CHAPTER 18

R.J. woke up in his own bed with a feeling of strangeness to everything. The familiar surroundings just made it worse.

For a moment, between waking and sleeping, he couldn’t understand what was different. The feel of the bed under him was right, was his. The smell—

He opened his eyes. Casey lay beside him, still asleep. The sweet, clean smell of her had drifted over to him, bringing him awake in a haze of desire without time or place.

Christ almighty, he thought, looking her over. She had kicked the covers off and lay there completely naked. R.J. felt himself growing hard and shook his head. All night long, and I still want her.

He ran his eyes over her, marveling at her flawless skin and silky contours. He had worked his way down to her toes and halfway back up again when he became aware that she was awake.

“You going to do something about it, or just look?” she said.

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“R.J., there’s one way you can always wake me up.”

He reached a hand out and cupped her breast.

“Yup, that’s the way,” she said, pulling him down.

* * *

When R.J. woke up the second time she was gone from the bed. He heard the shower running.

He lay with his hands behind his head, thinking things over. Sure, she was smart, attractive as hell, fearless, competent, and terrific in the sack. Why should that make him feel like his brains had turned to mush?

Maybe he was just vulnerable now, with his mother’s death to deal with. That would explain how she had gotten so deeply into him so fast: His defenses were down, something like this could blindside him, get under his skin. That was probably it.

But whatever it was, it was bothering him. He should have it out in the open with her, see what she was thinking, and get on with it.

A few minutes later, Casey came out of the bathroom. She had wrapped his bath towel around her and had another towel turbanned around her hair.

She moved quickly through the room and out into the living room. R.J. heard her rustling through her packages, fishing out new clothes.

She came back in and began to dress.

“Hey,” he said. “Casey. Come here.”

She looked up and flashed him a neutral smile. “I’m in kind of a hurry, R.J. Running late.” She shrugged into a handsome, conservative business outfit.

“Listen,” he said, “I was thinking—”

“R.J., I have an interview at the World Trade Center in forty-five minutes. Save the thought, all right?” And she moved back into the bathroom, clutching a hairbrush and her new makeup kit.

“Sure,” he said to her back. “It’ll keep.”

The change in her was so complete she might have been a different person. Now she was all business, a hard-shelled career woman with no time for tenderness.

And maybe that’s the real her, R.J. thought. Maybe last night she was feeling vulnerable after her brush with death. Maybe she wasn’t at all like the woman he was falling for, and for her it had just been a way to thumb her nose at death, something that didn’t mean a thing in the light of day.

So maybe it ended here.

The thought left him cold and empty. There had been a lot of women in R.J.’s life, but none had ever taken him over like this, and after only one night. He already needed her; not just for sex, although that had been great, about the best ever.

He needed her for more, for things he couldn’t even put into words. He needed her, and it made him uncomfortable as hell to need somebody like that.

I really am in trouble, he thought.

He dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen. Casey was standing with the refrigerator door open, looking dubiously at the contents.

“Time for coffee?” he asked her.

“Uh, no, not really. Do you have any juice?”

“There’s some Tang in the cupboard,” he said helpfully.

She shuddered. “Thanks, I’d rather not.” She closed the refrigerator. “I’ll get something on the way downtown.”

She started for the door.

“Hang on a sec,” he said to her back.

She turned around with an expression of impatient politeness. “Yes?”

“You’ll need a key. For tonight. In case I’m not here.”

“All right,” she said. He went into the bedroom and found his spare keys. She didn’t ask him where he was going to be.

“Here you go,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” He leaned forward to give her a kiss, but she had already turned and was out the door.

R.J. dragged himself through a shower. Casey had used up most of the hot water, so the shower was not as long as he would have liked. When he got out, there were no towels left either. He blotted himself half dry with a towel that was heavy with water and Casey’s smell.

He got dressed in a worn pair of brown corduroys and a tan chamois shirt from L.L. Bean. The shirt stuck to his damp back.

He combed his hair and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As the hot brown liquid started to move through his veins, R.J. could feel his brain coming awake.

It was after ten o’clock. There was nothing he could do about Casey, not right now. So he put her out of his mind and concentrated on the killer.

He knew damned little about the guy. Just that he was slick and quick and good at disguises. He could add to that a couple of guesses: Casey’s hunch about the guy acting things out, for instance.

He thought about that for a minute. Was it possible that the guy wasn’t acting out—but acting?

He turned the idea over a few times. It made sense. It explained his skill with disguises. And it could be a connection to Belle, the way he knew her, the reason he had wanted to kill her. She hadn’t been any kind of angel, especially in her early career in Hollywood. She’d been drinking a lot back then, maybe trying to keep up with his old man, and she was a mean drunk.

