Book of Shadows (13 page)

“Not to mention there are a few things I have to tell you.”

Marisa stopped. And waited.

Bess moved from the open doorway and straddled a chair, his arms resting on the back. “You have to understand something about police work. We deal in specifics, in facts. You can’t go into court with speculation and rumor. Our job is to get enough on somebody to take away his freedom, maybe his life. This means you have to be sure—I mean really sure. What I’m saying is we’ve got this package on you.”

“Package?”

“File. Actually it’s only a few pages. It’s about that complaint filed by your producer.”

Marisa dropped her chin to her chest.

The detective said, “I know you’ve got the kind of role on this show that attracts a lot of freaky fan mail. I suppose everybody in your business gets mail, but according to the file some of yours … well, some of it’s really desperado. Off the wall in spades. People have sent you switchblades, bullets. One guy even sent you a two pound box of shit, because he thought you were the bitch of all time. You life’s been threatened I don’t know how many times. Schizo phone calls, letters. You’ve even been stopped on the street and had your face slapped more than once by people who take their soap operas seriously.”

“Where’s all this leading?”

“It’s leading to what happened six months ago.”

Six months ago. The letters, all in pale green envelopes, began arriving shortly before Christmas and continued every day for three weeks. Vile letters. Obscene and frightening, some of them sticky with male semen and dried human blood. The sender mailed them to Marisa’s home address, as well as to the studio.

He signed himself Carl, servant of God, and threatened to rape and dismember Marisa before Christ rose from the dead on Easter Sunday. She was a heathen bitch, an enemy of Jesus and a consort of the Antichrist and would bring about the destruction of Christian America unless she was struck down by the servant of God. Marisa had to die.

All of the regulars on
World and Forever
always received mail, a certain portion of it from psychos. However, the letters from Carl had frightened Marisa and her producer, and they’d turned the correspondence over to the police, who took only three days to locate Carl. He turned out to be a retired sixty-five-year-old high-school principal living in Darien, Connecticut.

Joseph Bess said, “I have to be up-front with you. The people who tell me what to do feel you’re imagining things. They say what you think is happening to you right now is nothing but a repetition of what went down six months ago with Carl. I mentioned the white-haired man and the tall woman, and I mentioned the business about the horse dragging the guy to death in England and what happened to Larry Oregon.”

“And?”

The detective rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, I mentioned Druids.”

“I get the feeling your superiors look upon all of this as absolutely hilarious.”

“Marisa, let’s face it: You’ve got people out there watching this show who aren’t wrapped too tight. Even you will admit that.”

She said, “I took your advice. I called the travel agency that booked my vacation to England last year. They made a transatlantic call for me concerning Jack Lyle.”

Her eyes found Joseph Bess’s eyes in the mirror. “A month after we left England, Jack Lyle put a gun in his mouth and blew the back of his head off.”

“This doesn’t help your case any.”

“You mean Lyle’s not around to back me up?”

“That’s right. And I bet if I call England they’ll tell me there’s nothing out of the ordinary about his death.”

Marisa turned around and faced Bess. “Lyle vowed they’d never burn him alive. He vowed he’d kill himself first.”

“Apparently he did.”

“This doesn’t tell you anything?”

Bess shook his head. “I won’t lie to you. It doesn’t.”

Sharply turning her back to him, Marisa reached for a hairpiece. “The next thing I know is you’ll accuse me of looking for publicity, of making this up.”

“It’s been mentioned.”

“And what did you say?”

Joseph Bess dug his pinky finger in his ear. “We located the horse that killed Oregon. It was floating in a Central Park lake. Apparently it drowned.”

Bess stood up and placed one foot on the chair. “Horse came from a rental stable on West Eightieth. From there we got the name of the guy who’d taken the horse out.

He’s married and was riding with somebody’s wife and he doesn’t want to get involved. His story is the two of them rode for around forty-five minutes, then stopped to rest.
Rest.
That’s the word he used.

“Anyway, they tied their horses to a tree and were resting when he sees some kid climbing on the horse’s back and the next thing the guy knows is the kid and the horse are gone.”

