The Homicide Hustle (14 page)

“Sure,” I said, twisting the paper clip until it snapped in two. “That’ll be fun.”

We hung up and I clinked the paper clip pieces into the trash, fighting back the tears
that threatened to spill over. I was not going to cry, damn it. I had no reason to.
I liked Zane okay, but we’d known each other only three weeks, for heaven’s sake.
It’s not like I wanted to marry him and have his babies; I’d been considering a fling,
a little post-Rafe rebound, a temporary liaison that would end naturally and without
angst when Zane returned to Hollywood. I didn’t need to go getting all melodramatic
because he and Danielle obviously enjoyed each other. I did kind of wish, though,
that he’d mentioned he was going out with my sister tonight. Granted, it was none
of my business who he dated, but it felt a teensy bit . . . not straightforward. I
didn’t want to call it dishonest.

I didn’t feel like sitting on my fanny all evening. I was feeling restless, antsy.
My thoughts drifted back to the article I’d been reading before seeing the photo of
Zane and Dani. Clearly, Graysin Motion was going to continue to get bad press until
Tessa’s case was resolved. Well then, it behooved me to see that it got resolved sooner
rather than later.

Trouble was, I didn’t know how to do that. As I was pondering my options, Vitaly stuck
his head in the door. “Calista is gone. Maybe we should working on the Viennese waltz?”
He strolled in with his lanky grace and stood, hip cocked, waiting for my answer.

I made a face. “I really don’t feel up to it, Vitaly.” I told him about the article,
the unexpected tax debt, and my fears for the future of Graysin Motion.

“We are going to win the
Ballroom with the B-Listers
. The new students will come floodings in.”

“Not if they think they’re going to get rubbed out while they rumba,” I said morosely.

“Is not happenings.” Vitaly shook his head so his hair flopped. “Of all the murdered
peoples, not one is student. We can telling them this.”

That would reassure them. “If we only knew who killed Tessa. The police could close
the case and all the speculation would go away. Not to mention, we’d earn Nigel’s
reward.”

“Then let us finding out,” Vitaly said, throwing his arms wide.

“I’m out of ideas,” I admitted.

“We should searching Tessa’s home,” he said. His face lit with enthusiasm. “John and
I are seeing this on DVD last night. Private eye Remington Steele, who is really Pierce
Brosnan, breaked into the house of the victim and the murderer is popping out of the
pantry.” He took a hop forward. “Poof! Case solved. John does not find Pierce Brosnan
so hot, but I am liking,” he confided.

Me, too. “I don’t know . . .” I’d been in Tessa’s small apartment, but only for a
couple of minutes. The police had probably searched it already, so it was unlikely
we would find anything useful. I remembered where Zane had found the key and wondered
if it was still there. For all I knew, the apartment’s contents might have been boxed
up already and sent to Tessa’s next of kin, whoever they were. It was probably a wild-goose
chase. . . .

“We go now,” Vitaly said.

“It’s not even dark,” I objected, “and isn’t John expecting you?”

“John is at a convention in Milwaukee,” Vitaly said, putting the emphasis on the final
syllable. “And Lulu is at the vet clinic because she is having spaying. Is better
if not dark so we can observe the clues.”

It dawned on me why Vitaly was so eager. His job was at stake, too, if Graysin Motion
went under. He’d find somewhere else to teach, maybe near his home in Baltimore, but
he’d be starting over with a new student base, since most of his current students
wouldn’t want to trek to Baltimore to continue with him. His income would take a big
hit, for a while at least. I didn’t know how he and John split living expenses, but
I didn’t imagine he wanted to be totally dependent on his partner.

“What the hell.” I was suddenly filled with recklessness, the desire to do something—anything—trumping
my reservations. “Let’s do it, Remington.”

Chapter 20

It was dusky when Vitaly and I arrived at the long-stay hotel. We’d walked the half
mile from Graysin Motion. A sprinkling of cars dotted the parking lots and lights
glowed in some of the windows. I smelled sausage and onions as we neared the building,
and my tummy rumbled. I’d had to dissuade Vitaly from dressing in ninja black from
shoes to face mask and now I dragged him into the lobby and toward the elevator instead
of letting him skulk around back looking for a fire escape.

