The Homicide Hustle (18 page)

I stood alone, feeling chilled despite the lightweight sweater the stylist had found
for me, and hugged my arms around myself. I was pretty sure she’d more or less accused
me of killing Tessa, but I wasn’t going to think about it. I might not ever think
again. Closing the distance between myself and the other cast members, I pasted a
smile on my face for the camera.

Chapter 25

When we finally left the church, Nigel grabbed my elbow and steered me toward his
rented sports car. “Ride with me, Stace. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Not giving me a chance to decline, he all but stuffed me into the passenger seat,
trotted around to the driver’s side, and zoomed away before the van was half-loaded.
He drove fast but well, and I relaxed into the leather embrace of the bucket seat.

“You’ve got potential,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “The camera loves you.
The viewers love you. Our focus groups show you’re especially popular with the eighteen
– to forty-four-year-old male demographic, but the females like you, too. Say you’d
be fun to meet over coffee.”

“I’m flattered,” I said, not knowing what else to say or where this was going.

Nigel shot me an approving look. “That’s right, luv. I think you’ve got something
this show needs. Not just for this season, but long term.”

I crinkled my brow. “What—?”

“We’ve been talking to Hannah Malik’s people, but that’s not going to work out. Donny
and Marie have other commitments. My team and I were saying just yesterday that having
a host who actually knew the ins and outs of ballroom dancing, as it were, might give
the show a new zing. How do you feel about giving an audition a whirl?”

He was asking me to host
Ballroom with the B-Listers
? He wanted me in addition to Kristen Lee . . . or instead of her? Before I could
ask, his phone played Bono and he picked it up. I hated when people did that.

“Whiteman.” There was a pause while he listened, and then he said, “You did? Where?”
Another pause. “I’m on my way.” He clicked off, tossed the phone into the console,
and flipped a U-ey.

I grabbed the door to steady myself and had a flashback to the crash that made cold
sweat pop out. After a moment, when we were cruising safely up the George Washington
Parkway, I said, “Where are we going?”

“The airport. That was the car agency. They’ve found Tessa’s rental in the parking
lot.”

“Why’d they call you?”

“The cars are all rented by the production company. It’s my name on the paperwork.”

“Shouldn’t the police know?”

“The rental company already called them. I’m hoping we can beat them there.”

“Why?”

“Tessa’s computer and papers are production company property. I don’t want them impounded
or read by Old Bill.”

The car sped up until we were zipping past the other traffic. We swung onto the curving
exit that led to Reagan Airport and Nigel barely slowed. When the parking structure
came in view, he was forced to hit the brakes and stop to take a ticket. We wound
through the dark garage, making our way ever higher, and the cool felt good after
the sun’s glare. On a floor about midway up, Nigel slowed at the sight of a young
man in a jacket with a name tag standing by a Mercedes SLK, identical in all but color
to the one I sat in. It was parked nose in to the outer wall. Nigel pulled up behind
it, not caring that he would block other cars attempting to reach higher floors.

He bounded out, and approached the nervous young man, giving him a two-handed handshake
and a hearty clap on the shoulder. I got out with a grimace of pain. How had Tessa’s
car ended up in the airport garage when Tessa ended up in the river? There could be
only one answer: whoever had killed her had driven the car here, either hoping Tessa’s
body wouldn’t surface and the police would think Tessa had flown somewhere, or to
hide it. That was cold.

I approached the green two-seater Mercedes. Nigel was pointing to a broken headlight,
which might have happened when the car was parked since the bumper was touching the
wall. Addressing the rental agency clerk, he said, “We are not responsible for that
damage. This car was stolen. I don’t want to see charges for that showing up on my
account.”

The clerk, who seemed intimidated by Nigel, bobbed his head and made a note. Making
a visor of his hand, Nigel peered through the driver’s side window and then tried
the door. I was about to tell him it would probably be better not to touch anything
because the murderer might have left fingerprints, when he held out his hand to the
clerk. “The key.”

Hesitating, the clerk said in a reedy voice, “The police said—”

“Whose name is on that contract? Bugger the police.”

After a moment, the clerk handed over the key fob, caving to Nigel’s sheer force of
personality. Nigel beeped the remote and swung the door open. I’d been holding my
breath, but when nothing and no one tumbled out of the car, I let it go in a long
sigh. Despite my misgivings, I inched closer. The car looked empty and emitted a faint
scent of pine from the tree-shaped air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror.

Nigel leaned in. “Nothing but a blasted pop can,” he said. He thumbed the glove box
open and shuffled some papers. “Car contract. Damn.” He twisted to inspect the backseat.
“Where the hell could her laptop be?”

