Rage Factor (27 page)

After more paper rustling, Belle replied, “John Page is shooting a TV pilot in the Florida Keys. He’s been there for the past three weeks.”

“Where was he when Joanna received those first cards?”

“Los Angeles. Handy, huh? Here’s the stuff on Eggert. He works freelance. He’s worked on some of Joanna’s other films. Unmarried, lives with his mother, who’s something of a lush. He’s in high demand, considered a top-notch lighting designer—look at the ending credits next time you and Parker watch a video, you could easily see Eggert’s name on the list. But the other tech—”

Three people moved up the aisle, blocking Dixie’s view of Sarina. Swinging the door wide to let them exit, Dixie craned to get the kid in view again.

“Tori Pond,” Belle continued, “is a whole different story from Eggert. She’s been knocking around Hollywood for ten or twelve years. Never seemed to get a break, until Joanna put in a word with her own production company. Her parents are dead, she lives alone in East L.A. Wait—”

Belle mumbled, “Thanks,” to someone, then came back again. “Okay, just got this in—David Barton directed two other movies Joanna starred in last year. At least three actresses on his films have been stalked, but Barton was never a suspect.”

“Maybe he is now. Here’s something new to work on—” Dixie asked her to find out about the effects incident on
Devils Walk
, then disconnected. Ready to head back into the theater, she thought about Alan Kemp and the snapshots Casey James had taken on the movie set. She scanned the rows of spectators, all mesmerized by yet another space battle, and dug around in her memory until she found the reporters cell phone number. Casey answered on the second ring.

“When you worked with Alan Kemp,” Dixie asked, “did he seem content being a reporter?”

“Honey, you ask the damnedest questions.”

“Did he ever mention wanting to be a film star himself?”

“Oh, don’t we all? Me, now, I only wanted to sleep with them. Used to make snake bets on the pretty ones—Mel Gibson, Harrison Ford, any of the Baldwins.”

“Snake bets?”

“Who had the longest, thickest, hardest, droopiest. Who wasn’t circumcised. Paid bathroom attendants to find out. Vicarious sex, honey. The best kind. Imagination is
so
much better than the real thing.”

“I thought you were working legitimate stories back then.”

“This was for
fun.
Now, what’s got you so worked up about Alan Kemp?”

“What you said about his visit here during Joanna’s shoot not being a coincidence. Did he ever suggest there was bad blood between him and Joanna?”

“I can’t recall his ever mentioning her at all. But what you said before, about his wanting to act … he did do some live theater work. Talked about going to New York, where the ‘real’ actors hang out. I don’t know if he ever did.”

“What do you know about John Barton?”

“Asshole extraordinaire,” Casey said without hesitation. “Now, when is it my turn to ask questions?”

“Don’t I always come through for you, Casey?”

“I’m not sure that’s intentional. But okay, you’re on a tab. Barton is good enough at what he does that he can get by with being a horse’s patoot. He makes cable movies that a tremendous number of couch potatoes like to watch.”

“How’s his sex life? Who does he—”

“Barton’s snake is buried so deep in fat even he hasn’t seen it in years. But if your question is who does he play with, Barton has a different dewy-eyed starlet on his arm every week, and none of them go home with him. He’s either gay or too proud to beg. Now, as much as I’d like to keep running up your phone bill—”

“One more question—”

“With you, Counselor, it’s always one more question.”

“What do you know about an agent named Marty Ahrens?”

“Joanna’s agent?” For the first time, Casey hesitated. “Not much to know. He doesn’t make a lot of noise, but he does right by his clients. Takes care of them, if you know what I mean.”

“Spell it out for me.”

Another hesitation. “Marty has been around Hollywood since the days when publicity was generally a good thing. He never handled any really big names, but he’s never backed a complete loser, either. He knows how to move a client’s career forward.”

“That’s the biggest whitewash I’ve ever heard from you, Casey. What’re you not telling me?”

“Listen, Marty’s a nice guy. If I was an out-of-work actor, he’d top my list of agents to hire. But as a reporter, honey, I
know Marty only lets go of information when he has money riding on it.”

