The Homicide Hustle (8 page)

The water smelled fresh, warmed by the sun. Boats with colorful sails floated on the
calm surface and a flock of seagulls scuffled for half an ice-cream cone left on the
pathway. Encouraged by Hoover’s barks, they took to the air when we approached. A
mix of tourists and workers on their lunch break ate sandwiches or drank smoothies
from benches or on the grass. Clouds on the horizon hinted at a thunderstorm later
in the day. With Hoover settled down a bit and prancing by my side, I told Maurice
about Club Nitro and what Zane and I had learned from the bartender.

Maurice wrinkled his brow. “If Tessa wasn’t purchasing drugs, as Zane insists, what
could she possibly have wanted from a drug dealer?”

“No clue.” Tugging on Hoover’s leash, I dissuaded him from investigating a dead fish
at the water’s edge. “No one seems to have seen her since then, so I kind of think—”

“Something happened to her in the park, or wherever she went off to with the dealer.”

I nodded. “Oh, and that’s not the worst. Well, Tessa dying is the worst, but Nigel
figured out that I’m kind of investigating and he wants to get it all on film. He
caught me asking Phoebe about that night and had Larry record it.”

A pained expression settled on Maurice’s face. “That feels . . .”

“Scummy. Exploitative. Like I’m prying into her death out of ghoulish curiosity.”

Maurice cocked his head in agreement.

Sucking in a deep breath, I said, “I’m done asking questions. I don’t care if Nigel
thinks it would be ‘ratings gold’ for me to get involved, or if he’s offering a reward
of fifty thou. I’m going to concentrate on winning that Crystal Slipper and leave
the detecting to the police.” Decision made, I felt like a weight had dropped off
my shoulders.

A bevy of parochial schoolgirls in plaid skirts and white blouses went giggling past
and Maurice gave them a courtly half bow that made them giggle harder. Two of them
stopped to pat Hoover’s head and he wagged his tail hard enough to flatten the grass.
When they moved on, I looked at my watch and realized I was going to be late getting
back to the studio. Wishing I could spend the afternoon lolling by the river, watching
the boats drift past and the bees nosing into the clover, I reluctantly tugged on
Hoover’s leash and we headed toward Graysin Motion.

We arrived just as a Jaguar swooped in to steal a parking spot from the van that had
been preparing to parallel park in it. Kim Savage got out, completely ignoring the
dirty looks the van’s driver gave her, and marched toward the outer staircase. Wearing
a leopard-print skirt with a black blouse, she looked disgustingly chic and sexy for
a woman old enough to be a grandma. She paused when she drew abreast of me, Maurice,
and Hoover, and announced, “I thought my input at rehearsal would be helpful so I’ll
be sitting in this afternoon. I’m allergic to dogs.” She curled her lip in a disdainful
way and Hoover curled his lip, too, accompanying it with a low growl.

“Not to worry, Ms. Savage,” Maurice began, “we were just leav—”

“Oh, too bad,” I said, resisting Maurice’s attempt to take the leash from me, “because
Hoover’s the studio mascot and he’ll be spending the afternoon with us.” I smiled
brightly, won the wrestling match for the leash, and led the happy Hoover into my
house. “Tell Zane I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I called over my shoulder.

Feeling a bit ashamed of my animosity toward Kim Savage—what had the woman ever done
to me?—I blotted my flushed face with a cold washcloth and bolted a banana and a quick
cup of yogurt (letting Hoover lick the empty container). I used the interior stairs
to return to the studio. The Great Dane settled at his usual spot under the front
windows, well away from Kim Savage, who perched on a chair just inside the ballroom
door, next to Maurice. Zane greeted me with a big smile and we picked up where we’d
left off, ignoring Nigel, Larry, and the sprinkling of crew members who did a good
job of staying out of our way as we circled the floor.

