Video Kill (13 page)

In less than ten minutes Diana was seated at her lighted makeup table, dressed in her very best blue peignoir set. She'd allot twenty minutes for her makeup, and then she'd prepare the martini pitcher. Everything had to be ready by the time Ian arrived. Marsha had told her that Ian hated to be kept waiting. Women were supposed to wait for him, not the other way around.

Diana had just finished curling her eyelashes when she noticed a blurry movement in the shadows of the master bedroom. Since the door to her dressing room was open and only a dim light was on by the bed, the room was in partial darkness. For a moment she considered running back to the bathroom, where she'd left the knife, but that seemed silly. The window in the bedroom was open slightly and the curtains had probably fluttered in the ocean breeze. Instead, she picked up her eyeliner and concentrated totally on drawing the fine even line at the base of her eyelids to emphasize her “bedroom eyes.” It was a technique that a studio makeup expert had taught her. When she had finished with the eyeliner, she glanced back at the spot where the shadow had been, but it was gone now. The breeze must have shifted.

Diana used a sable brush to highlight her cheekbones with the special blusher that was responsible for her “peaches-and-cream” complexion and dusted powder over her lip gloss for the “schoolmarm” look. She had just raised her brush to give her hair a final touch-up when the moonlight streaming in the dressing room window was blocked out by a looming black shadow.

Diana tried to whirl around, but her chair wouldn't move. Then, before she had time to do more than gasp, she felt something tighten around her neck. As she struggled, desperately clawing at the cloth that was strangling her, her eyes stared in panic into the mirror. A striped silk necktie was cutting into the flesh of her neck.

She had to have air! Diana grabbed frantically at the dark shape behind her, but she couldn't reach. Her mind screamed in panic, but she was unable to make a sound. Ian would save her! He'd be here any second! Please, God! Please!

But there was no sound of a car in the driveway. No flash of headlights against the windows of her bedroom. And then, as her vision grew dim, she saw it. The red light of a video camera recording her death. Just as it had recorded Sharee Lyons and Tammara Welles.

Diana's legs kicked out reflexively, a last bid for life-giving oxygen. The heel of her satin slipper caught the leg of the makeup table. Bottles of lotions and multicolored powders shattered on the glass surface, but all Diana heard was the high-pitched ringing in her ears. She was not aware when her legs slowed and stopped kicking, when her arms ceased to flail at the empty air. She was perfectly still. Her lifeless “bedroom eyes,” bulging grotesquely toward the mirror, saw nothing at all.

Ian Jasper was a half hour behind schedule as he drove up to the Malibu beach house and parked in the garage. He gave the engine on his Lotus Elise an extra rev before he shut it off; it was due for another monthly tune-up. He lowered the garage door with the control on the wall, not wanting his car to be spotted. He'd told Marietta he was going to a late meeting. There was no sense antagonizing her if this thing with Diana didn't work out.

There was no answer to his knock at the door. Ian knocked again, impatiently. He had expected Diana to be watching for him to drive up.

Ian let himself out of the garage and walked around the side of the house, peering in the windows. The kitchen was clearly deserted. It was also clean, with the exception of a teapot and a cup. That was a plus for Diana. Ian hated messy women. He walked around the side of the house and ducked under a trellis covered with bougainvillea, one of California's reasons for weekly gardeners. The damn stuff grew like a weed, and it had to be pruned constantly.

The drapes were open in the living room, but no one was there. Ian could see the bottle of Boodles sitting on the bar, along with two glasses and ajar of olives. Diana had definitely been expecting him. If he found her asleep in the bedroom, he wouldn't bother to tap on the window to wake her. He also wouldn't bother to contact her again. There were no second chances with Ian Jasper.

Diana's bedroom had French doors leading to a rear patio. Ian peered in through the sheer curtains and saw that the bed was unoccupied. Since Diana's car had been in the garage, he knew she was home. He'd take a look in the dressing room, and then he'd give up and go back to Marietta. She knew the drill, and she'd be waiting up for him.

The lights of Diana's dressing room were on, but it had an impossibly high window. Ian told himself he should give up and go home, but this whole thing bugged him. He'd never met a woman who hadn't greeted him enthusiastically, even when he was hours late. Perhaps something was wrong. Diana could have fallen, getting out of the shower, and injured herself.

