person?”
“That’s the way it sounded.” Brian’s voice started to crack. “God, it could have been me who was murdered with him out there in that forest….”
“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. My girlfriend, my friends—”
“Didn’t the police or FBI interview you? I’d think they would.”
“They only talked to the people who were working that night. I didn’t come in that Thursday.”
“You should be talking to the police, not me,” Dayle said.
“Couldn’t you talk to them for me?” he asked. “You could say that Tony told you about the death threats. That way, I’d stay out of it. And people would believe you, because you were his friend and you’re a movie star—”
“Wait a minute, honey—Brian.” Dayle touched his arm. “I wasn’t that close to Tony. Even if I was, I wouldn’t wait two weeks after his murder to come forward with news about these ‘death threats.’ It doesn’t make sense.”
The young man looked so utterly lost. He kept shaking his head.
“I want to help,” Dayle said. “But I can’t go to the police for you, Brian. That won’t work. If you want, I can have a lawyer talk with you—”
“Are you saying that I need a lawyer?” he asked warily.
“Only someone to give you legal advice when you go to the police—”
“No, I can’t go to the police. I can’t do that.” Turning away, he opened the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’m sorry—”
“Wait…wait a second. I want to help you, Brian—”
He ducked into the hallway and closed the door on her.
Jarnell Cleary had been a maid with the Imperial Hotel for five weeks, and she hated it. Scrubbing out toilets at the crack of dawn was not how she’d planned to spend her young life. But only twenty-nine more weeks of this crap, and she and her boyfriend could afford a trip to Europe together. She was thinking about Paris as she wedged opened the women’s rest room door.
At the moment, there were only two other people on the mezzanine level, both of them janitors. Backing her cart through the doorway, Jarnell realized she had her work cut out for her. The place stunk, a rank odor. Someone had left a faucet on; she could hear the water trickling. The overhead lights had gone haywire and kept flickering on and off.
Jarnell almost tripped over the trash can, lying on its side. Garbage was strewn across the floor. She glanced over toward the sinks. Across the mirror, someone had scribbled in lipstick: LIES! LIES!
One of the sinks was stopped up with paper towels, and overflowing. Water dripped down to the tiled floor. Jarnell accidentally stepped in the puddle as she crept toward the first stall. By the toilet, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. Jarnell pushed the stall door open. She saw a fancy gold slipper on the floor. Beside it was a hypodermic syringe.
In the next stall, Jarnell glanced down at a purse lying on its side. Maybe it was because of the blinking lights, but she didn’t notice anything else. She started into the next stall, expecting it to be empty.
Her shriek echoed off the tiled walls.
A woman sat on the toilet, her head tilted back and legs spread apart. Her black capri pants had been unzipped on the side, but not pulled down. The front of her tuxedo blouse was splattered with gray vomit.
At first, Jarnell thought the lady had passed out. But then the lights flickered bright again, and she could see it was Leigh Simone—with her tongue drooped over her lips, and a dead stare from those olive-green eyes.
Four
At 7:15 A.M. , on Friday, October 10, the following Internet conversation appeared on Bullpen, a baseball historian’s chat line:
FRANK : I still say The Babe was the greatest player ever.
JETT : But Hank Aaron broke Ruth’s record with home run # 715 on 4/8/74.
PAT : Breaking records doesn’t necessarily make a player great.
RICK : Request private chat with
“That’s the way it sounded.” Brian’s voice started to crack. “God, it could have been me who was murdered with him out there in that forest….”
“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. My girlfriend, my friends—”
“Didn’t the police or FBI interview you? I’d think they would.”
“They only talked to the people who were working that night. I didn’t come in that Thursday.”
“You should be talking to the police, not me,” Dayle said.
“Couldn’t you talk to them for me?” he asked. “You could say that Tony told you about the death threats. That way, I’d stay out of it. And people would believe you, because you were his friend and you’re a movie star—”
“Wait a minute, honey—Brian.” Dayle touched his arm. “I wasn’t that close to Tony. Even if I was, I wouldn’t wait two weeks after his murder to come forward with news about these ‘death threats.’ It doesn’t make sense.”
The young man looked so utterly lost. He kept shaking his head.
“I want to help,” Dayle said. “But I can’t go to the police for you, Brian. That won’t work. If you want, I can have a lawyer talk with you—”
“Are you saying that I need a lawyer?” he asked warily.
“Only someone to give you legal advice when you go to the police—”
“No, I can’t go to the police. I can’t do that.” Turning away, he opened the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’m sorry—”
“Wait…wait a second. I want to help you, Brian—”
He ducked into the hallway and closed the door on her.
Jarnell Cleary had been a maid with the Imperial Hotel for five weeks, and she hated it. Scrubbing out toilets at the crack of dawn was not how she’d planned to spend her young life. But only twenty-nine more weeks of this crap, and she and her boyfriend could afford a trip to Europe together. She was thinking about Paris as she wedged opened the women’s rest room door.
At the moment, there were only two other people on the mezzanine level, both of them janitors. Backing her cart through the doorway, Jarnell realized she had her work cut out for her. The place stunk, a rank odor. Someone had left a faucet on; she could hear the water trickling. The overhead lights had gone haywire and kept flickering on and off.
Jarnell almost tripped over the trash can, lying on its side. Garbage was strewn across the floor. She glanced over toward the sinks. Across the mirror, someone had scribbled in lipstick: LIES! LIES!
One of the sinks was stopped up with paper towels, and overflowing. Water dripped down to the tiled floor. Jarnell accidentally stepped in the puddle as she crept toward the first stall. By the toilet, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. Jarnell pushed the stall door open. She saw a fancy gold slipper on the floor. Beside it was a hypodermic syringe.
In the next stall, Jarnell glanced down at a purse lying on its side. Maybe it was because of the blinking lights, but she didn’t notice anything else. She started into the next stall, expecting it to be empty.
Her shriek echoed off the tiled walls.
A woman sat on the toilet, her head tilted back and legs spread apart. Her black capri pants had been unzipped on the side, but not pulled down. The front of her tuxedo blouse was splattered with gray vomit.
At first, Jarnell thought the lady had passed out. But then the lights flickered bright again, and she could see it was Leigh Simone—with her tongue drooped over her lips, and a dead stare from those olive-green eyes.
Four
At 7:15 A.M. , on Friday, October 10, the following Internet conversation appeared on Bullpen, a baseball historian’s chat line:
FRANK : I still say The Babe was the greatest player ever.
JETT : But Hank Aaron broke Ruth’s record with home run # 715 on 4/8/74.
PAT : Breaking records doesn’t necessarily make a player great.
RICK : Request private chat with
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