“Yes! You know that her medication leaves her in a state that isn’t … that isn’t quite right!”
Edgar sighed, looking down. Jennifer clenched her teeth together, sorry to be so wretched to Edgar, but unable to believe that he had allowed Abby to be so vulnerable.
“Edgar, from now on, if I’m not here, don’t even tell Mother when those underhanded rats show up, all right?”
“Mr. Parker is hardly an underhanded rat, Miss Jennifer,” Edgar said indignantly.
She’d hurt his feelings. Injured him.
“Jennifer’s just upset, Edgar,” Conar said, apologizing for her.
She bit into her lip. “I’m sorry, Edgar,” she said softly.
“I know, Miss Jennifer,” he assured her.
“Let’s go up to bed,” Conar suggested.
“I’ll never sleep. I’ll just keep seeing that woman …”
“I can get you some brandy,” Edgar said.
Jennifer smiled at him, reaching across the kitchen counter to squeeze his hand. “They gave me brandy at the club, but thanks, Edgar.”
“What club?” Edgar asked.
“The strip club,” Jennifer told him.
He looked at Conar like a protective bulldog. “You had Miss Jennifer out at a strip club, Mr. Markham? You didn’t tell me about that part of the evening.”
“That’s where the police came to interview us—I had to use their telephone.”
Edgar made a tsking sound. “Where is your cellular, Mr. Markham?”
“I need a new one. Broke the old guy in the airport on my way here.”
“Miss Jennifer?”
“I never remember to carry mine,” she admitted. It was rather idiotic. Cellular phones were certainly the rage. Everyone was always waiting for a call from his or her agent.
“Please, Miss Jen, you make sure to carry it from now on,” Edgar said worriedly.
“I will.” On impulse, she gave him a sound kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Edgar. And thanks for waiting up.”
“I just checked on the dogs. You should see them. Snug as two bugs in a rug. That little one of yours is curled up on Lady’s front paws, Mr. Markham. They’re just as happy as can be together.”
“That’s wonderful. Well, thanks again, and good night,” Jennifer said.
They left the kitchen together and walked up the stairs together.
They paused at Jennifer’s door. “Well …,” she murmured.
“You’re not staying in my room?”
“You hadn’t asked,” she told him.
“All right. Will you stay in my room?”
“I’m afraid that I’m not feeling terribly amorous.”
“No sex. That’s okay.”
“I need to get my toothbrush.”
“Want me to wait?”
“Yes.”
He grinned. “I’m right here in the doorway.”
She went into her bathroom and grabbed her toothbrush. On second thought, she scooped up her facial soap and deodorant. He made no comment as she reappeared in the bedroom. “Don’t worry, I’m not moving in for good or anything. I mean, I’m not presuming anything. In fact, the way that we were fighting this afternoon, I probably shouldn’t be in there tonight. We’re sure to fight again. I mean, maybe even tonight. I’d almost forgotten about my mother and the possibility of surgery and the fact that we absolutely disagree. I mean, really, if you stop to think about the whole thing—”
“Jennifer.”
“What?”
“Stop fucking analyzing everything. Let’s get some sleep.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Jennifer.”
“Let’s go.”
She preceded him out the door. He followed her down the hall. They entered his room, and he closed the door behind him.
“Did you lock it?” she whispered.
“Yeah, I will,” he assured her, doing so.
“Eyes, you know,” she told him gravely.
“I know. You want first shower?”
“Please.”
She showered for a very long time. She felt as if she were wearing all the dirt in the vacant lot. Worse, she felt as if she were wearing traces of death. When she emerged later, he was in his briefs on the bed, face hard as a rock as he watched the television.
“We’re on the late breaking news,” he told her curtly, then walked on into the bathroom.
She curled up on the bed. The anchor was talking about the discovery of a body off Sunset, cause of death: strangulation. The victim’s identity was as yet unknown. The coat that had covered her had apparently been discarded previously in the lot. According to the medical examiner, she had lain there most of the day. She had died some time between two and five the previous morning.
The next thing Jennifer knew, there were shots of her and Conar.
The police saw no reason to suspect that this murder and that of Brenda Lopez were related, but they had not ruled out the prospect that there might be a serial killer in the area, preying upon young, beautiful women in L.A.
The news ended. A late-night talk show began. Jennifer shivered.
Conar came out of the bathroom naked. He crawled into the bed without a word, slipping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He was tense but remained silent, and did nothing but hold her, staring at the television.
There was a singing dog contest on.
Then a farmer brought on the biggest pig Jennifer had ever seen.
A rock group performed their latest number.
“Want to try to sleep?” Conar suggested, aiming the remote control at the television.
“Sure.”
The television went off. Conar had left on the bathroom light, giving the room just enough illumination.
She closed her eyes. She had thought that she’d never sleep because the vision of a dead woman’s eyes would haunt her. But the fear and horror faded. She began drifting off, thinking that the mind must have some self-protective mechanism.
Conar suddenly jerked up.
