4 Four Play (27 page)

I squeaked. “The Hava Java?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie said. “But I didn’t know Mr. Pritt was about to be so mean to you. I promise I don’t go there anymore.”

***

“No way,” Wilson said.

“Way,” I said. “The child is a caffeine fiend, and the Hava Java is in his neighborhood, and Frankie practically shouted the news from the rooftop when I said he could use my car.”

I recollected the phone call. “He kept yelling ‘The Porsche! The Porsche! Miss Jessie’s Porsche!’” I shook my head. “The whole place must have heard him. Heck, the whole neighborhood likely heard him.”

“Alistair Pritt heard him,” Russell said.

“Absolutely. And in that same conversation Frankie promised me he’d be very careful. He promised to park way in the back of the school lot.” I cringed. “To keep the car safe while he and Lizzie were at the dance.”

“Alistair Pritt heard that, too,” Russell said.

“And who knows what else got discussed after we hung up?” I asked.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Your vanity plates, is what.”

“Excuse me?”

“Think about it, Jessie. Sixteen-year-old kids driving a car called Add-a-lay? Yep,” he said. “That got discussed.”

“Alistair Pritt heard that, too.” Russell again.

I sat back and folded my arms. “And there you have it, gentlemen. Opportunity.”

Chapter 36

“We need proof,” Wilson said before I could enjoy even one self-satisfied smirk.

I told him that was his job. “I’m the intuition department. You’re the proof department.”

“The taxi driver,” Russell suggested. “The guy who picked up Frankie and Lizzie Saturday night might have seen Pritt’s car leaving the scene of the crime.”

“Circumstantial,” Wilson said. “Even if it were true.”

“What about forensics?” Russell tried again. “The lab found a few hairs on Jilton that weren’t her own.”

Unfortunately, I had to say no to that. “Miriam was helping the girls with their hair-dos that night.”

“Maybe,” Wilson said. “But she was strangled and carried across that entire parking lot. There had to be something from Pritt on the victim or on the Porsche. I’d bet money forensics already has the evidence we need.”

“They just don’t know it,” Russell said. “We don’t have Pritt’s DNA.”

“Hello-o, you people in the proof department!” I waved my hands impatiently. “So go get Pritt’s DNA. And then have forensics do the matching thing.” I shook my head at Wilson. “Isn’t that what they do on TV?”

“Maybe. But we need a warrant.”

“Well then, go get one of those!”

Russell explained it wasn’t quite that easy. Some pesky issue about “just cause.”

“And let me guess,” I said. “The motive, means, and opportunity we’ve covered ever so thoroughly isn’t good enough?”

“Nope,” the cops said, and Wilson reminded me I am rather enamored of a little thing called the Bill of Rights.

I whimpered slightly and asked him what exactly would warrant a warrant.

“We need Pritt to say something incriminating. In public.”

Russell sat up. “How about on TV?”

“Oh, that’s good!” I rubbed my palms together. “We’ll get Alistair to spout off something incriminating in front of Jimmy Beak and Joe the cameraman.”

Wilson grinned. “You read my mind,” he said, and I was suddenly cognizant that grin was aimed directly at me.

***

“No!” I said. “No, no, no. Don’t even think whatever it is you’re thinking, Wilson Rye.”

“What am I thinking?”

“I don’t know. But stop it this instant.”

“I know what I’m thinking.” Russell seemed to miss my point. “Jessie can go on the air with Jimmy and Alistair,” he said. “For an interview. Like, a showdown.”

“Yep, Lieutenant,” Wilson said. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Well it sure as hell isn’t what I’m thinking!” I popped out of my chair and landed in front of him. I jabbed at my chest. “Intuition department!” I jabbed at his chest. “Proof department!”

That grin was downright relentless.

I folded my arms and tossed my head. “I cannot bother Jimmy Beak right now,” I said defiantly. “He thinks I’m at the library.”

***

Wilson checked his watch. “We need to act fast if we want it on tonight’s news.”

“We?”

He glanced around me and spoke to Russell. “I’m thinking a formal interview. In the newsroom.”

“There’d be less commotion than out in the street,” Russell agreed. “She’ll concentrate better.”

“She?” I stumbled back to my chair. “Concentrate?” I plopped down.

“She and Beak will need a clear plan,” Wilson said.

