Cat smirked. “You have a very vivid imagination.”
“I wonder how vivid. You’re telling me you just happened to be there at the perfect moment tonight, right? You got your exclusive pictures. You ran out of the parking lot and raced away—twenty-five miles over the speed limit. But you didn’t have anything to do with the alarm.”
He raised both hands, palms up. “You got it.”
“And you also just happened to be at the very concert where a member of the Rayne tour was murdered.”
“Guess I’m lucky that way.”
My fingers curled around the arms of my chair. Lucky to have Tom murdered? I wanted to strangle Len Torret.
If Detective Furlow thought Cat’s answer was despicable, he didn’t show it. He rested his left elbow on the table, fingers digging into his cheek. “Just for the sake of argument, without that fire alarm, how would you have gotten your pictures of Shaley tonight?”
No answer.
He scratched his head. “Tell me, why are pictures of Miss O’Connor so important?”
Cat looked at him like he was an imbecile. “They’re worth lots of money, that’s why. Especially after the hair dresser got himself killed — and she found him. Every magazine in the country wants pictures of that band right now, and especially Shaley.”
“So the murder, because it’s a big news story, makes your photos of the band more valuable.”
“Yeah.”
The detective nodded thoughtfully. “And you say it was sheer ‘luck’ that you were at the concert when Tom was killed. None of your competitors were there — only you. When the band members drove away from the arena that night — once again, you got pictures.”
Cat pressed back his thin shoulders, his head turning to one side. He gave the detective a look to kill out of the corner of his eye. “What you’re insinuating is insane. You keep up that kind of talk, this friendly little conversation is over.”
Ross shook his head. I knew what he was thinking — this man knows far more than he’s telling.
Detective Furlow drummed his fingers on the table. “You were also at the mall this afternoon when Miss O’Connor was there.”
“I was there because I’d had my feelers out about town, including the mall. Knowing the band had a day off, I figured one of them would show up somewhere. My diligence paid off. Apparently, my competitors had flocked into town after hearing about the murder. They all ended up at the mall too. So don’t pin that one on me.”
Cat ran his tongue between his lips and shifted in the chair. The detective said nothing, as if waiting for him to fill the silence.
“Besides, I’ve been doing some investigating of my own.” A self-satisfied expression etched Cat’s face. “Sounds like Shaley O’Connor was pretty close to this Tom guy.”
Mom hissed. My hands flew to my mouth. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. The media was hearing how Tom felt about me? What would they be saying on TV tomorrow? Would some reporter even manage to get into Tom’s apartment and film his wall?
Sickness rolled around my stomach.
“Really?” The detective looked puzzled. “Where’d you hear that?”
Cat made a face. “I don’t have to tell you.”
I swallowed hard. Could he just be faking it?
But then how’d he know?
Ross ran a hand across his forehead. “Leaks,” he said quietly. “It happens in police investigations all the time. Maybe he paid somebody on the force to talk.”
Only then did I remember that Ross didn’t know the full story. He hadn’t heard about Tom’s wall.
Detective Furlow cleared his throat. “Seems to me, Mr. Torret, if you wanted pictures of Shaley so badly, you’d go to some extra means to get them — like pulling a fire alarm.”
Cat rolled his eyes. “Are we back to that again?”
The detective looked at him straight on. “Did you?”
“No.”
“He’s lying,” Mom said.
The detective let the answer hang in the air for a moment. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“How about the weather?” Cat smirked. “It was a lovely day yesterday, don’t you think? And no rain predicted for today. But then, it rarely rains in northern California in the summer.”
Impatience flicked across the detective’s face, then was gone. He straightened his back. “You said you were at the concert Friday. Where were you exactly from ten to eleven o’clock?”
Cat’s lips parted, and he stared, playing up his shock. “You’re really serious? You think I killed that guy? I wasn’t anywhere near him!”
“Look, we’re asking everyone who was anywhere in the vicinity. If you had nothing to do with it, better to help us rule you out now.”
“Fine. I was outside in the parking lot, as close as media was allowed to get. If you don’t believe me, ask the local reporters and photographers who were there. Someone’s bound to remember me.”
Detective Furlow nodded. “I’ll do that. But the question is—who was backstage that you were working with?” “Huh?”
The detective rubbed a hand across the table. “You might not have killed Tom Hutchens yourself. But I think you paid someone else to do it.”
“What? You’re out of your mind!”
“Am I?” The detective leaned forward. “I know about your history with Tom. How you followed Rayne and Shaley O’Connor too closely one night last year. When Shaley got upset, Tom stepped in your face and shoved your camera away. You said — and I quote — ‘You’ll pay for this.’”
I frowned. Why was the detective pushing so hard all of a sudden? Wouldn’t that make Cat just quit talking?
The photographer gave him a look. “So you think I had the guy killed. Just for that?”
“Not just for that. I think you also had him killed because you knew a murder on the Rayne tour would shoot the price of photos of the band sky high. And you figured after the way he defended Shaley, maybe he had a thing for her. All the more reason for pictures of her to rocket in price after his death.”
Cat shoved to his feet. “You’re crazy. I’m not —” He waved his hands in the air. “This conversation is over.”
Detective Furlow remained seated. “Fine. It can be over anytime you want. Just know that I’m going to keep investigating you.”
“You won’t find anything!” Cat’s eyes flashed.
“I wonder. Because I think it all ties in to the photo of Shaley you took in the hotel parking lot on Friday night. You know, the one with ‘Always Watching’ on the back that you dropped in her shopping bag at the mall?”
