Eyewitness
Eyewitness
Carolann Camillo and Phyllis Humphrey
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Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
www.carolanncamillo.com
www.phyllishumphrey.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Eyewitness
Copyright © 2015 by Carolann Camillo and Phyllis Humphrey
ISBN: 978-1-60381-355-6 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-356-3 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948211
Produced in the United States of America
* * *
To our husbands, Frank Damon and Curt Humphrey
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Chapter 1
He was going to have her killed, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
“Come on, babe, smile. This isn’t a funeral.”
Craig Landis’s words shattered Toni Abbott’s mental picture. The photographer stood a few feet away, a camera raised to his eyes. Craig was a friend, not someone who wanted to kill her. She wished the same could be said for her director, Leo Krueger, whom she’d been thinking about. He had the power to have Alexandra Bradshaw, the character she played on the soap opera Beekman Place, written out of the show. True, Alexandra’s demise was only a possibility, not a sure thing. However, at the moment, it seemed almost the same. He was going to deny Toni her hard-earned role on the Emmy-winning show. The thought of having to return to auditioning elevated her stress another notch.
“Can we take five?” she asked.
“Not now. We’re running late.” Craig sounded peeved.
She could barely see the top of his head, where each stylishly cut blond hair lay in place. His slender, dancer-like body seemed always in motion. She obeyed, heeding the voice that seemed to drift from the circle of light created by a pair of floodlights in the center of the room. She heard the monotonous click of his camera.
Craig took publicity pictures for Beekman Place, and she owed him a favor. He’d suggested she audition for the part of the scheming Alexandra, giving her the chance to play the most talked-about television soap opera character of the season. This was her big break, and it had come at the age of 28, which was for many actresses an age to start thinking about giving up. She had never understood why Craig championed her. He didn’t have any other women friends she knew of, especially women who had never slept with him. They had dated, but after a few attempts to get her into bed, he’d admitted that she reminded him too much of his sister, and they’d decided to be friends. It had been a relief. She guessed she wasn’t worldly enough for him, and that was fine with her.
She was in no mood for a photo session. For the past week, New York City had been hit with a brutal August heat wave, and she’d have preferred to stretch out on her living room sofa with a glass of lemonade and the air conditioner turned to high. Also, she had two pages of dialog to memorize. Although she was a quick study, the heat and the late hour made her expect that learning her lines would be an uphill battle.
Her throat felt like the inside of an old boot. Wisps of damp hair escaped from beneath her bouffant wig and clung to the back of her neck. Under her dress, an ankle-length white organdy with leg-of-mutton sleeves, pockets of heat leapfrogged like prairie fires.
Craig had convinced her they had to shoot at night in a building whose air conditioning had been shut down hours before. He insisted the antique furnishings inside the old-fashioned office would provide the perfect backdrop for the layout scheduled to appear in Soap Opera Digest during the November sweeps.
She hadn’t seen a script yet, but the new story line sounded intriguing. Under hypnosis, Alexandra Bradshaw would regress to a previous life in Victorian England.
“Let’s move it along, Toni. Tilt your head to the right a touch. That’s it.”
The glare from the bank of lights hurt her eyes. Shapes distorted around her: an antique roll-top desk, high-backed chairs, glass-fronted bookcases. The encroaching night gave the room a morbid air, as if the ghosts of previous occupants haunted the premises.
“I can’t concentrate. It’s stifling in here.” Before Craig could protest, she hurried to the water cooler in the back corner, where shadows gathered beyond the glaring lights. She filled a small paper cup and drank the water quickly. She returned to find he’d opened the long, wide windows that faced the darkened lower Manhattan street.
“Now can we move along?” Craig shifted his position. He sidestepped through the jungle of tripods, cameras, and crisscrossed cords connected through a circuit breaker box to an electrical outlet in the wall.
A yowling cat broke the silence. She glanced out the open window. At eye-level, a billboard rose from the roof of the building directly across the narrow street. A cola ad showcased three people strolling next to a babbling brook. Just seeing it made her thirsty again.
“Put your hands on your hips. Turn toward the window.”
She moved automatically to face the gaping empty space. Her gaze returned to the billboard.
“Damn. Hold it while I change film.”
She held it.
Something moved. A loud crack shattered the air, then a second one. She screamed. Almost simultaneously, all the equipment—cameras, floodlights, umbrellas on tripods—flew from their moorings and crashed on the floor behind her with a series of loud explosions. Then darkness.
“Craig!”
She turned toward where he should have been standing but couldn’t see him. Her eyes were slow to adjust to the faint light from the open window. She tripped over a thick cable and almost fell. She sank to her knees to feel her way in the semi-darkness.
“Craig! Craig!”
Silence.
