He felt himself rise weightless.
Looking down, he saw his body sprawled in the rear of the Jeep.
Marta and Sue unfastened their seatbelts, swung the straps out of the way, and pulled off their shirts. Then, staying seated, they started to remove their shorts.
Neal wanted to stay and watch – a very strange and wonderful view from up here, looking straight down at them as they struggled with their clothes – but he felt guilty. He had a job to do. If he wasted time here, the gals might end up walking into trouble.
Better get a move on.
The mere wish was enough to send him speeding off. He rushed over the top of the brick wall, through the branches of a tree, across the driveway and over the front lawn, then through the front door of the house.
Before he even had a chance to start his search, he spotted a man through a sliding glass door at the other end of the living room.
It has to be him!
The way the man sat, however, Neal could only see his bare legs stretched out on the green pad of a poolside lounge.
Take it easy. Don’t rush in. Wait till you’re sure it’s him.
Wary of entering the man by accident, Neal veered off to the right and passed through the glass wall a good distance away from him. Then he drifted out over the swimming pool and turned around.
The man on the lounge was Vince Conrad, all right.
Neal recognized him from a couple of dozen movies. Early in his career, Vince had played the leading man in a few films that never quite made it. He possessed the handsome features of a lead, but lacked something. Character? In spite of his rugged features and well-toned muscles, there was a simpering weakness to him that couldn’t be disguised. Unfit to be cast as the protagonist, he’d quickly found himself getting steady work as a heavy. For the past decade, he’d been the sly, sleazy villain of nearly every film in which he appeared.
He looked the part now, sprawled on his lounge by the pool wearing sunglasses and a skimpy white Spandex swimsuit, his dark skin gleaming with suntan oil, a cocktail on a tray by his side, a cordless telephone in his hand.
Time’s wasting! Go for it!
Neal plunged into the man.
Whoa! What’s going on here?
Sun-baked, sweaty, mellow, half-tanked and half-erect.
And feeling great. Way too great, Neal thought, for a guy who buried his wife yesterday.
And who’s this on the phone?
‘Just relaxing here by the pool,’ Vince explained. ‘Having meself a cold toddy.’
‘All by your lonesome?’
‘Just lonely me. Mourning the loss of my beloved spouse. Attempting to drown my sorrow.’
‘Shame, shame.’
Though Vince was well-soused, it was the woman on the phone who sounded loopy. She had a breathy drawl as if she were trying to imitate Marilyn Monroe.
Give her half a blink, she’ll start angling to come over, Vince thought. Not today, sweet stuff. ‘I wish you were here, Pamela,’ he said.
‘That might be arranged.’
‘I’d love to have you here. You know that, don’t you? But it’s too soon. What’ll the coppers think if a sweet bit of stuff like you trots over to play?’
‘They aren’t watching your house, are they?’ She sounded appalled.
‘Might be. Might be. One never knows about such things. For that matter, they might be eavesdropping on this very conversation at this very moment.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘They might be. Coppers are a tricky lot.’ Vince grinned, amused by himself.
‘They better not be listening!’ Pamela snapped. ‘Hello? Cops? If you’re listening in on us, you oughta be ashamed – persecuting an innocent man this way. You know good and well he was all the way over in Hawaii. He couldn’t possibly have murdered Elise. Haven’t you ever heard of an “air-tight” alibi? Well, that’s exactly what Vince has. Air-tight. So you shouldn’t be pestering him. Why don’t you just hang up the phone right now and go and fuck yourself!’
Vince chuckled.
What a moronic twit, he thought. Why do I put up with her?
Vince answered his question with the mental image of a tawny woman climbing naked out of his pool, walking toward him. She had sleek black hair cut short like a pixie. She had a tan everywhere.
She looked familiar to Neal. An actress? he wondered. A model? He thought that maybe he’d seen her not long ago on Letterman.
‘How was that?’ she asked.
‘You gave them an admirable piece of your mind,’ Vince told her. A piece you can ill afford to loose, you gorgeous nincompoop.
‘Why should they even care if I come over?’ she asked.
