My stomach twists. I didn’t really mean what I said. A cocktail of shock and rage shoots through me. “Fucking liar! Newsflash: I’m the one who found you and called 911.” The one who held you, prayed for you, kissed…I banish the memory of that day before tears betray me.
Pops corroborates what I’ve said. “It’s true. Zoey did. We still have the dispatcher’s recording.”
Brandon is stunned into silence. Finally, in a soft voice, he says, “Zoey, why didn’t you tell me?”
My voice softens too. “I thought you knew.”
“I’m sorry, Zo.” He brushes his hand along my jawline. His tender touch sets me on fire. I feel myself flushing with tingles all over. Wondering if Pops notices, I glance his way. His brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together, and he’s rubbing a thumb across his dimpled chin. I know that expression. I’ve seen it a zillion times before. He’s onto something.
“Pops, what are you thinking?”
He lowers his hand, but his brows remain knitted. “If Scott Turner is lying, that changes everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Babycakes, tell me again the conversation you overheard. Word for word.”
Thanks to my eidetic memory, I recite it as if I’ve just heard it, making use of my acting skills to imitate their voices. “The man who shot Mama shouted, ‘You fucked up once. Don’t do it again.’ And then Scott nervously replied, ‘Okay, okay, I’ll take care of it.’”
Almost instantly, I gasp and clasp my hand to my mouth. I construe their exchange in a whole new way. “Pops, do you think they were referring to Brandon’s hit and run?”
Pops looks at me with intensity. “Possibly. The two of them may have something to do with it. I have a hunch someone’s trying to knock off Brandon. And there could be a connection between the accident and your mother’s murder.”
Brandon and I both quietly digest Pops’s words. Brandon breaks the silence. “Detective, what’s the next step?”
“I want Zoey to come into headquarters tomorrow and talk to our sketch artist. We need to find out who this man is.”
“I’ll bring her. I don’t want her driving yet, especially downtown.”
Pops smiles warmly. “Thanks. Afterward, I’m going to talk to Scott. Check out his cell phone as well as his alibi and do some digging. Maybe we can dredge up something that ties everything together. Maybe there’s even a connection to Kremins.”
“Kremins?” asks Brandon, puzzled.
Pops fills Brandon in. Conrad Kremins was the man who was shot along with Mama. What Pops learned in the investigation of their murders was that he was a sleazy sex club operator who had a lot of enemies and was in major debt. My mother’s bullet was probably meant for him.
A pang of sadness assaults me at the thought of her senseless murder before giving way to a burst of optimism and excitement. Pops is going to find the evil man who did this to her! And uncover the cruel person who ran Brandon over and left him for dead. I just know it.
Setting my soda down, I leap up from the couch and give my father another big hug. “Oh, Pops, you’re the best!”
He laughs his hearty laugh. “We’re going to solve this mystery once and for all.” He turns to Brandon and, with a wink, does his best Kurt Kussler imitation: “Get it. Got it?…”
“Good,” chimes in Brandon, smiling brightly. He really seems to like my dad.
“One last thing. Brandon, do you have a bodyguard?”
Brandon screws up his face. “No way. I’m an action hero. I can take care of myself. And I don’t like people following me around.”
Pops twists his mouth. “I seriously think you should have one. Your life may be in jeopardy.”
Brandon polishes off his beer. “I’ll think about it.”
Knowing my headstrong boss, I doubt he’ll acquiesce. Despite the megastar he is, he’s never traveled with an entourage except on very special occasions like award shows.
Pops presses his lips thin. My perceptive father already knows it’s futile. “Well then, until you decide, I’m going to set up twenty-four hour police surveillance outside your house. I can’t have my daughter in danger either.”
Brandon twitches a half-smile. “That’s a good idea.” He pauses, casting his eyes my way. “And I’m going to make sure nothing happens to her. Zoey means a lot to me.”
At his unexpected words, I feel myself flushing and once again try to process what he just said.
