Dayle decided to start working her chauffeur full time, and had him doubling as her bodyguard. After a couple of weeks, the Survival Instincts Survival Instincts backlash died down, and she forgot about that note. She had enough on her mind with career worries. Her box-office clout was slipping. backlash died down, and she forgot about that note. She had enough on her mind with career worries. Her box-office clout was slipping.

The good film roles were going to younger actresses. She shouldn't have been surprised, but it still peeved her that-in her late thirties-she was considered by the moneymen as too old to play the romantic lead opposite Harrison Ford in one project-and Robert Redford in another vehicle.

She couldn't lure the big-name leading men for films made by her own production company. The guys wanted top billing and too much money. So her recent on-screen lovers were mostly second-echelon stars-all fine actors, but somehow lacking the charisma for superstardom. If moviegoers didn't see much chemistry between Dayle and her last few leading men, that was why.

Her leading men off screen weren't much better. In fact, for someone selected six times by People People magazine as one of The 50 Most Beautiful People, her love life was pretty abysmal. It seemed predestined. magazine as one of The 50 Most Beautiful People, her love life was pretty abysmal. It seemed predestined.

She'd gone to a numerologist once-on a dare, an old Frenchwoman named Rene, who also did tarot readings. Rene must have dug up a few old magazine articles about her, because she accurately pegged Dayle as being an only child from a wealthy family. Perhaps she expected Dayle to be astonished when she pointed to the number nine on a chart, and declared in her thick accent: Dis is how old you are when your father leaves you Dis is how old you are when your father leaves you.

Dayle nodded. Her parents' divorce was mentioned in that Vanity Fair Vanity Fair cover story a while back. The article covered practically everything Rene was "unearthing": the years at a private boarding school, the need to escape through movies and books, the desire to pretend she was someone else that led to an interest in theater. cover story a while back. The article covered practically everything Rene was "unearthing": the years at a private boarding school, the need to escape through movies and books, the desire to pretend she was someone else that led to an interest in theater. You do not trust many people You do not trust many people, Rene went on. People like you, but you push dem away. You don't haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build. You are independent...cautious. You trust only yourself. You will not give up control. The relations in love People like you, but you push dem away. You don't haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build. You are independent...cautious. You trust only yourself. You will not give up control. The relations in love-Rene shook her head and sighed. Dey are not so good. Maybe dis is because you need control? Or perhaps because of your caution? Dey are not so good. Maybe dis is because you need control? Or perhaps because of your caution?

Dayle didn't remember Rene saying anything in particular that suddenly won her over. And maybe the old medium was merely conjecturing what might concern most single career women in their late thirties when she talked about Dayle's fear of growing old alone, her ticking biological clock, and the whole this-is-your-last-chance business. But by the time Rene started flipping over the various tarot cards, Dayle was busy taking notes.

Her love cards always looked so bleak: a man lying facedown with dozens of spears in his back; a sword piercing a heart; a couple of paupers in the snow outside a locked castle. She and Rene finally began laughing over the utter hopelessness of it all.

Old Rene's cards didn't lie. Dayle felt cursed. The love of her life was Jeremy Caughlin, a brilliant young movie director, responsible for igniting her career. She was twenty-four and still a relative unknown when he picked her to star in The Ivory Collar The Ivory Collar, the film version of her off-Broadway hit. While shooting on location in Maine, Jeremy became Dayle's companion and confidant. He was a better friend than lover, but it didn't seem to matter.

They were a great-looking couple, favorites of the press, photographed wherever they went. Her future with Jeremy looked very promising indeed.

Jeremy told her that he was gay a few months before they got married. Dayle was smart enough to know that she couldn't change him, but Jeremy could change her-and make her into a major star. He was also a h.e.l.l of a nice guy, her best friend, and he needed a wife for public appearances. He was very discreet with his boyfriends, while Dayle kept busy with her career. In seven years, she strayed only twice, the second time being the marriage breaker. Her affair with leading man Simon Peck made the tabloids. Jeremy was the one who filed for divorce.

