Video Kill Page 11

  Brother marked the page and closed the directory. The actress he’d chosen had just completed a PBS drama and the wrap party was tonight. Brother would be ready and waiting for her when she came home to her beach house after the party was over.

  One more check of his equipment was in order, and then he was ready. Now there was nothing to do but wait. To pass the time he planned to rewatch the Englishman’s work and compare it to his own.

  The screening room, as Brother now called it, was the small bedroom that had once been the nursery. The room had been his for four years and then it had belonged to his sister, Victoria, for a brief period of time. When Victoria had died, at four months of age, his mother had removed the crib and all the baby furniture. It had been used as a storeroom until he had turned it into his screening room.

  Brother flipped on the high-resolution monitor. Then he pressed the fast-forward control to find the scene he wanted. As he watched the images flash on the screen in rapid motion, he leaned back in his leather armchair and let his mind wander. He really needed to have this room repainted. The pink walls with their dancing white teddy bears were no longer appropriate. He still remembered the flurry of activity in the children’s wing when the decorators had arrived to “do” the nursery for his sister. And the rage he’d felt when his mother had announced that he was moving to a nice, big room of his own. She had started calling him “Little Brother” then, and before he’d known what was happening, he was no longer his mother’s baby.

  Brother had wanted to go to the park, but Nanny was downstairs with mother, and she didn’t have time to take him. And now Papa wouldn’t take him, either. Papa couldn’t come home anymore. Nanny had told him that Papa was in heaven. Someday he’d go there, too. Then they’d all be together again, but for now, it was just Brother and Mother and his dumb baby sister.

  It was lonely upstairs, with only Baby Victoria for company. Since she was taking a nap, he had to be very, very quiet. He knew the maid was supposed to be upstairs with him, but she’d left right after Nanny had gone downstairs. If he stood on his chair, he could see her standing on the bottom step of the outside stairs, talking to the gardener from next door. She was smoking a cigarette, but that was their secret. The maid brought him cookies if he didn’t tell on her.

  Brother got out his trucks and started to play, but it was no fun alone. He was trying to be a good, big boy like Nanny said, but the trucks slipped out of his hands and crashed into the nursery wall. And then Baby Victoria was crying, and he knew Nanny would be mad if she found out why. He pushed open the door and ran to the crib to tell his sister to be quiet, but everything he said just made her cry harder.

  Baby Victoria’s face was red and her mouth was open wide. There were no teeth in her mouth. She was ugly and stupid. Brother stood by the crib and stared down at her in exasperation. She should go back to sleep. If she went back to sleep, no one would know he crashed his trucks into the wall.

  There was a pillow on Nanny’s cot, and Brother put it over his sister’s noisy, wide-open mouth. Now no one could hear her. Her legs kicked against the blankets, and he laughed as he watched them. The harder he pushed down on the pillow, the more her feet kicked. This was much more fun than playing with his trucks.

  After a long while her feet stopped kicking. Carefully he raised the corner of the pillow to peek. Baby Victoria wasn’t crying anymore. Now she was very quiet.

  There was the sound of a door slamming downstairs and Brother put the pillow away and ran back to his playroom. He was building a tower with his blocks like a very good boy when Nanny came back upstairs.

  Brother came back to the present with a jolt when the scene he wanted flashed on the screen. He hit the stop button on the remote control and backed up the video just a bit. Alfred Hitchcock had gained a reputation through false pretenses. Brother would expose him for the charlatan he was by reshooting Hitchcock’s famous death scenes the way they should have been done.

  It was late by the time Brother finished watching the scene he was filming tonight, but he needed everything fresh in his mind before he left. There were no second chances in the cutting room for him. He had to stage this scene perfectly, the first time around, so that he could leave the video for the police. Their evidence room vault was the safest place in town to store his discs. No studio bigwig could pull him off this project. It was his. His alone.

