THE NEXT TO DIE (24 page)

By the time he called his parents, he was pretty much cried out. He even managed to sound upbeat for them. “The people at Glenhaven gave me a tour yesterday,” he said. “They have these beautiful gardens and walking paths, a pool, private jacuzzis, saunas, messages, lots of personal attention.”

“Did they say if she’ll be out in time for Thanksgiving?” his father asked on the other extension. “Or do they think it might be longer?”

“They’re really not sure, Pop. But I know she’s better off there than she was in the hospital.”

Someone buzzed from the front gate. Avery hopped off the pool chair and hurried into the house. “Somebody’s at the door. Can you hold on for a sec?” He stole a glance out the front window. A police car waited at the end of his driveway. Avery went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Cooper, this is Sergeant Rick Swanson of the Beverly Hills Police. We’d like to accompany you to the station for some questioning. It shouldn’t take too long. Could you let us in?”

Avery covered the mouthpiece of the phone so his parents wouldn’t hear. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cooper. They simply want to ask you some questions down at headquarters, that’s all. We’ve been instructed to escort you.”

“Um, I’m not dressed,” Avery said. “Let me put some clothes on, then I’ll buzz you in.” He brought the phone back up to his ear. “Mom? Pop? Can I call you back? It might not be until tomorrow. I have something going on here that’s kind of important—”

“What happened?” his father asked. “I can tell from your voice that something’s wrong….”

“I’m fine, Pop, really. Let me call you later. Okay?”

As soon as he disconnected with his folks, Avery phoned Sean’s cellular number. He caught her at the lab where they’d analyzed his sperm samples. He explained about the police waiting outside his house.

“Don’t let them in,” Sean said. “Dayle’s chauffeur and stand-in were gunned down by a man dressed like a cop, driving a patrol car. No. Don’t do a thing until I check on this. What’s this police sergeant’s name again?”

“Swanson,” Avery said.

“Okay. Sit tight until you hear back from me.’

She hung up. Avery glanced out the window again—at the police car parked by his front gate. The cop stood near the intercom on the post.

With the cordless in his hand, Avery went back and closed the sliding glass door to the pool area. A feeling of dread gnawed at his insides. He checked out front again. The cop was now staring up at the house, arms crossed.

The telephone rang, and Avery quickly answered it. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi. It’s me,” Sean said. “I checked. These guys are on the level. They’re taking you in for some questioning. I’ll meet you at the station. Don’t tell them anything until I get there. Okay?”

“Right. Thank you, Sean.”

Avery hung up, took a deep breath, and walked into the front hall. He pressed the switch for the front gate. Then at the window, he watched the police car slowly pull into his driveway.

Sean clicked off her cellular and apologized to the lab supervisor for the interruption. Avery’s sperm samples had been stored and analyzed here at Kurtis Labs. The receptionist up front had given Sean a lab coat to wear, then sent her to this supervisor, a fidgety man in his mid-fifties named Alan Keefer. He had dark hair, a rubbery smile, and beneath his white lab coat, he wore a yellow polyester shirt and a tie that just had to be clip-on.

They sat in his office, which looked into one of the main labs. Through the window, Sean had a view of everyone at work, hunched over microscopes, transferring test tubes back and forth from refrigerators to centrifuges, punching data into computers.

Keefer explained that they’d run tests on all nine sperm samples and come up with the same donor, Avery Cooper. He also insisted that his lab team was beyond reproach. But Sean had cross-examined enough people in her day to trust her instincts that Alan Keefer was hiding something. And while he talked, he seemed to be leering at her.

Someone else wouldn’t stop staring at her. An obese bearded man in a lab coat kept shooting her looks through the office window. Sean had been about to ask if she could talk with some of the other technicians when Avery had called on her cellular.

She slipped the phone back in her purse, pulled out a business card, and scribbled on the back of it. “I’m sorry, I have to run,” she said, placing the card on Keefer’s desk. “I wonder if I could come back at a later date, maybe interview some of your staff.”

“Well, speaking of dates, maybe I could interview you over dinner some time?” Keefer asked with his rubbery smile. He walked her to his office door.

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Sean said. “But I’m awfully busy with this case, and any free time I have, I spend with my husband and children.”

