Pooja nodded breathlessly. “Yes. And he’s asking for EJ.”
“Officer Ferris?” Quigley asked incredulously.
They both looked at me, Pooja with curiosity and Quigley with suspicion, and I heaved a sigh. “I’ll get rid of him.”
“Get rid of him! No, no,” Quigley said, practically leaping over his desk in his hurry to fawn at the movie star’s feet. “If he wants to see you—I don’t know why—but take all the time you need. If only we had time to get reporters over here. Having Ethan Jarrett in the mall would boost customer traffic significantly.”
Quigley led the way out of his office, hurrying with his hand out toward the tall, handsome man standing relaxed by Pooja’s desk, eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. He wore pressed jeans, a crisp white shirt open at the neck, and a navy blazer.
“Mr. Jarrett,” Quigley said. “Such an honor! I’m Curtis Quigley, director of mall operations. How can we help you today?”
“Call me Ethan.” The actor removed his sunglasses and smiled the smile, the endearing one where his lips quirked up on one side, that had made two generations of female moviegoers swoon. I knew he was in his midfifties, but good genes or discreet plastic surgery made him look no older than forty. With evenly tanned skin, a square chin, thick brown hair cut short, and piercing blue eyes, he deserved the title of “World’s Sexiest Man” that some magazine had bestowed on him not once, but twice.
“Ethan, then.” Quigley almost quivered with pleasure. “We can arrange a private shopping experience for you if—”
“I wouldn’t put you to the bother,” Ethan said. “I was hoping I could steal EJ for a bit, if you can do without her for an hour or so?”
He turned the smile on me, and I couldn’t help but respond with a smile of my own. “Hi, Ethan. You’re looking well.” I let him gather me into a huge bear hug while Pooja and Quigley looked on in astonishment. His solidity felt comforting, and I hugged him back tightly.
“Can I take you to lunch?” He looked down at me fondly.
“I already ate,” I said. “And I’m on duty.”
Quigley interrupted. “No, no—take her to lunch. Absolutely ! We can spare Officer Ferris—EJ—for a while. You just go.” He made shooing motions at me, clearly befuddled by my lack of enthusiasm about dining with one of Hollywood’s top moneymakers. “I’ll clear it with Captain Woskowicz.”
“Thanks, Curtis,” Ethan said, holding the door for me.
Resigned, I passed through the door, and he followed after signing an autograph for Pooja.
“It’s a nice enough mall,” Ethan said, matching his pace to my slower one as we walked. “Bigger than I realized.”
I laughed. Ethan probably hadn’t been in a mall since Dead to Rights turned him into an action star in his late twenties. His clothes were custom-made, and he had a shopper on his staff, Sally, who went slumming at Tiffany’s or Harry Winston’s to pick out gifts for Ethan to present on the right occasions: birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries. I knew; I’d received more than one elegant jewelry box myself and always made sure to thank Sally.
“Where shall we eat? Citronelle?”
In downtown D.C., a good hour and more from here each way, plus at least two hours in the restaurant. “I can’t, Ethan. I’ve really got to work. Let’s just grab a coffee—okay?—and we can get together tonight.”
He accepted the rebuff with good grace. “Whatever you want, EJ.”
We—okay, Ethan—attracted stares and not a few gasps on our way to the Bean Bonanza. For once, no one was tacky enough to interrupt us, and we settled on a bench near the kiosk once we got our coffees. A philodendron in the planter behind us tickled my cheek, and I automatically scanned the shrubbery for any sign of Agatha. I told Ethan what I was doing and he laughed. “A python? Really? I’ll have to work that into a script.” Everything in his life was fodder for a script or developing a character or some other aspect of his career, but I was used to that.
We chatted about his latest movie until he asked, “What about you? Solve that murder you told me about?”
I sighed. “Not yet. In fact, now there’s two more bodies to worry about.” I spent fifteen minutes bringing him up-to-date.
“If I were writing the script, I’d play it so everyone thought it was the wife, or maybe the son—does he have to die?”
