is that?”
“I’ve been successful with my business.” He fiddled with his phone and then handed it to her. He had brought up on the screen his company’s website, and as Heather scrolled through it he told her that his business was mostly corporate sponsorships and events, but that it had been very lucrative.
“I’ve seen some of your videos on YouTube,” she admitted.
“Not surprising. They’ve gotten millions of hits.”
“How come your website has your name but not your photo?”
“I like to have an air of mystery.”
When Heather first started questioning him about his movie, it was mostly as a lark and partly because he was cute, but now this was starting to get serious.
“How much would you pay me?” she asked.
“One hundred thousand plus ten percent of the gross.”
Heather had had to work for scale on her last three movies. She concentrated to sound nonchalant as she told him that he could send her a script.
“That’s terrific! I’ll get a copy in the mail later today.” He froze for a moment and made a face as if he were trying to decide how bold he could be, and Heather smiled to herself. He was cute after all, and she was beginning to fancy the idea of getting naked with him for an intensive cardiovascular workout, and so she waited for him to work up the courage to proposition her.
“I’ve also got the movie storyboarded,” he said. “If you have the time, I could take you to my workshop and go over it with you. And maybe dinner at Luzana’s afterward.”
Luzana’s was the hottest spot in Los Angeles. A-listers only. Heather had been dying to get in there—more so she could be seen than even to try the food, which was supposed to be exquisite.
“Do you have reservations?” she asked, a tad too anxiously.
He waved off the question as if he were carelessly swatting at a fly. “Not needed. I have an understanding with the maître d’. If I call him for a table for tonight, it won’t be an issue. Especially if I tell him who my guest is.”
That settled it. Everybody thinks they can make a movie, and it was more likely than not the script he had was putrid, even if he was willing to sink six million of his own money into it. But being seen at Luzana’s tonight would make up for spending time looking over his storyboards. And who knew? His movie idea might actually be decent. She’d seen his videos, and even if making them required a very different skillset than making a movie, he was certainly talented at what he did. Besides, after dinner they could have their tumble in the sack, and she could really use that right now.
“Sold,” she said. “I need to obviously shower and dress first—”
“I’ll wait here for you.” Somewhat magnanimously, he offered, “If for whatever reason you change your mind, I’ll understand completely, but if that happens could you send out your doorman to let me know so I don’t sit here for hours?”
He is just so cute. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she promised.
The killer watched as she walked away. He had to admit that she looked nice from behind in her running shorts and tank top. Beautiful legs, too. Long and slender and toned. She turned to look back at him and wave, and he smiled and waved also. Once she disappeared inside her building, his genial smile became something different.
He had done his research and so he knew she’d be sitting on this bench after her run, just as he knew how she’d react to everything he had said. He had read enough interviews with her to know that she’d come back with that idiotic comment regarding the movie The Day After Yesterday (a movie he had no intention of ever seeing), which would make her feel oh-so-clever. He further knew that she had never made it onto the A-list and was only being paid scale, and that the idea of being paid a hundred grand and a healthy percentage of the gross would leave her salivating. And of course, like all B-list actors and actresses in this city, she would kill to be seen at Luzana’s.
The killer was proud of himself and the performance that he gave. He had been convincingly self-effacing, as if he were actually in awe of her. He’d even been able to blush on command—at least he thought he had. It would be hard to know for certain without a mirror, but he had felt a hotness flushing his cheeks that seemed to indicate that he had succeeded. The book he had read about method acting had helped. It had allowed him to slip into character and stay there until she had left. He had her fooled completely, no doubt about it.
When thirty minutes passed without her returning, the killer wasn’t so sure anymore about how much he had fooled her. After forty minutes, he started wondering if he had made a mistake. An uneasiness began working its way into his chest. She was an important piece in his plans. He needed her. Was it possible that he had overplayed his hand? Could he have blown it by mentioning a doorman? Did that make her start wondering how he knew her building had one?
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Why’d he have to mention anything about her doorman! What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had her sold hook, line, and sinker, so why’d he have to shoot off his mouth like that?
He sat frozen, not quite sure what to do. The only way to reach her condo was to first get past the doorman and the building’s security system. Because of his disguise he didn’t care whether he left the police a video recording of himself on the building’s surveillance system, but the doorman was an entirely different matter since he hadn’t brought a weapon, at least not a conventional one. He could theoretically use the hypodermic needle that was meant for Brandley, but then what? If he were to kill the doorman now it would disrupt his later plans!
His uneasiness had turned into a full-blown panic, but then he spotted Brandley leaving her building. Her hair was done up, and she wore a sheer green dress that showed off her legs and black stiletto pumps that accentuated her calves. She was certainly dressed to be noticed with a strand of pearls around her neck and long, dangling gold earrings. Or some might say dressed to kill. He snickered inwardly as he thought about the truth. Dressed to be killed.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I hope you didn’t think I was standing you up?”
“You had me worried for a bit,” the killer admitted.
“I’m so sorry, but I wanted to look decent for tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” he said. More inward snickering as he added, “You’ll be turning heads later, no question about it.”
“You’re just too kind.” She batted her eyes at him. “Were you able to make reservations for Luzana’s?”
“Yep. I’ve got us a table for seven-thirty. That should give us more than enough time to go over the storyboards and script.”
The killer stood, and Heather took his arm. The killer pointed out his Mercedes sedan parked on the street, the trunk of which was more than large enough to hold Heather Brandley’s body.
“You’ll be driving me in style,” Heather said, pleased with how her day was turning out.
The killer didn’t bother to correct her. As they made their way to the Mercedes, he deftly removed the hypodermic needle from
