One of Those Malibu Nights (16 page)

“That’s what I’m paid for,” Jessie Whitworth told him with a smile when Roddy mentioned it, surprising him with a set of expensively veneered, dazzlingly white teeth.

“It’s not me up there center stage,” she added, and Roddy saw the smile disappear.

“Is that where you’d like to be then?” he said, looking interested as they sat over their low-fat macchiatos.

“About a dozen or so years ago, when I was young and foolish enough to believe I had talent. Hollywood soon
robbed me of that illusion,” she added. “Not that I minded. I realized I wasn’t cut out for the game that had to be played. All I wanted was to act. And you know what, Mr. Kruger? I simply wasn’t good enough.”

Roddy knew exactly what she meant. He himself had never had eyes for the acting profession, but he had friends who still cherished the hope of that one role that would change their lives, meanwhile struggling on with a bit part here, a nonspeaking part there, even willing to work as extras.

“It’s a tough life,” he said, all sympathy. He was liking Miss Whitworth and her honesty about herself.

“Allie didn’t exactly
fire
me,” Jessie said. “She told me her life was changing and she needed to do things herself. Become more independent. Lose all the trappings. That sort of thing. I knew she was unhappy and on the verge of splitting up with Ron and at first I thought it was just a reaction to that. I believed she would get over it, move on. But it seems she hasn’t.”

“You think she was still in love with Ron?”

Jessie’s cool gray eyes met his. “I would say so. Yes, definitely. I mean they fought because … Well, you know how it is with couples. I don’t want to talk about my employers’ private lives,” she added. “It’s not right.”

“I understand.”

Roddy was on the verge of eliminating her as stalker material when she said, “Of course Allie paid me three months’ wages in lieu of notice and gave me glowing references,
but the fact is I still don’t have a proper job. I’m temping right now, out at Mentor Studios. Just another assistant’s assistant. A jumped-up secretary. Quite a comedown,” she added bitterly, and Roddy caught the quick flash of anger that crossed her face.

So, he thought surprised, poker-faced Little Miss Goody Two-shoes has emotions after all. And not all of them are good.

“Thanks for talking to me, Miss Whitworth,” he said. “You helped clear up a few points.”

“Like that Allie was planning on making changes to her life?”

“You believe that, do you?”

She nodded. “I think she might have become tired of being America’s darling with no privacy.”

Roddy thought she was right. He shook her hand, waving from the door as he left. He thought Miss Whitworth was a dark horse and that an eye should definitely be kept on her.

He waited in the parking lot until he saw her leave. She was driving a bright blue Porsche Carrera. A fancy car for an ex-personal assistant turned jumped-up secretary, he thought, surprised.

He had already checked the other staff on Mac’s list, the hairdressers, stylists, et cetera. Now he drove to the studio to snoop around there, see who was what, and what, if anything, anyone had to say about Allie.

He’d gotten personal approval to be on the lot from the producer of her last film, and the guard at the gate checked him out on the computer, made out a visitor pass for him then waved him on. “Visitor parking to the left, sir,” he said, so Roddy swung a left and drove down a line of densely packed cars. The studios must be really busy, he thought, turning down another aisle looking for a spot.

He slammed his foot on the brake, threw the car into reverse, backed up, then stopped. He was looking at a black Sebring convertible with very dark windows.

Roddy drove back to the gate. From the procedure he had just gone through he knew the guard would have a list of all visitors and their car numbers. He explained who he was, told him what he wanted to know, annoyed but understanding when the guard explained he was not at liberty to give out that information.

Roddy had the number of the production office of Allie’s latest movie. He called, explained what he wanted and asked for help. Within minutes the guard had been given permission and Roddy had the information. Or at least some of it.

“That car has been on the lot for a couple of weeks, sir,” the guard told him. “It’s a rental and the woman driving it
told me it had broken down. She said the rental company would come and tow it.” He shrugged. “So far they’ve not shown up. Beats me how they keep in business,” he added.

“So who was the driver?” Roddy asked, as casually as he could because he was excited to think he might be on the brink of identifying Allie’s stalker.

“A woman by the name of Elizabeth Windsor, sir. I remember because like it’s the Queen of England’s name.”

