One of Those Malibu Nights (9 page)

Allie had refused even to look at the letters, but now she didn’t burn them. She’d sent them on to Mac’s assistant, Roddy. The game was no longer in her court. They would take care of it.

Feeling guilty about the chocolate cake, she was glad when her trainer arrived to put her through her paces, stretching her body unbearably, urging her on as she sweated on the machines.

“It’s worth it, hon,” he said, smiling at her. “You’ve still got the best body in town.”

It was the word
still
Allie didn’t appreciate. It meant she was no longer eighteen and instead was heading up to forty, a time when actresses were often left in limbo, waiting for those age-appropriate roles that, unfortunately, no matter how good you were, were few and far between.

An hour later, she waved goodbye to him and walked to the window, staring moodily out at the pretty gardens and the deep cobalt blue pool, glinting like a jewel amid the thirsty emerald lawns. She really should think about changing to a desert landscape to save on water, life’s most precious commodity. But then, who but she was there to care?

Glancing at her watch, she called her director and canceled their lunch. She would see him later that afternoon at the studio, she said, to do the last of the overdubbing.

After that she changed into jeans, a white shirt and gold flats, put gold hoops in her ears and—after some consideration—slipped her wedding ring back on her finger, and set out for the children’s hospital in the Valley, to pay her weekly visit to the young cancer patients.

She called Lev to tell him her plans, watching out for him in her rearview mirror, as he stayed behind her on the freeway. There was no sign of the Sebring convertible.

She’d already spent time at Barnes & Noble choosing picture books and games and had picked up a batch of furry toy animals donated by a caring manufacturer. The kids were always pleased to see her and today they greeted her with smiles and laughter, as though she were Santa on Christmas Day. It made her smile too, and their gaiety in the face of suffering brought her back to her senses and a humble appreciation of the rewards life had offered her.

By four o’clock she was in a darkened Hollywood studio, watching herself on the screen, matching her words to her movements. She was finished by seven, and called Lev again to tell him she was on her way to Giorgio’s restaurant on Channel Road in Santa Monica.

She was meeting an old friend there, a woman almost twice her age. Sheila Scott had been good to her when she had first come to town. Sheila was a voice coach and it was
she who had taken the Texas twang out of Allie’s voice and perfected her sweet gentle way of speaking. And since Giorgio’s was also Allie’s favorite restaurant, she was looking forward to the evening.

She handed the keys of the Mercedes to the valet parker, who beamed at her, impressed, and said “Good evening, Miss Ray, how are you tonight?” Allie was aware that, as usual, heads turned as she strode through the door and, always conscious of her duty to her fans, even though this was mostly a showbiz crowd, she distributed smiles and stopped to kiss hello to a couple of fellow actors.

She was glad, though, to sink into her chair and share a bottle of Chianti with Sheila, lingering over a plate of fettuccini with langostinos, the house specialty that was her favorite. And also to tell her about her new plan, that was still not a plan. Only an idea.

Sheila Scott, defiantly gray-haired in a town of blondes, her lean face tanned and weather-beaten from years of living near the beach, down-to-earth and motherly, listened in silence.

“I think I’ve come to the end, Sheila,” Allie said quietly. “My new film’s no good. I’m about to hit that dreaded—in showbiz anyway—forty. I’ve lost out in love. Ron has left me, he’s found someone else. I have a crazed fan writing scary threatening letters to me, and I’m being stalked. I only feel safe when locked behind my own gates with a
bodyguard right outside. I have no privacy, no family. I’ve reached burnout, Sheila. I need to get a new life.”

Sheila nodded, understanding. Allie had been working since she was seventeen and whether a movie lived or died always seemed to depend on her. Not only that, real life had crept up on her. She was a lonely woman trapped by her own fame, abandoned by her husband and stalked by a madman. “Then if that’s what you need to do, Allie,” she said gently, “go for it.”

“There’s only one thing—no maybe two—that could stop me,” Allie said.

Sheila said shrewdly, “I’m willing to bet that both of those are men. And that one of them is still Ron.” Allie gave her a sheepish grin. “So, who’s the other?”