Dixie couldn’t decide what to make of Casey’s last remarks. Apparently, Marty was the person Joanna should thank for keeping her “accidents” this past year out of the tabloids. Was he also counseling her not to go to the police with the threats from her number-one fan?

Noting that Sarina had attracted no attention, and was still flanked by two empty seats, Dixie decided to make one last call. Les Crews, the profiler at Quantico, should’ve received the stalker’s messages from her by now.

She dialed his office number. Crews often worked late, but tonight he wasn’t there. After listening to his abrupt recording, “You know what to do. Do it,” she left a brief message.

Later, having delivered Sarina safely back to the hotel, Dixie halted the Porsche outside her gate and watched a thin, comforting trail of gray chimney smoke ascend into the sky. The porch light was on, and the kitchen light. The television glowed faintly through the living-room window. The house looked warm and inviting.

Shivering in the night air, she reached for a shopping bag on the floorboard. Inside was a bottle of Parker’s favorite wine and a valentine card. The holiday was still two days away, but she and Parker had gone to bed the night before without settling their problems—her job, the yacht party—and they’d both rushed off this morning, scarcely exchanging a word. She sensed a rift opening between them. Dixie wanted to close it, wanted to make things right, only she didn’t have a clue how to do it. She hoped the valentine would say it for her.

She flicked on the interior light and took the valentine
out of the bag. The message wasn’t terribly mushy: Every
day in so many ways, you brighten my life.

Quickly, before she could think about it too much, Dixie wrote, “Love you,” signed the card, and shoved it into the envelope.

The third item in the bag was a housewarming gift for Parker’s new place. The carpenters had finally departed, the painters were painting their last few strokes, the floor coverings and appliances had been installed. The house was due to be completed at the end of the week. She hadn’t asked, but she suspected he’d move his stuff out over the weekend, and she hated it. With Parker physically so far away, the rift could only open wider. The gift was a brass door knocker—not even a little mushy.

Mud met her at the back porch, sniffing his worried whine around her cast and demanding more affection than usual. With the strained atmosphere in the house, he probably felt as disconcerted as she did.

The kitchen smelled like fresh-baked cookies. A plate of brownies sat beneath a huge vase of red roses, a pink, heart-shaped balloon bobbing above them. The inscription on the balloon read
You’re the sweetest!

The first night Parker had stayed in her house, a prisoner, he’d scrounged ingredients from her near-empty cabinets to make brownies, the best she’d ever tasted. A rush of tenderness misted Dixie’s eyes. Evidently, he wanted to make up, too.

Hearing Parker’s footsteps behind her, she blinked away the silly moisture.

“It’s not quite Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But—”

When he didn’t finish the sentence, Dixie’s anxious mind leaped ahead to finish it for him …
but I won’t be here to celebrate Valentine’s Day….

When he reached to embrace her, she turned into it, facing him. “I brought some wine. For dinner.”

“‘Quick, bring me a beaker of wine that I may wet
my mind and say something clever.’” He grinned. “Aristophanes. Neat guy.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he did his truly awful Humphrey Bogart imitation. “But if we’re not careful, sweetheart, we’ll turn into a pair of old winos.”

“A glass a day keeps the heart at play.”

“Then a bottle a day ought to keep us hale halfway into the next century.”

His playful blue eyes locked with hers, and he closed the distance between them, his lips soft and inviting. She’d never loved a man the way she loved this man. Never needed anyone, yet she needed him, needed his essence to recharge her being, his humor to recharge her spirit. She couldn’t imagine living without him—her and Mud whining at each other over frozen dinners.

“How’s the kid?” Parker murmured when he finally let her lips go, arms still tight, lifting her. Her breasts flattened against his chest, their hips touching where it mattered, her toes and the heavy cast barely brushing the floor.

“The kid is still a pain in the butt, but a likable pain.”

One hand slid down to her buttocks, drawing her into him, to feel the hard length of him against her belly. His mouth parted against hers, tongue flicking across her lips. A familiar warmth rose on her skin everywhere he touched, and where he hadn’t touched—yet. The shopping bag slid from her fingers as he lifted her higher and carried her to the bedroom. In moments they were naked beneath the covers, the intensity of their need stunning them both. Later, they slept, curled together. Dixie awoke with the comforting scent of his skin deep in her nostrils, his chest hairs tickling her nose. She never wanted to move.

