Long, Lean, and Lethal

  “A man called you?”

  “I don’t know if it was a man or a woman—it was a whisperer.” Her lips were pursed, and he felt horrible. She was shaking violently.

  “Abby, I’ve got to call Edgar. We’ve got to get you some medication—”

  “I shake, Conar, it’s part of the disease. I shake a lot, and I shake wildly. Why do you think I’ve hidden myself away like this?”

  “But, Abby, you don’t need to hide from me. I love you as if you were my mother, you know that.”

  “Then … believe in me, Conar,” she pleaded.

  “But you’ve just told me that the people in the walls talk to you when you’re on medication. Maybe, just maybe, the people in the walls whisper things that you heard during the day, they play on your subconscious—”

  “Conar Markham!” she interrupted furiously.

  He fell silent, staring at her. “Abby?”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he cross-queried softly.

  “Maybe, the people in the walls do whisper,” she said tartly. Then she leaned toward him. “But they don’t write notes!”

  “Notes?”

  “Yes, notes, letters, actually! Postmarked from downtown L.A. The people in the walls do not write letters, Conar Markham.”

  “Letters that say …,” he prodded.

  Then he was startled, for she was very still for a moment.

  Her voice was an even whisper: “‘Jennifer Connolly is going to die.’”

  “Abby! Did you call the police? If you received a letter, you need to show it to the police.”

  “No!”

  She lowered her eyes. Her head was bobbing more severely now. Conar knotted his hands into fists, wanting to help her somehow, but also needing to understand her fear. Was any of this real?

  “Abby, the letter can—”

  She looked up at him. “The letter is gone.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “No, no, you don’t see at all! You’re patronizing me, which is what Joe Penny did, and Edgar, and even that wretched policeman when I did call him. I … I …”

  She broke off suddenly, trying to moisten her lips.

  He leapt up. “Edgar!” he shouted.

  Abby reached out; clenched his hand. “No—”

  “Abby! You’re choking, you have to have some medication.”

  “Then the people … the people in the walls will talk. You won’t believe me.”

  “Abby, we can talk more later. When you’ve rested, when you’re feeling a bit better.”

  Edgar was coming. Abby nodded and lowered her head.

  “It was stolen, you see,” she managed to whisper softly. She looked up at him again. “It was stolen right out of my purse before I could do anything about it.”

  Chapter 3

  FRIDAY WAS SUPPOSED TO have been his day off. He’d been looking forward to the long weekend, earned after a brutal year of endless workweeks with no such thing as overtime. Well, it went with the territory.

  Still, he knew as the phone rang, somehow, that he was in trouble.

  He looked out to his driveway. His Jeep was there—already loaded. Fishing poles, ice chest, camping gear. One of the things he’d always loved about L.A. It was possible to go from the city to the wilderness in a couple of hours.

  He answered the phone.

  “Liam!”

  “Yeah. Cap?” he acknowledged.

  “Thank God I caught you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a murder.”

  They had lots of murders. It was L.A. County. They also had lots of homicide cops, though he was well aware that Captain Rigger liked to put him on the high-profile cases.

  And too often witnesses walked over footprints; even the uniformed officer who was often first on the scene sometimes destroyed more evidence than he preserved.

  Liam Murphy had been a cop for ten years. Straight out of college, against the wishes of his parents, who had expected him to go on to law school, he had joined the force. When he’d done enough years, he applied for detective, and he’d been working in homicide ever since.

  He stared at the Jeep longingly for a moment, then turned away. He was good at what he did. So good that his personal relationships had fallen by the wayside for most of his adult life. His dates tended to be irritated when he was drawn from bed to the morgue.

  “Liam, I know you had the long weekend, but—”

  “Who was it?”

  “Brenda Lopez.”

  Liam grimaced at the receiver. Brenda Lopez was one of the hottest young stars on the Hollywood scene. This would be front-page news across the country. It was a case that would make LAPD look bad if it wasn’t solved.

  “She was found nude, tossed down Laurel Canyon.”

  “She wasn’t killed there?”