“I appreciate that, Brandon. She means a lot to me too,” Pops says before glancing down at his battered watch. “Gotta go. The missus is waiting for me. Oh, and by the way, she can’t thank you enough for those signed DVDs. She displays the box on our fireplace mantle like it’s some rare piece of art.”
Brandon’s megawatt smile widens. God, he’s so gorgeous when he smiles. “Glad to hear that. Can you hang out for a minute?”
“Sure,” says Pops as Brandon jogs out of the room. He returns in no time, holding what looks to be a glossy photo. Sure enough, it’s a miniature version of the shattered Kurt Kussler poster I still have propped up against a wall in my bedroom. He hands it to Pops.
“I’ve already signed it.”
“Holy baloney! She’s going to love this!”
Brandon is beaming like a proud boy scout. “And tell her, she can drop by the set anytime she wants. Just have her call Zoey to arrange for a pass to get onto the lot.” He shoots me a saucy wink.
Clenching my teeth, I shoot him back a look that says “screw you, asshole.” He always has to one up me with my father, making me look like the bad guy. I try to keep my cool, but Brandon’s flirtatious, cocky grin makes it difficult.
“Sure. No problem.” A retaliatory smirk and then I pause. “Brandon, I’m going to walk my father to his car, if that’s okay with you. I think I can handle it.”
Brandon stands and shakes my father’s hand. “Take good care of her, Detective. I need her around. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The late January night air is crisp and refreshing. The lit up LA skyline is basked in moonlight. It feels good to be outside having been cooped up in Brandon’s house for almost two days though I shouldn’t be complaining. I’ve been treated like a queen, waited and doted on by the King of Good Looking. I walk Pops to his car, which is parked in the driveway. He buckles up his rumpled trench coat while I lift up the wide collar.
“Pops, you really should get a new coat. It’s time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what your mother says too. But I like this one.”
I giggle. You can’t change Pops. He digs his hand into a pocket and retrieves his car keys. He could use a new car too, but knowing Pops, he’ll be buried in the one he’s driving. A 1985 Chevy Impala that he’s had since his first day on the force.
Catching me distracted, he tilts up my chin with the thumb of his other hand.
“Babycakes, you like him.”
I laugh lightly. Nervously “He’s my boss. He’s an asshole most of the time.”
He tilts my chin higher “You more than like him. You’re in love with him.”
A sudden chill sweeps over me. My heart stutters. “What makes you say that, Pops?”
“I’m a detective. I may not read big books with fancy words, but I read body language.”
My father can read people like an encyclopedia. That’s what makes him so good at his job. My chest tightens, my throat constricts, and my heart speeds up. I let him continue because I’m speechless.
“It’s the little things. The way you look at him. Hang on to his every word. The tilt of your head. Those little eye tics. The way you let him touch you.”
Tears cluster in my eyes. My voice is a rasp. “It’s that obvious?”
He brushes away a rebel tear that’s fallen. “Yupparoo.” Before I can bemoan my fate, he adds, “And he’s in love with you.”
My heart skips a loud beat. That can’t be! I’m just his overweight, lowly assistant. “Pops, what are you talking about?”
Pops’s heartfelt words are almost like poetry. Powerful emotions pull my chest apart. Like a tug of war. There is so much of me that wants to believe what my father just said, but doubt yanks at my heartstrings.
“Pops, he’s in love with Katrina. He just doesn’t remember. I’m not even his type.”
Moving both hands to my shoulders, Pops holds my teary gaze in his loving gray eyes. “Babycakes, you may not be his type, but you’re his preference. Trust me, I’ve seen that Katrina and she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
I warm at Pops’s compliment, but it doesn’t change reality. I remind him they’re getting married on national TV in May.
Unfazed, Pops smiles. “A lot can change in a couple of months.” He unlocks the car door and then swings it open. Before sliding into the beat up vehicle, he slaps a kiss on my forehead.
“Life’s not a done deal. One kiss…one night…one memory…can change everything. See you two kids tomorrow.”