“That is how Remington Steele got in,” he whispered.

“The elevator is less conspicuous,” I said, pushing the button for the fifth floor.
“We don’t want to attract attention. We’re just two residents coming home from work
or a busy day of house hunting.”

A woman stuck her arm through the elevator doors as they were closing and got on,
poking the third floor button. We rode up in silence, all of us watching the panel’s
lights, until the doors opened at the third floor and the woman got off. I began to
feel jittery as we started upward again and I was having second thoughts when the
doors dinged open and we faced the empty hallway. “I don’t know if this is—”

“Which way?” Vitaly started down the hall without waiting for an answer, and I hurried
after him. A rattle from my left startled me, but it was only the ice maker in the
vending machine nook. I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, deciding I wasn’t
cut out for a career as a private investigator, a la Remington Steele and company.
I tried to dredge up the name of Stephanie Zimbalist’s character from that show, but
couldn’t. I’d been only six or seven when it went off the air, but I remembered watching
it with my dad who’d had the hots for Zimbalist. Vitaly had passed Tessa’s door and
I called him back. No crime scene tape barred entry, and I didn’t know whether or
not to be grateful; no way was I going to violate a police barrier to get into the
apartment.

I felt along the top of the doorjamb, as I’d seen Zane do, and cringed at the gritty
feel of dust beneath my fingertips. Clearly, the cleaning staff didn’t dust up there
often. Just as I was saying, “Maybe the key’s gone,” my fingers grazed the key and
it plunked to the floor.

Vitaly picked it up. “Too bad we is not needing to kick the door open,” he said, lifting
his leg as if measuring where to plant his foot.

“Yeah, that would be inconspicuous. Open it.”

Giving me a wounded look, he fitted the key in the lock and turned it. It yielded
with a tiny click and the door inched open. A mechanical hum from down the hall told
me the elevator was returning and I pushed Vitaly into the room and closed the door.

“His partner is not shoving Remington,” Vitaly complained.

“Ssh.” The room’s utter darkness told me the draperies were still closed, so I slid
my hand up the wall to find the switch, confident the light wouldn’t be seen from
the parking lot. My eyes flinched closed against the light’s glare and I blinked them
open to a scene of utter chaos.

“My graciousness,” Vitaly said.

That was an understatement. The room looked like a tornado had swept through. The
bedclothes were jumbled on the floor and the closet’s contents were strewn atop them
and on the furniture. File folders that had been neatly piled on the desk were now
on the floor, their contents scattered. All the dresser and desk drawers hung open
and empty. Even the microwave oven and freezer doors were open and a wave of cold
air wafted from the kitchenette. The laptop was gone.

“What a mess,” I murmured, wondering if the police could possibly have wreaked this
havoc in their search. I didn’t think it likely, but if not them, then who? Thieves,
maybe? That didn’t seem likely, either—the timing was too coincidental.

“Someones has had the idea like us,” Vitaly said. He took a step toward the bathroom,
nudging a drift of papers aside with his foot. “What are we looking for?”

Good question. I’d had a vague hope that some clue or piece of information would leap
out at us, practically shouting, “This is why Tessa was killed.” I thought about her
meeting with Li’l Boni, and her documentary. “Something about her current projects,”
I said. “Notes, a date book. Anything that would tell us what she was working on and
who she might have been meeting.” I suddenly wondered if she’d filmed any of her interviews.
I hadn’t thought to ask Li’l Boni if she’d recorded their conversation. I headed toward
the kitchen, scanning for a video camera, but didn’t see one. I’d ask Zane if Tessa
used one. If so, maybe the police had confiscated it. Or maybe the person or persons
who had ransacked the room ahead of us had made off with it.