“Beak?” I squeaked. “Plan?” I croaked.

“Good idea, Captain.” That was Russell. Because it sure as heck wasn’t me. “If they plan things out ahead, it’s bound to work.”

“Are you guys hallucinating!?” That was me. “You cannot possibly expect Jimmy and me to work together—together!—to get a confession out of Alistair Pritt. On the air, no less!”

“That would be perfect,” Russell said.

“A confession isn’t necessary.” Wilson spoke over the strange squeaking noises emanating from yours truly. “We just need to him say to something incriminating. Make him mad, Jessie. Get Pritt to have a fit about how much he hates me.”

“That would be just cause for a search warrant.” Russell nodded encouragement. “And then we can go get the forensic evidence.”

Squeak, squeak.

“One itty-bitty piece of evidence is all we need.” Wilson offered a meaningful—a sincerely meaningful—look. “Miriam Jilton didn’t deserve to die, Jessie. She deserves justice.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

Russell reached over and shook me until I looked up. “You can do this, Jessie. You’re good at making men mad. You make the Captain mad all the time!”

***

“Call Beak,” Wilson said, and much to my chagrin, Russell was as efficient as ever.

He took out his cell phone, punched in some numbers, and handed me his phone. No—let me be clearer—he shoved the thing into my altogether unwilling hands.

And of course Jimmy answered his stupid phone.

“Is Alistair Pritt right there?” I asked before identifying myself.

“No, but I can get him? Who is this?”

I made sure to tell Jimmy to stay a good distance from Alistair, and then I identified myself.

He laughed out loud. “Getting bored at the library, are we?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not actually at the library.”

I will spare you his response to that startling piece of news.

“I need your help,” I told him.

Okay, now that was a startling piece of news. Enough so, that Jimmy stopped laughing and/or cursing at me long enough hear my proposition.

“I’d be doing you and Rye a big favor,” he said as I finished explaining.

“But think about the drama of an on-air confession. Think about your ratings.”

Jimmy was thinking.

“Alistair killed Miriam Jilton in cold blood,” I said. “She deserves justice.” I cleared my throat and said it. “And the public has a right to know.”

“I’ll tell you what the public has a right to know,” Jimmy said. “Let’s you and me make a deal.”

I stared at Wilson and listened to Jimmy’s demands.

“What do you say?” he asked eventually. “We got a deal?”

I took a deep breath. “Deal.”

Chapter 37

I stared at the back door of the Channel 15 News station and recited a few hundred four-letter words.

Like it or not, I was all alone. Wilson had insisted he couldn’t accompany me because his presence might “give it away.”

“Coward,” I took a break from some more colorful language to mutter into thin air.

Lieutenant Densmore had also deserted me. He drove me over, but then dropped me rather unceremoniously in the back alley. “If Alistair sees me out front, he’ll get suspicious,” Russell had explained ever so logically. “Good luck,” he added and took off.

Luck would be nice, I told myself as I slogged around the building to the main entrance.

Three young women carrying clipboards, smart phones, and various gadgets I could not identify accosted me the moment I set foot inside.

“Jessica Hewitt!” Woman A said. I tried smiling, but clearly that little nicety was considered a waste of time. “We’re wasting time!” she told me.

“We thought you’d never get here,” Woman B scolded.

“Umm,” I managed as Woman A took me firmly by the arm and hustled me over to the elevator. Presumably B and C were following. Being the expert amateur sleuth that I am, I could tell by the clickety-clacking of all those high heels on the polished floor.

Once the four of us were in the elevator and going up, I was shoved against the back wall and told to stand still while the three women assessed my person. By the way they were frowning and wrinkling their noses, I assumed the assessment was not all that positive.

The elevator dinged and now Woman C grabbed my elbow to whisk me away. “You didn’t dress,” she scolded as A and B clickety-clacked behind me.

“Well, I—” I stopped, and A and B bumped into me from behind.

I kept my footing and explained I had not planned on this interview when I left my house earlier. In fact, if Geez Louise ever found out I was wearing jeans and an old cardigan for a televised interview she might disown me.

As B and C scolded me for my lack of foresight, Woman A took off the scarf adorning her own neck and shoved it at B. “At least put this on her,” she said.

The scarf changed hands, and A and C scurried back to the elevator.

