Running to her side, I escorted her away before the man's shock wore off and he decided she'd assaulted an officer. Though I couldn't help adding as I dragged her away, "She wasn't kidding. Be gentle with that painting."
Britton wrapped her arms around me, quivering, clinging as though her life depended on it. "Oh, thank God," she breathed. "Tell them to quit touching everything, please."
"What happened?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know. They just showed up here and said they had a warrant to search everything."
I frowned. Ryder had said he'd look into a warrant for the DynoDrink, but he hadn't mentioned tearing the penthouse apart from top to bottom. I glanced around the penthouse for a glimpse of him, but as far as I could tell, he wasn't there. If he'd been the one to get the warrant, he hadn't stuck around to do the dirty work.
"What in the hell is going on here?"
I spun to find Stintner standing in the doorway.
"I'd like to see a warrant immediately and speak to whoever is in charge," the lawyer's commanding voice roared through the room.
"Oh, thank God," Britton repeated, running to him and doing a repeat of the clinging hug she'd just given me.
The lawyer's eyebrows rose, but he didn't exactly look upset at a hot blonde throwing herself at him. It was probably the most action the old guy'd had in years.
"Tell them to get their grubby hands off my stuff. Some of it's priceless," Britton said, practically wailing the last word.
"Trust me, I intend to," Stintner assured her, grabbing a warrant from one of the officers.
"Did you know the press is downstairs?" I asked Britton while he read the legalese.
She nodded, biting her lower lip, leaving a little void in her ruby lipstick. "It's a nightmare, Tess. What are we going to do?"
I wished I had an answer for that one. "Alfie's on it I suppose?"
Again she nodded. "He called Stintner for me, too."
I looked up at the lawyer, now pointing out a fine legality in the warrant to one of the plainclothes detectives. Clearly Stintner had the situation under control.
"I'm going to find Alfie," I told Britton, hoping he'd be able to clear the hallway at my room first and foremost. "You okay here?"
She took a deep quivering breath and flashed me the most unconvincing smile I'd ever seen. "I'm sure Stintner can handle this."
I gave her a fortifying squeeze on the shoulder before backing toward the door. After the accusations the press had thrown at me, I half expected someone to stop me. But none of the officers even gave me a second look. I slipped into the hallway and pulled out my phone. Though before I could dial the head of security, I noticed I'd had sixteen missed calls in the last hour. Most were from my mother, the others from work and my boss's cell phone. The news of my supposed guilt had obviously hit home.
I thought a really dirty word, then dug through my purse for Agent Ryder's number. I typed it into my phone and texted, meet me.
A moment later my phone rang in my hand, his number displaying.
"The media thinks I killed my father," I blurted out as I answered.
"Nice greeting," he observed.
I felt the initial shock I'd experienced at arriving in the middle of a media frenzy all implicating me quickly converting to frustration. "In case you didn't see the hoard of news people demanding my head in the lobby, please note I'm currently incapable of nice!"
"O-kay," he said in a maddeningly calm voice. "What would you like me to do about it?"
"Take my alibi down, interview witnesses to where I was the day my father died, issue a statement saying I am not some monster who killed her own father!" I paced the small hallway, really getting worked up now.
"You want me to take down your alibi now? Last time I asked, you said you didn't remember having one."
"I was sitting at my desk, at work, when I got the message he'd passed. I'd been there since eight." The buzz of inane chatter around me in the gallery as I'd read Britton's text message about my father still rang in my ears. "I'd been home the night before watching TV. Alone, unless you count my cat. The last time I was even in Tahoe was two-and-a-half years ago, and my knowledge of poisons is limited to the fact that you shouldn't lick the seal of envelopes, especially cheap ones, so there's no way I put anything in his health shake, which apparently I'm the only person on the face of the earth who didn't know he drank on a daily basis."
I could have sworn I heard a grin brewing on the other end of the line. "That's some alibi."
"Thank you," I huffed out. Though upon further consideration, I wasn't sure he was complimenting me. "So am I good?"
Ryder cleared his throat. "I've already spoken with both your mother and your boss. They've gone into the local P.D. and filled out statements as to your whereabouts on the day in question."
I paused. "You hauled my mother into the police station?!"
"Your mother volunteered to come in," he corrected.
"I'll just bet she did," I mumbled under my breath, imagining the lecture I was going to get the next time I talked to her. "Look, this is all just some big mistake. There's no way I—"
But I was cut off by the elevator dinging and the doors sliding open to reveal Ryder himself. He had on his usual dark slacks and starched dress shirt, but his tie was loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. I blame the transformation from buttoned-down to casual for the slowing of my reflexes as he walked up to me and pulled my phone from my ear. He hit the "off" button, then handed it back. Then looked down at my outfit and raised one eyebrow my way. "Cute."
"It's not mine," I protested against the fluffy pants that were beginning to become way too warm for indoors.
He shrugged. "Too bad. You look good in pink."
I blinked at him trying to decide if he was giving me an actual compliment or just trying to distract me from my tirade.
"Your mother is a very nice woman, by the way," Ryder said, pulling his eyes away from the pink marshmallow-ness of my lower half. "She's worried about you, though. You should call her back."
