A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

A Beautiful Misunderstood Man

Tommy Newton glanced up from the script he was marking on as his sister walked into the living room of his Los Angeles home, where she was spending the weekend. "What's wrong?" he asked her.

"You just got a crank call," she told him with a nervous laugh. "At least, I hope it was."

"Los Angeles is full of weirdos who make obscene calls," Tommy reassured her. Jokingly, he added, "In southern California that's an ordinary means of communication. Everybody here feels alienated, haven't you heard? That's why this town is a haven for shrinks."

"This wasn't an obscene call, Tommy."

"What was it then?"

She spoke slowly and shook her head, her brow furrowed in doubt. "The man said he was Zayn Malik."

"Zayn?" Tommy repeated with a short, derisive laugh. "That's ridiculous. What else did he say?"

"He said ... to tell you he's going to kill you. He said you know who killed Rachel and he's going to kill you for not testifying."

"That's crazy!"

"He didn't sound crazy, Tommy. He sounded dead serious." She shivered at her unintentional pun. "I think you ought to call the police."

Tommy hesitated then shook his head. "Whoever it was, he was a crank."

"How did a crank get your unlisted phone number?"

"Evidently," he tried to joke, "I'm personally acquainted with a crank."

His sister picked up the telephone from the table beside the sofa and held the receiver toward him. "Call the police. If you won't do it for your own safety, do it because it's your duty."

"All right," he said with a sigh, "but they'll laugh in my face."

* * *

In her house in Beverly Hills, Diana Copeland pulled out of her lover's arms and reached for the phone beside the sofa.

"Diana!" he groaned. "Let your maid answer it."

"This is my private line," she explained to the man whose face was as familiar as her own to moviegoers. "It might be a change in shooting schedule tomorrow. Hello?" she said.

"This is Zayn, Dee Dee," the deep voice said. "You know who killed Rachel. You let me go to jail for it. Now you're as good as dead."

"Zayn, wait—!" she burst out, but the line went silent in her hand.

"Who was that?"

Diana stood up, staring blindly at him, her body stiff with shock. "It was Zayn Malik—"

"What? Are you sure?"

"He—he called me Dee Dee. Zayn is the only one who ever called me that."

Turning on her heel, she left him there and went into her bedroom, then she picked up the telephone and dialed a phone number. "Tony?" she said shakily. "I just got a call from—from Zayn Malik."

"So did I. It's some crank. It wasn't Zayn."

"He called me Dee Dee! Only Zayn ever did that. He said I know who killed Rachel and I let him go to jail for it. He said he's going to kill me now."

"Calm down! It's bullshit! It's some crank, maybe even some tabloid reporter, stirring up a new slant on a dying story."

"I'm calling the cops."

"Make a fool of yourself if that's what you want to do, but leave me out of it. That guy wasn't Zayn."

"I tell you it was!"