The Next To Die Part 32

Officer Taggert still had the gun in his hand. "Now look what you've done, trying to resist arrest," he said. "You just shot a police officer."

"I asked you a question, doll face."

Sean didn't turn to look at the stranger in the backseat. Gripping the wheel, she studied him in the rearview mirror. "What do you want?"

"I just want to know you better." He brushed her ear with a gun.

"Okay," she said calmly. "Then let's go some place and talk over coffee." She started the car.

"Turn off the G.o.dd.a.m.n engine," he growled.

Sean obeyed. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she slowly sat back.

"I almost ran you down a few hours ago-outside the post office. You ought to be more careful, honey. Why were you in such a hurry?"

"I had to meet an old friend of my mother's. She lives in that white stucco." Sean nodded toward Hildy's house. She furtively slid her hand toward her purse. There was a pocket-knife inside, within her reach.

"Bulls.h.i.+t. But say something else in that high and mighty tone of yours. Say: 'I'm not supposed to hang up on you, though I'm sorely tempted.'"

Sean stared at him in the rearview mirror.

"We talked on the phone night before last. You're Dayle's lawyer friend, Sean Olson."

Sean swiveled around. The stranger was a handsome guy, despite his unwashed long, black hair. In that leather jacket, the jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, he had a certain cheap, lounge-lizard s.e.xiness. Beside him on the backseat was a big, black leather satchel. "Are you Nick Brock?" She murmured.

"Pleased to finally meet you, babe," he said with a c.o.c.ky smile.

She gaped at him. "You're supposed to be dead. That hotel fire-"

"Oh, yeah." He reached inside his bag and took out a wallet. He flipped it open and glanced at something. "The guy toasted in the fire was Charles W. Stample, age forty-nine. I figure, with the police force here, I have another day before Sheriff Andy and Barney Fife figure out the charcoal briquette in their morgue is actually one of Opal's most eligible bachelors. Meanwhile, I'll take advantage of them thinking I'm dead." He slipped the wallet and his gun back inside his bag.

"Charlie," Sean murmured. "Hildy mentioned him. He's one of Lyle's hunting buddies." She scowled at Nick. "Did you kill him? Are you the one who set fire to that hotel room?"

"No, Charlie did. I stepped out for some ice, and the SOB pulled a gun on me by the vending machines. We went back to my room, and he conked me on the head. But what he didn't know is that Nick Brock has one h.e.l.l of a thick skull. While I was down, he started to torch the place. So I jumped up, punched him in the throat, grabbed his wallet and keys, and got the h.e.l.l out. The joint was already on fire."

"And you left him there to burn to death?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I feel really bad about it too. I mean, h.e.l.l, lady, check out what this bozo did to me." He bowed his head and parted a clump of hair to reveal a fresh, ugly scab. "You ought to feel this b.u.mp. The guy was trying to ice me, for Pete's sake. Go ahead, feel it."

"That's okay. I'll take your word."

"I checked out his apartment. Lots of expensive s.h.i.+t: a big-screen TV, state-of-the-art computer, jacuzzi in the can, the works. Yet the guy lived like a pig. The place was a sty. And old Charlie had a stash of p.o.r.n tapes and magazines that would curl your hair. Real kinky stuff. I kept only a couple of the videos. The rest, forget about it. Too out there, even for Nick."

Sean glared at him. "During this exhausting search for evidence exhausting search for evidence, did you uncover anything useful?"

He nodded. "With the p.o.r.n stash, I found some Polaroids he'd taken of naked hookers. And this was among them." Nick pulled a photo out of his vest pocket. "I'm not sure I should show you, honey. It's of Charlie Stample-with Tony Katz after they finished with him. It's pretty sickening."

"Give," Sean said, her palm out. But as soon as he handed her the color snapshot, she regretted even glimpsing it. Like a proud hunter, Charlie Stample grinned for the camera and held Tony's head back by the scalp so his face was visible. Tony's eyes were open in a dead stare. The handsome movie star had been stripped naked and tied to a tree. Lacerations covered his limp body, and long streaks of blood ran down his chest, torso, and legs. It looked as if his genitals had been mutilated. Charlie Stample brandished a pistol in his other hand, and aimed it at Tony Katz in a jocular fas.h.i.+on.