Maybe she was looking for a way out with Simon Peck. He was s.e.xy, yes, but she never really loved him. His real name was Simon Piccardo, and he admitted to stealing Gregory Peck's last name. That wasn't all he stole. Every time Dayle went to a party with Simon, he'd come back home with whatever item tickled his fancy at the host's house: a letter opener, paperweight, candy dish, or a CD. It was the same routine whenever they went shopping together. The studio had even established an understanding with various stores on Rodeo Drive that they would cover the cost of any items Simon stole. The store clerks merely had to keep tabs of the missing merchandise. Despite these precautions, Dayle still had to bail Simon out of jail twice. After the third arrest, she left him.

It was more or less the same scenario with her other show business boyfriends. She had a low tolerance level for their secret dysfunctions: the c.o.kehead, the s.e.x addict, the alcoholic, and the workaholic.

None of the men in Dayle's life really knew her very well-except maybe Jeremy. He'd remarried-another one of his leading ladies. As far as Dayle knew, he was still seeing his boyfriends on the side. His career had peaked during his time with Dayle. He lived on the East Coast now, and directed the occasional TV movie. They still kept in touch-holidays and birthdays mostly.

For lack of any compet.i.tion, Dayle continued to think of Jeremy as one of her best buddies. Old Rene had called it pretty accurately: You don't haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build.... You don't haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build....

The people who really knew her best were Bonny and Dennis. She was thinking about that last night, when Leigh Simone mentioned, "My best friend is my a.s.sistant, Estelle. And I pay her salary." Leigh said it was the same way with her band and backup singers-to a lesser degree. No matter how close she felt to them, they were still her employees. "Oh, the dilemma of being a diva!" she'd declared-before bursting into laughter.

Dayle kept her eyes closed as the plane encountered a little turbulence. Nothing severe. She smiled at the thought of Leigh Simone, and her offer of friendship. Here was someone very much like herself. How silly of her to worry about what people might think.

She opened her eyes. The boring businessman in the aisle seat didn't wait a beat before starting in: "The flight attendant came by for your drink order, but you were asleep. I ordered a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary. What the heck, it's free. My wife's not going to believe I sat next to a movie star-"

"Excuse me, Ms. Sutton," the flight attendant interrupted, G.o.d bless him. "May I get you something to drink?"

Dayle smiled gratefully. "Yes, may I have a Diet c.o.ke please?"

"I'd think a big superstar would order champagne and caviar," the man beside her remarked.

"I have a long day ahead," Dayle explained patiently. She glanced at her wrist.w.a.tch, then reached for the air phone. "You've been very nice to let me sleep, thanks." She started dialing, then turned her shoulder to him.

"Oh, well, no problem," she heard him reply.

Dennis answered on the third ring. "Dennis Walsh speaking."

"Hi, it's me. I'm calling from the plane, which was delayed two hours. So-favor number one, let them know on the set that I'll be late. Favor two, call your buddy, Estelle, and see if you-"

"Estelle?"

"Leigh Simone's a.s.sistant, Estelle. Between you and her, maybe you can figure out some time when Leigh and I can get together this week. I figure-"

"Jesus, you don't know," he interrupted in a whisper.

"Know what?"

"I thought you sounded too d.a.m.n cheerful."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's bad news, Dayle. Um...Leigh's dead."

Dayle told herself that she didn't hear him right.

But Dennis had confirmed it through a friend at a.s.sociated Press. Leigh had died from an apparent drug overdose in a rest room at the Imperial Hotel. "More bad news," Dennis went on. "Someone on the plane ID'd you and called somebody else. Long story short, you'll have a capacity crowd waiting for you at the gate-including our friends from the press."

"Oh, Jesus," Dayle muttered, rubbing her forehead.

"I'll get some extra security over to the airport for you."

"Thanks, Dennis," she said, her voice quivering. "Better have my lawyer there too. And for G.o.d's sake, see if you can get any more information about what happened to Leigh."

Camera flashes went off as Dayle emerged from the jet-way. Photographers elbowed and shoved each other for a good shot. Reporters screamed questions at her: What was her reaction when she heard about Leigh Simone's death? How well did she know Leigh? Did Leigh seem depressed last night? Did she know Leigh was taking drugs?

