The Bequest (26 page)

Teri didn’t know
when a shower had felt so good. The events of
the past forty-eight hours had wearied her like nothing she had ever
experienced since...well, not since the events that drove her from Texas
to California twenty years earlier. The big difference was that, back then,
she understood what was happening. She didn’t understand
why
it had
happened, but she certainly understood the
what
. But now, she didn’t
understand either the
what
or the
why
—or the who or the how or the
what-the-hell-was-going-to-happen-next.

Hot water came out in a muscular stream, the kind that massaged as
well as cleaned. She turned her back to the showerhead and let pinpricks
of water pulsate against the base of her neck.
She had never tried
acupuncture, but if it was anything like this, she might be willing to give it
a shot. She struggled to clear her mind, to chase away extraneous thoughts
and emotions, to crystallize the events that brought her back to Texas.

Everything started with the screenplay.
That damn screenplay! That damn, brilliant screenplay!
The screenplay that had left a stream of victims in its wake. Leland

She adjusted the showerhead to aim it at a tile bench in the corner of
the oversized shower stall. She sat and let the shower spray beat against
her face, hot water mixing with tears.

* * *
Chad paced in front of the sliding glass door, which he had opened to let a
breeze float in. Even with hundred degree summertime temperatures,
there was nothing quite like a Hill Country breeze. It was good to have
Peggy home again. Check that—to have Teri home again. She seemed to
have aged far more than the years that had elapsed, but he had seen that
before. She had undergone a similar aging years ago, though she bounced
back fairly quickly, as if someone had turned back the clock on the portrait
of Dorian Gray. But now, it appeared as if the aging process had been
accelerated even more than the time before.

His pacing was interrupted by the muffled sound of music. Sounded
like the theme music to
Magnum, P.I
. He located the source in Teri’s
purse. Her cell phone. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to
invade her privacy, then made a decision. He grabbed the phone and hit
the “answer” button, but said nothing.

