The Homicide Hustle (10 page)

With all the dancers circled around, Nigel said, “Good show, everybody. We’re off
to a great start. We’ll keep things moving next week with nightclub dances: hustle
and East Coast swing.”

There was an even mix of groans and excitement when he named the next dances. I was
more of a ballroom purist and would have preferred a foxtrot or a cha-cha, but I could
get into the nightclub dances as well. Vitaly looked disgusted, while Solange clapped
her hands.

“Even better,” Nigel continued, “is that we’ve gotten permission to broadcast the
competition from Club Nitro on Saturday.” He looked around as if expecting applause.

I was appalled. Club Nitro? The last place Tessa King was seen alive? It seemed like
an insensitive, even callous, choice.

Apparently, Zane agreed. “Nigel, doesn’t that seem a little sensationalistic, like
the show’s exploiting Tessa’s murder?”

“Exactly!” Nigel said, pointing a finger at Zane, as if he thought Zane had complimented
him. “Ratings gold, baby.” Nigel clapped his hands to get our attention again. “Don’t
forget that Monday is Trade Day.” He grinned evilly. “Some of you might want to think
about your options.” His eyes lingered on Calista, who was rubbing her flank, which
probably hurt after her fall. Thanking the crew and the dancers again for a great
show, Nigel and the director marched off to schmooze with some bigwigs who had attended.

Zane and I exchanged glances. “So, are you still looking to trade up on Monday?” I
asked.

Hugging my waist, Zane grinned down at me. “There is no
up
in this competition. You’re the top.”

“Aww.” I kissed his cheek.

“Phoebe better watch out, though,” Zane said, nodding discreetly to where Calista
Marques was clutching at her partner Nikolai’s arm, tears of disappointment or anger
in her eyes. “Our young Disney phenom didn’t like being dropped on her tutu.”

We were dissecting our performance on our way to the dressing rooms when Tav and Danielle
caught up with us. My sister looked fabulous in a green satin jacket and slim black
pants, and I couldn’t blame Zane for returning her hug enthusiastically when she congratulated
him.

“Let’s all go out and celebrate,” she said, giving me a hug, as well. The tightness
in my throat eased, even though her gaze lingered on Zane. I hugged her back hard
enough to make her squeak.

“Celebrate third place?” Zane asked.

“Celebrate not falling on your keister on live television,” Danielle said, smiling.

“Well, when you put it like that . . . let me get this makeup off.” Zane disappeared
into his dressing room.

“I cannot make it tonight, Danielle,” Tav said. “I must catch an early flight tomorrow.”

My gaze flew to his face. “Oh? I didn’t know you had a trip planned.”

“My father will be in New York City for the day. I am going to see him.” Tav looked
like he had mixed emotions about the prospect.

His father was an obscenely wealthy Argentinean rancher. I’d never met him, even though
he was also Rafe’s father and we’d been planning to marry. Rafe and I had ended our
engagement only a couple of weeks before we were due to fly to South America for me
to meet his family. At the time, I’d been relieved that I didn’t have relationships
with them that I’d have to sever, as well.

“I guess we’ll be a threesome, then,” Danielle said with forced cheeriness. “How cozy.”

The thought of a threesome didn’t make me any happier than it made my sister. “I’m
going to beg off, too,” I heard myself say. “It’s been a long week. You two go and
have fun.” I felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Danielle and Zane partying
together, but not as much as I’d have thought. Truth was, a light dinner and a long
soak in the tub before bed sounded more appealing than a high-octane evening out.

Danielle tried to hide her pleasure, failing miserably, and Tav gave me a look I couldn’t
read. “I will wait while you change and give you a ride home,” he said to me.

Smiling my thanks, I ducked into the dressing room all the women shared. It took me
the better part of half an hour to get out of my costume and return it to the wardrobe
mistress, de-makeup my face, pry rhinestone-encrusted bobby pins out of my hair, and
slide into the comfy warm-up pants and airy top I’d worn to the Masonic Memorial what
seemed like days ago but was only this morning. I found Tav waiting for me in the
Grand Hall, studying the portraits and historical artifacts. A few people associated
with
Blisters
milled about, but I didn’t see Danielle or Zane.

“They left a few minutes ago,” Tav said, correctly interpreting my head swivels. “Savage
said to let you know they would start at the bar across the street from his hotel
if you changed your mind about joining them.” His eyebrow moved up a questioning fraction.

“Nope. Let’s go.”

We accomplished the short ride back to my town house in near silence. Tav parked at
the curb. “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

“I will take the Metro,” he said, “but thanks.” His fingers tapped on the steering
wheel and he half turned to face me. “Would you like to come with me? I would enjoy
introducing you to my father.”

