Video Kill (16 page)

Twenty minutes later Tony had the scene on disc. It was very good, probably the best thing they'd done so far.

“Okay. That's a wrap.” Tony walked to the wastebasket and dropped the script inside. “Let's take a break while Ginger thinks up the next scene.”

Ginger gasped in surprise. “You mean we're not going to follow the script anymore?”

“Nope. Your ideas are a lot better than the guy's who wrote this script.”

“Wait a minute.” Bobby scratched his head. “I thought
you
wrote it.”

“I did. From now on Ginger works up the scenes, and I'll see there's a bonus in it. What do you want, Ginger? Extra money?”

“Well, money's always nice.” Ginger looked thoughtful, and then her face lit up. “But I'd rather have that nifty lighter of yours. I love the inscription. I'll work out the rest of the scenes if I can have your lighter for a present. Is it a deal?”

Tony hesitated. The lighter was his anniversary present from Allison. It wouldn't be right to give it away, but he didn't have time to rewrite the script.

“Okay . . . you've got a deal.”

Tony fought down his feelings of guilt as he tossed Ginger the lighter. He'd pick up another one tomorrow morning before Allison noticed this one was gone. He told himself that she'd never know the difference, and he'd just saved himself hours of work.

 

 

Katy Brannigan darted into a space in the fast lane and earned a blast on the horn from the car behind her as she fishtailed slightly. She still wasn't used to the quick steering on her new car. The old Ford she'd driven up until two months ago had been as staid and steady as a truck.

She was driving a red Mazda MX-5, the car she'd bought for herself after the divorce. It was a good car, even
Consumer Reports
said so, but Katy had come to the unhappy conclusion that it wasn't right for her. All the women in her therapy group had recommended a sports car. They'd told her about the sense of freedom a high-powered engine would give her, the fantastic maneuverability, the sexy single image she'd project in a fast, two-seater luxury car. The MX-5 was touted as the top of the line, and Katy admitted that it had never given her a speck of trouble mechanically. But owning the car meant that she had to tailor her lifestyle to fit her vehicle.

Katy loved to wear fancy hats when she got dressed up, but her new car didn't have enough headroom. That meant she had to take her hat with her and put it on at the last minute, being careful not to dislodge it when she got out of her car. Then there was the problem of carrying the boxes of papers and books she needed for research. There was no trunk and no backseat. She'd tried putting her things on the passenger seat, but they were heavy and the Mazda had a safety feature. The engine wouldn't start if there was weight on the passenger seat and the seat belt wasn't buckled. That meant her boxes had to go on the platform behind the bucket seats, and there they were difficult to put in and take out.

The seat belts were another feature that drove Katy crazy. Her Ford had been so old that it'd had lap belts. Her MX-5 was equipped with the newest in shoulder harnesses. While Katy realized that they were much safer than the lap belts, it meant she had to modify her wardrobe. She could no longer wear her favorite silk blouses without arriving at the office wrinkled diagonally.

Katy eased over two lanes to the right and drew a sigh of relief. She hoped she wouldn't have to speed up before she got to the freeway exit. She loved the concept of a high-performance engine, but she was a bit afraid of the surge of power that came when she stepped on the gas pedal. With the quick steering and the high horsepower, she sometimes felt as if the car were in control, not her. This was one of the days when she wished she'd ignored all the well-meaning advice of her new friends and kept her old car.

A few minutes later Katy turned in the driveway at the Wilshire Towers and parked in the empty space next to Sam's car. As she walked through the garage and approached the glass door that led to the lobby, she noticed that the ugly orange-and-green-striped carpet had been replaced with a lovely deep-pile royal blue. It looked much better, and she wished they'd done it earlier. She'd always hated the carpeting in the lobby.

Katy picked up the telephone by the door and dialed Sam's apartment. It felt strange to be dialing the number she'd answered so many times. When Sam picked up the phone, she had to swallow hard before she could talk.

“Sam? It's me, Katy.”