  “No, according to the preliminary from the M.E. She’s pretty badly cut up, and there’s not enough blood in the area for it to have happened there.”

  “Who gave the ID?”

  “Her face was barely bruised. Every cop there knew who she was, instantly.” He was quiet for a moment. “Anyway, get on down to the scene, would you? Rick Taylor is already down there.”

  “All right. Is the information out to the media yet?”

  “The vultures showed up almost before we did.” said the captain. “This is an ugly one, Liam. You can just imagine the media pressure we’re going to face. We have to find this killer, and quickly.”

  “Yeah.” There was a slightly bitter twist to his voice. Lopez had been rich and famous, so they had to find her killer fast. What about the rest of the poor bastards killed in L.A.? Many of them would return to ashes and dust without justice ever being done.

  “I’ll head right down there,” he said.

  He quickly changed his clothing.

  He didn’t bother to remove his fishing gear from his vehicle.

  It was a beautiful day. The sun was up, but it wasn’t too hot. California could be so beautiful, the hills, the mountain, and the valleys.

  Brenda Lopez’s body hadn’t been the first to be discovered in Laurel Canyon.

  It wouldn’t be the last.

  “Cut!” Jim Novac called at last. At long last. Friday afternoon, not so late, but it felt like midnight.

  With a huge smile across his friendly, broad features, Jim strode across the room toward his actors, applauding.

  “Perfect children, you were wonderful.”

  “Hey, how about my camera angles?” Roger Crypton, head cameraman, asked Jim.

  “Oh, yeah, brilliant, you were brilliant.”

  “And I slipped in and out of that room like a real shadow!” Niall Myers, a young prop man, said with a wry grin.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, kid. Give a prop guy a job as a stand-in and suddenly he wants an Emmy,” Jim moaned.

  Niall grimaced to Jennifer. “He forgets I had a life and career before I came here.”

  “A life? A career? Kid, you’re twenty-two years old, barely out of diapers,” Jim said. “And while we’re at it, pick up your props, get busy, it’s a holiday weekend, let’s all get the hell out of here! Oh, by the way, Jennifer, I guess we’ll all see each other at your party tomorrow night?”

  “Maybe she should just announce it in Variety,” Serena murmured dryly.

  Jim didn’t seem to notice. “It’s going to be a really big shindig, huh?”

  “Not so big,” Jennifer said. “It’s really just us. And whoever my mother decides to invite. It is her house.”

  “Is she up to a party?” Jim asked.

  She hadn’t shared much about her mother’s illness with anyone, but they all knew she was sick. The entire world knew that Abby Sawyer was sick.

  “I guess. If she isn’t, we’ll just have to cancel,” Jennifer said innocently. She caught Serena’s gaze. Serena winked.

  “Oh,” Jim said lamely.

  And he seemed so dejected she that she fo
und herself saying, “I’m sure that my mother is going to be all right.”

  “I’ve never been in the Granger place,” Jim said, awed.

  She hadn’t heard her director sound awed very often. It was just a house. They were all being ridiculous.

  “Well, you’ll be there tomorrow night,” Jennifer said lightly. “Jim, will you excuse me? I’m freezing in the air-conditioning here.” She indicated her almost-clothing.

  “Oh, sure, of course, of course!” Jim said.

  And she smiled, and turned, and walked away from them all. And she did manage to walk, even though she felt like running.

  Conar was deeply concerned about Abby.

  By the time Edgar had taken her in for her medicine, she had been shaking with a vengeance. There had to be something that could be done. Abby was relatively young. Despite her discomfort, she had fought the idea of taking her medicine. She “saw things” once she took it. And she knew that she lost her credibility.

  He thought about Abby the entire time he drove her Mercedes XL down to Sunset Boulevard. He was due to meet with Joe Penny, Valentine Valley’s executive producer, at Mirabella—away from the soap set.

  Abby was much, much worse than she’d been last time he’d seen her.

  He knew there were treatments that might help her. They involved surgery. Scary surgery. He didn’t know exactly where Abby stood on that subject, but it was worth looking into. He made a mental note to discuss it with Jennifer—whether Jennifer wanted to discuss it or not.

