The Homicide Hustle (13 page)

Chapter 18

Back at Graysin Motion, the first person I saw was Kim Savage. Zane’s mother wore
a gray silk pencil skirt and a white blouse that displayed her curves. A leopard-print
belt defined her waist and matched her platform pumps. She’d clearly been lying in
wait for me because she pounced as soon as I came through the door.

“Stacy, there you are.”

I stared at her warily, mistrusting her sudden friendliness. “Hello, Mrs. Savage.”

“Kim.”

“Okay, Kim.”

I brushed past her to get to the ballroom, intending to collect the choreography notes
I’d made earlier. She followed me. Larry the cameraman trailed behind her. Uh-oh.
I found my spiral notebook and picked it up. “Can I help you with something, Mrs.
Sav—Kim? Zane’s not here. We rehearsed this morning.” I didn’t mention that I expected
him in about an hour; he was going to tell me what he’d learned during his evening
with Kristen. I hadn’t yet made up my mind what I’d tell him about Li’l Boni and his
assertion that Tessa had left with a man.

“I understand you’re helping the police find Tessa King’s murderer,” Kim said.

I knew my “uh-oh” instincts were right. “I wouldn’t put it that way.” And I knew darned
well Detective Lissy wouldn’t put it that way.

“I want to help. After all, it’s my son who’s a suspect. I want to clear his name.”

Her voice oozed sincerity, but the calculating look in her eye (not to mention Larry’s
presence) told me this encounter was staged . . . for whose benefit I wasn’t yet sure.
I clutched my notebook to my chest, as if that would ward her off. Nothing short of
garlic and a crucifix was likely to slow her down. “Did Nigel put you up to this?”
I asked, suddenly sure the producer had egged her on to talk to me, thinking it would
make good TV.

She blinked but recovered quickly. “Of course not. It’s important to me to see justice
done, for Tessa’s sake.”

Oh, please. The soulful look that went with the words almost made me gag and I wondered
if my throwing up would boost the ratings. Well, two could play her game. “Okay, then.
Where were you Tuesday night?”

“Me?” She widened her mascara-fringed eyes.

“You.”

“I don’t see what . . . I thought I could give you the scoop on Tessa and some of
the cast members, as a Hollywood insider. Did you know Nigel was almost indicted for
what happened on his last reality show, for instance? The network managed to keep
it hush-hush, but—”

“I’d rather hear where you were Tuesday night, more like early Wednesday morning.
Say, after midnight?”

Kim stiffened and she pointed a red-tipped finger at me. “I don’t like what you’re
implying.”

“What am I implying?” I gave her an innocent look. “I asked a simple question.”

Her gaze flitted from me to the camera. “I was in my hotel room, asleep.”

“Got any witnesses?”

It took her a moment. “Of course not!”

“That’s too bad.” I shook my head sadly, beginning to enjoy this, channeling some
combination of Columbo and Cagney. All I needed was a trench coat. “As I see it, you
had several reasons for wanting to get rid of Tessa King. You disapproved of her relationship
with Zane, even though it was over, and she might’ve been going to boot him from
Blisters
, which would have brought his comeback—a comeback you engineered—to a screeching
halt. So I can see why—”

She slapped me. Her palm struck my cheek and rocked my head to the side. I stared
at her openmouthed for a moment, the sting flaring until it felt like the whole side
of my face was on fire. Her features contorted with anger, and she raised her arm
again. I put my foot out at hip level, just to keep her away. She bumped against it
with her stomach, stumbled backwards, arms going around, and fell on her fanny, skirt
rucking up to reveal a glimpse of thigh and Spanx.

“Stop the camera,” she cried, pulling the skirt down and straightening her neckline.
When Larry merely moved in for a close-up, she scrambled to her feet, kicking off
her pumps, and went for him. I dropped my notebook and grabbed her around the waist.
This close, the scent of her heavy perfume almost made me sneeze. Larry shuffled backwards,
a grin on his usually impassive face.

“Brilliant!” Nigel’s voice cut in on the action. “Fabulous, Kim-darling.”

She froze and shook herself free of my restraining embrace, turning to face Nigel
in the doorway. I saw the moment she decided to go with the out he offered her. Or
maybe it wasn’t an out—maybe they’d planned the whole encounter. I couldn’t tell.
Pasting a smile on her face, she glided toward him, saying, “Thank you, Nigel. Even
though I gave up my acting career for my children, it’s still in my blood.”

“I’d like to shed your blood,” I muttered under my breath. My face hurt like the dickens
and I saw in the mirrors that a red hand-shaped mark marred my cheek. Larry zoomed
in for a close-up of it and gave me a thumbs-up. I wasn’t sure why. Because I’d taken
on Kim Savage? Nigel strode up and tossed an arm around my shoulders, like we were
old pals.

