“Thanks, George. Love you too. Bye.” Avery hung up the phone, and wearily reclimbed those stairs. He crept into the bedroom. Joanne was still dressed, still in bed—but awake.
Avery sat down at her side. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you go freshen up? I’ll throw something together for dinner. Okay?”
“Dinner?” she said vaguely. She didn’t even look at him.
“Yeah,” Avery caressed her arm. “C’mon, Joanne, I’m tired of talking to myself here. Please?” He started to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re scaring me….”
The telephone rang. Joanne didn’t even seem to hear it.
Avery sighed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”
“Avery? Hi. It’s Steve Bensinger.”
“Oh, Steve. You know, now is not a good time to talk.”
“Well, then you’re going to hate me, because I’m on my cellular, in front of your house. I’m sorry, Avery, but it’s urgent I see you.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, give me a minute. I’ll open the gate for you.” Avery hung up the phone. He kissed Joanne’s cheek, then hurried down the stairs and flicked the wall switch for the gate. He met Steve at the door.
“Holy shit, what happened to you?” Steve asked, gaping at the scratch marks on Avery’s cheek.
“Tell you later.” Avery closed the door. “What’s the emergency?”
Steve stepped into the foyer. He wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. “Okay, no song and dance,” he said grimly. “I have a contact in the Beverly Hills police force, and he knows I work for you. He called me an hour ago and asked if I had any clue as to my client’s whereabouts last night….”
Avery shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“A certain Libby Stoddard was stalking and harassing you last month. I talked to your lawyer about it on the way here—”
“Yeah, okay, so?” Avery said impatiently.
“She’s dead, Avery.”
“What?”
“Libby Stoddard’s gardener has a key. He discovered the body this afternoon. She’d been stabbed several times. There’s also evidence of rape.”
“God, no,” Avery whispered.
“They think she let the guy in,” Steve explained. “It happened last night. Coroner’s still working on an approximate time….” He glanced up toward the top of the stairs.
Numb, Avery followed his gaze and saw Joanne at the second-floor landing. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. She clutched the banister as if it were the only thing supporting her. She had heard everything. Avery stared at her. “Joanne, you shouldn’t—”
She began to laugh.
Avery hurried up the steps to her. As he led her toward their bedroom, Joanne’s laughter became louder and louder. She sounded like a crazy woman.
He’d just fallen asleep when the telephone rang. Blindly, Avery reached toward the nightstand. “I have it, hon,” he mumbled, trying to focus on the digital alarm clock: 5:13. He cleared his throat. “Yes? Hello?”
“Mr. Cooper? This is Aaron Harvey from Homeguard Securities. Our cameras have picked up some activity in your backyard pool area—”
“What?” Avery rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to put everything together. The guy was talking about the cameras they’d installed outside their house after the break-in last month. “What kind of activity?” he asked.
“I’ve taken the liberty of sending over an ambulance—”
“An
“I think your wife’s had an accident,” the man said. “She seems to have fallen in the pool.”
“Wait, wait a second.” Avery jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors to the balcony. He pushed them open and stared down at the pool.
Joanne’s robe billowed out as she floated facedown on the water’s surface. She barely moved—expect for the water lapping around her. She drifted in the shallow end like a fallen leaf.
In the distance, he could hear the wailing siren. Avery snatched up the phone again. “Tell them we’re around back.”
He hung up and bolted down the stairs. In the hallway, he flicked the switch that held open the front gate. Then he ran through the kitchen and out to the pool. Jumping into the frigid water, Avery grabbed Joanne. He hoisted her out of the pool, and set her down on her stomach. She wasn’t breathing. He frantically pushed and pushed on her back.
He could hear the ambulance down the street, then voices and footsteps. People were coming up the driveway.
He continued his efforts to resuscitate her, but Joanne didn’t stir. Headlights swept across the backyard bushes as the ambulance came down the driveway. Avery heard more voices: “Something’s happened!” one reporter shouted to another. “I need this on video!”
Avery wouldn’t give up. He kept trying to force the water from her lungs. The paramedics rushed through the back gate, followed by several reporters and photographers. Camera flashes popped in the murky dawn light.
Joanne coughed, regurgitating a stomachful of water onto the pool deck. Hovering over her, Avery let out a grateful cry. She was still coughing when the paramedics relieved him.
Drenched, and clad only in his undershorts, Avery rolled over and caught his breath. He could see Joanne moving. Camera flashes illuminated everything. He managed to stand up, then glared at the handful of paparazzi at his back gate. “You guys are trespassing,” he said evenly—between gasps for air. “You’re blocking the ambulance. Get the hell out of here. Now.”
Incredibly, they obeyed him.
One of the paramedics asked him how it had happened. Avery just shook his head.
“Your wife seems to have swallowed a mixture of barbiturates and alcohol. We need to move her to the hospital right away.”
“Yes, of course,” Avery whispered. He gazed down at the other medic inserting a fat plastic tube in Joanne’s mouth. Her eyes were half open.
Avery began to shiver from the cold.
He stepped into the dimly lit hospital room. Joanne was asleep. As Avery moved closer to the bed, he saw the restraining straps around her wrists—attached to the bed’s side railings. She looked so frail and sickly. Her damp hair had dried into flat, greasy tangles.
He still smelled of chlorine from his plunge into the pool five hours before. He’d found the empty bottle of sleeping pills in the kitchen garbage. Joanne had had the prescription filled in New York. She’d washed down the pills with several shots of vodka—before jumping into the pool.
The doctor had allowed him only a brief visit, so Avery stayed just a few minutes. He gently kissed her forehead. “G’night, honey,” he whispered, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.
Outside Joanne’s private room, a slim Asian woman, about fifty, waited by the security guard’s desk in the hallway. She had a pen and pad, and wore a red cardigan with black pants. Avery was a bit disappointed the guard hadn’t chased away this reporter. He frowned at both of them.
“Mr. Cooper?” She dug into her purse. “I know my timing is awful. But I need to ask you some questions.” She pulled out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, Beverly Hills police. Could I buy you a coffee in the cafeteria? I promise this won’t take long.”
Avery sighed. “I’ve talked to you people all day. How many times do I have to go over this? My wife wasn’t herself. She’s been through a lot—”
“This isn’t about your wife, Mr. Cooper. I need to ask you some questions about Libby Stoddard. I believe you knew her.”
