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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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held up a hand. Angrily she said, “Okay, but not tonight. Not now. There’s something I’ve got to do and if I don’t go now I won’t ever. The detectives have my number.”
She thought maybe Healy called something to her. She wasn’t sure; her hearing was, at the moment, a lot worse than his. But mostly she was concentrating on where she was going and had absolutely no idea how she was going to handle what she now had to do.
Nicole D’Orleans, however, had already heard the news.
Rune stood in the doorway of the apartment in a high-rise in the Fifties, watching the woman lean against the doorjamb, exhausted by the weight of sorrow. Her face was puffy. Along with the tears, she’d scrubbed away some of the makeup, but not all. It made her face lopsided.
Nicole straightened up and said, “Like, sorry. Come on in.”
The rooms were cool and dark. Rune smelled leather and perfume and the faint fumes of the vodka that Nicole had been drinking. She glanced at the blotches of modern paintings on the wall, the theatrical posters. She noticed some framed signatures. One looked like it said George Bernard Shaw. Most she didn’t recognize.
They walked into a large room. A lot of black leather, though not kinky the way you’d think a porn star’s apartment would be. More like some millionaire plastic surgeon would have. There was a huge glass coffee table that looked like it was three inches thick. The carpet was white and curled around the toes of Rune’s boots. She saw packed bookshelves and remembered the way she and Shelly had looked through some of Rune’s books just that morning and she wanted to cry. But forced herself not to because Nicole seemed to be pulling up just shy of hysterical.
The woman had her mourning station assembled. A box of Kleenex, a bottle of Stoly, a glass. A vial of coke. She sat down in the nest of the couch.
“I’ve forgotten your name. Ruby?”
“Rune.”
“I just can’t believe it. Those bastards. They’re supposed to be religious but that’s not the way good Christians ought to be. Fuck ’em.”
“Who told you?” Rune asked.
“The police called one of the producers. He called everyone in the company … Oh, God.”
Nicole blew her broad nose demurely and said, “You want a drink? Anything?”
Rune said, “No. I just came by to tell you. I was going to call. But that didn’t seem right—you two seemed close.”
Nicole’s tears were streaming again but they were the sort that don’t grab your breath and her voice remained steady. “You were with her when it happened?” She hadn’t heard Rune’s refusing a drink, or had decided to ignore it, and was pouring Stoly over small, half-melted ice cubes.
“I was in the street, waiting for her. We were going to a party.”
“The AAAF party, sure.”
The memory of which set off another jag of tears. Nicole handed Rune the drink. She wanted to leave but the actress looked at her with such wet, imploring eyes that she eased into the hissing leather cushions and took the offered glass.
“Oh, Rune … She was one of my best friends. I can’t believe it. She was here this morning. We were joking, talking about the party—neither of us really wanted to go to it. And she made breakfast.”
What should I say? Rune thought. That it’ll be all right? Of course it won’t be all right. That time heals all wounds? Forget about it. No way. Some wounds stay open forever. She thought of her father, lying in a Shaker Heights funeral home years ago. Death changes the whole landscape of your life, forever.
Rune sipped the clear, bitter drink.
“You know what’s unfair?” Nicole said after a moment. “Shelly wasn’t like me. Okay, I do a pretty good job. I’ve got big boobs so men like watching me and I think I know how to make love pretty good. And I like what I do. I make good money. I’ve even got fans send me letters. Hundreds of ’em. But Shelly, she didn’t like the business. It was always like she was
She thought maybe Healy called something to her. She wasn’t sure; her hearing was, at the moment, a lot worse than his. But mostly she was concentrating on where she was going and had absolutely no idea how she was going to handle what she now had to do.
Nicole D’Orleans, however, had already heard the news.
Rune stood in the doorway of the apartment in a high-rise in the Fifties, watching the woman lean against the doorjamb, exhausted by the weight of sorrow. Her face was puffy. Along with the tears, she’d scrubbed away some of the makeup, but not all. It made her face lopsided.
Nicole straightened up and said, “Like, sorry. Come on in.”
The rooms were cool and dark. Rune smelled leather and perfume and the faint fumes of the vodka that Nicole had been drinking. She glanced at the blotches of modern paintings on the wall, the theatrical posters. She noticed some framed signatures. One looked like it said George Bernard Shaw. Most she didn’t recognize.
They walked into a large room. A lot of black leather, though not kinky the way you’d think a porn star’s apartment would be. More like some millionaire plastic surgeon would have. There was a huge glass coffee table that looked like it was three inches thick. The carpet was white and curled around the toes of Rune’s boots. She saw packed bookshelves and remembered the way she and Shelly had looked through some of Rune’s books just that morning and she wanted to cry. But forced herself not to because Nicole seemed to be pulling up just shy of hysterical.
The woman had her mourning station assembled. A box of Kleenex, a bottle of Stoly, a glass. A vial of coke. She sat down in the nest of the couch.
“I’ve forgotten your name. Ruby?”
“Rune.”
“I just can’t believe it. Those bastards. They’re supposed to be religious but that’s not the way good Christians ought to be. Fuck ’em.”
“Who told you?” Rune asked.
“The police called one of the producers. He called everyone in the company … Oh, God.”
Nicole blew her broad nose demurely and said, “You want a drink? Anything?”
Rune said, “No. I just came by to tell you. I was going to call. But that didn’t seem right—you two seemed close.”
Nicole’s tears were streaming again but they were the sort that don’t grab your breath and her voice remained steady. “You were with her when it happened?” She hadn’t heard Rune’s refusing a drink, or had decided to ignore it, and was pouring Stoly over small, half-melted ice cubes.
“I was in the street, waiting for her. We were going to a party.”
“The AAAF party, sure.”
The memory of which set off another jag of tears. Nicole handed Rune the drink. She wanted to leave but the actress looked at her with such wet, imploring eyes that she eased into the hissing leather cushions and took the offered glass.
“Oh, Rune … She was one of my best friends. I can’t believe it. She was here this morning. We were joking, talking about the party—neither of us really wanted to go to it. And she made breakfast.”
What should I say? Rune thought. That it’ll be all right? Of course it won’t be all right. That time heals all wounds? Forget about it. No way. Some wounds stay open forever. She thought of her father, lying in a Shaker Heights funeral home years ago. Death changes the whole landscape of your life, forever.
Rune sipped the clear, bitter drink.
“You know what’s unfair?” Nicole said after a moment. “Shelly wasn’t like me. Okay, I do a pretty good job. I’ve got big boobs so men like watching me and I think I know how to make love pretty good. And I like what I do. I make good money. I’ve even got fans send me letters. Hundreds of ’em. But Shelly, she didn’t like the business. It was always like she was
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