“Well, I’m busy too,” he replied coolly, the smile gone. “If you’d like to see me again, you’ll have to make an appointment in advance. And I’m sorry, but I can’t have you taking my people away from their jobs for these interviews. You’ll have to make some sort of other arrangements.”

Sean nodded. “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Keefer. I left my card on your desk. Avery Cooper’s phone number is on the back. If you have any new information about those samples, I trust you’ll call one of us.”

“Yes, of course,” he grunted.

Turning to leave, Sean caught the overweight lab technician staring at her again. Something told her that this visit to Kurtis Labs wasn’t quite the dead end it seemed. But she didn’t have any time to ponder that now. The police were about to interrogate Avery, and she needed to be there with him.

Rain pelted the hood of Sean’s car, and the windows were fogging up. Neon lights from the drive-in burger joint illuminated droplets on the windshield. Sean sat at the wheel, nibbling her french fries while Avery devoured his cheeseburger like a starving man. The session with the police had left him tired and ravenous.

Riding in the back of that patrol car on his way to the station, Avery had been so sure he wouldn’t return home for at least a couple of days—or however long it took to post bail. The policemen had led him into a small conference room. He’d seen enough movies to know that the large mirror on the wall was a two-way job—with someone else on the other side. They started asking about his activities on Friday night, November fourteenth. Avery politely refused to answer any questions until his lawyer was present.

Sean arrived within five minutes, and sat down beside him at the table. She was professional and courteous. Avery could tell the detectives liked her despite themselves. She whispered to him at the start, “Don’t mention any conspiracy right now. It’s too soon and we don’t have any evidence to back that up yet. Okay?”

She didn’t interrupt him much, and instinctively knew when to rescue him. “I’m sorry, guys,” she’d say with a smile. “My client can’t answer that at this time. Do you have another question?”

Eventually, they asked if Avery would furnish them with a sperm sample. Sean Olson jumped in before he could answer. “For the time being, I’ve advised my client not to submit to that,” she said.

The interrogation lasted three hours. Although he hadn’t been formally charged, Avery remained a suspect in Libby Stoddard’s murder.

“End of round one,” Sean told him, picking at her order of fries. She glanced out the rain-beaded window. “I think our boys in blue are jerking you around a bit. My guess is that they already have a DNA match on the sperm sample from Libby and your skin tissue under her fingernails. If you had a hairbrush lying around when they were in your house the other day, they probably collected and tested a sample of your hair too. They don’t really need your sperm, Avery. But it looks good for their case if they asked for a sample and you refused.”

“Looks even better for them if I furnish a sample and it matches.”

“Exactly,” Sean said, sipping her Coke. “Either way, you’re screwed. We’re on borrowed time here.”

Avery crumbled up his food bag. “Huh, could you tell me some good news?”

“Well, you have a lawyer who believes you’re innocent,” Sean offered. “I’d like to talk to your friends, the Webers, at their place tomorrow evening. Then we’ll go through and retrace everything you did that Friday night. Think you’re up for that?”

Avery nodded. “I’ll call George. I can also review those security videos with you again during the day—if you’d like. I’m not working this week. I don’t have any plans.”

“You aren’t seeing your wife?” Sean asked.

Frowning, he shook his head. “This new place doesn’t allow visitors the first couple of weeks.”

For a moment, there was just the patter of rain on the roof, and paper bags rustling as they put their uneaten food away. Avery turned and caught her gazing at him. Sean quickly turned away.

“It’s horrible to see someone you love slip away in front of you,” he said. “I feel so powerless, so sad and angry at the same time. I can’t quite describe it….”

“You don’t have to describe it for me, Avery,” she murmured.

It took a moment for him to realize what she was talking about. He felt so stupid. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sean.”

“Don’t sweat it,” she replied, setting the food bag aside. Sean started up the car, then switched on the lights and the windshield wipers. “I should take you home.” She backed out of the space, then turned out of the lot.

Avery stared at the wipers fanning back and forth. “I’m used to Joanne being away. But this is different. I’ve never felt this kind of loneliness. I don’t know how you handle it, Sean.”

“You keep going, Avery,” she replied, studying the road ahead. “You just keep going.”