“’Fraid so.” Too many years in Hollywood surrounded by dead bodies created by makeup and special effects could really warp your sense of reality.
“Hm. Well, then I’d make it look like the wife until the final scene where it turns out to be the mistress and her new lover. Or maybe the gorgeous mall cop he seduced and—”
“Ethan!”
He grinned at me, and I heard at least one passing shopper gasp. I couldn’t blame her; the full-wattage Ethan Jarrett grin had the knock-out power of a Muhammad Ali punch. I started to rise, but he put a hand on my knee and held me in place. “How’s it doing?”
I didn’t like talking about my injury, not even with Ethan or my mom or Kyra. “Fine.”
My tone of voice should’ve ended the discussion, but Ethan said, “You need a job where you’re not on your feet all the time. I could hook you up at my production company—I’d make you a vice president, in fact, with an eye toward turning over the reins to you—”
“No!” It came out too harshly, and Ethan looked wounded. “It’s not like we haven’t talked about this before. I appreciate the offer—I really do—but I love police work.”
His perfectly groomed brows rose. “But you’re not doing police work, are you? You’re a glorified security guard, hired to provide a façade—”
“Thanks for the support,” I said, turning my head away so he wouldn’t see my tears.
He tried to turn my face toward him. “You know I’d be happy to pay—”
“Is everything okay, EJ?”
Jay Callahan’s voice came from beside us, and I looked up to see him staring disapprovingly at Ethan’s hand on my knee. I brushed it off, my face flushing. I blinked rapidly to get rid of the lingering tears.
“Everything’s fine, Jay,” I said.
“Because if this guy is bothering you . . .”
Either Jay didn’t recognize Ethan or he didn’t care about making a good impression; either way, it made me smile. I stood and Ethan followed suit, eyeing Jay narrowly. “Ethan,” I said, “this is Jay Callahan. He owns the Legendary Lola’s franchise in the food court. Jay, meet my dad.”
“Your dad!” Jay’s eyes widened, and he looked from me to Ethan before his lips curled into a slight smile. “I can see the resemblance,” he said, extending his hand to Ethan. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your daughter’s a pistol.”
Nothing bugged Ethan more than me or Clint calling him “Dad” in public and making it abundantly clear he couldn’t possibly be the forty he looked. He contented himself with a sideways look at me and gripped Jay’s hand. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Both men laughed and I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got to get back to work.” I stretched up to peck Ethan on the cheek. “Dinner tonight?”
“I’ll send the limo to pick you up. Your mom’s anxious to see you. She’d’ve come with me today except she’s got a slight cold.”
A gaggle of middle-aged women who’d been hovering by the Bean Bonanza sliding sidelong looks at Ethan got up their courage and came over, exclaiming over his brilliant acting and begging for autographs. I felt no compunction about deserting him since he lived for the fans’ adulation. I slipped away only to find Jay at my side a moment later. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, falling into step beside me.
“Lucky me.” My tone verged on the sarcastic, but I was surprisingly pleased to have him accompany me.
“So, the humble mall security officer is really a Hollywood princess in disguise,” he teased, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Not hardly,” I said discouragingly. “I renounced my crown when I joined the military.”
“Why
aren’t your names the same?”
“They are. He’s Ethan Jarrett Ferris, but uses Ethan Jarrett as his stage name. I was named after him—EJ.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d fit in with the Hollywood crowd,” he said, studying my profile, “although you’re certainly beautiful enough to make it in the movies.”
“Oh, please,” I brushed aside his compliment. “And I fit in far too well for far too long. I did the whole scene, including bad grades, too many parties, lots of booze. I woke up with a hangover the day after my high school graduation and took a good, long look in the mirror. It was ugly. I went down to the recruiter’s office that afternoon and signed up.”
“I’ll bet that went over well with your folks.” Jay’s hazel eyes held interest and a hint of a smile.
I smiled back. “Like a turd in the pool . . . like maggots in the flour . . . like a dent in the Bugatti.” I’d run out of comparisons. “You’d’ve thought I announced I was joining the Taliban instead of the United States Air Force.”
