Gossip (Desire Never Dies)

by Clara Grace Walker

  “Fine.” He believed her, but the matter was far from settled. Grabbing his cell phone, he called Danny. “You got the story on Patrice’s murder ready to run?”

  “Front page of Just the Facts. Be on the stands first thing Wednesday morning.”

  “Good. Maybe this will kick Sarge’s butt into gear.” He hung up, satisfied tomorrow would bring him one step closer to the truth. He would find out who killed Janelle.

  Chapter 22

  Holding her face in her hands, Sarge tried to will away the pounding ache in her head. Nothing like money to complicate a murder investigation. She wouldn’t say all wealthy and powerful thought a different set of rules applied to them, but there were plenty who did. Trying to solve a murder in their world, let alone do it in such a way the crime could be successfully prosecuted, was nothing short of a nightmare. In this case, it was worse. The chief suspects were not only rich and powerful, but also running publishing empires they used to shield their mudslinging, evidence tampering and meddling in her search for answers.

  Both parties got an equal share of the blame, too. In two weeks, she’d seen a secret autopsy report printed on the front page of one paper, and a public declaration linking the murders of Janelle Tyler-Beck and Patrice McKenzie published in the other. As if that weren’t enough, the names of two of her chief suspects, Nick Beck and Peter Arnold, had also been published. Possibly in an attempt to shift the blame. Who knew where the truth really lay?

  Nicholas Beck and Peter Arnold were smart, successful alpha males. But where Peter Arnold was smooth and charming, she trusted him less. Nick was a bit of a hothead, but when he spoke, she tended to believe him. He also seemed very intent upon clearing his name with her; which was exactly why she kept applying the pressure. The more she treated him like a suspect, the harder he seemed to work at investigating his story.

  The chain of thoughts led her to Danny Ventura, a married, and by all accounts, religious family man. Would he lie about a confrontation between Peter and Patrice to save his boss’ ass? And if he were telling the truth, why would he have been staking out the McKenzie place without a camera or tape recorder? Didn’t seem very reporter-like of him.

  A knock sounded on her office door, and looking through the glass window, she saw it was Sanchez. “Come in.”

  “Got the autopsy report on the McKenzie woman,” he said. “They rushed it through, like you asked.”

  He laid the paperwork down on her desk, and then stood at attention in front of her. Sanchez had come to the department straight from the military and he still carried the training with him, from the buzz-cut hair to the starched uniform. You could take the man out of the military, but there was no taking the military out of this particular man. Not that she minded. He was one of the best detectives. She looked over the autopsy report on Patrice McKenzie. “Coroner puts time of death between three and five o’clock. Nick would have to have left Palm Beach by two-thirty in order to be home by four-thirty when Jamie Jennings claims to have been there with him.” Miguel nodded and she read further. “Vic died of strangulation, but had enough drugs in her system to have died anyway.”

  “Same MO as the Beck woman.”

  “Indeed.” She pointed to the toxicology screening. “Right down to the drug of choice: methadone.”

  Sanchez cast a questioning glance. “Keep that detail out of the press?”

  “For now. You get Rex’s butt over here?”

  Sanchez nodded toward the door. “He’s waiting outside.”

  “Good. Send him in.”

  Sanchez left the room and Rex entered. She watched him scan the room then cast his pretty blue eyes down to the floor. “You know why I’ve asked you here,” she said, stating the obvious.

  He nodded. “I know, but I promise you I did not give a copy of that report to anyone. I would never do anything to jeopardize my job. Or a police investigation.”

  The man was meek. Mild temperament. Looked like he was afraid she might smack him. “Fair enough. Any idea how the press got hold of it?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was completely shocked to see it in the paper.”

  He’d answered all these questions before, when questioned by Sanchez, but she felt like asking them again. “You keep your office locked when you’re out, Rex?”

  He looked at her, sincerity blazoned in his stare. “Of course. It’s department procedure.”

  “What about someone on your staff? They have access to your office when you’re out?”

  He shook his head again. “No. Like I said, it’s department procedure for me to lock the room whenever I leave. Even if I’m just going to the bathroom.”

  “So no one’s been alone in that room besides you?”

  “Well, no, only….” His voice faltered.

  “Only what?”

  His gaze once again found the floor, head hanging like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Well, it’s just, I met this girl at the bar, and….”

  “What girl?” Her voice came out loud and stern. He jumped at the sound of it.

  “I… I didn’t th... think it would be a problem,” he stammered. “I thought she just wanted to have sex with me.”

  Right. Chick magnet that he was. “Why didn’t you take her back to your apartment? That’s what most men do.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, she was kind of kinky, you know. She said she wanted to tour the morgue. For Halloween.”

  Good Lord. Now she’d heard everything. “Rex, who was the girl?”

  He shrugged. “She said her name was Carole.”

  “Carole who?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me her last name.”

  “I don’t suppose she gave you a phone number or address either?”

  “No,” he admitted. “She told me to call her, but she was already gone before I realized she hadn’t given me her phone number.”

