Authors: Kevin O'Brien
Tags: #Fiction:Thriller, #Women Lawyers, #Legal, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Fiction
THE NEXT TO DIE
The phone rang and Dayle grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Dayle? It’s Susan. I got your page. I’m on my way over. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes if traffic allows. Is Estelle there with you now?”
“Yes. She’s in the bathroom,” Dayle said, watching Sean wander toward the closed door.
“Fine. I’ll see you soon.” Susan hung up.
Sean turned to Dayle. “That dryer’s been on for at least ten minutes….”
Dayle put down the phone. She rapped on the bathroom door. “Estelle?”
No answer. Dayle pounded on the door again. “Estelle? Can you hear me? Estelle!” She jiggled the doorknob. Locked. At the crack under the bathroom door, blood seeped past the threshold onto the beige shag carpet. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.
Dayle threw her weight against the door. “Estelle!” Dayle kicked at the spot just below the doorknob until it finally gave. But the door didn’t move more than a couple of inches. Something was blocking it—something heavy and lifeless.
Dayle peeked into the bathroom and gasped.
There was blood on the white tiled floor, leaking from a slice across Estelle’s throat….
ONLY SON
THE NEXT TO DIE
MAKE THEM CRY
WATCH THEM DIE
LEFT FOR DEAD
THE LAST VICTIM
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
For my lifelong friends,
George and Sheila Kelly Stydahar
Many people helped launch this book. I’m grateful to Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle—my agents, friends, and literary guardian angels. Another great big thank-you goes to John Scognamiglio, my editor at Kensington Books, who also happens to be a good buddy. And thanks to all my other pals at Kensington, especially Doug, Kate, and Amy.
Several friends and family members also helped me whip this novel into shape—either with feedback from reading early drafts or with ideas they allowed me to steal. My thanks and love go to Kate Kinsella, Dan Monda, George Stydahar, Doug Nathan, Wendy Orville, Dan Annear, David Buckner, and Bonny Becker.
For support and inspiration in my career, I want to thank Louise Vogelwede, Terry and Judine Brooks, John Saul and Michael Sack, and Julie Smart and all my friends from good old Adams News.
A special thank-you to my brother and four sisters, and my dear pal, Cate Goethals.
Without having to wait, Jim Gelder secured a cozy window table in one of Portland’s swankiest restaurants that Thursday night. If only the maître d’ had sat Jim somewhere else, the thirty-two-year-old salesman from Seattle might not have met such a gruesome death.
Jim was good-looking, and he kept in great shape. He still weighed the same as he had in college: 170 pounds, perfect for his six-foot frame. His hair was usually slicked back with gel that made the straw color appear a shade darker. He had blue eyes, a strong jaw, and the kind of self-assured smile that drew people to him.
He felt lucky that Thursday night. His waitress was cute and friendly, a redhead in her early twenties. Amid the white tablecloths, candlelight, and polished silverware, she seemed like the only waitperson there without a snooty attitude. She even flirted a little when she delivered his tangueray and tonic. Jim had never been unfaithful to his wife, but he wasn’t opposed to some innocent flirting—especially during lonely business trips like this one.
He poured on the charm every time the waitress returned to his table. After the meal, when she came by with his decaf, she brushed her hip against his shoulder. “You’ve been my favorite customer tonight—just thought you should know. Be right back with your check.”
Smiling, Jim watched her retreat toward the kitchen, Just then, someone strode into the restaurant. Nearly everybody noticed him, but no one gawked; this was much too ritzy a place for the late dinner crowd to fuss over a movie star.
Tony Katz seemed smaller in person, not quite as brawny as he appeared on the screen, but every bit as handsome. Women just loved his wavy, chestnut-colored hair and those sleepy, sexy aquamarine eyes. Jim had heard that Tony Katz was in Portland, shooting a new movie.
He tried not to stare as the maître d’ led Tony to a table next to his. Tony threw him a smile. Jim kept his cool and smiled back. Very nonchalant.
The maître d’ left a menu at the place setting across from the film star. Jim hoped he’d get to see Tony’s wife, Linda Zane, a model, whose appearance in a
Victoria’s Secret
catalog last year was still etched in his brain. But Tony was joined by a balding, middle-aged man who must have been parking the car. He staggered up to the table, all out of breath, then plopped down in the chair. He wore a suit and tie. In contrast, Tony Katz had on a black turtleneck and jeans. He looked annoyed with the guy. “I’m having one drink with you, Benny, that’s all,” he grumbled.
“Okay, okay.” The man took off his glasses and wiped them with the napkin. “Now, where were we?”
“I believe I was calling you a scum-sucking weasel,” Tony Katz said.
Jim couldn’t stifle a laugh, and this caught Tony’s eye. The movie star smiled at him again. “Excuse me,” he said to Jim. “Can I ask you something?”
Dumbstruck, Jim nodded. Tony Katz was actually talking to him.
“If you were a serious actor, what would you think of an agent who wanted you to star in a crappy movie sequel instead of a Tennessee Williams revival on Broadway?”
