Death in Daytime (19 page)

"Marcy's house."

"Apparently you walked in on somebody," he said.

"They knocked you out and took off."

"Somebody?" I asked. "It wasn't the killer?"

"If it was," Jakes said, "I think you'd be dead right now."

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"My man radioed me that you left the house," he said. "I called and talked to your friend George. He told me where you went. When I got here I found the doors wide-open and you out cold on the floor."

"I--when I got here those doors were already open." It seemed important for me to tell him that.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to run you in for breaking and entering."

"Good," I said, "I thought--"

"I might run you in for being stupid, though," he added.

"I didn't--" I tried to sit up, but he stopped me again.

"I know," he said, "you had to do it. What did you think you'd find here?"

"I don't know," I said, "but I certainly wouldn't find anything by just staying home."

"You wouldn't have another bump on your head if you had," he said. "Here, let me have a look. Sit up."

Now he wanted me to sit up! He took my hand and helped me, then put his hands to the back of my head. I was very conscious of several things--the touch of his fingers, the smell of his cologne and the closeness of his body.

"I'm fine," I said, flinching.

"It's right near the other bump," he said. "You might have a concussion."

"I'm not going back to that hospital," I said, swatting his hands away. "Just help me up."

"Okay, but let's go slow, and if you feel dizzy, grab on to me."

Yeah, maybe not such a bad idea.

"Are you all right?" he asked when I was on my feet.

"Fine," I said. "I'm going to need some Tylenol or aspirin, but I'm fine."

"I didn't call for paramedics, but I could--"

"No," I said, "there's no need. So . . . did I walk in on a burglary?"

"Probably," he said. "It happens with some of these homes where people live alone. Once the obituary runs, the house becomes a target."

"Why'd they wait so long?" I asked.

"Maybe they weren't the first ones," he suggested.

"Maybe somebody saw the open door, like you did, and decided it was too good to pass up."

I looked around. The house was kind of neat for a place that had been burglarized more than once.

"Since we're here, I'd still like to take a look at her office."

"Why?" he asked. "Len and I have been through it. Lab people have been through it."

"Where's all the yellow tape?"

"No tape," he said. "This was never a crime scene. We simply went through it because it was the victim's home."

"Well, maybe I'll see something in her office that you missed."

"If I don't let you do it, are you just gonna sneak back here later?"

"Probably," I said. "I'd hate to think I got hit on the head for nothing."

He studied me for a moment. I thought he had something he wanted to tell me, but then he said,

"Okay, a quick look, and then we're out of here."

"Agreed," I said. "Where's the office?" "Back here."

He led the way back to the hall I'd gotten halfway down. At the far end was a doorway, which led to a small office. I was surprised. It was furnished in a very businesslike fashion, with none of the horrible taste exhibited throughout the rest of the house. The desk and file cabinets were inexpensive stuff you could pretty much get in any Office Max.

"Looks like nothing's been touched," I said.

"Cops only trash places in the movies," he said.

"We were pretty thorough."

There was nothing on the walls, no pictures or plaques, nothing to indicate that the person who worked here was in television.

"I know," he said, reading my mind. "Looks like she kept all her memorabilia and awards in her office."

"Can I touch--"

"This is not a crime scene," he said. "But make it quick. I've got something to do, and something to tell you."

"What?"

"Finish here first," he said.

I went to the desk, opened the drawers, moved stuff around. She was neat. Most people have a drawer that they keep sweeping stuff into from their desktop, but she apparently wasn't in that habit. After the desk I moved to the file cabinets, opening and closing them. I wasn't finding anything helpful, but would I have recognized it if I had?

I was starting to feel foolish.

"What is it you want to tell me?" I asked.

"You done here?"

"I suppose," I said. "I really don't--okay." I flapped my arms. "I'm wasting your time. You have somewhere to go."

He looked at his watch and said, "Well, I did. I'll just have to go back to Parker Center now. They'll already have him in custody by now."

"What? Who's in custody? For what?"

