How to Crash a Killer Bash (9 page)

Brad and I watched through the doorway as Melvin sat down in Dee’s chair and switched on her notebook computer. The detective’s large fingers had difficulty working the small keyboard, and he repeatedly had to backspace and retype commands. After several minutes of punching keys, he frowned and closed the cover.

I wondered if he’d found anything significant. Or incriminating.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to find out. He unplugged the computer, gathered up the cord, and carried it out of the office. The burly officer followed him down the hall, without locking the door behind him.

“Can he do that?” I asked Brad. “Just take her computer like that?”

“With a warrant he can do just about anything.”

“Why do you want her computer?” I called to the detective as I followed him toward the reception area.

“Sorry. That’s confidential.”

“But—”

He stopped and turned to me. “But what, Ms. Parker?”

I glared at him, then spun around and returned to my office to pout. I heard him call out “Later” to Brad, just before the front door closed.

“Humph,” I fumed.

I was certain that Detective Melvin, rather than trying to find the real killer, was building his case against Delicia. What had he found on her laptop? Something like “I’m going to kill Mary Lee Miller” written in a giant red letters using a fancy Gothic font?

I hoped not. But Delicia had a flare for the dramatic. That’s what made her such a good actress. And now, no doubt, a good suspect. I had to talk to her and find out if there was anything Melvin might have found on her computer.

Only problem was, she might not be speaking to me at the present. Mainly because she blamed me for ratting her out to the cops.

Until I could get to the jail, I’d spend every minute I had trying to work up a viable list of suspects. Top of my list was Mary Lee’s embittered ex-husband, Jason Cosetti.

All I had to do was find him.

 

I returned to Delicia’s unlocked office to rummage through anything Detective Melvin had left behind. The first thing I wanted to check was her cell phone, but it was nowhere in sight. Impounded? I’d hoped to find a phone number for Corbin in order to track down his father. The only contact I had for him was e-mail—too slow.

I glanced around the desk. No Rolodex. No address book. Not even a sticky note with a recently dialed phone number on it. With all the cell phone apps, no one wrote on paper anymore.

I was about to return to my own office when I noticed a yellow piece of paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I lifted my foot. A sticky note. It must have fluttered to the floor during the detective’s whirlwind visit, and I’d stepped on it. I snatched it off and found a phone number.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed it.

“North Beach Pizza . . . ,” an accented voice said. Sounded like he said “pizzer” instead of “pizza.”

I hung up.

Finding Corbin’s number like that would have been way too easy.

But it gave me an idea.

I pulled open her top drawer. Jackpot. It was filled with a sticky collage of yellow notes, all with phone numbers on them. And a few with names.

I tried the top five and reached a movie theater, a Chinese takeout restaurant, a hair salon, and a clothing boutique before I heard a familiar voice

“Yeah?”

“Corbin?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“This is Presley Parker.”

“Yeah?”

Not the response I expected.

“I’m . . . so sorry about your mother.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, I wondered if I could talk with you. About Delicia.”

A moment of silence, then, “Yeah, I guess. She all right?” His voice was flat and unemotional. A sign of depression, no doubt.

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk with you. I think we can help her. Would you be willing to meet me?”

“Where?”

I mentioned the Bittersweet Café on Fillmore. The place was like a crack house for my two addictions—coffee and chocolate. Might as well get a fix while interrogating the dead woman’s son. We agreed to meet in an hour. I thanked him, he said, “Yeah,” and we hung up. I hoped he’d be a little more talkative once I filled him up with caffeine.

I closed my laptop and gathered my purse, suspect list, and cell phone. I’d barely made it into the hall before Brad called, “Hey, where’re you going?”

“NYOB,” I called back, showing off my latest texting vocab word.

Brad laughed at my attempt to sound hip. “Dyslexic, aren’t you? It’s NOYB.”

I turned around and made a face at him.

“So . . . ,” he said.

“So what?”

“So where are you going?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

He sidled up to me—close, really close—causing me to blush. He slowly reached out a hand and touched the front of my shirt. I couldn’t breathe. Pulling his hand back, he held a black cat hair in his fingers. Thursby. I felt my entire body heat up like a live volcano.

“Listen, I’d be glad to help,” he said, brushing the hair from his fingers. He glanced over my shirt as he talked. Looking for more cat hairs? Or something else? “I’ve got connections, you know. I uncover a lot of dirt in my business.”

“Literally,” I said, referring to his crime scene cleaning business.

He laughed. Apparently I was becoming his main source of entertainment. I sighed. “Okay, but I don’t want anything I tell you to go to your BFF Melvin.” His close relationship with the detective could be a serious problem this time.

He shook his head and crossed his heart. “Your secrets are safe with me. We crime scene cleaners are like doctors. What happens in Presley’s World, stays in Presley’s World.”

“All right. I’m going to see Corbin Cosetti.”

“Mary Lee’s spoiled son? Delicia’s secret lover?”

“First of all, how do you know he’s spoiled? And secondly, how did you know they were secret lovers?”

“Because he does whatever mommy tells him to get what he wants. And everyone knew about Corbin and Delicia. You think he killed his mother?”

“No! Of course not. But he may know someone who had a reason to kill her. Like his father . . .”

“Hmm,” Brad said, pondering my statement. “So, you want company?”

“I . . .” Standing so close to him was making me nervous. I was tempted to take him along, but he was too distracting, and I needed to think.

