Video Kill (7 page)

Tammara walked down the circular stairway, wondering if she was dreaming. It seemed to take hours to get to the bottom, walk through the hallway, and let herself out the back door.

The grass was wet with night dew, and Tammara felt the moisture seep into the soles of her moccasins as she made her way in what seemed like slow motion across the huge lawn.

The night was quiet, still and peaceful. Not even a dog barked in the distance. The air smelled tantalizingly fresh, much different from the smog of the daytime, and best of all, there was a perceptible chill in the air. Tammara could almost believe that autumn, with its brilliantly colored leaves and cold north winds, was right around the corner.

The water tumbled and roared in the distance, and Tammara walked slowly around the house to the east lawn. The stars wheeled crazily above her, but at last she was there.

Tammara's breath caught in her throat as she saw the Tunnel of Love. The brightly painted boats were circling endlessly, at evenly paced intervals. Red, blue, yellow, over and over again. There was something terribly sad about watching them, but her mind was too foggy to think of the reason.

As she stood, wavering slightly at the edge of the water, she found herself longing to climb inside. She would lean back against the cushioned seat and trail her fingers in the cool, moon-drenched water until the tips of them tingled deliciously.

The little boats stopped, as if they could read her mind, and a man dressed in black seemed to materialize beside her. Now she knew she was dreaming. He bent from the waist in a courtly, old-world bow and held out his hand.

Tammara moved closer to take the man's hand and he helped her into the boat. There was a video camera clamped to his side, and it jarred her briefly but she quickly dismissed it. Of course there was a camera in her dream. She was an actress. She turned to look directly into the lens and curved her lips in her most inviting smile.

The man, her dream man, climbed in beside her, and the little boats started again. Tammara had the urge to ask who he was, but she didn't want her voice to shatter the fragile shell of her illusion. Instead, she leaned toward her companion, peering intently into his shadowed eyes as the boat carried them steadily toward the tunnel. He was wearing some sort of hood. Only his eyes were visible through the slits. Was it the hood of a falcon? No, that wasn't quite right. A hood like this had been paired with a costume on the racks at the studio. But what kind of a costume?

The boat entered the tunnel, and Tammara found herself in total darkness. She huddled a little closer to the man as her dream began to take on ominous overtones. Now the pulsing hum of the machinery had turned into something frightening, something uncontrollable, like the heartbeat of some predatory, mechanical beast.

There was a bright pinpoint of light, and Tammara's eyes dilated as she stared into the flame of a silver lighter. At that exact instant her numbed mind dredged out the memory that had eluded her. The hood had been hanging with an executioner's costume. This was not a good dream. She had to wake up.

Tammara cried out sharply in terror as the executioner moved toward her. She heard her scream echo off the walls of the tunnel, but the dream didn't disappear. There was no reassuring burst of light as she reached out in panic to turn on her bedside lamp. There was only the icy shock of the water as her fingers brushed its surface.

Tammara tried to scream again as her groggy mind reeled in terror.

And then executioner's hands were around her neck, strong fingers squeezing, bruising her tender skin. Tammara's glasses slid off, and she heard them clatter as she kicked out with all of her strength. The same padded cushion that had cradled her moments ago now served to smother her pitiful defenses as the executioner's fingers tightened into bands of fiery pain. And then the darkness of the tunnel rolled back to reveal the deeper blackness that claimed her.

6

 

Oliver “Sam” Ladera stood on the crest of the east lawn and watched his men scurry back and forth below. A violent murder. A beautiful actress. And Sam was willing to bet a week's salary that they'd run into the same brick wall again. He didn't know how it was possible to actually record a murder in progress without leaving some visible clues, but the Video Killer had done it once. And Sam had no doubt that this was a repeat performance.

“Do you want us to dust the switch that controls the boats, Chief?” Zeke Jackson, Sam's young black assistant, tapped him on the sleeve to get his attention.

“Go ahead, Zeke, but I don't think you'll get much. The groundskeeper turned off the boats when he spotted Miss Welles.”

Zeke nodded. “And the Video Killer probably used gloves again, right?”

“Right.”

Sam frowned wearily as Zeke raced off to instruct the fingerprint men. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he felt ten years older than his actual thirty-six. He'd been up since the call had come in shortly after four this morning, and he'd gotten a grand total of five hours' sleep in the past two days. His ex-mother-in-law used to tell him that he looked like Sylvester Stallone when he had dark circles under his eyes, and Sam had gone into a rage every time she'd made the comparison. Sure, he had a cleft in his chin like Stallone's. Lots of people had clefts in their chins. It was also true that he had dark hair and brown eyes, but that's where the resemblance stopped. Sam was six feet tall.

“Chief?” A young female officer held out a steaming cup of coffee. “It's fresh. The housekeeper made it when she came in at seven. She asked to make certain we returned the cups. They're lace porcelain, imported from Europe. That's twenty-four-karat gold around the rim, and the roses on the cups are all painted by hand. I'm pretty sure they're close to a hundred dollars apiece.”