  Brother still remembered the time, ten years ago, when Lon Michaels had been working for a major studio. Everyone in the industry knew that Lon was the best cameraman in the business, but he had been over budget. Lon had argued that the excellent footage he’d already shot more than made up for the delay and the extra expenditures. Unfortunately, the studio didn’t agree. Two men had come into Lon’s office while Brother was there to confiscate the reels of film. Legally, Lon’s film belonged to the studio and there had been nothing he could do to reclaim it. Another cameraman had completed the film and Lon’s work had been ruined.

  Brother had learned a valuable lesson from Lon’s misfortune. He’d vowed that such a catastrophe would never happen to him. His wonderful scenes with Sharee Lyons and Tammara Welles were under the armed protection of the police. No studio in town could touch them or alter them in any way. And, best of all, the detective in charge had decided to keep the content of his masterpiece from the press. If people in the industry knew the full scope of Brother’s project, the no-talent jealous ones might try to stop him from completing his work.

  As Brother reached for his briefcase of equipment, the clock on his workroom wall began to chime. He was late! Brother grabbed his things and rushed down the stairs. As he locked the outside door behind him, a smile crossed his face. Diana Ellington had told Lon Michaels she’d die for the lead in his next movie. That rumor was all over town. And everyone knew that she’d slept with Lon to try to get the part. Life was ironic. Tonight Diana would discover that she’d landed the part she craved so much even though she’d seduced the wrong man.

  Diana Ellington stifled a yawn. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed, but it was Sunday night and she’d been edgy all day. The Video Killer had struck on the past two Sundays and she was afraid to leave, alone. The party would last all night. Perhaps she should curl up on the couch on the set and stay right there until morning.

  “Was that a yawn, sweetie? The party’s just starting.”

  Diana froze as a commanding hand took her elbow. It was Ian Jasper, Hollywood’s golden boy producer. She turned slowly, using her eyes to their full advantage to give Ian a smoldering look as he whirled her around and embraced her. If she could get Ian to take her home, she wouldn’t have to worry about being alone.

  “Ian, darling, I was just thinking of leaving. I’m dubbing in the morning and I simply have to get to bed.”

  “With or without me?”

  Diana shivered a little as she gazed up into his craggy face. Ian was well known for bedding actresses and then creating juicy parts for them in his next feature, if he liked them enough. Lon Michaels might come through with a part for her in Video Kill, but there were no guarantees in this business and it always paid to have more than one iron in the fire.

  “What a tempting thought,” Diana breathed, snuggling a bit closer. “But, Ian, dear, from the look on your companion’s face, I assumed you were otherwise engaged for the evening.”

  Ian laughed as he followed Diana’s gaze. The starlet he’d brought to the party was standing in the corner with a glass of champagne, staring at them malevolently.

  “Engaged? That word has negative connotations, darling. Marietta may have certain expectations, but I’m sure she wouldn’t object to a threesome.”

  Diana managed to keep the interested expression on her face even though her hopes plummeted. There would be no opportunity to talk to Ian about a starring vehicle if Marietta were there.

  “Ian, dear.” Diana smile up at him, “I’m afraid I never did learn to share with good grace. Let’s take a rain check until you can devote
all your energies to me.”

  Ian glanced over at Marietta again. She had been a bit possessive lately, and his arms tightened around Diana.

  “I’ll stay at the party until eleven, and then I’ll take Marietta home. That’ll put me at your house no later than midnight. Can you make a dry martini? One where the vermouth is only a fleeting memory in the mind of the gin?”

  “I can make the driest martini in existence.” Diana smiled. “To be completely honest, my vermouth bottle’s been empty for years.”

  Ten minutes later Diana was in her white Jaguar, using her cell phone. It took ten rings but finally a sleepy voice answered the phone. Her agent, Marsha Weitz, grasped the situation quickly. Yes, she knew all about Ian Jasper. Diana should dress in a blue negligee. It would set off her coloring perfectly. To make a dry martini the way Ian liked it, she needed to stop by Malibu Liquor to buy Boodles, Ian’s favorite gin. Diana should also pick up green cocktail olives, the kind stuffed with garlic. As far as the rest went, Diana should resist slightly, just enough for Ian to think he was making a conquest. Diana would have no trouble with Ian Jasper. Thank God it wasn’t that schmuck, Bernie you-know-who!