“No, don’t lead with your heel,” I was telling Zane an hour later when a change in
the air currents made me look toward the door. Detective Lissy stood there, his gaze
fixed on us, and I faltered. Zane stepped on my toe.

“Sorry, Stacy,” he said when I winced.

“Not your fault,” I said. I broke away from him. “I think we need to take a break.”
I nodded toward the door.

Detective Lissy tromped toward us, polished wing tips squeaking on the wooden floors.
Ignoring everyone else in the room, he addressed Zane. “New information has come to
light in the matter of Tessa King’s death,” he said. “You’ll need to come down to
the station with me.”

“Why, you pompous—” Kim began, jumping to her feet.

“What information?” I asked.

“I’m not coming unless you tell me why,” Zane said.

With a barely perceptible shrug that said it was Zane’s business if he wanted to be
embarrassed in front of his colleagues, Lissy said, “We have a witness who overheard
you arguing with the victim in her room the evening she was killed. You ‘slammed out
of the room in a rage,’ is how he put it.”

Someone gasped and I heard Nigel mutter, “Are you getting this, Larry?”

Kim Savage shouldered her way between her son and Detective Lissy. She threw her shoulders
back, a well-endowed leopardess defending her cub. “My son is not going with you.
It’s absurd to think he could have hurt that woman. The press . . . I don’t want to
think about how the press will play it if word gets out.” She actually paled.

“And you are?” Lissy raised an inquiring eyebrow and Kim Savage introduced herself.

“It’s okay, Mother,” Zane said, putting her gently aside. “I don’t mind going to the
station to answer a few questions. The detective’s got to do his job, and I’ve got
nothing to hide.”

Lissy gave Zane a skeptical look as he ushered him toward the ballroom door. I wondered
if Lissy had been born cynical, or if his time with the police force had made him
that way. Maybe a little of both.

“I’m coming with you,” Kim Savage said.

“No,” Zane and Detective Lissy said in unison.

She halted, looking frustrated, and pulled out her phone. “Don’t say a word until
I get a lawyer there,” Kim Savage called after her son. Her stiletto heels tip-tapped
as she hurried into the hall after them, already talking to someone named Mort. Maurice
followed her and I heard him offer to drive her to the police station. He knew the
way, having been arrested a mere month ago.

“My God, this is fabulous,” Nigel crowed.

I shot him a disgusted look, ripped off my mike pack, handed it to the sound technician,
and hurried to the window. Hoover rose at my approach and we both looked down in time
to see Detective Lissy’s car pull out and watch Maurice open the Jaguar’s door for
Kim Savage, slide into the driver’s seat, and flip a U-ey to follow.

“Woof.” Hoover laid his chin on the windowsill, apparently sad that he hadn’t been
invited to go.

Stroking his head, I said, “They’ll be back soon, boy.” I hoped I was right.

Chapter 12

Staring out the window, it occurred to me that it would be hard for Graysin Motion
to win on
Blisters
if my partner was in jail, or so distracted by worry about being tried for murder
that he couldn’t concentrate on promenades or spin turns. I ditched my new-made resolution
to stop investigating; I needed to clear my partner’s name so we could continue to
compete. Part of me wanted to head for the police station, but instinct told me Zane
wouldn’t like a crowd of people hovering in the waiting area, ready to grill him again
when he emerged from his interview with Detective Lissy.

Nigel Whiteman took the option away by throwing a chummy arm around my shoulders and
saying, “Well, luv, with your partner gone, it looks like we’ll have to switch up
our schedule a bit. How’s about putting on some street togs and we’ll do the ‘out
and about’ interviews with Kristen this afternoon. You can take the dog,” he added,
his gaze falling on Hoover. “He’s a photogenic bloke.” Hoover sat up straighter at
this praise.

The “out and about” portions of
Blisters
were supposedly unscripted segments where one or another of the dancers who lived
in the area strolled around local attractions with Kristen Lee. They were designed
to help viewers get to know both the professional dancers and the city and I’d enjoyed
them when watching the show in previous seasons. A stylist went downstairs with me
to help choose street clothes that would photograph well while Nigel summoned Kristen
back from the spa where she was spending the afternoon.