Wham! His offer took me by surprise. “To New York? Tomorrow?”

Tav nodded, his dark eyes holding mine.

“Why?”

“We are in business together. Arturo would enjoy meeting you.”

Hm. I wasn’t sure about that. Rafe’s description of his father had made the man sound
intimidating. “The show . . . my students . . .”

“We can catch the first flight back Monday morning and you will be in time for all
your commitments.”

I was tempted. But if we were overnighting in New York, what would the sleeping arrangements
be? I peered into Tav’s face, trying to read his expression. What would his father
think at having me sprung on him? Tav and I weren’t even dating—we were business partners—but
his father would certainly think we were more than that. He knew that Rafe and I had
been
way
more than that, and not that long ago. I couldn’t do it.

“I’d love to meet your father sometime,” I said, “but—”

“I understand.” Not giving me the chance to explain further, Tav got out of the car,
and came around to open my door. He walked me up the front steps and waited while
I unlocked the door. I gave him an uncertain look, hoping I hadn’t offended him or
hurt his feelings.

“I
do
understand,” he said. He bent and kissed me gently on both cheeks. “I will see you
when I get back. Do not do anything foolish—like tackle a potential murderer—in my
absence.”

Before I could reply, he was halfway down the walk, the ghost of a laugh drifting
back to me.

Chapter 14

Soaking in the long, claw-footed bathtub half an hour later, I relaxed into the scent
of lavender from the expensive bath salts Mom had gotten me two Christmases back.
I didn’t take baths very often; I guess I didn’t slow down long enough to savor them.
Warm water covered me almost to my shoulders and it felt heavenly. I needed to build
more relaxation into my schedule, I decided, letting my head fall back against the
rim. The water’s heat kneaded knots out of my tense muscles and worked magic on my
sore feet. I tried to turn the tap on with my toes, but the old fixtures were stiff
and I couldn’t budge them. I was wondering if more hot water was worth the effort
of sitting up when a crash, like splintering glass, jerked me upright.

Water sloshed onto the tiled floor and I grabbed automatically for the thick white
towel I’d laid out. This wasn’t the grinding crash of cars colliding that I heard
from the street occasionally; this was much closer, in the house. Goose bumps appeared
on my arms. Wrapping the towel snugly around myself, I hurried out of the bathroom,
my wet soles leaving footprints on the wood floors. I really wished I had the gun
Uncle Nico had given me, but it resided in a police evidence locker since it had been
used to shoot Rafe. Maybe I should buy another one. I inched into the foyer and the
slight play of air over my damp skin made me shiver, despite the day’s lingering warmth.
Flipping on the hall light, I saw nothing amiss. The front door was closed and locked,
the narrow windows on either side intact. I peered through the closest one. Nothing
but a woman walking a small dog half a block down and a few cars driving by at normal
speeds.

I crossed into the parlor, and light from the hall winked off shards of glass sprayed
across the floor. Conscious of my bare feet, I reached around the doorjamb and hit
the light switch, illuminating the room. In addition to the glass, a rust-colored
brick teetered half on and half off my new ottoman. As I watched, its weight pulled
it over and it fell with a heavy thud to the floor, making me jump. Someone had thrown
a brick through my window! A white splotch showed on its underside; it looked like
a piece of paper rubber banded to the brick. Hurrying back to my bedroom, I put on
my slippers and returned to the parlor, picking my way through the minefield of glass.

Gingerly, I hefted the rough brick in my hand and tugged at the piece of paper. The
rubber band snapped, popping my wrist, and I almost dropped the brick. The paper fluttered
to the floor. “Ow,” I muttered, stooping to retrieve it. Unfolded, it was a two-inch-by-two-inch
square with hand-printed capital letters: L
ET
S
LEEPING
D
OGS
L
IE
. I crinkled my brow. What the hell did that mean? I wondered if it could be a bad
joke of some kind, like kids calling random phone numbers and whispering “I know what
you did.” I leaned forward to look through the broken window. Nothing moved on my
small patch of real estate. No teenagers giggled in the tree’s shadow. Growing up,
our trees and shrubs had been toilet-papered once by teens who mistook our house for
the house of one of their friends. . . . Was this a similar event?