  Diana felt great as she hung up the phone. She stopped at Malibu Liquor and bought everything she needed, and then took the Pacific Coast Highway north. The moon was so bright on the ocean that she could see the dial on her watch. It was only ten-thirty. She had an hour and a half until Ian arrived—plenty of time for a relaxing bath and a complete makeover. She could hardly wait for her performance to begin. Seducing Ian could be the biggest break of her career. She’d indulge every one of his fantasies, and by the time he left her beach house in the morning, he’d be planning a marvelous showcase movie for her.

  The house was dark as Diana pulled up in the driveway. She must have forgotten to turn on a light. Diana put her car in the two-stall garage and left the garage door open for Ian. Parking on the street was impossible here. Cars lined the shoulder of the highway twenty-four hours a day. She’d been lucky to find a beach house with a double garage.

  Diana was fumbling for her house key when she noticed that the connecting door to the kitchen was already unlocked. She hesitated, her hand on the knob. Should she call the police to have them check out the house? No, that was silly. She was overreacting to the publicity about the Video Killer. It was true that both victims had been actresses, but they’d lived in the city, miles from here. She was perfectly safe. If she called the police, they might still be here when Ian arrived, and that would put a real damper on her plans. Firmly Diana turned the knob and pushed open the door. Moonlight streamed in the kitchen window, making a ghostly white rectangle of the refrigerator. Everything was exactly the way she’d left it. The teapot was still sitting in its cozy on the counter, and her cup, half empty, was beside it. No one was here. She was paranoid, that was all.

  Even though she told herself that there was nothing to fear, Diana snatched a stainless steel chopping knife from the holder on the counter. It was heavy and sharp; the saleslady had told her it was perfect for dicing onions and celery. She gripped it tightly in her hand as she went into the living room to switch on the lights. Everything was fine there, too. No signs of an intruder. Diana began to feel a little foolish about her paranoia, but she methodically checked out the other rooms. She’d order a photoelectric timer for the lights tomorrow. There was something terribly unnerving about stepping over the threshold into a pitch-black room.

  The last room Diana entered was her bedroom. She gave a little cry of dismay as she glanced at the antique clock on the dresser. Ian would be here in forty-five minutes. Her check of the house had taken much longer than she’d thought. A relaxing interlude in the bath was out. She’d barely have time for a quick shower.

  Diana slipped out of the red silk jumpsuit she’d worn to the wrap party and left it crumpled on the floor of the dressing room. Her maid would take it to the dry cleaners in the morning. Then she put on a plastic cap to preserve her hairstyle and took the quickest shower in history.

  In less than ten minutes Diana was seated at her lighted makeup table, dressed in her very best blue peignoir set. She’d allot twenty minutes for her makeup, and then she’d prepare the martini pitcher. Everything had to be ready by the time Ian arrived. Marsha had told her that Ian hated to be kept waiting. Women were supposed to wait for him, not the other way around.

  Diana had just finished curling her eyelashes when she noticed a blurry movement in the shadows of the master bedroom. Since the door to her dressing room was open and only a dim light was on by the bed, the room was in partial darkness. For a moment she considered running back to the bathroom, where she’d left the knife, but that seemed silly. The window in the bedroom was open slightly and the curtains had probably fluttered in the ocean breeze. Instead, she picked up her eyeliner and concentrated totally on drawing the fine even line at the base of her eyelids to emphasize her “bedroom eyes.” It was a technique that a studio makeup expert had taught her. When she had finished with the eyeliner, she glanced back at the spot where the shadow had been, but it was gone now. The breeze must have shifted.

  Diana used a sable brush to highlight her cheekbones with the special blusher that was responsible for her “peaches-and-cream” complexion and dusted powder over her lip gloss for the “schoolmarm” look. She had just raised her brush to give her hair a final touch-up when the moonlight streaming in the dressing room window was blocked out by a looming black shadow.