I smiled at Woman B, but of course there was no time for such niceties. She grabbed my elbow—an act I was starting to get used to—and shoved me into nearest room.

“Makeup!” she hollered. She gave me another push, and I stumbled into the one remaining seat in what I ascertained was the makeup room. “Jessica Hewitt!” she announced quite loudly. “And put this on her when you’re done.”

The scarf landed on my head and blocked my vision. That was probably a good thing. Because a moment earlier I had caught a glimpse of the people in the other two chairs.

You guessed it.

***

Unfortunately the makeup man assigned to Jessica-Hewitt duty decided his job would be easier if he could see my face. He removed the scarf, and I double-checked. Yep. I was indeed sitting smack dab between Alistair and Jimmy.

But apparently the odd and uncomfortable circumstances were lost on everyone but me. My makeup man began dabbing, brushing, puffing, and combing yours truly, while he chattered away about blush tones and eyeliner with the makeup artists assigned to Jimmy and Alistair. And Jimmy and Alistair? They were shooting the breeze about nothing much also. Believe it or not, they even tried to include me in the conversation.

I concentrated on turning my curled lip into a smile of sorts and practiced some deep breathing. My makeup man interrupted a particularly zen-like breath to enquire as to how I like my bangs combed.

“How about over my eyes?” I suggested. But alas, my very short haircut wouldn’t cooperate.

An excruciating fifteen minutes later we were deemed sufficiently fluffed and puffed, and A, B, and C returned to escort us down to the studio.

I suppose the interview area was meant to mimic a private living room—all comfy and cozy, with easy chairs and side tables for our water glasses.

As I took the seat to Jimmy’s right, and directly across from Alistair, I listened to Belinda Bing. The anchorwoman sat behind the news desk across the expansive room, and through the ringing in my ears, I heard her say something about Jimmy’s exclusive interview.

“You heard that right!” Her voice got a bit louder. “Jessica Hewitt faces off against Alistair Amesworth Pritt! Coming up!”

***

“You’re on in three.” Woman B hovered before me holding up three fingers. “Two.” Two fingers. “One.” She held up an index finger and took three giant steps backward.

And Jimmy was talking. Dare I say, it was actually comforting to hear his high-pitched overly-excitable voice? As long as he kept talking I didn’t have to. And considering I had completely forgotten what I was supposed to say—

“What do you say to that, Jessie?”

“Excuse me?” I blinked at the camera as it zoomed in.

“Alistair,” Jimmy indicated his other interviewee, “wants to know your justification for writing smut.”

“What right have you to destroy the moral fabric of this great community?” Alistair raised a fist, and made as if to stand up, but Woman A popped up from somewhere off camera. Her right hand landed hard on his shoulder, and he was propelled back into sitting position.

But the pout on his face inspired me. I found my voice, even if I was still drawing a complete blank on the script Jimmy and I had planned.

I winged it. “I’m afraid, Mr. Pritt,” I began. “What with all the energy you’ve devoted to studying my work, that you have quite missed the point.”

“The point?”

“The plot, to be exact.” I tapped my chin and contemplated Adelé Nightingale’s plots. “In fact, I think you’d find the plot of my latest book most intriguing.”

“Huh?” Jimmy seemed as confused as Alistair.

“
A Singular Seduction
,” I clarified. “Mr. Pritt would relate to the characters.”

“I think not!” Alistair pursed his indignant lips for the camera.

“Oh, perhaps not to Willow LaSwann or Kipp Jupiter,” I said. “But I do believe you’d relate to Willow LaSwann’s uncle.” I practically shouted the word uncle. “Poor Uncle Hazard,” I continued. “Poor old eccentric, over-protective, and misguided Uncle Hazard.”

Alistair winced.

I pretended not to notice and spoke to Jimmy. “And now Willow is paying for the foibles and mistakes of her misguided uncle.” I tut-tutted. “But Uncle Hazard did mean well.”

“He did?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, yes. Uncle Hazard was way ahead of his time. He didn’t think Willow should be denied anything because of her sex. And so he left her his ranch!”

Jimmy smiled at me. “Is this a western?” he asked. “I like westerns!”

Apparently Belinda Bing and the weatherman also enjoyed the genre. They left their appointed posts to come closer as I summarized my main plot point. “Willow LaSwann is a rancher. She loves the work, but she does face certain challeng—”