  On Sunset Boulevard, he miraculously found street parking and walked into the restaurant. The hostess recognized him, but the hostess saw lots of actors and actresses. Her eyes widened, then she composed herself. “Mr. Markham, Mr. Penny is here. He said to watch out for you.”

  As he neared the table, he saw Joe Penny. At fifty, Joe had a dignified look that somewhat contrasted with his occasionally—what Abby called—smarmy manner. Joe had power, and he liked to use it. His hair was forever perfectly colored—an ash blond that defied gray. He paid a lot for the color. He worked out daily, and he’d invested in a bit of surgery. He looked mature but far younger than his years. His eyes were large and dark, his chin was aggressively squared, and he had an aura of confidence and power about him. Conar liked him—he tended to be completely honest about his manipulations and his many vices.

  Joe gave Conar a quick embrace, then drew back. “Don’t want to draw too much attention to my star of the hour when he’s trying to lay low,” Joe said.

  Bullshit.

  Joe thought it a major coup that he had lured Conar back for a soap opera. And he wanted all the attention he could get.

  “Sure,” Conar said dryly. He took his seat; Joe did the same. Joe lifted his hands in a would-you-believe-it gesture, then dropped them. He shook his head. “Would you believe it? I’ve really got you. You’re here, you’re in Hollywood, you’re going to do my soap.”

  “Joe, for what you’ve paid me, you could have had any actor out there.”

  “Did I pay you too much?”

  “Frankly … maybe.” Joe looked entirely deflated. “Well, hell, no,” Conar lied.

  “I paid what Abby said I’d have to pay.”

  “Are you all right with it?” Conar asked.

  “Sure. It’s what Abby said would lure you back.”

  Abby had lured him back.

  “Well, good. I’m glad you’re fine with what you’re paying me—I’m not giving it back.”

  “You mean, I could have gotten you for less?”

  “Hell, yes!” Conar grinned.

  Their waitress came by. She was about twenty-one, slim with big breasts, blond with huge blue eyes. “Were you ready for the Dom Perignon, Mr. Penny?” she asked sweetly.

  Conar stared at Joe. Joe shrugged sheepishly. “Conar, meet Dawn. Dawn, Conar.”

  “Oh, I know who Mr. Markham is,” Dawn cooed.

  He nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Joe asked him.

  He nodded again. Sure. Most women in Hollywood were beautiful. If they weren’t, they bought beauty. Even a certain amount of youth was for sale.

  “She’s an actress,” Joe said.

  “An actress. Imagine that.” How was it possible that neither of them seemed to notice his sarcasm?

  “She could play a waitress in the show.”

  “I’m sure she could.”

  Dawn smiled brilliantly, showing pearly white teeth.

  “Sure, honey, get the champagne now,” Joe said.

  She walked away. “Isn’t she something?” Joe asked.

  “Sure.” He wondered suddenly what got into him. “You fucking her?”

  “Hell, Markham—” Joe began. He shrugged. “Yeah. But what does that matter? She would make a good waitress on the show.”

  “Hey,” Conar said with a shrug, “what do I care?”

  “Yeah, well … you know, Conar, you are going to be so glad that you agreed to come on board. We are going in such different directions. I mean, we are really getting mainstream. I have the plot twisting and turning so much your head will spin.”

  “My head will spin. Are we doing a repeat of The Exorcist?” he queried lightly.

  Joe took him seriously. He shook his head. “No, no, but we are going after the old masters. Some of them so old that the new generation doesn’t really remember just how great things once were.”

  “What are you trying to say, Joe?”

  Joe leaned closer. “The best. The very best.”

  He sat straight again. Dawn was returning with the champagne. “And I special ordered this, too. A really exceptional bottle, even for Dom Perignon.”

  “You could have just bought me a beer,” Conar said.

  “Hell, no—you’re my brightest and my best.”

  Dawn opened the champagne and Joe tasted. She poured. With her pearly white smile ever in place, she set the bottle on ice and left them.

