The picture switched to a clip of Avery helping a shaky, frail Joanne into a black BMW at the hospital's side entrance. Camera flashes illuminated them like a flickering strobe. "The Coopers left the hospital together at two-thirty this afternoon," the reporter continued. The camera pulled back to show him standing in front of Avery's driveway-along with about a hundred people. Bouquets of flowers and cards had been left by the front gate. "The Coopers' house here in Beverly Hills is far from quiet tonight-"

"Which explains why the Coopers are here," Sheila Weber said, switching off the TV set on their kitchen counter. Demurely pretty, Sheila had a creamy complexion and curly blond hair. She was five months pregnant with her first child. "How are you holding up?" she asked, refilling Avery's winegla.s.s.

Avery nodded. "I'll be okay." He sat at the Webers' breakfast table. George Weber stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. With dark eyes and prematurely gray hair, he was a handsome guy. A psychologist, he must have had patients constantly falling in love with him. "Relax, eat something, buddy," he said. "You look like s.h.i.t."

Avery managed to chuckle. He patted his friend's hand, but didn't touch the sandwich in front of him. Joanne was asleep in the Webers' guest room.

George and Sheila Weber were his closest friends-and in a way, his second family. Avery had known George since high school. When he'd moved to Los Angeles, Avery stayed in George's one-bedroom garage apartment. He'd had a roll-out futon in the living room, and paid half of the rent. For three years, the struggling actor and the medical student had lived together.

Avery had been best man at George's wedding. The Webers had already asked him to be G.o.dfather to the baby. Sheila's sister would be G.o.dmother. Avery hated seeing Joanne left out of the loop. Yet he had a hunch Joanne merely went through the social motions with the Webers, the same way he couldn't quite bond with her Broadway cohorts. Maybe bringing her here wasn't such a smart idea, what with Sheila so healthy, happy, and pregnant.

In the hospital emergency room, Joanne had told him that she'd taken a home pregnancy test last week. The results had been positive. She'd planned on seeing their doctor once this media blitz campaign was over. The Tonight Show The Tonight Show was their last obligation. "I wanted to tell you tonight, honey," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I wanted to surprise you." was their last obligation. "I wanted to tell you tonight, honey," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I wanted to surprise you."

As he and Joanne had left the hospital, photographers had fought each other for a good shot. One of the most painful times of their lives needed to be recorded for the public by these vultures. Pulling away in the black BMW, they'd had at least a dozen cars on their tail. Steve Bensinger had quickly a.s.signed several other black BMWs to converge with Avery's car on their escape route from Cedars-Sinai. The strategy worked. By the time Avery and Joanne reached the Webers' block in Brentwood, they'd lost the bloodhounds.

"Why don't you lie down for a bit?" George suggested, sitting down at the table with Avery. "You can crash in our bedroom. You won't wake Joanne."

"No," he said. "I need to pick up some things from home if we're spending the night."

George offered to come along, but Avery said he wanted to be alone for a while. Before leaving, he checked in on Joanne once more. She was still napping. Neither of them had caught much sleep during the last three days. In fact, the strenuous schedule had probably contributed to her miscarriage.

Curled up beneath the blanket, she lifted her head and squinted at him.

"I'm going home for some stuff," he said. "You need anything, honey?"

Joanne shook her head.

He leaned over and kissed her. Joanne's cheek was wet with tears. Avery took hold of her hand and squeezed it. "You-you just rest, okay? I'll be back in about an hour."

He didn't drive directly home. He swung by a small, secluded ocean-view park, halfway between home and the Webers'. There wasn't much to the place: a couple of wooden benches, and a low rock wall at the bluff's edge. Avery sometimes came here when he felt blue. He sat down on one of the benches. The smog made for an achingly beautiful sunset: layers of bright pink and topaz streaked the darkening sky, and reflected in the choppy waters of the Pacific. A cool ocean breeze stung the tears in his eyes. He could cry here. He didn't think anyone was around to see him.

But a rented white Taurus idled at the side of the road less than half a block from the little park. Avery and Joanne had lost the pursuing reporters after leaving the hospital, yet this car had managed to remain inconspicuously on their tail. One of the two men in the Taurus was now talking on a cellular phone. He had urgent instructions regarding Avery Cooper's exact location.

