Two Down
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
TWO DOWN
A
Berkley Prime Crime
Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2000
by
Nero Blanc
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN:
1-101-19191-0
A
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
BOOK®
Berkley Prime Crime
Books first published by The Berkley Prime Crime Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
and the “
B
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): September 2001
Dedicated to
Blake Hawkins
and
Bill Herndon
Friends and mentors of the highest order
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Two Down
would not have been possible without the
generous contributions of
Lt. Matthew J. Gimple & C.W.O. Bob Booth of the
United States Coast Guard Cutter
Sturgeon Bay,
and
Dick Hale of Pirate’s Cove Marina, Fishers Island,
New York.
“W
here’s Jamaica?”
The question was posed by a self-confident male voice, and it raced upward to the second floor of the Pepper home by way of a curving staircase dominated by a spacious Palladian window. All the trappings of wealth and power appeared framed by this window: the manicured gardens grown dusky silver in autumn’s evening light, the impeccable view of the Massachusetts coast, the sculpted trees and marble benches arranged artfully beside a reflecting pool. No lesser house, no distant light or neighborly noise disturbed this perfect scene.
The question was repeated. The male voice had become more insistent.
A woman responded from the second-floor master suite. “In the Caribbean where it’s always been.” There was an edginess to the tone that could have indicated either anxiety or anger, but it was quickly supplanted by a
conciliatory: “Sorry, darling, I just couldn’t resist. Jamaica must be still dressing . . . You know how we women are . . .”
“Indeed I do!” The first voice reverberated with smug robustness. “You wear half the clothes we males are forced to don for these events—and you still take twice as long.”
“I thought you said we had plenty of time . . .” Although still attempting humor, the timbre had turned crisp.
“We did before you two started staring into your closets . . .”
“But cocktails don’t begin until seven-thirty—”
“Do you want to arrive at the same moment as every other guest and wait in an interminable line at the entry gate? You know what it’s like getting into the club for this party . . .”
“I’m not going to be rushed . . . And you know Jamaica won’t be . . .”
The words continued to collide mid-landing and mid-step caroming across the antique Persian carpet, the elegant English landscape paintings, the crystal sconces with their rose silk shades, and the chandelier that hung in their midst like a gigantic, multifaceted diamond.
In a chintz-swagged guest room, the person who had inspired this domestic unease smiled as she walked toward her half-open door. “I’ll be down in five, dear ones,” she sang out in a rich contralto, “ten minutes at the very most . . . Don’t squabble now, darlings; you’re my best friends in the entire universe, and we’re going to have a perfectly glorious evening.”
She smiled again, then caught her reflection in the mirror. For a split second the radiant expression froze, transforming itself into something neither pleasant nor happy. Then, as rapidly, the speaker resumed her buoyant facade and tone. “You don’t know how much good it does me to
be here with you both. I feel positively reborn. I’ll never miss Los Angeles. Never. Never!”
“Say that after you experience one of our New England winters, Jamaica,” the man’s voice called back.
“Nothing you say can scare me. I’m here to stay. A new life. A new me!”
Jamaica Nevisson—or Cassandra Lovett, as she was better known to a legion of adoring fans addicted to the daytime drama
Crescent Heights
—had spent thirteen years in the City of Angels creating, inhabiting, and eventually becoming the raven-haired, emerald-eyed, conniving
femme fatale
of the show. Jamaica had been wearing Cassandra’s jet-black wig and emerald-tinted contact lenses so long she’d almost forgotten what she looked like without them.
“I really should thank my lucky stars for that odious photographer,” she continued. “I needed a catalyst. I needed to reexamine my priorities!”
“No more disembodied chat, Jamaica.” The man called up the stairs again. “I have some very good champagne sitting in ice down here. Two more minutes alone, and I’ll be forced to pop the cork.”
“Aye aye, sir,” was Jamaica’s amused response. No sound came from the master suite.
Jamaica finished dressing by pushing a strand of her own short, sandy-brown locks beneath “Cassandra’s” black wig. She shook her head slightly, giving the false hair a totally natural appearance, then strolled to a Louis XV dressing table surmounted by a matching mirror. “Forty-five,” she murmured. “Almost forty-six.” It wasn’t a joyful sound.
