Reign (40 page)

"Well, I know
one
thing you can do — make sure the
door's
locked, huh?"

"It is, always. That's what comes from living in New York." He kissed her, placed his hand on her stomach, moved it up to her breasts, and was delighted to find that her nipples were hard. "Don't worry," he said, "no one's going to walk in on us. And no more interruptions either. Dennis — and the Emperor — will just have to wait until tomorrow."

They made love then, softly and sweetly, and when they were finished Donna nestled against Sid and went right to sleep. Sid, however, lay awake, thinking about Dennis and about what he might do for his friend. For they were friends, and had been ever since that first company of
A Private Empire
, when Sid, a chorus member only a year older than Dennis, was overjoyed with Dennis's transformation from a put-upon
ingenue
into the man who called the shots. At the end of the third week of rehearsals, by which time Dennis was feared by everyone involved with the show except Davis and Ensley themselves, Sid had gone up to Dennis during a break and said, "I like what you're doing — and not just with the role."

Dennis had looked at him dully for a moment, and then, realizing that someone had seen through his dual performances, grinned broadly. That moment began a collaboration and a friendship that had lasted a quarter century, and had been betrayed only once — by Sid in a poolside changing room with Dennis's first wife. It was a mistake Sid had regretted ever since, and ever since he had been unfailingly loyal to Dennis.

He would be loyal to him now. There was no way he could bring himself to share his knowledge with John Steinberg, who, although he loved Dennis too, would have unhesitatingly had him committed to one of those celebrity psycho/drugs/alcohol wards whose graduates graced the covers of
People
and the tabloids. John was practical enough to do it, and had the power to do it as well. If Dennis was the Emperor, then Steinberg was the power behind the throne. No, Sid would say nothing to him, and hope that Dennis was able to work his problems out for himself before Steinberg noticed anything strange about his sole client.

Ann Deems might help
, Sid thought. It had been obvious that she had begun something with Dennis just last week. Coming so soon after Robin's death, it was a wonder that he had not tried to blame that on the Emperor as well. Still, he remembered liking Ann when Dennis had dated her years before, and from what he could see, she had become a good woman. Dennis had seemed in better spirits after having been with her, at least until this snafu with Terri.

And Sid would do what he could too, comfort Dennis, reassure him, be there when he needed to talk. He could work it out, get rid of this fucking inner gremlin or whatever it was that was busting his chops, making him do things that he probably didn't want to do.

Sid tried to drive the thoughts from his mind, and looked down at
Donna's
sleeping face. He kissed her cheek, then slowly shifted his body, moved out of her embrace, slid his feet onto the floor, and stood up. Then he pulled the covers over her shoulders, turned off the dim light, stepped into the hall, gently closed the bedroom door, and went into his kitchen for a snack.

He was invariably ravenous after making love, but always waited until Donna was sound asleep to raid the refrigerator, and was always back in bed with her before she awoke. Now he got some raisin bran from the shelf, poured milk over it, and sat down at the table. The wooden chair was cold on his bare buttocks, but the room was warm, and he was soon comfortable. He finished the bowlful in five minutes, then drank a small glass of juice, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he went back into the bedroom, Donna was dead.

He didn't realize it at first. He lay down beside her in the dark, moving next to her for her warmth. She had rolled over onto her back, he noticed, so he put his arm around her waist, and his head next to hers so that her hair was against his cheek. It took him several minutes to realize that she wasn't breathing. There was no gentle, regular pulse against his arm, no soft sound of her breath drifting in and out of her lungs, although, in his own soporific state, he still did not equate this with death, merely with something being not quite right.

"Donna?" he whispered, still expecting to hear a slight murmur, but none came. "Honey?"

There was no response, and he knew that something was wrong. Now fully awake, he put his fingers to her face, to reassure himself that she was still breathing. But instead of touching her mouth and upper lip, feeling the blessed puffs of warm, damp air, he touched something soft, cold, only slightly moist.

It was her tongue, protruding from her gaping mouth.

Terror burned through him. He rolled away from her, tumbled onto the floor in a cocoon of sheets and blankets, scuttled wormlike to the wall switch, and flicked it on.

She lay there naked, the flesh of her body white, though her face was mottled blue and purple. A wreath of bruises encircled her throat, and her eyes bulged, as though they had been forced from their sockets.

Sid's mind filled with panic, horror, grief, and terror that whoever had done this thing was still in the suite. In an instant, however, anger had replaced his fear, and he grabbed a sword from where it hung on the wall. It was only a stage sword, one of the first Dennis had used in
A Private Empire
and had given to Sid, but it had a sharp point, and was longer than the arms that had strangled Donna.

Though he felt terribly vulnerable in his nakedness, he wanted to waste no time. He dashed out of the bedroom, ran down the short hall, across the living room, past the kitchen, and to the front door.

It was still locked. The deadbolt was closed.

Then whatever had killed Donna was still in the suite.

Good
, he thought savagely.
Good
. Sid would find him, and run that thin, prop sword through him until he was nothing, until he was as dead as Donna, without spirit, movement, life . . .

"Donna . . .” he said, and choked back a sob. No, there would time to cry later. There would, he knew, be years to cry.

He looked in the small foyer first, throwing the closet doors open, his sword poised to strike. But they were empty, and he went back into the kitchen, then searched the living room, the bathroom, and finally steeled himself to go into the bedroom once again, where Donna lay unmoving, still dead, and the sight crushed him, for he had prayed and half expected that he might have had a dream, a nightmare, one of Dennis's hallucinations, and she would still be alive, waking to ask him what he was doing. But no. Donna was there, and Donna was dead. Donna, whom he had made love to and loved for years and never told how he felt. Donna, who he could never tell.