"Oh, my G.o.d," Sean muttered in horror.

"Still feel bad about good ole' Charlie the Crispy Critter?"

Handing the Polaroid back to him, Sean quickly shook her head.

Nick tucked the photo back inside his pocket. "I combed through his place, but couldn't find an address book. I don't know who his buddies are."

"I have some names from the old woman across the street," Sean said. "She gave me a lot of useful information about her neighbors. Mrs. Bender picks up the mail for this group."

"Mrs. Bender? You mean the heifer with the two brats?" Nick asked.

Sean winced. "You're really offensive, you know that?"

Nick chuckled. "Oh, a tough cla.s.sy broad, just like Dayle Sutton."

"Dayle's not so tough. In fact, she was pretty broken up over your premature demise. G.o.d knows why. But she actually cried."

He smiled. "Really? Well, let's not mend her broken heart just yet. These jokers have somebody working close to Dayle. I'm better off if she thinks I'm toes up." He nodded up ahead at the LeBaron. "Guess that's as good a place as any to ditch his car. I've been driving it around since yesterday morning, scared s.h.i.+tless someone would mistake me for Charlie. I high-tailed out of town after the fire. Came back this morning to watch the post office. I had a hunch about you when I saw you hanging around-"

"Heads up," Sean said.

Vicki Bender emerged from the house with the bundle of mail. She said something to the two children, then headed into her station wagon.

"Looks like she's going to make her delivery," Sean murmured, starting up the car. "I can't believe she's leaving those two kids alone."

"Oh, you missed it," Nick said. "About twenty minutes ago, while you were with Grandma, this older kid came home on his bike. Mama met him at the front door, and jumped on his skinny a.s.s about something. From what I could hear, the twerp was supposed to baby-sit for the other two brats."

Nick put a hand on her shoulder. "Listen, let Mama go for half a block, then start to follow. It's how I tailed you."

Sean let out an exasperated sigh, but took his advice. She watched Vicki Bender back out of the driveway. Then she followed a safe distance behind the station wagon. She wished Avery were with her now-instead of this rude, cheese-ball detective. Wherever he was, Avery had to be worried about her. She hated leaving Dayle in the dark too.

"You know," she said, watching Mrs. Bender's station wagon. "If I don't get in touch with Dayle by tomorrow morning, she's sending in the FBI."

Nick let out a defiant laugh. "Tomorrow morning? Listen, counselor, the s.h.i.+t's going to hit the fan a h.e.l.l of a lot sooner than tomorrow morning. Let's just try to survive the evening, okay?"

Sean studied him in the rearview mirror for a moment. Then she nodded, because she knew he was right.

Dayle listened to the answering machine in her study while she slipped off her shoes. Leaning over her desk, she lowered the volume on the machine. She didn't want Ted hearing if Sean came on. He was getting comfortable in the guest room down the hall. So far, there were three messages from studio publicity people. Dayle skipped ahead to the next: Beep. "Hi, Dayle-" It was her agent.

Beep. "h.e.l.lo, Dayle? This is Jonathan Brooks."

She quickly grabbed a pen. Jonathan's gravelly voice somehow managed to sound unmasculine; on the phone he could have been mistaken for a brash old aunt who smoked too much. "I just flew back into town today and got your message. It's funny too, because I saw you on the E-Channel Friday night, giving a fabulous pro-gay speech, and next to you is one of the biggest h.o.m.ophobic a.s.sholes I've ever met. I'm talking about Teddy Kovak. It's true, he worked for Gil, but-well, I'm just surprised you hired him. Anyway, I'm home tonight, so give a buzz...."

Dayle dialed the number on her cordless, then glanced down the hall. Ted's door was open a crack. She heard a toilet flus.h.i.+ng.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Jonathan?" Dayle whispered. "Hi. It's Dayle Sutton."

"Well, h.e.l.lo there, Dayle. You got my call back?"

"Yes, thanks." She ducked into the study again, and closed the door. "I'm not sure I understood your message. Ted was Gil Palarmo's personal bodyguard for nearly a year, yet you say he's h.o.m.ophobic?"