Bess grinned. “No disrespect to your friend Oregon, but city cops don’t run into horse thieves every day. The guy and his gal return to the stable and report the stolen horse. They make a deal with the owner: They’ll pay if he keeps quiet, if he doesn’t report it to the cops. The owner’s not dumb. He’s got a chance to collect twice: once from the cheaters and once from the insurance company. Everybody was keeping quiet until we mentioned Oregon’s death. The fact that it was in the papers and on the eleven o’clock news didn’t cause anybody to come forward either, but they’re all good citizens now.”

Marisa looked into the mirror a long time before speaking. “This kid who stole the horse, was he fat?”

Bess paused with a stick of gum in front of his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

“Was he fat?”

“Yes. The guy and his girlfriend both agreed on that. A fat teenager, white—”

“Round faced. Open mouth, crooked teeth. Dirty black and yellow sneakers. Long blond hair. Sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. I said I was being followed. He’s the one.”

“Five minutes everybody! Five minutes to taping! Let’s get ready to make magic!”

A shaken Marisa stood up and held on to her chair for support. “I … I … That was the stage manager. It’s time to tape—”

Bess gripped her shoulders firmly.

She tried to pull away. “Please,” she said. “I’ve got a show to do.”

“I’m taking Gina home, then meeting my partner and we’re going after Raymond and Fancy tonight. My home number’s on the back of this card. Call me
any
time. Day, night, doesn’t matter. You hear what I’m saying?”

Marisa pushed past him.

And then he was alone in her dressing room, smelling her perfume, feeling her fear. She was special and he wanted her and there wasn’t a chance in the world of its happening. Marisa Heggen was out of his league. Joseph Bess’s wife had died more than three years ago. He’d told himself his heart had been buried with her, but then he’d met Marisa and all he’d done about it was stare and look away when she looked back.

Even normal women found it hard to share a cop’s life. Women like Marisa Heggen, women who lived like royalty, would find it impossible. Besides, there was Robert. Bess had met him twice and hated the bastard.

Down at the precinct, Bess’s superior had told him Marisa was blowing smoke. She was lying. Druids. The lieutenant hadn’t even bothered to laugh. All he’d said was why couldn’t she be bothered by niggers and spics like the rest of the broads in this town; to tell her we don’t need no imported talent.

“She’s jerking you off,” said the lieutenant. “Lucky you. But don’t bother me with that shit.”

As a cop, Joseph Bess had to listen to the lieutenant.

But he’d just listened to Marisa describe the fat kid in exact detail.

He thought about that as he left the dressing room and went looking for Gina.

F
OR DINNER ROBERT HAD
chosen a French restaurant on East Sixty-first Street, a place he’d been unable to afford until recently. A higher income was only one of several changes Marisa had noticed in him, all of them dating from his acquisition of the
Book of Shadows.

His writing had improved considerably. It was simpler, clearer, and much more marketable. He’d somehow found his own voice, while simultaneously managing to reach a wider public. Marisa was amazed at the way he seemed to thrive on hard work. Robert was now capable of writing twelve hours or more at a stretch, locking himself up alone in his apartment and refusing to answer the telephone or doorbell until he’d finished as much as thirty-thousand words.

He’d found an aggressive agent, who on the basis of an outline and two chapters had negotiated a six-figure advance for the book Robert had started immediately after returning from England with Marisa. The agent, whom Marisa found cold and intimidating, was a bony-faced Russian woman with reptilian eyes and a talent for legally extorting money.

Robert’s book had gone to a reprint house for over $800,000. A book club sale, first-serialization rights, and foreign rights were to bring Robert a half million dollars, with an equal amount from a film version. The reptilian-looking Russian had added a series of bonus and escalator clauses to all contracts, which caused Marisa to wonder if even the Mafia could take her on and survive.

Prodded by the Russian, Robert’s publisher had arranged a ten-city tour, with hefty advertising. The Russian, whose age was somewhere between seventy and the grave, used her jewel-studded cigarette holder as a baton while coaching Robert in what to say during his interviews. Marisa had observed that Robert, who usually took advice from no one, listened carefully to the Russian and did as she ordered. He refused to make a move without consulting her and, as far as Marisa knew, he’d never once argued with or abused the old woman, something he’d done to every other agent he’d ever had.

