Shade Me (14 page)

I cocked my head to one side. “Why would I be worried?”

He shrugged, turned his mouth down in a thinking frown. “Most people get pretty nervous in here,” he said. “Nobody likes to be in this room. Not even me.”

“Well, I'm not exactly jumping for joy, either,” I said. “But I have nothing to be worried about.”

“All right, well, let's just get down to it, then. What do you know about Dru Hollis, Nikki? Okay if I call you Nikki?”

I glared. “No. And I know enough. What do you know?”

He ignored my question and fired another at me.

“So you know about his involvement with Arrigo Basile, then, I assume?”

“Who?”

He grinned, a spider-to-the-fly kind of grin, and slid an open file toward me. Inside was a photo—a mug shot—of a bulky middle-aged man with a bad comb-over. He didn't look like the kind of guy anyone would be afraid of if they walked past him on the street, but there was something in the way he peered up at the camera from beneath his bushy eyebrows that was chilling. “Maybe you don't know him as well as you thought,” he said. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, gestured to the empty chair again. “Please, have a seat, and I'll fill you in.”

I didn't want to. I didn't want to let the good detective, Chris Martinez, tell me what to do, ever. But I was curious. I sat on the very edge of the chair, keeping my arms crossed over my chest.

He reclined against the seat back and folded his arms to match mine. “Arrigo Basile is a prominent member of the Basile family. They're a pretty dangerous family with lots of connections.”

“Mafia,” I said.

He nodded. “They've been on our radar for years—we think they have some ties to drugs and prostitution, but we can't pinpoint what or where. We're also not sure what
Arrigo's role is in the family, but we know that he likes to hang around women and drugs. And he likes to hang around Dru Hollis.”

“So Dru has a friend that you don't like, but you don't really know why you don't like him, so you arrest Dru? What kind of sense does that make?” This actually sounded like the police work I'd grown to know and hate.

“It's more complicated than that.”

“Sounds to me like the most complicated part about it is you trying to figure out how to pin something on Dru. Who cares about this Arrigo Basile anyway? Just because he likes to sleep with hookers doesn't mean he beat up Peyton. Don't you see what a huge leap this is? Why?”

Chris Martinez leaned forward over the table again, concern creasing his forehead. I scooted backward in my chair, not wanting to be any closer to him than I absolutely had to be. “Arrigo Basile is no stranger to assault and battery.”

“Neither are a thousand other guys in this city,” I said. “What does it prove?”

“Listen, Nikki—”

“Miss Kill,” I corrected, narrowing my eyes into steely slits.

He took a breath. “Miss Kill. Peyton Hollis's wounds are consistent with blunt force trauma. To be more specific, they look like they were inflicted by a smooth, rounded object, like a baseball bat or possibly a cane.”

“So?”

“So, Arrigo Basile's signature is a cane.”

My stomach dropped. As much as I wanted to deny all this, as much as I wanted to believe in Dru, it was becoming more and more difficult.

“I take it Dru mentioned none of this to you.”

“It didn't come up,” I said through numb lips. “It's not like we're dating.”

“Were you with him the night of Peyton's attack?” Martinez's voice had taken on a sudden professional tone.

“No. We hadn't met yet.”

“Were you with anyone that night?”

I flashed onto the memory of sitting in the window, chain-smoking. “I was studying for a chem test.”

“So your parents can confirm that?”

I shot him my iciest look. “My father can. My mother is dead,” I said.

He looked down. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Are you suggesting I might have had something to do with this? I didn't have anything to do with Peyton Hollis before that night,” I said.

“You seem pretty immersed in her business now, though.” His voice was flat, impersonal.

I threw up my hands. “I don't know why, though! I have no idea why she had my phone number, or how she even got it. We weren't friends.”

“But you're pretty friendly with her brother now.”