Dayle kept her gaze fixed directly ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. The extra security people controlled the crowd at the gate. Hank, her driver and part-time bodyguard, held the mob at bay with an intimidating look. A big guy with a blond crew cut, Hank was fifty-three. Without his gla.s.ses, he could have pa.s.sed for an Aryan version of Oddjob, the deadly henchman in Goldfinger Goldfinger. In reality, Hank was a p.u.s.s.ycat.

"Dayle, don't you have any comment about Leigh?"

On an impulse, she stepped up to the nearest microphone. "I don't believe for one minute that Leigh Simone took her own life," she announced. "Leigh didn't use drugs. When I saw her late last night, she was doing just great. I hope the police thoroughly investigate Leigh's death, because this overdose was not self-inflicted."

"Ms. Sutton are you saying Leigh Simone was murdered?" one reporter asked. Then about a dozen others yelled out questions.

"I have no further comment," Dayle said.

"Thank G.o.d!" It was her lawyer, Ross Durlocker, who came to Dayle's side just as she turned away from the microphone. Balding and middle-aged, Ross compensated for his bland looks with frequent tanning sessions, eighty-dollar haircuts, and expensive designer suits. He hadn't come alone. Behind him were three men in not-so-expensive suits, who just had to be police. Neither Ross nor the plainclothesmen seemed too happy with her. "Dayle, sweetheart," Ross whispered. "The detectives here would like to talk to you before you say anything else to the media."

Dayle threw him a strained smile, then nodded. Hank went to claim her bags. The policemen led Dayle and her lawyer through the crowd, into an elevator that had a sign posted on the doors: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They went up to the third floor, then followed the cops down the corridor to a narrow, windowless conference room with a long oak table and a dozen chairs. Blown-up aerial photos of the airport decorated the walls.

A thin, middle-aged Asian woman sat near the end of the table. She looked haggard. Her red jacket and skirt ensemble were slightly wrinkled. She gave Dayle and Ross a weary nod as she flipped open a steno pad.

"I could use some coffee," Ross whispered to Dayle. "You want coffee?"

"No, thanks." Dayle sat down at the table.

Ross settled next to her. He knocked on the table until the Asian woman looked up. "Honey, I'd like a cup of coffee, cream and sugar if you've got it."

The Asian woman nodded and smiled. But she didn't stand up.

"Don't call her honey," Dayle muttered. "You know that p.i.s.ses me off."

"Me too," the Asian woman said. She shot a look at one of the cops. "Frank, get this a.s.shole some coffee."

"Yes, Lieutenant Linn." He hurried out the door.

Dayle let out her first laugh since she'd stepped off the plane.

The woman turned to Dayle and her lawyer. "Well, you heard the man," she said. "I'm Lieutenant Susan Linn of the LAPD. I've been on the phone with the Portland Police Department since six forty-five this morning. I'm handling the investigation of Leigh Simone's death on this end."

Ross cleared his throat. "I'm here as counsel to-"

"I know why you're here, Mr. Durlocker," the lieutenant cut in. "You're Dayle Sutton's lawyer. I'll forget about your 'honey' crack if you forget what I called you. Now, let's cut to the chase. According to findings from the Portland police, Leigh's death was from an overdose of heroin-accidental or a suicide, they're still not sure."

Lieutenant Linn folded her hands and smiled at Dayle-the same smile she'd given Ross just seconds before calling him an a.s.shole. "Now, Ms. Sutton. Since you were at the rally last night with Leigh, we wanted your cooperation in answering a few questions. It wouldn't have taken long. Of course, that was before you decided to share with the press your opinion about this case."

"I meant what I said," Dayle replied coolly.

"Your reputation for being forthright precedes you," the lieutenant said, glancing at her steno pad. "What makes you think, all evidence to the contrary, that Ms. Simone's overdose was-as you put it-'not self-inflicted?'"

Dayle leaned forward. "Leigh met me for a drink in my room late last night." Ross and the cops were staring at her, perhaps wondering about the lesbian angle; but Dayle didn't care. At least, she tried not to care.

"Go on," the lieutenant said. "I'm listening."

"We talked for thirty minutes or so," Dayle explained. "Leigh mentioned rumors about her s.e.x life that simply weren't true. She said she didn't use drugs, and joked about being a 'disgrace to the rock star profession.' She wouldn't even take a drink when I offered. When she left my room at around eleven, she was in a good mood, not at all on the brink of suicide."