He scoots into the car, turns on the cranky ignition, and then pulls out of the driveway. I hug myself to keep warm as he disappears into the night.
Zoey
“Holy mother of Jesus! Is that who I think it is?” gasps Alma Lopez, who’s co-manning the front desk at my father’s busy downtown precinct.
I can’t help smiling. “Yes, Alma. Meet my boss, Brandon Taylor.”
Looking like she may faint, the flustered officer’s breathing grows shallow as she begins to fan herself. “Dios mio!”
“I’d be honored to take a photo with you before I leave,” says Brandon, acting every bit the star he is. “You can post it on Instagram or Facebook or wherever you want.”
My eyes stay on Brandon while my smile grows bigger. I just love the way he gives back to his adoring fans. So willingly and unabashedly. So many stars don’t. I remember once when I was thirteen with a plaster cast on my arm (a stupid rollerblading accident), I encountered a famous star (sorry, no names) who I adored in a restaurant and built up the courage to ask him to sign the cast. The asshole refused. “Excuse me. I’d like to enjoy my lunch,” he said coldly and dismissively shooed me away. He made me feel like I was three feet tall. Total humiliation!
More and more people recognize Brandon while Alma calls my father. In no time, he’s mobbed. It’s almost a sitcom. Even the drunk homeless guy recognizes him and begs him to sign his tattered blanket. Brandon is cordial to everyone, regardless of race, background, or creed. With a big smile, he poses for one photo after another and signs autographs for everyone on everything—from body parts and outerwear to subpoenas and parole papers.
A familiar voice grabs my attention. Pops. Munching on a sandwich, he lumbers through the security door. He grins at the sight of Brandon’s fandom.
“C’mon, babycakes. Brenda, our sketch artist, is eager to meet with you.”
I tug at Brandon’s non-stop autographing arm. He turns to me and I’m seriously in awe of how hot damn gorgeous he is even under unflattering florescent lighting. My heart thuds.
“I’m going with Pops to meet with the sketch artist.”
“Want me to come with you?” he asks while signing someone’s police report.
Pops answers before I can. “It’s better if they’re one on one.” And then he grins. “Besides you have your work cut out for you.”
“It’s all in the line of duty,” retorts Brandon with a line that’s straight out of a Kurt Kussler episode.
After exchanging a smile with my busy superstar boss, I follow Pops through the door to a small, windowless room at the end of a long, bustling hallway. An attractive, casually dressed forty-something woman with a coil of copper curls is seated at a table. She smiles at me warmly.
“Hi, I’m Brenda”
I glance at her badge. Her full name: Brenda McCay. Her sparkling hazel eyes meet mine.
“We’re going to work together to figure out who this asshole is.”
I like her…her choice of words…her fuck-the-bastard mentality.
“I’m ready,” I say, taking a seat across from her. In addition to her laptop and a tablet, numerous binders are scattered on the surface of the table. The memory of talking to a sketch artist right after Mama’s shooting comes back to me as if it were only yesterday. The binders are filled with reference images that will help me pinpoint the features of the man I saw with Scott and help Brenda build her facial composite.
“Babycakes, I’ll be back shortly,” says Pops. “Don’t hold back. Brenda is top notch.” My eyes follow him out the door.
Brenda turns her laptop so that the screen faces me. I watch as she lays a sheet of paper over the tablet.
“Don’t you have a sketch pad?” I ask, remembering how fascinated I was by the sketch artist I met with when I was five-years old.
“You’re looking at it,” she says, adjusting the sheet of paper. “We’re going to do this digitally. While I draw on my tablet, you’ll be able to see the image on the laptop screen and let me know if I need to make adjustments.”
“Cool!” Just like on Kurt Kussler! LAPD has joined the twenty-first century.
Brenda begins her interrogation. Not only do criminal sketch artists need to have drawing skills, but they also need people and listening skills.