“His name’s Mac Reilly. The PI. You’ve probably seen him on TV. But anyhow, like Ron, he’s a lost cause. He doesn’t seem interested in me, except as a client of course.” Her eyes met Sheila’s sympathetic ones. “Do you think it’s possible to be in love with two men at the same time?”

Sheila patted her hand across the table. “Only if you’re trying too hard, sweetheart,” she said.

Just then a couple of fans came over with a request for Allie’s autograph, and putting on her best movie-actress face she smiled and chatted with them for a minute.

Then the waiter approached. “A delivery for you, Miss Ray.”

Allie’s heart jumped into her throat as she took the envelope. For a minute she thought she might faint.

“Allie, are you all right?” Sheila’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“Who delivered it?” Allie asked. “Where is he?”

“It was just some motorcycle delivery service, Miss Ray. He was still wearing his helmet and I didn’t get to see his face.”

Allie had recognized the writing. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “He’s found me.”

Horrified, Sheila stared back at her. She’d heard all about the letter writer and the stalker, who were probably the same person. It did not sound good. She said, “Where’s your bodyguard?”

“Outside. Waiting for me. He’ll follow me home.”

“Call him. Tell him what’s happened.”

Parked illegally across the street, Lev had kept tabs on the people coming and going at the restaurant. He’d seen the motorcycle arrive and watched the driver go inside. He had thought it odd that the man had not taken off his helmet. It was an automatic reflex: you stopped the bike then took off your helmet. It was that, that had made him take down the bike’s license number.

“Don’t worry,” he told Allie when she called. “Give me the letter and I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s the last straw,” Allie said shakily to Sheila. “You see now why I can’t go on.”

“I understand, sweetheart, but don’t let panic send you running away.”

“If only it were just that,” Allie said, as they kissed good night outside the restaurant.

Lev was right behind her in the Mustang as she drove back along the coast road. At least she knew she was safe. For the moment anyway.

Five days later Sunny and Mac arrived back at LAX. He dropped her off at her place then continued on in the limo, catching up with his phone messages on the way.

Surprisingly, there was one from the supposedly missing Ron Perrin, demanding to know when he was coming back, asking why didn’t he pick up his messages anyway and where the hell was he because he needed him. It seemed Marisa was wrong and Perrin wasn’t dead after all.

There was also a message from Sam Demarco. “I’m Perrin’s right-hand man. I want to talk to you,” Demarco said in a voice as crisp and cold as a wedge of iceberg lettuce. “Please call me as soon as possible so we can arrange to meet.”

Of course Mac immediately called Sunny to tell her. “Interesting, huh?” he said.

“Which one? Perrin or Demarco?”

“Both. Anyhow, I’m calling them back. I’ll let you know what happens. Meanwhile, babe, get some sleep. You looked exhausted.”

“Thanks to you.” There was a smile in her voice as she said it.

Mac was smiling too as he rang off.

When Mac finally got home, Pirate greeted him with his usual all-over face lick. He smelled like an old sock. Time for the mobile dog groomers whose blond girl-bather Pirate was in love with, if his goofy expression and complete malleability in her hands was anything to go by.

Mac checked his watch. It was still only noon. He showered and put on a pair of comfortable old khaki shorts. Pirate was glued to his heels as he walked out onto the deck and leaned on the rail, taking grateful gulps of the fresh salty air. After the long flights it felt wonderful. The tide was low and the ocean shimmered, flat and steely under the gray sunless sky. Not a surfer in sight. Of course not, they were waiting for the change of tide, ready for those big green rollers that came crashing onto the shore, riding them like circus performers.

Mac had been in touch with Roddy from Rome and had filled him in on the Marisa situation. Now he called Roddy again and got the news that so far Roddy had no idea who
was tailing Allie because, since Lev was on guard, the Sebring had not been seen.

Roddy also told Mac about the latest threatening letter, hand-delivered to the restaurant. “It wasn’t written in blood but on a computer. And it was pretty explicit in what he intended to do to Miss Ray. By the way, he never calls her ‘Allie,’ always the formal ‘Miss Ray.’”

“So what are we doing about it?” Mac said.

“Lev got the bike’s number and already checked it out. It’s a delivery service. Someone hired them and the driver was just doing his job. The person paid in cash. Unusual enough for them to remember, but oddly enough, nobody seems to recall who it was or what he looked like.”

