Fade to Black Page 13

  “Oh, there’s no one in our lives, not at the moment,” Bridget told him. “I was seeing Chip Denson—he’s an actor. Or he claims to be an actor. I swear, no one knew that he’d starred in that porno when he was hired for Revenge of the Venus Flytrap. Oh, he is good-looking, I’ll give you that. And...in good shape. But...trustworthy? And an actor? Revenge of the Venus Flytrap might have been a bit believable without him!”

  “I’m, uh, sure,” McFadden murmured.

  “Anyway, we are long over, and I’m feeling very, very punch-drunk when it comes to men, thanks to him. And Marnie was dating Ethan Hook—the host on that adventure series—but that just kind of went away with a whimper, you know? He’s a little hung up on himself. I think it was when he was so rude to the waiter at the Beverly Hills Hotel and Marnie decided that was it.”

  Marnie felt her face flaming. She did not need her personal life exposed so...pathetically.

  “We’re fine with it. We don’t want to put anyone out,” she said, her tone cold and flat.

  “As you know...” McFadden said.

  “Yes. You’re here—because of me. And Mom,” she added sweetly.

  “Oh, did you know Maeve McFadden?” Sophie asked.

  Marnie looked at Bryan McFadden. “No,” she said softly. “But Cara did.”

  “They were friends. Well, that’s it then,” McFadden said. “When the cops clear out, I’ll stay. Pick a side of the duplex. One takes her own room, the other the guest room and I’ll take the sofa.”

  “Lovely,” Marnie murmured.

  “We were at my place last night. We’ll do your place tonight,” Bridget said.

  “As you wish,” Marnie said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  George woofed, as if approving the arrangements.

  “Excuse me, then. I’ll let Detective Vining know what I’m doing,” McFadden said.

  When he was gone, Sophie looked apologetically at Marnie. “I really like you both so much, and I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I would really love to just stay until... I just...”

  Marnie told her, “You’ve been great—above and beyond. And it’s all right. You don’t owe us anything, certainly not an explanation. Not many off duty detectives would have stayed with us last night.”

  Sophie blushed, giving her attention to George. “I know I don’t... It’s just...my friend Andrew doesn’t have much time left, and he needs a great deal of help. There are organizations, of course, but...we were a thing, all through high school. Then college. And we drifted and came back together and then drifted and...I still love him very much.”

  “Oh, my Lord, I am so sorry!” Marnie said.

  “Oh, Sophie,” Bridget said, and being Bridget, she slid down by Sophie and hugged her. “And you go to work each day, working so hard. And you still worry about us.”

  “Hey, it’s...life,” Sophie said. “But thank you both.” She let out a breath, glancing at Marnie. “I have to say, I can’t imagine I’m causing you a hardship—having McFadden stay with you. The man is...the man is!”

  “Funny, I was thinking you two would be perfect for each other,” Marnie said.

  Sophie laughed softly. “You think? How bizarre. You haven’t noticed the sparks between the two of you, huh? I do believe my chemistry radar must be much finer than yours.” She rose, helping Bridget back to her feet.

  “I’m taking off for now. We’ll be waiting for what information Doc Priss and the crime scene people can give us. Take care—with every move you make,” she added softly.

  “I’ll make sure she does,” Bridget said. “I’m going to run next door and get a few things,” she told them, looking at Sophie.

  Bridget hugged the detective one more time.

  “You’re amazing,” she said.

  Sophie looked uncomfortable. “Just getting by—like most of us—the best way we can. Andrew is such a great guy. Did so much for so many people, and now... Anyway! Bridget, I’ll step over to your place with you while you get what you need.”

  “Do you really think anything could happen now?” Marnie asked. “This place is crawling with cops and techs and—guns!”

  “I imagine at this moment, this is certainly one of the safest places anyone could possibly be,” Sophie said. “But just be careful—in the days to come. We will find out what’s happening. Cara’s killer will be brought to justice.”