"Len and I were on our way to make an arrest, Alex, when I got this call."

"You came here instead of making your arrest?"

"I was worried about you," he said. "Len took some uniforms with him and did the honors."

"Are you saying you arrested the man who killed Marcy?"

"Yes."

"Who is it? Jesus, why didn't you tell me this right away?"

"I was going to--look, this is not easy. I know you're friends. I didn't want to blurt it out, and I wasn't sure what kind of shape you were in after being hit on the head again--"

"Go ahead," I said, "be my guest. When you're arresting somebody's friend, you're entitled to blurt away."

"It's one of the actors from your soap," he said.

"Andy McIntyre."

"He has a life coach, for Chrissake. He doesn't take a pee without checking with him first," I said. I insisted on going to Parker Center with Jakes. He said I would have to leave my car and ride with him.

"That doesn't mean he's not a murderer."

"What possible motive--"

"Come on, Alex," Jakes said. "A lot of you on the show had a motive. Ever since she took over, some parts changed, some got smaller."

Mine was one of those that changed. Andy's had gotten smaller, but did that mean he'd kill because of it? I didn't think so, knowing Andy the way I did.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "It can't be Andy."

"Well, we'll find out for sure when we get there,"

Jakes said. "They've got instructions to wait for me before interrogating him."

"What about a lawyer?"

"That's his business," Jakes said. "Maybe he'll have his life coach get him one."

He said Andy was a strong suspect all along--even stronger than me--because although I'd had a loud argument with her at work, he'd had a public one some days earlier out in the parking lot.

"How can that be?" I asked. "I never heard anything about it."

"We questioned everyone who works at the studio," he said, "including maintenance staff. One of them saw Andy and Marcy having a violent argument."

"Violent?"

"He pushed her."

"Andy? If he put his hands on Marcy, she drove him to it."

"And drove him to murder, apparently."

"Andy was on the set with the rest of us when the light fell, while Marcy was being killed."

"No, he wasn't," Jakes said. "Nobody remembers actually seeing him there after the light fell." He turned his head and looked at me. "Do you?"

I tried to go back six days in my head, but it was no use.

"No," I admitted.

"Then he has no alibi, and he has a motive. But we have the blood trail."

"Wait a minute," I said. "That's the trail from Henry Roswell's house? You mean to tell me you're arresting him for both murders?"

According to Jakes they had followed a blood trail--just a few drops, starting with the one I had found on the tiles yesterday outside Henry Roswell's house--leading down the beach to Andy's house. He hesitated a moment, then said, "We're arresting him on suspicion of double homicide." "Why would he kill her ex-husband?"

"That's what he's going to tell us," Jakes assured me. When we got to Parker Center the press was there in full force. Jakes drove through the crowd slowly and we entered the parking structure beneath the building. As we got out of the car he said, "Alex, this is a courtesy from me to you. You have to keep quiet when we go inside."

"I want to watch you interrogate him," I said.

"I can't let you--"

"Come on," I said, "you're going to put him in a room with a one-way mirror, aren't you? I know him better than you do. Let me watch. I may be able to help. You know, watch his body language? You hire people to do that all the time, right? Consultants?"

He stared at me across the top of the car, drumming his fingers.

"I should've made you go home."

"But you didn't and it's too late now," I said. "So use me. I won't get in the way. Promise."

"All right, come on."

We went to an elevator and I didn't even notice on which floor we got off. I followed him down a hallway crowded with people walking in both directions. Some of them were going where we were going, so we followed them in.

"Here he is," Detective Davis said.

"Jakes, what the fuck--," a large, florid-faced man with white hair started to say, but he stopped short when he saw me.

"She'd better not be a reporter you promised to give an exclusive to," he told Jakes.

"She's not, Chief," he said. "This is Alexis Peterson. She's one of the stars on
The Yearning Tide
. Alex, this is Chief of Detectives Pierce."

I could see Pierce wanted to tear into Jakes, but he was holding back on my account.

"Jakes, could we have Ms. Peterson taken to a waiting room until--"

"I need her here, Chief."