Jim shrugged. “I’d say he was a scum-sucking weasel.”
“Benny, I think I love this guy.” Tony gave Jim an appreciative grin.
Benny studiously ignored Jim and glanced at his menu. The waitress approached their table and told Tony how much she
absolutely adored
his latest movie. Tony politely thanked her and ordered a mineral water. His agent ordered scotch. For the next few minutes, the two of them argued quietly. Jim made it a point not to stare.
“Excuse me again, what’s your name?”
Jim blinked at Tony Katz. “Who, me?”
“Tone, please,” his agent whispered. “Listen to me for a sec—”
“I’m talking to my buddy here,” Tony said. Then he smiled at Jim. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Um, I’m Jim Gelder.”
“Mind if I join you, Jim?”
“Oh, now really, Tone,” his agent was saying. “Don’t be this way—”
But Tony Katz switched chairs and sat down across from Jim. He toasted him with his mineral water. “Thanks, Jim. I owe you.”
Dazed, Jim laughed. “God, my wife isn’t going to believe this.”
Tony glanced over his shoulder at his agent friend. “Bye, Benny. I’m with my buddy Jim here. Take the car. I don’t need it. Adios.”
Benny pleaded, but Tony Katz ignored him. He was too busy asking Jim where he was from, what he did for a living, and if he had any kids. To Jim’s utter surprise, even after the agent defeatedly stomped out of the restaurant, Tony remained at the table. It was as if he genuinely cared. “No kids, huh?” Tony said, finishing his drink. “Me neither. Linda and I are thinking about adopting. But there’s a lot to consider, y’know?”
Jim nodded emphatically.
“I mean, look at how everyone’s staring at us. It’s life in a fishbowl, and that’s no way to raise a kid. Plus there are some real nutcases out there. Lately, I’ve been getting these strange phone calls—on my private line, no less. Death threats, real nasty stuff. Makes me think twice about bringing a kid into this world.” He shrugged and sat back. “Anyway, it’s nothing to dump on you. So—what are your plans for the night?”
“I don’t really have any plans,” Jim said.
“Great. Because I’d like to buy you a drink for being such a good sport. Only not here. It’s too stuffy here. I know a place you might like.”
The place was called Vogue Vertigo, at least that was where Tony told the driver to go once they climbed into the taxi. They settled back, and Tony slung his arm around Jim’s shoulder—as though they were old pals. Jim was still in a stupor over this instant bond with the movie star. “I think you’ll dig Vogue Vertigo,” Tony said. “I hear this straight crowd is starting to take over. But that’s mostly on weekends. I don’t think we’ll have to put up with them tonight. We’ll see.”
The driver studied them in the rearview mirror. Jim caught his stare, and he suddenly became aware of how the two of them must have looked together, huddled in the backseat, one guy with his arm around the other.
Chuckling, Jim grinned at those disapproving eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hey, bub, what are you staring at?” he asked. “Think we’re queer or something? Do you know who you’ve got back here? This is Tony—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Tony whispered.
Jim fell into a stunned silence. He recognized the cold, deadly tone. Tony spoke that way to characters in the movies seconds before blowing them away. He frowned at Jim, then slid over closer to the window.
They went on for three more blocks without saying a word. All the while, Jim tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. It seemed as if his instant friendship with the movie star had just as instantly expired.
“This is good right here, driver,” Tony said, pulling out his wallet.
The taxi pulled up to the curb. Jim warily surveyed the neighborhood. He’d seen worse areas, but had never been dropped in the heart of one this bad—this late at night. Half of the stores looked as if they’d been shut down years ago, and the others didn’t look long for this world. The cab stopped near a dark, cheesy little grocery store.
Climbing out of the taxi, Jim could barely make out the green neon
VOGUE VERTIGO
sign in the window of a squat brick building farther down the block. “Why didn’t you let him take us right up to the place?” he asked as the taxi pulled away.
“Because you don’t want to go in there,” Tony replied. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. “Listen, Jim. I made a mistake. I’ll get you a cab—
another
cab, and pay for your ride back. Our plans for tonight are kaput.”
Tony switched on his phone, punched in some numbers, then cradled it to his ear. Apparently, he wasn’t getting a dial tone. Frowning, he rattled the phone in his fist. “Damn it,” he grumbled. “Battery’s dead. You don’t have a cell phone on you, do you?”
Jim shook his head. “Sorry. Listen, what’s happening here? What’s going on?”
“We’ll have to use a pay phone in the bar,” Tony said. “I didn’t want to take you in there, because you’ll probably freak out. It’s a
gay
bar, Jim. I was wrong earlier. I don’t think you’d like Vogue Vertigo after all.”
“This place is a gay bar?”
“Bingo. Go to the head of the class.” Tony started to walk toward the end of the block.
Jim grabbed his arm. “I don’t get this. You’re married to Linda Zane, for chrissakes, and you’re gay? How could you be gay?”
“I’ll tell you what James Dean said when someone asked him the same question. He said, ‘I’m not about to go through life with one hand tied behind my back.’”
