“Delia left last night. You know how she always wanted to see the Amazon? Her husband arranged a river cruise...” I stopped. He probably didn’t remember that much about Delia.
“You mentioned Delia.” Hank had always been a difficult man to decipher and that could make me crazy. Like now. What was he thinking?
I chewed on my lower lip, remembering the craziness before my collapse. What must he think about my reaction?
The chiming of the doorbell startled me, and I nearly dropped the mug. Luckily, he still held it. What could that be? More bad news? No, I knew the alternative. It would be much worse.
“Let me get that.” He rose, setting the mug on a glass coffee table. I could read him now. He was relieved at the interruption.
“Thank you.” My voice sounded hoarse, unfamiliar. “I’m not home, okay? To anyone.”
“I understand.” He squared his shoulders as though he was a warrior headed to battle. That was exactly what I feared he faced—a media battle.
The phone buzzed, but I ignored it. The mystery of the numerous messages was solved. I knew my newsroom had called, but other stations were probably calling too, wanting my reaction to Rick’s death. Voices drifted up from below, but I couldn’t make out words. Hopefully Hank was playing bodyguard.
Footsteps came up the steps and I turned, prepared to thank him. I didn’t want to resume the conversation, but I should explain why I reacted in such a bizarre manner. But instead of Hank, Reba’s frizzy red hair popped up the stairs.
“You okay, girlfriend? We’ve been worried.” She loped into the room with a look of concern on her pale face, making the flashes of green at her eyes and the red slash of mouth stand out. As usual she wore skin tight black leggings. Her baggy sweater was an unnatural shade of lime and her mules resembled pink stilts.
“I’m fine.” I drew a deep breath, looking beyond her. “Where’s Hank?”
“The Chief? He had to return to the crime scene. You know cops. Wham, bam, I gotta go arrest people, ma’am.”
My fingers caressed his leather jacket as disappointment surged through me. I’d wanted him to stay.
Reba surveyed the room. “Anything I can do? Make coffee or tea?”
I lifted my mug. “Hank made coffee.”
She dropped onto the black chair across from me and leaned forward as though prepared to grab me if I toppled. I must look like hell. Maybe the warm coffee and strong liquor would help.
“Do you know what happened?” I asked.
“The story is that a security guard on patrol noticed an open door. When he checked, he saw blood on the floor so he went inside and...” She lifted her shoulders and spread her hands wide.
“He’d been beaten?”
A brow twitched. “I hadn’t heard that.”
Hadn’t Hank mentioned it? “They’re sure it’s Rick?”
“The guard identified him. That’s why I came over. You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried you might...” She shrugged again. “It’s a good thing Chief Patterson came by. He seemed worried. He wanted to make certain I stayed with you. Our media vulture culture is in hot pursuit of the story.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before they turn up? Every station in town knows we dated but ironically, we broke up two weeks ago.”
Reba jerked back, shock widening her eyes. “You did?”
Guilt sliced through me and I turned away. “I haven’t told anyone except Mom and Delia. It wasn’t going to be secret much longer since he’s getting...I mean...was getting married in a couple of weeks.”
Reba leaned over and rubbed my hand. “Babe, I’m sorry. The two of you were inseparable.”
“I’m fine.” Even as I spoke, I knew that wasn’t true. I’d talked about killing the guy. I drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, practicing the exercises I used when I needed to calm down.
“Well, no one’s going to bother you. I’m here to run interference.”
As she spoke, my home phone rang again, followed quickly by the buzz of my cell. This would go on all day. I ignored them, but she hopped to her feet and marched to the counter.
I put down the mug and wiped my palm across my face. Who would want to kill Rick? Besides me, of course. Was it robbery? Probably. He’d never liked the beach bums that sometimes turned up at his door begging handouts.
Rising, I walked on wobbly legs to the wall of windows. The morning fog had receded and beyond the tinted windows, the Pacific was a boiling mass of waves, crashing on the sand sending foam, spraying in every direction.
