LITMIR.BIZ

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Charlie Hung had worn this mask in every scene in which he had ravaged the female actors. It was only fitting that it would be his death mask.

      He carefully slipped the mask into the black plastic bag and then turned his attention to the Beretta, an Italian import, 9mm with a ten-shot magazine. When he had purchased the pistol, he had made sure it could never be traced back to him. For the right price, a guy could buy just about anything and remain anonymous.

      Money talked.

      Hell, money screamed.

      He placed the gun in the bottom of the small tote, then wrapped the mask in tissue paper and laid it over the pistol before zipping up the 14" x 16" black vinyl bag. After checking the time on the digital bedside clock—6:08 P.M.—he carried the tote to the closet and set it on the floor.

      He went back to the bed, pulled two pillows from beneath the comforter, and stacked one on top of the other. Then he lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Step by step, he went over his plan. Parking the rental car a couple of blocks away and walking to Charles Wong’s home. Ringing the doorbell. Introducing himself. The disguise he’d be wearing would prevent anyone who might see him entering or leaving the Wong house from giving the police an accurate ID. Tonight, he would wear a black wig and mustache, a gold earring and a wash-off neck tattoo, along with fake leather pants and jacket. A costume that could be easily disposed of in the motel’s Dumpster.

      In less than six hours, he would kill Charlie Hung and leave Mrs. Charles Wong a grieving widow.

      Payback could be deadly!

      Lorie carried her glass of wine from the kitchen into the adjoining family room, which boasted a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and two sets of French doors that led outside onto the old-fashioned screened porch. She loved everything that Cathy had done when she decorated this house, although she would have preferred dark wood in the kitchen. Cathy preferred white cabinets and appliances, and had accented the clean, bright white with touches of a dark-stained wood in the flooring, the island top, and an overlay on the massive range hood. Both the kitchen and family room combined elements of the old with the new, retaining the integrity of the Victorian with the convenience of the modern.

      While Lorie chose one of the two gold chenille armchairs separated by a walnut Sheraton table, Derek sat across from her on the moss green, camelback sofa. He smiled at her before taking another sip of his wine. During dinner, she had found herself liking Derek Lawrence more and more and was puzzled as to why Maleah seemed to dislike him so intensely. He had been charming and funny, and had put her at ease. Although she didn’t really know him, she sensed that he was the type of man who didn’t judge others harshly or by standards few people could live up to. Not the way Mike did.

      Damn it, she had to stop comparing every man she met to Michael Birkett.

      “So, how long have your worked for Powell’s?” Lorie asked.

      “Hmm … almost five years. I was sort of at loose ends when I left the Bureau, and as luck would have it, Griff called and offered me a consulting job and put me on a retainer I could hardly refuse.”

      Maleah snorted as she joined them. They glanced up at her. She shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

      “Something tells me that Perdue doesn’t approve of independently wealthy men actually working for a living,” Derek said.

      “Oh, are you independently wealthy, Mr. Lawrence?” Maleah asked mockingly. “Then the rumors about the men in your family having squandered most of their fortunes on wine, women, and song must have been vastly exaggerated.”

      A quick flash of annoyance passed over Derek’s handsome face before he grinned and then laughed. “That was hitting below the belt. Keep that up and Lorie will think you don’t like me.”

      “I don’t like you,” Maleah told him and returned his insincere smile.

      Lorie cleared her throat. “I thought that after dinner, we were going to discuss the cast members of Midnight Masquerade.”

      “We were,” Maleah said. “We are. I’ve got the file folder with the computer printouts on the kitchen counter.” She set her glass on a decorative coaster on the table between the armchairs and hurried back into the kitchen.

      “Let me clear up the matter of my economic status, not that it’s anyone’s business,” Derek said, his voice loud enough for Maleah to hear him in the adjoining room. “Although there’s a great deal of truth to the rumors about the men in my family, they didn’t actually squander the entire fortune. And my very wise and very frugal paternal grandmother set up sizable trust funds for each of her three grandchildren.”

      Before Lorie could think of a proper response, Maleah sailed back into the room, the file folder in her hand. She completely ignored both Derek and his confirmation of being a trust-fund baby.

      “Here we are.” Maleah plopped down on the huge mushroom-shaped ottoman draped in a green and gold silk material. She opened the folder and handed several printouts to Lorie. “This is a list of actors who starred in the movie, along with the names of the producer, writers, director, and so on.”

      Lorie clutched the papers in her hand and focused on the top sheet, reading over the names slowly, doing her best to remember each person and anything of importance she could recall about them.

      “Just take your time,” Maleah said. “If it’ll help, I’ll go over each name with you.”

      In her peripheral vision, Lorie noticed that Derek had relaxed as he sipped on the wine and had closed his eyes. Was he napping? Or just thinking?

      “Let’s start with Hilary Finch and Dean Wilson,” Maleah suggested. “What do you remember about them?”

      “Not much about Hilary. I didn’t really know her. She wasn’t overly friendly with her female costars. Not hateful to us or condescending. She mostly ignored us. What I do remember is that she looked like a Barbie doll, all plastic perfection. And at the time, rumor had it that she and Travis Dillard were having a hot affair.”

      “And Travis Dillard was the producer, right?”

      “Uh-huh. The producer of Midnight Masquerade and quite a few other porno movies. And he was also an agent for numerous wannabe stars, most of whom wound up in his movies. Me included.”

      “Dillard was your agent?”

      “That’s right.”

      “How well did you know him?”

      “Well enough not to like him or trust him,” Lorie said. “But I learned that lesson the hard way.”

      “I hate to ask this, but did you ever have a sexual relationship with Dillard?”

      “No, but not for his lack of trying. He had a reputation for having laid every single one of his female clients. I figure that sooner or later, he would’ve cut me loose if I hadn’t put out, but at the time, I was living with his major star—Dean Wilson—and he didn’t want to do anything to antagonize Dean.”

      “You and Dean Wilson lived together?”

      “Yes. For nearly a year. I thought I loved him and I believed he loved me. It was one of the most miserable years of my life. I finally realized that my big dreams of fame and fortune would never come true. I was living in a seedy apartment with a guy who was addicted to drugs and alcohol and who had introduced me to a life I hated. Dean’s the one who talked me into doing a bit part in Midnight Masquerade.”

      “When was the last time you saw Dean Wilson?” Derek’s question momentarily startled her.

      Lorie’s gaze connected with Derek’s and she saw only kindness and compassion in his dark brown eyes. “Nine years ago when I left LA to come back home to Dunmore. He followed me to the bus station and tried to stop me from leaving. He actually threatened me.”

      “But he didn’t follow through with his threats, did he?” Derek asked.

      “No,

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