“What’s going on?” Zane spoke from the doorway.

“It was brilliant,” Nigel said, a grin spreading across his face. “Your mum and Stacy
got into it and Kim walloped her.” He mimed a slap.

Zane frowned and crossed to me. Taking my chin in his hand, he turned my face gently
to inspect the mark on my cheek. “Let’s get you a cold cloth for that,” he said softly.
All hint of softness fled his face as he turned toward his mother and said, “I can’t
believe even you would stoop to assaulting my dance partner.”

Kim threw her hands up dramatically, somehow managing to look both outraged and hurt.
“It wasn’t assault! It was . . . method acting. I got into the emotion of the moment.
She practically accused me of killing Tessa.”

“Did you?”

The words hung in the air.

Kim stared at her son, openmouthed, and then spun on her heel. “You know where to
find me when you want to apologize,” she said. She stalked from the ballroom, hips
swaying.

“Bravo!” Nigel clapped.

Zane, a little ashen-faced, turned to me. “Come on, Stacy, I’ll get you a washcloth.”
We entered the hall together and he turned left to dampen a washcloth in the bathroom
and I went into my office, collapsing onto the love seat. Kicking off my shoes, I
put my feet up and leaned my head back against the cushions. This was so not what
I had signed up for.

Zane returned and knelt beside the love seat, pressing the cloth against my cheek.
The cold relieved the pain and I sighed.

“Look, Stacy, my mom’s a passionate woman, and sometimes she—” He took a deep breath
and tried again. “My succeeding in Hollywood is extremely important to Mom, maybe
because she grew up without many advantages and she’s always wanted financial security
for me and my sister. I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

I just looked at him and peeled the cloth back so he could see my swollen cheek.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. “Did you really ask her if she killed Tessa?”

“Don’t try to make this my fault,” I said, struggling to sit up higher.

A firm footstep sounded in the hall and then Tav’s voice said, “Hello, Stacy. The
plane arrived—” He broke off. “Excuse me. I am interrupting.” His voice had gone flat.

I tried to imagine what the scene looked like from his perspective with me lying on
the love seat and Zane kneeling beside me, leaning close. Oh, no. I jerked myself
upright, letting the washcloth fall. Zane reared back, startled, as I swung my feet
to the floor. “No, Tav, it’s not what it looks like.”

His gaze had fastened on my cheek and he wasn’t listening to me. He strode forward,
hands bunching into fists at his sides. “Did he strike you?” He looked from me to
Zane who had scrambled to his feet. Tav’s face had gone rigid and cold in a way I’d
never seen before.

“I’ve never struck a woman in my—” Zane started angrily. He looked like he might hit
Tav for suggesting it.

I stood, separating the men. “Of course not,” I said. “It was his mother.”

Tav looked from me to Zane, some of the anger fading from his eyes, and his hands
relaxed. “I think you had better explain.”

I told both men what had happened, with Kim prodding me to go into “investigator mode”
and me asking her where she’d been. “I didn’t say I thought she killed Tessa,” I said.
“I only asked her where she was Tuesday night. I got the feeling Nigel goaded her
to ask me about the investigation.”

“He probably told her to slap you, too,” Zane said.

Knowing he wanted that to be the case, I didn’t say anything; however, I was pretty
damn sure hitting me had been Kim’s spur-of-the-moment idea. The woman clearly had
anger management issues.

“I think it is time I had a talk with Whiteman,” Tav said, surprising me with his
grim tone. “This foolishness has gone on long enough.” He headed for the door.

“Wait, Tav—” I didn’t think it was a good idea to alienate Nigel. He was in a position
to make me and Vitaly and Graysin Motion look very, very bad. We’d have trouble winning
if Nigel was against us.

Zane grabbed my arm before I could stop Tav. “Let him. It’ll do Nigel good to learn
he can’t steamroller everyone.”

As if by mutual accord, we followed Tav, hoping to overhear what he and Nigel said
to each other. When we got to the ballroom, Larry burst out as if shoved, looking
flustered, and the door shut firmly behind him. All three of us leaned in, but I couldn’t
make out the words through the thick walls and door, built in an era when houses were
meant to last. I could hear Tav’s stern tones and Nigel’s more excitable voice, but
the words were lost. Larry, Zane, and I gave each other questioning looks, and I got
an urge to giggle, thinking we looked like a Three Stooges routine with each of us
semihunched over, ears hovering near the door. I pressed my lips together to hold
back the giggles and tiptoed halfway down the hall. Good thing I did, because the
door opened moments later, giving Larry and Zane only a split second to distance themselves
from it before Nigel and Tav came out. Larry bent over as if looking for something
and Zane wiped his hands down his slacks, as if he’d just emerged from the bathroom.
The giggles burst from me, causing Nigel and Tav to look my way. Shaking my head,
I clapped my fingers over my mouth and hurried to the stair door, making it halfway
down the stairs before collapsing in a fit of laughter.