A three-step utility ladder was leaning up against the side of the house. Ian felt a bit silly as he climbed it. He was going to a lot of trouble for a one-night stand, but Diana had really gotten under his skin. He couldn't help feeling that something was very wrong.

As Ian peeked into the dressing room, he had to grip the sides of the window to keep from falling. Diana was sprawled in the chair at her dressing table and she was undoubtedly dead. Her face was bloated, and her tongue protruded from her mouth in a swollen lump. Ian retched and scrambled down from the ladder, almost falling in his haste to get away from the sight. It wasn't until he was back in his car again, squealing away from her beach house, that his heart rate began to return to normal and he could think clearly.

Ian pulled over to the side of the highway and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. He wanted to run, to forget what he'd seen, but that wasn't the smart thing to do. It was possible he'd been spotted at Diana's. Then he'd be a suspect in her murder. He had to call the police right away and tell them exactly what he'd seen through Diana's window.

 

 

Allison sat upright in bed, started out of a deep sleep. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest and her hands felt icy as she clasped them together. Was this the aftermath of a nightmare or had something else awakened her?

She listened intently, but there was nothing to alarm her. The neighborhood Pekingese was barking again, but that was normal. And she could hear the creaking of the roof as the Santa Ana wind blew in from the north. That was normal, too. Then she heard it, and she instinctively knew it was a repeat of the sound that had intruded on her sleep. There was someone moving around downstairs.

Allison reached for the revolver Tony kept in the drawer of the night table. He'd insisted that she learn how to use it for precisely this reason. With the gun in her hand, she quietly tiptoed to the top of the staircase and listened.

Another noise. It sounded like someone had opened the refrigerator door. Allison crept down the stair on silent feet and peeked around the corner of the kitchen doorway. Tony was there, making a huge sandwich at the counter.

“Tony! You scared me half to death!”

Tony whirled around and grinned as he saw his wife standing there with the gun. Sheepishly, he put his arms in the air. He was holding a loaf of Bunny Bread in one hand and a pickle in the other.

“Don't shoot, lady. I just came in to rip off your ham and Swiss. I'll make you a sandwich if you holster that weapon and sit down at the table.”

Allison laughed and put the gun on top of the refrigerator. Suddenly she was ravenous, and it was no wonder. She hadn't felt much like eating alone. Dinner had been a can of water-pack tuna, eaten at the counter. She tossed Tony a loaf of deli rye for her sandwich and then she caught sight of the kitchen clock.

“It's after three in the morning? Oh, Tony . . . you must be exhausted. Were you at the office all this time?”

“Guilty.” Tony hacked off a wedge of ham for Allison and plunked it on a piece of rye bread. “I've been working for hours, blocking out the first scene. I probably should have sacked out on the couch at the office to save time. I have to be back there at eight in the morning to meet Erik.”

Allison felt a tiny flicker of doubt as she gazed at her husband. She'd called the office twice tonight, but no one had answered the phone. There were some people who could ignore a ringing phone and go right on working, but Tony was not one of them. Tony couldn't even walk past a ringing phone at a restaurant without picking it up. And tonight wasn't the first time she had called the office and failed to reach him. She knew it was a standard ploy for husbands to say they were working late at the office to cover their infidelities. Did Tony have a mistress? Allison had deliberately avoided confronting Tony in the past because she wasn't sure she could cope with the truth, but perhaps she was doing her husband an injustice. He might have a reasonable explanation of why he hadn't answered the phone.

“Did you take time out for dinner, Tony? I called the office but no one answered.”

“Not really. I just had a quick fast-food burger. What time did you call?”

“Once at a little after seven and again at eight.”

Tony thought fast. He'd been holed up in the motel room with the porn crew when Allison had called.

“You must have just missed me, honey. I stopped by the health club for a massage. My back was killing me. And then I caught a Whopper at Burger King. Was it anything important?”

“No.” Allison shook her head. “I just wanted to talk, that's all.”

“We'll talk now. I've got almost five hours before I have to leave again.”

Tony slathered ketchup on her sandwich. Allison hated ketchup, but she decided not to object. Tony would insist on making her another sandwich, and that would take time. Even though he'd claimed he had five hours, Allison knew that four was more accurate. It was three o'clock now, and he'd have to get up at seven. He needed at least a half hour to wake up, shower, and grab a fast cup of coffee before he started on the thirty-minute drive to the office. If they didn't get to bed soon, Tony's four hours would be cut down even more.

