Chapter 4

DETECTIVES FLYNN AND Phoenix were still asking questions when a young doctor approached us saying, “Mr. Radford wants to see Mrs. Tyler.”

I started to follow him.

Rick and Nathan started to follow me.

“No,” the doctor said with a firmness I knew came from Damon, “he insisted that he see Mrs. Tyler first. After that he would like to see Mr. Hughes and Mr. Spencer, in that order.”

In the corporate fast lane, your importance is determined by the order in which you are summoned to an audience with the king. Rick Spencer’s face flushed red, embarrassed to be slighted in favor of a mere writer and a PR man. Detective Phoenix told the doctor, “Mr. Radford will see Detective Flynn and me immediately after he speaks to Mrs. Tyler.” His tone of voice discouraged argument.

THERE HAVE BEEN people who struck me as plain when we first met, who then seemed to become more and more attractive as I got to know them. With Damon Radford that phenomenon worked in reverse. Slightly taller than medium height, slender and perfectly proportioned, with golden hair and intense brown eyes, when we were first introduced, I thought he was movie-star handsome. But day by day, encounter by encounter, he began to look as repulsive to me as the portrait Dorian Gray kept locked in his attic. The doctor opened the door to Damon’s private room, then stood aside. I went in alone.

“There’ll be dozens of changes to make on the fly,” Damon said, signaling clearly that even with an I.V. drip in his left arm, his right arm in a sling, his right leg in a cast and his neck in a brace he was still in command. “With Tommy stuck up in Connecticut, you’ll have to spend time at the studio.”

“You’re letting me near the actors?”

“I trust you,” he said.

“Why?”

“If you could resist me, you can resist anyone.”

“Damon, you’ve got an ego as big as Godzilla.”

His eyes glittered like a hunter spotting game, and I realized he had mistaken my insult for “banter.” He widened his mouth and showed his perfect white teeth, proving reptiles can smile. “I’m finally getting to you, aren’t I?” he said. “If I’d known all it took was being hit by a car to rip off your widow’s weeds and—”

“Nice,” I said quickly, interrupting him. I gestured around the room. It was large and, with framed prints of Georgia O’Keeffe’s flowers on the walls, as cheerful as a hospital room could be. He noticed I was looking at the prints and said, “I’ve got to get out of here before O’Keeffe gives me diabetes.”

“I don’t think the Prado’s going to lend you their black Goyas,” I quipped, mentioning the grimmest paintings I could think of. “Seriously, is there anything I can bring you?”

“You can bring your mouth over here and—”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I said and turned to leave.

“Morgan, wait. Have you seen Cybelle?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“She’s next door,” he said. “Go see her. Tell her we’ll get her anything she needs. Personal maids to dress her, private duty nurses around the clock.” He had dropped the compulsive lecher act and sounded sincere. “Tell her not to worry about anything. She’s a nice girl, Morgan. She didn’t deserve this.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I had to be imagining it, but I thought I heard a note of real concern in his voice. Concern for another human being? I must be hallucinating. It’s the lateness of the hour, I told myself as I left the room and headed next door. I’ll be all right when I have some coffee.

CYBELLE CARTER’S PRIVATE room was not quite as large, but was also made cheerful by framed prints, mostly Monets. When I entered, the attending nurse pantomimed that the patient was asleep. With her eyes closed and her black hair framed by the white hospital pillow, Cybelle looked like Walt Disney’s Snow White. We had met only once, a little more than a year earlier, when Tommy Zenos and I chose her to play “Kira.” I had started to leave when her huge blue-violet eyes suddenly opened. In the soft, breathy, almost childlike voice her fans loved, she whispered, “Hi.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay . . . You’re Morgan Tyler. I love the stuff you write for me.”

“Thank you.” My eyes went to the cast on her leg and she began to cry. “Are you in pain, Cybelle?” I asked, nervously glancing at the nurse.

“I’m okay, but I’m just so sorry about the show, Morgan. Are you going to replace me now?”

“Of course not. We’ll tape everybody else’s scenes for the next few days. We’ll tape yours later and edit them in.”

“But I’ve got that beautiful dance scene. I love that scene.” She struggled to sit.

“I figured out how to rewrite it,” I said as I eased her back until she was lying in a comfortable position. “We’ll have you in a gorgeous long dress, and the man will dance around you. It’ll be very sensual.”

She sighed in relief, then said something I could barely hear. I leaned closer. She repeated it. “He saved my life.”

“Who?”

“Damon.”

She saw the skeptical look on my face.

“He did,” she insisted. “When he saw the car coming, he pulled me behind him so he got hurt the worst.”

If she had told me Elvis was alive and under her hospital bed, I would have found it easier to believe. Then I remembered the message I was supposed to deliver. “Damon says not to worry about anything, Cybelle. We’ll get you whatever help you need for as long as you need it. If there’s anything you want that we don’t think of, all you have to do is ask.” I wasn’t sure she heard me because she didn’t respond. She was sinking into sleep as she whispered, “Damon saved my life. Please tell people. Nobody understands him . . .”