“Thanks, Judy. Would I be up for a sexual harassment charge if I asked you to collect them and take them back when the guys are finished? I could always ask Donovan to do it but . . .”

Judy laughed. “I'll do it, boss. Donovan's got hands like meat hooks. Besides, I want to take another look inside. I might spot something the guys missed.”

Sam sipped the strong brew, not even minding that it had no cream or sugar. It was delicious. Maybe coffee tasted better when you drank it out of a hundred-dollar cup. As he finished the coffee, he looked down and saw his officers standing in tight little groups, handling their coffee cups with the utmost of care. Judy must have warned them. And Donovan, that big Irish oaf, was actually holding his little pinky out in the air.

Sam couldn't help it. He started to shake with repressed laughter. This whole situation was incongruous, L.A.'s finest milling around on this lush, green lawn at the crack of dawn, sipping coffee out of porcelain cups just like they were attending a social function.

Damn, but he missed his ex-wife Katy! His description of Donovan putting on social manners would have driven her into absolute hysterics. A glum expression settled over Sam's face, but it had little to do with the Video Killer. It was missing Katy, not the way she'd been at the end, a desperately unhappy woman who'd wounded him with her sarcasm, but the earlier Katy, the Katy he'd married.

He'd met Katy Brannigan in college. He was there on a scholarship, but he still had to work part-time to earn the money for books and supplies. The student job center had assigned him to the college cafeteria. The day he'd met Katy the menu was a familiar one, rolled turkey roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, grayish-green canned peas, a scoop of stuffing, and ice cream with chocolate sauce and a cherry. Four students helped on the assembly line. Sam had nicknamed them according to function. Knife, Scoop, Ladle, and Plunk. The trays had three compartments, a large one on the bottom for the meat and potatoes and two smaller ones on top for vegetables and dessert.

Sam smiled a little as he relived that day. Everything had gone along like clockwork as the trays were passed from hand to hand. Knife carved the turkey, flopping two slices on each tray. He also added the peas. Scoop put a mound of stuffing on top of the turkey, a ball of mashed potatoes next to it, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the dessert compartment. Ladle poured gravy on the potatoes and fudge sauce on the ice cream. Plunk placed a cherry on top of the ice cream, a paper cup of cranberry sauce next to the turkey, and finished off by plunking a roll on the tray.

Sam was serving as Scoop, and he was preoccupied, thinking about an upcoming test. As a result he inadvertently mixed up the routine. He got the dressing on top of the turkey and the ball of potatoes beside it, but instead of reaching for the vanilla ice cream, he dipped the scoop into the potatoes again and put a big mound in the dessert compartment.

Ladle, who stood next to him, noticed the mix-up and laughed. For the first time Sam looked, really looked, at Ladle. Short. Red hair. Freckles. Cute! She gave him a devilish grin, and as he watched with horrified fascination, she deliberately ladled chocolate sauce on the potatoes in the dessert compartment.

Visions of losing his job and not being able to buy his books for next semester flashed through Sam's head. But, just as he was about to open his mouth to call back the tray, Ladle leaned close to whisper, “Don't say anything. I'll bet you a beer that no one'll notice.”

Sam's mind worked double time. They probably wouldn't fire him over one little mistake. He'd never made one before, and the risk was definitely worth it because suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world was to sit in a booth at the campus pub with the incredibly blue-eyed Ladle. So he nodded. And Ladle grinned as she passed the tray to Plunk, who topped the mashed potato sundae with a bright red maraschino cherry and a sprinkle of nuts and sent it down the conveyor belt to the cashier.

A lush California blonde, the sorority type, who was wearing a swirling skirt topped off by a skintight pink sweater, showed her student I.D. and took possession of the tray. Then she tottered off in incredibly high heels to join her boyfriend, a handsome, clean-cut fraternity type.

“I've seen her before,” Ladle whispered, “and she's always wearing a brand-new sweater. He's just her type except, with him, it's a cashmere sweater. I figure there's an entire flock of goats running around naked because of them.”

“Not flock . . . herd.”

Sam corrected her without thinking, and then he wished he could take back the words. But she didn't seem upset as she stared up at him.

“Herd? Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” Sam nodded. “I'm taking zoology this semester.”

“Okay, I believe you. What's quail?”

She was looking up at him with those twinkling eyes, and Sam's mind went blank for a second.

“Uh . . . covey. A covey of quail.”

“How about fish?”

“School. A school of fish.”

“Lions?”

“Pride.”

“And what's a draft?”

“A draft?”

“Yes, a draft.”

Sam was completely stumped. “I don't know. I've never heard of a draft.”

“It's the kind of beer you're going to buy me tonight. Watch!”

Sam tore himself away from Ladle's blue eyes to find that the sorority girl was just starting her dessert. Couldn't she see that the “ice cream” wasn't melting? Sam held his breath as the spoon she held dipped down and then raised slowly to her bright pink lips. Her mouth opened. The spoon went inside and came out again, clean. Sam was positive that she'd jump up from her chair any second, but she merely batted her eyelashes once at her boyfriend and then swallowed.

“And now . . . for the second taste.”

