The Next to Die

closer. Nick whispered something to the tall man. Even at this distance, Sean could see him tense up. She kept trying to remember where she’d seen him before. After a moment, he stiffly turned and started toward the exit— with Nick close behind him.

Jill returned to the meeting room and stuck her head in the doorway. “Excuse me?” she announced, loud enough for Sean to hear over all the noise. “Mr. Chadwick had to run home, but he said he’ll call you guys later.”

Sean heard one the men reply: “Thanks. Can you close the door?”

Sean retreated toward the exit. Jill caught up with her by the shoe-rental booth. She smiled and snapped her gum. “Tell your brother to pick me up here at ten. Okay?”

Sean nodded. “All right. Thanks—for playing along with the gag.”

Her stomach in knots, Sean headed for the exit and stepped outside to the cold. “God, please, get me through this night,” she whispered.

In the parking lot, a green Honda Accord flashed its headlights twice.

Dear Sirs,By the time you get this letter, I will be dead. I will have also killed Dayle Sutton. Much will probably be written about me in the next few days, and I want you to get the story right, why I did it, and who I am.

Tom stopped writing for a moment. He’d never sent a letter to the Los Angeles Times before, and he wanted it perfect. He’d thought about typing the letter to make it more official. But if Hal and his gang had planted bugs in Maggie’s house, they’d certainly done the same in his place. The clicking of his Underwood’s keys would give him away. So Tom had switched on the TV, and started his correspondence in longhand.

The mailbox across the street had a morning pickup at 8:15. If he mailed the letter tonight, it would be posted before Dayle Sutton’s death tomorrow. They’d know it wasn’t some crackpot. But he still had to slip past Hal’s guard outside.

Returning to the apartment after his aborted bourbon run, he’d noticed the telephone was gone—just as the young fellow had said. The phone would be returned once he left in the morning. No doubt, they would also search the place and erase any evidence of their association with him. It had to appear as if he’d acted alone in killing Dayle Sutton.

They might even plant something to confirm that he’d murdered Maggie. Why not? It was true. And they could do anything they wanted. He wouldn’t be around to defend himself. He wouldn’t be in Rio either. He’d be dead.

This letter to the Times was his only way of making people understand. Tom picked up his pen and continued writing:

I was forced into killing Dayle Sutton by a group who hate her politics. There are several people in this organization. I didn’t act on my own. I’m the fall guy. My contact has been a man who calls himself Hal Buckman. Hal promised to smuggle me out of the country when it’s all over. But I think they’ll kill me after I’ve done what they want.I have no choice in what will happen tomorrow. But if anything comes from all this, at least, people will know who Tom Lance was.I was an actor, a good one too. But I had some unlucky breaks, so nowadays, not many people know who I am. I suppose all that will change after Dayle Sutton is dead.People should know that I helped Maggie McGuire get her start in movies. I was her fiance at one time, and I’ve never stopped loving her. I killed Maggie. It was an accident. I went to her house, we argued, and I shot her with a gun I meant to use on myself later. I wish I could take that moment back.These people were after Maggie the same way they’re after Dayle Sutton. Maggie’s place was wired, and they had a recording of me shooting her and used it to get my cooperation.I apologize to Dayle Sutton’s family. I also apologize to Maggie’s children, and her fans. Please know, I loved her.I hope when people talk about Tom Lance, they realize that I didn’t want to be a murderer. I hope they realize that I made some good movies, and I helped Maggie McGuire become a star.Thank you.

Tom signed and printed his name on the bottom. Folding up the letter, he slipped it into an envelope he’d already addressed.

Moving over to the window, he glanced down at the mailbox across the street. Only a few car lengths away, Hal’s guard leaned against the hood of a white Taurus. He looked up at the window, and Tom quickly stepped back.

He turned up the TV, then went to the door. He almost expected to find another one of Hal’s henchmen in the hallway, but the corridor was vacant. The neighbor he knew best was an old woman who walked with a cane. He could hardly ask her to zip down to the mailbox for him. He tried the apartment across the hall from her. A stocky, young black man had moved in about two months ago. Knocking on the door, Tom tried to remember his name.

The door was answered by a huge black woman with big auburn hair that had to be a wig. She wore a red sequined gown and brandished a cigarette. “Yes, honey?” she said.

Tom took a step back. “Um, doesn’t a young man live here?”

“You’re looking at him,” the woman said, a hand on her hip.

Tom shook his head.

“I’m a performer, I do drag, honey. This is my alter ego, Catalina Converter. Aren’t you from down the hall?”

His mouth open, Tom nodded.

Catalina looked at the envelope in Tom’s hand. “Is that letter for me?”

“Um, no,” Tom managed to say. “I have a touch of the gout, and I need to stay off my feet. I was wondering if you could mail this for me.”

Catalina shrugged. “Sure. I’m about to take off for the club. I’ll drop it in the mailbox outside.” Opening the door wider, he turned and put out his cigarette, then grabbed a long black feathered boa from the sofa.

Tom saw an apartment even more cluttered with movie memorabilia than his own. On one wall, Catalina had a poster of Marilyn Monroe, and another of Paul Newman. Glamour shots of actresses—mostly Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge—adorned the walls. The sofa tables were full of ceramic images of Marilyn, and James Dean, along with framed standing photos of various other stars. Movie books and videos overflowed on the brick and board bookshelves.

Tom had no idea this movie mecca had been down the hall from him. “I like your film art collection,” he said to the drag queen, who was checking himself in the mirror by the door. “Do you have any Maggie McGuire?”

“Oh, the late, Marvelous Maggie,” Catalina said, turning away from the mirror with a pained expression on his carefully made-up face. “No, sir. But I cried buckets when I received word she’d passed on. Let me tell you, honey child, I didn’t need to see clips from any naughty movie girlfriend made when she must have been starving. No, thank you very much. The lady had class, and she deserves better.”

Tom smiled slightly. “I agree.”

“On top of that, she has a cute gay son.” Catalina tossed one end of the boa over his shoulder; a rather melodramatic the-show-must-go-on gesture. Then he plucked the envelope out of Tom’s hand. “Well, I have to get this tired old ass of mine in gear. My public is waiting. I’ll mail your letter for you, honey. Stay off your feet.”

Tom thanked him. “Could I ask you for one more favor? You wouldn’t happen to have some bourbon, would you?”

Five minutes later, Tom was back in his apartment with a couple of miniature bottles of Jim Beam. Catalina’s last boyfriend had been a flight attendant. Now, at least Tom had something to get him through the night.

He turned off the lights, then crept to the window. Still leaning against the Taurus, Hal’s friend puffed on a cigarette and read the Auto Trader. He looked up from his magazine—toward the building’s front door. After a moment, Catalina came around the corner, sashaying in front of Hal’s guard.

Tom could see the letter in Catalina’s hand. The huge drag queen in red sequins was hardly an inconspicuous mailman.