A robust laugh came over the line. "Did Pica.s.so paint? Of course, it took old Ted a while to figure Gil out. At first, he believed that ladies'-man routine Gil sold to the public. Plus Gil always had these bimbo groupies following him around, and he gave Ted his pick of the harem. If not for those fringe benefits, I think Ted might have quit, because after a spell, like I say, he realized he wasn't in Kansas anymore, Toto. And let me tell you, he didn't try to hide his contempt for Gil and the rest of us."

"Why didn't Gil fire him?" Dayle asked in a hushed tone.

"Oh, we were having way too much fun teasing him. Gil used to flirt with Ted, drove him crazy!" Again, Jonathan bellowed that husky laugh. "I mean, Ted wasn't hard to look at, and we delighted in getting a rise out of him. He was so uptight, so easy to p.i.s.s off."

"Then Gil just had him around for laughs?" Dayle whispered.

"No, Teddy was good," Jonathan said. "He knew his business. Gil hired him in the first place because he'd had a bad brush with the mob. They wanted Gil to sing in certain clubs, and he wouldn't play ball. Ted knew how they might get past all the security in Gil's penthouse undetected, where they could plant bugging devices or a bomb, how to tap a phone line. He knew everything there was to know about surveillance. I tell you, if Ted was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner."

A knock came upon the door. It gave her Dayle a start. She hadn't heard any footsteps. "Just a sec," she whispered into the phone. Then she opened the door. Ted had changed into a pair of khakis and a T-s.h.i.+rt. He also sported a shoulder holster and gun. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. "I was going to order Chinese. Do you want some?"

Smiling nervously, Dayle shook her head. "No, thanks," she murmured, a hand over the mouthpiece. "I'll just heat up some soup later. Thanks." She gently closed the door, then whispered into the phone, "You were saying?"

"Well, I was about to say that old Ted has to be pretty full of himself to put Gil down as a reference. Then again, Gil's dead. And like I say, Ted did do a good job. Even I have to admit that much. But...well..."

"Go on," Dayle urged him.

"I think of that speech you made about fighting h.o.m.ophobia, and I applaud you, Dayle. But I see Teddy Kovak standing with you, and I'm telling you, he's not on our side."

They followed Vicki Bender's station wagon past the post office minimall. Sean stayed two or three cars behind her. She couldn't help looking around at other cars and wondering if Avery was in one of them. Had he even made it to Opal? Certainly, she would have heard something on the radio if he'd been arrested or hurt. It was hard concentrating on her conversation with Nick in the backseat. "I'm sorry, what was I saying?" she asked.

"You were giving me the skinny on this men's club."

"That's right," Sean said, eyes on the road. "According to the neighbor, it's a bunch of hunting buddies, very few of whom hold steady full-time jobs. Yet they all seem financially fit. For example, your late friend, Charlie Stample, owned a gun and tackle store, open three days a week-as long as there wasn't a sign on the door saying GONE HUNTING GONE HUNTING."

"Other incomes," Nick said, nodding. "It explains all that expensive c.r.a.p at Charlie's place. This hate group must pay well."

Up ahead, Vicki Bender turned into the parking lot of a bowling alley. On the side of the long building, blinking neon white bowling pins led to a sign: OPAL STRIKE N' SPARE-THE KINGPIN RESTAURANT-GAMES N' FOOD OPAL STRIKE N' SPARE-THE KINGPIN RESTAURANT-GAMES N' FOOD.

Sean parked five rows away from Vicki Bender's station wagon. Clutching the bundle of mail, Vicki headed into the bowling alley.

The gla.s.s door was still swinging back and forth when Sean and Nick stepped in after her. Rock and roll oldies were piped over speakers, competing with the echoing din and clamor. The place smelled of cigarettes and shoe leather. Vicki knocked on a door by the vending machines. As the door opened Sean glimpsed five men inside, seated at a round table; it looked like a poker game in progress-except one of the men had a laptop computer in front of him. They seemed normal enough, between the ages of thirty and fifty, dressed casually, but clean. They didn't look like monsters. In fact, all of the men stood up when Vicki walked into the room. Then the door closed.

Sean and Nick strolled over to a rack of bowling b.a.l.l.s. She kept glancing back at that closed door. "Well, any ideas?" she asked, over all the noise. Someone had cranked up Del Shannon's "Runaway" on the speakers. "We can't hang around here too long. Someone's bound to recognize us."