“Maybe whoever killed her took it. Or threw it in the river,” I said.

Nigel backed out of the car and stood, frowning. I didn’t get the feeling he was mad
at me; it felt like he was lost in his thoughts. I couldn’t help wondering what was
on the laptop that was so important.

“The trunk?” the clerk suggested in a nervous voice.

“Righto.” Nigel beeped the trunk open with the remote. The lid sprang up. “Aah.” Nigel’s
pleased sound told me he’d found the laptop. He lifted it from the trunk and carted
it to his car as another vehicle nosed around the corner and slowed. It wasn’t a patrol
car, but it looked like a police vehicle and I could see lights embedded in the grille
as it drew closer.

“Shut the boot!” Nigel barked.

The flustered clerk scurried to the trunk and slammed it closed. The noise reverberated
against the concrete floors and walls but was drowned by the roar of a jet taking
off. Nigel draped his jacket over the laptop on his backseat. “Mum’s the word,” he
ordered the rental clerk.

Detective Lissy stepped out of his car and approached us, his gaze going from the
rental clerk, to me, and lingering on Nigel who now stood, hands in his pockets, near
Tessa’s car. “This is the car Tessa King was renting?” Detective Lissy directed the
question at the clerk who bobbed his head.

“Yes, sir. That is, it’s in the name of White King Productions and Mr. Whiteman here,
but it was assigned to Ms. King.”

“You have the key?”

The clerk sent an anguished glance to Nigel. Nigel dangled the key fob. “Just about
to check things out, Detective.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Lissy grunted, taking the remote from him and beeping it.
The locks clunked down and Lissy shot Nigel a look. The clerk gulped.

“I already unlocked it,” Nigel said, not one bit perturbed by Lissy’s suspicious stare.

Lissy drew on latex gloves and eased the door wider. “An evidence team will be along
shortly, but in the meantime . . .” Careful not to touch anything, he examined the
interior of the car. “Not much to see,” he said, withdrawing. He scanned the empty
space behind the seats and then clicked the trunk button. The trunk yawned open, displaying
a whole lot of nothing.

I shifted from foot to foot, the knowledge of the laptop weighing heavily on me.

Lissy turned to face us. “I was rather hoping to find her laptop in the car,” he said,
narrowing his eyes. “Several people mentioned that she had one, but it wasn’t recovered
in her room.”

“Maybe the murderer stole it,” Nigel said, “or tossed it in the river.”

I almost gasped at hearing him repeat my words.

“Why would he do that?” Lissy asked.

“Why does a murderer do anything?”

The silence stretched between them. I blurted, “It was in the trunk. It’s in Nigel’s
car.” I pointed to the backseat.

All three men stared at me—Lissy with surprise, Nigel with fury, and the clerk with
the kind of look centurions must have given Christians being ushered into the arena
to make nice with lions: recognition of impending doom tinged with admiration. I met
Nigel’s gaze defiantly. I didn’t owe him anything. If he decided to kick me off the
show, or make things tough for me and Zane, so be it. My betrayal ensured I wasn’t
going to get that audition, but I didn’t care. I was a dancer. I couldn’t see giving
up ballroom dancing to read from a teleprompter, model gorgeous gowns (okay, I’d like
that part of the job), and interview disappointed or frustrated contestants. I wasn’t
going to participate in Nigel’s theft of the laptop, not when it might give the police
a better chance at finding Tessa’s murderer.

“Interesting,” Lissy said. “How did it come to be there?”

“It’s my property,” Nigel said, attempting to conceal his chagrin under his usual
sangfroid. “It belongs to White King Productions. I have a perfect right to take it.”

“It’s evidence in a murder case,” Lissy responded, banging his palm onto the roof
of Nigel’s car. “I could arrest you for obstruction.”

After a moment where I could practically hear him grinding his teeth, Nigel said,
“Fine. Take the blasted computer.” He yanked open the door and reached in.

“Don’t touch it,” Lissy said. He moved Nigel out of the way and picked up the laptop
in his gloved hands. “What else did you touch?” he asked, his tone telling Nigel he’d
be happy to throw him in jail if he lied.

“The car door. The glove box. That’s all.”

Lissy raised an eyebrow at me and I gave a small nod to confirm Nigel’s account, feeling
like the class tattletale.

“He made me give him the key,” the clerk piped up.