Jay laughed. “Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
I just arched one brow. “How did your folks take it when you told them you wanted to be a cop?”
If I’d hoped to trip him up, I’d failed. He merely smiled and lifted a hand in farewell as we reached the turnoff for the security office. “Have fun at dinner tonight. Tell your dad I really liked his last movie, the one where he was a starship captain.”
I shook my head and pushed through the door of the security office, thinking about how to discourage questions about Ethan. No one here knew about our relationship, and I wanted to keep it that way. I semiregretted telling Jay, but something told me I could trust him to keep a secret. Maybe it was the way he stayed mum about who and what he really was.
When I went off shift at three, I debated running by Merlin’s Cave to see if Kyra wanted to make up. We rarely disagreed and I didn’t like feeling cut off from her; still, she started it, I told myself, deciding just to head home. She should apologize first. Something crinkled in my jacket when I put it on, and I reached in and pulled out the photos of eco-terrorists I’d printed off the Internet. I’d forgotten to show them to Kiefer or Monica to see if they recognized any of them as the man and woman who had been traipsing through their stores in camo gear. The Herpes Hut was only a little out of my way, so I decided to drop in there before heading to the parking lot.
Kiefer was alone in the store, using a long-handled scrubbing pad to clean algae off the terrariums’ walls. A faint stink of wetness and reptile poop made me wrinkle my nose. When I told him what I wanted, he willingly put down the pad and stripped off his rubber gloves. “Sure, let me look at them.” He leaned over the counter where I’d spread the eight photos, the beads on the ends of his dreads clicking against the glass.
“That’s the dude,” he said, stabbing a finger down on the second-to-last page. “I don’t see the chick, but this is definitely the guy.”
I studied the photo he indicated. It was three years old and featured a young man with light, crew-cut hair, thin lips, and an angry expression. He was front and center in a crowd of demonstrators raising their fists and apparently shouting at someone outside the frame. The caption identified him as Henrik Dawson, leader of the animal rights group Freedom for All Animals. Kiefer and I looked at each other. “Maybe he decided LOAF made a better acronym than FFAA and changed the name?” Kiefer said.
I nodded. “‘Lovers of Animal Freedom’ sounds a lot like ‘Freedom for All Animals.’ I’ll get this photo over to the police and let them know that you’ve ID’d our buddy Henrik. Maybe they can roust him and he’ll tell them where Agatha is.”
“I hope so.” Kiefer turned sad eyes toward the empty enclosure. “I know it sounds foolish because it’s not like snakes are affectionate or companionable, but I miss her.”
“It doesn’t sound silly to me,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”
Twenty
Heartened by my success with Kiefer, I hurried over to Diamanté to see if Monica could ID Henrik Dawson as well. She was outside the store, talking on a cell phone, which snapped shut when she caught sight of me. Her angry frown and hostile glare told me she’d talked to Velma.
“You keep away from my daughter,” she said by way of greeting. A soft blue blouse cast an unflattering light on her complexion, making her look sallow. Another short skirt showed off legs encased in brown tights and knee-high boots.
“I only asked her a couple of questions about Porter,” I said. “I thought she might remember something that would point us toward his murderer.”
“I know what you’re really doing,” Monica said.
That put her ahead of me.
“You’re looking for a scapegoat. You think that just because Velma slept with Jackson that she killed him. Well, she didn’t. She loved him and he loved her. He was going to divorce Elena and marry my daughter.” She blinked rapidly, depositing mascara flakes under her eyes.
I had no answer to her astonishing declaration. Velma Maldonado hadn’t struck me as being a woman madly in love—quite the opposite in fact. Had Velma exaggerated the nature of her and Porter’s feelings for each other to appease her mother’s sense of propriety? Or had Monica invented this fairy tale of star-crossed love because she was embarrassed by Velma’s being Porter’s mistress?
