Murder Take Two (19 page)

Oh, God. Nausea tickled her throat. She gagged, coughed. She backed against the door, swallowing hard.

Hand against her mouth, she turned and hurried down the hallway. Oh, God, let me get to my room. Please let me make it to the bathroom. Fumbling for her key, she shoved the door open and reached the toilet just in time.

Cupping her hand under the tap, she rinsed her mouth, then pawed through the bottles on the counter until she found mouthwash. She swirled it around and spit it out.

Stiff-kneed, teeth chattering, she went to the bedside table and picked up the phone.

*   *   *

Red. Laura my beloved. The universe is red. You belong to me. We are as one. It's his fault. I need the gun. I missed the opportunity. Your destiny is mine. The way will be shown to me. The universe will be dark. We'll be together. The knife is here. The silver blade is ready. The spirits are getting tired of waiting.

He needed another opportunity. When it came, he needed to be ready. Before the universe turned black. If that happened, Laura would choke on evil spirits and suffer a painful death.

Go deeper into the trees.

He looked at the boat that held Laura and heard it again. Go deeper into the trees.

He understood.

Lure the cop into the woods and then— His fingers curled around the knife in his pocket.

*   *   *

Yancy, propped against the leaning trunk, one knee bent, thought if he took up whittling that would lend a certain bucolic note of local color. He could do bats. That would be fitting and his mother would be thrilled.

The AD rushed toward him and Yancy straightened. Linsel had to be the skinniest human being still breathing; his black T-shirt that hung from chicken-bone shoulders and black shorts with wide legs didn't help. The poor guy's personality bordered on the average houseplant.

“Problem?”

“There's somebody too far back in the trees.” One skeletal arm pointed. “Fifer wants you to get rid of him, so he doesn't bumble into the shoot.”

Yancy tromped through layers of rotting leaves covered with tangled new vines and low-growing plants. Earthy smells of dead vegetation mingled with the sharp tangy scent of new growth. Sunlight, filtering through leafy branches overhead, dappled the brown and green footing and provided good protective coloring for snakes.

A guy thrashed around ahead, setting off a flutter of small birds from the cottonwood.

“Hey!” Yancy loped after him, tripped over a thick vine, and pitched forward. Uh-huh. He was right up there with all those other heroes. Rambo. The Terminator. Daffy Duck. Scrambling to his feet, he looked for the guy. Gone. He slapped leaves and dirt from his pants.

“Sir?” It was quiet under the trees; river sounds were muted, breezes whispered through branches. A woodpecker went to work somewhere giving him a start.

He wandered along, weaving around tree trunks. “Sir? You need to stay clear of the filming.”

What the hell? This wasn't a jungle. This was a grove of trees and broad daylight. Where was the guy? Captured by aliens? Maybe it was the guy who was the alien. Beam me up.

The woodpecker stopped. An oriole sang three shrill notes. Hairs stirred on the back of his neck. He stood still and listened. On a branch overhead, a squirrel chittered, flicked its tail with irritation, and scampered away. Something had set off the squirrel. Could the guy be hiding? Waiting to ambush him? That ash over there, when Yancy went by, would the guy spring out?

Leaves and vines rustled beneath his feet. He eased one foot over a fallen limb, lifted the other—

His beeper went off.

Oh, Jesus. Heart going a mile a minute, he hauled in a barrel of air and checked the number.

“Sir,” he called out, just in case the guy was hiding behind that tree and not on Mars, “this isn't a good place to be. Copperheads inhabit the area.” He added, “Don't pick up any sticks until you know they won't move.”

Back at the river's side, nothing had changed that he could see. Fifer still paced; cameramen still fiddled with cameras and peered through lenses. Robin hurried by at a ground-eating trot on his way to get something from the prop truck parked on the road.

“You got a phone?” Yancy yelled at him. Robin shook his head.

“Excuse me, sir.” He stepped in front of Fifer midpace.

The director focused on him blankly, and had to shift through mental gears to remember who he was.

“Borrow your phone?”