“Maybe next time. I think he’ll open up to me more if it’s just the two of us.” I took a step back and looked him over in his white jumpsuit. “Besides, don’t you have a crime scene you need to clean up?”

“I’m between jobs right now,” he said, shrugging. “Finished the museum late last night. But if you want to do this yourself, go for it.”

He glanced back at my office. I followed his gaze. Through his eyes, with killer party props strewn around from last night’s murder mystery event, the place must have looked like a violent death had recently occurred there. I wondered if a crime scene cleaner would help.

Brad reached into his pocket, pulled out a small roll of yellow plastic tape, stretched a piece across my door, and stuck a thumbtack in both ends. The words on the tape read: “Crime Scene—Do Not Enter.”

“LOL,” I said, and left the building.

I pondered my reservations about Brad Matthews as I drove to the Bittersweet Café in the Fillmore near lower Pacific Heights. Brad was a nice guy, attractive and sexy as hell, and had seemed sincere when he offered to help me. But he had lied to me in the past, and I couldn’t get beyond my mistrust of him. Something lurked beneath that tight white jumpsuit—and I didn’t mean just his hot body.

Thoughts of said body distracted me, and I missed the turn on Fillmore. The trouble with San Francisco streets is, there are too many one-ways and no-left-turns and not enough through streets. Not to mention the lack of parking. After circling around, I found a space between a big black Cadillac and a big white Lexus—both parked over their lines. Luckily the MINI just fit. Of course, if I’d had Delicia’s Smart Car, I wouldn’t have tapped both the front and rear bumpers pulling in.

I entered the narrow, high-ceilinged café, decorated in shabby chic, with distressed tables, mismatched chairs, and wall-sized art. I found Corbin at one of two window tables. He was hunched over an espresso, his hair disheveled—on purpose?—and his clothes splotchy—was that paint? He didn’t look up when I entered, so I stepped over to the counter, ordered a double latte with a shot of chocolate, and watched him texting on his cell phone while I waited for my drink. I retrieved my drink and sat down opposite him in a wooden chair.

He looked up, touched his cell phone screen one last time, and slipped the BlackBerry into his pocket. “Hey,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“How’re you doing, Corbin?” I asked, searching his face. His eyes were red, but I couldn’t tell if that was from crying over the loss of his mother, allergies, or some kind of drug use. The smell of chocolate brownies wafting through the café would disguise any telltale aroma of marijuana. There was no sign of Mary Lee’s little dog.

He ran his fingers through his wild hair. “Okay. You know. Kinda hard to believe she’s really gone. She was such a . . .”

I wait for him to finish, then suggested, “Strong person?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”

I took a sip of my chocolate-rich latte while he stared into his tiny cup, still full of espresso.

“Thanks for meeting me, Corbin. I know it’s a hard time for you, but I’d like to do what I can to help Delicia. You knew her. You know she didn’t have anything to do with your mother’s death, but the police seem convinced by the circumstantial evidence. And they aren’t doing much to find the real killer. I thought maybe you could help.”

I wasn’t sure he was listening as he continued to stare into his cup. Then he raised his head and said, “How?” He shuffled his feet under the table, and one foot bumped into mine. He stretched his lanky legs out to the side. I glanced down at his shoes. They were frayed, laceless, and paint-spattered Doc Martens athletic shoes. I guessed Corbin couldn’t care less about brand names. His mother had probably supplied the black designer shoes. Or perhaps the starving-artist look was affected.

I tried again.

“Corbin, a lot of people went into that crime scene room last night. I can vouch for my office mates, Raj and Berk. They had no reason to harm Mary Lee. But I don’t know Christine Lampe or Dan Tannacito that well. I thought you might give me some insight into the museum staff. Can you think of any reason they might want your mother . . . out of the picture?” Bad choice of words, but I found it difficult to discuss this with him.

Two girls entered the café, dressed in glittery BeBe tees and tight jeans, with rhinestones decorating their derrieres. Corbin followed them with his eyes, then took a sip of his drink. Was he thinking about something? Avoiding my question? Or just interested in the two girls?

He set the cup down and met my eyes. “Actually, there were lots of people who didn’t like my mother. I mean, everyone acted as if they liked her, but she could be really abrasive and controlling. I’m not saying it was enough to make someone want to kill her, but still . . .” He glanced again at the girls as he took another sip.

When he didn’t continue, I asked, “Did you get along with your mother, Corbin?”

He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes.

“Sure. As well as any kid with a mother who—” He stopped. The smile faded, and his handsome face clouded over. “Wait a minute. You don’t think
I
had anything to do with my own mother’s death, do you? Is that why you’re here?” His voice rose as he spoke, anger building quickly.

“No, no, of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m just trying to get a sense of her.” Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “Tell me about your father, Jason. Did he get along well with your mother after the divorce?”

Corbin visibly relaxed.

“They got along fine, you know, for divorced parents.”

“I read somewhere that it was quite a bitter divorce. Your father resented the fact that he didn’t get anything in the settlement. And he was upset that your mother got full custody of you.”

Corbin drummed his fingers on the small wooden table. Was he bored? Anxious? Or just ADHD like me?

“That was like years ago,” he finally said. “Lately they’d been talking more. He had some ideas about fund-raising that he’d been pitching to Mother. In the past few years he’d gotten good at charming old ladies out of their money to fund his art-finding treks.”