The Bequest Read Free

that for a fact, ma’am. Like I told you before, we
just know that’s his car.”
“He never lets anyone drive it. If Leland’s car is here, then that’s my
Leland down there.”
Stillman cut Nichols a look. At a glance, he could see that his partner
was as taken by the lifeless tone as he was. And that’s when Stillman saw
it. He couldn’t be sure at first, but a second look confirmed it. Tears had
amassed along Annemarie’s eyelids. They looked out of place against the
backdrop of her frozen features. What he couldn’t tell, though, was
whether they were real or simply had been summoned up because she
deemed them appropriate for the moment.
It seemed to take minutes but was really only seconds before the
basket reached the top. The paramedic jumped off onto solid ground,
relief on his face. The detectives and Annemarie approached slowly.
“Unzip it,” Nichols said.
“He’s a mess, Detective. Face first on a rock.”
All three men looked at Annemarie, who remained stoic.
“Unzip it,” Nichols said again.
The paramedic slowly drew the zipper downward about a foot, then
spread open the plastic to reveal a pulpy mass of red and gray, mixed with
the white of skull fragments. Stillman recoiled. It wasn’t recognizable as a
face even though they all knew it was. Stillman could tell from the
proportions where there should be a nose, where the mouth and eyes
should be, but for all he knew, this man never had a face.
Annemarie remained emotionless. The tears remained frozen on her
lids, unwilling or unable to fall. “He had a tattoo,” she said. “On his right
forearm. A blue star in a football helmet.”
The paramedic pulled the zipper down farther then extricated the
corpse’s right arm. He rolled up the sleeve and, sure enough, there was a
blue star in a football helmet.
“How ‘bout them Cowboys,” Annemarie said in a deep monotone.
Stillman and Nichols exchanged looks. What a perfectly bizarre thing
to say.
“Is that him, ma’am?” Stillman asked.
“Deserted his mother again.”
Yet another perfectly bizarre thing to say.
“Take me home,” she said.
Stillman took Annemarie by the arm and turned her to the car. “Get
the thing,” he said to Nichols.
As Stillman put Annemarie in the car, Nichols approached the Regal,
reached in through the open window, and grabbed the bound pages that
Leland had tossed inside before jumping. He carried it back to the Tahoe
and handed it to Annemarie. She looked at the cover—“THE PRECIPICE,
a Screenplay by Leland Crowell”—and put it on her lap without opening
it.
“Ahh, yes, the masterpiece,” she said.
Then she pulled her door shut.
CHAPTER 4
    Teri carried a
tray with ice, diet soft drinks, and two glasses onto
the deck. In the distance, a smoky haze hung over the hills, testifying to
yet another wildfire out of control. This one had raged for nearly a week
now, but news reports had firefighters finally turning the tide.
    She
set the
tray on
a
table.
Mona
Hirsch, her
partner
in SH
Productions, curled her legs under herself on the padded loveseat as she
poured a drink into one of the glasses. Mona was nearing forty, but
fighting age with everything she had, including regular visits to the gym
that kept her frame lithe and lean, as well as nips, tucks, and color-in-abottle that kept the gray away from her otherwise jet-black hair. She and
Teri had set up the production company five years earlier, just prior to
Teri’s second Academy Award, and it had all been downhill from there.
Not that it was Mona’s fault; that’s just the way things had gone.
    Teri poured herself a drink then sat on a lounge chair. She took a
deep drink, then refilled her glass, leaned her head back, and closed her
eyes. They sat in silence for a few moments. The smell of smoke made
Teri think of fires in fireplaces, and that made her think of Texas.
    “Have you read all the reviews?” Teri asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“ Illegitimi non carborundum . Don’t let