A van and two more cars pulled up and the evidence team members climbed out. After
a brief moment’s consultation with Detective Lissy, they hauled out their gear and
got to work. Telling Nigel that he might have more questions after examining the computer,
and thanking me for my help, Lissy left. Nigel vented his spleen by chewing out the
car agency clerk in a savage undertone, then slid into his Mercedes, and peeled out.
The clerk slunk away to the elevators, and I realized I didn’t have a ride home. I
wondered if Nigel had left me behind by accident, or if he’d deliberately stranded
me. I suspected the latter. If worse came to worst, I could hop on the Metro and catch
a cab from the King Street Station. For now, I was fascinated by the evidence collection
team.

I’d never been much of one for cop shows or
CSI
, even though my dad watched all of them. If a show didn’t have dancing or singing,
like
Glee
or
Smash
, I wasn’t much interested. Still, it was interesting to watch this team do their
thing. The two men and one woman all wore identical coveralls and latex gloves. The
woman twirled a brush coated with fingerprint powder, I assumed, around the locks
and door handles of both doors and then got to work on the steering wheel, the dash,
the glove box, the gear shift—any surface someone might presumably have touched. One
of the men used a small vacuum to suck up debris from within the car.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, moving closer. I spoke loudly to be heard over
the vacuum’s whirring.

He looked up quickly but then refocused on his task. “Hair, fibers, cigarette ash . . .
anything the perp might have left behind. We all shed, you know, like cats and dogs.
Most perps don’t get that. They think if they wear gloves, or wipe away fingerprints,
that they’re cool. They’re shocked when the evidence I collected and analyzed gets
them a nickel at Lorton. Stand back, please, so you don’t contaminate the scene.”

I scooted back a couple of steps, tickled by his pride in his work. “Sorry.”

Turning off the vacuum, he eased out of the car and smiled at me, his smile growing
bigger as he took in the details of my appearance. Being blond, slim, and stacked
has its advantages. “Where do you know Lissy from?” he asked.

I guessed he’d overheard Lissy thanking me. “Oh, here and there,” I said, not wanting
to admit Lissy had considered me a suspect on more than one occasion. “I’ve helped
out on a couple of his cases.” Even if Lissy didn’t want to admit it.

“Lissy’s one of the best,” he said, “even if he’s totally anal about evidence and
procedure. You know, if you were interested, I could give you a tour of the crime
lab sometime, maybe take you to lunch after?”

The photographer’s flash went off practically in our faces before I could answer.

Having photographed the car from a distance, the photographer was now crouched beside
the front bumper, taking close-ups of the headlight damage. As I watched, a thought
pricked me. There was no glass on the ground; the headlight had been broken somewhere
else. As I came to that conclusion, the photographer motioned toward the technician
I was talking to.

“Hey, Brad . . . this look familiar?”

With a word of apology, Brad left me to inspect the headlight. From where I stood,
I could see that a crescent-shaped piece was missing from the headlight. Brad studied
it for a couple of seconds before snapping his fingers. “Yeah! The hit-and-run. We
recovered a piece of glass shaped just like that. Came from a Merc, too. I’d say we
found ourselves the guilty car.” The men high-fived each other.

I told them I had to be getting back, gave Brad an evasive answer about touring the
crime lab—it sounded fascinating, but I didn’t want Brad to think I was interested
in him—and headed for the elevator and the airport Metro station. My mind buzzed.
Tessa had been involved in a hit-and-run the night she got killed. I vaguely remembered
hearing about the incident on the news, and recalled Lissy mentioning it. Where had
it happened? I wasn’t sure. Getting into an elevator smelling of stale pizza, I tried
to imagine a sequence of events.

Tessa and her companion, whoever he was, hit someone. Tessa got out to check on the
victim—maybe in a spot with no road shoulder?—and got hit by a passing car. Somehow,
she fell into the river. Or—I backed up my thinking—the accident knocked the hit-and-run
victim into the river and Tessa jumped in to save him. She landed on something that
broke her legs, or got hit by something. Would there have been boats on the river
at that hour? I had no idea what kind of commercial traffic traveled the Anacostia
River. I gave up on trying to figure out how Tessa ended up in the river to concentrate
on how her car ended up at Reagan National. Her companion searches for her, can’t
find her, and drives her car to the airport. I frowned. Ludicrous. Why on earth would
someone do that? As the door dinged open, a thought came to me. Maybe her companion
was someone who couldn’t afford to have his name associated with Tessa’s. A married
man seemed most likely—hadn’t Phoebe mentioned Tessa was seeing someone?—although
it could also be a source, someone involved with one of her projects. I couldn’t even
begin to speculate who that might be.