  Sarge gritted her teeth. Of course not. Because she didn’t want to be tracked down after she’d gotten the information she was after. Sarge hit the intercom button on her desk. “Sanchez?”

  “Yes, Sarge?”

  “Arrange for Mr. Kaladja to take a tour of the Tidbits offices tomorrow. See if he can ID anybody.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  She looked back at her sorry-ass ME. “Rex,” she said. “If you ever again use that smaller head of yours to do the thinking when it comes to your job, I will personally cut the sucker off. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Good. I want your records on Janelle Tyler-Beck and Patrice McKenzie moved to my office until this investigation is finished.”

  “I’ll bring them right over.”

  “See that you do. Today.”

  Next on her interview list was Peter Arnold. He showed up ten minutes after Rex left and took a seat at the desk facing opposite her, as if he knew the drill. And given this was his second interview, he should.

  “Sarge.” He smiled, sliding into his seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Was he kidding? Guy made it sound like she’d asked him over for a cocktail. “I thought we’d continue our discussion regarding Patrice McKenzie’s death.”

  He frowned. “I thought we’d finished that discussion the day after she died.”

  Time to remind the guy he was a murder suspect and wipe the smug smile off his face. “I’m sure I never said anything to give you the impression you were off the hook, Mr. Arnold. Until such time as her killer is caught, I intend to have as many conversations with you as necessary.”

  He continued smiling. “Then you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything about Patrice McKenzie’s murder. I already told you that.”

  She nodded, pulling out the notes from his previous interview. “You told Detective Sanchez you argued with Miss McKenzie regarding money she wanted from you in order to keep quiet about an affair the two of you had.”

  “Yes, and I also told your detective that as soon as
I left I went back to the office to check on a story.”

  “If that’s true, why did your secretary tell us you called that afternoon to say you’d be gone the rest of the day?”

  “Andra said that?”

  Anger flashed briefly in his eyes before he waved it away with a flick of his hand. The anger was there though, simmering below the surface, and Sarge made a note of it. “That’s right,” she confirmed. “Any idea why your secretary would say you were gone if it wasn’t true?”

  He smiled, nodding his head as if remembering something. “That’s right. I did call and tell her that, but I decided to go in after all and take care of a little business.”

  “So why didn’t anybody see you?”

  “Because I never left my office.”

  “What about coming and going to your office? Wouldn’t someone have seen you going in and out?”

  He laughed again. “I have a private entrance to my office from the back of the building. Saves me the hassle of employees interrupting me all day if they don’t know I’m there.”

  “I see.” That information would be easy enough to verify. She made a note to have Sanchez check it out. “You have a pre-nup with your current wife, Mr. Arnold?”

  “Hell yes!” He laughed heartily this time. “You kidding me? Lisbeth’s wife number three. I have a pre-nup and I promise you it’s iron-clad.”

  “Even if you were caught cheating?”

  He nodded, still smiling. “Even then.”

  “So if the current Mrs. Arnold were to find out about your affair with Patrice McKenzie….”

  “It would make no difference whatsoever to any divorce settlement.”

  He supplied the answer before she finished asking the question, and this time she believed him. She also got the impression he wouldn’t be too broken-hearted if the current Mrs. Arnold did get pissed off and divorce him. Probably just go find another young trophy wife. “Where were you on the morning of September fifteenth?” she asked, switching gears.

  “Huh?” He looked dumbfounded.

  “The morning of September fifteenth,” she repeated. “Between seven and eight a.m. Where were you?”

  “Hell if I remember. Home having coffee probably. I usually don’t get into the office before nine.”

  “You don’t remember a call from someone about a murder at Biscayne Bay Golf Club that morning?”

  “Oh yeah.” His eyes lit as though recalling a fond memory. “The morning Janelle Beck was killed. I was just putting on a pot of coffee when I got the call telling me I should head over there if I wanted to scoop Nick on his wife’s murder.”

  Janelle’s body had been found about five minutes after eight by a greens keeper for the golf course. Peter had mentioned getting the tip when he first showed up at the murder scene and she hadn’t given it much thought. She assumed he and Nick had contacts all over the place willing to drop a dime for them. In view of recent events, however, his story warranted further scrutiny. “Can anyone verify you received that call at your home?”

  He laughed so hard he started to choke. “What? You think I killed her?”

  She made a mental note to subpoena the guy’s home phone records. “Did you?”

  “Of course not. If I was going to kill anyone, it’d be that asshole husband of hers.”

  “I’ll remember that if Mr. Beck ever turns up dead. In the meantime, let’s stick to his wife’s murder. Can anyone verify your whereabouts on the morning of September fifteenth?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Lisbeth was out of town on some spa trip with her girlfriends. Now, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have an appointment in twenty minutes. Think we can wrap this up?”

  “For now,” she said. “Just do me a favor and don’t leave town.”

  He rose from the chair and winked. “No problem, Sarge. Your wish is my command.”

  He left, placing a call to his office on his way out the door. Sarge heard two words from him as he exited. “Fire Andra.”