‘It’ll look bad, my sweet. That’s all.’
‘I don’t care. I miss you, Vincent. I miss you so much, I can hardly stand it.’
‘I miss you, too. Every moment. But it won’t do either of us any good if you’re seen . . .’
‘I don’t care. I want to be with you. I don’t care . . .’
‘Perhaps in a few days . . .’
‘I can’t stand this! You didn’t kill her. It isn’t fair that they won’t let you live your own life.’
‘We’ll simply have to keep our passions bridled . . .’
The sound of the doorbell chimes stopped Vince’s voice. He felt a quick flutter of anxiety. ‘I have to hang up, now. Someone’s at the door. I’ll phone you later. Au revoir.’ Without waiting for a response, he thumbed the Power Off switch.
He swung his legs off the lounge and slipped his feet into a pair of flip-flops.
Who the fuck? Cops or reporters. Bastard fucks, why don’t they leave me alone?
He set the phone on the tray. Then he stood up.
Don’t they know I’m in mourning?
He picked up his slippery, cold glass and took a sip.
Vodka and tonic.
It tasted to Neal exactly like the drinks he’d had with Elise.
He felt a sudden ache of loss.
My ache or his? he wondered.
Must be mine.
Because Vince, walking toward the nearest glass door, seemed to be thinking of other matters.
I’m not exactly decent. He gazed at the front of his white swimsuit. Look at that boner. I should put something on. No telling who’ll be at the door. Homicide dicks? A crew from Hard Copy?
Chuckling, he rolled open the door and stepped into the living room. The air inside felt cool on his hot, sweaty body. The swimsuit was clinging to him like a rag of clammy skin.
Fine just the way I am. If they don’t want a peek at Vincent Conrad in his natural habitat, fuck them. What you see is what you get.
As he slid the door shut, the chimes rang again.
What if it IS the cops?
He imagined himself opening the door . . .
And standing there, a pair of middle-aged and tired-looking L.A.P.D. homicide detectives – the heavy one with the stacked silver hair and the wiry bald one – Van Ness and Long, that’s them – and they stare at him with their weary see-all eyes and Van Ness says, ‘Vincent Conrad, we’re arresting you for murder. You have the right to remain silent . . .’
Feeling suddenly all shrunken and cold inside, Vince stopped in the foyer and gazed at the door.
They haven’t got anything on me. Impossible. It has to be somebody else.
Who?
He swung open the door.
And stood there gaping out at Marta and Sue.
To Vince, they were strangers.
Strangers who were not Van Ness and Long.
Who were, instead, a couple of beautiful females in sunglasses and scanty swimsuits.
But who the fuck are they?
‘May I help you, girls?’ he asked.
The larger of the two, smiling, stuck out her hand and said, ‘I’m Tracy. You must be Vince.’
Nodding, feeling a bit confused but pleasant, Vince took hold of her hand. ‘Very nice to meet you,’ he said. Shaking her hand,
he watched her breasts wobble slightly. They were tanned and shiny. Her leather top didn’t hide much. He could see down between them.
Neal felt Vince’s penis start to rise again.
Damn it! Marta’s turning him on!
She’s supposed to, he reminded himself.
The rotten bastard doesn’t have to LOOK at her that way.
‘And this is my cousin . . .’ Marta said.
‘Katt,’ Sue broke in. ‘With a K. And two T’s.’
‘Katt,’ Vince repeated. Smiling, he took her offered hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, too.’ When he shook her hand, her breasts didn’t wobble.
Oh, they’re so nice and small and firm. By God, what is she, sixteen? Look at those nipples! Look at them!
Vince imagined himself lifting the black patches of the bikini top away from her breasts and taking one of her nipples between his teeth. Squeezing it between his teeth. Neal could feel it in there, long and rubbery. He could taste it.
He could also feel Vince growing even larger, pushing out against the front of his clingy damp swimsuit.
Had Marta or Sue noticed that?
Neal couldn’t tell; not with their eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses.
Still holding Sue’s hand, Vince said, ‘Do I know either of you?’
