Murder Take Two (23 page)

“I think she's worried,” he said slowly, “but she could have printed that line on the paper to reel in the lieutenant.”

He wasn't Parkhurst, but he wasn't stupid.

She knocked at Nick Logan's suite. He looked a man tired after working all day, relaxing in jeans, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. There was no irritation on his face at seeing them, only a certain interest.

“Come on in.” He gave Yancy a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Have a seat. What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks.” She sat on the love seat opposite a flowered sofa and took in a deep breath of secondhand smoke. Ah yes.

“You mind if I have a beer?”

“Go right ahead,” she said.

“Pete?”

Yancy, standing with his back to the door, shook his head. Nick in stockinged feet, a hole in one toe, padded off and returned with a bottle of Chimay and a glass. “Are you sure? It's made by Trappist monks in Belgium.”

She declined again, but did wonder what the stuff tasted like.

He took a swallow and sat on the arm of the sofa. “I figured you'd be around. Fifer's got to be grateful you didn't interrupt the filming.”

“Tell me what you did this evening.”

He shot her a shrewd look. “Has something else happened?”

“Answer the question, please.”

His story fit with Laura's except for one omission. “What reason would you have to lie, Mr. Logan?”

He flared up like a match. “You calling me a liar?”

“Are you?”

“Dinner with Laura?” Righteous indignation. “What is there to lie about?”

Dealing with these actors was exhausting. Who could tell what was real and what was acting? “You said you were here the entire time. Why didn't you mention going to get ice?”

Deep laugh rumbled. “No attempt at concealment, I assure you.” He retrieved another bottle of Chimay from the small refrigerator. “I forgot,” he said when he came back. “How long was I gone? Two minutes? Three? What happened this evening?”

“It's odd you get your own ice. I'd expect you would have sent a lackey or called room service. Weren't you concerned about fans?”

“The only people around are cast and crew.”

That wasn't exactly true, but maybe he didn't know.

“They don't get excited on seeing me.”

“Let's go back to yesterday evening.”

He took a long swallow, then gave her the same story she'd heard from everybody else. Sheri was angry. When she joined them Laura got pissed. Nick himself was irritated. He mentioned Clem Jones and Robin McCormack, and Raina Yancy and Delmar Cayliff, although he hadn't known either of their names.

“I've heard Sheri Lloyd wasn't a great actress,” Susan said. “So why was she hired?”

“Fifer wanted her. What the director wants, he gets. A director of his standing anyway.”

“Why did he want her?”

Nick gave her a dry smile. “I'm sure you've guessed.”

“He wanted to sleep with her.”

“There's a Sheri in every one of his movies.”

“You also had an affair with her.”

“Not exactly, and to my regret.”

“Enough regret to kill her when she wouldn't let it go?”

“No.” Quietly said.

“How did Fifer feel about your sleeping with her?”

“He was—no longer interested.” Nick chipped at the bottle label with his thumbnail. “She got ideas in her head that weren't real and—” He tipped the bottle over the glass. “She could be exasperating.”

“Because she wanted love and got only sex?”

“You don't pull your punches, do you?”

“She was murdered. What kind of ideas? Marriage? She's no longer alive to be exasperating. Does that make things easier for you? Your relationship with Laura Edwards will be mended?”

He started to raise his glass, then stopped. “I didn't kill her. I felt sorry for her.”

“Uh-huh. How could Fifer get away with hiring a bad actress?”

“She was okay in the right role.”

“And that was—?”

“Herself. A bimbo. Not real smart. Vulnerable. Somebody you ultimately feel sorry for.”

“Somebody didn't feel sorry for her. Somebody shoved a knife in her back.”

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Right. Couldn't be put any clearer than that. “Tell me who was on the Patio last night.”

He mentioned everyone except Cayliff's young person.

“You forget anyone?”

He thought a moment, then shook his head.

“Teenager,” Susan said. “Way off in the corner.”

