The Next to Die

“It’s kind of ironic. I might be defending him for murder, and in the movies, he’ll be playing a man I defended for murder.” Sean sighed. “I tell you, only in Hollywood.”

She hovered over her husband, shaving him and talking over the buzz of his cordless razor. Dan sat propped up in bed, a towel tucked under his chin. Sean was still in her bathrobe. “He said on the phone last night that Gary Worsht sang my praises. Plus he’s been reading up on the case—all my old clippings. His regular attorney is one of those smooth-talking entertainment lawyers, not at all qualified to handle a murder trial. Unfortunately, Mr. Cooper very quickly agreed when I suggested that perhaps, in a rape-murder case like this one, he was indeed better off represented by a woman rather than by a crew of high-priced, slick male lawyers. It bothered me, he saw an angle in that.”

Dan smiled, and mouthed the words: “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Yeah, I know.” She chuckled. “But he didn’t have to be so quick to agree. Anyway, I have to admit, he came across as a real sweet guy on the phone, but his alibi is one for the birds. Really shaky. I just don’t know….”

She switched off the razor, then reached for the Old Spice aftershave—a present from Danny last Christmas. Sean shook some into her hand, then smoothed it over Dan’s face and neck. “Hold on, sweetie,” she said, pulling out a Kleenex. “You have a little glop in your eye here.” She dabbed it away. Dan joked to her and the kids about his “sleepy peas,” but he’d been a handsome and somewhat vain man before all this had started. She knew it killed him to have mucus around those once-beautiful eyes. The blinking reflex was just another part of his body shutting down.

“There now.” Sean tossed the crumpled Kleenex on the nightstand, then leaned back to look at him. “All finished.”

Sean read his lips: “This sounds like a high-profile case. Could make a lot of money, help you build up a reputation, a client base…”

“I know.” She sighed. “But it’ll keep me busy day and night. I’m away from you and the kids too much right now as it is.”

Dan’s eyes wrestled with hers. “This is about your future, honey,” he said, visibly straining to form the words. “It’s about your career. We owe money. I want you to be okay when I’m gone.”

Sean touched his cheek. “You know I hate that kind of talk.”

Those clear blue eyes were beautiful for a moment as he focused on her. His lips moved again. “So you can’t play nursemaid. If I leave this world knowing you’re building a future for you and the kids, that’s something I want, that’s something good.”

Sean felt herself tearing up, and she quickly hugged her husband. He smelled of the Old Spice aftershave, and she inhaled it, cherishing every breath.

RECOOPERATING: Actress, Joanne Lane, 32, (wife of TV and Film Star, Avery Cooper, 34) is recovering after a fall into the pool of her Beverly Hills home early yesterday morning. The Tony-nominated actress had recently suffered a miscarriage. She was heavily sedated at the time of the accident. Upon discovering his wife unconscious in the pool, Cooper called paramedics. Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, and held overnight for observation. She is expected to be released later today.

So said the blurb in the entertainment section of U.S.A. Today. Avery tossed the dog-eared newspaper back on the security guard’s desk. “Thanks,” he muttered to the lanky, uniformed black man. Avery was sitting beside him in a folding chair outside Joanne’s hospital room. Her door was closed.

Most papers ran similar versions of yesterday’s incident. None of them mentioned the murder of Libby Stoddard. Avery figured the police would officially question him within the next day or two. He had an appointment with Sean Olson later this morning, but he couldn’t give the case much thought beyond that. He had enough on his mind with Joanne.

The hospital’s head psychiatrist, Dr. Wetherall, had mentioned possibly transferring Joanne to a sanitarium if her condition didn’t improve. He’d been in the room with her for the last half hour. The door finally opened, and Dr. Wetherall emerged. He was a wiry, handsome, balding man in his late forties. “She’ll see you, Avery,” he whispered. “Only a couple of minutes. Okay?”

Avery stepped into the room. Joanne lay very still, staring at him as he approached the bed. She was pale, and her unwashed hair had been brushed back. She must have bitten down on her lower lip too hard, because it was bleeding a little. “Hi, sweetheart,” Avery said.

She wiggled her hands to show the straps around her wrists. “Was this your idea?” she asked, her voice raspy.

“Of course not,” he replied. “They’re just worried you’ll hurt yourself.”

She sneered at him. “Yes, I’m a dangerous character.”

“Are you getting any rest at all?”

She said nothing. She gazed up at the ceiling.

“Joanne?”

“You know who I feel like right now?” she said at last. She sounded as if she were in a trance. “I feel like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass. She just got crazier and crazier, and couldn’t help it. Remember how they finally had to send her away to that sanitarium? Actually, it looked nice, the art therapy classes, the sprawling lawns, people in rocking chairs…”

She turned and gave him an icy stare. “Why don’t you send me away to a place like that?”

Avery shook his head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m tired,” she said, closing her eyes. “You can go now.”

“Joanne—”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” she screamed. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Dr. Wetherall hurried in, then he steered Avery toward the door. A nurse rushed in after them. Down the hall, Avery could still hear Joanne screaming.

Later, he sat in a stupor as Dr. Wetherall gave him a folder for Glenhaven Spa in Palm Springs. The doctor knew the facility, very private with a tranquil environment and a top-notch staff. He talked up the place as if it were a Shangri-la for nutcases. Dr. Wetherall said that it was almost inhumane to keep Joanne here, drugged and strapped to a hospital bed, when they could do so much for her at Glenhaven.

Avery wandered out of the doctor’s office, the folder under his arm. He hadn’t signed anything yet. He passed by the hospital’s newsstand gift shop, where the clerk was placing the new issue of People on the magazine rack. On the cover was a flattering photo of Joanne and him, wrapped in each other’s arms. They looked so healthy, decked out in jeans and crisp white T-shirts, standing in front of their pool. He was kissing Joanne on the cheek. AVERY COOPER & JOANNE LANE, said the caption. HOLLYWOOD’S HAPPIEST & SEXIEST COUPLE.

Sean heard a knock on the anteroom door. She put down the new issue of People, stashed it in her desk drawer, then sprang to her feet. “Come in!” she called. Her chestnut hair pinned back, she wore a burgundy suit with an ivory blouse—a chic, professional look. Guilty or innocent, Avery Cooper was her first potential client here, and she needed to make a good impression.

They met in the doorway. “Hi, I’m Avery,” he said, very somber as he shook her hand. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.” He wore a denim shirt and khakis. His black hair was a bit mussed. She noticed the scratch marks on his left cheek.

Sean only knew Avery Cooper’s public persona: the cute, happy-go-lucky guy next door. Considering the purpose of this visit, she’d figured “happy-go-lucky” wasn’t on today’s menu. But she hadn’t expected him to be so damned attractive. Or perhaps she was simply drawn to his sadness. Sean had to remind herself that he was the suspect in a murder-rape case.

She briskly pumped his hand. “Come in, sit down. Did you have a tough time finding the place?”

“No,” he said, settled on her sofa. “Though I thought you were kidding on the phone when you said your office was above a hair salon.”

She paused by her mini-fridge. “Are you sorry now that you didn’t go for a crew of high-priced, slick male