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  "She called me," he said, backing up.

  "Asher?" Alanna's voice was husky with tears.

  The policeman stepped aside at a nod from a large nurse. Asher hurried in, took one look and embraced her gently. Bruised and bandaged, Alanna buried her face against him, sobbing.

  "Shh, shh, it’s OK now." He cradled her in his arms, stroked her hair. Beneath the smells of antiseptic and adhesive tape, he caught the scent of her shampoo.

  "He ...hurt...me."

  Asher turned to see Detective Smythe standing next to the bed, arms folded, her forehead pinched in a tight frown.

  "Did you get him?"

  Smythe shook her head, a stray blonde curl bounced against her forehead. "Would you pull down your collar and show me your neck?"

  "I told you it wasn't him!" Alanna's voice was unsteady and shrill. "The bastard was shorter. And I smashed his nose with my head."

  Asher tossed an irritated frown at the detective. "Looking for a vampire?"

  Smythe didn't even crack a smile. Her hazel eyes were are hard as flint. "No, Mrs. Wesley was able to scratch him."

  He rubbed Alanna’s back. "Good for you."

  Alanna took a shaky breath and pulled free. "I took that course. And when he got close enough, I got my keys, I gouged him."

  Asher wiped her tears away with a tissue from the bedside stand. "Did you poke his eye out?"

  "No. But I drew blood. And I used the mace, and I had my whistle." Her words ran out with a taint of hysteria still attached.

  "Good work. I am impressed," he said sincerely.

  Alanna smiled carefully around her split lip and scraped cheek.

  "Her quick reactions may have saved her life," Smythe added.

  Asher squashed his annoyance at her interruption."Where’s Stan?" he asked Alanna.

  "Detroit," Smythe announced. "Mr. Wesley is flying in as we speak."

  Asher scooped up Alanna’s hands. "What about your sister? You want me to call—"

  "Done," Smythe interrupted.

  Asher glanced at Smythe, but kept his attention on Alanna. "What can I get you? Silk pajamas? Godiva chocolates? Some—"

  "Allaaannaa!" her sister howled her way into the room. Asher backed away from the bed as she shot to the side of her injured sister.

  Smythe beckoned him into the hall. "This may have gotten a whole lot more personal. Or it could be a random mugging."

  Asher stared at her a moment before the implications hit him. "Oh God, I don’t know how to contact Rita."

  Smythe flipped open the file she had tucked under her arm. "That would be Rita Clark, your first wife? We're tracking her down."

  "Um, she used to date a tennis pro. I think they got married."

  Smythe closed her eyes and shook her head. "He won the US Open last year. They've been married for twelve years."

  Asher nodded. "Good to know. Thanks. Who else could be in danger?"

  Smythe raised a thin eyebrow. "You tell me."

  "I guess I need to know why Alanna," he said. He glanced back down the hall to her room. "Until yesterday, I hadn't seen her in at least five years."

  "Why did you go see her?"

  "I didn't. We ran into each other at the bookstore." The look in the detective's eyes changed and the thought hit Asher before she could speak. "Oh my God, is someone following me?"

  "Did you go see Mrs. Mitchell before her death?"

  He shook his head.

  "Then it may just be a coincidence that Mrs. Wesley was attacked a day after she met with you."

  "We didn't meet," he said. "It was a chance encounter." Her eyes were accusing when he looked at her. "We didn't have the most amicable divorce."

  "Hmm. Then why call you now?"

  Asher shook his head. "I don't know. She always liked a scene." He shrugged. "Is she going to be alright?"

  "Bumps and bruises." Smythe reported brusquely. "She cut him with her key, so we have DNA."

  Asher refused to flinch from her steely gaze. "Then you will know for sure it wasn't me."

  "I want you to look at something. It was found at the scene." She pulled up an image on her phone and handed it to him. "Recognize that?"

  It was a badge of some kind, possibly military, and it did look familiar. Handing back her phone, he reluctantly nodded.

  "Is it from a movie?"

  He stared at the ceiling as he ran through the various movies that might have something military in them. "Um, I think so. I'm not..." It finally kicked in. "Aliens."

