Nancy Grace - Death on the D-List

New Age music emanated out softly through the SUV’s speakers and the sound of some sort of bell tinkled over hushed harp strings. Blood and blow-back had spattered the inside of the driver’s side door, heading down to the carpet. Since the window was completely down at the time of the gunshot, none would appear on the glass to alert a casual passer-by.

Was that a tiny bit of grayish pink brain matter on her cheek?

The latex-gloved hand reached in once more, to wipe it away, opening the door just long enough to raise the window back all the way to the top, turn off the motor, and lock all four doors of the SUV with one punch to the automatic lock button located on the door’s elbow rest. The driver-side door shut firmly, but quietly.

Walking briskly but casually down the alley to the intersecting street ahead, the urge to toss the latex gloves and gun into a big Dumpster just beyond Love’s SUV had to be wrestled down. That was the first place police would search. A nonchalant glance over the shoulder and down the alley confirmed not a soul in sight.

Later on that morning and throughout the day, people passing by the SUV-the few New Yorkers who bothered to do a double-take-just thought it was Prentiss Love, poor thing, passed out drunk again.

SO, BOTTOM LINE, DO YOU THINK IT’S THE SAME SHOOTER?” O’BRIEN looked at Lieutenant Kolker over the width of the diner’s table top, two cups of coffee steaming, black, between them. It had been a long night and this morning they saw the photos to prove it, in color, on the front of the Post . It was Prentiss Love, all right. Shot dead, and on his beat to top it all off. He worked the crime scene into the night.

Kolker’s lack of response gave O’Brien the impression he was undecided, so he went on, more emphatically. “I mean, come on, first there’s Leather Stockton, now there’s Prentiss Love. Stockton’s a star, kind of, a D-Lister, anyways. Love is sort of a star. Hey, they’re both D-List celebrities! I hadn’t thought of that one!”

O’Brien took a sip of the black brew, winced a little, and kept going. “I know we don’t have all the evidence from the other jurisdiction, the Hamptons, but look. Stockton’s a woman, Love’s a woman. Both shot, one bullet to the head. Both with a handgun, don’t know the caliber yet. Both within short range, well, fairly short range. Love was within twelve inches, based on the amount of gunshot residue, and a little stippling on the left cheek. Stockton within three feet. Not exactly the same, but still, Kolker, they’re both close range. Both boozers, both just out of bad relationships. Too many similarities not to be the same killer. And both within a month. What, are you blind?”

“Sounds like you’ve been reading Snoop . Don’t know how those S.O.B.s got the scoop. Suffolk County PD better be looking at the reporter and the photographer as material witnesses, if not suspects. How the hell did Snoop get to the scene before the cops?”

“Yeah. I was wondering that, too.”

“But to answer your question, no, I’m not blind, O’Brien, I just want to be cautious and not stir anybody up into thinking we’ve got a serial killer stalking the city’s celebs, even if they are D-List. We don’t need that.”

“Have you heard anything about forensics yet?”

“Too soon on the bullet.”

“What about Stockton? There’s been plenty of time on that one.”

“It’s Suffolk County. They gotta get their heads outta their butts first and figure out how to get the bullet to the crime lab without breaking the chain of evidence! Of course they haven’t gotten the caliber yet. Or at least they haven’t shared it with us! Last thing they want is NYPD trying to big-foot the only murder case they’ve had in five years.”

“What about cell records and computer? Anything?”

“I told you, it’s their baby. They’re not sharing. But the only text Love got that we haven’t been able to ID overnight is somebody named Jonathon. But from the body of the texts, it sounds like it’s some kid she befriended, maybe in high school. He wants another signed photo, talks to her about Celebrity Closets, talks about his classes, you know, stuff like that. Harmless. So, long story short, nothing in the texts so far.”

“Is he a stalker? High school kids are weird these days. Look at Columbine for Pete’s sake.”

“Nope. Nothing like that. They seem to have been texting for over a year. Must have given him her cell at one of those book signings or a red carpet or something.”

“Yeah, that’s weird a fan would have her private cell number.”

“A computer geek could find it online.”

“Yeah. I know. That makes him a stalker in my book. But bottom line, are they connected?”

“Nah. Doubt it. Just coincidence. Kid probably writes a lot of stars.”

The waitress came by. “How much do I owe you, ma’am?”

“For you, Kolker, it’s on the house. Come back when you can stay longer. We’ll have your favorite lemon meringue pie this afternoon.”

The notoriety he got from the Hailey Dean case had made him a little bit of a celebrity. Whenever she was asked about the cops arresting her for the murders of two of her patients, she never once blasted him. It had been his big case, and he’d been so damn pig-headed. He was convinced she’d gone over the edge and started rubbing out her clients… although even the police shrinks had a hard time giving him a motive. It had to have been her.

But it wasn’t. That perv defense lawyer had been behind it all. To hear Hailey tell it, NYPD was just doing their job. She could have torpedoed him, ruined him… if she wanted to. But she didn’t.

He’d never had the guts to go and formally apologize, just sent flowers and peace offerings. And she always sent those back, always in the same box he’d sent them in. He didn’t really know what to say to her, alone, one-on-one.

“Thanks, Sheila. Save me a piece.”

The two cops got up, grabbed their jackets from the coat tree in the corner by the door and headed out. In twelve hours, they’d be back on duty.

SO WHAT DID YOU DO FOR THE HOLIDAYS?”

Fallon Malone’s BlackBerry emitted a sound like a tiny tinkling bell being played in the distance. Another text message.

Malone looked down from one of the two TV screens directly in front of her elliptical machine. She was right in the middle of a Lifetime movie and didn’t want to be bothered. But maybe it was her agent… finally.

It had been years since she got a script worth reading and now, due to her dwindling bank account and penchant for beautiful clothes, cars, and jewelry, she had to work.

She’d even consider TV. She’d be great on a prime-time soap. What did the Desperate Housewives have that she didn’t? Ridiculous. They should be kissing her feet.

Even though she was in her mid-fifties, in her heart she knew she didn’t look a day over forty-one. She’d managed to scam the tabs about her true date of birth with a fake birth certificate, and lived in mortal fear that somehow, they’d dig up the truth.

Maybe some sort of a reality series, focusing on her finding just the right Hollywood script, the right vehicle to showcase her talents.

Ever since the role where she soaped down a red Vette on camera without the benefit of underwear, most of Hollywood believed her “talents” lay beneath her belly button and above her knees.

The business was cruel. She had been stereotyped in the worst way. It was clearly a case of misogyny. They all hated her because she was beautiful. A beautiful woman has a hard time making it in the business world, Malone reminded herself as she reached for the BlackBerry.