The Next to Die

lawyers?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Something to drink?” She opened the refrigerator door. “I have Evian, Evian, Diet Coke, Evian, Evian, just plain Coke, and Evian.”

“Evian, please.”

Sean poured Evian into two glasses, and handed him one. She sat down across from him in the easy chair. “So tell me your story, Mr. Cooper.”

“Call me Avery.” He tried to smile, but his eyes watered up, and his voice cracked. “I’ve never been in this type of trouble before. And my wife, she’s…” He trailed off, then wiped his eyes and took a sip of water. “Damn,” he muttered, looking down at the carpet. “I’m sorry. It might work better if you just started asking me questions.”

Sean’s heart broke for him. “Would you rather do this some other time?”

He waved the question away. “No, this is good. Really, I’m all right. Ask me whatever you want to know.”

Sean studied him, at the way he held back. “You—” She was about to say, You remind me of my husband. But she cleared her throat, and asked, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said, straightening up.

She reached for a recorder on the coffee table. “Mind if I tape this?”

Avery shook his head. “No problem.”

Sean switched on the machine, then sat back. “I’ve thought about what you told me over the phone yesterday, Avery, and maybe you can explain a few things to me. First, can you think of anyone who might have seen you at that park—I mean, besides the woman who scratched you?”

“No. And I probably wouldn’t recognize her again. She wore these weird glasses. I’m afraid I didn’t catch a good look at her—um, getaway car either.”

“Did she drive off?”

“No, someone picked her up. I saw her duck into the passenger side.”

“On your way to this park, did you sense someone was following you?”

Avery sighed. “Not at the time. Everything was so muddled. That was the day Joanne had a miscarriage —”

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry,” Sean interrupted gently. “Avery, one of the most damning pieces of evidence against you is that you received that scratch at just about the time Libby Stoddard was fighting and clawing her killer. Under her fingernails, they found skin tissue matching your blood type, and traces of a certain makeup they use backstage in NBC Burbank Studio B, where you’d filmed The Tonight Show earlier that day. Do you have any explanation for that?”

Frowning, he shrugged. “Only a vague, half-baked theory. To be honest, I’ve been so worried about my wife these last couple of days, I haven’t given much thought to anything else.”

She smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But I’m going to steer you back to my question earlier. Even if it’s ‘half-baked,’ I want to hear your theory about those scratch marks and the skin tissue under Libby’s nails.”

Avery leaned forward. “You’ll think I’m nuts, but I figure someone was following me, waiting to catch me alone. And—this is the crazy part—they must have been watching Libby too. They saw a chance to frame me for Libby’s murder. I think the woman in the park was sent there to scratch my face. I don’t know forensics, but is it possible they could have transferred my skin tissue from that woman’s fingernails to Libby’s?”

“I suppose.” Sean studied him with uncertainty. “But that would mean Libby was raped and murdered for the specific purpose of framing you.”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Avery said. “For a while now, someone’s been trying very hard to make me look bad. They stole that home video, then distributed copies of the damn thing. At first, I blamed Libby. In fact, I told several people that I’d like to see her dead. If you were going to kill someone and frame me for it, Libby Stoddard was the perfect victim.”

“Let’s put the theories on hold for a minute,” Sean said. “Last night, on the phone with me, you said that you were hesitant about furnishing the police with a sperm sample. Why? If you’re really innocent of this rape-murder, a sperm sample would eliminate you as a suspect.”

“I know that,” Avery replied. “But I’m afraid my sample will somehow match with they’ve found.”

Sean slowly shook her head. “I can buy the skin tissue transferred from under one set of fingernails to another. But manufacturing this other piece of evidence requires some cooperation from you, Avery.”

“I know it sounds hokey and paranoid—”

“I’m sorry,” Sean interrupted. “But if these people want to destroy you, they’re sure going at it in a very roundabout way. They killed an innocent woman for the sole purpose of framing you for murder? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier just to kill you?”

“But it’s not about killing me. Hell, they’ve broken into my hotel room and my home. They could have gotten at me any time. No, these people want to bring me down, ruin my reputation, make me look horrible.”

“Why do you think they’re doing this?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I was in a TV movie a couple of months ago that ticked off a lot of people. Joanne and my commercials for gun control have made us a lot of enemies too.”

“So—you think the same group that’s after Dayle has targeted you?”

Avery squinted at her. “What are you talking about?

“You mean, you haven’t talked to Dayle Sutton?” Sean asked.

He shrugged. “We’ve exchanged e-mail about the movie—”

“Dayle hasn’t told you about these people who want to kill her? She hasn’t mentioned a possible conspiracy linking the deaths of Tony Katz, Leigh Simone, and Maggie McGuire?”

Avery slowly shook his head.

For a moment Sean studied that guileless expression on his handsome face. Somehow she knew he was a good, honest man. She’d felt the same way when she’d first set eyes on Dan. “You’re telling me the truth,” she said.

“Well, yes, of course,” he replied.

“You said a minute ago that the police would probably find a match if they tested your sperm alongside what they discovered in Libby. How do you think these—conspirators were able to pull that off?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, since I’m going to be your attorney, Avery, we’ll have to figure out an answer to that question.”

Tom waited for Hal in front of his apartment building. They had a noon appointment. He had a rolled-up Los Angeles Times in his hand. The headlines told of an ambush on Dayle Sutton’s limo. There was nothing about a shooting death outside a deserted chemical plant in south Los Angeles. But on page two, they carried a blurred photo of Maggie—from that stag movie. The caption read: MAGGIE MCGUIRE, EARLY SEX FILM BLOT ON A DISTINGUISHED CAREER.

Leaning against the entryway, Tom felt so tired. Last night, Hal had given him something to make him sleep. It was probably still in his system. Killing that man had been like watching himself in a movie. Reality hit him a moment after pulling the trigger. Then he threw up. Drops of vomit—and the man’s blood—had gotten on his clothes, so Hal made him strip. Tom was shivering, nearly naked, standing in a darkened, deserted cul-de-sac. He tried not to cry. They gave him a pair of coveralls, and the “cleanup” crew took his clothes away. Thank God Hal’s sleeping pills had worked. For a few hours, he’d forgotten everything and slept.

Hal had said he needed to work on his aim; and so they were heading out to the desert for target practice this afternoon.

A white Corsica pulled up to the curb. Hal was behind the wheel. Tom reluctantly climbed in beside him. He saw coffee from 7-Eleven in the cup holder. Hal held up a bag. “Cream and sugar. Plus a couple of donuts. If you took those pills, you probably slept through breakfast.”

Pulling into traffic, Hal announced that there was a cooler of beer in the trunk for later. He cranked up the air conditioner, and popped in a Glen Miller tape. “I also have Perry Como here, and Sinatra. I wasn’t sure about your taste in music.”

Tom said nothing. He wondered why this sudden VIP treatment.