Sam pressed the buzzer that unlocked the door, and Katy pulled it open. Again, a feeling of unreality struck her. She'd lived in the end unit on the sixth floor for most of her marriage, and it still felt like home. She reminded herself that she was only a visitor and pressed the button on the elevator for the sixth floor. While she rode up, she reviewed what she'd learned so far today. Cinescope Studios was doing a screenplay about the Video Killer. One of Alan Goldberg's secretaries had tipped her off. The writers of record were Tony Rocca and Erik Nielsen, and Katy had already started an investigation into their backgrounds. As far as the actual murder DVDs were concerned, several reliable sources at police headquarters had mentioned that they were in Sam's possession. They weren't in the evidence room, and they weren't in Sam's office. Katy had checked on that. And she had the advantage of knowing Sam's habits. She was positive that Sam had the murder DVDs here, in his apartment. And if the Video Killer ran true to form and struck tonight, she'd have plenty of time to copy them when Sam was called to the scene.

The moment Katy had figured it out, she'd called Sam. She was missing a few important facts for her article. Could she interview him tonight? At home?

Katy had expected resistance, but Sam had agreed almost too eagerly. That made her a little nervous, but she quickly squelched her suspicions. Sam wasn't the type to have an ulterior motive.

“Hello, Katy. Come in.”

Sam pulled open the door before she had the chance to ring the bell, and Katy almost jumped out of her skin.

“Hi, Sam.”

Katy gave him her very best innocent smile, but she trembled a little as he helped her out of her light summer coat. She noticed the eager look in his eyes, and now she was glad she'd rushed out at lunch to pick up this particular dress from the cleaners. It had always been Sam's favorite.

Katy watched Sam as he hung her coat in the hall closet. He looked sinfully handsome tonight in a wine-colored sweater and well-worn jeans. She'd forgotten how dark his eyes were when he wore that color.

“How about a drink, Katy?”

Katy was about to refuse; she never drank when she needed her wits about her, but she remembered her purpose for coming here and nodded. Sam had a low tolerance for alcohol, and if he had a drink, he might let something slip about the Video Killer.

“That's a wonderful idea, Sam, but only if you're having one, too.”

“I'll have one to keep you company, but only one.” Sam looked serious. “It's Sunday night.”

“You're expecting something to break with the Video Killer?”

“Maybe. Name your poison, Katy. I just stocked the liquor cabinet.”

“Then let's have Manhattans.”

While Sam mixed the drinks at the bar, Katy looked around the apartment with a calculating eye. There were no signs of another woman. She'd excuse herself and go to the bathroom later. Women always left makeup or perfume in the bathroom. Or a sexy negligee hanging up on the back of the door. Of course, it was really none of her business, but a man as handsome as Sam was bound to have a girlfriend by now.

Katy had barely started on her inventory of the apartment before Sam walked up with her drink. She took the glass and gave a pleased smile. There was a cherry in hers, and she knew Sam despised them.

“Oh, Sam. You bought maraschino cherries just for me!”

“Not really.” Sam grinned. “They've been here since you left.”

Katy felt her heart pound hard in her chest, and she cautioned herself not to assume anything. Sam's new girlfriend might hate maraschino cherries. Just because her cherries were still here didn't mean that Sam had been celibate.

“To us.” Sam touched the rim of his glass to hers. “And to the start of something new.”

“I'll drink to that.”

Katy looked deeply into his eyes and tried not to feel guilty as she took a sip of her drink. It
was
the start of something new, but Sam wouldn't be pleased if he knew that what they were toasting was her scoop on the Video Killer.

“Well, what do you think, Katy? Will we get to finish our drinks tonight?”

“I guess so, Sam.” Katy took another sip to cover her embarrassment. It was their private joke. At bedtime Sam had mixed Manhattans. Most of the time they'd forgotten all about their drinks, and Katy'd dumped them out in the morning. Even though Katy tried not to speculate, she wondered whether Sam had kept the same bed she'd talked him into buying. They'd tried out every position they could think of on that bed, and it had been wonderful.

“Something wrong, Katy?”

Katy came back to the present with a jolt. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she quickly took out the list of questions she'd prepared. Why was she feeling nostalgic about that old bed now? Sam had probably replaced it the day she left.