“Are you awake?” she murmured.

“Mmmmhmm.”

She could feel the rumble of his breathing against her cheek. She was thirsty, and she had to pee.

“Want some wine now?”

“Mmmmhmm.”

“Coffee and a brownie?”

“Mmmmhmm.”

“Which of us is going to get it?”

“Which of us is on top?”

“I don’t know. Me, I think.”

“Mmmmhmm.”

She nosed around on his chest until she found the hard nub of a nipple and slipped it into her mouth. For a moment, she enjoyed the tiny intimacy, then she caught the nipple between her teeth.

“Ow!”

“If I get the wine, you don’t get to sleep.”

She scrambled off the bed and into the bathroom.

“Woman, you are cruel!” he shouted after her.

Ten minutes later, they were propped against pillows, wineglasses, coffee, and brownies on a tray between them. On the muted television, the closing credits of a medical drama rolled across the screen.

Dixie lifted the shopping bag onto the bed and pulled out the remaining contents. His smile broadened at the wrapped package, a blaze of multicolored designer hearts against a pink background, tied with a wiggly red bow.

“For the grand opening of your new home,” Dixie told him.

He shook the heavy box, listening. No sound, the knocker was shrink-wrapped.

“What is it?” His face held the eagerness of a kid at Christmas.

“See that string holding it together? Pull it, open it. Find out.”

He tore open the package. The round brass knocker, shaped like a hinged hatchway on a ship’s hull, was inscribed with his last name, Dann, in bold letters. He grinned.

“It’s perfect! Where did you find this?”

“In the museum shop.” After viewing the metal sculpture at the Contemporary Arts Museum that afternoon, she’d coaxed Sarina across the street to the Museum of Fine Arts. They’d spent the whole time in the tourist trap, Sarina helping her make the decision between the knocker and a
brass pelican umbrella stand. Maybe she’d buy the umbrella stand later, for his birthday—or whenever.

“I love it. Thank you.” He kissed her. “What else is in the bag?”

“A card.” But suddenly it seemed woefully inadequate, expressing the wrong sentiment. “To be saved until Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh.” He slid open a drawer on the nightstand. “I guess that means we have to save this one, too.” He held up a square pink envelope.

“No, it doesn’t.” She wanted that envelope.

She reached for it. He held it out of her grasp.

“Fair’s fair. Give me mine, I’ll give you yours.”

Dixie considered it, but she wanted time to buy him a better one, a card that really expressed how she felt-humorously, of course, without too much goo.

“We’ll wait,” she said. “Otherwise, Valentine’s Day will seem anticlimactic.”

“It’s only two days away. Friday.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe we could spread the holiday into the weekend, spend the whole three days together … at my place. Invite Amy and Carl and Ryan down on Sunday.”

She squirmed inwardly. If Joanna’s film schedule had been extended by the rain, Dixie’s job wouldn’t be finished by the weekend. Of course, Belle could get someone else for those two days. But what if Dixie convinced Belle to let her out of the deal, and something happened to the kid? Dixie would never be able to live with that. And wouldn’t Sarina be disappointed having a new bodyguard? Not to mention that Dixie would miss the mule-headed twerp.

In a way, she was shielding Sarina from Joanna’s over-protectiveness as much as from the stalker. At sixteen—seventeen, a girl should have freedom to choose her own interests, as long as they didn’t include drugs or selling her body on street corners. If Dixie quit the job now, Belle would
be forced to hire someone who might not like Sarina as much as Dixie had come to.

“You don’t even have a bed at your new house yet,” she reminded Parker.

“You can help me buy one.”

A newscast saved her from having to answer. She turned up the volume.

“Police are stymied over the latest development in the Carrera case. Today the boy’s grandparents received a notarized letter from Patricia Carrera relinquishing custody of her son, Paulie.”

“The woman’s nuts,” Parker said. “Went to all that trouble to win, then gave the kid back?”

“Damned unlikely,” Dixie mused.

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated. Her hunches weren’t always easy to put into words.

“You know about the Avenging Angels’ assault on Lawrence Coombs.”

“Yeah. Wish I’d been right there with them.”