The show’s hostess arrived just as the stylist finished outfitting me. Her streaky
blond hair done up in a topknot, flawlessly made-up and wearing a green linen jacket
that contrasted pleasingly with the yellow sundress the stylist had put me in, Kristen
Lee grumbled about the change of schedule as she climbed into the van that was to
take us to our filming sites. A second van held crew members and equipment.

“I don’t think it’s asking too much to be allowed to get a facial,” she said, patting
her smooth, virtually unlined face. “It’s part of my job to look good. I can’t help
it if Zane went and got himself arrested—that’s no reason to upend everyone else’s
plans.”

“He wasn’t arrested,” I said, shifting Hoover over to make room for Kristen. “It’s
just an interview. You don’t need a facial,” I added. “You’ve got beautiful skin.”

She shot me a look, apparently trying to decide if I was being sincere, and settled
onto the seat. “Thanks. You’re sweet. So, this is how it will work.”

With a no-nonsense manner that was more Barbara Walters than Joan Rivers, she took
me through the drill and outlined the questions she would ask me. I was surprised
by her professionalism, since I’d always thought she was kind of fluffy. Her on-screen
persona for
Blisters
was relentlessly upbeat and a little ditzy, and I’d made the mistake of assuming
that was what she was really like. I began to think there was more to Kristen Lee
than I’d expected.

“Keep it short and simple,” she directed, as the van pulled over at Union and King
streets where the Old Town trolley began its route. “Think sound bite, not dissertation.
Viewers have short attention spans.” She stepped gracefully down from the van. When
I followed her, Hoover tried to nudge past me and almost sent me sprawling. I noticed
with a resigned sigh that at least two cameras recorded my klutzy moment.

We started our tour by taking the trolley the length of King Street. The conductor
was inclined to argue about Hoover’s presence, but Nigel drew him aside for a conversation
(and a bribe, I suspected), and Hoover was allowed to board. The production company
had coordinated with the Chamber of Commerce or some such and we had the trolley to
ourselves. The camera guys took photos of Kristin and me from several angles, but
mostly with us gazing eagerly out the open windows at the historic buildings, the
breeze fanning our hair back. The director instructed me to point several times, as
if indicating sites of interest, and said the edited version would show appropriate
footage of City Hall and Market Square, Ramsay House where the Visitor’s Center was
located, and famous restaurants and shops. I wondered if the latter had had to pay
a product placement fee like in the movies.

The van picked us up at the end of the line near the Metro station and hauled us to
the George Washington Masonic Memorial a block to the west. The earlier clouds had
thickened and the wind had freshened. It tugged at my skirt as Kristen and I walked
along the path wending through manicured lawns sloping upward to an impressive-looking
edifice. The memorial was a huge, tiered stone building, nothing like the slender
Washington Monument on the Mall. I’d been inside the Masonic Memorial only once, for
a wedding reception, and I’d been more interested in flirting with the best man than
inspecting the archives and historic art. The building housed a grand hall, several
smaller meeting rooms, and a theater; in fact, Saturday night’s debut of
Blisters
was being filmed here. The building was currently closed to tourists as the production
company built the set for the first broadcast.

“Did you know they filmed part of the second
National Treasure
movie here?” Kristen asked. I shook my head, and she launched into the questions
she’d prepared. I never had any trouble talking about how I’d become a dancer and
my love of ballroom, so the time went quickly as I described my early dancing efforts
as a preteen with my first partner, and my fifth partner and I being selected as Rising
Stars just before my seventeenth birthday.

Standing in front of the memorial, conscious of the diesel fumes emanating from a
tour bus in the parking lot, I was hoping we were almost done when Nigel strode up.