  Curious, she thought. If the secretary had been telling the truth, why fire her? She went back to holding her face in her hands. She couldn’t wait to nail the bastard responsible for this mess.

  Chapter 23

  Luigi’s in Coral Gables catered to a well-heeled crowd, some dressed to the nines, others looking more casual, but all of them able to afford one hundred dollars and up for a meal. With its windowed portico, graceful columns, white tablecloths and candlelight, the atmosphere was tasteful, elegant and, Nick figured, Darla thought it romantic. He didn’t like the play she was making for him and he didn’t like accepting her invitation to meet here, but he needed information. And Darla was his best shot at getting it.

  Straining to see through the dim lighting, he found her already seated at a corner table, looking out over a darkening ocean, when he arrived. A piano, playing across the dining room, muted the sounds of conversation and clattering dishes that filled the busy room.

  Darla stood and smiled when she saw him. Not surprisingly, she wore a low-cut dress; midnight blue with spaghetti straps. “Nick! Hi, baby. I’m so glad you agreed to have dinner with me.”

  Where normally he might have greeted his dinner companion with a kiss on the cheek, this time he chose to just sit down. “I’m curious to hear what you have to say.”

  “Well, that’s a start anyway. You can be curious about the rest of me later. Would you like some wine?”

  As she lifted the bottle of chardonnay, he saw it was already three-quarters gone. An early start, even for her. He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m more of a beer or scotch man.”

  She poured the remainder of the bottle into the empty wine glass in front of him. “It’s an Italian restaurant, Nick. Nobody drinks beer with veal marsala.”

  He frowned. “Maybe not, but plenty of people drink it with pizza. Isn’t that Italian?”

  “We’re not having pizza tonight. We’re having gnocci and veal marsala.”

  “I see.”

  Not surprisingly, she’d grown up spoiled. In some ways, she reminded him of Taralynn Clarke. Ironically, Taralynn had been the last woman he’d slept with before his reunion with Janelle. A meaningless fling she’d offered in her quest to launch a smear campaign against Preston. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about Taralynn since her suicide. Mostly in terms of regret. Regret he’d slept with her, and much more regret he’d printed those pictures of her and Rod. Nothing good had come of that. If he ever wanted a do-over where his career was concerned, that was it. Since he couldn’t have one, he just wanted to learn his lesson and put it behind him. Forget the whole, sordid affair.

  Sitting across from Darla, however, he found comparisons to Taralynn inevitable. Darla’s demeanor was different. She managed to convey her wishes with quiet insistence, rather than the temper tantrums and attitude Taralynn had been famous for. She was every bit as intent on having her way with him as Taralynn had been, however. And that was a mistake he would not be repeating. “Tell me about your father’s reaction to the story I ran on Patrice McKenzie’s murder,” he said, getting down to business.

  “He was pissed.” She flagged down a passing waiter and jiggled the now empty wine bottle. “Could we have another one, please?”

  “Of course, Miss.” He nodded and hurried off.

  Darla turned her attention back to Nick. “Peter says he’s going to sue you for every penny you’ve got.”

  “He can always try. And when did you start referring to your father as Peter?”

  She stopped smiling and finished off the half-glass of wine in front of her. “When I was fifteen and stopped worshipping the ground he walked on.”

  “I see.” Typical teen-age rebellion? Or had she discovered something about her father she found unsettling? A potential for violence, perhaps?

  “I didn’t ask you to have dinner with me so we could talk about Peter,” she said. “I’d rather we talked about something more enjoyable.”

  “Fine. Let’s talk about Rod Skinner.�
�

  Her mouth opened slightly, as if the mention of Rod’s name surprised her. “Why do you want to talk about him?”

  “Why not talk about him? You’re seeing him, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Nick gave a slight shake of his head. She sounded like she believed her own lies. “I have photos of you lounging naked with him on his patio.”

  Her mouth dropped all the way open. “How did you get those?”

  “I’m a reporter, remember? Anyway, just out of politeness, consider this your heads up the photos will be making the next edition of The Tattletale.” He’d been waiting to see if he could dig up more to the story before printing the photos, but so far that seemed to be all it was. Just another fling.

  “Damn it, Nick. Please don’t print those pictures. Peter will have a fucking cow if one more sex film or set of nude photos of me turns up. He already thinks I’m the biggest slut in town. Except for maybe Regina.”

  “How does that make you feel?” He felt more like a therapist than a reporter asking the question, but felt a need to try and understand what was making her tick.

  Darla merely rolled her eyes. “I don’t give a damn what Peter thinks.”

  “You must,” he pointed out. “Since you don’t want me printing the pictures.”

  “Fine.” Her bottom lip quivering, she gave up the pretense. “I hate Peter thinking I’m a slut. Could you please not print the pictures?”

  “I’m a businessman, Darla. If you don’t want me to print the pictures, you’ll have to give me a better story.”

  “But I don’t have a better story.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “Excuse me, Sir.” A waitress appeared at his side. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes. I’ll have the chicken carbonara and, apparently, the lady would like gnocchi and veal marsala. And could I please have a Glenlivet on the rocks?”