Hands shaking, she located the end of the electrical cord and dragged it to the wall. On the third try she found the outlet and inserted the prongs. A light snapped on, and the shock was almost as great as when they’d all crashed off.
Craig lay tangled in cords. She crawled toward him and gazed down into his open staring eyes. He didn’t move. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth over his chin, and a crimson stain oozed across his polo shirt. More blood gathered on the electrical cords and photographic paraphernalia surrounding him. She pressed a hand to his chest looking for any sign of life. Nothing.
In the intense stillness, Toni’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. Her dry throat trapped any sounds of panic from escaping. Her right hand felt wet, and she watched a sticky red splotch web out from her open palm. She fought an urge to vomit.
She had to find help. No, she had to get away. Someone had killed Craig. She could be next.
Her long skirt bound her legs together, and she pulled at it violently. Blood from her hands formed spiky patterns on the fabric. She choked back another scream and scrambled to her feet.
Run. The thought propelled her toward a door, slightly ajar, which led into the hallway. The knob slipped under her hand, wet with Craig’s blood, and she grasped it with both hands. She yanked the door toward her and rushed into the corridor, dimly aware that her own clothes lay on a bench where she’d left them earlier.
The fluorescent lights in the ceiling blinded her. Hazy black specks floated before her eyes. She reached up and pulled the stifling wig fro
m her head, releasing her shoulder-length auburn hair. The specks grew larger and began to fuse.
She staggered toward the closed elevator doors and pushed the call button. The blood on her palm left a dull mark on the wall. From somewhere below, machinery whirred.
All of a sudden the doors opened and two men rushed into the hallway. “Stop right there,” one of them shouted at her.
For a moment she thought she heard wrong. She couldn’t stop. She had to call the police. Then, through the constantly merging black spots, her eyes focused on their blue summer shirts, their silver shields fastened to the pockets.
“Freeze! Stay where you are!”
One of the policemen aimed his gun at her, blocking her escape. His was the last voice she heard before she fainted.
* * *
Toni awoke in a room with pale peach walls and a window with mini-blinds that allowed the sunlight to stream in and form yellow bands on the worn brown armchair. She lay in a bed, covered in white sheets and a blanket. That was not her bedroom. The sound of footsteps beyond the door, distant bells and the smell of disinfectant meant “hospital.”
She tried to rise, but dizziness forced her back onto the pillow. A dull ache hammered at the back of her head.
She had awakened from the disturbing remnants of a dream. A yellow school bus, its sides streaked with crusted snow, inched along a country road. Inside, she saw herself as a child, nose pressed against the window that looked out on the bleak Midwestern farmlands. She held a pair of pink and red crepe paper roses, a gift for her mother. Finally, a gray roof and brick chimney appeared. A familiar sight. Home.
The bus stopped at the road leading to her house. A police car, black against the white landscape, filled the drive. From the dome on top of the car, a red light swirled.
What had provoked that recurring dream? In the past ten years, it had rarely tortured her sleep and then only when she’d been really stressed. What had happened?
“Good morning. We were worried about you.”
The voice belonged to a young nurse. She had short blonde hair and wore a lavender blouse and pants.
“The doctor wants to see you. He’s on his way now.”
“Why am I in a hospital?”
“Don’t you know?”
Toni shook her head. Her memory produced a mixture of fleeting images, meshing and fracturing. She’d come to in an ambulance as it sped through the streets. At the hospital a technician had administered a CAT scan with quiet assurance. She’d been subjected to other tests she barely understood.
“Has there been an accident?” She sat up slowly. Except for the ache at the back of her head, everything seemed to work without pain. The dizziness was gone as well.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel okay. How long have I been here?” She slid her legs over the side of the bed.
“You mustn’t try to get up yet.” The nurse eased Toni gently back before leaving the room. “I’m going to find the doctor.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with me.” She had no time to wait for a doctor. She had to change and hurry to the studio before Leo thought of at least ten ways to kill off her character.
She slipped from the bed and opened the nearby closet, finding her white cotton pants and red T-shirt along with her shoes. She couldn’t remember how they’d gotten there. Her purse was missing. She carried the clothes into the adjoining bathroom, removed the hospital gown, and put them on.
She felt better after she was dressed. Still, she had this feeling of dread that made her heart lurch. Something terrible had happened. Not to her. She had no wounds, no bandages. Yet she’d been taken to a hospital. Why?
The nurse returned. “The doctor’s on his way.”
“I don’t need a doctor. Someone else ….” A sudden flash of memory filled in a piece of the blank space. She and Craig Landis in his mini-van, driving to … where? The answer eluded her.
“Where’s Mr. Landis? Were we in an accident? Is that why I was brought here?”
