The Next to Die

They’d caught the hospital cafeteria during a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. Only a handful of other customers were scattered about. A janitor was mopping up; he’d placed chairs upside down on several tables.

Avery sipped his Coke. “So what did you want to ask me?”

Susan Linn frowned. “Well, first you should know that—um, you’re not required to answer any of my questions. You’re entitled to counsel, and anything you say might be used against you.”

Avery gave her a wary look. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Linn shrugged. “It’s standard jargon. You’ve seen the cop shows. Hell, you’ve acted in the cop shows.”

Avery nodded. “I’ll let you know if I feel the need for a lawyer. For now, go ahead, ask away.”

“The scratch,” she said, unwrapping her prepackaged Rice Krispies Treat. “How did that happen?”

Avery touched his cheek, then shrugged. “I was at this little ocean-view park last night, just to—well, collect my thoughts. Suddenly, this nut—this woman—came out of nowhere, and she scratched my face. Then she ducked into a car and drove off.”

“When did this happen?” Linn asked.

“Around five-thirty. Joanne and I were staying with friends. I was on my way home to pick up some things, and I swung by this park.”

Lieutenant Linn nodded pensively. “Your friend, George Weber, concurs—you left his house at five-fifteen. One of the reporters outside your front gate saw you come home at seven-twenty. You spent a lot of time at this scenic spot, collecting your thoughts. Did you go somewhere else?”

Avery shook his head. “Only the park. I had a lot on my mind. My wife had just had a miscarriage—”

“I know all about that,” Lieutenant Linn said, over her coffee cup. “You were filming a talk show when your wife had to be rushed to the hospital. Were you wearing any stage makeup for this television appearance?”

Sipping his Coke, Avery nodded. “A little.”

“Did you have a chance to wash it off before this trip to the park?”

“No, I didn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

She put down her Rice Krispies Treat. “Can you believe these things are low-fat? They’re so sweet. Only a few more questions.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Um, what’s your blood type, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, not looking up.

“Type O.”

“Hmmm.” She kept scribbling. “Between the time you left the Webers’ and arrived at your home, did you meet up with anyone besides this scratch-happy woman in the park?”

“I’m afraid not.” Avery straightened in his chair. “Am I a suspect in Libby’s murder?”

Lieutenant Linn sighed. “Well, I’ve done my homework. I know Libby was your ‘number-one fan’ as well as a thorn in your side. According to her attorney, you threatened Libby at an arbitration hearing last month.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Avery said quietly.

Lieutenant Linn flipped through her notebook and scanned a particular page. “Um, on top of being your number-one fan, Ms. Stoddard was also a very rich young woman. With no evidence of a break-in, and not a single item missing from her home—we can eliminate robbery as a motive. So it looks like a crime of passion or revenge. Libby was stabbed eleven times. The coroner estimates the time of death was between five and eight o’clock.” Lieutenant Linn glanced at him for a moment. “Apparently, Libby put up a fight. There’s evidence of a struggle. We know she scratched her assailant, because skin fragments were found under her fingernails. We also found traces of stage makeup mingled in with the loose skin tissue. Ms. Stoddard was also raped. We were able to draw a semen sample, and determine the blood type.”

“Type O?” Avery whispered.

She nodded.

Avery swallowed hard. “Why is this happening?” he murmured.

“Would you agree to giving us a semen sample?” she gently asked. “It might eliminate you as a suspect.”

“I can’t say right now.” Avery muttered, shaking his head. “I think I need a lawyer. I better not say anything else.”

Fifteen

Dayle turned off the duel shower heads, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the stall. Patting herself dry, she moved through a cloud of steam and wiped the condensation from the mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep last night. Thank God for Oil of Olay—or the stuff she called Oil of Olay. It was from some clinic in France, and worked just like Oil of Olay on wrinkles—only it cost seventy bucks an ounce.

She had an interview with Premiere magazine in ninety minutes. It was just a one-page fluff piece—with an accompanying full-page photo that had been shot in a studio over a month ago. But she still had to look good for the interview—to be held over an intimate lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They always reported how she looked, what she was wearing, and what she was eating during these things. Dayle planned to pin her hair up, pick at her Cobb salad, and on her bed, she’d already laid out the black Givenchy short-sleeve dress that always made her look thin.

Dennis had already let them know that she wouldn’t be answering any questions about Leigh Simone or Estelle Collier. She’d hibernated inside her apartment all day yesterday, screening her calls.

Dayle dried her hair and fixed her face. With the towel wrapped around her, she stepped out to the bedroom, and glanced over at her dress on the bed. She suddenly froze. A chill raced through her. Pinned to the dress was a page torn from a magazine. Someone had just been in her bedroom. For all she knew, they could still be in the apartment.

For a moment, Dayle stood paralyzed. Then she took a step toward the bed and gazed down at the calling card they’d left. The magazine clipping was of a woman on a sailboat. It looked like part of an ad for a vacation getaway. In black marker, they’d scribbled across the top of the page: WE FOUND CINDY ZELLERBACK.

Dayle didn’t know what it meant. She backed toward her nightstand, reached for the phone, and called down to the front desk.

“This is the lobby, Ms. Sutton.”

“Hello, Todd?” she whispered urgently. “I’ve had a break-in….”

“Hey, Mom, your cell phone’s ringing!” Danny called from the front door.

“Well, find out who it is, sweetie!” Sean was loading her collection of law books into the car. She planned to haul them over to the office this afternoon. Shoving another box in the back, she straightened up and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She glanced over at her son.

Danny stood in the doorway, the cellular phone to his ear. The color seemed to drain from her son’s face, and his mouth dropped open.

“Who is it?” she asked, hurrying up the front walkway.

Danny covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Dayle Sutton!” he exclaimed.

Sean laughed. “It’s okay, honey. Thanks.” She took the phone, and gave him a thumb signal to go play. “Hello, Dayle? How are you doing?”

“I’ve had better days,” Dayle said. “Could I possibly come see you?”

Sean hesitated. Watching Danny run out to the front yard, she thought about the people who were following Dayle around. Except for three reporters who had called her office, there had been no backlash from having her name mentioned in that news story yesterday; no calls at home, and no strange cars parked on her block. She wanted to keep it that way. “Um, rather than you come out here, I’d just as soon meet you in the city.”

“Will I be dragging you away from your family?”

“No. Actually, I’m dropping off some things at my office at four-thirty. I’ll be a couple of hours. Could you