The kitchen held nothing of interest. The open fridge displayed a couple of yogurts,
some baby carrots, and four diet sodas. The freezer held nothing but a tray of tiny
ice cubes, the kind that melted within seconds of putting them in a glass of water.
Cupboards and drawers held a bare minimum of plates, glasses, and silverware. No papers.
No camera. I trod on a piece of paper and my foot slipped. Catching myself with a
hand on the fridge, I bent to pick up the page.

I found myself staring at Calista Marques’ birth certificate. It had probably drifted
in here when whoever searched the place upended all of Tessa’s files. Wondering if
Tessa had done research this detailed on all of
Blisters
’ contestants, I noticed Calista and my mom shared a birthday. Different years, of
course. Huh. Small world. I set the page on the counter.

Vitaly emerged from the bathroom, saying, “Nothing but makeups and the shampoos smelling
like grapefruits.” He wrinkled his nose. “I will checking the closet.”

I was only half listening. Something about the kitchenette bothered me. The ice cubes!
If the freezer door had been hanging open for hours or days, shouldn’t they have melted?
We’d assumed the intruder had come and gone, but— “Vitaly!”

He spun and looked a question at me. I beckoned him closer, then pointed at the closet
door, the only closed door or drawer in the apartment. “I think there’s someone in
there,” I whispered, standing on tiptoe to speak directly into his ear.

Vitaly’s eyes got big.
“Da?”

“We need to get out of here and call the police.”

“But then he might gettings away.”

I motioned frantically for him to keep his voice down, and then chopped my hand toward
the door we’d come in. We could discuss how to keep the break-in artist from escaping
when we were safely out of the apartment. We tiptoed single file toward the door,
but as we drew level with the closet door, it burst open, clipping Vitaly’s shoulder.
A tall, bulky figure bulled his way out and lunged for the door.

“Yow.” Vitaly reeled back, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Is just like Remington
Steele!”

Instinctively, I stuck out a foot and the fleeing figure tripped and fell forward,
landing heavily on his knees. Before he could scramble up, Vitaly pounced on him.
I whipped out my phone and started to dial 911.

“You might not want to do that.” The man’s voice was muffled from where Vitaly had
his face pushed into the carpet. “How are you going to explain being in Tessa’s apartment?”

The voice was familiar. Vitaly let up on the pressure and the man turned his head
to look at me. I gasped. Mickey Hazzard. I regained my composure. “Vitaly and I were
walking past the apartment, on our way to visit . . . Phoebe, and we noticed the door
was open. We came in and found you burgling the place.”

“Is good story,” Vitaly said, nodding his approval.

“I’m not a burglar,” Hazzard objected. “The place looked like this when I got here.
I hadn’t been here more than a minute when I heard you guys in the hall and shut myself
in the closet.”

I gave him a disbelieving look and finished dialing. The emergency operator wanted
me to stay on the line, but I hung up after giving her the details and suggesting
she let Detective Lissy know.

“What was you lookings for?” Vitaly asked, easing himself off Hazzard so the man could
sit up.

“None of your damned business.”

I considered him. The way his mouth turned down at the corners, I knew he wasn’t going
to answer. Was it possible he was telling the truth? “If you didn’t make this mess,
who did? And what were they looking for?”

Hazzard stayed mulishly silent, refusing to speculate. He didn’t make any move to
get away, perhaps figuring that it was two against one, or realizing that it was fruitless
since we knew who he was. It was ten minutes before two uniformed officers showed
up, guns drawn, and ordered all three of us to show our hands. Before Vitaly or I
could say anything, Hazzard spoke. “Thank goodness you’re here, officers. I’m staying
in this hotel and was walking past this room when I noticed the door was open. My
poor friend Tessa was killed last week and I peeked in, wondering who could be in
her apartment. I found these two ransacking the place.”

I glared at him, outraged, and he smirked, smugly pleased about having stolen my story.

“He is lyings,” Vitaly said, waving his hands in a way that made one of the officers
caution him to hold still.

The other officer, a man younger than me, looked from Hazzard to me and Vitaly, clearly
uncertain what to do. “Maybe we should take them all down to the station,” he suggested
to his partner. “Sort it out there.”