An accident would explain the ache in her head. She explored under her hair and discovered a bump the size of a large nut.
“I need to find out what happened to Craig.” Before the nurse could interfere, Toni rushed to the doorway. A policeman stepped forward and blocked her exit.
The blue uniform triggered another memory. Men wearing that identical uniform, with guns drawn, coming through a doorway. Had it been last night?
She tried to brush by him, but he held out a restraining arm. “I’m sorry, miss. You can’t leave yet.”
Why was a policeman stationed outside her room?
A doctor hurried up, white coat flapping as he came. Plump, middle-aged, frizzy dark hair framing a bald pate—he reminded her of a caricature, someone Central Casting sent over for a Marx Brothers remake.
“Ah, Miss Abbott, I’m Doctor Zabo. I was on call when you were admitted last night.”
“Why was I brought here? Why can’t I leave now?”
“You had a nasty fall that knocked you unconscious for a while. We had to keep you overnight.” He gently forced her a few steps back into the room. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.” She had no recollection of a fall. Where was Craig? Had he been admitted to the hospital as well?
Dr. Zabo maneuvered her onto the edge of the bed and examined the bump on her head. “The swelling should go down in a day or so. Otherwise, how do you feel?”
“I feel well enough to go home.”
“Shortly, my dear.” He pressed the cold metal of a stethoscope against her chest, then her back. The nurse took Toni’s blood pressure and announced the results.
“Your CAT scan was normal,” Dr. Zabo said, “and the other tests showed no problems. All things considered, you appear to be in excellent health. We can discharge you this morning.”
Toni expected to feel relieved, but there were too many unanswered questions. “Why can’t I remember what happened to bring me here?”
“Sometimes a nasty fall, or a severe shock, will bring on temporary amnesia. Your memory will probably return in a day or so. Talk to your regular physician. He can help or refer you to someone who can.”
The doctor and nurse left, but Toni remained seated, perplexed. If she’d been hurt enough to land there, what about Craig? Why were they together? Where were they going? Then she remembered something. He’d told her they needed publicity pictures for the new story line, but she had no recollection of shooting any. She had to find him.
She headed for the doorway, where the same young officer blocked her path. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t leave yet. You have to wait here for questioning.”
“You mean by the police?” It was Craig then. She knew it. “Where’s Mr. Landis?”
“Miss Abbott?”
Toni heard a deep voice, then the young officer stepped aside and two men entered the room. The first, easily six feet tall, had large fleshy features, a ruddy complexion and graying hair. His shapeless tan seersucker suit did nothing for his middle-aged, overweight body. Plus, the way he shambled slowly in her direction gave the impression he’d just worked forty hours straight.
Conversely, the other man appeared to be of medium height, with a slim frame, sharp nose, and neatly groomed light brown hair. His sports jacket and slacks seemed freshly pressed.
“Detective Devine,” the larger man announced. He pulled out a black leather case revealing a gold shield. “This is my partner, Detective Henderson. We’d like to ask you some questions about last night.”
Last night held no place in her conscious mind. “Where’s Craig Landis?”
Devine advanced to within two feet of her and stared directly into her eyes. “Mr. Landis was murdered last night.” The words jolted Toni like an electric shock. Now she knew what had triggered the old dream, why no one could answer her questions. Craig had been killed, murdered.
“Don’t you remember? You were with him.”
For a moment she couldn’t seem to pul
l air into her lungs. She covered her face with a hand that felt stiff with cold. She collapsed into the armchair and forced herself to concentrate on what the detective had said. She’d been with him? Did they think she had killed Craig?
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If I was there, I should remember, but I can’t. The doctor said ….”
Devine backed up and rested his bulk against the foot of the bed. “Why don’t you tell us what you do recall?”
Her thoughts refused to make sense. She couldn’t tell anyone about that night. It was like being handed a camera, pointed to an empty room, and told to create a motion picture. If she’d been with Craig when he was killed, the memory had disappeared into a black hole in her mind.
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you what happened to Craig. I didn’t know he was dead until you told me. I have only a vague recollection of being with him last night.”
She closed her eyes briefly. An image flashed. She spoke slowly, softly. “He picked me up in his minivan. It was late.”
“Where did he take you in this van? Was it an office building?”
His questions jogged her memory. “Yes, but not a high rise. An older building. Four floors, I think. We used the elevator.”
“What happened after that?”
As visions appeared, she described them. “We walked down a long hallway and went into a small outer office.”
Of course, as the investigating officers, they would be familiar with the murder scene. She turned her head and took a deep breath. That’s how she’d have to think of it now.
“That’s where Landis photographed you?”
“He took publicity pictures for Beekman Place. Maybe that’s why we were there. I can’t give you any details.”