Maybe she’d said or done something to the killer back then, something that festered and grew into a psychotic need to kill her. Actors were flaky at best; who knew what might push one of them over the edge?

An actor; why not? It would explain the makeup and the motive. It also gave him a place to start.

R.J. rooted out his battered telephone directory from the small table in the living room where he kept his phone and answering machine. He thumbed through, looking for one particular number. Yup. He still had it.

Arthur Drake. His mother’s old agent in Hollywood. Arthur had retired years ago, but if anyone had a line on who might have a reason to come out of the past and kill Belle, it would be Arthur. His memory for names and faces was legendary. And he’d always had a kind word and a piece of hard candy for young R.J. too.

He dialed. After eleven rings, a man picked up.

“Hello?” came a weak and quavery voice on the far end.

“Hello, Arthur, it’s me. R.J. Brooks.”

“Who is it?” said the old voice.

“R.J. Brooks. Belle Fontaine’s son.” He was almost shouting.

There was a long pause. R.J. could hear the old man fumbling with the receiver. “Is it R.J.?” he finally said.

“Yes, that’s right!”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Well, how are you, my boy?”

“I’m fine, Arthur, how are you?!”

“You don’t have to shout,” Arthur said, and R.J. could hear a faint echo of the man’s old-time urbanity in his voice. “I can hear you perfectly well now.”

“Oh. Well, great, how are you, Arthur?”

“I’m old and deaf, but otherwise as well as can be expected,” he said. “Please let me offer my sincerest condolences.”

“Thank you,” R.J. said.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman, R.J. I know you did not get along famously of late, but never forget what a remarkable talent she was. Truly remarkable, and we shall all miss her terribly.”

“I know, Arthur. Thanks a lot.”

“Well,” said the old man briskly. “By my best recollection, it has been thirteen years since I’ve spoken to you. To what do I owe this call?”

“It’s about Belle’s murder. I need some help.”

“Indeed.”

“I got an idea that the killer might be an actor. Somebody who knew her professionally.”

“Ah-hah.” R.J. could almost hear the gears whirring in the old man’s head, a stack of cards dropping into the slot. “Have you anything more than that?”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s it. There’s nothing definite, but it would make a lot of sense if that’s how it was.”

“All right then. How can I help?”

“Arthur, you were her agent for a lot of those years out there.”

“All the good ones, my boy. And some not quite so good.”

“I remember,” R.J. said. “I was wondering if anything stuck in your mind, any incident where somebody might have wanted to hurt her. It wouldn’t have to be anything definite, just somebody who got mad at her, or whatever.”

“Well, R.J. I can think of ten or fifteen very specific death threats Belle received.”

“Jesus Christ!” R.J. exploded. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes,” the old man assured him. “Your mother was very demanding, like so many great creative artists. That led to an awful lot of friction. And as I say, at least a dozen times it led to somewhat more.”

“Who were they, Arthur?”

The old man laughed. “Almost a Who’s Who of Hollywood, old chap. Names you wouldn’t believe if I told you. Of course,” he said, a note of regret creeping into his voice, “most of the really interesting ones are dead now. So many dead.” He sighed.

“This could be important, Arthur. Can you check and let me know of any that might still be alive? And maybe still holding a grudge?”

“Of course I shall, dear boy. I would do a great deal more for your mother, or for you. And in fact, with your illustrious bloodlines, which I believe show strongly in your looks, if you should reconsider your career options I can still—”

“No thanks, Arthur. Not for me. But I’d appreciate it if you can find something on this thing.”

“Like winged Mercury from great Zeus, I go,” said Arthur.

“Thanks, Arthur. I’ll call you.”

“God bless you, my boy,” the old man said and hung up.

Ten or fifteen, R.J. thought. Holy Christ. He’d been worried that he would find just another dead end, and he guessed he should be grateful there was a chance of a lead, but this… He shook his head. It was looking like a miracle she’d lived as long as she had.

He went back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. As he sipped he thought some more. He could wait for Arthur to come up with something, but that could take days. Anyway, that wasn’t his style. If he was going to sit around, he’d start thinking about Casey, so he might as well get out and do something.

That’s half a decision, he thought. Now, exactly what should I do?

It occurred to him as he finished his coffee: his mother’s journals. He could go at the same problem from the other end. She would surely have made some mention of death threats, run-ins, things like that.

He rinsed his cup out in the sink, grabbed his coat, and headed out.