“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” Jim stepped in front of him. “I still don’t understand. What made you think I was gay?”
Tony sighed. “I thought you were good-looking. Seemed worth a shot. I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay?”
“But I told you, I’m married.”
“There are lots of married gay guys, Jim,” he replied. “I’m a movie star. Sounds callous, but married men are my safest bet. They don’t talk. Now, I’ve already apologized, and I mean it, I’m sorry to have taken you out of your way.” He gave Jim’s arm a little punch. “So how about it? Do you think you can relax and be cool in this bar while I call you a cab? Or do you want to go on acting like an asshole?”
Jim stared at him for a moment, and realized he was arguing with
Tony Katz—who was gay
. His wife wasn’t going to believe this. “I think I’ll go on acting like an asshole,” he replied, chuckling. “It’s all right, I’ll be cool. Still, can you blame me for being pissed? I mean, my one big chance to get it on with a movie star, and it’s another guy. Just my luck.”
Tony laughed, but suddenly he froze up and his smile disappeared. He stared at something beyond Jim’s shoulder, and those famous aquamarine eyes filled with dread. The color left his face. “My God,” he whispered. “Run….”
“What?” Jim turned around. His heart stopped.
It happened so quickly. Jim hadn’t even heard the minivan pull up behind him. Two men sprang out of the back. Both of them wore nylon stockings over their heads, the faces hideously distorted—like something out of a nightmare. One of the men had a gun.
Jim wanted to yell out, but he could barely breathe. As if paralyzed, he helplessly watched the two men descend on him. The one with the gun grabbed him by the scalp and jammed the .38 alongside his head. Jim felt the barrel scrape against his cheek, then dig into his ear. It hurt like hell, and he cried out with what little breath he had. Clenching a fistful of hair, the thug yanked his head back, until Jim thought his neck would snap. The guy ground the gun barrel into his ear. Jim felt blood drip down the side of his neck. He could barely hear his attacker barking at Tony: “Get in the van or I’ll blow your boyfriend’s brains out! Hurry!”
“Leave him alone!” Tony demanded. “If it’s me you’re after, I hardly know this guy. Let him go—”
The thug swung Jim around and threw him into the backseat of the van. Toppling onto the floor, Jim blindly reached for the door handle, then realized there was no door on the driver’s side. No escape. Suddenly, Tony fell against him. He was unconscious.
Jim began to shake uncontrollably. He’d never been so scared.
Somebody climbed into the bench seat in back, then someone else jumped in front. Doors slammed, and the car started moving.
Wendy Lockett ran along the same trail through St. Helens Forest Preserve every morning before going to work at the bank. She had a Walkman blasting the Eurythmics’ greatest hits and Cushman, her black Labrador retriever, keeping her company on that lonely path. It was a cold, drizzly Friday, and still quite dark in the heart of the forest.
Sweat rolled off her forehead, and Wendy’s long brown ponytail slapped against the windbreaker on her back. She approached the halfway point, a little clearing in the woods, where she usually turned around.
“Cushman, stick with me!” she called. The dog bolted ahead of her, then disappeared behind some bushes. “Cushman?” she called again, catching her breath. Annie Lennox still wailed in her ears. “Cush? Come here, buddy….”
The Labrador was there for her protection. The thirty-three-year-old divorcee didn’t go jogging in the forest at five-thirty in the morning without her dog—and a small canister of mace in the pocket of her track pants. Cushman had pulled this vanishing act a few times in the past—running after a squirrel or a deer—and Wendy hated it.
She slowed down to a trot, then pulled off the earphones. “Cush? Come here, boy!” she called. She felt so alone and vulnerable without her dog. She approached the clearing, then stopped suddenly. She thought she heard twigs snap, rustling noises. “Cushman?” she called in a shaky voice.
The dog answered with an odd, abbreviated bark.
“Where are you, boy?” As Wendy came into the clearing, she noticed several tire tracks in the mud. Then she realized why Cushman’s response had been nothing more than a distracted grunt. He was too busy sniffing at something by the shrubs. From where she stood, it looked like a dead deer. “Cush, get away from there!” she called. “You heard me….”
As Wendy stepped closer, she saw that bits of the animal’s white flesh had been nibbled away by hungry forest creatures. Whimpering, Cushman repositioned himself to poke his snout at the poor thing from another vantage point. “Stop it, Cush! Stop that right now! Stop—”
Wendy choked on her words. The dead thing was a naked young man. He had flaxen blond hair, and his eyes were fixed open in a horrified grimace. Her dog lapped at the blood from a slash across his throat.
She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t even breathe.
Cushman backed away from the body. He let out a couple of barks. Something else had caught his interest. Wendy tried to call to him, but no words came out. She stood paralyzed in the forest clearing.
The dog trotted over to an oak tree and started sniffing. Tied to the trunk was another corpse, slouching against the ropes, now slack from hours of holding his deadweight. He’d been tortured and mutilated beyond recognition.
Wendy Lockett didn’t know she was staring at someone she’d seen several times before—in the movies.
The Oregonian
, Saturday, September 20