"So you two said good-bye at eleven o'clock," Lieutenant Linn remarked, glancing down at her notepad. "Did Ms. Simone say where she was going?"

"Back to her suite, her party."

"She never returned to her suite. It looks like you were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive."

"Except for the people who killed her," Dayle said, "Ms. Sutton, Leigh's fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She'd trashed that ladies' room, and scribbled a note on the mirror in her own lipstick. Do you know what she wrote?"

Dayle shook her head.

"She wrote the word Lies Lies twice. What do you think she meant?" twice. What do you think she meant?"

"Perhaps she didn't write it," Dayle said.

"Perhaps she did. Perhaps she'd been lying to you about not using drugs. How well did you really know Leigh Simone?"

"We met for the first time yesterday-after the concert. But I could tell she wasn't lying to me. Why should she?"

Ross's coffee finally arrived. The detective set it down in front of him. Ross pried off the lid and grumbled that he'd wanted cream and sugar.

"I'll take it if you don't want it," Dayle muttered, swiping the Styrofoam cup from him. She took a sip. The stuff fortified her a bit. She put the cup down. "Lieutenant, I might not have been in that rest room this morning. But I was with Leigh Simone last night. And the woman who left my suite was in a great mood, very much full of life. Your people in Portland ought to be looking into that hotel. Tony Katz was staying there the night he was murdered. And I happen to know that Tony was receiving death threats. Maybe his murder wasn't as random as it seemed. First Tony, then Leigh. Doesn't anyone in the Portland police or the LAPD see a connection here?"

"With the hotel? We see a coincidence. Where did you get this information about death threats toward Tony Katz?"

Dayle hesitated. "From someone who wishes to remain anonymous."

"That's not much help."

"But it should cast doubt on your theory that Leigh killed herself. Somebody connected with the hotel could have been involved in both deaths."

Lieutenant Linn shut her notebook and sighed. "Ms. Sutton, I'm not investigating the death of Tony Katz. The Columbia County Police in St. Helens, Oregon, are handling that one. The bodies of Mr. Katz and his friend were discovered in a forest preserve seventy-five miles away from Portland and the Imperial Hotel. That was a double homicide. Leigh Simone took an overdose of heroin." The lieutenant gave her a perfunctory nod. "I want to thank you for your time, Ms. Sutton."

"Wait a minute," Dayle said. "Is that all?"

Lieutenant Linn nodded. "I'll send this information on to Portland."

"And it won't change anyone's mind up there, will it?"

Linn got to her feet. "I'll be honest, Ms. Sutton. What you've said hasn't changed my my mind. I still think Leigh Simone took her own life. Despite what Ms. Simone might have told you, we know she was troubled about her s.e.xuality and that she used drugs-including heroin." mind. I still think Leigh Simone took her own life. Despite what Ms. Simone might have told you, we know she was troubled about her s.e.xuality and that she used drugs-including heroin."

"That's a crock of s.h.i.t," Dayle said, rising from her chair.

"No, that's gospel-according to someone who has known Ms. Simone for six years. We got it from her personal a.s.sistant, Estelle Collier."

"I want a powwow with Estelle Collier ASAP," Dayle told Dennis over the phone in the back of her limousine. Hank was in the driver's seat, pulling out of the airport terminal.

"You want to meet with Estelle? Leigh Simone's a.s.sistant?"

"Yes. I'm sure everyone and their brother are trying to see her this morning, but do what you can. I need to talk to her."

"Want me to get you an audience with the pope while I'm at it?"

"We're not talking. What's my schedule like today?"

"Mildly horrifying. You were due on the set an hour ago. You have a lunch date with Maggie McGuire that I better cancel. Nearly every reporter in the free world wants to talk to you regarding Leigh Simone. And there's about a ton of other c.r.a.p, but I took care of it."

"Thanks, you're a prince," Dayle said. "One more favor. I want to talk with Tony Katz's widow, Linda Zane. She's someplace in Greece. See if you can dig up a phone number."

"Will do. When can we expect you on the set?"

"We just left LAX. I'm on my way."