“No, everything's just fine, Sam.”

“Great. Then, let's talk about sex.”

“Sex?” Katy's voice ended in a squeak, and she felt her hands start to tremble.

“That's right. Sex.” Sam's voice was very calm. “You said you wanted to know my attitude toward women in the police force and whether their sex handicapped them in any way.”

“Oh! Of course!” Katy pulled out her notebook and pen. “Go ahead, Sam. First of all, does a woman's gender influence her advancement in the field of law enforcement?”

Sam grinned, and Katy knew she was blushing. She took another sip of her drink and tried very hard to look professional as she jotted down Sam's answer.

14

Christie could barely contain her excitement as Mr. Brother set up his video camera. This date had turned out even better than her wildest expectations, and Christie felt like pinching herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Mr. Brother had promised that she could audition for the movie he was making. She was going to be an important movie star!

She paid close attention as Mr. Brother explained the camera and how he could operate it with a remote control. He would play Lars Thorwald, her husband, who killed her in front of the open window.

They were almost ready. Christie watched while Mr. Brother carried his tripod out onto the small master bedroom balcony that her parents had decorated with plastic ferns and flowers. He'd mentioned something about filming the scene from a different P.O.V., establishing a macrocosm leading to a microcosm in the critical scene. Or was it the other way around? She'd have to remember to ask her acting coach tomorrow if she could remember his exact words.

He looked so intense! Christie shivered a little even though the room was stifling. The balcony door was open, but there was no breeze to stir the muggy summer air. She was wearing her mother's high-necked flannel nightgown, a costume Mr. Brother had said was perfect for her scene. If any other man had told her to put on a nightgown and get into bed, Christie would have refused before the words were even out of his mouth, but it was different with Mr. Brother. He wasn't interested in her body, only in her talent as an actress.

Christie smiled slightly as she thought of what her parents would say if they saw her now. Naturally, they'd be upset that she'd invited Mr. Brother to the apartment when they weren't home. They'd ask all sorts of questions about his background. Now that she thought it, Christie didn't know much about him at all. They hadn't actually been introduced, something that was very important to her parents, but she'd seen him almost every Sunday at the Bijou. That should count for something.

As she took the deep, calming breaths that her drama teacher had recommended before a performance, Christie glanced over at Mr. Brother. He was dressed in a black robe and heavy gloves that he must have brought with him in his camera case. Now he was pulling on a funny kind of black hood with holes for his eyes. Christie felt like giggling, but she managed to control herself. There was probably a very good reason for his silly-looking costume. She just didn't know enough about film techniques to recognize what it was.

One more check of the camera and Mr. Brother was ready. He raised his hand for her cue, and Christie went into the part of the nagging Mrs. Thorwald that she'd practiced so diligently. At first she was self-conscious and nervous about the camera, but after a few lines the magical moment that her acting coach had told her about actually happened. She ceased being Christie Jensen and became Mrs. Thorwald, berating her husband with the total force of her personality.

Mr. Brother took a step toward her, and Christie gave an involuntary gasp that she hadn't rehearsed. She knew she looked frightened, and it wasn't entirely due to her acting ability. He really did look menacing. As she went into her lines again, screaming and railing at him, Christie knew she was giving the best performance of her life.

As his black-gloved hands closed around her neck, Christie didn't have to act any longer. Now she truly was terrified. His hands were squeezing like a vise, and she couldn't get her breath. Her vision started to fade. She struck out at him with all the strength she had, but she couldn't dislodge his hands. Her scene was over. Why didn't he stop?!

Christie struggled, clawing at his hands with her fingernails, but her strength was gone. Still his hands squeezed tighter and tighter until her eyes bulged and her arms dropped limply to her sides. Then, as her tortured lungs screamed out for oxygen and she was rendered even more helpless than the invalid she had portrayed, she knew the awful truth. Mr. Brother was the Video Killer.