A male voice spoke on the other end. “Hello? Hello? Ms. Squire?”
A pause, then, “This is Detective Swafford from the Beverly Hills
Police Department. If you’re there, please answer. I’m afraid I have some
bad news.”
Chad made another decision. “Hello?” he said.
“Who’s speaking?”
“I’m Ms. Squire’s attorney.”
Now a pause from the other end, then, “You got a name?”
“I do,” Chad said.
A long pause. “But it’s a secret, right?”
“You said you had some bad news for Ms. Squire?”
“How do I know you’re her attorney? And why would she need one?”
“You’ll just have to take my word on the first question, and none of
your business on the second. Now, you said you had some bad news.”
“It’s about her agent, Mike Capalletti. I need to ask her some
questions.”
Chad heard rustling in the bedroom. Teri was out of the shower,
probably dressing. She would be there momentarily. Should he put her on
the phone or not?
“Ask me the questions, and I’ll pass them along.”
The voice on the other end of the line exhaled loudly, as if the
speaker was exasperated. Chad smiled. Unless you frustrated the police,
you weren’t doing your job as an attorney. Even though he hadn’t
practiced law in nearly two decades, it still brought back familiar feelings.
A rush of adrenaline that he now experienced with the birth of calves and
foals.
“Detective, the bad news?”
“Capalletti’s dead.”
The words slammed into Chad. The next words pummeled him into
near submission.
“He was killed with the same caliber gun that Ms. Squire alleges
someone stole from her house,” Swafford said. “The last phone number he
called before he was killed was to this number. Now, counselor, I think
you can figure out the questions on your own.”
Chad sat on the edge of the couch and stared out at his beloved Hill
Country. He grasped back into his memory for the training he had long
since forgotten, the rules of law on privilege and procedure and protecting
your client.
“Who is that?”
The voice was Teri’s. She stood at the end of the hall, hair wet and
glistening, clad in jeans and an oversized tee-shirt. She looked refreshed,
maybe a bit younger—by months, not years, and still much older than her
age—but grim-faced. He could only imagine that every call brought more
bad news for her. And this one surely did. Her boyfriend, the guy Chad
had never met but was almost murderously jealous of, was dead. Did he
really want to be the guy to stack that burden on top of the others that
already saddled her?
“Is that her?” Swafford asked, obviously able to hear her voice.
Chad lowered the phone and covered the speaker. “It’s a Detective
Swafford from Beverly Hills.”
Teri held out her hand. “Let me talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“My call, Chad. My decision. Remember that from before? The client
gets to make the choice.”
“Peggy—”
“There is no Peggy. It’s Teri.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You’ll be right here, Chad. You can hear everything I say.”
Chad made another decision.
He handed Teri the phone and she raised it to her ear. She opened
her mouth to speak, but Chad silenced her with an upraised hand. She
pulled the phone down and held the speaker against her thigh so Swafford
couldn’t hear.
“He’s going to tell you that your agent was killed last night,” Chad
said.
“I thought it was suicide.”
Chad stood in surprise, unable to stay still. He began pacing again.
“You mean you already know about it?” he asked.
“It happened before I left L.A. I told you about it. He was killed by a
truck. But I thought it was suicide.”
“The detective said he was shot with your gun. Or at least a gun like
it.”
“Shot? A truck hit him.”
Confusion set in on both of them.
“The guy said he was shot,” Chad said.
“Bob was shot?”
“I thought his name was Mike.”
“No, Bob. Bob Keene.”
“No, Mike. Mike Capalletti.”
Teri felt the breath suck out of her chest. “Oh, my God!”
She sat on the couch, as if her legs had just melted from beneath her.
Blood drained from her face and she gasped for air.
“Peggy, you okay?” Chad asked. He sat next to her and put his arm
around her.
She nodded, took one last deep breath, and lifted the phone to her
ear. Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper, clogged with emotion. Chad
leaned close so he could hear what was being said on the other end.
“Detective? I need to hear your voice.”
“Excuse me?”
“Say something. Anything. Enough for me to recognize your voice.”
“How about the one about the lazy fox jumping over the brown dog,
or however that goes? Or maybe the one about all good Americans coming
to the aid of their country.”
No mistaking that voice.
She
had heard it before, and
the
circumstances had seared everything about that day into her memory.
“Is Mike really dead?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. That’s why we need to ask you
some questions.”
“But I don’t know anything about it. I just found out about it, just
now.”
Chad nodded, as if to confirm she hadn’t said anything stupid yet;
nothing that could implicate herself. She instinctively knew that there was
no possibility that she could implicate herself. After all, she
truly didn’t
know
anything about Mike’s death. She didn’t know a single thing about
the whole damn maelstrom that had overtaken her life and thrown her
into what surely was a bottomless abyss. An abyss she had fallen into once
before. An abyss she had managed to bounce back from. An abyss she was
beginning to believe would offer no second chances this time.
“You’re the last person he called,” Swafford said. “You want to tell
me what that was all about?”
“I was in Arizona when he called.”
“Arizona?”
“On my way to Texas. That’s where I am now. Check the time he
called me, when you know he was still alive, and ask yourself how fast I
would have to drive to kill Mike and then get all the way from L.A. to
Texas by now.”
“How do I know you’re in Texas?”
Chad turned the phone toward himself. “I can vouch for that,
detective.”
“Where in Texas?”
“It’s safer for her if nobody knows that.”
“You know we can trace the signal on her cell.”
“So be it. She can be long gone by then.”
“Why would she do that?”
Chad gave an exaggerated sigh. “Somebody wants her dead.”
“Maybe more than one somebodies.”
Teri exchanged a look with Chad. She hadn’t thought about that. She
had just assumed one person was behind everything.
“Detective, what makes you think it’s more than one?” Teri asked.
“Well, for starters, we’ve got some real questions about Annemarie
Crowell.”
“But she saved my life.”
“I’d start by asking myself why she did that,” Swafford said. “And
something else you ought to know about her: she’s into hypnotism. I hate
to sound paranoid, but I wouldn’t want to find myself in a locked room
with her.”
Mike’s voice echoed in Teri’s head: “Your new movie,
remember?...A serial killer who hypnotizes people into killing for her,
then they kill themselves.”
“Who else, detective?” Chad asked. “You said you thought maybe
there was more than one person after her.”
“We’re looking into a guy named Bozarth. One of the investors in
her movie.”
“Doug Bozarth?” Teri said. “What makes you think he’s got anything
to do with it?”
“I didn’t say we did. I just said we’re looking into it. It’s an old law
enforcement adage: follow the money, and he’s the money guy. He’s got
the most to lose if things go south on your new movie, and the most to
gain if you become the next Marilyn Monroe or Heath Ledger.”
“I don’t understand,” Teri said.
“Your last movie turns into gold if you die tragically.”
The suggestion raised new suspicions in Teri’s mind. She didn’t like
Bozarth, didn’t trust him, but she had never thought he was dangerous—
at least not to her. But it made sense. She suspected him of having
something to do with Leland Crowell’s death—or
Leland
Two or
whoever that was. And she knew Swafford’s theory was sound, but for
reasons even he wasn’t aware of. The only people who knew that she
might not legally own the screenplay, that she was the weak link in the
chain of title, were Mike—dead; Bob—dead; Leland Two—dead; and
herself—and someone wanted her dead.
And maybe Annemarie. Probably Annemarie. If Bozarth was behind
everything, then Annemarie was actually on the victim list.
“Ms. Squire, I need you to trust me,” Swafford said. “Tell me where
you are.”
“Right now, I don’t trust anyone,” she said.
She hung up before he could say anything more.

Swafford tucked his phone back in his pocket then looked from Stillman to
Nichols, who stood silently in Annemarie’s former apartment.
“What do you think?” Swafford asked.
“I believe her,” Stillman said. “She’s scared. You could hear it in her
voice.”
“And she really sounded freaked when you mentioned Bozarth,”
Nichols said. “It kinda freaked me, too, since that’s the first time I knew
we were even looking at him.”
“Yeah, I kinda surprised myself with that one, too,” Swafford said. “I
just threw it out there without really thinking about it, just to see what
she’d say.”
“Well, she didn’t say much,” Stillman said.
“But it was the way she didn’t say what she didn’t say,” Swafford said.
“She’s buying it as a possibility. And that means she knows something we
don’t know.”
“Then maybe we better find out what that is,” Nichols said. “And we
need to find out everything we can about Doug Bozarth.”