Sole Witness (6 page)

“I’m not doing photo shoots
anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t see what that has to do
with anything,” she snapped, her posture stiff and her glare belligerent.

“Then how about this. What were
you doing with the body?”

“What?”

“We know you were in the room
after he was shot. Did you try to give him CPR?”

“I didn’t give him anything! I
didn’t even see him because I never went inside. I learned Tommy was dead on
the eleven o’clock news. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Acting secretive isn’t helping
you, Lori.”

“I’m not being secretive, and I
haven’t acted since high school. Not that my career—or my secrets—are any of
your business.”

Davis tried to relax his posture.

The woman he’d once loved sat
across from him, beautiful and seething. She had potential means, potential
motive and plenty of opportunity—but no alibi. Her answers were shaky, at best.

Although his gut told him she was
no killer, his brain insisted that she visited the studio for more than an
autograph. The sudden surge of jealousy coursing through his veins made him
hope his suspicions were unfounded.

The question burst from his lips.
“Were you and Tommy Turner lovers?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Lori
uncrossed her arms and stared over his head at the mirror. “I slept with him. I
slept with the whole band. And their landlord, and their neighbors, and the guy
who checks the meters. Is that what you want to hear?”

No. It wasn’t what he wanted to
hear. Davis’s chair scraped across the bumpy floor. He couldn’t stand the
thought of her with someone else.

He stood and strode to the
two-way. Shading his eyes with one hand to his forehead, he tried to peer
through the glass. All this interview proved was that he hadn’t gotten over
Lori. Carver had to be rolling with laughter.

A handful of amused observers
watched and listened from the other room, but all Davis could see was darkness.

*          *          *

Lori stared at Davis’s back. It
felt like hours had passed since he’d stalked to the mirror, but she doubted
even a full minute had gone by. What was his deal?

He used to be so fun. So
passionate. A dreamer.

Now here he was, a robot in a
suit, stodgy, straight-laced, an empty copy of who he used to be. At least,
until he’d leapt from his chair in a fit of temper.

That was the first sign of life
he’d shown, the first glimmer of the real Davis Hamilton.

When he turned around, however,
the old Davy was gone and the blank-faced detective had resumed his features.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” he
said, irritation in his voice belying his calm.

What the heck did he want?

“I don’t know what you expect
from me,” Lori answered. “I heard shots, I called them in. I was asked to come
to the station, here I am. You ask me questions, I tell you everything I know.
Now what?”

Davis flipped through his
notebook without responding, his expression unreadable.

Lori drummed her fingers on the
table, her French-manicured nails clicking into the eerie silence.

“Very fidgety, Lori. Feeling
guilty?”

She glared and refused to
respond.

This claustrophobic little room
sucked. It stank of fear, cigarettes and disinfectant. People probably
confessed to anything, just to get out of this tiny dank box.

The pale concrete blocks closed
in around her and the tick-tick-tick of her fingernails grew louder and more
erratic. Lori sank her damp palms to the icy tabletop, willing her twitching
fingers to hold still.

“What I want,” Davis said at
last, “is to solve this case.”

Not a huge surprise. He was the
cop, she was the witness, Tommy was dead.

She’d never pegged Davis as the
steady-day-job sort—well, if he was on duty last night, maybe he worked
seconds, but all the same—he impressed her by sticking with it.

By doing it at all.

Being a cop wasn’t easy. Being
part of a cop’s family was even harder, if not impossible. Lori swallowed. Now
was not the time to dredge up memories.

“Davy, trust me. I hope you find
him, whoever did this. If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

“Then tell me the truth.” His
eyes never left her face.

“I’ve been telling the truth.”
The muscles in her back twitched with anger. “I went to the studio, I heard
shots, I left, I called 911. What else is there?”

“I want to know why you went
there in the first place.”

“I told you. For an autograph.”

Davis rubbed the back of his
wrist against his forehead. “An autograph for whom?”

“Kimberley Jackson. My best
friend.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Forever. She transferred into my
math class the year after you graduated.”

He scratched something in a small
notebook. “If you’ve known Tommy Turner for two years, why did she wait until
yesterday to ask for an autograph?”

“She didn’t. She’s been hounding
me since before I knew him. I just didn’t give in until yesterday.”

“What made you give in? Why
yesterday?”

Lori sighed. “Her live-in
boyfriend broke up with her last week and she’s been wrecked. I had to do
something to cheer her up, even if it meant speaking to Tommy.”

Davis frowned. “You didn’t like
Tommy?”

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s
what you’re getting at. But no, I don’t like him. He’s a lizard. Constantly
making disgusting comments, groping at me and all the other women forced to
work with him professionally. I have no idea how the girls in his entourage
stand him. He’s very full of himself. Or was.”

“Then why did you do it? Work
with him, I mean. Professionally.”

“Publicity, of course.” Lori gave
a self-mocking smile. “You know what they say. As long as they spell my name
right…”

Davis leaned against the mirror.
“My partner is watching you. Listening to us.”

“I figured as much. Officer
Carver, right? Or is it Detective Carver?”

“Detective. Good memory.”

Lori shrugged. “Cop’s daughter.”

Davis started. “I completely
forgot your dad was a cop.”

“Was.” Lori stared at her fingers
splayed on the table. “There are a lot of ‘was’es in my life.” She slid her
hands into her lap. “Your dad’s still a lawyer, and your mom is still a–”

“Society princess.” Davis
retrieved his chair and plopped back down at the table. “So let’s brainstorm a
minute about the case.”