  "Vulcan or Mexican?"

  He bit back a laugh. "Scary, multi-legged kind. That was the military team that was supposed to hunt them down. The movie was called something about midnight? Zero Midnight?"

  "Anything connecting the movie to Mrs. Wesley?"

  Asher ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his face. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off he was dog tired. "Um. Let's see. That was about..." He calculated the years, it was the only way to ground things in his memory. "OK. I was married to Alanna, but we were separated by then. And that was the weird thing because she kept coming to the set...oh."

  "What?"

  "Stan was a producer. Sheesh. That must be where they met."

  "Ya think?"

  Asher shrugged again. "Good for her. Seems like he was a keeper."

  "Anything else?"

  "Not off the top of my head."

  This time she raised both eyebrows. "Don't leave town."

  Asher glanced back toward Alanna's room. Between her sister and the detective he'd been stripped of hero status. Disgruntled and edgy, he felt it was best to head home. He went out the main entrance of the hospital to find a cab and was confronted by a small group of reporters. They clustered around him like kids around an ice cream truck.

  "Asher, is it true Alanna called you first?"

  Asher stared, deer in the headlights, for a moment. "What? No, no. I just came to check on her. First call was to her sister."

  "Did her husband do it?"

  Asher looked at the cameras, microphones, jostling reporters. "Stan? No, God, no. He would never lay a hand on her."

  He felt like he was in one of his own movies. Wasn't this the one with the fiancé in a car accident?

  "Asher, why are you here? Are you getting back together?"

  "No. I just wanted to make sure she was all right."

  "Who contacted you?"

  And then he felt it. That persona rose up from somewhere in his subconscious, and he hit his stride. He gave the reporter a deliberate smile. "Well, a lot of people in the medical community have gotten to know me over the years..."

  "Was she raped? Who did it?"

  "She’s hurt and scared. I didn’t ask for details. The police are already at work on it."

  "Do they have any leads?"

  "You’d have to ask them."

  "Is it true you’re working on a porn movie?"

  He laughed and shook his head. "Who would pay to see this scrawny old body naked? You guys are too much."

  "But you’re not denying it."

  "Yes, I’m denying it. No, I am not doing any porn."

  "What are your plans?"

  "Well, it’s actually past my bedtime. So, that’s first on the list. And I usually follow that with breakfast."

  A taxi pulled up and Alanna’s agent got out. One reporter identified her, and they abandoned Asher en masse.

  He chuckled as he watched the camera flashes and reporters jockeying. "Well, ain’t you guys fickle."

  He took her cab.

  "Is that somebody famous?" the cabdriver asked him.

  Asher waited, watching the expression on the man's face, but there was no recognition in his eyes. "That is Alanna Wesley's agent."

  "Psh! Agents."

  Asher sat back in the cab and watched the streets go by, out of the neon nightlife and into the quiet suburbs. The ride home would give him a moment to think. He racked his brain for connections that would make sense. Despite her suggestion, he knew that De
tective Smythe didn't think this was a random mugging.

  Joey Amsterdam had been filmed while he was married to Valerie. Zero Midnight was filmed while he was married to Alanna. Valerie was dead. Alanna was alive and remarried. Valerie was a tough little street kid from Carson. Alanna was a spoiled brat from Thousand Oaks. Pam had been his business manager during all his marriages. No matter how he looked at it, the only connection was himself.

  Chapter 19

  By the time he got home, the sun was up. Asher took a long, hot shower. Before dressing, he inspected his meager wardrobe. The choices were limited. His clothes weren't fashionably distressed: they were worn out. Most of his pants and all of his shirts needed to be replaced. He grabbed a pair of 501s. They never went out of style. Shirts were a different matter. He pulled out every one with a rock band on it and tossed them in the corner. Then he pulled out any with liquor or drug references. They went in the corner, too. That left him with a couple of white button-downs and an old Izod polo shirt. He pitched the polo into the discard pile and pulled a white shirt on. Showered, shaved and dressed, he felt more able to face the day.