  Diana tried to whirl around, but her chair wouldn’t move. Then, before she had time to do more than gasp, she felt something tighten around her neck. As she struggled, desperately clawing at the cloth that was strangling her, her eyes stared in panic into the mirror. A striped silk necktie was cutting into the flesh of her neck.

  She had to have air! Diana grabbed frantically at the dark shape behind her, but she couldn’t reach. Her mind screamed in panic, but she was unable to make a sound. Ian would save her! He’d be here any second! Please, God! Please!

  But there was no sound of a car in the driveway. No flash of headlights against the windows of her bedroom. And then, as her vision grew dim, she saw it. The red light of a video camera recording her death. Just as it had recorded Sharee Lyons and Tammara Welles.

  Diana’s legs kicked out reflexively, a last bid for life-giving oxygen. The heel of her satin slipper caught the leg of the makeup table. Bottles of lotions and multicolored powders shattered on the glass surface, but all Diana heard was the high-pitched ringing in her ears. She was not aware when her legs slowed and stopped kicking, when her arms ceased to flail at the empty air. She was perfectly still. Her lifeless “bedroom eyes,” bulging grotesquely toward the mirror, saw nothing at all.

  Ian Jasper was a half hour behind schedule as he drove up to the Malibu beach house and parked in the garage. He gave the engine on his Lotus Elise an extra rev before he shut it off; it was due for another monthly tune-up. He lowered the garage door with the control on the wall, not wanting his car to be spotted. He’d told Marietta he was going to a late meeting. There was no sense antagonizing her if this thing with Diana didn’t work out.

  There was no answer to his knock at the door. Ian knocked again, impatiently. He had expected Diana to be watching for him to drive up.

  Ian let himself out of the garage and walked around the side of the house, peering in the windows. The kitchen was clearly deserted. It was also clean, with the exception of a teapot and a cup. That was a plus for Diana. Ian hated messy women. He walked around the side of the house and ducked under a trellis covered with bougainvillea, one of California’s reasons for weekly gardeners. The damn stuff grew like a weed, and it had to be pruned constantly.

  The drapes were open in the living room, but no one was there. Ian could see the bottle of Boodles sitting on the bar, along with two glasses and ajar of olives. Diana had definitely been expecting him. If he found her asleep in the bedroom, he wouldn’t bother to tap on the window to wake her. He al
so wouldn’t bother to contact her again. There were no second chances with Ian Jasper.

  Diana’s bedroom had French doors leading to a rear patio. Ian peered in through the sheer curtains and saw that the bed was unoccupied. Since Diana’s car had been in the garage, he knew she was home. He’d take a look in the dressing room, and then he’d give up and go back to Marietta. She knew the drill, and she’d be waiting up for him.

  The lights of Diana’s dressing room were on, but it had an impossibly high window. Ian told himself he should give up and go home, but this whole thing bugged him. He’d never met a woman who hadn’t greeted him enthusiastically, even when he was hours late. Perhaps something was wrong. Diana could have fallen, getting out of the shower, and injured herself.

  A three-step utility ladder was leaning up against the side of the house. Ian felt a bit silly as he climbed it. He was going to a lot of trouble for a one-night stand, but Diana had really gotten under his skin. He couldn’t help feeling that something was very wrong.

  As Ian peeked into the dressing room, he had to grip the sides of the window to keep from falling. Diana was sprawled in the chair at her dressing table and she was undoubtedly dead. Her face was bloated, and her tongue protruded from her mouth in a swollen lump. Ian retched and scrambled down from the ladder, almost falling in his haste to get away from the sight. It wasn’t until he was back in his car again, squealing away from her beach house, that his heart rate began to return to normal and he could think clearly.

  Ian pulled over to the side of the highway and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. He wanted to run, to forget what he’d seen, but that wasn’t the smart thing to do. It was possible he’d been spotted at Diana’s. Then he’d be a suspect in her murder. He had to call the police right away and tell them exactly what he’d seen through Diana’s window.