“What?” she gasped, sitting up beside him.
She saw his face in the shadows. His features were tight and drawn. For a moment she was afraid.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, you did.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“The hell I can just go back to sleep. Conar, tell me what. Did you hear something?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” He threaded his fingers through his hair, then gave himself a little shake.
“Conar!”
He looked at her. “All right. Liam is wrong. There is a connection between the killings.”
“What?”
“Frenzy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The movie Frenzy. One of the last pictures Hitchcock directed. Filmed in England, early seventies, I believe. The killer strangled his victims with his neckties.” He turned to look at her in the shadows. “Brenda was stabbed, like the victim in Psycho. This girl was strangled with a necktie, like the victims in Frenzy.”
“Someone is out there imitating the killings in Hitchcock movies?” she whispered.
“Could be,” he said, then staring at her, he added quickly, “And I could be dead wrong.”
“Don’t use that word.”
“It could all be … coincidence.”
She hugged her arms and the covers over her chest.
Suddenly, outside, from the kennel by the patio, Lady began to howl.
“Oh, Jesus,” Jennifer breathed.
“She’s a hound, Jennifer. She’s just baying at the moon. But if you’re worried, we can go downstairs and—”
“No!”
“Are you all right? Now I feel like a real fool, waking you up and making you scared.”
“No …”
“I’m supposed to make you feel safe and secure.”
She smiled. “You do. Honest.”
“Want to get back to sleep?”
“Sure.”
She snuggled back into the sheets. He started to come down beside her.
“Conar?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s check out the house. Please. Let’s just check on my mother.”
He hesitated a moment, and she held very still, realizing that he was thinking she was being a silly woman.
“All right,” he said. “Let me grab a pair of robes—and a baseball bat.”
A few minutes later, they started out in the hallway. He could move very quietly; she did the same. They were both barefoot. “You think I’m being ridiculous,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t.”
“Lady does howl sometimes.”
“She’s a hound.”
“You don’t seem worried.”
He hesitated as they reached the staircase. He paused, turning to her. “Lady was howling, but I didn’t hear Ripper barking.”
He went down the stairs. At the ground level, he checked the front door. It remained locked. The alarm was on.
They went on down the hallway to her mother’s room. She opened the door, and they both entered. Abby was sleeping peacefully.
In fact, Jennifer thought ruefully, she looked far more peaceful and happy than she had when she had last been with Conar and her.
Conar gave the arm of her robe a tug. She accompanied him out of the room. “Happy?” he asked in the hallway.
“Yes. Thanks.”
Lady let out another loud howl.
“Edgar,” Jennifer murmured. “Do you think we should check on Edgar?”
“Sure, why not? We’ll just tell him we’re checking on a grown man in a locked house with an alarm because we’re a couple of nervous nellies. No problem.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Thanks.”
She took the lead, starting up the stairs to the second floor, and then to the third, the attic which had been totally refurbished for Edgar.
At Edgar’s door, Jennifer lifted a hand to knock.
As she did so, she suddenly heard Lady baying again—and something more. A deep barking interspersed with the howls.
Edgar’s door flew open so quickly that Jennifer jumped back.
“Do you hear that, sir?” Edgar, in pajama trousers and smoking jacket, demanded of Conar. “There’s something going on down there.”
“There sure as hell is,” Conar said.
He turned to start back down the stairs. Jennifer followed, her hands on his back, and Edgar followed along behind her.
They took the stairs quickly to the second floor, then hurried down the hallway to the grand staircase that led down to the first.
Just as they reached the landing, there came a pounding on the door.
“Hello, hello? Is anybody there?” It was a male voice. A muffled, familiar voice.
Lady howled from the rear of the house. Ripper barked ferociously.
“Please, is anybody there?”
“Oh, Lord, it’s—” Jennifer began.
Conar stepped forward and opened the door.
“Andy Larkin,” Edgar said, stunned.
It was Andy. He stumbled in, clothing mussed and torn—and bloody.
Chapter 13
“ANDY!” JENNIFER EXCLAIMED. “What in God’s name happened to you? Are you all right? Edgar, dial 911!”
“No, no!” Andy protested, putting up a hand. “No, please—”
“But you’re hurt,” Jennifer said.
“What the hell happened?” Conar demanded.
“I’ll get you a scotch, Mr. Larkin,” Edgar said.
“Oh, bless you, my man! God bless you!” Andy said.
“What happened?” Conar persisted, not moving out of his way in the foyer.
“Please … may I come in?”
Conar looked at Jennifer, then lifted a hand. “Hell, sure, you’re our producer, you should just arrive after midnight and come bursting in all bloody.”
Andy shook his head, leading the way to the den, where Edgar was waiting with his scotch. He took the drink and drained it in two seconds flat.
“I’ll fix you another,” Edgar said.
“Just hand me the bottle, if you will,” Andy told him, taking the bottle from Edgar’s hands.
“Andy,” Jennifer said quietly. He was acting so strangely. “All right, Andy, what’s going on? It’s late.”