Laughing made my cheek hurt and I continued downstairs and checked it out in my bedroom
mirror. Fading somewhat, but still red. Oh, well, at least I wasn’t going to be on
TV tonight.
Blisters
used to have a results show that aired on Monday nights, but they’d gone to announcing
who was getting kicked off at the start of the Saturday broadcast. That was kind of
harsh on whoever got eliminated because it meant they’d worked all week for nothing.

Letting my hair out of its ponytail so it partially hid my cheek, I returned to the
studio. Everyone was gone except Zane. Too bad—I’d been hoping to ask Tav what he’d
said to Nigel. Zane was practicing our hustle choreography in front of the ballroom
mirrors. “Keep the upper body still,” I corrected automatically.

He turned and gave me a rueful smile. “Some day, huh?”

“I could use a break.”

“Let’s go for a drive and I’ll tell you about my evening with Kristen.”

I looked at my watch. No one drives anywhere in the D.C. area without calculating
whether or not they’re likely to get caught in rush-hour traffic. “Okay.”

Chapter 19

When Zane crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge I figured out where we were going and
I clasped my hands together in my lap. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the spot where
Tessa had died. Past Bolling Air Force Base and Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital, he pulled
off the Anacostia Freeway and parked along a service road north of Anacostia Park
that paralleled the river and the highway. We got out of the car in silence.

“It was right around here,” Zane said, spreading his arms. “This is the spot the cops
had marked on the map. I’m sure they don’t know precisely where she went into the
water, but it was around here somewhere.”

We were north of the Pennsylvania Street Bridge, so either Tessa had gotten turned
around or she hadn’t been headed to the Eakins Extended Stay after leaving Club Nitro.
The city had started “reclaiming” the Anacostia River area in the last ten years or
so, adding parks and a river walk that were a vast improvement over the previous unwelcoming
landscape. The area we stood in was still awaiting its turn at a makeover. The low
tide exposed a short expanse of glistening mud that stretched from the shore to the
water. It emitted a rank smell of decomposing fish and oil. Small crabs scuttled for
cover when our shadows fell on them and I wondered if they thought we were herons
looking to pluck them up with our long bills. Coarse grass grew on the slight slope
that fell away from the road to the river’s edge, and it was clogged with soda bottles,
fast food trash, flimsy plastic grocery bags, and cigarette butts. From the number
of the latter, I wondered if this was a popular fishing spot. A black man stood a
hundred feet upstream, casting a line into the water.

If this was where Tessa went into the river, there was no evidence of it. I don’t
know what I’d expected to see, but numerous tire tracks imprinted the mud on both
sides of the road and the trash could have come from fishermen or people tossing litter
from their cars, or been washed downstream by the river. The only thing that struck
me was that the slope was gentle enough and the current slow enough that anyone with
two functioning legs would have been able to climb out of the water to safety. “So
sad,” I murmured.

Zane didn’t say anything. He stared out over the Anacostia as if expecting Tessa’s
ghost to rise from the depths and tell us what had happened to her, to point a spectral
finger at her murderer. “There’s nothing here,” he said finally, and turned to walk
upstream.

I fell into step beside him, slipping my hand into his. He squeezed it hard and gave
me a grateful smile. “So,” he said, deliberately throwing off his somber mood. “Kristen.
She makes a mean G&T.”

“I’ll bet.” I nudged him with my hip and he laughed.

“She and Tessa had a little history I didn’t know about,” he said. “Tessa was an assistant
producer on
Irving Crescent
when Kristen was playing Chelsea Irving.”

“Interesting.”

“Kristen blames her for her character getting killed off. She said Tessa convinced
the producers and the writing staff that her character was played out, that they needed
to jump-start the show by bringing in a new ‘bad girl.’”

“I can’t see anyone killing over that, at least not this long after the fact,” I said.

“No, but what if it was about to happen again? After her third drink, Kristen began
to cry, and said that Tessa had it in for her, that she was trying to get her fired
from
Blisters
so that Hannah Malik could take over as host. They were also considering going to
a two-host format, reuniting Donny and Marie Osmond.”

