eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781490788425 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 04/25/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 336 |
| File size: | 383 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
THE BEGINNING
I was exhausted.
For the last week, we had been doing voice-overs and shooting close-ups and exterior scenes — the characters walking on the beach, in the park, or sitting in a restaurant. It was all rather dull stuff, but the director had promised George Clooney, my costar, and me that if we busted our asses this week, we would be done on Sunday. It was technically Monday morning, as midnight had passed well over an hour ago.
We had been filming the remake of the classic 1939 Bette Davis movie Dark Victory. The incredible Mr. Clooney had been cast as George Brent's Dr. Frederick Steel and I as Bette Davis's tragic Judith Traherne. The supporting cast was equally outstanding, and with Ron Howard directing, it was bound to be as enjoyable as the original.
When we had finished, I had had several offers to drive me to either my Malibu home or my Beverly Hills estate. I wanted total quiet. I declined all the offers and called for a studio driver to drive me to my small Burbank apartment. I would have almost six months before I started my next project. I needed the break. I had been working steadily, going from one project to another, for the last five years.
In the middle of the six months, I had promised my agent and the recording studio I was under contract with that I would record a live album and show of standards from the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday, Rosemary Clooney, Streisand, and Garland for HBO. This would be a week of rehearsal with the band and two nights, if necessary, of actually performing. When I look back on the last five years, that was nothing at all.
The midrise had been built back in the '50s. The building had nine floors with the top two floors housing four apartments each instead of the eight the first six floors contained. Mine had been bought and remodeled by a semifamous actor who had been known more for his paranoid personality and less for his acting ability. What had made this eighth-floor apartment so unique was that Ronald Edgar VanVelt had taken the master bedroom and turned it into a panic room.
The walls were one foot of reinforced concrete, with the ceiling and floor already strengthened. The room had its own ventilation system as well as air conditioner. There were no windows, but it did have a small three-piece bathroom and an equally small closet.
When I had bought it at an estate sale, my friends had been charmed by the place. Aside from the kitchen and the updated security system, I spent little money on the apartment. As a joke, I had placed cameras, tiny pinholes in the crown molding, throughout the house and had them wired into the panic room, my bedroom.
From a laptop, I could see everything that was going on in any room, including the balcony. Except for the powder rooms. On the few occasions I had a houseful of guests, many spent as much time watching the other partygoers from the small settee in my bedroom than actually participating in the event.
I had moved furniture from my father's house, things I had grown up with, to furnish it. This, more than any other property I owned, was my home. I felt comfortable, relaxed, and safe.
I turned on no lights when I entered. I wanted to get out of my shoes, open a bottle of wine, and sit out on my balcony and just melt into the night.
The balcony was wide and long, wrapping around two sides of the corner apartment. The master bedroom would have had access to it had VanVelt not remodeled. As it was now, the only access was from the large glass French doors from the living room. I made it an extension of my living space with plush lounges, side tables, a dinette that sat eight, and an outdoor kitchen. At two thirty in the morning, Burbank was quiet.
Or it should have been.
"Look, for fuck's sake! I didn't tell them anything. Planz, you know I wouldn't cross you!" A strained and frightened voice came from the other balcony. "Who told you I talked to them? I would never. Shit ... you have to believe me."
"Oh, I believe," a cold voice replied. It was Planz, whoever the hell he was.
I sipped my wine and relished the argument. This was better than any movie or television show. I didn't know what the two men were going on about, maybe a lovers' spat. This was LA. I relaxed into the wine and the drama but was soon putting my wine down and sitting up. This was getting serious. Maybe I should call 911, I thought.
"Hasset, you have worked for me for almost ten years," Planz told the other man.
I stood, caught between moving inside to call the police and keeping my nose out of something that was plainly none of my business. I took a step toward the door.
"Please, I got three kids!" Hasset groaned.
"I'll make sure they are taken care of. Your family is in no way responsible for your fucking stupid behavior." Planz's voice snarled.
I heard Hasset's voice hitch as he started to say the Hail Mary.
"You should have thought about how this would end before you turned your back on me." His voice was so cold and casual it terrified me.
It wasn't loud, the slight "Pop! Pop! Pop!" Nonetheless, I knew what it was. Someone had just shot a gun with a silencer.
Without thinking, I stepped closer to the edge of the balcony. As I got to the corner, I saw the limp body of a man as it was leveraged off the railing and out into empty space.
I must have made a noise — something to catch the attention of the man who had tossed the body over the railing. He turned his cold gray eyes at me with surprise.