  “I believe you,” Marnie said. “And I will be careful, I promise.”

  In another hour, her house had cleared out.

  There was still crime scene tape all over her backyard.

  She wondered if she’d ever be able to get back into her own pool, if she’d ever feel that the dead man’s blood was entirely washed away.

  She wouldn’t think about it now.

  It was nearly midnight when she, Bridget, McFadden and George were finally alone. Bridget bid her a good-night, telling her she was going to try to be bright and perky and brilliant for the writers’ meeting.

  George asked to go out; McFadden insisted on taking him, just out in the front yard.

  When he returned, Marnie found she was still restless. She needed to go to her own room—with its nice new glass, all the broken stuff cleaned out now.

  She needed to sleep.

  But she had no meetings the next day. If anything, she needed to call her agent and find out if there were any offerings out there that might earn her a bit more money while she waited anxiously on her children’s theater.

  But that was it.

  She perched again on the wingback chair in the living room as McFadden walked back in with the dog.

  The house seemed incredibly quiet.

  They seemed very much alone.

  She reminded herself Bridget was sleeping in the guest room.

  And she told herself McFadden wasn’t that attractive. His scent—his aftershave or whatever—was not at all compelling. He wasn’t striking, rugged, just really, really masculine and all the things she might find sensual and hypnotic and...

  He hunkered down before her, petting George, who had already taken his position at her feet again. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing the dog had already determined his complete loyalty was to her. People kept getting very, very close to her, just to pet George.

  McFadden was very, very close to her.

  Sparks, Sophie had said there were sparks, chemistry...

  But did she just give in to chemistry? And what if he didn’t think there was any chemistry at all?

  He smiled a little grimly looking up at her. “Sophie had a great idea here. This guy is perfectly trained, and he adores you already.”

  “He’s amazing,” Marnie agreed. “I always wanted a dog, but I’ve traveled a lot, too. Filming on location, seeing my folks. I’d never know when I was going to be here. Of course, Bridget’s work is really close to home. So I don’t know why—between us—we’ve never gotten a pet before.”

  “Maybe you were just waiting for this guy,” he said, and again there was that light in his eyes, the smile curving his face making something in her veins leap just a little bit.

  “Maybe,” she murmured. She would have backed away then—if she could have. But she was sitting in a chair, and he was so close to her she could almost feel the heat of his flesh...muscle, bone, heartbeat...

  “How long do you think this will go on?” she asked. She meant to speak clearly and in a moderate volume. Her voice came out in a breath.

  He let out a long sigh, the whole of his body seeming to shrug. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. We never know on something like this. But I do have a theory.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “The man we found in your pool tonight is the man who killed Cara.”

  “What?”

  “Here’s my theory. Whoever killed Cara was hire
d to kill her. Or to kill you, and he missed and killed Cara. Or maybe he was just supposed to murder someone from the Dark Harbor cast. At any rate, the person who hired him to kill either killed him in return or possibly hired another killer to kill the killer.”

  “That’s... I mean... How could that be possible? How do you just find hired killers so easily? I mean, what do you do? Advertise on Craigslist?”

  He smiled grimly again. “Here’s what is very sad indeed—hired killers aren’t all that difficult to find if you really want one. But I could be wrong. Hopefully, we’ll find out who the dead man is by tomorrow. Whoever killed him left his fingers intact, so it won’t be hard getting his prints. With any luck, he’ll be in the system.”

  “If he’s a killer—and he’s in the system—why would he be out on the streets?”

  “He might never have been brought in for murder, but maybe he was apprehended on another charge. Most killers for hire don’t just decide in high school that’s what they’re going to do for a living. They start out with something petty, maybe fall into drugs and drug deals, maybe even human trafficking. Then...well, there’s money in killing. Horrible as it sounds.”

  “I see. But then, if someone wants you dead—really wants you dead—aren’t you dead?” she whispered.