Ladle's breath puffed out against his ear and Sam shuddered slightly. Ladle seemed very sure of herself, but Sam still couldn't believe his eyes. Surely on the second spoonful the sorority girl would realize that her sundae tasted like potatoes.

The girl laughed at something her boyfriend said, a little tinkle of a laugh, and then her pink lips opened again. No reaction. And again. Still no reaction. After a few minutes of spooning and laughter and chattering, the dessert compartment was empty and the girl and her boyfriend went out through the swinging glass doors.

“Well?”

Ladle looked over at him triumphantly and Sam shrugged.

“You win, but I never thought we'd get away with it.”

“I knew we would,” Ladle said smugly. “My mother makes something she calls Mock Apple Pie. The filling is nothing but soda crackers and spices. Not an apple in it. But if you're expecting apple pie, you taste apple pie.”

That night at the pub Sam had found out that Ladle's name was Katy Brannigan, the oldest of five children in a noisy, good-natured Irish family. He'd also discovered that he liked Katy Brannigan a lot. By the time they entered their senior year, they were inseparable. It all seemed part of a natural progression when they'd married right after graduation and moved into a small apartment. Sam had landed a good job with the L.A. police force, and Katy had gone to work as a stringer for the
Times,
occasionally getting an actual byline. Their troubles hadn't started until Sam had clawed his way up in the ranks to become chief of detectives.

Even though she knew it was unfair, Katy had resented Sam's meteoric rise. After over ten years of slaving away at the
Times,
Katy was still writing obits and recipes. Looking back on it all, Sam guessed he should have seen the warning signs, but he'd been too busy to notice. It had come as a total shock when Katy had asked him for a divorce.

Katy had told him that their marriage was stagnating. She'd talked it over with a couple of women in her awareness group and they'd helped her to understand. She'd moved directly out of her parents' arms to those of her husband's. She'd never had the opportunity to test her own strengths as a single woman. What about college? Sam had asked. That didn't count, Katy'd insisted. College was an artificial environment and she'd lived at home the whole time. And yes, she still loved him, but it was criminal to deny herself the freedom to grow and mature as a person, to be recognized as a respected woman in her own right. As Mrs. Ladera, the wife of the popular Los Angeles chief of detectives, she was a total extension of him.

Sam had argued and pleaded in vain, but nothing he'd said could sway her. Their divorce had gone through last month, and the luxury apartment that had been so warm and cheerful had taken on the feeling of a tomb without her. Sam had tried to cover up his despair by throwing himself into his work, but it felt as if all the joy in his life had been packed up with Katy's clothes. Now, eight months after she'd walked out the door for the last time, he still found himself reaching out in the middle of the long, lonely night to touch her.

His eyes hurt, and Sam reached up to rub them. Perhaps he'd feel better if he could get a good night's sleep, but that prospect was pretty dim right now. And it would be nonexistent when he called in the press for this second murder. He'd just have to learn to function on quick catnaps until the Video Killer was caught. And he'd have to put Katy completely out of his mind.

 

 

It was two minutes past seven in the morning when Alan's assistant had answered the phone in his bedroom. To Alan's relief, she'd sounded brisk and businesslike even though she'd been wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled satin bedroom slippers. Now it was eight-fifteen, and Alan was still sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to Uncle Meyer from Hawaii. By switching the phone from ear to ear, he'd managed to pull on a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Look, Uncle Meyer, I think we ought to go ahead and exercise our option. After all, lightning did strike twice.
Video Kill
is turning out to be one hell of a hot property. Rocca and Nielsen have agreed to write the screenplay to parallel the actual murders, and that makes it more historical than sensational. I just can't see any advantage to waiting any longer.”

Alan lit another cigarette, not noticing the one that was smoldering in the ashtray. He couldn't understand why the old man was dragging his feet. Maybe looking at all those grass skirts had addled his brain.

“No, Uncle Meyer, I can promise you that this won't be a cheap exploitation film. I already told you that Lon Michaels is consulting with us, and you know his reputation for quality.”

His uncle's next question made Alan wince. “No, Uncle Meyer. Lon hasn't actually agreed to sign on, but he's interested. If you give me the go-ahead now, I'm sure I can get him for you.”

“What was that?” Alan held the receiver close to his ear. The connection with Hawaii was worse than usual. “Did you say
sample scenes
?”

There was a pause while his uncle repeated his statement. Alan groaned.

“But we can't
do
that, Uncle Meyer! It's against the Writers' Guild rules. The only way to get scenes from the actual script is to put Rocca and Nielsen under contract.”

There was another long burst of words from the receiver. Alan groaned again.

“I know. I know. That's not the way it used to be, but that's the way it is now. I'm in violation if I even
ask
for a sample scene, and Rocca and Nielsen face a possible expulsion from the guild if they agree. If anyone finds out, Cinescope could be in big trouble. That's not chutzpah, Uncle Meyer, it's insanity!”

There was another rapid burst of conversation from the receiver, and Alan motioned for his assistant. In the past fifteen minutes she'd dressed in one of her tailored suits and she looked strangely incongruous in his bedroom.