Avery had no idea how much time had pa.s.sed while he sat on that park bench, but a drab darkness had consumed the beautiful sunset. He'd been so worried about Joanne grieving around the very pregnant Sheila. But he was the one who ached at the sight of his friend's pregnant wife tonight. He saw the promise of a family there. For a short while, Joanne had been carrying his child, and he hadn't even known.

Avery wiped his nose. He noticed a woman coming up the winding dirt path by the rock wall. She stared at him from behind a pair of black cat-eye gla.s.ses that seemed as sixties retro as her auburn page-boy wig. She kept her hands in the pockets of her shiny black raincoat.

Avery heard a car pull up. He stood and glanced back for a moment.

"Excuse me?" the woman said. "Aren't you Avery Cooper?"

He turned to her. "Yes, but I-"

Her hand came up so quick, he didn't even realize what she was doing until her fingernails tore at his cheek. He reeled back. The woman ran away, then ducked inside the white car that had just pulled up. Dazed, Avery watched the car peel away and speed down the street. There was no time to get a license plate number, no time to even process what had just happened.

Dazed, he wandered back to his car, climbed inside, and checked the rearview mirror. Whoever the woman was, she'd done a number on his face: four claw marks weeping blood on his cheek. He thought about calling the police to report the incident. But what could they do about it?

He drove home. The crowd outside his front gate had dwindled down to about twenty people, most of them reporters. Avery opened the gate with a remote device. The mob fought for a look at him, shouting questions, mostly about Joanne-where she was, how she was holding up. All the inquiries seemed to blend together-except for one reporter, whose voice dominated the others as he asked, "How did you get that scratch on your face, Avery?"

Avery stared straight ahead, pressing the remote device to shut the gate behind him.

Once inside the house, he tended to the scratches on his face. He'd forgotten he was still wearing makeup from his Tonight Show Tonight Show appearance. He washed his face, then put peroxide on the scratch marks. After collecting some things for Joanne, he phoned George to let him know he'd be back soon. "How's Joanne doing?" he asked. appearance. He washed his face, then put peroxide on the scratch marks. After collecting some things for Joanne, he phoned George to let him know he'd be back soon. "How's Joanne doing?" he asked.

"Still napping," George said. "Where are you? Did you just just get home?" get home?"

"Yeah, I made a stop along the way," Avery replied.

He'd spent almost ninety minutes in that park. It was a lapse of time the police would later question. They would also ask about the scratch marks on his face.

Twelve.

As was now the custom, Hank entered the apartment first, and turned on the lights for her. Then Dayle stepped inside. She didn't pay much attention to the ringing telephone. Hank forged ahead into the kitchen, letting Fred out. The cat scurried toward her. Dayle scooped him up and hugged him.

The answering machine in her study was picking up the call: Beep Beep. "h.e.l.lo, Ms. Sutton? Nick Brock calling from nowheresville, Wisconsin. Hold on to your socks. I got the goods on who Peter Collier's daddy is, and it's one for Ripley's, a bad-seed story. Small wonder Estelle has kept junior a secret. I think you're right about her being blackmailed-"

Dayle grabbed the telephone. "h.e.l.lo? Nick?"

"Ms. Sutton?" Nick was saying. "Hey, cool. Glad I caught you..."

"I'm sorry, Danny, I don't want you spending the night at this Greg's house." The cordless phone to her ear, Sean stood on a ladder, painting her office walls. "I don't know Greg or his parents-"

"Well, geeze, Mom, maybe if you were home more, you'd know him. He's practically my best friend."

Working the roller over the wall, she sighed. "I thought Jason was your best friend."

"He is, but Greg's new. Ah, c'mon, Aunt Anne said it's okay with her."

"Well, it's not okay with me-not yet. Tell you what, have Greg's mom call me here at the office, and I'll get back to you and let you know." Sean paused for a moment by the roller-tray full of sea-foam-green paint. She wore a baseball cap, a paint-splattered T-shirt, and old jeans. "Are you still there, Danny?" she asked. "I just want to talk to Greg's mother-"

"Forget it," her son grunted. "I never get to go anywhere, and you're never home. Fine. This sucks."

"Hey, this isn't very fun for me either," she said.