“Could she have borrowed your key to the store? Maybe without you knowing . . .” I let my words trail off suggestively, knowing that sometimes you get more information from an interviewee who is off balance, either frightened or mad. My words fanned Monica’s anger to new heights.
“Are you implying—? You think that I—that Velma—?” She thrust her chin forward pugnaciously. “Yes, I have a key, but Velma never borrowed it. And it’s not like I’m the only person with a key. There must be dozens floating around. And they’re cheapo anyway. If you jiggle them good, some of them will unlock stores they’re not supposed to. I know because Mr. Song at Himalayan Imports”—she nodded to the shop across the corridor—“let me in one morning when I forgot my key. The security in this place wouldn’t stop a disabled six-year-old from breaking in.”
Monica continued to blast the mall’s security shortcomings while I reflected that she was largely correct. With the exception of the jewelry stores, which had advanced alarm systems tied into private response companies, most of the stores in the mall worried far more about shoplifters during the day than burglars breaking in after hours. As an eagerbeaver newcomer, I’d gone to Woskowicz and Quigley after I’d worked here a couple months with a plan for beefing up security, and gone down in flames. No money, Quigley said. No need, Woskowicz said.
Pursuing the topic with Monica would clearly get me nowhere, so I stopped the flood of words by holding out the photos I’d shown Kiefer. “Actually, I’ve got some photos I want you to look at. Have you ever seen any of these people before?”
Monica gave me a suspicious look but reached for the sheaf of copies. Her eyes widened and her gaze flicked to me when she got to the photo of Henrik Dawson. “This guy. Why, he’s the one who was in the store, the one I told you about.”
“Thank you very much,” I said with satisfaction.
“Did he kill Jackson?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m on my way to the police station now to give this information to the detective in charge of the case.” Not that I expected him to be grateful.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you for this?” Detective Helland said half an hour later, waving the photo of Henrik Dawson I’d given him. We stood by a vending machine in the Vernonville Police Department while it spewed out pale brown mystery liquid. I’d arrived at the brick building in the town’s center—two blocks of shops and restaurants in Colonial-era buildings fronted by brick sidewalks—ten minutes earlier and spent the time examining the pleasant, caramel-painted walls of the waiting area while the desk sergeant sent for Helland. A divorced husband and wife were doing a kid h
and-off in one corner of the waiting room, and I thought how sad it was that some marriages ended with such hostility that the former lovers could only meet safely in a police station. The toddler wailed and reached for his father as the mother hoisted the kid in her arms and headed for the door, a slightly older child clinging to her hand. Helland came to fetch me, and I turned away from the sad scene.
“Of course I don’t expect you to be grateful,” I responded to what was probably a rhetorical question. “I’ve known you for a week now and my expectations are low.”
Helland glared at me for a moment, and then a brilliant smile lighted his face. “I’ve got to say you’re persistent.” He took a cautious sip of his coffee and made a face. Turning, he headed down a linoleumed hallway and I followed, even though he hadn’t asked me to. Instead of the official photos of cops and former police chiefs I expected, the walls were hung with landscape photographs showing scenes from around the region. I stopped in front of a particularly evocative photo of the Blue Ridge Mountains with a smear of mist hazing their outline. Tiny gold letters in the corner proclaimed “A. Helland.”
“You took this?” I asked, astonished. It was good, so good I wouldn’t have minded hanging it in my living room.
Helland glanced over his shoulder but continued down the hall. “It’s a hobby.” With an impatient gesture, he motioned me into his office. I was still thinking about the photograph and how it revealed a creative—even sensitive?—side of him I’d never have expected.
I looked around with unabashed curiosity. More landscape photos—black-and-white studies of trees—decorated the wall behind his desk. A fish bowl with a lone Siamese fighting fish sat on a credenza near a computer printer. File folders, case binders, a computer, and other office paraphernalia took up most of the available space on the desk and bookshelves. The absence of personal items made it hard to get a read on his family situation. Not that it was anything to do with me, I told myself hastily. He could be married with six kids and it wouldn’t make a difference to me.
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