"Cat Connors," he said, his voice now warm and surprised, "I always wanted to meet you, but, as you can imagine, not this way. Oh, well ..." He sighed as if he was exceedingly disappointed in an unruly child. "The best most often die young."
The gun came out of his jacket so fast. I stepped back just far enough, so there was no way for him to get a clear shot unless he leaned over onto my balcony. I ran, tripped over the threshold of the door, righted myself, and sprinted into my bedroom. I slammed the door closed, punching the bright red button that would seal me inside.
Thank you! Thank you! I chanted to the paranoid Ronald Edgar VanVelt. I didn't turn on the lights but went to the laptop. In less than a minute, I was looking out into my apartment. The tall, handsome man was tearing up my apartment. I watched as he pulled the gun out of his jacket again and shot at the door to my bedroom. The door was two-inch steel. The bullets ricocheted off the door and embedded into the opposite walls.
I watched his expression rapidly change from unconcern to astonishment to worry and to irritation. I didn't know who he was, but Planz was a dangerous man. He moved from the balcony door and stood there for a moment.
I fished my cell out of my pocket and dialed.
"911. What is your emergency?" a man calmly asked me.
I whispered even though the man outside the room couldn't have heard me. "I am Teresa O'Connor ..." I gave him my address. "I just saw a man in 8A shoot a man and then throw him off the balcony. He's in my house now," I told the operator, trying to stay calm and not doing as good of a job as I wanted. "I'm in my panic room. His name, the shooter, is Planz. I heard the other man. He was called Hasset. I heard them talking. I just thought they were having an argument. Oh, shit!"
"Ms. O'Connor, we have already dispatched several units to that address. I will advise them that you are in your apartment. My name is Farris. I'll be on the line until you are ready to hang up. OK?"
I interrupted. "He's leaving!"
"Who is leaving, Ms. O'Connor?" he asked.
"I have cameras that show me the apartment. Planz just left my apartment. He is wearing a nice suit, was tall, maybe six-two, and good looking. He is dark complexioned, but I think he is white or Hispanic. Is someone coming?"
"The police units are four minutes out. Ms. O'Connor, did you say that you heard the man, the man who shot the other man, was called Planz?"
I told him it was and that Planz had called the other man Hasset. Was I repeating myself?
After a moment of only background noise, the 911 operator came back on the line. "Ms. O'Connor, the first unit just pulled up. They will be there in a few minutes. There are also several detectives that will be following."
"I don't think I can come out," I spoke into the phone but really to myself.
"The detectives, as well as the police officers, have identification. Once they get there, you will be safe."
I focused on the computer screen and let him know that there were three uniformed officers in my apartment. "But I am not coming out, not yet."
"That's fine, Ms. O'Connor." Farris's soothing voice came over the cell. "There are also two detectives arriving soon. They will be there in about ten minutes. As soon as I have their names, I will let you know. Can you see identification if they show it to you?"
"I bought this place as a joke." I had no idea why I was telling him this. "I don't need a panic room." A sob hitched my voice. "Thank God, thank God," I chanted to the ceiling.
"Ma'am, when the detectives arrive, will you be able to see their identification?"
I shook my head to clear it. "Yes, there are cameras in each corner. They're not that easy to see. They look like black dots in the crown molding. All they have to do is find them and hold up their IDs. I will see."
He acknowledged my comment.
Farris was speaking. Just his voice helped me relax. "You doing all right?" he asked, sounding genuine.
"You know," — I laughed — "I have had better days. Oh!" I started to cry something without a camera rolling I never do. "Hasset has three kids. I heard him tell Planz. Those poor babies." I cried softy a few more seconds before I pulled myself together.
"Farris?" I said. "I don't want anyone to freak out."
"Why are they going to freak out, Ms. O'Connor?" he asked, sounding concerned.
"Teresa O'Connor is my real name, but ..." I looked at the screen of my laptop. There were no less than seven police officers in my house now. From one angle, I could see into the foyer off the lobby, and I saw there were more officers out there. This was going to make everything worse. "Most people" — I took a breath and continued — "know me as Cat Connors."
I heard a sudden inhalation of breath before a muffled "Holy shit!" before Farris's calm voice returned. "Ms. Conn ... O'Connor, I will inform the detectives who are on their way and the commander who is on the scene. It will be the detectives whom you will be coming back to the station with."
After an explanation that he was getting information about the detectives, the line was quiet except for the ever- present background noise.
"Ms. O'Connor, I have the names of the detectives. Hearn and Morales should be arriving in just a moment. They have been told to show their IDs and where. Also, you can open the door when you are ready. However, Ms. O'Connor, they want to get you to safety as quickly as possible. Do you understand?"