Fifer made come-here motions with his fingers without even looking around. A female, obviously attuned to his every twitch, handed Yancy a flip phone. He backed off and punched the number.

On the other end of the line the phone was picked up immediately. Nobody spoke.

“Yancy,” he said.

“Oh, God, what took you so long?”

“Ms. Jones?”

“Please get over here right away,” Clem Jones said.

“Are you all right?”

“No! Get—”

“Calm down. What's the problem?”

“Oh, God—”

“Where are you?”

“The hotel. Please—”

“I'll be right there. Where in the hotel?”

“Room three-oh-seven.”

He flipped the phone shut and returned it, then hiked the three-quarters of a mile to the road where a line of vehicles, including his squad car, were parked along the shoulder.

At the hotel, he knocked gently at Clem's door. It opened a crack and one hazel eye, black makeup smeared around it, peered out at him. The door opened wider and a hand fastened itself to his arm and hauled him in. Inside, Clem Jones fastened herself to his chest.

He patted her back. “What happened?”

“Sheri's dead and—a knife. There's blood—it's all over and—she looks so flat.”

“Where is she?”

“Her room—” Clem waved awkwardly, either indicating direction or bursting with horror.

“Room number?”

“Three … I don't know. Three-eighteen. Three-eighteen.”

“Stay right here.”

“You think I'm going someplace?”

Eleven doors along the corridor, he tapped at 318, waited a moment, then eased the door open. Careful to avoid stepping in blood, he went to the body, knelt, and pressed his fingertips just below the point of her jaw. He knew he wouldn't find a pulse. She felt cold and clammy; her cheek, where it rested against the carpet, was dark; her neck and jaw muscles were tight with rigor.

When he got back to Clem Jones he found her sitting on the edge of a chair almost as frozen as the body.

“Fifer sent me to get her. It's not my job. It's the second second's. I didn't want to. He yelled, she was holding things up. Get her.”

“Did you touch her? Move her?”

“Are you crazy?”

Putting a hand on each shoulder, he got in her face, made her look at him. “Did you touch anything?”

“No. Yes. The doorknob.”

“Then what?”

“I came back here.”

“Then what?”

“I called you. You're supposed to be a cop. Don't you know what to do?”

“Just relax.” Using her phone, he called in and asked for the chief. She had just left; since Parkhurst was out of this one, he asked for Detective Osey Pickett.

16

Food, Susan thought. Something good. She didn't have to wonder if there was any in the house, and claiming too hot to cook wouldn't do it. She didn't cook even when it wasn't hot; she heated in the microwave. Or gave custom to Erle's Market. The deli had wonderful things, pasta salads, fruit salads, baked chicken, barbecued—

The radio, which had been mumbling to itself, caught her attention. She responded.

“Osey, Chief. We have us another one of those movie people dead.”

No, God damn it, no. She made a U-turn. The big puffy clouds that had been piling up all day so far hadn't come to anything, but heat lightning flickered way off to the north and there seemed an increase in humidity, if that was possible; any more and they'd be swimming through the air.

Behind sawhorses and spilling into the parking lot, the media were waiting. Television crews were fixing up lights to film their correspondents' reports, print journalists shot questions at the nearest officers, and photographers waited with their cameras ready to snap pictures of anybody who might be connected with the death. When she walked up to the Sunflower, they surged around her. Was this death a homicide? Were there any suspects? Was this homicide connected to the death of the stuntwoman? Was Laura Edwards in danger? What did Chief Wren have to say about the suggestion this movie was jinxed? That Hayden Fifer was jinxed? Susan's response was, “No comment.”

The lobby was empty except for the assistant manager who seemed just this side of wringing his hands, and Officer Ellis who was guarding the door. “Elevator to the third floor, ma'am, then right. Osey asked that nobody use the stairs until he can look at them.”

When she got off at three, Officer White was waiting to escort her to the victim's room.

Heavy beige drapes were pulled across the windows. Overhead, a small chandelier dripped crystal tears and four flame-shaped bulbs shined dully on the congealed blood. A large brass lamp on the bedside table was also on, suggesting the attack had taken place sometime last night.