I blushed. I could feel it. My ears got hot and my eyes burned with it and the familiar prickly pine hue swept in on me. I silently cursed myself and willed the feeling to go away. But when I sneaked a look at Martinez, I could have almost sworn I saw a blush high in his cheeks as well. “That was an accident,” I said, wondering how much Martinez really knew about my life. It seemed like he knew an awful lot. I tried changing the subject. “A one-time thing. Are you sure he's the one? What evidence other than Arrigo what's-his-name's signature weapon do you have?”

He leafed through some papers. “That's why you're here, Nikki. Help me out. I know you've been following leads of your own. Why? And who are they? What have you found out?”

I didn't correct him on using my first name that time. My mind was spinning. Should I tell him what I knew about Gibson Talley? Would I ever find out the truth if I let the police get involved? Would I end up in trouble if I kept looking for answers? But I had a feeling he already knew more than I wanted him to, anyway. After all, I still had that unnerving feeling he knew I'd been at Gibson's.

“Have you ever heard of Viral Fanfare?” I asked.

“I hadn't until I started investigating Peyton's attack. It's her band, correct?”

I nodded. “She is . . . or was, I'm not sure . . . the lead
singer. Something happened a few weeks before the attack. I haven't been able to figure out what yet, but I'm working on it. Gibson Talley is involved.”

At the mention of Gibson's name, Martinez's eyes perked up.

“I take it you have heard of him,” I said.

He nodded. “Of course I have. Drugs, assault, breaking and entering, petty theft. You name it, he's probably been in here for it. We consider him one of our regulars.”

“So that's basically it. You now know everything I do. Peyton moved out of her house and into that apartment where you arrested Dru, and I thought maybe she'd moved in with Gibson, but I was wrong.”

“But how do you know he's involved?” Detective Martinez asked, his face a tight and intense question mark of scrutiny. “What makes you so sure? There's something more, Nikki. Something you don't want to tell me.”

There was plenty I didn't want to tell him. It was one thing to tell him about Gibson, but there was no way in hell that I was going to tell him about my synesthesia. About the apartment number left behind in that photo of Peyton. About the tattoo on her neck and what it meant to people like us. Those were things the police didn't need to know—especially Detective Chris Martinez.

“Are we done?” I asked, but my voice was weak. I hated the sound of it.

He licked his lips, thought about it, and then finally nodded. “You're not in any sort of trouble, if that's what you're asking. So, yes, you're free to go. But I might have more questions for you later. You know, we could solve this faster if we had all the information.”

“I've told you everything I know.”

I could see in his eyes that he didn't believe me, a look of suspicion that reminded me of cold wintergreen. I shivered.

I pushed away from the table, my chair making a great scraping noise along the floor. But before I could stand, Detective Martinez reached across and put his hand on top of mine. I started to pull away, but his hand wasn't there menacingly. It was gentle, warm.

“I can see that you're not going to let this go,” he said. “Although I would highly advise that you do. You're in over your head. So I will just say this. If you find yourself face-to-face with Arrigo Basile, get away from him and call me. He is not someone you want to mess with alone.”

I pulled my hand free. “I'll be fine. I always am.”

He left his hand where it was before, now empty of my own. “I don't want to see you get hurt. You don't know what it's like to be in real trouble.” We locked eyes, and I could see it deep down—a woolly, brown-tinged white that told me there was more to Chris Martinez than he wanted people to know. He was asking me to trust him. But how could I when
I knew for certain I wasn't the only one hiding something?

“I can take care of myself,” I mumbled.

“You don't know Arrigo Basile,” he said. I stood and made my way to the door. “And, Nikki?” I turned. “You don't know Dru Hollis, either.”

I didn't respond. Why did everyone keep reminding me of that?

He was trying to scare me. He wanted to trick me into telling him something to incriminate Dru. He must have thought he was some baller detective, manipulating Dru's tough little wrong-side-of-the-tracks slut into handing him over. He was wrong. I wasn't going to give him anything. I didn't have anything to give.