Mac sighed. “Par for the course, I guess. I want you to run a check on all Allie’s employees, everyone who has intimate contact with her. That means the people who work at the house, gardeners and pool guys included, as well as hairdressers, masseurs, personal shoppers. You know the score.”

Roddy did know and it was not a small task.

Mac said, “You ever hear of a guy called Sam Demarco? He’s Perrin’s partner. Actually his ‘right-hand man’ is how he described himself in his phone message.”

“Not short on ego then,” Roddy said. “And yeah, I’ve heard of him. Kind of a big player around town. Flashier than Perrin. Likes Vegas, the clubs, that kinda thing. Likes to throw big parties at his place. He has a big modern house
on one of the ‘bird’ streets above Sunset, y’know, the ones with the fabulous city views and the ‘bird’ names, Oriole, Thresher, like that. As well as a new place out in Palm Desert.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll call Demarco, find out what’s so urgent that Perrin’s ‘right-hand man’ needs to talk to me. Marisa wants me to ask him to call her too, she needs to know what to do next.”

“Does she want her gun back? If so it’s in the bucket under your kitchen sink.”

Mac laughed. “Thanks a lot, pal. I’ll make sure to get it back to Perrin.”

His next call was to RP. Again no answer. He left a message asking him to call him back, then he called Demarco.

After all the hoopla about urgency and the need to talk, Demarco didn’t even take his call. Instead his assistant arranged for them to lunch at one o’clock the following day, at the Ivy on Robertson. She also said Demarco needed his help. He wanted to hire him. But she didn’t say why.

Mac considered calling the “movie star” but that old jet lag was creeping up on him again as well as hunger, so instead he whistled for Pirate, climbed into the Prius and drove to the Malibu Country Mart, all of five minutes away. It was a small complex of chic boutiques and restaurants set around a grassy square with a sandbox and swings where kids played happily. He bought a take-out ham and cheese panini at the Italian restaurant Tra di Noi and with Pirate
breathing heavily at his feet in anticipation of his share, sat on a bench outside enjoying his lunch and watching the Malibu world go by.

As usual, the paparazzi were hanging outside Starbucks and Coffee Bean, hoping to get lucky with the “hot” young set, whose appearances there in search of a Frappuccino, with or without babies or small dogs or underwear, could cause chaos. Mac thanked God that though they recognized him they left him alone. His wasn’t the kind of fame—or rather notoriety—they were on the lookout for. There was no scandal around Mac Reilly. Unless of course he was to be seen in the company of Allie Ray. Now
that
would be news.

Walking back to the car, he stopped to look in the window of Planet Blue. There was a white T-shirt with the words
LOVE IS ALL
YOU NEED
in sparkles on the front. Smiling, he went in and bought it for Sunny.

Back home and out on his deck again, he stared at the ocean. The tide was coming in now. Ruffles of white spray fluttered over the rocks and the sun peeked through the clouds. He called Perrin one more time, frowning as one more time he was asked to leave a message. If RP was around he certainly was not answering his phones.

Lulled by the sound of the ocean, Mac lay back on the old metal chaise and in an instant jet lag claimed him and he was fast asleep.

The next morning as Mac drove through the sluggish L.A. traffic on his way to meet Demarco, he was thinking about the “right-hand man’s” choice of restaurant.

The Ivy was an L.A. hot spot. It was
the
place to be seen lunching and there were always famous faces there plus the usual wannabes and of course the paparazzi thronging outside with their intrusive cameras. Still the food was pretty good and it was a buzzing little place, a cottage really with an umbrellaed patio surrounded by a picket fence and with various hokey “country” artifacts substituting for décor. Cute, cheerful and expensive.

Mac gave the Prius to the valet, waving to the paparazzi who must have been having a slow day because they bothered to take his picture.

Sam Demarco was already seated at an inside table waiting. Impatiently, Mac observed. Since he was no more than a couple of minutes late, which was a good deal less than par for the course bearing in mind L.A.’s notorious traffic, Mac thought him distinctly ungracious in his greeting.

“I don’t like lateness, especially in a man,” Demarco snapped, tapping his watch, a whopping gold Breguet that was meant to impress. “I find it discourteous when I made every effort to be here on time.”