Andy nodded, taking a long swig on the bottle. He pulled it from his mouth, then sank to the couch. “Accident,” he said.
“What?” Conar said sharply.
“I was half a mile away. Just driving. I was upset. I’d heard the news. You know. You two found her. The body.”
“Andy, why were you so upset?” Jennifer asked, feeling strange little pricks of fear along her spine as she watched him. His usually impeccable hair looked as if it had been coiffured with a mixer. “Andy, no one knows who the Woman is as yet.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Of course, but …”
“Why were you so upset about it?” Conar asked more bluntly. “You didn’t find her. You didn’t kill her—or put her in that lot, did you?”
“No! Hell, no!” Andy protested.
“And you don’t know who did?” Conar continued, staring at him.
Andy glanced at Jennifer and Edgar. “Hell, no,” he said.
And yet he didn’t sound as certain.
“Andy—”
“I was just upset, damn you, can’t you understand? Another murder—when Brenda was just killed. Bad things upset people, right?”
“Of course.”
Edgar was the one to nudge him next. “So, Mr. Larkin, what happened to you?”
“I was just driving, thinking … about how horrible it was. And the next thing I know, I’m being sideswiped. Headlights, brights, glaring, coming at me … in my lane! I tried to veer off, and the next thing I know, I’m in a ditch.”
“So you are hurt. We should call an ambulance,” Jennifer said.
“No,” Andy protested. “No, no, I don’t want an emergency room, paramedics—media people coming at me. I’m not really hurt.”
“But if you hit your head, you might have a concussion.”
“I didn’t hit my head.”
“There’s blood on your cheek,” Jennifer informed him.
“I didn’t hit my head,” he protested again. He exhaled on a long sigh. “I drove into a ditch. I sat there shaking. I realized that I was okay, or at least I thought I was okay. I started to get out of my car. But the other driver was there.”
“Someone you knew?” Edgar suggested.
“I don’t know. As I turned, he belted me!”
“Another person forced you off the road, stopped to see if you were okay, then slugged you?” Conar asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Andy said.
“That’s got to be the biggest pile of bull—” Conar began.
“I swear,” Andy protested.
“Andy, you should call the police,” Jennifer told him.
He shook his head. “For what? My car is just half a mile down the road. There’s nothing wrong with it, except that it’s in a ditch. There’s no way to prove another driver was involved. And I’ve—well, I’ve been drinking.”
“Really?” Conar murmured sarcastically.
Andy didn’t recognize the tone. “Yes, really. My alcohol level would be sky—well, it wouldn’t be good. I can’t call the police. Please … could I just stay here for the night? I know it’s late, I don’t mean to be a bother, but …”
“You are not just one hot babe, but one of my producers,” Jennifer said with a sigh.
Andy actually grinned. “Something like that.”
“The room where Mr. Henson stayed the weekend is ready for company,” Edgar offered politely.
“Bless you again, my man,” Andy said. “That is … if …”
“Well, of course you can stay, Andy. We can’t throw you out on the street,” Jennifer told him.
&nbs
p; “We could call him a cab,” Conar commented.
“Conar,” Jennifer murmured.
“Please,” Andy said. “I’d just as soon not be … alone.”
He was still deeply disturbed, Jennifer thought.
“Fine. Edgar, thanks. I’ll see that the front door is locked up and the alarm back on,” Conar said. “Andy, you’ll forgive us if we go back to bed?”
“Sure,” Andy, happy now, waved the bottle of scotch at them. “I’ll be just fine. Edgar will see to me.”
Conar left the den, heading for the front door. As Edgar remained, Jennifer looked at Andy.
“Really, Andy, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
For a moment she thought that he was going to speak. Then he shook his head.
She realized that Conar was behind her, that he’d finished locking up. “Well, good night, then,” she said.
“Night, Jen. Conar.”
They left him. Conar was silent as they walked up the stairs. When they reached his room, he gently prodded her inside, then locked the door. She shed her robe, yawning. “This must be one of the longest days and nights of my life.”
He hadn’t shed his robe. He had dragged a chair to his wardrobe. As he stood on it, she saw that he was taking something from a case.
A gun.
He was loading it.
“Conar?” she whispered.
He looked at her. “Sorry. Just being safe.”
“You know how to use that?”
“Jennifer, I spent time in the military. Yes, I know how to use it.”
“But …”
“Hey. You didn’t think the baseball bat was enough.”
“You’re not going to go shoot Andy, are you?”
He stared at her.
She crawled into the bed, pulling the covers to her chin. He opened the drawer to the bedside table, set the gun in it, and crawled in beside her. His arms came around her.
“Let’s get some sleep.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes. But a few seconds later she sat up. “Conar, why the gun now? Now that Andy has arrived?”
He sighed and sat up.
“He never really explained himself, did he?”
“Sure. He was upset, and driving around.”
“Um. But why was he driving around a half a mile from your mother’s house?”
Hugh Tanenbaum often had insomnia.