“Sure,” Hal nodded. “Least we could do, Tom. Any more questions?”
“Only a ton,” Tom said, with a dazed chuckle. It was all coming a little too fast at him. “I mean, how are you getting me on the set when they’re shooting this scene eighty whatever it is?”
“Scene eighty-seven.” Hal smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, we have someone working close to Dayle Sutton. You’ll have clearance. It’s being taken care of right now, as we speak. You’ll use the name Gordon Swann.”
“His name is Gordon Swann,” Dennis told the head of studio security over the phone. “Be sure they allow him on the set Tuesday morning.”
“I’ll make a note of it, Dennis.”
“I’ve also cleared him with the assistant director, because I won’t be around. I have Tuesday off. I’m helping my girlfriend move. Page me if there’s a problem. Okay?”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Dennis said into the phone. “Do me a huge favor, tell the guard not to stick him in another time zone. It’s important that he gets a good look at Dayle during the shoot. So give him a spot close to the action. Will you make sure about that?”
“For you, Dennis, I’ll make dead certain.”
The man on the other end of the line couldn’t see Dennis Walsh smile.
Dennis handed her a bottle of Evian water. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He sat on the steps to her trailer door.
“Thanks.” Dayle said, twisting open the bottle. She rested in her “star” chair outside the open door of her trailer. For another flashback sequence, she sported a sixties look: a Petula Clark-influenced auburn wig, coral frost lipstick, and Twiggy-style, inch-long false eyelashes. She wore fat plastic earrings, a miniskirt, and a ribbed turtleneck. According to Dennis, she looked like
Providing her with a fresh Evian bottle every couple of hours had been Bonny’s self-appointed undertaking. Dayle had briefly talked to her on the phone this morning. Bonny sounded tired and doped up, but still managed to get in a dig about “human target” not being part of her job description. She was supposed to be out of the hospital by next week, in plenty of time for Thanksgiving at home. Meanwhile, Dayle had a temporary stand-in.
The telephone rang in her trailer. “I’ll pick it up,” Dennis volunteered. He ducked into the trailer. A few moments later, he emerged with her cordless phone. “It’s Slick Nick the Private Dick. Want to ‘rap’ with him?”
“Nick?” Dayle sat up. “Yes, I’ll take it. Thanks.”
Dennis gave her the phone, then settled back on the trailer steps.
“Hello, Nick?”
“Yo, you got me. Y’know, that assistant of yours is a real wiseass.”
“No kidding,” Dayle said. “Do you have any news for me?”
“Sure do,” he said. “One of the five license plate numbers you gave me doesn’t go with the others. It’s some schmuck from Burbank, probably boinking his secretary. But the other four rental plates matched with credit cards that seem to belong to a group. I don’t know if the names on these cards are real, but feature this: three of these same dudes were renting cars and staying at the Sandpiper Motel in Portland, Oregon, when Tony Katz and his boyfriend bought the farm. And two of them had a return engagement a couple of weeks later when Leigh Simone cashed in her chips. All those credit cards have the same mailing address, a post office box in Opal.”
“Opal?”
“It’s a little town in Idaho. So here’s the skinny. I’m catching a plane to Boise or Spokane tomorrow morning. But it might be a few days before I can track down who in Opal is paying these hotel and car rental bills.”
“A few days?” Dayle said.
“Yeah, we’d need a court order to find out who has that PO box. Even El Nerdo, our computer expert, can’t help us with this one. I’ll have to go to Opal and stake out the post office. Eventually, somebody’s got to pick up their mail. And Nick Brock will be on them like ugly on an ape.”
“That’s good, I guess,” Dayle said. “Listen, we better give this information to the police. Maybe you can fax it—”
“Woah, wait a minute, Ms. Sutton. The last thing you want right now is for the cops to catch on. Once the feds descend on Opal, this group will scatter in a dozen different directions, and we’re back to square one. They have to think it’s business as usual. That’s how I’m gonna catch them with their pants down. I’ll fax you the info at home, in case something should happen to yours truly—God forbid. But don’t hand it over to the cops just yet, okay? Give old Nick forty-eight hours at least.”
“Well, all right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll give you ’til Sunday.”
“Fantastic. I’ll call you from Opal tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck, Nick,” she replied. “And, hey, for the record, you’re pretty damn good at what you do.”
“Hey, think I’m good on the job? Check me out during playtime.”
Dayle shook her head. “Nick, you’re a pig, you really are. God knows why I like you. B’bye.” She clicked off and handed the phone to Dennis.
“So who’s Opal?” he asked with a curious smile.
“It’s a little town in Idaho,” Dayle said. “Nick’s on his way there tomorrow.”
“Well, this place is pretty nice, Mom,” Avery said into the cordless phone. Exhausted, he sat slouched in a deck chair by the pool. For the last hour, he’d been putting off this call to his parents.
Joanne had been transferred by ambulance to Glenhaven today. Avery had gone there to say good-bye and drop off some of her clothes. They discouraged visitors for the first week. He saw her only briefly, and she didn’t seem to recognize him. Coming home, he felt the house to be so empty. He was used to being alone here, but this was a totally different kind of solitude. Joanne wasn’t in New York, passionately working on a play. She was in a sanitarium. And if she came back, would she ever be the same? It was as if something about the house had died. Avery aimlessly wandered from room to room, and finally settled by the pool—with a beer and the cordless phone. Maybe Joanne truly didn’t want to be rescued out here the other morning.
By the time he called his parents, he was pretty much cried out. He even managed to sound upbeat for them. “The people at Glenhaven gave me a tour yesterday,” he said. “They have these beautiful gardens and walking paths, a pool, private jacuzzis, saunas, messages, lots of personal attention.”
“Did they say if she’ll be out in time for Thanksgiving?” his father asked on the other extension. “Or do they think it might be longer?”
“They’re really not sure, Pop. But I know she’s better off there than she was in the hospital.”
Someone buzzed from the front gate. Avery hopped off the pool chair and hurried into the house. “Somebody’s at the door. Can you hold on for a sec?” He stole a glance out the front window. A police car waited at the end of his driveway. Avery went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Mr. Cooper, this is Sergeant Rick Swanson of the Beverly Hills Police. We’d like to accompany you to the station for some questioning. It shouldn’t take too long. Could you let us in?”
Avery covered the mouthpiece of the phone so his parents wouldn’t hear. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Cooper. They simply want to ask you some questions down at headquarters, that’s all. We’ve been instructed to escort you.”
“Um, I’m not dressed,” Avery said. “Let me put some clothes on, then I’ll buzz you in.” He brought the phone back up to his ear. “Mom? Pop? Can I call you back? It might not be until tomorrow. I have something going on here that’s kind of important—”
“What happened?” his father asked. “I can tell from your voice that something’s wrong….”
“I’m fine, Pop, really. Let me call you later. Okay?”
As soon as he disconnected with his folks, Avery phoned Sean’s cellular number. He caught her at the lab where they’d analyzed his sperm samples. He explained about the police waiting outside his house.
“Don’t let them in,” Sean said. “Dayle’s chauffeur and stand-in were gunned down by a man dressed like a cop, driving a patrol car. No. Don’t do a thing until I check on this. What’s this police sergeant’s name again?”
“Swanson,” Avery said.
“Okay. Sit tight until you hear back from me.’