Reba appeared next to me. “I called the assignment desk and ordered them to get our PR person to release a statement saying that you have no comment and asking to give you privacy. Uh...you wouldn’t know the name of his...new fiancée?”
“Bobbi something...with a B.” I stifled the urge to say Barbie or Bimbo. “I think the wedding announcement is supposed to be in tomorrow’s paper.”
She patted my arm. “Thanks, babe. I’ll get the desk on that.” She pulled a cell from her pocket and walked away.
Perhaps that would turn news crews in another direction. I bit back a smile as I thought of them chasing Bobbi the Bimbo instead of me. Had I told Hank about her? Oh, hell...what did he think of my weird reaction? No wonder he ran.
“Did Hank say anything?” I asked when Reba returned.
“Like what?”
“I didn’t believe him when he told me. I thought it was a joke.” I trusted Reba enough to know she’d accept my comments in their proper context so I explained my drunken conversation with Delia. “We also talked about finding me a new guy and she suggested Hank since I dated him before Rick. I thought she’d sent him so when he told me about Rick, I figured it was her doing and laughed like a lunatic.”
“Oh, fuck!” Reba slapped a hand to her face.
“I should have known Delia would never send a guy early in the morning. What if I’d answered the door in a ratty T-shirt?”
She rolled her eyes as she surveyed my clothes. “I doubt you own ratty T-shirts.”
The phone rang and I jerked around, frowning at the offending monster. “Maybe we should turn off the ringer or move it downstairs.”
“Good idea.” Reba tottered to the phone. She glanced at the caller ID and a quizzical look came over her face. “Paula Dominguez-Gardner? I didn’t know you were still in touch.”
Paula had been a pretender to my anchor throne. She’d thrown a fit because Alan and general manager Vincent Adams refused to promise her a weekly anchor spot and stormed out shortly before a newscast. She never returned. No one knew whether it was her choice to quit or she’d been fired. Two weeks later she turned up on another station using her married name, Paula Gardner.
“We haven’t spoken in ages. You know why she’s calling. Probably convinced her boss she could get me to talk. As if.”
Reba’s laugh was loud and contagious. We both knew Paula’s tactics. Chimes sounded and we exchanged startled looks. The media vultures had arrived.
“That’s probably her,” I said.
“It’ll be my pleasure to get rid of the bitch.” Reba unplugged the phone.
I returned to the sofa and huddled on the extra-firm seat, wondering if I would ever feel warm again. Despite the coffee with its strong mate, I still felt chilled. I listened for Paula’s whiny tone, but male voices floated up from below.
What a mess and no Delia to help, she’d be in South America by now. I couldn’t recall any crisis I’d faced since college when she wasn’t nearby to lend support.
Reba reappeared at the top of the stairs, followed by two men. Short haircuts, square jaws, ill-fitting suits with cheap ties, eyes that darted around the room like I might have stashed a body somewhere.
Police.
Chapter Seven
“Miss delaGarza?” An olive-skinned, balding man stepped forward. He was smaller and shorter than the other, but I sensed muscle beneath his baggy jacket.
“Yes?”
&nbs
p; The other man, younger, with a buzz cut, moved toward me as well. He was tall and big shouldered with hard brown eyes that stabbed me like he could see right through me. “We’re with the Mira Loma Police Department. We understand you’re a friend of Rick Wells. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Reba made a face and lifted a shoulder. “I tried to tell them you couldn’t talk right now.”
Drawing a deep breath, I waved them forward. I might as well get this over with. “It’ll be better to talk before the media camps outside my door. I can see the story already. Video of you leaving with the reporter saying that I was questioned. It’s a good thing no one was around when your police chief was here.”
The men traded surprised glances.
“He came to tell me about Rick’s death. I take it this is more like questioning?” I rearranged myself on the sofa, sitting straight. I felt like my body was contained in a block of ice.