"You
bastard
!" he cried to the night, to the death that had come. He ran to the windows, only to find them all closed and locked from the inside. "Where
are
you!" He ran from room to room, weeping, shrieking for the coward Death to appear.

Only silence answered him.

Finally he went back into the bedroom, sat next to Donna, dropped the sword, and took her hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I love you. I have always loved you."

Her eyes did not turn to his, her fingers did not grasp his own, her face did not come alive with a look of love received and returned.

Donna Franklin stayed dead.

Someone knocked at his door. He sat next to her until he heard voices calling his name. Then he got up, padded naked and shocked to the door, unbolted and opened it. Dennis, John Steinberg, and Curtis Wynn stood there, Dennis pale, Steinberg florid, Curt looking as he always did, his sole concession to the disturbance a hint of concern that furrowed his eyebrows.

"We heard you shouting," Dennis said. "What is it?"

Sid tried to tell them, but his lower lip began to quiver, and he was soon sobbing uncontrollably, his eyes blinded with tears, clinging to Dennis with all his strength. He heard Curt and John move past him into the suite, heard John's startled cry, then returning footsteps, felt a hand on his shoulder pull him away from Dennis, and now he looked into John's angry face.

"Did you . . ." the man began, then seemed to grasp control. "Who?" he said in a hollow tone. "Who, Sid?"

Sid shook his head. "I . . . I —"

"Was it you?" John asked, his voice as empty and lifeless as before.

Sid answered with only more sobs. A second later he felt John Steinberg's open hand slash across his cheek.

"
Was
it!"

"
No!
" The pain gave him words. "No, John! Jesus, I loved her, I'd never hurt her!"

"Who then?" Steinberg asked in a voice whose fury dwarfed his own earlier rage.

"I don't
know
— the door was locked, bolted, and the windows . . . Jesus, I don't
know
. . ."

"Curt," Dennis said, "get him his robe."

"And call the police," Steinberg added. When Sid looked up at him, he was surprised to find that the man's eyes were filled with tears, and the loose flesh of his face was trembling as if with a life of its own.

~ * ~

What a lesser man you will be without Sid. And without Donna. Even your loyal Jew shows signs of failing. Coming closer now, Dennis. Taking away your loved ones, wearing you away bit by bit. Remember the song we sang together? —

"And though the minutes wear away the years,

Time can never dry up all my tears.

And every tear that falls, as long years roll,

Like rain on rock, does wear away my soul."

Not Davis's best, was it? But fitting, quite fitting.

A suitable epitaph.

The king is dying. Long live the Emperor
.

"This time there's no doubt," Dan Munro said. "It's a case of homicide." He smiled grimly at Dennis Hamilton across the top of his littered desk. "We're going to have to recheck Mr. Harper's alibis for the other deaths as well. It's very possible that he's the one who's given you all this trouble."

"No," Dennis said. "You're wrong."

"Really?" Munro tilted his head, trying not to act too cocky. "You think this was a suicide too?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I mean that it wasn't Sid who was responsible . . . if anyone was."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because he . . . well, he just wasn't. Sid couldn't have had anything to do with those things. There's not a mean streak in him."

Munro sighed. "Mr. Hamilton, face the facts. Harper's suite door was bolted from the inside — not just locked, but
bolted
. All the windows were locked, there was nobody in the suite but him and the victim, and I've got three witnesses, and you're one of them, who say that the two of them had an altercation just an hour or so before you went over and found them. So what's the logical conclusion to draw?"

"I still tell you that Sid didn't do it."

"The man had the means and the opportunity, Mr. Hamilton, and I have no doubt we'll find a motive as well." Munro stood up. "Thanks for your cooperation, sir. Harper will be transferred to the county prison in the morning, and a judge will determine if bail can be set."

"Do you think it will be?"

"In a case like this, I doubt it."

John Steinberg came into Munro's office next. After going over the ground that he had on the scene, Munro asked Steinberg if he knew of any reason why Donna Franklin would be angry at Sid Harper.

Steinberg cleared his throat and looked toward the ceiling. "Sometimes Donna would get upset when Dennis required Sid's services at . . . inopportune times.”

“Like when they were in bed together."

"Yes."

"How long had they been lovers?"

"Years."

"Did that bother you?"

"No." Steinberg, Munro thought, had paused just a bit too long.

"Were you ever involved with Miss Franklin?"

Steinberg fixed Munro with a look of withering scorn. "In what way?" The words dripped acid.

"Romantically."

"No. Never."

"But you were close?"

"She was very much like a daughter to me." Steinberg's voice grew softer. "I did love her in that way."

"Were you happy with the situation between her and Harper?"

"My happiness had nothing to do with it. It made Donna happy. That was sufficient."

"Did they quarrel much?"

"Not that I ever knew of."

"Could there be any possibility that Miss Franklin wanted a permanent relationship and Harper didn't?"

"I don't know."

"Was there any indication that she could have been pregnant? Morning sickness? Whatever?"
     
1

"That's highly unlikely. Miss Franklin had a tubal ligation several years ago.”

“Oh. Oh, well, the autopsy will turn that up." Munro sat for a moment shaking his pen, trying to decide what to ask next. "Mr. Steinberg," he finally said, "Mr. Hamilton sincerely believes that Harper is innocent." He waited, but Steinberg said nothing. "Just between us, what do you think?"