"What for?" the big man asked impatiently.

"She knows the suspect better than anyone," Jakes said. "I want her to sit in on the interrogation as a . . . consultant."

"A consultant?" Pierce asked. If looks could kill Jakes would have been dead on the spot.

"Yes, a . . . soap opera consultant."

That sounded so ludicrous even to me that I knew I owed Jakes big for this.

"Chief, I don't believe Mr. McIntyre is capable of one murder, let alone two."

"Ms. Peterson," the chief said, with exaggerated politeness, "while I would bow to your superior knowledge of soap operas, I don't believe your expertise in police work--"

"Chief, can we get on with the interrogation?" Jakes asked. "With all due respect, this is still my case and I'm entitled to bring in a consultant."

I saw the muscles in the chief's jaw moving before he spoke. I wondered how many molars he'd just ground down.

"Len, is he in the room?" Jakes asked. "Yep." Davis had been watching the entire threeway exchange with an amused expression on his face.

"Then can we get to it?" Jakes asked.

I wasn't sure whom he was asking, but the chief finally said, "All right, let's do it."

Standing next to the chief of detectives, both of us staring through the two-way mirror at a shaking, pale Andy McIntyre and his attorney (I didn't know if the studio had sent the man, or if Andy's life coach had called him), I could feel the chief's disapproval of my being there.

Jakes started asking Andy questions about Marcy cutting his part, about how his career was winding down and how she was making it worse. Andy kept saying he didn't kill Marcy, he couldn't kill anyone, but Jakes kept at him. Why did Andy have to kill Marcy's ex-husband? Had the man found out what Andy did? Threaten to call the police? And would he have killed the daughter, too, if he'd found her hiding in the house? Andy kept nervously brushing his hair away from his eyes, or leaning over to whisper into his attorney's ear. I saw he was close to tears. I felt so sorry for him.

Perversely--for I knew he'd hate it if I spoke--I said to the chief, "He didn't do it."

"Really?"

"Look at him," I said. "He's so scared he can't sit still."

"I hate to disappoint you, Ms. Peterson," the chief said, pointing with a big sausagelike finger, "but that's how guilty men look."

Andy was sweating so much his collar looked wet.

"That may be so," I said, "but that's also the look of a man having a heart attack. You're scaring poor Andy to death."

"Ms. Peterson--"

"And where's his life coach?" I said.

"The what?"

"He doesn't go anywhere without Murray the Life Coach."

"Ms. Peterson," he said, turning his head to look at me, "this is serious business--"

"So is this," I said, pointing into the room. "He's a sick man, Chief."

"I don't see--," the chief said, but then he looked back into the room and saw what I saw.

Jakes was rushing around the table to catch Andy when he fell out of his chair. The lawyer leaped out of his chair and backed away, as if Andy were contagious. Jakes turned to look at us and started waving, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed three digits.

"Get in there!" the chief shouted to Detective Davis.

"Yes, sir!"

"And get an ambulance!" he snapped. "The last thing we need is our prime suspect dying of a heart attack while in custody."

I felt so bad for Andy, but there was nothing I could do.

"You know this man so well," the chief said accusingly. "You couldn't tell us he had a bad heart?"

"He doesn't have a bad heart that I know of," I said, "but I told you that you were scaring him to death."

He turned to face me and I thought he was going to let me have it. His face turned red; I wondered if he was having a stroke. Wouldn't that be some coincidence? But then he stormed past me and out of the room. I saw Davis enter the interview room to help Jakes with Andy, who was now lying on his back. The lawyer had pressed his back to the wall and was staring. They'd brought Andy in wearing a jogging suit, so there was really no collar to loosen. I could see they were talking to him, trying to make him as comfortable as they could. The chief didn't enter the room, so I assumed he had hightailed it to his office to try and work out some sort of statement for the press.

Jakes turned again, looked at me and waved. At least, I thought he was waving at me, telling me to come into the room. Since I was alone that made sense, so I left and went down the hall to enter the interview room.