Nick feigned interest in a bowling ball. "Just keep cool. I'm thinking."

"Well, don't blow a fuse," she muttered. Sean checked the back room door again. The girl at the shoe-rental booth was staring at them. "Is it too soon to call in the state police or the FBI?" Sean asked. "We could try to explain the situation to them."

"No way," Nick replied. "If what Grandma Hildy says is true, these guys are friendly with the police. Someone would tip off the local authorities about what's coming around the pike, and-chain reaction-these guys would scatter or clean house before anyone got near Opal. No, nice try."

Sean sighed. Nick was right. And if Avery were here, he'd be the first person they'd arrest-not someone from the group. Outside of the late Charlie Stample's Polaroid, they had no proof implicating these other people in the celebrity murders. "I have a little recorder in my purse," she said, thinking out loud. "Too bad we can't pry a confession out of one of them."

"We could always grab the first guy who comes out to use the can," Nick said, studying the closed door. "Then we can take him for a ride to a remote spot, and scare scare a confession out of him." a confession out of him."

"Abduct one of them-right here? Are you nuts? This is their turf. We'll have the whole group on our tail-and the local police too. We'd never make it." She took another look toward the shoe-rental booth.

Snapping her gum, the girl leaned on the counter and continued to stare at them. Sean guessed she was twenty-five-with more than her share of hard knocks. She might have been pretty at one time, but now she just appeared tired and burned out. The red STRIKE N' SPARE STRIKE N' SPARE T-s.h.i.+rt hung on her emaciated frame, and she'd carelessly pinned back her limp brown hair. T-s.h.i.+rt hung on her emaciated frame, and she'd carelessly pinned back her limp brown hair.

"That woman in the booth won't stop looking at us," Sean whispered.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. "Huh, she's checking out my b.u.t.t."

"Oh, would you please get over yourself for just five minutes?"

But Nick wasn't listening. He was on his way to talk to the girl, whose face lit up as he approached. Fascinated, Sean watched them. Nick whispered something to her. She giggled and tossed back her head-the official flirt laugh. After a minute, she took a pencil from behind her ear, then scribbled something down on a score sheet. She looked up and caught Sean staring.

Sean turned away-toward the rack of bowling b.a.l.l.s. A couple of minutes pa.s.sed, and then Nick came up to her. "Okay, the wheels are in motion," he said, handing her a piece of paper. In schoolgirl penmans.h.i.+p with little circles over the I I's, the young woman had written down seven names. "See if those match with any of the guys Grandma told you about," Nick whispered. "By the way, that's Jill in the booth, and if she asks, you're my sister. Jill says these guys meet here regularly three or four times a week. I asked which one has the nicest house, and is married with kids-in other words, the one with the most to lose."

"What are you talking about?" Sean asked.

"We're going for a ride with Larry Chadwick," Nick whispered. He threw a smile at Jill, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. She winked back.

"What's going on?" Sean said.

"In a minute, Jill's gonna step into that room and tell Larry Chadwick he has an emergency phone call from his wife. Jill thinks it's all part of a practical joke. When he comes out to take the call, I'll walk up, tell him I have a gun, and we'll go to his car-"

"My G.o.d, this is insane-"

"You hang by that meeting room door, and make sure Jill doesn't screw up. She's supposed to tell the boys that Larry will call them from home later."

"How could she be dumb enough to cooperate with you in this-this 'practical joke'? You're a total stranger to her-"

"Doll, she's twenty-seven years old, handles smelly shoes all day for minimum wage, and she's hot for me. Believe me, she's dumb enough to cooperate. Once you know these guys have bought Jill's song and dance, head outside. I'll make Larry flash his headlights. Are you following me?"

Sean saw the young woman come out from behind the booth. She started toward the meeting room door.

"We'll drive out of town," Nick went on. "You're the lawyer. Promise Larry a deal, immunity for his confession. We'll get it on that recorder of yours, then call the state police once we're far enough away from Opal."

"And they'll arrest us for kidnapping, you idiot," she said urgently. She watched Jill knock on the door. "My G.o.d, she's going through with it. This is crazy. I don't have the power to make any immunity deals-"

"Well, maybe Larry Chadwick won't know that."