He turned his head and scratched the side of his jaw. “I didn't notice any teenager. One could have been there. I try not to look at people. That way they're not as apt to come over for an autograph.”

She thanked him for his help.

In the elevator, she asked Yancy, “What do you think of Nick Logan?”

Yancy hesitated. “I like him. Except for that Trappist monk beer, which I never heard of, he seems like just an ordinary guy. Had a hole in his sock, for God's sake. He's not even that handsome. I don't know why he's supposed to be such a great actor.”

“He's great enough that he gets paid even if this movie never gets made. And if it's washed up soon enough maybe there's still time to get the role he had to turn down. That one pays fifteen million.”

“I'm in the wrong business,” Yancy said.

“Indeed.”

They took the elevator down and tracked Howie Gilbert to his office behind the registration desk. The assistant manager was looking distinctly gray around the edges.

“Who did you give Ms. Edwards's suite number to?”

“What?” He shot up. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing. She's fine.”

He deflated slowly. “You know, I think I'll be glad when they all leave. It seemed such a—so exciting, and good for the hotel, but all this—”

“Ms. Edwards's suite number?”

“Room numbers are not given out,” he recited primly. “And that goes for suites. Especially suites. Never.”

Of course, just about anybody on the staff would know: housekeeping, room service, security, registration. How many spouses and friends would they have told?

After reminding Yancy to keep his mouth shut with the media, she told him to take himself home.

The media pack launched an attack on her when she came out. What kind of sentence would she get for backing them off by firing a round or two?

*   *   *

Gray. Laura my beloved. The universe is gray. The spirits are getting impatient. When you know, you'll understand. If I don't get the gun, the spirits will be angry. They'll turn against us. I'll follow him until the opportunity comes. When the time is mine, I'll get it. He won't escape. I'll be there. When the world is dark.

19

In the pickup, Susan made a note to have Osey question hotel staff, ask if any unauthorized individual was seen, if anyone had been asked to slip a note under Ms. Edwards's door. Media people had been known to pay for information, but if a large amount of money passed hands, it was very unlikely anybody would admit to anything.

She stopped at the McDonald's drive-thru and got a burger, fries, and a Coke. Popping fries in her mouth, she drove back to the department, entered by the rear door, and took the hallway to her office. The place was quiet this time of night. She flipped the light, hung her shoulder bag on the coat tree, and dropped her very late dinner on the desk. Mouth open, burger halfway there, she was aware of someone in the doorway.

“Hazel, what are you doing here? You should have left hours ago.”

“Marilee's having baby-sitting problems. I said I'd cover until she found somebody.” Hazel looked pointedly at the hamburger.

“One word and I'll fire you,” Susan said.

Along with being dispatcher, Hazel was mother hen of the department, affectionately and behind her back called Rhode Island Red. Susan always assumed it was because Hazel had auburn hair; only recently had Osey told her a Rhode Island Red was a chicken.

“Idle threats,” Hazel said airily. She ticked off on her fingers. “Cholesterol, fat, salt, caffeine—”

“The phone is ringing,” Susan said. She bit off a chunk of cholesterol and fat and washed it down with a slug of caffeine. While she chewed, she searched out a pen under the folders and message slips, then she flipped pages in her notebook. To her list of suspects, she added Kevin Murphy, high school football star and summertime mechanic, and teenager, with a question mark—as in, could he be Cayliff's young person?

She tore off another chunk of the burger. He had a lot of anger packed away in a well-muscled body. Put him, for just a minute, in the shoes of a stalker. Would they fit?

They might. Sixteen, unbalanced by hormones like all teenagers. He excelled at football, a violent game and violence can spill over into the rest of life.

She leaned back and tried to remember what she knew about stalkers. Not much. She'd never worked a case with one. They were mentally or emotionally disturbed—paranoia, manic depression, schizophrenia. Did this fit Kevin? They often deluded themselves that the victim had a romantic interest in them. They were socially isolated. A football star? Possibly. Withdrawn, a loner. Again, possibly. She also thought they were usually unattractive. This didn't fit Kevin. He was very good-looking. That impenetrable air of control that she found so hair-raising would attract teenage females.