I didn’t like the only other explanation that occurred to me: Someone was warning
me away from investigating Tessa King’s death. Suddenly becoming conscious that I
was wearing nothing but a towel and must be spectacularly backlit by the parlor’s
lights, I crunched my way out of the room to my bedroom, where I set the brick on
my dresser and slipped into a robe. Not one of my slinky peignoirs, which seemed too
insubstantial right now, but Great-aunt Laurinda’s tatty old flannel robe that whispered
along the ground when I walked. She’d been a very tall woman for her generation. Marching
to the kitchen, I found the dustpan and broom and returned to the parlor to deal with
the glass.

Ten minutes later I had most of it swept up, although I wouldn’t be walking barefoot
in this room anytime soon. The bigger problem was the hole in the windowpane. Thank
goodness it wasn’t the dead of winter so I didn’t have an icy wind blowing in. I couldn’t
call a glass installer at near midnight on a Saturday night, so I unearthed an empty
cardboard box, flattened it, and duct taped it to the window. There. Not perfect,
but it would do for the night. I checked all the lights again and retreated to the
bedroom, closing and locking the door, which I never did. When I crawled into bed
and pulled the covers up, the brick glared at me from the dresser. With a sigh, I
got out of bed and tossed a towel over the brick. The note fluttered to the floor
and I left it there.

Only after I was in bed again with the lights turned off did it occur to me that I
might have called the police. Nah, I dismissed the thought. The police had more important
things to do on a Saturday night than worry about who had heaved a brick through my
window. It’s not like they would fingerprint the place or canvass the neighborhood.
They’d give me a report for my insurance company, and that would be that. I’d report
it in the morning, and maybe mention the note to Detective Lissy next time I saw him,
even though I suspected he’d scoff at me. Either that, or chew me out for asking questions
about Tessa’s murder. With that happy thought, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Sunday afternoon found me sitting in a Laundromat with Zane Savage, watching his tighty-whities
go around in a sea of soapy foam. He’d called shortly after the glass installer presented
me with a bill for twice his normal charges since he’d come out on a Sunday. I was
wondering if I should give up eating for the rest of the month, or air-conditioning,
in order to pay the bill, when the phone rang and Zane asked me to meet him.

“I thought Hollywood stars sent their laundry out,” I greeted him when I arrived at
the Laundromat. It was a cheery space with lots of windows, but it smelled wet and
linty.

“Do you know how much that costs?” Zane asked, kissing my cheek. “I might’ve been
a star once, but no longer.” He didn’t sound bitter. “The furnished apartments we’re
in don’t have washers in the units, and a pipe burst in the laundry room, so I’m reduced
to this.” He gestured to the Laundromat.

“So what’s up?” I was pleased he’d called.

“Maybe I just wanted company while I did my laundry.” He smiled, crinkling the skin
around his eyes.

“Danielle not available?”

His smile broadened. “Jealous much?”

“Not.” I moved magazines off a chair so I could sit, transferring them to the white
melamine table that fronted the row of chairs.

“Your sister’s fun. We had a good time last night, but we didn’t have breakfast together.”
He sat kitty-corner to me, his knee bumping mine.

“None of my business.” Resisting the urge to ask what he and Danielle had done together,
I blurted, “Someone threw a brick through my window last night. With a note.” I handed
it to him.

A line appeared between his brows as he read. He looked at me. “You think this is
about Tessa?”

I shrugged. “I can’t imagine what else it would be.”

“What did the police say?”

“I didn’t see any point to calling them.” I explained my reasoning.

“This is good,” Zane said, waving the paper square.

“Really? My wallet doesn’t think so.”

“No, think about it. This means we’re getting somewhere.”

“‘We,’ Kemosabe? Did I miss the bit where someone tossed a brick through your window?”

“You’re cute when you do indignant.”

“I’m not ‘doing’ indignant.” I tried to get annoyed with him, but couldn’t pull it
off, not with him giving me that mischievous smile I remembered so clearly from
Hollywood High
. “Fine. Tell me what Detective Lissy wanted.”

That sobered Zane up. “He thinks I did it, that I killed Tessa.”

I gave him a skeptical look.

“No, really. The man next door to Tessa told the police he heard us arguing Tuesday
afternoon and that I slammed out of her room. Which is true.”

“What did you argue about?”

His gaze drifted past me, fastening on a pregnant woman coming through the door with
an overflowing laundry basket and a toddler by the hand. Zane jumped up to take the
basket from her and put it on a table. When he came back, he looked me square in the
eyes. “You.”

“Me?” My voice squeaked.

“She wanted me to pretend to be hot for you, seduce you, have a few steamy moments
for the camera. She thought a romance would be good for the ratings.”

A slow burn crept through me. “What did—?”