“Okay, Stace, now you ask Kristen something about the murder, like where she was when
Tessa was killed.”

“What the hell?” Kristen’s eyes hardened.

Nigel gave her two sentences about my investigation while I squirmed.

“I don’t think—” I started.

Nigel rolled his hands in a “get on with it” motion. “Hurry. We’re losing the light.”
He backed off a couple of steps.

“Uh, Kristen, so I hear you went to Club Nitro Tuesday night with Zane and Tessa and
everyone,” I said, feeling incredibly awkward. “Did you happen to see her leave?”

She batted her eyelashes in a parody of innocence, although I could see the anger
in her eyes. Rain began to spit on us. “Why, no, Stacy. I had one club soda and left
waaay early. I was tucked up in bed, getting my beauty rest, well before eleven o’clock.
Alcohol and late nights are
fatal
for one’s skin, so I don’t indulge.” She gave the camera a sugary smile.

I didn’t know if it was because she wanted to protect her squeaky clean image, because
she was pissed at Nigel and me for putting her on the spot, or because she had something
darker to hide, but the way she held my gaze without blinking and the way the cords
on her neck suddenly stood out told me she was lying. Before I could ask a follow-up
question, the rain began in earnest and we scrambled back to the van. Whether by accident
or design, Kristen ended up in the second van and Hoover and I rode back to the studio
with a chatty lighting technician and the stylist.

The odor of wet dog pervaded the van and our damp clothes steamed up the windows.
I could hardly wait to leap out when we reached Graysin Motion. Hoover beat me to
the door, dashed inside when I unlocked it, and shook himself vigorously, spattering
me, the walls, and the hardwood floors with water. Just perfect. A knock sounded and
I hurried to open the door, hoping it was Maurice coming to retrieve Hoover.

Phoebe Jackson stood on the doorstep, a red raincoat with a hood keeping her dry.

I gaped at her.

“It’s damn wet out here. Can I come in?” Phoebe’s smile brightened the gray afternoon.

Stepping back, I let her in. Hoover sniffed her thoroughly, decided she wasn’t a threat,
and padded into the kitchen. I could hear him nosing around my cupboards.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” Phoebe said as we stood awkwardly
in the hall. Raindrops slid from her slicker to plop on the floor. “Vitaly and I just
finished our practice—that man is a pistol—and I got to thinking about what Nigel
said earlier about you looking into Tessa’s death. Is that true?” Her brown eyes searched
my face.

“Sort of.”

Not asking me to clarify, she nodded decisively. “I want to help. Tessa was my friend.”

I had the feeling that things were snowballing out of control. “I’m not— I don’t—”

Phoebe interrupted my blathering. “Zane told me you and he went back to Club Nitro
last night.”

“He did?” Zane had a big mouth. It took me only a split second to recognize the hypocrisy
in that when it was my big mouth that had let Nigel know I was looking into Tessa’s
death. Maybe Phoebe could help . . . “What kind of car was Tessa driving?”

“A green Mercedes, a two-seater, just like Nigel’s. Rented, of course. Look, how about
I make us some coffee while you get dry?”

I realized I was wet and shivering. “Okay. I’ll just be a minute. Coffee stuff’s in
the cabinet to the left of the range.”

Ducking into my bedroom, I shucked off my sodden sundress and tossed it over the shower
rail. I rubbed my chilled skin briskly with a towel, wrung out my hair and combed
it, and scrambled into a pair of striped capris and a light pink sweater. Feeling
a thousand percent better, I followed the aroma of coffee back to the kitchen to find
Phoebe feeding Hoover bites of cheese from a hunk of cheddar. His tail thumped.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, spotting me. “He looked so hungry and I couldn’t
find any dog food.”

“He’s not mine,” I said, and explained.

We sat at the table with our coffees and Phoebe glanced around the kitchen. “It doesn’t
quite feel like you,” she said, nodding toward the turquoise-tiled counter with its
crumbling grout, the mismatched appliances, and the stained linoleum.