I shook my head, ignoring the jab at my bad-daughter status. "How'd you know where I was?"
Hands splayed to his sides, he grinned. "I'm a detective."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Okay, since you have an answer for everything, tell me why the media thinks I killed my father."
His grin disappeared. "Ah, this one will be a bit harder, because I have to delve into the intricate workings of the single brain cell all reporters share."
"Not a fan?"
He shook his head, a frown forming between his brows. "Word of your father's death being changed from natural causes to murder brought them out from under their rocks. Your mother being brought in for questioning didn't help matters. And the fact that you're dating Rafe Lorenzo makes you prime tabloid fodder."
"I'm not dating Rafe," I shot back before I could stop myself.
Ryder raised one questioning eyebrow. "According to the early local news, you spent the day with him. And arrived here arm in arm."
"His arm was around me. To protect me from the media," I said. Though even as I was defending my not-dating status to Ryder, I could feel the warmth from Rafe's protective embrace on my shoulders. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant memory.
Ryder nodded, though his expression was unreadable. "Well, that is how rumors get started. And the media spins them into facts."
"Great, so release some statement saying I'm not a killer and set them straight," I told him.
"Should I also let them know you're not dating Lorenzo?"
I felt my eyes narrow again at his mocking tone. "Ha. Ha. Very funny. If you're not the one accused of being a killer!"
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out a little on the sides. It should have looked ridiculous, but somehow it added to the appeal of this new casual side of him. "Look, it's not that simple. Let me put it to you this way: Somewhere in your hometown, a little old lady just happened to be settlin
g in to watch television as the newscast came on. This is probably someone you've known for most of your life, watched you grow up, maybe even babysat you when you were young. Even though you are completely innocent, she is now convinced otherwise and won't stop her pursuit of justice until you are rotting in jail. All thanks to those blood-sucking, fear-mongering, media vultures," he finished, looking almost as worked up as I was now.
"I take it you've had a couple run-ins with the vultures before?"
He nodded. "Oh, yeah." Then he inhaled a deep breath through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth.
"Feel better?" I asked.
"You know?" He cocked his head to the side, a soft smile lighting his stubbled face. "I do, actually."
I took my own deep breath, his shared frustration having diffused some of my anger. "So, why aren't you in there making a mess with those guys?"
"The local police have taken over. It's not my case anymore." He pointed to his loosened tie. "I'm officially off the clock."
I paused. "So, you're not here in an official capacity."
He cocked his head at me. "I suppose not."
"Which means you can talk to me about the case unofficially?"
"Unofficially? Yes," he decided.
I gestured behind myself. "So what are they looking for?"
"My best guess? Whatever poisoned the powdered drink mix."
"So it was the DynoDrink that killed him?"
Ryder nodded. "Ingested about thirty minutes before he died."
Score one for Britton. Apparently she wasn't as dumb as she looked. "So, why are the police searching Britton's stuff? She's the one who told me about the powder. I doubt very seriously she'd implicate herself in a murder."
Agent Ryder arched a brow. "I've been in this line of work for a while. People do what they must to survive." His eyes shifted to the floor. "They have probable cause, or the judge wouldn't have issued a warrant. I read in the file that the penthouse was one of the few areas without surveillance cameras. I'd imagine that's why they started there."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Ryder's phone picked that moment to ring in his pocket.
Glancing at the number, he mumbled, "My boss. I probably should take this," before turning his back to me and answering. I noticed he straightened his tie as he did so. Back to official mode.
I pushed the down arrow as he answered his call and entered the elevator, digesting what he'd just told me. The drink was poisoned in the penthouse. The only place without cameras. I ran the mental list of people who serviced the penthouse and might know what happened that day. One name popped to the top. Ellie Lopez, Tate's mom. I just had to figure out a way through the media circus to find her.
Service elevator!
I pushed on the third floor button before it was too late, jumped out of the elevator, and scurried down the hall toward the service elevator at the end. When the doors opened, two of the housekeeping staff stood inside, blocking my way.
A portly older woman pushed the down arrow repeatedly, as her taller counterpart swatted at me through the opening.
"Move back. This isn't the elevator you're looking for."
I shoved my hand between the doors as they started to close. "Yes, it is. My name is Tessie King, and I'm trying to get to the employee lounge to find Ellie Lopez."
The older woman's eyes rounded, and she yanked on the taller woman's sleeve until she bent down. She whispered something, but the only word I could make out was "killer."
I rolled my eyes.
"I did not kill my father. And, technically, I'm your boss right now, so don't push it."
She dropped her arms to her sides and stood tall, her eyes still wide. The other woman finally spoke.
"Ellie's on this floor right now." Her hand shot out, pointing at a cleaning cart a few rooms down. "That's her stuff, there."
"Thank you, ladies." I removed my hand from the doors and let them close, but not before hearing the older woman squealing about seeing a real live murderer.
I hated that Agent Ryder was right.
I walked to the cart and peered into the room with the door propped open. "Mrs. Lopez?"