“So, Zoey, tell me about the man you saw. What did he look like?” Brenda’s voice is warm and immediately puts me at ease.
With my eidetic memory, I picture him clearly in my mind’s eye. “He had a broad, pockmarked face with a squashed nose. Oh, and a really thick neck.”
As I talk, Brenda sketches, and an outline of the suspect’s face materializes on my computer screen.
“Like this?” she asks.
“Kind of. His face was squarer and his nose more spread out. Like it’s been broken a few times.” I flip through one of the reference books to show her what I mean. She modifies the sketch.
“Yes! Like that!” Excitement colors my voice.
“Tell me about his eyes.”
“They were dark and beady. Very close together.”
“And his brows?”
“Dark and bushy. Very close to his eyes.”
“Did they cross the bridge of his nose?”
“Yes. They met in the middle.”
“And what about his hair?”
“Reddish brown. Very short. Almost a buzz.” I flip through another notebook until I find an almost identical hairline.
“And his mouth?”
“Like a pair of sausages.”
My eyes grow as wide as saucers as I watch the face take shape. And then as Brenda fills in the lips, I gasp at the image on the laptop screen.
“Oh my God! That’s him!”
“Are you sure, Zoey?”
“I’m one hundred percent positive.”
“Let me call your father.” My eyes stay on the composite while she uses the tabletop phone to summon Pops. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with anticipation.
Two minutes later, Pops rejoins us. A thick accordion folder is in his hand. It’s marked: Case #1567: Angela Hart. My mother’s file. It’s now considered a cold case though Pops has never stopped searching for Mama’s murderer. He plops down on the chair next to mine and sets the file down next to the laptop. Reaching inside it, he withdraws a sheet of paper and lays it flat on the table. I recognize it immediately. It’s the police sketch of the man who fired a gun at me twenty years ago. My eyes bounce from it to the computer screen with the new sketch and then flick to my father.
“Pops, they’re one and the same!” Even though the man I just described is substantially heavier and now has a receding hairline and facial lines that show his age, they are undoubtedly the same person. The same ugly monster. My heart is racing.
“Brenda, can you run your new sketch through our data
base and see if we can get a match?”
“Absolutely.”
With baited breath, I wait for the results. This is something that wasn’t possible to do twenty years ago. Computer technology has allowed for so many breakthroughs in criminology.
In a matter of seconds, a mug shot appears on the screen next to the sketch. My heart skips a beat.
“Pops! That’s him! The man I saw with Scott! Mama’s murderer!”
Wordlessly, Pops presses a couple of keys on the laptop keyboard. In a few rapid heartbeats, the suspect’s name pops up.
Pops reads it aloud.
“Frank Donatelli. Age 51.”
Hastily, he puts the phone on speaker and punches a four-digit extension.
“Mancuso,” booms a deep voice on the first ring.
“It’s Pete. I’m with Brenda.” Pops’s voice is urgent. “Get me everything you can on Frank Donatelli. I need it NOW!”
“On it.” The call ends.
Five minutes later, Lieutenant Mancuso, one of Pops’s favorite and most reliable officers on the force, joins us, with a printout in his hand. He hands it to Pops. Pops slips his reading glasses that are on top of his head over the bridge of his nose. With lips pressed tight, he reads the material.
“Fuck.”
“What, Pops?”
“Donatelli is a loan shark who works for the Mob. He’s known as ‘The Finger’—for both his fuck-you attitude and his trigger-happy skills.”
“You should be able to find him.”
“Babycakes, it’s not that easy. He’s a ghost.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s invisible. Off the grid. No address. No social security number. Uses fake identities and only burner phones. In other words, he’s untraceable.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. If Pops doesn’t think he can find him, no one can.
“What’s the next step?” I ask my father, my voice thick with disappointment.
“We’re going to circulate his photo, issue a warrant for his arrest, and maybe bring in the FBI.” He pauses. “And have someone on the force keep an eye on Scott. They may have contact again.”
Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) Page 4