A little impressed by her sensitivity, I explained about inheriting the town house
from Great-aunt Laurinda. “I sold a lot of her old furniture recently and now I’m
trying to figure out if I want to tackle the kitchen first or redecorate the front
room.”

“When I got out of prison the second time,” Phoebe said, “I ditched everything from
my former life—and I mean
everything
. I gave the furniture and household crap to the Salvation Army, kicked my worthless
boyfriend to the curb, and donated my clothes to a women’s shelter. I even cut my
hair.” She ran a hand over her shapely skull. “Out with the old, in with the new,”
she said with a wide grin. “I didn’t know what the new was, which sounds kind of like
what you’re going through. I haven’t looked back. Tessa encouraged me. I got clean
in prison and the warden gave my name to Tessa when she came around looking for some
‘pull yourself up by your bootstrap’ stories for a documentary she was doing. We met,
and clicked, and next thing I know I’m one of three women featured in Tessa’s documentary
Two Strikes and Starting Over
. A producer saw it, liked what he saw of me doing a martial arts sequence, and next
thing I know I’ve got a part in a movie. That was nine years ago.” She shifted in
her chair and the overhead light cast a golden glow on her cocoa skin.

“What happened to the other women in the documentary?”

Phoebe sobered. “One of them’s back in prison for good and the other’s dead. Killed
by her boyfriend.”

The stark words kept me silent for a moment. “So, did you and Tessa keep in touch
all that time?”

“Off and on. When my agent mentioned
Ballroom with the B-Listers
, I jumped at the chance to work with her again. And now she’s dead.” Sorrow sounded
in her voice. She got up to place her empty mug in the sink, and I wondered if she
was hiding tears from me; Phoebe struck me as a private person, despite her openness
about her former life.

“You and she rode together to Club Nitro,” I said, “which is the last place any of
you saw her.”

Phoebe turned and if she’d been crying, the tears were gone now. “Uh-huh. We parked
on the street about a block and a half from the club—Tessa had a thing about not giving
her keys to valets—and walked in together. I saw her a few times after that—we weren’t
in the same booth, but I saw her dancing and talking to people—but when it came time
to leave, I couldn’t find her. I even walked back to where we’d left the Merc, but
it was gone.”

“What time was that?”

“Two thirty? I was more pissed than worried. I snagged a taxi, planning to give her
some grief the next morning for ditching me.”

“Did you tell Detective Lissy all this?”

She nodded.

Realizing I’d barely touched my coffee, I took a long swallow, thinking. “What about
drugs?”

Her eyes hardened. “What about them? I’ve been clean for twelve years. I don’t even
take aspirin.”

I shook my head rapidly. “No, no, not you. Tessa. Did she ever do drugs that you know
of?” I explained about Zane’s and my conversation with the bartender in the park.

Phoebe looked both puzzled and thoughtful. “She could’ve done a recreational line
or two, like most folks in Hollywood,” she said. “I don’t think she was into the hard
stuff. She didn’t act coked up.”

I trusted Phoebe would know. I thought through the timeline. Tessa arrived at the
club with Phoebe, danced and drank until about one when she wandered over to the park—on
the spur of the moment, or for something prearranged?—and met a drug dealer. Sometime
between then and two thirty, she returned to her car and drove off. Or, maybe someone
killed her and stole the car.

“You know,” Phoebe said, interrupting my thoughts, “she was worried about something.”

I perked up. This was new information. “Really? What?”

“I’m not sure. I got the feeling she was involved with a new man and that maybe things
weren’t going the way she’d hoped. She was also kinda frustrated with
Blisters
and Nigel. It seemed like she was ready to move on. She said she was tired of manufactured
drama, feathered costumes, and third-rate talent. I told her I hoped she wasn’t referring
to me.” The ghost of a smile flitted across Phoebe’s face. “She said that if the shoe
fits . . .”