After Danny hung up, Sean went back to painting her office. Her son had a point. She was hardly ever home, and missed so much of her children's lives. But she had to set up her business. Dan wouldn't be around too long, and she couldn't expect to keep living off the generosity of her in-laws.

The phone rang again, and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. "Yes?"

"Sean? It's Dayle. How are you?"

"Oh, my son hates me, but otherwise I'm all right." She put down the paint roller. "Did you get my message?"

"Yes," Dayle said. "In fact, the timing is impeccable. I think you're right. Estelle Collier will be more cooperative if she has a lawyer to work out a deal for her. Could you meet me at Estelle's place tonight around eight?"

Sean hesitated. She'd wanted to be home by eight.

"By the way," Dayle added. "I don't expect you to do this for free. I'm paying for your services here, Sean, whatever you charge."

"Well, I'm not going to pretend that I can't use the money." She reached for a pen on her desk. "What's Estelle's address?"

As Hank pulled out of the driveway, Dayle watched the Corsica start after them. It stayed on their tail for a half hour. Twice, Dayle made Hank stop for amber lights, because she didn't want to lose the Corsica just yet.

They turned into the Valley Ridge Condominiums complex. The three tall buildings, constructed in the early Reagan years, compensated for their lack of charm with a clean, spartan style. Hank pulled up to the entrance of the middle tower. Stepping out of the limo, Dayle spied the Corsica at the edge of the parking lot-one building over. Its headlights went out.

Hank escorted her to the lobby door. Dayle toted a Nordstrom bag. She buzzed number 501: F. & B. LASKEY F. & B. LASKEY. Laskey was Bonny McKenna's married name. It would take some time and research for anyone to connect Dayle's stand-in with this address. "h.e.l.lo?" the voice over the intercom asked.

"Hi, it's me."

"Oh, howdy. I'm buzzin' ya up."

Dayle took the elevator to the fifth floor. Bonny was waiting in the hallway. "So what does our hair look like today?" she asked.

Within minutes, Bonny emerged from the building and strolled toward Hank and the limo. She looked exactly like her employer, right down to Dayle's confident strut. Bonny climbed into the backseat of the limo. Once Hank pulled out of the lot, the Corsica started following them.

Dayle watched from the fifth-floor window. For the next two hours, Bonny would go shopping on Rodeo Drive-with Hank at her side. She knew enough about surveillance to keep her shadows at a distance-and eventually lose them without raising any suspicions.

Dayle changed into the outfit she'd brought along in her bag: jeans and a purple jersey. From the phone in Bonny's kitchen, she called a cab.

The taxi dropped Dayle in front of a U-shaped two-story apartment building. The place looked as if it had once been a hotel in the early sixties. At the front gate, two tiki torches with Polynesian masks on the poles stood like relics of the bygone era. Each unit had its own entry off a balcony walkway overlooking the pool and patio.

Dayle found Estelle's apartment on the second level. She rang the bell. It seemed a gauche place to live for someone who had worked alongside such a high-profile star. Then again, Estelle's bad-seed son had depleted most of his mother's income. Maybe this dump was all she could afford now.

Dayle rang the bell once more. Estelle opened the door. She'd obviously just gotten out of the tub. Her broad face was framed by dark, damp ringlets. She wore a pink robe, and her feet were bare. She frowned at Dayle.

"Can I come in and talk with you, please?" Dayle asked.

"G.o.d, what now?" With a roll of her eyes, Estelle opened the door wider, then plodded to the kitchenette. She poured herself a gla.s.s of wine, ignoring Dayle, across the counter from her. "We've already been through this at Leigh's memorial service, Dayle. I have nothing more to say."

Dayle sat down at the kitchen counter. It was a continental kitchen, the kind incorporated with the living room. Estelle's apartment looked like a modest suite in some southwestern resort-all brown, beige, and rust colors, with Aztec art on the walls. The only personal touch to her living room was a framed photo of a younger Estelle holding a toddler, probably the son. He didn't look much like his famous dad. Lucky kid.

"Does Peter know who his father is?" Dayle asked quietly.

Estelle's eyes widened for a moment. She put down her winegla.s.s. "You can't prove a thing about Peter's father. You're just guessing."