  “No,” he told her. And his smile was suddenly real. “Not when I’m here. You won’t wind up dead. I swear it,” he vowed.

  She didn’t know what seized her then, what insanity. She suddenly leaned forward, threw her arms around him and kissed him. She was kissing him hard and passionately, finding the kiss was openmouthed and very wet and very hot and sensual to the core.

  Then sanity gripped her with the same ferocious force that had precipitated the kiss.

  She drew away. She stumbled up, leaning on him to escape him, almost knocking him over from his hunkered-down position and definitely dislodging George, who whined in terrible confusion.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Truly sorry. I like living. I don’t want to die. I am very grateful. I acted very badly. Excuse me. We need to go to bed. I mean, we need sleep. Separately. I need sleep. I’m so sorry. Excuse me! Good night!”

  The ridiculous thing was she had to steady herself on him. Feel his arms. Feel his hands as he maintained balance and helped her. She felt the muscles in his arms. As she had imagined, she felt the heat. And she really needed to flee.

  She did.

  But he called her back by name just as she reached her door.

  She turned, looking at him down the length of the hall.

  He was smiling—really smiling. His hair was askew over his forehead. He was rakishly macho and amused and so compelling.

  “That was—terrific. Please, don’t be sorry for a kiss like that. Lord above us, please don’t ever be sorry!”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  She hurried into her room and closed the door with what she hoped was dignity and finality.

  But she’d shut George out.

  She had to open the door again, look weakly at the man still watching her, urge the dog in and, once again, close the door.

  Bed, yes.

  Alone.

  Except for George.

  And George, amazing creature that he was, immediately curled into a ball at the foot of her bed.

  The dog could sleep.

  She could not.

  She just lay awake. She imagined throwing her door open, rushing out of the room and hurrying across the bit of distance between her and McFadden. She would throw her arms around him... No, she would stop, she would be sultry and subtle. She would stop right before him and she would say, “Never be sorry, huh? Dear sir, I will not be!” And then she would cast her clothing off and stand naked before him, and he would pull her into his arms and...

  She’d been working with scripts way too long. If it were scripted, of course, she’d be wearing a silk caftan or robe, and it would flutter beautifully to her feet, and he would be overwhelmed with desire and...

  Reality.

  She would never do it. Bridget was asleep in the guest room.

  And what if he had just been polite? What if he picked up the imaginary silk caftan and drew it back around her shoulders and said, “I’m sorry, Marnie. There’s a girl back home.” Or worse: “I’m sorry, Marnie, you’re just not appealing to me.”

  No, it would never happen.

  But it didn’t stop her daydreaming, not until she finally fell into a fitful sleep, and in that sleep, it wasn’t dreams of an amazing sexual encounter that plagued her, it was a vision of a black-clad and masked man, Blood-bone, chasing her down with a light-up sword, ready to slash her into ribbons of flesh and blood.

  * * *

  It was never good to become involved with someone you were protecting.

  Nope. Not good at all.

  They weren’t involved. She’d kissed him out of gratitude. She was a smart woman. She was still grieving a friend and worrying about her own life. It had been a moment, nothing more.

  Like hell.

  There was something there. And he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t.

  He shouldn’t.

  He could still taste her on his lips.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and quickly answered. It was Jackson Crow. For Jackson, it had to be about four in the morning.

  “Have you seen the news?” Jackson asked when Bryan answered.

  “Uh, not tonight. But there has been another incident.”

  “I know. Angela was watching for another case we’re working on, and she saw what had happened in LA. You might want to take a look.”

  As it stood, there was no real reason for the Krewe to be involved. Everything that had happened had happened in LA. That meant the local police handled it, and he sure as hell couldn’t find fault in Vining and Manning and the other officers—or MEs or crime scene techs—in any way.

  The FBI needed to be invited in on a case like this. But now...

  “Did anyone give out Marnie Davante’s home information?”

