After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

She thought a second. “Don’t know. But there were several different ones, I think.”

“In Portland?” Sparks asked.

“Yeah.” She was nodding. “Look, I don’t remember the names. Mercy? Shit, could be.”

Carter said again, “We’d like to talk to her.”

“So you said.”

“A phone number for her or the name and number of a good friend, someone who might know where she is.”

“That would be me. We don’t have much kin and Belva, she’s not the kind to make good friends, if you know what I mean. I’ll see if I can get you the cell number, but it won’t do ya much good. Just a sec.” She disappeared into the house and less than a minute later returned, the cigarette gone, replaced by a cell phone. After scrolling through a menu, she came up with a number and relayed it through the screen. “That’s it, but I tell ya, she ain’t answerin’. I’ve tried her for two days.”

Sparks asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Two days ago. She drove off around ten in the mornin’, I think.”

“Wednesday?” Sparks clarified.

Sonja stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Jeeezus Keerist! Didn’t I just say so?”

Calm as ever, Sparks fished in his pocket for a card and withdrew it, offering it to Sonja. “Would you have her give us a call?”

“Sure,” she said, opening the door a crack to snatch the card from his fingers. Not that he figured it would do any good. As they left, Carter had the distinct impression Sonja Watkins would toss the number into the trash and hope she never saw hide nor hair of them again.

ACT V

Everything was coming together.

She could feel it.

She slid on the long negligee worn in the boudoir scene of Dead Heat. How well it fit. Like the proverbial glove.

No surprise there, she thought as she surveyed her reflection in the long mirror she’d placed in the corner between the posters that still covered the walls of her dressing area. She frowned as her gaze moved from one of the elaborate pictures promoting various movies to the next.

Of course they were marred. Sliced by her own hand when she was in a rage which, it seemed, was happening more often these days. Was it because of the movie’s premiere, or was it just a natural progression? She didn’t know but felt more out of control than ever, the insecurities and fury more impossible to ignore. She wasn’t always so volatile and now, gazing at the posters that had been taped painstakingly back together, she told herself she was sane; she’d always been sane, the doctors were wrong. As long as she kept herself in control and only gave way to the violent impulses according to her plan, she would be all right. In fact, everything would be as it should be. Once her nemesis was dealt with forever, then there would be calm and recognition and . . . a new life, a life, she deserved.

Again, she viewed the posters and in many, the heroine’s face was a little off, distorted because of the jagged tears. Those, the disfigured images were what she used for the masks she created, the false images that always hid the real person beneath the cool facade.

Soon though, it would all be over.

But there was a new problem to deal with. All very irritating. Just when she’d thought she was home free. No worries, she told herself. She would handle it. Just as she’d handled everything all of her life.

Walking closer to the mirror, she examined herself with a trained eye, then scowled, noticing a tiny wrinkle between her eyes when she frowned. Though she’d told herself differently, age had started to show itself a bit. Her breasts, though full, weren’t as perky as they once had been and, though she was loath to admit it, she was a tad thicker in the middle than nubile Annie Melrose had been in the movie. But still . . . not bad. That film had been shot nearly five years earlier, so a little extra flesh was to be expected. And there was always plastic surgery. Tummy tucks. Breast lifts. Whatever. When the time came.

She felt a new energy when she thought to the night ahead. The premiere party for Dead Heat. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to make her entrance.

She walked to the tiny window and looked outside to the Hollywood Hills and the sign visible through her window. This should have been her time. Her star should have risen, but, because of Jenna Hughes, it hadn’t soared as high as she’d expected. “Thanks,” she snarled under her breath at the woman in the poster. “You miserable self-serving bitch.”