“I told her to forget it, that I wasn’t going to play that kind of game with you . . .
or anyone.” He must have read doubt in my expression because he leaned closer. “See
any cameras?” Before I could answer, he kissed me, pulling my head forward with a
hand at the back of my neck. The scruff of goatee and whiskers along his jaw were
soft against my skin. After a good thirty seconds—and I mean
good
—he pulled away. “If I’d been going along with Tessa’s plan, there’d have been a camera
around to catch that, and a camera the other night on your doorstep.”

I sucked in a deep breath. “So, Lissy accused you of killing Tessa because you argued
with her?”

“Tessa might have said something about kicking me off the show if I didn’t cooperate,”
Zane admitted. “Detective Lissy called that ‘motive.’ Little does he know that I don’t
give a snap”—he snapped his fingers—“for this show. It means a lot more to my mom
than it does to me. If it doesn’t reignite my acting career, I can go back to teaching
drama at UCLA and coaching kids going on auditions. That’s what I’ve been doing the
past three years.”

I’d quit listening after the bit about his mom. Was Kim Savage capable of killing
someone—a producer, for instance—who jeopardized Zane’s return to TV stardom? She
was fit, tough, determined. . . . I could hardly ask Zane where his mom had been Tuesday
night. The pregnant woman pulled a box of dryer sheets out of her hamper and the mountain
fresh scent drifted to me.

Zane rose to remove one load from the dryer, and schlep the other from the washer
into the dryer, giving me a chance to think. He’d said he didn’t care about doing
well on
Blisters
, but his intensity during practices and his edginess last night told me otherwise.
A wisp of a girl dropped a handful of change, and quarters clinked against a washer
and rolled across the floor. I stopped one with my foot and handed it to her. I still
hadn’t come up with a subtle way of finding out about Kim’s whereabouts Tuesday when
he plopped down beside me, depositing a load of warm clothes on the table, and said,
“Fold. It’s the car that’s giving them fits.”

I looked a question at him, and plucked a golf shirt from the pile. It had that slightly
burnt smell clothes get in a commercial dryer sometimes. I smoothed the collar.

“The police. Tessa’s car being missing is what convinced them that this is a murder
and not an accident.”

“I can see that.” If Tessa had walked away from Club Nitro for some reason, her car
should still be parked on the curb where she and Phoebe had left it. If she’d gone
back to the apartment, it should be in the parking lot. If she’d broken down along
the road and tried to walk for help, the police should’ve found the car on the roadside.
It’d be too much of a coincidence—wouldn’t it?—for her car to get stolen on the night
she died. “Finding her car could be key to finding out what happened to her.” I sorted
socks, leaving the underwear for Zane to fold.

Zane nodded. “The police are looking for it, believe me.”

“Maybe it went into the river. She swerved to avoid a deer or another car, and her
car plunged into the river. The impact broke her legs, but she managed to get out
of the car.” Only to drown because she couldn’t get to shore. The thought made me
queasy.

“I know where she went into the river.”

His words startled me. My look invited him to explain.

“There was a map on the bulletin board in the conference room at the police station.
It had a photo of Tessa tacked up, some tide charts and papers I couldn’t read, and
a map of the area. There was a mark along the Potomac where they found her body, and
another mark, on the Anacostia, which had to be where she went in. We probably drove
past it Thursday night.”

I shivered at the thought. “What else did the police ask you?”

Zane ran his fingers through his hair. “Did Tessa have any enemies? How long ago and
why did we break up? Had she been acting strangely, differently? Was she involved
with someone?”

That triggered a memory. “Phoebe thought she was dating someone new.”

He gave it some thought, his gaze seemingly tracing a crack in the linoleum. “Could
be. It’s not like she would have come running to me with news about a new lover. We
didn’t have that kind of relationship. We were friends in a ‘we have history’ way,
but not a ‘share everything’ way.”

I understood the distinction. We folded clothes in silence, me laying the socks one
on top of another and rolling them into a neat ball, Zane folding T-shirts, jeans,
towels, and underwear alike: once over horizontally and once vertically. It felt domestic,
cozy, and I was suddenly glad we were in a public place, listening to an annoying
cartoon on the television now, and getting a whiff of dirty diapers from the toddler
who was busy following a fly as it buzzed against a window. I was glad I hadn’t offered
to let Zane do his laundry at my place . . . it would have felt too intimate.

An unwelcome thought struck me and I dropped a pair of socks. Fishing them out from
under the chair (where I spotted drifts of lint and dust suggesting no one had used
a broom in here for quite some time), I had a thought. “The brick. The note. Someone
from the show killed Tessa. No one else knew I was investigating but, thanks to Nigel,
everyone involved with
Blisters
knew.”