Dial Emmy for Murder Read Online Free PDF

squirrels, raccoons, deer and many other animals my daughter had never seen except in a petting zoo. She was all excited and talked until she ran out of breath. Then I told her I loved her and missed her, and I must have air kissed the phone ten thousand times before she said she had to go because there was a squirrel outside the window.
    I hung up, made coffee and barely had time to sip it when the phone rang again. It was Paul.
    “Are you okay? What the hell happened last night?” he asked.
    “No one knows anything yet. I mean, Jackson was obviously murdered, but that’s it so far.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, “How are you? How’s the shoot going?”
    “Worried about you, Alex. Since when did acting become such a dangerous occupation? Are you really okay?”
    “I’m a little shaken up for sure. But I’ll be all right.”
    “I think I need to come home and see for myself.”
    “No!” I said a little too quickly. “I’m fine, really!”
    He took a long pause, and I heard him sigh impatiently. “Don’t you need me, Alex? Just a little bit? Still with the independent bullshit! Trying to do it all on your own, huh?” He sounded annoyed and . . . hurt. “Have it your way. If you decide you want some support, let me know.” And he hung up.
    What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I let this great guy in just a little? I threw my coffee into the sink.
    “Fuck it! I need to get wet.” I decided to do a little surfing. When your whole life is falling apart, what else is there to do? Besides, it would give me a chance to think about what Jakes had asked me to do . . . and Randy . . . and not Paul . . . and Jakes. . . . Too damn many men.
    I grabbed my nine-foot-six board and threw it in my SUV—which I call my kid car, since I drive Sarah around in it—along with a towel and some wax, and I backed out of my garage.
    Immediately I heard, “Alex! Alex! Over here!”
    “What happened last night? Did you have anything to do with this murder?”
    No way. Not the paparazzi. Again. I looked around and saw one old guy with a camera. I guess I wasn’t such a major player in this story. Thank God.
    I yelled out my window, “I have no comment. I know nothing!”
    And then I felt kind of sorry for him.
    “If I find anything I can share with you, I’ll let you know!” Lame. Lame.
    I rolled up my window and drove down the street to a soft beach break, making sure the old guy wasn’t following me. I started walking toward the ocean. The sand squeezed through my toes. I love that feeling. It’s cool and moist, and I feel peaceful and excited all at the same time.
    I paddled out into the waves and found a good spot. Surfing is my meditation. It gives me a chance to really think without distractions.
    I sat on my board and looked toward the sand. The sun felt wonderful. I was actually starting to relax when I noticed a man pacing back and forth on the beach. He would stop now and again and then look out toward the water and . . . me. At first I thought it was paparazzo, but he looked like someone I knew. Someone I had once been married to, actually. Was that Randy? He wasn’t supposed to be back for weeks.
    After a few minutes he turned around and walked away.
    Randy was creepy but not that creepy. I decided I was just being paranoid and started thinking about the gossip that goes around the set of any show. Like who was sleeping with whom, because that stuff is hard to keep quiet. I could easily have given Jakes the names of half a dozen women Jackson had slept with, or who I thought he had, anyway. And that wasn’t just from our show. The question was, did I want to? No, maybe that wasn’t the question at all. He was a policeman running an investigation—but on top of that he was someone I had come to trust and admire, even if I had been avoiding him for six or eight months. If I gave him the names, I knew he wouldn’t go off half cocked, threatening people or locking them up.
    A nice, juicy