“Let's eat this fast and go right to bed,” Allison suggested. “We can talk there.”

“Talk?” Tony grinned at her. “Talk isn't exactly what I'd prefer to do in bed.”

Allison subtracted another hour from Tony's projected sleep total, but she felt so relieved, she gave him a big smile. If Tony had spent the evening with another woman, he certainly wouldn't want to make love to her now. As all her suspicions faded away, she made a mental note to call Erik in the morning and tell him that Tony wouldn't be in until late.

Thirty minutes later they were in bed, but neither of them was happy. “I'm sorry, honey.” Tony put his arm around Allison and hugged her tightly. “I guess I'm just too tired.”

“Of course.” Allison hugged him back. “Go to sleep, Tony. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

As Tony's voice faded off into silence, Allison had all she could do to hold back her tears. She told herself she was being ridiculous. Tony was tired. It was nothing more than that. She'd be tired, too, if she worked the kind of hours Tony had been putting in lately. It didn't mean anything. He still thought of her as a desirable woman, didn't he?

Allison tried to relax and count her blessings. Most women would envy her position. Here she was in a cocoon of the finest silk sheets, lying in a king-size bed with matching bedroom furniture that had been especially designed for her. The master bedroom suite was lovely. The whole house was perfect, including the landscaped yards and the grotto swimming pool and spa. This house was a mansion compared to the modest suburban house where she'd grown up. She should be thankful and thrilled that Tony had chosen it for her. And every married couple had sexual problems once in a while, didn't they?

The branches of the huge palm tree outside their bedroom window were creating intricate patterns in the moonlight. The velvety blackness was studded with sparkling stars. It was precisely the kind of gorgeous, romantic California evening that was described in travel brochures, bringing tourists to Southern California in droves. Night-blooming jasmine mingled its musky perfume with the warm night breeze, and Allison took a deep breath before she closed her eyes. Lying here, beside her peacefully sleeping husband, Allison had never felt so rejected or so terribly alone.

11

 

It was exactly nine-thirty in the morning when Tony got into the elevator at the Schwartzvold Building. George Sturges was right behind him. He hollered for Tony to hold the doors while he quickly checked his mailbox. Then he dashed into the elevator, which was making little upward bumping motions, trying to defeat Tony's persistent hand on the door. George was wearing an orange warm-up suit, which made his normally ruddy face even redder.

“I hate jogging!” George winced as he reached out to press the button for his floor. “My boss took it up last month and now every junior partner has to jog. Give me a good laugh, Tony. Let's see your shirt.”

Tony pulled open his jacket and let George read his shirt. This morning he was wearing a glaring red T-shirt with black lettering that said I MASH POTATOES WITH MY FEET.

“I don't get it, Tony.”

“It's a comment on my ancestry, George. I'm half Irish and half Italian.”

George was still laughing when he got out on the fifth floor. Tony got out with him. The elevator was making some strange grumbling sounds, and he didn't want to get stuck between floors. Ten minutes later after he'd trudged up the remaining eight flights of stairs, Tony arrived at his office to find Erik glued to the television.

“Sorry I'm late.” Tony headed straight for the coffeepot. “Allison tricked me into sleeping an extra hour and the elevator started acting funny, so I climbed up from five. Did you find the papers I put on your desk? I got the first scene all blocked out.”

Erik nodded, but Tony noticed that he didn't look happy.

“I saw it. We can talk about that later. Right now I want you to watch an interview I recorded.”

Tony hurried to the kitchenette and came back with a steaming cup of coffee. Erik handed him a Winchell's sack, and Tony sat down on the couch and bit into a maple bar. It was slightly stale, but it tasted good anyway. He was starving. If he remembered correctly, his ham and Swiss was still sitting on the night table by his side of the bed. He had fallen asleep without eating it. He'd also fallen asleep before doing anything else. Tony's face flushed slightly as he remembered. He'd have to make some time for Allison. He loved her and he wanted her, but there never seemed to be time for anything but work.

“You didn't hear the news this morning?”

Erik was staring at him and Tony swallowed a mouthful of breakfast without chewing. “He struck again?”

“That's right.” Erik nodded. “I've got the interview with Sam Ladera.”

“What are you waiting for? Play it!”