“Not really questioning,” Buzz Cut said. “Just a talk.”
I put down my coffee mug. No sense letting them catch a whiff of that and making them think I was half loaded at eight in the morning. The men introduced themselves as they settled on the stiff leather chairs facing me. The older man was Lt. Jose Torres, the younger Detective Steve Callahan. I hoped they were as uncomfortable on those tortuous chairs as I was on the hard sofa. Maybe I’d replace the set while Delia was out of town. I blinked, forcing my brain back to the scene at hand. How stupid to think of something so inane at such an important moment.
Focus! I summoned the anchor face I pulled on every night to begin the news. It was supposed to convey composure, calmness and an “everything is right with our world” attitude, according to my first talent coach.
“Would you like coffee?” I asked, ever the good hostess.
The men nodded and Reba stepped forward. “Got it covered, babe.”
“When was the last time you saw Rick Wells?” Torres asked, taking out a small notebook and pen.
These guys didn’t beat around the bush. I debated how to answer, but there was no reason to lie. My final visit had been innocent. “Last night, around midnight.”
Neither registered surprise. They’d already known that.
Callahan leaned toward me, gaze intent as though watching for something. “What time did you leave?”
“Around one. When I got into my car, the one o’clock news was starting on the radio. I usually listen to news on my way to and from work. I like to keep informed.”
“Did you notice anyone outside when you left?” Torres asked.
I strained to recall, but I’d been too upset. “No.”
“Why were you there so late?” he continued.
“I worked until 11:35 anchoring the news. I stopped on my way home.”
“Where did you park?” Torres showed little interest in my answers though he scribbled in his notebook.
My gaze bounced to Callahan. He watched me with unwavering eyes.
“I park in front. It’s well lit with no place for anyone to hide. What time...do you know when he was...killed?”
“We don’t have an exact time of death,” Callahan said.
“Well, I can tell you it had to be after one.”
“Really?” Callahan said.
My mouth went dry, and I licked my lips. Neither had registered any change in demeanor, but I suddenly sensed an electric charge in the atmosphere. I looked from one to the other. “I left at one. Don’t you think I might have noticed or called 9-1-1 if he’d been dead before then?”
Callahan didn’t flinch, voice hard. “Maybe, maybe not. Not if you wanted him dead.”
“Wanted him dead? What kind of a comment is that?” I started to protest but stopped. I’d been planning Rick’s demise last week. Did these guys know that? I forced myself to look calm, sat forward and picked up my mug. I took a long, deliberate gulp of coffee.
Reba stepped from the kitchen, carrying a tray of mugs. Concerned blue-green eyes focused on me as she set the tray on the coffee table. “Maybe you should call a lawyer before you say any more.”
“Why?”
“You’re probably one of the last people to see him alive. You could become a suspect.”
An alarm bell clanged in my head.
Hello?!
Me, a suspect?
I blinked, trying to clear my fuzzy head. What the hell had I been thinking? I whirled to the police officers, but their demeanor remained stoic.
“He was fine when I left him.”
“Did you argue with him?” Torres asked in a staccato voice.
“Argue? Well...” I bit my lip. What if someone had been passing and heard my tirade? “How was he killed? The chief said he was...beaten?”
“We’re waiting for an autopsy to determine cause of death,” Torres said.
A shiver ran through me as I recalled the stunned look on Hank’s face when I was ranting about the murder. “Was it the bat?”
The men shifted before exchanging a glance. A definite reaction. Damn! I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Did you see a baseball bat while you were there?” Torres asked, eyes never leaving his notebook.
“Um...yes...” Should I say more? What would clear me and what would get me in more hot water? Reba was right. I needed a lawyer.
“Something wrong?” Callahan inquired.
“I didn’t kill him.”
Neither man moved, their faces impassive.
I gestured at Torres and his notebook. “I want that written down. On the record.”
Callahan nodded, but Torres didn’t write anything down.