I walked briskly back the way I had come, but then stopped short once I reached the lobby.

Dru was leaving the station, Bill Hollis, wearing a shiny silver suit, leading him out with a hand on his arm.

Once again, the Bill Hollis of the entertainment pages was gone; this was the Bill Hollis I'd seen in the hospital room and in the driveway of Hollis Mansion. He reeked of money and importance and, at the moment, rage. Dru's head was ducked down, all the confidence I'd seen in him drained away. I waited for them to push through the doors and then crept out after them, staying in the shadow of the doorway as I watched the older Hollis lead his son away.

“Your mother is fit to be tied over it,” Bill Hollis was fuming as they walked across the parking lot, his fingers digging into Dru's arm now.

“Sorry, I wasn't getting arrested for the fun of it,” Dru answered. He shied away from his father's grip but didn't try to pull free of it. “Besides, they have nothing on me. That's why they had to let me go.”

Bill Hollis stopped, yanking Dru to a stop as well. “You're going to try to be cavalier about it, too, you little shithead? Do you know what this can do to us? To your future? To my future? What am I supposed to say to the press?” He shook Dru, clamping down on his arm harder.

Dru winced. His eyes flashed with anger, his jaw straining. “I said I'm sorry.”

“Well, what if ‘sorry' won't do it, huh? You ever think about that? Think about your mother? About me?”

Dru gave a sardonic chuckle. “There it is. It's all about you. Always.”

“It's about you, too. How are you supposed to get anywhere in this business if you're getting arrested for bullshit like this?”

“I don't want to get anywhere in this business. I've been telling you that for years, Dad,” Dru said. “I want to live my own life. Why is it so hard for you to just respect that?”

Bill Hollis's jaw pulsed. “You have to earn respect in this life. So far you're not doing a great job of that.”

“Trust me, this is all—”

“Why on earth would I trust you?” Bill Hollis said.

“Peyton trusted me,” Dru said, his voice pure ice.

“Yes, and look what happened. Get in the car.”

Bill Hollis shoved Dru's arm then. Dru didn't budge. Didn't stumble or even back up a step or two. He remained in place, digging into Bill Hollis with hatred-filled eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. Bill stepped off the curb and walked around to the driver's side of a white Cadillac, so expensive-looking it practically hurt my eyes. Dru stayed in place. I sank back into the shadows of the doorway, hoping he wouldn't see me spying on . . . whatever that was I'd just witnessed.

Nobody would expect Bill Hollis to be thrilled about having to fetch his son from jail, but there was something about the way he had gripped Dru's arm, something about the language he'd used, the way he'd torn into his son, that made his anger seem a little over the edge. This, combined with the weird scene with the SUV that I saw in front of their house, hardly seemed like the happy family unit I had once believed the perfect Hollises to be.

My dad is going to be shattered,
Dru had told me that first night. Yet Hollis didn't seem so much shattered as inconvenienced. And worried about how his daughter's attack would affect his reputation.

“Get in!” I heard. I peeked around the corner again to see
that Bill Hollis had backed out of the parking space, pulled up to the curb, and rolled down the window. “It's bad enough that we've lost your sister's car. Let's go get yours before that apartment complex has the son of a bitch impounded.”

Dru turned in slow motion, as if fighting against a tide, his shoulders tensed as he made his way to the other side of the car. Slowly, he got in and slammed the door shut.

Hollis's window rolled up, the tint making it impossible to see more than a couple of shadow heads within. He pulled away from the curb, and I pushed off the wall to watch him go. Two women breezed through the glass doors and right past me. Just as I stepped out of the shadow, glittery, shimmery lilac caught my eye.

I did a double take, peering at the Cadillac as it pulled out onto the street.

The vanity plate read
DREAMS
.

I
'D SPENT SO
much time at the police station, I'd missed lunch, and I figured since that meant most of the school day was gone and it would be pointless to show up now, I might as well go and get myself some proper food. I hit the highway and headed up toward the city, rolling down the windows to let the fresh air in.