As Tony watched the publicity stills of the newest victim, he gasped out loud. It was Diana Ellington! When they'd met with Lon Michaels, he'd suggested casting her as one of the victims in
Video Kill
.

“Whoa!” Tony reached out and stopped the recording. “You didn't mention our casting ideas to anyone, did you?”

“You mean about using Diana Ellington? No, I didn't. And I called Lon this morning. He doesn't remember telling anyone, either. How about you?”

“Not a word.” Tony shook his head. “This is freaky, Erik. I don't like it.”

Tony sat silently as he watched the rest of the interview. If the Video Killer was running true to form, there would be another murder disc to watch. He had to see Sam right away. Tony was positive it would be another Hitchcock segment. But which one? Suddenly Tony had it. Diana Ellington looked a lot like Barbara Leigh-Hunt in
Frenzy
.

“Well?” Erik looked glum as he switched off the television. “Looks like we've got the third scene, but it makes me sick, Tony. Do you want to start blocking it out?”

“Not just yet.” Tony got up and headed for the door. “I think I'll try talking to Sam Ladera again. Maybe he'll give me some information this time.”

“Let's talk about your blocking, first. Do you realize we haven't worked together on this thing for the past week?”

“I know.” Tony sighed. “Just write up the first scene the way I've got it outlined, Erik. I'll be back in time to talk about the next one with you.”

“No.” Erik was firm. “We're supposed to be a partnership here. I've already written the first scene. It's on your desk.”

“You have?” Tony was astonished. “But how could you write it without my blocking?”

“I blocked it myself when you didn't come through. And I think I did a good job.”

“I'm sure you did.” Tony backpedaled a bit. He could tell Erik was upset. “I'll tell you what, Erik . . . I'll sit right down and read it now if you'll run down and get me another maple bar. I'm starving this morning. And when you get back, we'll hash it out together.”

The moment he heard the elevator doors close behind Erik, Tony picked up the phone. His first call was to Sam to arrange a meeting. The next was to his friend in Van Nuys to get him to hurry on that copy of his Hitchcock collection. Then he settled down to read Erik's first scene. It was good. Probably the best thing Erik had ever written. Erik had done a super job of portraying a fictional killer, but it wasn't the way the murder had actually happened. Now he had to figure out some tactful way to tell Erik that they couldn't use any of it.

 

 

Kathleen Brannigan, she'd taken her maiden name back after the divorce, stood in front of the glass wall that separated the editor-in-chief from the rows of desks that belonged to ordinary reporters. She could see her reflection in the glass, and she knew she looked especially good this morning. She had dressed for this interview in a dark green suit, molded perfectly to her size-8 figure. The saleslady at Prada had convinced her to part with almost three weeks' salary by telling her that this particular shade of green set off her eyes and highlighted her glistening auburn hair. There had been no way Katy could resist such persuasion when she knew that the saleslady had probably assisted such luminaries as Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway in this very dressing room. It was a well-known fact that scores of famous women in Los Angeles passed through the distinctive glass doors on Rodeo Drive to shop for their extensive wardrobes. The clothes inside were expensive and chic.

Mr. Morgan looked up and smiled at Katy. It was well known that he appreciated a good-looking woman, but he didn't give promotions on that basis. He still thought his female reporters should stick to society, food, and fashion. He was usually fair but not especially tactful. If Bill Morgan thought a reporter had turned in a sloppy piece, everyone in earshot knew it. That was the reason Julie Thompson, Katy's closest friend on the paper, had nicknamed him “Billy Goat Gruff.”

This morning, when Katy had checked her mailbox and read the summons to appear in Bill Morgan's office, she'd been terrified that she would be fired. Julie had calmed her fears. If Billy Goat intended to fire Katy, he'd do it at her desk, in front of all the other reporters. Katy had been at the paper long enough to know that.

Then Julie had advanced her theory, and it had been Katy's turn to laugh. Julie had been sure that Billy Goat was going to put her on a new assignment, something to do with the Video Killer.

“Me?” Katy had been dumbfounded. “That's impossible, Julie. I've been assigned to the health section for five years now. There's no way he'll assign me to anything more important than booster shots.”

“Oh no?” Julie had retorted. “His hotshots are coming up empty-handed on the Video Killer story. And it's your ex who won't talk to the press. I think Billy Goat figures you've still got some pull with Sam.”