I cocked my head. That actually sounded fun. A great blue heron exploded into the
air a few feet in front of us. I hadn’t noticed the bird until the heavy wing flaps
alerted me. We watched him gain altitude, and then continued walking, flipping our
hands in greeting to the fisherman when we passed him.

“Any luck?” Zane asked.

“Not biting today,” the man answered with a philosophical shrug.

Navigating the uneven terrain was challenging and I was getting grit in my sandals.
Zane’s hand tightened on mine when I stumbled. “We should go back,” he said.

I didn’t argue and we began to retrace our steps. “So what did Kristen have to say
about Tuesday night?” I asked.

“That she danced with a couple of guys from the crew, drank one club soda, and left
early.”

“Someone saw her in the park before midnight, the one where we met the bartender,”
I said. I’d given it some thought, and decided I didn’t want to spread what might
be untrue gossip about Kristen, so I left out what Li’l Boni had said about her buying
drugs.

Zane’s brows soared. “Really? I wonder what she was doing there?”

I shrugged as if I had no idea, but then he answered his own question. “Probably looking
to score some coke.”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Did you know she—”

“She hinted that we could do a line or two last night,” he said. “When I didn’t jump
on it, she let it drop.” He didn’t sound shocked or appalled like I would have been
if I’d been having a cocktail with a friend and she trotted out the drug stash. Zane
studied my expression. “I don’t do drugs, Stacy. I tried them when I was young and
into the partying scene—marijuana, E, a little coke—but it didn’t take me long to
realize how stupid I was being. I haven’t snorted, swallowed, or smoked an illegal
substance since
Hollywood High
was canceled.”

I was relieved, but tried not to show it.

Apparently, I didn’t succeed. “Not everyone in the movie industry gets high every
night,” he said, half amused. “It’s a business. People need their wits about them.
I know some actors who think drugs get their creative juices flowing, makes it easier
for them to ‘enter into the character,’ but most people in Hollywood are just like
the folks you’d meet on the streets of Podunk, Oklahoma, or some Ohio burb.”

“Only with better boobs and tans.”

Zane laughed and gathered me in for a long kiss. Our bare, sweat-filmed flesh stuck
together, but I didn’t mind. “I like you, Stacy Graysin,” he whispered against my
ear. “A lot.” He gave my sore cheek a gentle kiss.

I didn’t know how to respond. “We need to go or we’ll get stuck in rush hour,” I said,
pointing to the freeway where the cars were beginning to stack up.

* * *

Zane had a pile of scripts to read through and was meeting an up-and-coming director
for dinner, so he dropped me off and zoomed away. Climbing the exterior stairs to
the studio, I heard swing music from the ballroom and peeked in to see Vitaly and
Calista rehearsing with no camera in sight. Vitaly had his hands on Calista’s slender
hips and was trying to show her the motion the dance required.

She rolled her hips experimentally. “How’s that?” Her eyes met Vitaly’s in the mirror.

“Put a little more sexy in it,” Vitaly said, standing back. “Let your inner”—he used
a Russian word—“loose.”

From the way he wiggled his hips on the Russian word, I translated it as “vixen,”
“pole dancer” or “girl being attacked by Africanized bees.”

Calista let loose, rotating her hips in a way that would have done a burlesque dancer
proud. She looked a lot older than seventeen, especially when she sent Vitaly a heavy-lidded
look over her shoulder, her dark hair falling over one eye. “Like that?”

“That’s the ticker,” Vitaly said, clapping.

“‘Ticket.’”

Smiling, I backed away. I missed having Phoebe around, but we had a better chance
of winning the Crystal Slipper with Calista; she was a better dancer and she had a
bigger fan base than Phoebe. Retreating to my office, I eyed the papers piled on my
desk. I’d been planning to organize my receipts from the last competition, for tax
purposes, but I caved into temptation and logged on to the computer to see what the
blogging world had to say about Saturday night’s competition. I knew that in addition
to the official
Blisters
site, there were several Web sites that posted comments about
Blisters
competitors and their dances. I had skimmed a couple, noting with relief that people
seemed to like Zane and me (mostly Zane)—when an article caught my eye. The headline
read B
ALLROOM OF
D
EATH?

I skimmed it, getting madder and madder as I read. It was about Graysin Motion. Some
reporter had done what Maurice and I had feared: she’d caught on to Graysin Motion’s
involvement—peripheral!—in the three recent ballroom dancing murders: Rafe’s, Corinne’s,
and Tessa’s. My studio’s connection with Corinne’s death was only tangential and pretty
much limited to the fact that Maurice was having lunch with her when she keeled over.
Okay, he also got arrested. But to say that Graysin Motion itself was involved was
pretty near libel, and I contemplated suing the pants off the reporter. She hadn’t
even had the courtesy to come to me for a comment. I clicked away from the article
without finishing it to demonstrate my disdain for the shoddy reporting practices.
That would show her, all right.

