“Go on, I’m listening,” Sean said. “It’s just my fax machine.”
“Their names were dragged through the mud,” Dayle continued. “They died in shame. Their careers and their causes became like a joke.”
“What do you mean by ‘causes’?”
“They advocated gun control—or gay rights. They were pro-choice, or they fought against censorship and capitol punishment, you name it. These are the kind of hot issues that make certain people crazy—crazy enough to quote the Old Testament—or march and protest, or even kill.”
“So where do you come in?” Sean asked.
“Maybe I pissed them off when I spoke out about Leigh’s death. They might know about the movie we’re going to make. I keep thinking about this Cindy business. Maybe that’s how they’re going to drag me though the mud—once they’ve killed me.”
Sean frowned. “No. It’s just not sensational enough. So you got drunk one night fifteen years ago and experimented with another woman. This is the new millennium. Who cares?”
The telephone rang again. “The machine will pick up,” Sean said.
“But whoever is behind this isn’t living in the new millennium,” Dayle said, over the phone recording. “They don’t want any liberal martyrs and cult heroes. So they’re making their celebrity victims look sleazy—”
“Yo, this is Nick Brock, and I’m calling for Dayle Sutton—”
“Oh, grab it, grab it!” Dayle steered Sean toward the phone on the desk. Sean picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Sean Olson speaking.” She listened for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not your ‘honey doll,’ but yes, she’s right here.” Sean put a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your detective friend. He sent the fax.”
“Don’t hang up on him,” Dayle said. She checked the fax machine.
“I’m not supposed to hang up on you,” Sean said into the phone. “Though I’m sorely tempted.”
Dayle glanced at the first fax page. Nick had scribbled a note on the cover sheet:
“Tell him I’ll call him in a couple of minutes,” Dayle said. She watched the fourth page inch out of the machine.
“She’ll call you right back, Romeo,” Sean said, then hung up.
Two pages of the fax were from a four-month-old article in the
Dayle read the headline: KILLER OF HUSBAND AND CHILD PAROLED, WOMAN SERVED 12 YEARS FOR MURDERING HER FAMILY.
Dayle read on, cringing at the details surrounding the stabbing deaths of two-year-old Sunshine Zellerback and her father, Andrew, a 29-year-old motorcycle repairman. Cindy had been convicted of the murders in 1988. Claiming she’d been reborn to Christ while in prison, the “reformed” Cynthia Zellerback blamed her earlier actions on drug use and a promiscuous lifestyle, which had included lesbian sex.
It was the type of stuff tabloids devoured and spit out at the public with relish. Dayle imagined the headlines: DAYLE SUTTON IN LESBIAN LOVE-NEST WITH CONVICTED CHILD-KILLER! The murders had occurred only a few years after that episode on the boat down in Mexico. Dayle showed the fax to Sean. “This is the girl I was with,” she said.
Sean took a couple of minutes to read the news article, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not like
Frowning, Dayle shook her head and sighed. “I had sex with a child killer. It’s guilt by association. The tabloids will eat it up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Dayle muttered. “I’ll probably spend tonight drinking too much and sleeping too little while I fret about it. And after that break-in today, I don’t feel very safe there. Maybe I should check into a hotel—”
“Don’t be silly,” Sean said. “Come spend the night with us in Malibu. My husband, the movie fanatic, will be so excited to meet you, he’ll probably climb out of his wheelchair and do the hokeypokey.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Dayle said.
“Nonsense,” Sean said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “My in-laws would love to have you. Phoebe can bunk in with Danny, and you can have her room. You and I can burn the midnight oil and hatch a strategy to deal with this Cindy business. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Dayle.”
She gave her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Sean. But…” She turned toward the window. Three stories below, a white Taurus was parked half a block away on the other side of the street from Hank and her limousine. She could barely see the man sitting behind the wheel. “If I came over tonight, I’d be bringing some excess baggage—and possibly endangering your family.”
Sean stepped up to the window. She stared at the rental car. “You could leave now—and lose him somehow. Then come back here, and we’ll drive to Malibu together.”
“I’ll phone my friend, Bonny,” Dayle said. “Maybe she’s available to play decoy again. After we make the switch, I’ll circle back here by cab.”
Sean nodded. “Use the delivery entrance. I’ll give you my cell phone. Call me, and I’ll let you in.” She dug the tiny phone from her purse, then handed it to Dayle. “It’s good that you’re getting a professional bodyguard. Your driver, Hank, seems very nice, but well…”
“I know,” Dayle replied.
Sean took her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful, okay? I have a weird feeling about tonight. It’s one reason I think you shouldn’t be alone.”
“It’s really not fair to you, Hank,” Dayle said from the backseat of the limo. The divider window was down. “You didn’t hire on as a bodyguard, and that’s what I need right now. Dennis says this guy is a pro, with years of experience. The people who are out to get me, they mean business. They may have hired professional killers. So I need a professional bodyguard, some guy who’s a real pain in the ass. And I’m not going to like him, because he’ll make me take all sorts of silly precautions. But most of all, I’m not going to like him, because he won’t be you.”
Hank’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “Is it okay if I don’t like him either?”
Dayle patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hank.”
They pulled into Bonny’s apartment complex. The Taurus had kept a steady pace behind them. Dayle made out only one person in the car. The driver turned off his headlights as he followed them into the parking lot. He took a spot near one of the other buildings.
Dayle quickly donned her trench coat and sunglasses. Hank walked her to the front door, and she rang the buzzer.
“Sunglasses at night? I’ll be as blind as a bat.” Bonny stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, arranging her hair to look like Dayle’s.
“Sorry,” Dayle said. “They’re parked pretty close. I didn’t want to take any chances they’d see a switch.”
Bonny laughed. “Make them wear these shades. They won’t see squat.”
“Be extra careful out there tonight,” Dayle said. “I think they might try something pretty soon.”
“Well, in that case I’ll bring a friend along.” Bonny pulled a gun and holster from her closet shelf. She strapped on the holster as if it were part of a backpack. Dayle watched her, amazed by the former policewoman’s cool composure. Bonny climbed into Dayle’s trench coat.
Dayle gave her a quick hug at the door. Then she phoned for a taxi. The dispatcher said a cab would be there in ten minutes. From Bonny’s living room window, she watched Hank, leaning against the limo. The white Taurus was still near the lot entrance. Dayle hadn’t noticed before, but a police car was parked only a few spaces down. It must have just pulled in. Someone stood outside the patrol car, talking to the cop inside.