  Asher made a big pot of coffee and poked through the cabinets. He was shaky from lack of sleep and worried about Alanna. He couldn't work up the energy to cook, but he needed to eat. The doorbell rang.

  "It’s open," he yelled, half guessing who his first visitors would be. He looked over the cold cereal choices and settled on Fruit Loops.

  "I figured I’d see you guys..." he began, but discovered Denny standing in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing an expensive suit and tie, looking very businesslike. Asher was glad he had given a thought to his appearance this morning. If he'd gone with the torn shorts and pineapple shirt again, he'd feel even more at a disadvantage.

  "Denny." His mind raced through a dozen scenarios of why Denny would be here. None of them were good.

  The moment lasted a beat too long. Denny crossed his arms and gave him a stern look.

  "Welcome to my humble abode," he sputtered.

  "I saw you on the news talking about Alanna's mugging. Are you really doing porn?"

  "I knew it!" A nervous chuckle escaped him as he pulled coffee mugs out of the cabinet. "I knew it, as soon as I said it. They edited me, those bastards."

  He poured Denny a cup of coffee and held it out to him. "So tell me, what did I end up saying?"

  Denny ignored the cup. "You implicated Stan."

  Asher’s grin withered. "Christ. Denny, can you pull some strings? Make them run the answers the way I gave them?"

  "I’ve already got some calls in. I was just wondering what kind of game you were playing."

  "Me? Uh uh." The cold, hard look in Denny's eyes startled him. He'd never seen his friend so merciless. "What if I called the detectives and had them say that they never even suspected Stan, and that I’m just a lying sack of shit?"

  "What were you doing there?"

  "Alanna called me. She was scared. She needed a shoulder."

  "It was a mistake."

  Asher lined up the two cups of coffee on the counter so that the handles were at opposite angles to one another. His fragile hopes of forgiveness from Denny evaporated like the steam rising from the mugs. "This is all my fault. Some nut-case is after me and Pam and Alanna are suffering for it."

  Denny leaned against the doorframe. "I called Dr. Ellison."

  Asher walked away and kicked a chair. "Ellison. Great."

  Denny used his soothing voice. "He said there’s a medication—"

  "Yes, please bring candy to the diabetic!"

  Denny frowned at him. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

  Asher paced the small kitchen tugging on his hair. "What was the name on all those little bottles in my medicine cabinet? Denny, he was my candy store."

  "He was the only one you trusted."

  "Junkies don’t trust anyone, but they do worship their suppliers." Asher slumped into a chair. He avoided looking at his friend. "And they will do anything to keep their supplier happy."

  Denny took a seat across from him. "That's why all the gifts."

  "Gifts! I bought him a house."

  "I know."

  "I had to keep him happy." He rubbed his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. "But really, he's just a pill pusher. I need to stay away from him."

  "Well, you need to see someone."

  Asher raised his head to judge the scowl directed at him. "Why?"

  "Because you're out of control."

  A strange kind of calm came over him. "Why do you say that?"

  Denny rolled his eyes, and grunted. "People still associate me with you and all the shit you pull comes down on me."

  He needed to see where this was going. "I need a for-instance." There wasn't fear, or guilt, which surprised Asher. But truly, he hadn't done anything wrong.

  Denny slammed his hand down on the table. "Jesus, you can't even see it!" He pushed away from the table as if to distance himself from the whole matter. "You're screwing a kid half your age, and she better be legal. You show up at Sur Place in beat up jeans with your slut in tow. You did that ridiculous commercial and tell the press you're doing porn?"

  Asher sat up, squared his shoulders and looked Denny in the eye. "You're wrong. Sharon is a friend, not a lover. And by the way, she's twenty-two. I admit I wasn't dressed appropriately for Sur Place, but I didn't know where we were going. And I did ask for a table in the back." He took a breath and charged in.

  "Yes, the commercial is ridiculous, but where do you expect me to start? Sharon got me that job. She got my face back on TV, and I'm grateful for it. No, I didn't say I was doing porn. I denied it emphatically, but they edited my words.