She didn't know enough about him, and made a note to ask Osey to check into Kevin Murphy.

What about Sheri Lloyd's murder? With a knife in the back, there was no question of accident. How was it connected with the death of the stuntwoman? How how how? Sheri Lloyd stood in the way of the stalker getting to his victim? Not that Susan could see, but she couldn't see into the mind of a psychotic. Could they have a killer and a stalker? Two crimes, two separate perps? An imported killer and a homegrown stalker? She read her list of suspects for Kay Bender's death. Assuming that the intended victim was not Laura, but Kay, why ice Sheri Lloyd?

Fifer: killed Sheri because she was causing trouble with his superstar Laura and/or Nick. He had to save his movie and Sheri was a thorn that could burst his expensive bubble.

Laura: jealous because Sheri was getting it on with Nick.

Nick: Sheri was causing trouble with true love Laura.

Robin: prop master, the knife came from the prop truck, thought for whatever reason Sheri killed Kay. This would tie it up. Sheri killed Kay (reason unknown) and then Robin killed Sheri in revenge. Dust off your hands, inform the media, and go home.

Bah. Susan tossed her pen on the desk, leaned back, and sipped the Coke.

Raina: out of the mists in her mind she was confused about being in some murderous old ballad. Very weak, and Susan hoped it was as weak as it sounded for Yancy's sake.

Then we have the unknown stranger brought to town by the lure and glamour of the movie being filmed here. A stalker, a psycho, a serial killer.

She was going round and round and getting nowhere and it was making her furious. She had the same suspects for Sheri Lloyd's murder that she had with the stuntwoman's death. All she'd done was mix around motives and throw in unknown variables.

She needed a break here. Why couldn't she see one? Damn it, she wanted to discuss this with Parkhurst.

As though she'd conjured him up, he appeared in the doorway. Angry, he looked dark and dangerous; eyes cold, small muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Hi,” she said.

Back straight, he sat in the wooden armchair in front of her desk. In normal circumstances, he paced until she got nuts and told him to sit, whereupon he slid low on his spine with his legs under the desk. Not since she'd first arrived had he been so still and controlled.

“There are two points of view,” he said. “It's an abomination or an honor, depending on your background, education, religious leanings, and/or sense of humor.”

She looked at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“The mad painter.”

There was an edge to his voice that she didn't like. It was challenging and she didn't want to pick it up. This bit of garbage-can nonsense didn't stack up against murder. She knew it and he knew it. He was pointing out that ability and experience were being wasted here.

She grimaced and rubbed her forehead. “Have you got anywhere?”

He took out his notebook, flipped it open, and recited in a flat voice. “So far there have been eight female nudes and six male. One fish. Opinions differ as to whether the fish is supposed to be a carp or a salmon…”

She broke out laughing.

“Comach Meer, however, says that art is not merely representational…” He laid a folded newspaper on her desk.

Comach Meer, owner of a local art gallery, had gotten his picture in the
Hampstead Herald.
Kneeling, finger extended, he was quoted as saying, “There is talent here, but undisciplined.” He went on to list flaws in the latest garbage-can art.

She tossed the paper to one side. “Do you know who it is?”

“Not yet. But I'm closing in. I deduce that it has to be somebody with paint on his hands.”

“All right,” she said. “We still have to find him.”

“Yes, ma'am. I've been trying to spot a pattern. In the areas he hits, the days of the week, the length of time between hits. Nothing's showing. I escorted Professor Black of the Emerson art department out to take a look, to see if the latest painted can brought to mind the style of a particular student.”

“And?”

“The work is vaguely reminiscent of Matisse. He agreed with Meer. Some talent, undisciplined. No student came to mind.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We're not going to catch this guy except by accident. Not by fancy footwork. Unless you want to mount a gigantic stakeout.”