Sheri Lloyd's body lay facedown, her darkened cheek rested on pale tweed carpet, one arm was tucked under her, the other stretched ahead as though reaching for something. Long chestnut hair fell away from her face; her legs in a tight skirt were slightly bent at the knees. A bone-handled knife with an eagle emblem skewered a bright blue tank top to her back. Blood, puddled in the hollow of her spine, had run down her rib cage and soaked into the carpet.

Susan let her eyes take in the room. The bedspread, brown and beige, was crumpled and the pillows crushed; Ms. Lloyd had lain on the bed without pulling back the spread. A white skirt and a knit shirt were crumpled on the floor. Drawers were partly open with clothes spilling out, tote bag on top of the chest bulging with contents Susan couldn't see from where she stood. A pair of high-heeled sandals and a pristine pair of white Reeboks were thrown in a corner. The armchair had clothes draped over it. Not compulsively neat, Ms. Lloyd.

“She's been dead twelve to eighteen hours,” Osey said. “She's cold, rigor still present, the blood's pretty much coagulated.”

“You notified Dr. Fisher?”

“He's on the way.”

Owen Fisher, even if he were just sitting down to dinner, would cheerfully leap up and gallop over. He was a man who deemed his profession his great good fortune; he probably sprang out of bed while it was still dark so he could get a head start on the day.

“Where's Yancy?”

“With Clem Jones in three-oh-seven.”

“She found the body?”

Before he could answer, Dr. Fisher lumbered along the corridor toward them. “Another one?”

“Afraid so.”

He peered at the body and told her solemnly, “My definite opinion upon superficial examination is we can almost certainly rule out accident this time.”

Pathologists have a weird sense of humor. “I'll be in room three-oh-seven,” she said to Osey. “Have somebody take care of these people lining the hallway. Do you have somebody going room to room on this floor?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Yancy opened the door to 307. Clem Jones sat hunched over in a padded peach chair with wooden arms. She eyed Susan warily like a frightened child on Halloween. Her pink hair stood up in spikes; the white makeup smeared with black eye shadow made it impossible to judge accurately any degree of pallor. She held herself completely still, as though if she didn't move none of this would be real.

Susan swung a chair around and sat in front of her. “Ms. Jones, would you like some water, or maybe coffee?”

“Yeah.” Clem sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Coffee.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

Clem cleared her throat. “Yeah.” A little louder this time.

Good. At least some life was returning to her face. A slack face and a weirded-out mind didn't produce answers, and Susan wanted answers. She glanced at Yancy. He nodded and left.

To start Clem talking, to keep her mind from the horror and let it ease back to functioning, Susan asked personal questions. How old was Clem? Twenty-six. Where did she live? Los Angeles. Has she always lived there? All her life. Did she go to school at UCLA? USC. How did she happen to get interested in the movie industry? Her father was an art director, she'd grown up in the business. Did she have a boyfriend? Not really. How many movies had she worked on? Shrug, lots. Did she ever work on the same movie with her father? Small shake of her head. Was her father working on this one? Another shake of her head.

After a soft tap on the door, Yancy came in bearing a tray, with coffeepot, cream, and sugar. Bless him, he'd brought two cups. It might be a long time before she could get around to food; a little caffeine would help.

Taking the tray, she set it on a table and poured two cups. “Tell me about this afternoon.” She added sugar and cream to one and handed it to Clem.

Clem held the cup against her chest with one hand under it, as though it were a puppy that might wriggle away. “She was on the floor when I went in,” she whispered.

“What time was that?” Susan sat back down, keeping herself where Clem would focus on her.

“I don't know.” Clem gulped hot coffee.

“Give me a guess.”

“She was supposed to be on the set.” Clem started breathing hard.

“Take it easy,” Susan said. “Just take your time.”

Clem took smaller sips. “Fifer had the second second doing something, so he yelled at me.”

“Second second?”

“Second second assistant director. I called Sheri's room and she didn't answer so I went out to base camp and checked her honey wagon room, even though I knew she wouldn't be there.”