  Joe leaned forward again. His eyes were bright. “Hitchcock!” he said with a flourish.

  Conar stared at him. “Hitchcock?”

  “Suspense. We’re going for the master of suspense.”

  “I thought we wanted good old daytime smut.”

  “Really, Conar.”

  “No slur intended—I’m here, aren’t I? But we reflect life, right—maybe in an exaggerated sort of way.”

  “And life is full of suspense.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “The shower scene.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Hitchcock’s most famous. We’re going to recreate it.”

  “For a soap?”

  “Hitchcock is an issue? Conar, we do marriage, and marital breakups. We do sex.”

  “Daily.”

  “Most people have sex—”

  “Maybe most people wish to hell that they did have sex daily.”

  “Right. And we feed the fantasy.”

  “Joe—”

  “But life is scary these days.”

  “Life has always been scary.”

  “I grant you that. But our audience wanted affairs; we gave them affairs. They wanted travel; we gave them travel. They wanted divorce, mixed families, unwed mothers—we gave them what they wanted. Now they’re even more sophisticated. They want more and more.”

  “They want …”

  “Suspense!”

  “Joe, it’s not like that would be new.”

  “There are no new stories, just new ways to tell them,” Joe said by rote.

  “All right, I’ll give you that, but—”

  “No one knows. We’ve kept the plot a deep dark secret.”

  “So—”

  “You’ve got to promise to keep a secret as well.”

  “Joe, you know if you’ve asked me not to say anything—”

  “Right. So …”

  “So?”

  “The shower scene!”

  “The—”

  Conar started to repeat Joe’s words. He ne
ver got a chance. The young hostess suddenly rushed over to them, visibly upset.

  “Oh, my God! Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Joe asked quickly.

  “She’s dead!” the hostess said.

  “What?” Joe said.

  “Who?” Conar demanded with a deepening frown. Abby! he thought, his heart trembling.

  “Brenda Lopez! Brenda Lopez!” the young girl said. “Murdered!” she cried. She stared at them both. “She was found in Laurel Canyon … dead.”

  “Dead—how?” Joe persisted, wanting more detail, his voice gravelly.

  “Slashed to death, and thrown from a cliff!” the hostess told them. “Oh, my God!” Then, wide-eyed, she walked away.

  “Hell,” Joe Penny said, shaking his head. “Brenda Lopez.”

  “What a shame. She was a smart, beautiful young woman,” Conar said.

  “Smart?” Joe shook his head. “Smart, hell. She went and got herself killed. She was a bitch who didn’t care where she made enemies.”

  “She was aggressive,” Conar agreed. “Ambitious, but—”

  Joe wasn’t listening. He was still shaking his head. “Shit! Slit to ribbons, and thrown into the canyon.” He shook his head again, gritting his teeth this time, then stared at Conar. “I will not let this ruin my plot line. I will not!”

  Conar lifted his drink. “Well, of course not. Life—and death—have to have their priorities, don’t they?”

  Joe stared at him. “You’re mocking me, Conar.” He swallowed his champagne. “Why would I mock you, Joe?”

  Fifteen minutes after the last take, Jennifer was out of makeup. Standing and putting the last of her personal makeup back in her purse, she cringed at the sound of a tap at her door. Shaking her head, she reminded herself that she had already invited everyone here to her mother’s house tomorrow night—or rather, they had invited themselves, and she had agreed.

  “Jennifer, you still in there?”

  It was Serena. Jennifer felt her tension ease. “I’m here, come on in.”

  Serena swept in, smiling ruefully. “You know, if you really don’t want people at Granger House tomorrow night, I can put a stop to this now,” she said. She slid into the makeup chair in front of Jennifer’s mirror, shaking her head as she gazed at her reflection. “Isn’t it pathetic? I could feel that pimple growing when we were standing under the lights. Seriously, I could just feel it taking root and shape and substance as we finished the last take. The indignity of it. I always thought that my skin would be clear when it became a wrinkle exchange. I don’t know whether to buy acne medicine or age-defying moisturizer.”