I knew exactly what I wanted, and cruised right toward MacArthur Park.

The line at Langer's was so long it snaked out onto the sidewalk, so I took my time browsing Alvarado Street, with its open-air shops and the Westlake Mall, while I waited. I'd been expecting the line. Langer's had been one of my mom's favorite delis, and she always said a hot pastrami as good as
theirs was worth waiting for. Langer's hot pastrami with coleslaw was an institution, and it was my comfort food. The sun felt good on my head. And, like Mom, I didn't mind waiting.

Just when I neared the counter, my phone buzzed. Dad's face popped up on my screen.

“So you're not at school,” he said when I answered.

“Sorry,” I said. “I started out there, but things happened.”

“Do I want to know what kind of things happened?”

“Not really.”

“And where are you if you're not at school?”

I hesitated. He would not be thrilled to hear that I'd gone all the way to L.A. instead of just going to class like I was supposed to. “At Langer's,” I said.

I heard him sigh on the other end. “I'm not far,” he said. “Get a booth.”

I got pastrami with tomato and a soda for each of us, and waited for one of the brown vinyl booths to open. By the time I was sitting down, he was coming through the front door, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into the V-neck collar of his shirt. He searched, found me, and headed in my direction.

“Well, at least I'm starving,” he said, scooting up to the table. “So there's that.”

Suddenly I felt too ashamed to eat. I stared at my sandwich guiltily as he bit into his, my plate growing brick-colored with my shame.

“What?” he said, looking at my plate. “Go ahead. You might as well.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “I really intended to go today.”

He chewed, swallowed, and nodded, looking over my shoulder at the bustling crowd inside Langer's. “So is that what I'm supposed to tell them when they withhold your diploma? She intended to go, but it just didn't work out? Things happened?”

I stared at my sandwich sullenly. “Tell them whatever you want.”

“Dare I ask what's so important that you just couldn't go to school today?”

I shook my head, mulling over what I could tell him. I couldn't tell him everything. I couldn't tell him that a stolen laptop was in my bedroom at that very moment, or that I'd slept with the suspect of a pretty high-profile crime, or that I'd just left the police station. Dad was patient, and lenient, but even he had his limits.

“There's this girl who goes to my school. She's been in a pretty bad accident. I've been visiting her at the hospital.”

Dad stopped chewing. “So this is a friend of yours? Have I met her?”

“We're not exactly friends. I just . . . know her,” I said. “And being there has brought up a lot of bad memories.”

Dad looked up at the ceiling, sucking food out of his teeth. “Ah,” he said. “So that's why the pastrami, huh?”

I nodded. “Sometimes it seems like Mom's been gone forever. And then other times it seems like it was just yesterday. It gets confusing. I guess I just needed to be close to her in some way.” I knew this was only partially true—that everything I was telling him was only partial truth—and the brick-colored guilt was seeping up behind my eyelids, but it was the best I could do at the moment. I knew that bringing up Mom would shut him down.

“Well,” he said. “I get that. Maybe more than you'll ever know. You know, I used to love the way her hair shone in the sun when we came here to eat. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever met, and the fact that she could wolf down a pastrami with tomato faster than I could only made her more beautiful.” He paused, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “But here's the thing. I still need you to go to school. Mom is gone, no matter how much it can sometimes feel like she's still here. And you have a future to think of. Promise me that tomorrow you'll do more than try.”

I nodded.

“Okay. Now eat your sandwich. You can't wait in line for a Langer's pastrami and let it go to waste. That would for sure disappoint your mother.”

We spent the rest of the meal eating in mostly silence, Dad thinking about whatever, and me contemplating Bill Hollis's vanity plate. I'd seen the glittery lilac before. Peyton had written an address and a time on the back of a
Hollywood Dreams Ranch flyer. I hadn't realized it at the time, but the words on the front were glittery lilac, the color of eye shadow. Was the message she'd written only part of the clue? Was the flyer itself a clue?