“If I heard this story in the newsroom, the first person I’d suspect is...well, me.” I tapped my finger against my chest. “I am his ex-girlfriend.”
“Mind if we look around?” Callahan's gaze shifted around the room.
“Like a search?” Reba’s voice was sharp. “Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Not if she gives us permission,” Torres replied.
I had nothing to hide, but as I rose on shaky knees, I knew I was in over my head. “Let me get in touch with my lawyer. Then I’ll be happy to answer any other questions. You can tell the press I’ve agreed to be questioned.”
Both men rose. Torres nodded at Callahan who pulled a phone from his pocket. “This shouldn’t take long.”
They were going after a warrant. What did they hope to find? Reba had taken my home phone downstairs, so I excused myself and headed down to make my call in private. This was a bad joke, but how far would they take it? At the bottom of the stairs, I tripped over my shoes again. I started to pick them up and toss them in the closet, but Callahan’s bark froze me. He’d been watching from above.
“Don’t move anything.”
I stared at the shoes in dismay. Small red flecks stood out against the pale pink satin. It was wine, wasn’t it? Or could it be blood?
Oh, hell. It could be either.
I recalled Hank’s surprised look when he saw the shoes before we went upstairs. Was that why he left so quickly? Hell, was that why these guys had shown up, ready to search the place?
“We’ll need to get into your garage and the keys to your car.” Callahan hurried down the stairs as though he didn’t want to let me out of his sight.
“Rick wasn’t in my car.”
His dark granite eyes bored into me. “It could hold evidence.”
Oh, shit! The romantic comedy that was my life’s movie was taking a sinister twist. It was becoming a police drama, and I had no script prepared.
****
Saturday, noon
“This sucks!” I squirmed and tried to straighten my leg that cramped from its unnatural curled up position. Huddling under a wool blanket that smelled of dust and rubber in the luggage compartment of an SUV was not my idea of a good time.
“Did you say something?” Reba called from the front seat.
“Let me out. Any longer under this blanket and I’ll suffocate.”
Three hours had
passed since police showed up at my door. It hadn’t taken much time to get a search warrant and for crime tech types to swarm my house and transform it into a CSI episode. From the moment I watched an officer bag my stained pumps, I knew I couldn’t watch. The thought of someone touching my belongings was bad enough. But total strangers?
Even worse, the media horde arrived en masse, led by my old nemesis, Paula Gardner.
“When was the last time you saw Rick Wells?” she shouted as I peeked from an upper window. I withdrew like a turtle into its shell. I didn’t know which was worse—the plague of media locusts swarming outside or the mass of crime tech bees buzzing inside.
“I have to get out of here,” I pleaded to Reba.
The ever-resourceful EP lifted a red-tipped index finger. “Lindy’s on her way in a station van to oversee the search. I’ll have her drive into your garage and we’ll stash you in the back. I did that once to get a crew into a restricted area.”
It sounded like a good idea, but now I’d had enough. I was no female action star in a black leather jump suit. I was the Queen in cashmere!
The vehicle jerked to a stop and Reba lifted the cover. I unwound my stiff body and blinked like I hadn’t seen sunlight in days.
“What did your lawyer say?” she asked as I buckled myself into the front seat.
“Adrienne’s firm doesn’t handle criminal cases, so she’s finding someone. Her advice was to funnel interview requests to my agent and stay out of sight.”
“Evan Flynn, right? I’ll tell the station. Got a game plan?”
I chewed on my lower lip. “No. I wish Delia was here. Her father was a criminal lawyer.”
“You can’t call him?”
“Mr. Burnett has been dead for years.” The deaths of our fathers our freshman year had bonded us. We shared every good and bad event in our lives until now.
“Damn, this story will lead every newscast tonight.” Nervous tension vibrated in Reba’s voice. “Murder among the rich and famous is a big draw.”
“Rick wasn’t rich or famous.”
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