“The Queen of England right here in your parking lot?” Roddy said. “Imagine that.”

The two men laughed together, then Roddy said, “You remember what she looked like?”

“Couldn’t forget. Tall, blond and long legs.” He made a curving gesture with his hands and they grinned at each other.

“How old?” Roddy said.

“Oh, I dunno—twenties, I guess. Come to think of it, she looked a bit like Allie Ray.”

“Better than the Queen of England,” Roddy said. “Younger, anyway.”

Bristling with excitement, Roddy called Mac to tell him the news.

“I’m sitting here right now, looking at the Sebring,” he said. “Of course I know there’s probably hundreds like it, but this one was parked on the Mentor lot where Allie was filming. Anyhow, it’s a rental in the name of Elizabeth Windsor.”

“Like the British Queen?”

“The same, only this one’s in her twenties, a tall blond who looks a bit like Allie.”

“Check out ‘the Queen,’” Mac said. “See if anyone remembers her, and what she was doing on the Mentor lot anyway.”

Roddy was weary. It was almost seven and he’d been thinking more along the lines of an iced vodka martini in the bar at the Hotel Casa del Mar in Santa Monica with a soothing view of the ocean. It was close to where he lived in an all-white condo—dogless, thank God—and with a more prosaic view of other people’s backyards.

He told Mac about his conversation with Jessie Whitworth, said that he thought she was a dark horse, that she drove a bright blue Porsche, and that she had been fired a couple of months ago. “By coincidence she’s working as a temp right here at Mentor Studios,” he added.

“She’s not tall and blond?”

Roddy laughed. “Quite the opposite. A bit of a plain Jane really, in a nice efficient way. Knows her place and sticks to it.”

“So how does the prim Miss Whitworth afford to drive an expensive car?”

Roddy said, “You know L.A. First and last month down and you too can look like a big shot and drive a Porsche.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t gel with what you’re telling me about the rest of Jessie’s image,” Mac said thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t bet she’s the stalker either. Our stalker is really crazy. I’m talking potentially violent crazy and I’m not getting that message about Miss Whitworth.”

“Right,” Roddy said. “I just thought with her being fired and all …”

“And you’re right. We can’t dismiss her out of hand. I’ll do a little background search on Miss Whitworth myself, okay?”

“Right,” Roddy said, relieved that he didn’t have to work all night. That martini was getting closer.

“I’ll also check out the Sebring,” Mac said. “Thanks, Roddy.” There was a grin in his voice as he added, “You’re the greatest, y’know that?”

Roddy smiled, showing a beguiling pair of dimples. “I always kind of thought so myself,” he said, preening in the rearview mirror.

It didn’t take long for Mac to find out that the rented Sebring had been reported as stolen. The driver’s license in the name of Elizabeth Windsor was a fake, and the credit card with which she had paid had a false address in another city.

Driving to the rental facility at LAX, Mac thought about Elizabeth Windsor. Could this really be the stalker? The writer of those filthy abusive letters, filled with explicit threats? Most often a stalker was a man, but this one might also be an expert in using women. Elizabeth Windsor might merely be a pawn in his game.

Planes zoomed low over his head as he parked, merging with bewildered-looking travelers hurrying to pick up cars, only to struggle to find their way out of the traffic into the City of Dreams.

He got lucky. The young guy in charge of the rental place remembered Miss Windsor. “Tall,” he told Mac, “with long blond hair. Kind of a looker, if that’s your taste.”

It was obviously his, which was why he remembered. Mac said, “So where was she from?”

“Wait a sec and I’ll look it up for you.” He drummed on his computer and within a minute had what Mac had asked for. It tallied with the information the cops had given him. The address did not exist.

“She seemed okay,” the young man added. “Pleasant, y’know. Not the sort to steal a car.”

“She didn’t,” Mac said. “Apparently she just forgot to return it.”

At eleven o’clock that night the phone rang. Mac was in bed but not yet sleeping. Lying at his feet, Pirate opened his eye. Mac knew it couldn’t be Sunny because she was in New York for a couple of nights on business.

He grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Reilly, sir, it’s me, Ampara. Miss Allie’s housekeeper.”