She smoothed the flesh-colored lines of a skintight, floor-length sheath that had been constructed to appear as
if only the random pattern of sequins concealed her body’s secrets. From five feet away, Jamaica Nevisson might have been wearing nothing more than a sparse and shiny bouquet. Then she applied a final coat of black mascara to her pale brown lashes, outlined her lips in the dense, carmine color for which “Cassandra Lovett” was famed. While working, she tossed around the words she’d heard moments before: “Where’s Jamaica?”, and her serene expression darkened into an angry glare.
How many times had some wandering-palmed director or overweight stage manager mangled the same phrase? How many predawn hours had she endured, dragging herself to that wretched studio in the godforsaken San Fernando Valley only to be greeted by a bevy of backbiting scriptwriters armed with
clever
quips about the stupidity of actors and the brilliance of their own art? And how many evenings had she finished taping at eight, or even nine o’clock at night—only to find twenty pages of new dialogue shoved toward her weary chest with a dismissive: “Let’s try to get it right tomorrow, huh, babe? For a change—
Cassie, babe
?”
Jamaica glowered at the mirror, shook her raven hair again, and attempted a more winsome pose, but her wrathful expression seemed permanently stuck. Embittered, middle-aged female, it all but shrieked. Stalled career, no permanent relationship, no true and loving home.
Jamaica’s shoulders sagged, and her back, always held so proud and straight—and youthful—drooped in despair. Forty-five, she thought again, with all the wrinkles, lines, and blotchy skin to show it. Forty-five in an industry where twenty was considered “seasoned.”
When had her age begun to betray her? she wondered, although she already knew the answer. It had been when one particular
paparazzo
had decided to make her his
moving target. Catching “Cassandra Lovett” with her proverbial pants down had become his obsession. Jamaica hadn’t been able to shop at Neiman’s or dine in a Santa Monica bistro without encountering this demon with a Leica. She hadn’t been able to approach her home in Holmby Hills without finding him encamped by the gates—or lurking in the neighbor’s bougainvillea—waiting for her to take her daily swim, then squeezing off a roll that had ended up as
CASSANDRA BARES ALL
according to
The Hollywood Globe
’s salacious headline.
Reggie Flack was the cretin’s name. On retainer with
The Hollywood Globe,
his main assignment was to photograph Jamaica Nevisson in poses as revealing—and unkind—as possible. He’d stalked her obsessively, taking perverse pleasure in affixing bitingly sarcastic theatrical quotations to each published photo.
The last straw had come several weeks earlier. Jamaica had sailed to Catalina Island on her Oceanis 352 with an “unidentified male friend”—as
The Hollywood Globe
later trumpeted—and had opted to take advantage of a supposedly secluded cove for a topless frolic. How Flack had discovered the outing, she didn’t know, but he’d followed the pair to the island, scaled a cactus-infested hillside, and managed to snap a good many unflattering photos, all of which appeared in a full-color center spread under the caption:
The Island of Jamaica—“the Bounded Waters Should Lift Their Bosoms Higher Than the Shores.”
On the day the photo spread had appeared, Jamaica had marched bravely into the studio. She’d been determined to ignore the wretched press, but Phil Carney, the foulmouthed actor who played the show’s patriarch, had goaded her unmercifully. “Philly” took delight in torturing the female performers, extras and leads alike, with a daily
torrent of off-color comments—behavior the studio greeted with deaf ears.
His lewd remarks about Flack’s photographs had pushed Jamaica over the edge. She’d slapped him across the face, stormed into the production office, told the head honcho to “take this job and shove it up your expletive deleted!”, and slammed back to her dressing room. From there, she’d placed a call to her longtime friend Genevieve Pepper in Newcastle, Massachusetts.
“Come back east!” Genie had laughed in response to her friend’s woeful phone call. “We have plenty of room, and you know Tom adores having you visit . . . Besides, there’s the Commodores’ dinner dance at the Yacht Club on October first. You can shake up the musty old place, and find some fabulous guy with scads of money! . . . After that, you and I can charter a boat . . . sail to Nantucket . . . You’ll forget California ever existed . . . And, yes, Jamaica, the guest rooms
are
equipped with Jacuzzis and steam showers . . . We’re not as primitive in Massachusetts as you might imagine . . .”