 

 

Allison sat in front of the large-screen television set, munching on blueberry-flavored popcorn and taking notes. In the past week she'd finished the first tier of the giant box, and now she was working her way through the other six flavors. Tony had been pathetically grateful when she'd agreed to help him with his research, but the whole thing had sounded more like fun than work to her.

Allison had been a dyed-in-the-wool Hitchcock fan ever since she'd taken a class on his films in college. It had been no trouble at all to watch several films each night, and she'd added quite a few names to the list of victims Tony had asked her to make. Allison was grateful for the diversion and the fact that the project was a lengthy one. Watching fifty-three films would keep her occupied for quite a while.

When Tony had called earlier to tell her he wouldn't be home until late, Allison had slipped into her most comfortable outfit and double-locked all the doors. Since it was Sunday, she was a bit nervous about being in the house alone. The Video Killer's three victims had all been murdered on Sunday nights. Of course, they had all been actresses, and she was no longer in the profession, but she'd taken precautions anyway. The gun that Tony kept in the bedroom was now sitting right next to her on the table by the couch.

Allison had started today's work by pulling out a DVD at random. It was
The Pleasure Garden
, Hitchcock's first complete film as a director. She'd never seen it before, and it kept her mind off the Video Killer. The sun had been lowering in the sky when she'd completed her notes and selected her second film,
The Trouble with Harry
, which introduced Shirley MacLaine to the screen.

When that film ended, Allison took a break for dinner. Rather than preparing something herself, she dashed out for hot dogs from a stand a few blocks away. She ordered two of them, as well as a container of hot German potato salad and a side order of coleslaw, and went home to watch
Topaz
. She added Karin Dor to her list of Hitchcock's female victims and wrote a concise analysis of the film for Tony. The antique clock on the mantel was chiming nine in the evening when she slipped
Psycho
into the machine and pressed the play button.

The moment she heard the theme music, Allison rejected the DVD. Sharee Lyons had been murdered in the shower, and it would only make Allison more nervous to watch
Psycho
all alone at night.
The Birds
didn't seem like a good idea, either. Or
Notorious
. Or even
Suspicion
. She was all too aware of the Santa Ana winds blowing outside the window and the way the house creaked and groaned. The sound of the sprinkler system going on outside the family room window almost made her jump out of her chair.

Aware that she was being silly, Allison managed to laugh at herself. She'd promised Tony that she'd watch four films for him every night, and she still had one left to go. There had to be some Hitchcock film that wouldn't frighten her out of her wits.

Allison looked through the titles carefully.
Under Capricorn
was simply too weighty, and she wasn't in the mood for the rambling and confusing plot of
The Paradine Case
. Finally she chose
Rear Window
, one of her favorites.

It was close to ten p.m. when Allison stopped the DVD to make a note.
Rear Window
had a female victim, Mrs. Thorwald played by Irene Winston. The murder itself hadn't been very scary, perhaps because Hitchcock had filmed it from James Stewart's perspective. Allison knew it would have been much more frightening if it had been shot from the victim's perspective, like in
Psycho
. Or even from the killer's. Had Hitchcock ever used that technique? Not that she could recall, but she'd know for a fact by the time she'd finished watching the complete collection.

Allison sat back and sighed. Suddenly she wished she'd taken time to finish her degree before she'd married Tony. A remake of Hitchcock's murder scenes from the killer's perspective would make an intriguing graduate project. She was surprised some enterprising filmmaker hadn't done it already.

 

 

Katy's list of questions went much more quickly than she'd expected, and they were finished in less than an hour. Sam had given her a great interview. Perhaps she could actually use it sometime. Katy closed her notebook with a snap and glanced at her watch. It was still early, and she had to think of some excuse for staying.

“Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate your help, and I know you probably missed dinner because of me, so maybe I could order a pizza or something to make up for . . .”

“I already thought of that, Katy. I ordered a large Sorrento's special for both of us. I hope you have time.”

“I've got all night.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Katy blushed furiously. Thank God Sam hadn't seemed to notice her blunder.