In silent agreement, the taller cop motioned us toward the door.

“This is not happenings to Remington Steele,” Vitaly said sadly.

* * *

Detective Lissy and I faced off in an interview room two hours later. It was full
dark now, past nine o’clock, and Lissy was clearly peeved at having his evening interrupted.
I hoped his peevishness wouldn’t erupt into a full-blown Lissy-fit. I was equally
edgy: worried about Vitaly, tired, thirsty, and aware that I was on thin ice legally.
If Lissy chose to believe Hazzard over Vitaly and me, we were in deep trouble. I was
especially concerned about Vitaly since I didn’t know what would happen to his legal
immigrant status if he got convicted of breaking and entering.

“Ms. Graysin, why does it feel like you’re meddling in my case again?” Detective Lissy
asked, his tone more weary than aggressive. He removed his black-framed glasses and
polished the lenses with a small cloth he pulled from his pocket. Despite the late
hour, he was dressed as always in a spotless suit, shirt, and tie. If I hadn’t seen
him once at a Little League game, I’d have been convinced he didn’t own any other
clothes.

“Hazzard was in the room when—” I started hotly.

Lissy interrupted me with an upheld hand. “The desk clerk—a university kid—admits
that Hazzard gave him two hundred dollars for the key to Tessa King’s room.”

Relief made me limp. “Well.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Can Vitaly
and I go then?”

“We released Mr. Voloshin an hour ago,” Lissy said.

“Oh. That’s good.” I gazed at him uncertainly.

“Don’t think I believe that story about you and Voloshin happening to walk by and
finding the door open.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“Since the door wasn’t damaged and I don’t think you’ve got a set of picklocks, where’d
you get the key?”

I considered saying “What key?” but then caved in the face of his certainty. “Top
of the doorjamb. I knew it was there because when Zane and I checked on Tessa before
we knew she was killed, that’s where he got it.”

Lissy held out his hand. I dug the key out of my pocket and placed it in his palm.

“Thank you. Now, you say Ms. King was in the habit of keeping a key on the lintel
and this was common knowledge?”

“I don’t know how common. Zane knew. Probably others.” Even though I was mildly annoyed
with Zane for being out with my sister while I was being grilled at the police station,
I didn’t want him arrested.

“So any number of persons could have been through that apartment in the week since
her death,” Lissy mused, thinking aloud.

I suddenly remembered I’d never told him about the brick. We’d been interrupted last
time I was here . . . something about a victim waking up. “I’ve been meaning to tell
you . . .” I started, and proceeded to fill him in about the brick and the note.

He listened politely and I couldn’t read his thoughts. “Do you have the note?”

“Not on me. It’s at home.”

“I’ll want to see it.”

I nodded. A burst of masculine laughter came from the hall, followed almost immediately
by the scent of popcorn. My tummy rumbled embarrassingly and I realized I was starving.

“If, as you say, this brick came through your window last Saturday, why didn’t you
tell me sooner?” The look he bent on me was frankly skeptical.

“I was going to,” I said, half rising, “but your partner or someone came in and you
rushed off to the hospital to interview someone.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Figueroa.” Lissy steepled his fingers. “Unfortunately, although he regained
consciousness, all he could remember was that it was a Dodge that hit him.”

I was uninterested in Lissy’s difficulties with other cases. “Don’t you see what the
note means?” I said, reclaiming his attention. “It means someone involved with the
show killed Tessa. No one else knows I’m investigating her death.”

“Funny,” Lissy said in an unamused voice. “And here I thought it was my job to investigate
her death.”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, “but I was asking a few questions—”

“As you’re wont to do.”

“—because the papers are making a big deal out of my studio being involved with—associated
with—three murders. That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t—”

“Oh, spare me.” I pushed to my feet and glared at him. “Can I go?”

He made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Please.”

I made a point of walking gracefully and unhurriedly to the door, even though I felt
like running pell-mell for the exit. I had entered the hall but was still within earshot
when he called, “Don’t forget to bring in that note you said you got.”