“But I don't!”

“He doesn't know that. Right now Billy Goat's in a panic. I'm so sure I'm right, I'll wager lunch. If Billy Goat fires you, I'll take you to lunch at Spago. And if he assigns you to the Video Killer story, you take me.”

Katy had agreed after a glance at her bank balance. Lunch was expensive at Spago. Now her heart was beating fast as she opened the door and stepped into the glass-walled cubicle. If Mr. Morgan asked her to work on the Video Killer story, she'd come right out and tell him that she and Sam weren't even on speaking terms. She would not, under any circumstances, crawl to Sam for a story. And she wouldn't try to trick him into giving her information, either. She had her integrity.

“Katy. It's always a pleasure to see you.” Bill Morgan gestured toward the straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Is everything all right in the health section?”

“Just fine, Mr. Morgan.” Katy sat down and tried to look more poised than she felt.

“Good. How far ahead are you?”

Katy thought fast. “Unless bubonic plague strikes the rich and famous, I'm approximately a month ahead.”

“Good. I'm pulling you for a month, Katy. I need you to work on a special project. Let me tell you up front that if you bring in something good, I'll promote you to the city desk.”

Katy felt her knees start to shake. Could Julie's far-fetched idea be right?

“I'm talking about the Video Killer story, Katy. Since you've met quite a few members of the police force socially, it might be easier for you to get them to open up a little. Of course, I wouldn't want you to compromise any relationship you may still have with your ex-husband, but it seems to me you have an advantage over my regular crime boys.”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan, I . . . I . . .”

Mr. Morgan leaned forward and stared straight into her eyes, and suddenly all Katy's resolve about honesty and integrity evaporated. The city desk. He wanted to move her to the city desk. She'd been trying to break into real news for years!

“I know it's asking a lot, Katy, and I can understand why you wouldn't want to use your former status for the purpose of getting the story. But some paper out there's going to get the scoop. And I want that paper to be us.”

Katy nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak. Mr. Morgan was offering her a shot at the big-time, and there was no way she could turn it down on simple scruples. She'd go down to the police station right after lunch. Everyone said that Sam was still in love with her, so it should be easy to win his confidence again.

“Well?”

Katy managed to keep calm. She was wise enough to know that Mr. Morgan was dangling a carrot in front of her nose. This was the time for negotiation, and Katy knew how to play that game.

“If I get the story, would my promotion to the city desk mean the usual salary hike?”

“Of course.”

“And I'm free to work on this assignment anyway I choose as long as I get the goods?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine, Mr. Morgan.” Katy smiled genuinely for the first time since the interview had begun. “It's a deal. I'll turn in my extra columns and get started right away.”

Katy waited until she got inside the ladies room before she let out a whoop of excitement. She knew the only reason Mr. Morgan had given her this opportunity was because she was Sam's ex, but lots of people moved up the ladder by using their connections.

She dumped her purse out on the counter, found her cell phone, and used it to call Spago. And she didn't even wince when she had to use Sam's name to secure those last-minute reservations. Then, when her hands had stopped shaking and she thought she looked solemn enough, she went up to the third floor and stopped at Julie's desk.

“I'm through. Let's go to lunch now.” Katy waited a beat for the tension to build in Julie's face. Then she laughed and bent down to whisper in her ear. “It's on me!”

Erik sat in the chair across from Tony's desk and glared at him. “Are you saying I did a bad job?”

“No, of course not. It's very well written, Erik, a lot better than I could have done. But it's, well, it's just not right!”

“What the hell does
that
mean?”

Tony lit a cigarette and took a deep puff to stall for time. He knew he was doing a bad job of explaining things to Erik, but it couldn't be helped. Erik would just have to write the scene over the way it had really happened. It was critical to the Video Killer story.

“Look, Erik, your way just isn't realistic enough.”

“My way isn't realistic?” Erik's mouth dropped open. “Jesus, Tony! I read your blocking, and your killer's straight from central casting in that phony executioner's hood. And to make it even more hokey, you have him doing Hitchcock's shower scene. You think
that's
realistic?”

“Calm down, Erik. I see your point.” Tony did his best to pacify Erik. “Look, your way would be perfect under any other circumstances, but I know he wore the hood. And I also know that the first murder was a
Psycho
remake.”