Katy hurried to the kitchen and collected plates, silverware, and plenty of paper napkins. Sorrento's pizzas were notoriously messy. She was about to bring everything back to the living room when she realized that Sam hadn't changed a thing in the kitchen since she'd left. The plates were still in the upper-right-hand cabinet, and the silverware was just where she'd placed it when they'd first moved in. Was that a sign that Sam hoped she'd come back? Or had he been simply too busy to change things around?

By the time Katy got back, the pizza had arrived. Her mouth watered in anticipation as Sam opened the box and put a piece on her plate.

“Are those anchovies, Sam?”

“Yup.” Sam nodded. “I decided I liked them after all.”

Katy frowned slightly as she took a bite. Sam had always claimed that the concept of fish on a pizza was bizarre. Why had he changed his mind now, after all these years? Had a new girlfriend managed to talk him into trying them?

They ate in silence until the last slices of pizza were on their plates. Then Katy's curiosity got the best of her. “How did you happen to try anchovies, Sam?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Sam took the last bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I guess I just decided that if you liked them, they couldn't be all that bad. How about some coffee? I can make it.”

“I'll do it.” Katy pushed back her chair. “You just sit here and relax, Sam. You look tired.”

The moment Katy left for the kitchen, Sam glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. The Video Killer could be out there right now, murdering his next victim. Even though a full complement of police officers was patrolling the streets, Sam had very few illusions. Los Angeles was a huge city, and their chances of catching the Video Killer in the act were very slim indeed. He was glad Katy was here to take his mind off the waiting. Of course she had an ulterior motive, but now that he knew what it was, he'd figured out a way to deal with it.

When Katy had first asked for help on her Sunday supplement article, Sam had known something was up. One telephone call to a buddy at the paper had confirmed his suspicions. There was no such article, and rumor had it Katy Brannigan had been assigned to something big. Sam knew it was the Video Killer story.

At first Sam had been furious at Katy's duplicity, but then he'd decided to turn the whole thing to his advantage. He needed help with the murder videos, and Katy had a fine mind. It was possible she'd spot some clue on the discs that he had missed. Sam was going to make sure Katy had access to the murder DVDs, although he wouldn't admit that to her. It would be interesting to find out just how far she'd go to get her story.

Sam knew he was taking a gamble. His job was on the line if there were any leaks to the press before the Video Killer was caught. But Sam was betting on the fact that Katy was too loyal to publish anything without coming to him first. Which would win out? Her loyalties or her ambition? Sam needed to find out.

“Is the coffee ready yet?” Sam called out to Katy in the kitchen.

“Just a couple minutes more, Sam. I'm waiting for it to finish perking.” Katy leaned against the counter. Actually, the coffee wasn't perking at all. Sam had a drip pot, so she was waiting for the coffee to finish dripping. She arranged cups on a tray with plenty of Cremora and sugar cubes for Sam and wondered what excuse she could give for sticking around long enough to find the murder DVDs. So far it had been easy . . . almost too easy.

A tiny seed of suspicion began to grow in Katy's mind. Sam had agreed right away when she'd asked for the interview, and he'd been the one to arrange for the pizza. It was almost as if he was trying to keep her here. Cherries in her Manhattan. Anchovies on the pizza. Sam was trying to butter her up for something. But what?

Katy picked up the tray and carried it back into the living room. She found Sam sitting on a floor pillow next to the fireplace with the stereo playing softly in the background.

“Bring it over here, Katy. We'll have our coffee by the fire, just like we used to do.”

“Uh . . . fine.” Katy set the tray down and joined him. There was no reason to be upset. She'd planned to stay the night. She'd even decided to go to bed with Sam if that was what he wanted. But suddenly the whole thing seemed so cold and calculated.

“I poured us a little cognac, Katy.” Sam handed her a small snifter. “Let's toast your Sunday supplement article, the one about women cops.”

“Oh, good idea!” Katy nodded solemnly. “To my article.”

Katy tried to bring the glass to her lips, but suddenly she was so ashamed she couldn't do more than stare at Sam and blink back tears. She dropped her eyes and swallowed hard.

“No. That's silly. Let's drink to . . . to . . . Oh hell! I can't think of anything.”