Did Bill Hollis have something to do with Hollywood Dreams? It seemed unlikely. Why would someone like him need to go to an escort service? He probably could have had any number of women in Brentwood, not to mention he was married to bombshell Vanessa. It was probably all a huge coincidence, and my synesthesia was tricking me. It had happened before. Especially when it came to the colors I associated with emotions. I wasn't perfect, and neither were the colors.

But there was no mistaking the grip that Bill Hollis had on Dru's arm. There was no misreading his words. He was blaming Dru for everything that had happened, and what was worse, he was pissed about how this was making him look. And what nagged at me the most was that Dru had claimed that his dad would be shattered to find out about Peyton. Yet clearly he wasn't. Why had Dru lied to me? Because Chris Martinez was right and he was guilty?

Finally, Dad wiped his mouth, checked his watch, and threw his napkin on the table. “Jesus, it's going on two o'clock.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Listen, I have one more quick shoot today, and then I'm headed home. How about I'll make dinner?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“You'll be there? Even if things happen?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, of course.”

“What do you plan to do with the rest of your day?”

It was almost two o'clock and I was already in L.A. I remembered Peyton's email about the meeting with Leo.
We go
.
We don't need her.
I didn't have anything close to a plan, but something told me I needed to be there. “I'm going to stay in the city for a little bit,” I said. “But I'll be home for dinner.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “And homework?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, though I honestly had no clue what homework I even had anymore, I was so behind.

He regarded me for a long moment, trying to talk himself into being satisfied, I supposed, and then stood. “Okay, I'll see you at home.”

I waited until he pulled out of the parking lot before I went into planning mode.

FROM THE OUTSIDE,
Clear Lake was an unassuming building—white brick, old-fashioned, tucked in alongside auto and hardware shops on busy Burbank Boulevard. I parked across the street and waited before getting out, watching the cars to see Gibson Talley pull up. It was just after two o'clock, and nobody seemed to be coming or going at Clear Lake. Maybe Gib had changed his mind
about coming to the meeting without Peyton.

I'd stopped at a pharmacy on my way there, picking up a baseball cap, some huge touristy sunglasses, two bottled coffees, and a tube of bright-red lipstick. I realized it was about the dumbest “disguise” anyone could put together, but I was in a pinch, and it was the only idea I had.

I let my hair out of its elastic and vigorously scrubbed my hands through it, trying to give it messy volume. Satisfied, I plunked the Angels cap down over it, making sure to let some of my hair crowd the sides of my face. Pulling down the car visor so I could look in the mirror, I painted my lips with the bright-red—
ragemonster
, I thought distantly—lipstick, and then tore the tag off the sunglasses and put those on as well.

I still looked like me. But what could I do?

I got out of the car, shucked off my jacket, tugged my shirt up so that my belly button showed, and rolled up the cuffs of my jeans. I studied my murky reflection in the car door, then picked up the coffees and headed toward the front door, walking as if I belonged in the place.

My mouth was dry and my hands shaking with nerves. I wished I'd stayed in the car for a smoke real quick before going in, but there was no time now. The guy at the front desk had already spotted me.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound perky, and like someone other than Nikki Kill, even though this guy wouldn't know
the difference anyway. I stuck out my hand. “I'm Angie. Leo Powers's assistant?”

The guy's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, okay,” he said. “You here with the band, then?”

I nodded. “Viral Fanfare. Going to be huge, Leo says. Huge. They here yet? I'm so excited to hear them.” I hoped that wasn't a completely stupid thing for a record producer's assistant to say. I held up the coffees apologetically. “Had to stop for Leo. He's so addicted.”

He jumped up. “The band's here, but Leo's not yet. We, uh, actually don't have him on the schedule. Someone must have forgotten to write it down. But fortunately we didn't have anything else scheduled, so we could still get the band in. They're setting up in studio A while we try to sort this out. I'm glad you're here. Follow me.”