  "And no, Denny, I won't go see some doctor like Ellison. I've worked too hard to get this far to screw it up with some greedy son of a bitch who's going to feed my phobias." His breath was coming fast when he finished. His heart was pounding. Denny just stared at him.

  Asher went back to his abandoned breakfast. "I can’t tell you what it means to me that you’re here. That you were willing to walk back into hell. But it really hurts to know that you think I never made it out." He kept his back to Denny, filling his bowl with multicolored cereal.

  "Huh. You've changed."

  Asher opened the cabinet and put the Fruit Loops away. "I had to, Denny. I had to make the choice to live or die. I chose to live."

  "Are you..."

  "Sober? Two years and change."

  "Huh."

  Asher pulled a spoon out of the drawer and stared at it. "Look, Denny, I know you're angry. I'm sorry. But there's some shit going on right now that supersedes all that. Whoever killed Pam is the same guy who attacked Alanna. And he's leaving evidence that leads back to me."

  "Like what?"

  "Stuff from my movies."

  "That's weird."

  "That's why I needed the list of stalkers. Can you think of anybody crazy enough to do this shit?"

  "You think a fan did it?"

  "I don't know. I don't know where else to look. Who hates me so much they want to blame me for murder?"

  "Well, that could be a long list," Denny said teasingly.

  Asher tossed the spoon on the counter. It slid past the milk and clattered into the sink. "I have to feed the cats." He grabbed the bag and headed out the back door. "You should let yourself out."

  "Ash?" Denny stood, but didn't follow.

  Asher walked out on the porch and took deep breaths of the hot, dry air.

  Chapter 20

  After Denny left, Asher crept back into the kitchen. He tiptoed to the front door and locked it. He was tired and cranky and just wanted to eat in peace. Denny's cup of coffee sat untouched on the counter. Angrily, he poured it down the drain. A crushing sense of loss hit him.

  "It's just coffee," he reprimanded himself. Tears pricked behind his eyes. It seemed like a metaphor for his life. He kept offering things to people, and it all turned into garbage.

  The doorbell rang and Asher's hea
rt started pounding. Now what? With shaky hands, he put down the cup gingerly, but it still banged against the counter. There had been too many ugly surprises lately. He approached the door with trepidation. There was a whole gamut of people and situations that he tried to wish away before his hand hit the doorknob.

  A beautiful woman stood on his porch. She glared at him with piercing blue eyes. Shiny brown hair fell perfectly straight to below her shoulders. Well dressed and well built, she struck a long-silent chord in Asher's heart. Her silk suit and pricey pumps said executive in some capacity. She was hauntingly familiar, a ghost from his past.

  "Hello," he said, glancing past her for a hint. A low-slung sports car was parked at the curb. No help there, other than to assure him of her healthy financial status. A hot breeze blew in through the doorway bringing the scent of her perfume. He inhaled it greedily.

  "Asher." It was a greeting and a summary in one. As soon as he heard her voice he knew her. She'd changed as drastically as he had in the intervening years.

  "Ellie!" He stepped back, swinging the door wide open. "What a surprise. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some? Or tea?"

  She stopped just inside the door and stared at him. "Really." Her comment was neither condemning nor approving. She turned slightly, surveying the room.

  "Come into the kitchen." He led the way, beckoning her to follow. Although he pulled out a chair for her, she preferred to prowl, examining the posters and photos. He put mugs and spoons on the table. She came to a halt at his gallery of exs.

  "You really live here?"

  "I do." He poured coffee, hoping this cup wouldn't be wasted. "I'm sorry, Ellie, I don't remember how you take your coffee."

  She turned around and gave him that brutal stare again. He couldn't read her at all. "Just cream."

  He took a quart of half and half from the fridge and poured a little into her cup. "Enough?"

  "That's fine," she said without looking.

  He added a dollop to his own cup and put the carton back. Unsure what else to do, he sat at the table, stirring sugar into his cup while she made another circuit of the kitchen. His eyes roamed the room, trying to see it as a stranger would. The aroma of coffee filled the small space. Clean dishes were stacked in the drainer. The trashcan was only half full. He hoped it looked orderly and clean, like the home of a normal person.