Mac sat up quickly. “Yes, Ampara?”

“I’m scared, Mr. Reilly. I just noticed that the alarm system has been turned off. Now only I know where that
switch is, sir, and I haven’t been up in the house for the past five hours. I’m here, all alone, just me and Miss Allie’s dog, and I’m scared, sir. I want to call the police, but I know Mr. Ron doesn’t want no police here. I don’t know what to do, sir.”

“Are you securely locked in, Ampara?”

“The door is locked and bolted, and so are all the windows …”

Mac thought quickly. He knew Ampara was safe for the moment and that he needed to get there before he called the cops. If someone really had entered the main house, that person had a key and knew exactly where to turn off the alarm. He might just have his stalker.

“Stay right where you are,” he told Ampara. “I’ll go into the house and check it myself. You won’t see me from the windows because I’ll turn off my lights and leave my car at the end of the driveway. I’ll call you immediately I get there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ampara said doubtfully.

“And Ampara.”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you hear anything at all, anyone near your apartment, if you’re scared, call Security and the cops immediately.”

“Yes, Mr. Reilly. I’ll do that,” she said, sounding relieved.

Next Mac called Lev Orenstein. He told him what was going on and arranged to meet him at the house.

Lev was there before him, his black Mustang half-hidden under an overhanging tree. Mac pulled in behind. Lev got out to meet him. He looked every inch the movie-style tough bodyguard, lean and mean and intent on business in a black turtleneck, black jeans and with a weapon tucked handily in a holster under his arm.

Mac was in his usual T-shirt with a pair of shorts he’d pulled on quickly as he leaped out of bed. Pirate sat in the car looking disconsolate at being left but was well trained enough to know not to make a song and dance about it.

“The gate is locked,” Lev said. “No car parked anywhere within sight, though he may have parked near the house.”

“That would be a very confident move,” Mac said, on the phone again with Ampara.

“Oh, Mr. Reilly, it’s you,” she said, sounding relieved.

“Lev Orenstein and I are outside the gates. Can you open them for us, please, Ampara?”

The gates slid smoothly to the sides and Mac and Lev jogged along the grassy verge by the driveway leading to the house. Again, no car was parked outside. Except for the twin lamps illuminating the steps, the house was in complete darkness.

Mac got the housekeeper on the phone again. “Don’t you usually leave lights on?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Reilly. There’s always a light in the front hall, as well as in the kitchen, and in the master bedroom. Always.”

Eyebrows raised, Mac looked at Lev. “You ready?”

The front door was not locked and no alarm sounded when Mac pushed it open. He slid through, keeping to the wall with Lev right behind him. They paused for a few seconds, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom, listening. There was no sound but Mac felt that someone was here. He thought of Allie, alone at night, unaware that someone had the key and the alarm number. He got the feeling she had left for France just in time.

Lev knew the house and he led the way through the vast rooms to the kitchen. The refrigerator purred and half a dozen green lights flashed the time on various appliances, enough Mac thought to cook for a restaurant. There seemed to be two of everything and sometimes three or four.

Back again in the front hall, they crept silently up the curved staircase. The big double doors at the top obviously led to the master bedroom. Mac turned the handles and pushed them open.

A sudden crash sent them spinning, weapons in hand. It had come from behind a second closed door on the right. They ran toward it, turning quickly, backs against the wall, cop-fashion, as Lev flung it open.

No one was there. Mac switched on the light. The noise they had heard was of a pile of empty hangers crashing from a shelf where they had been clumsily thrown. The clothes they had held lay in a heap on the floor. All Allie’s beautiful expensive gowns, slashed to pieces. The perpetrator had done a good job. Nothing had escaped his knife.

“I guess we’re too late,” Mac said, switching on the lights in the bedroom. “This is an example of what he could have done to Allie.”

“Jesus,” Lev said, shaken because he knew and cared about her. “I’ll make the bastard pay when I find him.”

Mac could no longer rule out the police. The crazy guy had to be caught before he did real damage. He called the Beverly Hills PD and informed his contact there what had taken place.

Next he called Ampara, told her that the cops were on the way and that he wanted her to pack her things and move to somewhere safer.