I followed him down a short hallway into a huge studio. My feet got cold when I saw Gibson Talley, who was busy plugging his guitar into an amp. He only briefly glanced up when we came into the room. I ducked my head, hoping the visor of my cap hid my face, and scurried after the guy into the sound booth.

“You can wait here for Leo,” he said. “Unless you want to talk to the band. There's only the two of them here so far. I think they said the bass player is on the way from Brentwood right now. I'll be doing your engineering, by the way. I'm
Zach.” He held out his hand, but I was holding the coffees and we both chuckled and shrugged. He turned awkwardly, scratching one arm, and then said, “So just make yourself comfortable, I guess. You can hang on that couch over there. And I'll go back out front and wait for Leo to get here. Unless you want to . . . ?”

“No, that's okay. Couch sounds good.”

I watched Zach leave the room. He stopped and talked to Gibson and another guy, who I recognized from the photos and videos as Viral Fanfare's drummer. They both glanced toward the booth, and I blazed with nerves. I looked away, as if I were busy studying something important in the booth, but I could still feel Gibson's eyes on me. After a beat, they went back to work and I was able to relax a little. I set the coffees on a small table and went over to the engineering table, looking for any sort of switch that looked like it might be an intercom. I flipped a few; nothing happened. But then the third button—a mic button—worked.

“. . . dude doesn't show up?” the drummer asked.

“He will, man. No way would she have been stupid enough to cancel on me,” Gibson answered. He picked up his guitar and tested it.

“I don't know if
stupid
is the word I'd use to describe Peyton,” the other guy said. “Maybe she canceled on you just to be a bitch.”

“She didn't.”

“Why isn't he here yet, then? I'm telling you, something is up with that.”

“Relax, man, producers are late all the time. Just get your set out and don't worry about it.”

The drummer went back to unpacking his drums, but I wasn't relaxing. I still hadn't figured out how I was going to cover my story when Leo Powers got here and his “assistant” was already in the booth, waiting with his coffees.

Just then the studio door burst open and a flurry of dreads and flannel burst in. I slouched down in my seat. My lame disguise might fool Gibson and the drummer—two people who didn't know me—but no way would it fool Vee, even for a second. “Sorry I'm late, guys. Got here as fast as I could. Did I miss him?” Vee asked breathlessly, her bass case thumping against her leg. “What did he say? Are we in?”

“Not here,” the drummer said without looking at her.

“What?” She glanced at the sound booth. I ducked even lower. “Why?”

“He's not here yet,” Gibson said. “He's late. Just get your shit out and let's stop freaking out about it like a bunch of fucking preteens, okay? His assistant's here, so he's coming.”

Vee glanced at the booth again, only this time her gaze stuck a little longer, her eyes narrowing curiously. I tensed, ready to run, but eventually she looked away. She set her case down and bent to unlatch it.

“Any update on Peyton?” she asked.

“I ain't talking about her here,” the drummer said. “Not right now anyways.”

“The songs?” Vee pressed.

“What more do you want me to do about her?” Gibson snarled. “We're gonna stick to the plan. Technically, they're my songs, too, no matter how much she's tried to screw me over. So we play them today and worry about the legal stuff later. Things will come out fine.”

I froze.
What more do you want me to do about her?
What did that even mean? What had Gibson already done?

They all stood around staring at one another, and then Gibson sighed. “Would you two stop acting like such babies? This is our big break. Don't even think about Peyton. She's nothing.” I thought about the photos I'd seen—the ones where Gibson was watching Peyton, where his arm was crooked around her neck. She hadn't been nothing to him then.

“Gib,” Vee said. “She's in the hospital.”

“Don't you think I know that?” he snapped. “Of all people, don't you think I'm very well aware that Peyton is at death's door right now? But I can't let it tank my one shot. I can't let her do that to me. Do you want this or don't you?”