The Dark Horse, стр. 6
«Or maybe you can just see the movie.» Belatedly I was the one trying for lightness.
«I'll be in the front row.» He lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, his lips sending little frissons over the sensitive scar tissue. * * * * *
Later, when we were undressing for bed, I said impulsively, «I thought I saw Paul Hammond today.»
Dan, mid-shooting his boxers into the dirty clothes hamper, halted and turned my way. «Where?» «On the hill behind the house.»
I knew immediately it had been a mistake to tell him. He continued to study me for a long moment, not saying anything, just assessing the situation like a good detective.
I said quickly, «I know it couldn't have been him. It just … spooked me. It looked like him from a distance.» «What was he doing?» I knew that neutral tone.
«Nothing. I mean, I guess he was looking out at the ocean. He waved to me.» Dan's face changed. Before he could say anything I qualified, «I mean, I was staring his way and he waved to me, so obviously he couldn't have been Paul Hammond. Especially since he's dead.» Okay. Shut up now.
Dan said, «It's natural after a year of that bullshit that you're still keeping an eye out for him. And it's natural that somebody with Hammond's build or coloring would remind you of him.» I nodded. Was he trying to reassure me or himself?
Chapter Three
There was another postcard in the mail the next day.
Vintage colored pencil drawing of the old «movie star colony» on Roosevelt Highway. I stared at the little white houses with their red and green roofs as though I could see my poison penpal sitting inside plotting his next move. The message on the back was in Hammond's writing. Soon … I rang Dan at work.
He listened in silence as I finished, «If it's not Hammond, then who's sending these? The postmark is Malibu.»
He said quietly, «It's probably some nutcase who read about you and Hammond in the papers.» «How would he get the beach house address?»
«It might be someone local. Malibu has its share of whack jobs like anywhere else.»
«Great. So now what? I have another psycho after me? Have they found Hammond's body?» «It's not Hammond.» I clamped my jaw on a lot of things that I knew I would regret saying later.
«Fine. It's not Hammond. So who is it? And, by the way, what did you do with the postcard from yesterday?»
I heard him draw in a breath. He said very patiently, «Okay. Look, do you want me to come home?»
I did, but hearing him say it brought me back to Earth fast. Maybe it was the word «home.» «No.» «Are you sure? I know this is the last thing you needed right now.»
Maybe he meant because I was in the middle of reading a script for a movie no one wanted me to do. Or maybe he meant because I wasn't bouncing back as quickly as he'd hoped from my last psycho-stalker bout.
«I'm okay. I just don't understand why this is happening again.» What the hell were the odds of attracting two stalkers within a year? Was it my aftershave? «I promise you, if I thought this was a genuine threat –« «What did you do with yesterday's postcard?» Did he hesitate? I couldn't tell. He said, «I'm having it analyzed.»
So was that reassuring or not? He obviously thought the threat was real enough to investigate – or maybe he was just being careful. He was a very careful guy. «Well, how long will it take before you know anything? «It's not like TV or the movies. It takes time.» «I know that. How long do you think?» «A couple of weeks maybe.» «Weeks?»
He said matter-of-factly, «It's not high priority, Sean. I'm doing it for confirmation, that's all.»
Into my silence, he asked again, «Are you okay or do you need me to leave work early?»
There was only one appropriate answer. I said, «I'm fine. I'll see you this evening.»
Swimming makes me ravenous. I was raiding the fridge after a late morning dip when the phone rang. I poured OJ into the glass Maria handed me, and passed her the plate with zucchini-walnut muffins to heat in the microwave.
«Dude, you're not going to believe this,» Steve began as I picked up. «I think someone shot at me yesterday afternoon!» «You're kidding me.»
«No shit. There's what looks like a little bullet hole in the Sebring's windshield.» «When did it happen?» «I don't know. Sometime after I left your place yesterday afternoon.» «Have you called the cops?»
«Dude. What would I tell them? I don't know when it happened, let alone where or who might have done it. It's probably kids screwing around. It looks like a BB hole to me, to tell you the truth.» «You should probably report it, though.» «Uh, yeah. Sure.» On impulse, I said, «Are you doing anything this afternoon?»
«Yeah. I'm taking a meeting at Warner Bros and then I'm driving down to Santa Anita Park.» «On a weekday?» «You're kidding, right? The Oak Tree meet runs all this month.» «Could you postpone the race track and meet me for lunch?»
I thought for a moment Steve's cell phone had cut out, then he said with unusual seriousness, «What's up? Something with Dan?» «Dan? No. No, it's complicated.» «Okay. Yeah. I can meet you. At the house?»
«No, I want to get out of here for a little while. Maybe Pt. Dume? We could eat at Coral Beach Cantina. I like the crab enchiladas.»
«Yeah,» said Steve. «'Cause nothing goes with crisis like crab enchiladas. Okay, but I can't be there before 2:30.» «That's fine. It's past Heathercliffe on PCH. Down the big hill.» «I remember,» Steve said. «I'll call you if I'm running late.» I said, «You're already running late. I'll wait.» * * * * *
Sitting on the tree-shaded patio of the Coral Beach Cantina, I ordered a micro brew and nachos. The juke box was playing «Boys of Summer» by Don Henley, and I was counting the disproportionate number of blonds, both male and female, filling the seats around me, when Steve dropped into the chair across the table. «Dude, you're so mysterious. It must come from living with a cop.» I summoned a weak smile.
«So what's up?» He reached for a tortilla chip. Gooey strings of cheese stretched a foot from the platter. «You want to order first?»
Steve grimaced and waved the waitress over. We ordered and then Steve sat back in his chair. «Okay, come on, Sean. You're starting to make me nervous. Are you looking to change representation?» «Of course not.» «So what's the deal?» I said, «I think Paul Hammond is still alive.»
Steve swallowed his beer the wrong way. He set the mug down shakily, coughing into his bare arm. When he had his voice back, he questioned, «Why the hell would you think that?» «Because they still haven't found his body.» «Because his car crashed into the aqueduct.» «So what? There should still be a body.» «It washed down the aqueduct.»
«It's not like there's a riptide in the aqueduct. They had divers looking and they couldn't find the body.»
«Yeah, but Sean, there's no way he could have survived that crash. I saw the photos in the newspaper. No way he walked away from that.» «What if he wasn't in the car when it went into the aqueduct?»
«It was a high speed pursuit. It's not like he had time to stop, get out and push the car in and then hide behind some bushes. He was under police surveillance for another thing.» «It was night. Someone might have missed something.» «Sean –« «I got a postcard from him yesterday. And another one today.» Steve's brows drew together. «What are you talking about?»
«The postcards have started again. Yesterday's card said, 'Miss me?' Today's said, 'Soon.'» «Was the handwriting –?» «Dan's having it analyzed to be sure, but I know his writing. It's Hammond.» «So Dan knows about this?»
I nodded. «He was there when I got the first card, but he doesn't believe Hammond is alive.» «Then who's sending the cards?»
«He thinks it's a copycat stalker. Someone who read about Hammond and me and decided to pick up where Hammond left off.» «He's the expert, I guess.»