Dayle sighed. "I know where you spent the spring of sixty-nine, Estelle. Wasn't Peter conceived during your time at the ranch?"

"I wasn't at there when those murders happened-"

"I know," Dayle said grimly. "The Tate-l.a.b.i.anca murders were in August. You left Sp.a.w.n Ranch in March. But you lived there nine weeks."

"Guilt by a.s.sociation, right?" Estelle said. "You're just like those monsters who were hara.s.sing me. They thought Charles Manson was Peter's father too. It's so d.a.m.n ridiculous! I wasn't one of his women!"

"But, Estelle, amid all that drug use and group s.e.x, can you remember for sure?" Dayle studied her face and sighed. "The truth is, you can't prove Charlie isn't isn't the father. That's how these people got to you, isn't it? Charlie had targeted dozens of celebrities. Who in the entertainment industry would have hired one of his disciples? Who could trust you?" the father. That's how these people got to you, isn't it? Charlie had targeted dozens of celebrities. Who in the entertainment industry would have hired one of his disciples? Who could trust you?"

"I want you to leave," Estelle said.

"And in the end, you couldn't be trusted. Look what you did to Leigh."

"That's so unfair! Do you think they gave me a choice?"

"Are we finally talking about the same 'they'?" Dayle asked. "How did they approach you? Did you meet any of them?"

Estelle took another gulp of wine, then shrugged. "I never met a single one. They started calling me about four months ago. I was in trouble. I'd taken some money out of Leigh's account to pay my son's debts. Somehow, these people found out about it, and they called me-"

"You said 'they.'" Dayle remarked.

"Yes. About five different people phoned me over the next few months. They kept asking how I planned to replace the money from Leigh's account before someone noticed. They knew I'd spent time at Sp.a.w.n Ranch too." She shook her head. "Who would have understood? I was a fat, unwanted teenager. That spring at the ranch was the first time I ever felt like I belonged belonged. You and Leigh, women like you, pretty all your lives. You wouldn't know what it's like to be repulsive to people, to be that hungry for love. At the ranch, they took me in. And yes, my son was conceived there." She sighed. "Only I saw how some of the other girls got pa.s.sed around. So I left. After I had Peter, I worked hard to make a good home for him. The truth is, I don't know who his father was. And that's what I told the police and FBI when they rounded everyone up after the Tate murders."

"These people calling you, how did they get their information?"

Estelle took her winegla.s.s around the counter and sat on the stool beside Dayle. "I heard someone was in my hometown asking questions about me a few months back. A couple of high school friends knew about my time at Sp.a.w.n Ranch. Maybe somebody got to them. Is that how your man found out?"

Dayle nodded. "I just want your cooperation, Estelle."

She let out a cynical laugh. "Ha, those monsters only wanted my cooperation too. Oh, they were very clever. They merely suggested suggested I could replace the money I borrowed by selling the tabloids a story about Leigh Simone's involvement with drugs, and her secret lesbian lifestyle." I could replace the money I borrowed by selling the tabloids a story about Leigh Simone's involvement with drugs, and her secret lesbian lifestyle."

"This was before before her death?" Dayle asked. her death?" Dayle asked.

"Yes, months ago."

"Did you try to talk to Leigh about this?"

Estelle's mouth twisted into a frown. "I didn't want her to know I'd stolen from her. She trusted me! I just kept hoping these people would go away. But it only got worse. They started following Leigh around like stalkers. And they were so blatant about it, as if they were untouchable. They'd park outside her house for hours at a time-"

"But Leigh had bodyguards."

Estelle shook her head. "Only when she was on tour. Otherwise, she had a retired cop who handled security for the house, and a chauffeur who carried a gun. By the time one of them came out of the gate, the car would always take off. But another car just like it would be back an hour later."

"Another car just like it? What do you mean?"

"They were rentals, you know, midsize cars, Corsicas, Cavaliers-"

"And Tauruses," Dayle murmured. "Last couple of days, they've been following me around too. What did Leigh do about it?"

Estelle stared at her for a moment, then sighed. "Leigh thought they were from the tabloids. She called them the 'rental mentals.' Sometimes she'd flip them the bird as she came out of her driveway in the limo. She wasn't afraid of them. But I was."