‘I’m just Tracy’s cousin from Sacramento,’ Sue said.
‘Elise invited us over to swim in the pool,’ Marta said.
Holy shit, Neal thought.
Vince’s mind seemed to be reeling, stumbling about at a loss for coherence, wondering what sort of game these two gals might be trying to play, hoping they were for real – Don’t they know she’s dead for godsake? They been on Mars? – wanting to invite them in – ‘Glad you stopped by! Sure, sure, you’re welcome to use the pool. I was about to go in for a dip myself’ – but who are they REALLY?
I don’t care who they are.
The one’s too young to be a cop, anyway.
I want to see more of her, whoever she is. More of the other, too. Tracy and Katt.
‘Come in,’ Vince said. ‘Please, come in.’ Still holding Sue’s hand, he stepped backward and drew her across the threshold. ‘I wasn’t expecting company.’ Marta entered. Releasing Sue’s hand, Vince closed the door. ‘But you’re certainly welcome to use the pool. May I offer you two girls a drink? I do believe the sun’s over the yardarm. How about a vodka and tonic?’
‘That’d be great,’ Sue said.
‘Sure,’ said Marta. ‘I could go for that.’
‘Right this way, girls.’ Vince wanted to walk behind them for the rear view, but figured he really needed to lead the way. So he walked in front. They followed him into the den.
It looked familiar to Neal.
Like a room from a wonderful, sad dream: here the sofa where he’d stretched out and tried the bracelet; here the place where Elise had stood when he entered her; there the bar stools; there the bar where they’d had their drinks, where later she’d taken the aspirin and Alka-Seltzer just before starting the walk back to her bedroom with Neal’s card in the pocket of her pajama shirt, stiff against her nipple . . .
And now it’s sleazy Vince behind the bar, making drinks for my women after he’s killed his own.
Forty-Seven
Marta and Sue perched themselves on the high stools in front of him. Vince, behind the counter, stole glances at them while he made the drinks.
Perhaps someone hired them to cheer me up. A Strip-o-gram sort of deal.
Who would do such a thing?
Bill?
Unless they ARE cops. No, no, not cops. Reporters?
Who cares? They’re fabulous stuff. Just gotta do what comes naturally.
Toss in a good load, loosen them up.
He dumped an extra shot of vodka into each of the three ice-filled glasses.
‘Is Elise around?’ Marta asked.
She really doesn’t know? Or is this a trick?
Better play it like a trick, just to be safe.
Shaking his head and trying to put a sorrowful expression on his face, Vince poured tonic water into the glasses. Then he said, ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Marta asked.
Sue shrugged her fragile, tanned shoulders.
‘This last Sunday night, someone broke into the house and . . .’ Vince’s voice cracked. He brought tears into his eyes. He thought, Excellent.
He’s a pretty good actor, after all, Neal decided.
‘Elise is dead,’ Vince said, and lowered his head and clasped a hand across his eyes as if to hide the shame of his tears.
Maybe he’s not so good, Neal thought.
‘She was . . . brutally murdered.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ Marta said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Who done it?’ Sue asked.
Vince, still covering his eyes, shook his head. ‘We don’t know.’ His mind flashed a picture of Glitt’s gaunt, bearded face.
That’s it! Neal thought. Gotcha, you bastard! You did it! You hired him!
‘I was away on a trip at the time,’ Vince said.
‘I just can’t believe she’s dead,’ Marta muttered, very convincingly disturbed by the news. ‘I’m so sorry. This is terrible. We never would’ve come over . . .’
‘It’s quite all right.’ Vince rubbed his wet eyes, then cast a brave smile at her. ‘I’m glad you came. Both of you,’ he added, and turned his grief-stricken smile on Sue.
‘We was on a campout since Friday,’ Sue told him. ‘We only just got back this mornin. Must be how come we missed the news. Not as how I knew Elise myself, but Tracy’s told me lots and lots about her.’
Lots and lots? What does Tracy know? Who the fuck is she? What if Elise told her about our fights . . . the breakup?