Now, as she sat safely in one of those peaceful guest suites, there was no question in Jamaica’s mind that leaving
Crescent Heights
was the smartest thing she’d ever done.
Jamaica gave herself another wink, unconsciously replicating Cassandra’s come-hither look, then scooped up her ermine stole from the settee, sailed down the stairway, and stepped into the Peppers’ baronial living room.
“Ahhh . . . There she is. And, looking as luscious as ever . . . You’re going to knock their socks off, Jamaica!”
Compliments came easily to Edison Pepper, or “Tom,” as he was known to both the elite and humble of the city of Newcastle. Late forties with an athletic six-foot-four
frame, eyes the color of sun-spattered steel, and perfectly tousled graying hair, Pepper had risen from humble origins to become a phenomenally successful investment banker whose newest venture, Global Outreach and Lender Development Fund, was proving an extraordinary boon to Newcastle’s not-for-profit institutions.
Investing their endowment capital with the G.O.L.D. Fund permitted the organizations an enormous return on their money. Everyone from the local historical society to the hospital’s new multimillion-dollar children’s wing was benefiting handily. With his easy charm and manicured good looks—accentuated this evening by a hand-tailored dinner jacket, watered-silk bow tie, and hefty diamond studs—Edison “Tom” Pepper, was Newcastle’s hero.
“It’s hard to believe you could look more lovely in person than you did on the set of
Crescent Heights,
but it’s true. You’re making my knees knock.” Tom gave Jamaica a light kiss on the cheek and again called upstairs to his wife, “Genie, Jamaica won the battle . . . I’m off to the conservatory to fetch that bottle of champagne.” He glanced at Jamaica. The smile he gave her was dazzling. “Why not? My driver is chauffeuring us tonight.”
Genie entered the living room at the precise moment Tom was exiting. Although she was easily five years younger than Jamaica, it took only one glance at Tom to make her realize how potent were her friend’s charms. “Two Peppers and one Nevisson, as per your request, sire,” Genie said as she tossed her lithe body on a Sheraton sofa whose gold satin upholstery matched the color of her ball gown. Then she raised her voice and called toward the conservatory: “And I defy you to say I’m late.”
“I didn’t want us to miss the champagne,” her husband’s distant words replied.
“Thanks to your careful advance planning, we won’t.”
“Let’s make this a festive affair, Genie,” he called back. “Please.”
The tone had a finality that made Genie grimace—a reaction she tried to hide by adding a quick, dismissive laugh. “I was going to say that if you don’t walk away with a husband tonight, the men in this city need to have their heads examined . . . but now I’m not so certain a stuffy Yankee spouse is what you need.”
“Who said I was in the market for a mate?”
“Ah, ‘my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?’ ” Genie laughed more freely, all tension suddenly gone. “You were marvelous as Beatrice in
Much Ado
. . . When was that? Three years ago? Four?”
Jamaica sidestepped the issue of years, instead answering with an airy: “ ‘Done to death by slanderous tongues . . . ’ ”
“That’s not true! You got fabulous reviews. Even in New York.”
“And you, Genevieve, should never have left the stage.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but that was a long, long time ago.”
Jamaica forced a smile. “Don’t remind me . . . A youthful summer playing everything from Shakespeare to O’Neill—”
“And who was always cast as a lead?”
“Supporting players are just as important as the show’s star.”
Genie grinned. “But they don’t get offers from Hollywood studios . . . Anyway, you look absolutely stunning. I wish I could get away with wearing risqué evening gowns, but Tom is always harping about ‘appropriate dress’ . . . I’m afraid I’m in serious danger of becoming a dowdy old wife.”
Jamaica managed another thin smile. “You, old? Never.”
“Next year, I’ll be pushing forty.”
“My heart bleeds.”
The explosive sound of the champagne cork interrupted them.
“The dowdy woman’s husband doth call,” Jamaica said.
“I’m so glad you decided to leave L.A.,” Genie answered as they crossed the marble foyer to join Tom. Their high satin heels clicked over the polished stone. “. . . happy you called us . . .”