"Yes, thank you!"
I took a few minutes to let this soak in. I had asked Farris to stay on the line, but I really hadn't anything to say. He agreed, and I heard background noise as I didn't dare remove the phone from my ear.
"Ms. O'Connor, I was just informed that Hearn and Morales are in the building. They asked me to convey to you when you are ready to open the panic room door and let them in."
I agreed, telling Farris to let the agents know that there was a camera about six feet high on the left side of the door to my bedroom, the panic room. If they found that one and showed me their IDs, I would let them in.
He agreed to relay the information, and I sat on the settee waiting.
I saw them enter the apartment. Unlike the uniformed police officers, they were in suits, rumpled and worn. I watched as one of the uniform officers approached and pointed to the corners of the apartment as well as the door to my bedroom.
After several minutes, the detectives moved to the door, pulled out their IDs, and held them, so I was able to see each.
"Ms. O'Connor, are you all right?" Farris's concern startled me as I forgot about the phone pressed to my ear.
I laughed. "The detectives are here. I will be letting them in. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Farris." I hoped he knew I was genuine.
"Abdul, ma'am."
"Thank you, Abdul. You made a terrifying situation bearable," I said before I let him know I was hanging up the phone.
"You're welcome." The line went dead.
After taking another minute to pull myself together, allowing my Cat Connors persona to take the place of the terrified Teresa O'Connor, I took a deep breath and hit the green button under the red that would unlock the door and put the panic room protocols on hibernation. I cracked the door only enough to see them before I stepped back and let them in. I am six feet tall, and both Hearn and Morales were shorter than me by several inches. I motioned for them to have a seat as I sat back down on the settee. The men offered their IDs again for verification. I waved them off.
"How are you holding up?" Morales asked, pulling the chair closer and taking my hand.
He was trying to be comforting, how cute. With a slight smile, I replied, "I would have to say" — I looked at him and then at his partner — "this has got to be the shittiest day of my life."
Hearn seemed stunned that I used the word "shittiest," but Morales laughed, saying he would have to agree.
Morales clear his throat. Hearn took over the conversation. "When you are ready, but not too long, we are going to get you down to the parking garage." He began. "There will be four patrol cars leaving at the same time. In the back of each will be someone with a hoodie. We have a hoodie for you. The idea is to try and make sure that if we are being followed or watched, they don't know which car you are in."
Morales added, "The good thing is the station is only five minutes from here. We'll be good." He finished confidently.
I smiled politely at each of the men while thinking this was going to be a great story for my agent to sell. Lori Liebman could turn anything into great PR.
Before we were out of the underground parking garage, I was told to lie down in the backseat and stay there until I was told otherwise.
We were only out of the garage for a moment before a voice blasted from the car radio. I wasn't able to understand what was being said. However, Hearn, who was not driving, turned back to offer me a drawn smile before angrily replying to what was being said.
"This is fucking bullshit!" Hearn complained, Morales agreeing as he told Hearn to punch in the numbers.
I wasn't sure what was going on, and when I asked, I was informed that the detectives had been ordered to take me to a more secure building. I pushed for more information but was told they had none.
My mind pondered with the idea of a more secure building. Why? Was it because I was who I was? Perhaps the Burbank Police Department took special care of their VIP witnesses.
Lori Liebman was going to love this!
The ride, instead of being five minutes, had ended up being forty minutes. I was tired and wanted to sleep.
Hearn pulled into an underground parking garage. I hadn't been paying attention to the street signs, so I didn't see the name of the building or where it was. Instead of going up, we went down three levels. Hearn pulled up to a well-lit door where four men dressed in dark suits waited.
Hearn and Morales got out of the car and left me sitting. When I tried to open the back door, I found there was no way to open the doors from the inside of the vehicle.
I knocked on the window and was unequivocally ignored. How dare they! I fumed.
Checking my watch, it was ten minutes before Hearn and Morales went through the doors with two of the four men. The other two approached the car and opened the back door.
"What is going on?" I demanded.
The older of the two men, his face void of any expression, answered, "Ma'am, you will follow us."
The other man put his hand on my lower back and gently propelled me forward behind the man who had spoken.
Despite my constant questions, demanding to know what was going on, I received no information; nor did either man speak to me.
We took a series of elevators from the parking garage until we deposited onto the twenty-seventh floor.
In the same silent manner, I was lead to an unmarked door. The man who had led the way opened the door, while the other gently nudged me into the room. The door was closed behind me without a sound.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Love Behind the Lies"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Raj Lowenstein.
Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.