Free THE NEXT TO DIE by Kevin O'Brien Page A

flight attendant interrupted, God bless him. “May I get you something to drink?”
    Dayle smiled gratefully. “Yes, may I have a Diet Coke please?”
    “I’d think a big superstar would order champagne and caviar,” the man beside her remarked.
    “I have a long day ahead,” Dayle explained patiently. She glanced at her wristwatch, then reached for the air phone. “You’ve been very nice to let me sleep, thanks.” She started dialing, then turned her shoulder to him.
    “Oh, well, no problem,” she heard him reply.
    Dennis answered on the third ring. “Dennis Walsh speaking.”
    “Hi, it’s me. I’m calling from the plane, which was delayed two hours. So—favor number one, let them know on the set that I’ll be late. Favor two, call your buddy, Estelle, and see if you—”
    “Estelle?”
    “Leigh Simone’s assistant, Estelle. Between you and her, maybe you can figure out some time when Leigh and I can get together this week. I figure—”
    “Jesus, you don’t know,” he interrupted in a whisper.
    “Know what?”
    “I thought you sounded too damn cheerful.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “It’s bad news, Dayle. Um…Leigh’s dead.”
    Dayle told herself that she didn’t hear him right.
    But Dennis had confirmed it through a friend at Associated Press. Leigh had died from an apparent drug overdose in a rest room at the Imperial Hotel. “More bad news,” Dennis went on. “Someone on the plane ID’d you and called somebody else. Long story short, you’ll have a capacity crowd waiting for you at the gate—including our friends from the press.”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Dayle muttered, rubbing her forehead.
    “I’ll get some extra security over to the airport for you.”
    “Thanks, Dennis,” she said, her voice quivering. “Better have my lawyer there too. And for God’s sake, see if you can get any more information about what happened to Leigh.”
     
    Camera flashes went off as Dayle emerged from the jet-way. Photographers elbowed and shoved each other for a good shot. Reporters screamed questions at her: What was her reaction when she heard about Leigh Simone’s death? How well did she know Leigh? Did Leigh seem depressed last night? Did she know Leigh was taking drugs?
    Dayle kept her gaze fixed directly ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. The extra security people controlled the crowd at the gate. Hank, her driver and part-time bodyguard, held the mob at bay with an intimidating look. A big guy with a blond crew cut, Hank was fifty-three. Without his glasses, he could have passed for an Aryan version of Oddjob, the deadly henchman in Goldfinger . In reality, Hank was a pussycat.
    “Dayle, don’t you have any comment about Leigh?”
    On an impulse, she stepped up to the nearest microphone. “I don’t believe for one minute that Leigh Simone took her own life,” she announced. “Leigh didn’t use drugs. When I saw her late last night, she was doing just great. I hope the police thoroughly investigate Leigh’s death, because this overdose was not self-inflicted.”
    “Ms. Sutton are you saying Leigh Simone was murdered?” one reporter asked. Then about a dozen others yelled out questions.
    “I have no further comment,” Dayle said.
    “Thank God!” It was her lawyer, Ross Durlocker, who came to Dayle’s side just as she turned away from the microphone. Balding and middle-aged, Ross compensated for his bland looks with frequent tanning sessions, eighty-dollar haircuts, and expensive designer suits. He hadn’t come alone. Behind him were three men in not-so-expensive suits, who just had to be police. Neither Ross nor the plainclothesmen seemed too happy with her. “Dayle, sweetheart,” Ross whispered. “The detectives here would like to talk to you before you say anything else to the media.”
    Dayle threw him a strained smile, then nodded. Hank went to claim her bags. The policemen led Dayle and her lawyer through the crowd, into an elevator that had a sign posted on