POLICE QUESTION AVERY COOPER IN BRUTAL RAPE-MURDER
. So said the headline running across the bottom half of the morning’s
Los Angeles Times
’s front page—along with a somber photo of him.

A mob was waiting at the end of the driveway as Avery left his house. Behind the wheel of his BMW, he slowly cruised toward the wrought-iron doors. About thirty reporters and fifty spectators had amassed outside the gate. Several of them carried signs:
KILLER COOPER, BEVERLY HILLS BUTCHER
, and
AVERY COOPER: PRO-ABORTION, PRO-GUN CONTROL, PRO-RAPE, PRO-MURDER
! This last wordy placard was held by a middle-aged woman in a pink sweatshirt that identified her as a
FOXY GRANDMA
. Avery caught a closer look at Foxy’s handiwork when she slammed the sign against his windshield.

Riding the brake, he tried to ignore the angry shouts, the people spitting on his car and pounding on the hood. Avery crawled through the crowd, then picked up speed. He watched them growing more distant in his rearview mirror. But a white Taurus emerged from the throng, one of the “rental mentals,” Sean had told him about. Avery had to cut someone off, then speed through a yellow light to elude the car. By the time he reached Sean’s office building, he figured he’d lost him. He parked in back of the hair salon.

Sean appeared tired when she met him in her office doorway. She wore houndstooth check, pleated pants and a clinging black, crew-neck sweater that showed off her figure. On their way to Avery’s car, she admitted she wasn’t in a good mood. She’d slept on her office sofa last night, and had to find out this morning that her husband’s respirator had gone on the blink at three
A.M.
He’d been turning blue from lack of oxygen. It had taken the nurse on duty fifteen minutes to find the blockage in his tubes and fix it.

“At least we avoided another trip to the hospital,” Sean said. “But I should have been there for him. I would have known what to do, because it’s happened before.” She put on her sunglasses and rolled down her window. “So how about you?” she asked. “Did you phone this Glenhaven place yet?”

“I’m waiting until this afternoon,” Avery said, eyes on the road. “I called my friends, George and Sheila, and they’re expecting us around six.”

“I hope my mood improves by then,” Sean said. “I feel eight different types of lousy this morning.”

“Well, maybe the tide will change,” Avery offered, with a shrug.

“Yeah, the tide can change,” she said, nodding tiredly. “What the heck? Maybe today’s the day we’ll find something in those security videos to prove you were set up. You never know.”

Avery glanced in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see anyone on his tail. But it suddenly hit him. “The ‘rental mentals,’” he said. “I never noticed those guys until you told me about them. But on the videos, I’ve seen cars parked down the street across from the front gate. Haven’t you?”

“I assumed they were your neighbors.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I never thought to check the car types or if anyone was sitting inside. Maybe we could prove—as part of a set up—someone was watching me and the house before Libby was murdered….”

“My God, you’re right,” Sean muttered. “I made a list of license plate numbers from the rental cars that have been following Dayle. If we match one of those plate numbers with a car in front of your house, we can introduce the conspiracy angle, establish reasonable doubt.” Sean patted his shoulder. “We might need certain images from the security video blown up. Do you know someone at the studio who could do that for us?”

Avery nodded. “Yes, it should be easy.”

“Except I don’t have my copy of the list.” Sean frowned. “I took it home for safekeeping—in case those people broke into my office. Only my little girl decided to clean off my desk for me, and threw it away, God love her.” Sean bit her lip. “Hmmm, I faxed the list to Dayle. If I remember right, she gave it to this private detective she hired. We might have to track him down….”

Wasn’t there a single
Playgirl
at Spokane’s airport? Nick Brock had time to kill before picking up his bags. But the search for his magazine proved in vain. None of the newsstands carried it. Disappointed, he plodded down to baggage claim, then rented a car. The three-hour drive to Opal, Idaho, had scenery right out of a beer commercial, real “Land of Sky Blue Waters” stuff.

Opal lay smack-dab in the middle of all this mountain splendor. The quaint city center, located three blocks off Opal Lake, seemed like the type of place that shut down by six
P.M.
Very clean and friendly. Dull as hell.