In front of the French restaurant, Marisa stepped from the cab and looked around. She didn’t see the fat boy, nor had she seen him in front of the studio when she’d left. Maybe he’d decided to leave her alone.

Even as she thought it, she didn’t believe it. As she walked to the restaurant she thought of Joseph Bess and wondered if she’d ever know exactly what he thought of her. The man kept most of himself under lock and key, permitting only an occasional and very quick peek at the real Joseph Bess. Did he think she was crazy? Did he think she was going through a change of life? What
did
Joseph Bess think of her?

Today at the studio he’d offered his help. Had he really meant it?

Inside the restaurant, the maître d’ and two captains greeted her effusively and there were the usual stares and whispers of recognition from patrons. In a place like this it was unlikely that anyone would ask for an autograph, but Marisa needed the reassurance of knowing that there were people in the world who admired her, who thought she was important, who didn’t want to kill her.

Leaving a captain at the front desk, the maître d’ himself insisted on escorting Marisa to Robert’s table, with one captain following her. The maître d’ beamed, bowed, and told her how much he enjoyed watching her on the show, adding that she was free to drop by for a drink anytime. As his guest, of course. Marisa half smiled and handled the polite pass by ignoring it.

Robert wasn’t alone.

The woman with him was young and beautiful, with the perfect chic-thin body for the designer clothes she wore. Her reddish-blond hair fell to the middle of her back and the men at nearby tables lifted their eyes from salads and fish to stare long and hard at her. Robert, with a newly found self-assurance that was beginning to disturb Marisa, removed his hand from the woman’s wrist. His introduction of Miss Designer Clothes struck Marisa as excessively casual:

“Alison Sales, Marisa Heggen. Marisa Heggen, Alison Sales.”

Alison’s smile was quick and lasted only until she turned her head away to blow a jet of pale blue smoke at a passing dessert trolley. When she turned back to look at Marisa, the smile was again in place. Alison smoked long, thin black cigarettes and was the most beautiful woman Marisa had ever seen. Marisa wondered if the maître d’ had invited her to drop by for a drink anytime. As his guest, of course.

“I’m a fan,” said Alison in a husky voice. “You’re the kind of actress I’d like to be. And let me assure you, my standards are quite high.”

You and I haven’t a chance in the world of cuddling up close,
thought Marisa, who smiled and said, “Compliments just make my day. Thank you so much for those kind words.”

She waited for Robert to explain Alison, something he didn’t appear to be in a hurry to do.

Robert looked at the maître d’ “Miss Heggen will have white wine and we’ll have two more margaritas. We’ll also have the menus now.”

Margaritas. Another new addition to the life and growing legend of Robert Seldes. Until recently white wine had also been his drink.

The maître d’ bowed lower than he had all evening. “As you wish, Mr. Seldes.”

Raising an arm high overhead, the maître d’ snapped manicured fingers and a waiter carrying three large menus covered in red velvet was suddenly standing at Robert’s elbow. A captain whispered the drink order to another waiter, who spun and scurried between tables as if on his way to report a cash shortage not of his making.

Marisa folded her hands on a tablecloth sprinkled with embroidered fleurs-de-lys and waited for Robert to explain the uninvited Alison Sales.

“I won’t be staying,” said Alison. “Robert and I have just about finished going over his new publicity schedule.”

Robert’s eyes darted from Alison to Marisa. “Alison works for my publisher. She’s handling the publicity for my book. She’s set a couple of phone interviews for tomorrow, before I fly back to California tomorrow night on the red eye. Tonight’s the only time she and I could get together.”

Marisa almost said
You never told me you were leaving town again.
Instead she reached for a breadstick and broke it in half, offering the smaller half to Alison, who shook her head, patting her flat stomach in explanation.

As the drinks were being distributed Robert said, “The producer wants a script conference on the book before I get into the screenplay and he also wants to talk to me about an original idea of his. He’s paying my way out there first class and back and says I’ll have a chauffeur and limousine twenty-four hours a day. Like the man says, rich or poor, it’s nice to have money.”