  “No. They just said a dead man was found in the pool of a Hollywood star. But there was some footage of the outside of her house, so I’m imagining it wouldn’t be too hard for anyone to figure out.”

  He hadn’t even noticed the media that night. They hadn’t been allowed close, he was certain, and he’d been too concerned with what was going on.

  He should have seen someone take a photo, though. He should have expected the media.

  “Well, that’s just great. I don’t suppose it will put her in greater danger. If someone wants her dead already, that won’t change. But it may have an impact on her life.”

  “Assuming she gets to keep a life,” Jackson said. “What’s the local scene like there?”

  He knew what Jackson meant.

  Were the cops asses, or were they just seeking to arrest a killer?

  “Good. Some of the best I’ve come across,” Bryan said.

  “Do you want support from this front? Other than information? Speaking of which, Angela does have info for you—nothing that leaps out, just a few bios.”

  “Thank you on the info. As to physical help—more people in the flesh from the Krewe? Is that possible?”

  Jackson laughed softly. “Adam Harrison is our great overlord,” he said. “He has the ability to make anything possible. He’s also provided our unit with a private jet. Say the word. We’ll get you some support.”

  Hell, yes.

  He had sworn he’d keep Marnie alive. And there was nothing like support once you’d made a promise like that.

  “Is this kind of a come-on to get me to join the Krewe?”

  “Only if you’re willing to go through the academy. It’s a requirement, even for our unit. Which, for you, after the service and some of your other stints, might be like child�
��s play. But this isn’t a negotiation or a bribe. You make your own decisions. We can send out help because it’s what we do. We’ve even gone in now and then where we weren’t really wanted, but, hey, we all want to be wanted. I can send some people in an unofficial way, too. Maybe that would be best for now. I’d tell you I was going to send you my sharpest agents, but all my agents are the sharpest. At the moment, I think I can get out there myself. And I’ll see about a few agents who know LA. That would be the best scenario, I think.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “It’s what we do,” Jackson repeated.

  “And I’m damned glad,” Bryan said.

  “Hang on. I’ll give you Angela.”

  A moment later, Jackson’s wife, Special Agent Angela Hawkins, was on the phone. He knew that she studied all the curious cases they received. Apparently the Krewe—despite the fact the specialized unit grew continually—received far more requests than they could handle. Angela had a knack for reading everything possible about a situation and determining whether the “special” talents of the Krewe would be useful in any given case.

  “Hey, Angela,” he said.

  She greeted him quickly and then went straight to business. “You watched the show, so you know the main characters. Cara Barton, the mom, is dead. Roberta Alan—who played sister Sonia—hasn’t met the same kind of fame, but she seems to be doing all right. She has a makeup line and does a ton of infomercials. Apparently when it comes to the old B-list opportunities at comic cons, she doesn’t mind. She has nephews who are enamored of the fact that she’s at them. I’ve checked out her finances. She spends a lot of money, but I can’t find any major debts or deductions. She takes money out over time and has a reputation for being a major shopper. Jeremy Highsmith—dad to Cara Barton’s mom—seems to just be a nice old grandpa. No major expenses, guest performances here and there. He has a pack of grandkids—from a pack of children due to a number of wives—and all of them love him to death. Even the ex-wives speak highly of him. Down to Grayson Adair. Still very good-looking, young enough, and he’s had a few failed pilots. But he’s also received some decent movie roles, if not in starring positions, with sound speaking roles. He’s ambitious like most guys in Hollywood. Oh, family money comes his way, so he’s not desperate at all. We’re working on finding out more about Vince Carlton, as you asked, as well as Malcolm Dangerfield, the currently hot heartthrob who was nearby when the murder was committed. I’ve looked into a few other people in the area at the time. The old Western star—oh, yes, and the descendant of the dog star—seems to come out squeaky clean with absolutely no motive. Oh, but one more thing on Malcolm Dangerfield. He was approached by Vince Carlton. Love interest for Marnie, or her character, if the show was revived.”