But on the edge of town, Nick noticed a couple of taverns, a McDonald’s (open until the unholy hour of ten
P.M.
), and several hotels to accommodate the tourists taking advantage of Opal’s natural wonders—hunting, fishing, hiking, and in the summertime, camping, boating, and swimming.

Nick had made reservations at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Tackle equipment and mounted fish decorated the lobby walls, and the furniture was made of unfinished logs with Indian-weave cushions thrown on top—stylized rustic crap. A cute, young blonde worked the front desk. Her hair had been teased and curled, and there was a touch of teenage acne on that pretty face. Nick couldn’t resist flirting with her. Her name was Amber. “Debbie” was her grandmother, and the old witch had skipped to Reno for the week.

Amber happily gave him directions to the post office. It wasn’t yet noon, and the leaser of PO Box 73 probably hadn’t picked up the mail today. Nick winked and thanked Amber. Blushing, she smiled and stepped back. He noticed her spandex miniskirt showed off a great set of legs and a sweet butt. He also glimpsed a small magazine rack behind the desk, and there it was: his
Playgirl
.

“Hey, you got it!” Nick said, pointing to the rack. “Check it out, the
Playgirl
. Page thirty-four. You might be interested, honey.” He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. Nick glanced over his shoulder at Amber. She was thumbing through the magazine; then she stopped suddenly—on
his
page, he was sure. “Omigod!” Amber squealed, obviously impressed.

Smiling, Nick moved on. Made his day.

“I think we found something to prove there’s a conspiracy,” Sean said on the other end of the line.

The phone to her ear, Dayle sat at the vanity table in her trailer. She’d been touching up her “old” face for a scene in which her character has aged into her mid-sixties. Her hair had been spray-dyed a mousey gray, and they’d added some crow’sfeet, laugh lines, and liver spots. She wore a tweed suit and pearls. “What did you find?” she asked, turning away from the mirror.

“Avery and I are here in this editing room at his studio, looking at security videos taken outside his home. We noticed some rental cars parked across from his house.”

“They’re following him too?”

“Looks that way,” Sean said. “We’re having a few of the video images blown up and enhanced so we can see the license plates. Here’s where you come in, Dayle. Do you still have that list of plate numbers I faxed you? Or did you give it to that Nick character, the centerfold?”

“I still have a copy at my place,” Dayle said. “I can fax it to your office when I get home tonight. Would seven-thirty be too late?”

“No. That would be fantastic, Dayle. Thanks a lot.”

“We’ll talk tonight, okay? Take care.”

As Dayle hung up the phone, she heard someone on the steps to her trailer. She went to the door and opened it. Dennis stood there.

He looked startled. “I was just about to knock,” he said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“All right,” she said, mystified. “C’mon in.”

Dennis stepped inside, and closed the door. “You better sit down for this. It’s not good news.”

“Okay.” She sat across from him at her vanity. “What happened?”

“Does the name Cindy Zellerback ring a bell? A distant bell?”

Dayle kept very still. “What about her?”

“She—um, recently completed a prison sentence for killing her husband and baby. She claims that she had sex with you a long time ago. Apparently, she’s now born again or something. The point is, at this very minute, Elsie Marshall is interviewing her in front of a studio audience. They’re taping this afternoon’s show.”

Dayle felt a little sick. She just stared at him.

“I only now found out,” Dennis continued. “The reporters are banging down the studio door for a statement. Publicity wants to talk to you as well.”

Dayle reached for an Evian bottle on her vanity. It was empty. Sighing, she pitched it in the wastebasket. “Wouldn’t you know, they’d leak the story to Elsie? She’ll get lots of mileage out of it.”

“Then the story is true,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Dennis. It’s true.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, I need some time alone right now.”

“You got it.” Dennis started for the door, but he hesitated and turned to her. “You can trust me, Dayle. You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

“Hi, Elsie!” the studio audience cheered in unison.

“Hi, and welcome back to
Common Sense!
” Elsie Marshall said. “I know I’m breaking a lot of hearts out there when I tell you my Drew won’t be here today. He’s in Washington, D.C.”

There was a wave of feminine sighs and murmurs of disappointment from the studio audience. Elsie held up her hands. “But we have an unusual guest this afternoon, and you won’t want to miss what she has to tell us!”