“Is that why you mentioned your
partner? Do you want him in here?”

“Her. She’ll be all right. If she
detects violent tendencies, she’ll come in to save me.”

“Funny. And I’m glad your partner
is a woman. It always seemed like such a man’s world.”

Davis cocked his head. “I never
pegged you as a feminist.”

“I’m not a feminist, I’m a
female. I could never be a cop myself.” Too many details to track. Studying
every night, she’d barely passed remedial math. No wonder drama had appealed, and
why modeling, with all its travel and excitement, had stolen her heart. “So,
what do you want to brainstorm about?”

“The killer.”

“Davy, I swear to you. I have no
idea who killed him.”

He took a pen from his pocket and
set it down on the table. “We have his Blackberry and his email contacts.”

“Sounds like a good place to
start.”

“Are we going to find you in his
address book?”

“Not my home address. My cell
number, sure. I told you—we worked together. I did the first video and the
album cover. It was lucrative. Just because I don’t like a client’s attitude
doesn’t mean I’ll pass up a career opportunity.”

Davis flipped through his
notepad. “And your friend, Kimberley Jackson. Will we find her connected to
Tommy Turner?”

“She wishes.”

Davis’s eyebrows shot up. “What
the hell does that mean?”

“It means she’s one of the
zillion fans that had a crush on him from the moment he burst onstage with a
microphone and a muscle t-shirt. Why do you think she wanted an autograph?”

“Did she know where to find his
studio?”

“Davy, get real. Is there anybody
in Isla Concha who doesn’t know where his studio is? Kimber didn’t kill him
either. She just wanted his autograph.”

“No need to get defensive. I’m only
asking questions.”

“Well, your questions are
stupid,” Lori snapped. “I didn’t sleep with him and I didn’t shoot him. And
neither did my friends. May I go now?”

Davis watched as she sprang to
her feet, his calmness boiling her blood even hotter.

“You’re not under arrest,” he
answered with a little wave toward the door. “You’ve always been free to
leave.”

“You’ve always been free to
leave,” Lori mocked under her breath and stomped past him as best she could in
high-heeled sandals.

*          *          *

Amber slipped out the back door of the Isla Concha
Savings & Loan to catch ten minutes of peace. She withdrew the crinkly
softpack of Virginia Slims from her purse, knocked out a cigarette to place
between her lips, and dipped her head to light it.

Ah. Nothing like the satisfying feel of hot smoke
filling her lungs. She held the cigarette, now tinged with red lipstick,
between two scarlet-taloned fingers and closed her eyes to the hot sun in order
to better enjoy the nicotine zipping through her veins.

It wasn’t every day that she killed somebody. Amber
smirked. Nah, it’d been a good decade since the last time. She’d forgotten the
amazing rush, the sense of power, of satisfaction, rightness, victory.

Except, last time, everything’d gone right. Exactly
perfect.

This time, there was Lori Summers to deal with.
Little Miss So Perfect She Can Steal Anybody’s Sugardaddy. Dead wrong.

The back door squeaked open. “You out here?”

Amber’s eyes flew open and she immediately squinted,
shielding her face from the sun’s rays as she whirled toward the door. “What?”

“Sorry to bother you,” said the new guy.

Please. He wasn’t sorry. He was a teller. The only
reason he escaped his cage behind the counter was because of his barely veiled
hope of getting in her pants. He probably thought if he were lucky enough, he’d
score a quickie right here, between the steamy brick walls and the pungent
Dumpster.

Amber took another drag on her cigarette, letting
the words unfurl from her mouth. “What can I do for you, honey?”

“I, uh.” He stared at her lips, then dipped his gaze
to the damp cleavage visible between the curling flaps of her blouse. “I mean,
they need you inside. Somebody needs help with their account.”

Amber pouted and took one last puff before flicking
the butt to the ground and sliding past him. Piercing Musak assaulted her ears
as her vision adjusted to the softer lighting. Facing her desk slouched a kid,
late teens, with gelled hair, sunglasses, a t-shirt, and swim trunks. Welcome
to Spring Break in Florida.

She sashayed over to her desk and gave her sexiest
smile when he caught her eye. Holding out a hand for him to shake, she asked,
“Now, what can I do for you?”

He smirked, staring at her chest when he should have
been shaking her hand.

Amber sat down, tucked her arms under her breasts
and leaned forward. “Having a little trouble with your account?”

“Yeah.” He fished a crumpled check from his pocket
and threw it on her desk next to her keyboard. “I need to cash this, but I
don’t know my account number.”

Oh, for God’s sake. They interrupted her smoke break
for this? Even those idiots behind the counter could look up account numbers if
the customer could flash a driver’s license.

Amber nodded and curved her lips into an
understanding smile. “Got an I.D.?”

“Yeah.” He tossed his license.

It bounced off the crumpled check, skated across the
keyboard, and landed on the floor. College kids. He bent to retrieve it and
Amber tried to keep from killing him.

“Okay, let me look it up,” she said when she had the
license propped up in front of her monitor. The pitiful tellers couldn’t hunt
up accounts without a matching license, but as an Account Manager, she could
hunt up anyone in the state. She typed his name and hit Enter. Nothing. She
erased his first name and tried again. One hundred hits matched his last name.
No wonder the tellers couldn’t help him.

“You find it?” he asked.

“No,” Amber answered, wishing she were back outside
with the sweltering sun and stinky garbage. At least she could smoke there.
“You don’t have an account here.”