who would remember her years of hard work? Who would remember the Academy-Award-winning performance? Her impressive career was now eclipsed by scandal, and most people would only remember Maggie McGuire’s dirty movie.

“This is the worst she’s ever been, George,” Avery said to his friend on the phone. He sat at his desk in the study. “You saw how she was today. They put her back on the antidepressants at the hospital. But I don’t think it’s doing any good.”

“Be patient, give Joanne a little time,” George said. “Where is she?”

“Right now, she’s napping upstairs.”

Joanne had slept the entire time at George and Sheila’s—except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, and an episode at around three in the morning.

Avery had woken to the sound of her crying, distant whimpering that escalated to screams. Avery switched on the light and saw her across the room. Joanne stood by the guest room window, shrieking, with tears rolling down her cheeks. He managed to quiet her down and guide her back into bed. “I’m so tried,” was all she could say.

In the morning, he told his friends that Joanne had had a nightmare. It was almost the truth. She didn’t come down to breakfast. She didn’t utter a word all morning—not even when George and Sheila hugged her good-bye at the door. Avery led her to the car. He hated to think that perhaps Joanne was pulling some theatrics here. His actress wife wasn’t beyond “playing to the balcony” at times—as she herself had admitted. How much was a real breakdown—and how much was drama—he couldn’t tell.

About a dozen reporters hovered around the front gate. They peered into the car, and shouted questions. A couple of them asked about the claw marks on Avery’s cheek. All last night and this morning, Joanne hadn’t even noticed. As they pulled into the driveway, she turned away from the cameras and covered her face. Once inside the house, she plodded up the stairs to their bedroom, pried off her shoes, and slipped into bed.

That had been over four hours ago. He’d checked on her several times. To be safe, Avery had gone into their bathroom and removed all the razor blades and an old bottle of sleeping pills.

“Keep a close eye on her,” George recommended over the phone.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Avery said soberly.

“Good. Well, call if you need anything. I love you, buddy.”