The camera pulled back to show Elsie sitting at her desk. She wore a white dress with red piping and a sailor collar. She hadn’t yet introduced her guest: a dowdy dishwater-blonde with bad posture. She sat across from Elsie, studying the studio audience with some readable contempt and trepidation. She had on a pale, flowery dress that had gone out of style ten years ago.

Dayle barely recognized Cindy. She watched Elsie’s show on a big-screen TV in the studio’s VIP visitors’ lounge. She was still in her matronly makeup and wardrobe. She’d agreed to work late if they filmed around her for the next couple of hours.

“Today we’re talking some
common sense
with a real survivor,” Elsie announced. Then she turned to Cindy with a sudden, phony concern. “I understand you had an
intimate, lesbian
relationship with an established film star when you were only nineteen years old.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dayle groaned. She reached for a memo pad and a pen.

“Yeah, I was nineteen,” Cindy said. She leaned toward Elsie. “But I want to make it clear that I’ve rejected the sinful lifestyle I once had.”

With a little pout, Elsie gazed into the camera. “My guest today is Cynthia Zellerback, who was drawn into drugs and the gay scene eighteen years ago. Cindy’s here to tell us her story—which included a sexual relationship with film personality Dayle Sutton….”

Elsie paused to give the studio audience a chance to gasp—and gasp they did—while she nodded emphatically. “Yes, it’s true!”

People were still murmuring when Elsie turned to Cindy. “Eventually, you tried to reject this lesbian lifestyle and lead a normal, Christian life. But even with a husband and baby, you wouldn’t ‘go straight,’ would you?”

Frowning, Cindy shook her head. “No. And if it weren’t for my drug and sexual dependencies, I don’t think—
it
wouldn’t have happened.”

“For the studio audience and our friends at home, Cindy,” Elsie said in a whisper. “What exactly happened?”

“I killed my husband and baby daughter,” she answered with hardly a tremor in her voice. “I was convicted, and I spent twelve years in prison….”

More gasps and murmurs from the studio audience. Dayle took notes, scribbling furiously while Cindy described the murders as if someone else had committed them. Cindy said how much she missed her husband and her two-year-old, Sunshine. She even cried a little. If only she hadn’t been doing drugs and having gay sex. She discovered the “power of God’s forgiveness” in the federal pen.

Elsie patted her shoulder, and chimed in to announce a commercial break. “When we return, we’ll talk some more
common sense
with Cindy about her lesbian affair with none other than Dayle Sutton. Don’t go away!”

Dayle didn’t go away. On her cellular, she phoned Dennis to let him know that she would read a brief statement for the press after Elsie’s show.

“Hi, Elsie!”

“God bless you,” Elsie chirped, coming back on and blowing a kiss to her audience. Now that everyone had Cindy Zellerback identified as a reformed drug-addicted, child-killing lesbian, Elsie didn’t waste any time linking this
survivor
with a certain
liberal actress
. After less than a minute of chitchat with the audience, she turned once again to her guest.

“Cindy, you were only nineteen when you met Dayle Sutton. That’s a young and impressionable age, isn’t it?”

Cindy shrugged. “Sure.”

“What was it like, meeting a movie star?”

“It was pretty cool,” Cindy answered. “I was in Mexico with some friends, and heard they were shooting a movie nearby. So I started hanging around the set. I even got to be in a couple of crowd scenes.”

“You also met Dayle Sutton,” Elsie said. “Tell us, Cindy, were you doing drugs at the time?”

She sighed. “Yes, I was.”

“Were a lot of people on this movie set doing drugs?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Including Dayle Sutton?”

Cindy nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

“And Dayle Sutton was married at this time, wasn’t she?”

“I think so,” Cindy replied.

“Who initiated this—gay sexual encounter?” Elsie asked, with a sour look, as if it pained her to discuss this sordid business.

“It was mostly her,” Cindy said. “I could tell before this, y’know, particular night that she was interested in me. And it was kind of exciting, because she was a movie star and all that. Plus, I heard people talk on the set about her being a lesbian….”

Dayle studied Elsie’s face, and as much as the old bitch tried, she couldn’t contain a smile.