Just as I was getting really worked up, a photo on another site snagged my attention.
It was clearly shot in a dim room, and a bit out of focus—probably taken by a cell
phone. It featured Zane looking very cozy with a woman, his arm around her shoulders
and their heads tipped toward each other. Their lips were close, not quite touching,
as if they’d just separated from a kiss. From the background, it looked like they
were in a piano bar. The woman’s face was a bit fuzzy and only shown in profile, but
I’d recognize those red curls anywhere. My sister Danielle.

I pushed away from the computer, disturbed by the spike of jealousy that stabbed through
me at the sight of Zane and Dani looking so . . . entranced with each other. It must
have been taken after the show Saturday night. Unable to resist, I scrolled through
the site, looking for other photos, but that was the only one. A cut line off to the
side said only: “
Blisters
hopeful Zane Savage enjoys the local attractions in Alexandria, Virginia.” Hmph.
So now my sister was a “local attraction.”

Without pausing to think, I dialed my sister’s number at work. “I see you and Zane
had a
very
good time Saturday night,” I said, not bothering with “Hello.”

“What are you talking about?”

I gave her the URL and waited a few moments for her to find the site. Keyboard clickings
and the sound of phones ringing filtered to me. Then came a faint squeal. “I’m famous!”

“Too bad the picture’s so blurry no one can tell it’s you.”

“You knew.”

“Do you want to be famous?” I was genuinely curious.

There was a brief pause while she thought about it. “Probably not. Too annoying having
those rude paparazzi following you around and gloating when you put on five pounds
or have a bad hair day.”

What she said made sense. Before signing on with
Blisters
, I’d thought it would be fun to be famous. But being scrutinized every minute of
the day, having your private moments interrupted or your screwups posted on the Internet . . .
I was revising my opinion of fame.

Danielle went on. “This is still fun. Me and Zane Savage! I need to e-mail the link
to Jennifer and Heather and Tony and—”

“And Coop?”

That shut her up. I pictured her twining a red curl around her forefinger. “Coop thinks
we should see other people,” she said. Even though she kept her voice even, I could
hear the sadness underneath.

“Oh, Dani, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said in a falsely cheery voice. “We haven’t
broken up or anything—we’re just redefining our relationship a little bit.”

“And does Coop have someone in particular he’s ‘redefining’ with?” I knew darned well
what “we should see other people” meant in relationship-ese. It meant, “Sayonara,
baby, only I’m too chicken to spell it out for you.”

“Tricia Holstein,” Danielle whispered.

“A cow? Really? He’s seeing a woman named after a cow?” I knew I shouldn’t make fun
of the unknown woman because of her name, but Danielle was my sister and no one had
the right to steal her boyfriend away, especially not Heifer Girl.

Danielle gave a watery chuckle. “She even kind of looks like one—big brown eyes and
a very . . . solid build. She plays chess.”

I rolled my eyes. Coop competed at chess tournaments and volunteered to coach a local
school’s chess team. Danielle frequently complained that his online chess habit got
in the way of conversation in the evenings. “Look, how about I come over this evening
and take you out for Chinese and ice cream?”

“You don’t eat ice cream.”

True. Dessert was not part of a dancer’s usual menu. “I’ll watch you eat the ice cream,”
I said.

“That’s sweet of you, sis, but I’m busy tonight.”

Was there a tinge of guilt in Dani’s voice? My sisterly suspicions aroused, I asked,
“Oh? What do you have planned?”

“Um, well, Zane and I are going to dinner with a director who’s in town to give a
speech at one of the universities. He’s done a couple of films Zane really respects
and he’s putting together a new project, so . . .”

Oh. My. God. Zane and Dani were going on a date. A real date, not a “let’s cruise
by a murder scene” sort of outing, or a “let’s do laundry” get-together. Dinner. A
fancy dress. And who knew what they had in mind for dessert, but I’d bet it wasn’t
Ben & Jerry’s.

“Oh,” I said, trying to keep the hurt and surprise out of my voice. I’d thought Zane
really liked me. He’d said so not two hours ago. “You can have a rain check, then.”
I fiddled with a paper clip.

“Great!” Danielle’s response was too hearty, too eager. She knew I was pissed and/or
hurt about her date with Zane, but she was going to pretend she didn’t so we didn’t
have to talk about it. Pretense of ignorance was the time-honored sisterly way of
avoiding fights and unpleasant confrontations. “Let’s do it tomorrow night, okay?”