"Yes?" A toilet lid clanged shut, the bathroom door swung open, and out stepped all five feet, one hundred pounds of Ellie Lopez. She was tiny, but I knew for a fact that she did more work than two people twice her size. Her dark hair, shot with streaks of grey, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her bright blue uniform neatly pressed with a sharp crease running down the front of the slacks. A smile consumed her entire face. "Miss Tess!" She peeled off her rubber gloves and enveloped me in a hug. "Why haven't you come to see me sooner?"
Guilt instantly struck. "Well, it's been kind of a whirlwind since I got here."
She grabbed my shoulders, her face falling somber. "I'm so very sorry about your papá. He was a great man. I owe him so much," she said in heavily accented English. While Tate had grown up in Tahoe, Ellie's roots were in Mexico and, despite the fact she'd been in the country for over twenty years, her voice still held that lilting rhythm from south of the border.
I shook my head. "No, you don't. You're like family."
"You are too sweet." Tears welled in her eyes, but the smile returned to her face.
"Do you have a few minutes?" I asked, gesturing toward the chairs in the room.
"Always, for you."
I sat down across from her and released a heavy sigh. "You take care of the penthouse, right?"
"For most of my career." Her head cocked to the side, brow pinched in confusion.
"Were you working the day my dad…" I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
Ellie grabbed my hand in hers. "Sí, I was there that day."
"Did you know about his latest health drink kick?"
Shaking her head, she giggled. "Of course. Everybody knew. He said he had to be getting in shape to keep up with Britton. He mixed that drink every morning before he and Britton went down to work out and every night before he went to bed."
"Okay," I thought aloud. "If he had one before he went to bed, and was fine, then someone had to mess with the drink powder after that. Or first thing in the morning."
"Wait," Ellie picked up a room service menu and fanned herself, her face flushing pink. "Something was wrong with the drink powder?"
I nodded. "Was there anything suspicious that morning? Anyone come up there who wouldn't normally? Anything out of place?"
"Mr. King locked the penthouse down tighter than Fort Knox at night. I was let in about seven that morning to tidy up, just like always. There was nothing odd when I left at nine."
"You're sure?"
Her head bobbed, eyes wide, her gaze never leaving mine.
That cut the time frame for someone tampering with the powder to between nine and eleven that morning. My phone chirped to life, giving me no time to ponder that thought.
I pulled it from my pocket and showed Ellie the screen sporting Tate's smiling face. "Your son."
She patted my shoulder, snapped her gloves back on, and disappeared back into the bathroom.
"Hey, you," I answered.
"Are you ready to go?"
"Go?" I asked, my brain searching for the "where" that went with that.
"To the Deep Blue," Tate squealed. "Honey, there are some half-dressed men over there who aren't going to ogle themselves!"
Oh boy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Luckily Alfie had, in fact, found a way to eradicate the media from the Royal Palace grounds. Probably with a few well placed threats. And security escorts. Possibly a taser or two. Either way, the hallway outside my room was now thankfully clear, leaving me free to ditch my ski clothes, speed through a quick bite to eat from room service, and blast through the fastest shower routine of my life. I'd just dressed and put on my finishing touches of mascara and lip gloss when a noise in the hall caught my attention.
Glancing through the peephole, I saw Tate grinning from ear to ear, struggling with an armload of
garment bags.
Opening the door wide, I stood back as he wedged himself and his cargo through sideways. Tate was impeccably groomed, dressed in black skinny pants (well, as skinny as pants got on Tate's generous frame), a charcoal vest, bright purple paisley dress shirt and matching tie. He appeared about twenty pounds lighter, so I was willing to bet he had on some sort of man-Spanx as well.
"Hey, girl," he crooned, laying the bags out carefully on my couch.
I merely raised a brow and nodded toward them. His eyes widened, a guilty expression morphing his perfectly plucked, shaved, and exfoliated face. In our history together, this look has never been good. Tate was a multi-faceted individual, but guilt was rarely allowed in his repertoire.
"Before you freak out," he hedged, hands splayed toward me.
Those words? Also, not a good sign.
"All of these can be returned to the casino boutique." He waved one outstretched hand over the bags while pensively sliding the other down his side, framing his ensemble.
I rubbed my temple, very happy there was alcohol in my near future. "What is all this?"
"Well, while you are, indeed, making a fashion statement…" He paused, scanning me with his critical eye.
"What?" I asked, looking down at my little black dress. While the conservative cut wasn't exactly going to turn any heads at a club, it was about the only option I had for going out. I hadn't exactly packed for a night on the town when I'd left home.
Tate shook his head, then gripped my shoulders with both hands, face sinking into a pity pucker. "Unfortunately, the only statement your fashion is making is, 'hell, no.' Seriously, who wears funeral clothes to a party?"
I considered objecting, but the man did have a point. Instead, I watched him unzip the bags and gently drape each garment over the back of the sofa. Seven dresses total, each amazing, beautiful, stunning even, in different ways.
But so not me.
The first was a white beaded, strapless dress with barely enough material in the skirt to cover the essentials. The second was a blood red floor length evening gown with a slit up the side that wouldn't allow for any privacy. I couldn't help but turn to him and roll my eyes.
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