‘How long did you know my wife?’ he asked Marta.
She shrugged, which drew Vince’s eyes to her breasts. ‘Six months or so, I guess.’
‘But I’ve never met you,’ he said.
‘We got together for lunch quite a lot. Also, you weren’t around very often. I’ve been over here to the house . . . oh, I don’t know . . . ten or twelve times, probably. You were always away. The fact is, Elise made a point of never asking me over when you were home.’
Ah. Little wonder. Didn’t want me laying my eyes on a babe like . . .
‘You weren’t actually supposed to be home today,’ Marta went on. ‘Elise told me you’d be in Hawaii.’
‘And so I was. But . . .’ He managed to choke up again. ‘I came back early . . . Because of . . . I’m sorry.’ He shook his head and wiped his eyes.
‘I’m really sorry we came along and disturbed you,’ Marta said climbing down from the stool. ‘We had no idea. This is so awful. We never would’ve come if we’d known.’
‘You’re not leaving?’ Vince managed to ask.
‘We’d better,’ Marta said. ‘I mean, dropping in on you at a time like this . . .’
Sue, giving him a somewhat forlorn look as if she hated to go, swiveled around and slid off her stool.
For the first time, Vince saw her from behind.
His gaze latched on her buttocks – naked except for the slip of black fabric up her crack. Lust slammed through him. He went almost breathless. His heart pounded. His penis grew rigid, tilting upward. He felt it pushing at the flimsy fabric of his swimsuit.
‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Please. At least stay for a while, enjoy your drinks, have a swim. I insist.’
‘We really shouldn’t,’ Marta said.
‘No, please. Elise wouldn’t have wanted you to run off. I’m sure of that. She would’ve insisted that you stay and enjoy yourselves. Please. For her sake. And for mine. You two . . . you’re like a breath of fresh air. Truly. Ever since I came back, it’s been nothing but tearful well-wishers trying to console me. And reporters. And police. I’m so . . . so weary of it all. But you two . . . a couple of lovely, cheerful young women who came here at Elise’s invitation simply to enjoy yourselves . . . Sta
y. Please. You do my heart good.’
When he said that about his heart, he clapped a hand to his bare chest.
Marta and Sue looked at each other.
‘Please. Stay.’
‘Fine by me,’ Sue said.
‘Well,’ Marta said, ‘all right.’ To Vince, she said, ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m absolutely, one hundred per cent sure.’ He sighed. With all the fuss, his passion had subsided somewhat. Instead of urgent lust, he now felt proud of himself for convincing them to stay. He also felt a certain quiet thrill of anticipation.
They’re mine now. Get them nice and soused, and we’ll all go in for a little swim.
He imagined himself with them, cavorting with them in the pool, all three naked and gleaming.
‘Not a chance, asshole.’
Vince, unaware of Neal’s remark, cut wedges of lemon and squeezed them into the drinks while he imagined himself wrenching off Marta’s swimsuit top and setting her breasts free.
He gave each drink a quick stir with the blade of his paring knife.
‘Shall we take them out to the pool?’ he suggested.
He watched the two women step forward and pick up their glasses. Then he lifted his own glass. He stepped around the end of the bar, slid the door open, and said, ‘Girls first.’
They filed past him, almost brushing against his body with their smooth, oiled skin.
Look at them! My God! Tracy and Katt.
He wanted them both. Badly. And knew that he would succeed. If not this afternoon in or by the pool, then tonight. He would ask them to stay for dinner.
He isn’t suspicious of them anymore, Neal realized as he observed the plans forming in Vince’s mind.
Plans for grilling steaks on the barbecue, keeping their glasses loaded with vodka and tonic, eating outside by candlelight. Later, after a leisurely dinner – including a nice Carbernet Sauvignon – they would be good and soused and ready for a night swim. Get them to take their suits off.
‘It feels so much better that way. You feel so free. The water slides over your skin like a lover’s caress.’ They always go for that line. They always want to be naked in the pool. And they want me to see them naked. All of them. Always. And after the skinny-dipping, they always want to . . .