Cat stilled. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to pull himself together, then forced a smile. Slowly, with precise movements, he sat down. He leaned over the table as if talking to a stupid child. “Look. Mr. Detective. I don’t know what your game is here, but you’re wasting your time with me. Why don’t you go find the real killer?”
Detective Furlow held Cat’s gaze — for such a long time that Cat lost his cool. He leaned back, fingers fidgeting.
The detective cupped his jaw. “Do you know that a picture erased from a camera’s memory card can be recovered by an experienced tech? Those cards are like computer hard drives. What’s ‘erased’ isn’t really erased.”
Oh. Oh.
Like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of Detective Furlow’s cunning game plan fell into place in my mind. He’d purposely pushed Cat too hard.
Cat gave a fake smile. “How fascinating.”
“You know …” The detective rubbed two knuckles beneath his chin. “When a person lies to me about one thing, it makes everything else he says suspect. Get what I mean?”
No response.
“So. If I have our lab tech look at your camera’s erased pictures … and he finds that ‘Always Watching’ photo you’re acting like you know nothing about …” He lifted both hands.
Perspiration shone on Cat’s upper lip. He shifted in his chair, eyes lowering. One hand traced a forefinger al
ong the table’s edge.
A long, tense moment ticked by.
Cat sighed, then rearranged his expression into one of smug defiance. He raised his eyes to the detective and shrugged. “Photography’s my job. So what if I took that picture?” My breath hitched.
“And you put it in Miss O’Connor’s bag?” the detective pressed.
“Yeah. So what? No law against it.”
“Not so sure about that. Why did you write the ‘Always Watching’ message on the back?”
“No reason.”
Detective Furlow gave him a hard look. “No reason.”
“Nope.”
“And the reason you put the photo in her shopping bag?”
“Just for kicks.”
The detective scratched his cheek. “You do some strange things for kicks, Mr. Torret. I thought you were all about making money. Why go to this trouble getting this message to Shaley O’Connor?”
No response.
“Well, I have an answer for you.”
“Wonderful.”
“As you admit, you’re all about making money with your photos. Somehow you must have thought this would help you make money.”
Cat smirked and looked away at the wall.
Bingo.
“If you don’t want to talk about that, we can go back to Tom’s murder.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
For the next twenty minutes, Detective Furlow pressed Cat about the murder. But Cat refused to budge — he knew “nothing” about it. Neither did he know anything about the white rose I’d received.
“I’m not lying about either of those things!” Cat shouted.
The detective sat back, eyes locked on Cat’s face.
Mom sighed. “The detective’s not getting anywhere with this. Maybe Cat wasn’t involved in the murder.”
“But we can’t know. Maybe he was working with someone else,” Ross said. “Question is — are they just going to let him go in the meantime?”
Please no. I didn’t want to be on the streets, knowing Cat could show up any minute. Or worse, be watching me unseen. The thought sent shivers down my spine.
The detective folded his arms. “I know you are lying about some things, Mr. Torret. You’d better tell me what you did do — and why. Or this could be a very long night.”
Cat slumped in his chair, looking deflated and worn. “Okay, okay. I put the photo in her bag to scare her a little. No big deal.”
To scare me? Righteous indignation kicked up my spine. Mom and Ross both uttered curses.
“Why would you want to scare her?”
Cat gave the detective another one of those you’re-an-idiot looks. “Because if she’s scared, she’ll look more vulnerable. Those kinds of photos are worth more.”
“I see.” The detective cocked his head, as if pondering the logic. “So … you scare her with the photo. Then later that night you pull the fire alarm. You figure when she runs out of the building, she’ll really look tired and frightened by then.”
Cat shrugged.
Shrugged.
No denial. He’d done it. He’d put me through all this just for some lousy pictures.
“Have I about summed it up?”
Cat looked around, annoyed. “Can I go now? You got what you wanted.”
“Mr. Torret, did you pull that fire alarm?”
“Yes, yes! Okay? Now I’m done talking. You want more, get me a lawyer. Otherwise I’m out of here.”
Slowly, Detective Furlow stood up, towering over Cat. “Hate to tell you, but you’re not ‘out of here.’”
Cat’s face paled. “What?”
“As I see it, you got multiple charges. Tampering with a fire alarm is a misdemeanor in California.”
“Yeah, a misdemeanor! Hardly a reason for you to keep me — “
“And you’ve violated California’s anti-stalking law.”
“I’m not a stalker!”
“Tell it to the judge. You sent Shaley O’Connor a message designed, by your own admission, to cause her to fear for her safety. And you pulled the alarm to further disturb her.”
“Oh, come on!” Cat surged to his feet. “That’s a twisting of the law if I ever heard it!”
Detective Furlow stared him down. “Like I said, tell it to the judge.” He walked to the door.
“No, wait!”
The detective looked back, one hand on the knob. “An officer will be here in a minute to escort you to your cell.”
Left alone in the room, the typically smug Cat crumbled into whining tears.
36
Detective Furlow finished questioning Len Torret at 3:45 a.m. As Mom, Ross, and I slid back into the detective’s car to return to the hotel, my brain and body felt like they were wrapped in fuzz. As much as I’d wanted to concentrate during the last half hour of the interview, my eyes kept sinking shut. Still, it had been worth it to sacrifice our sleep. Especially watching Cat cry. Mom and I did a grim high five at that.
Detective Furlow’s car smelled like ranch dressing and chicken. I’d left my salad on the seat.
“You should eat some more,” Mom said.
I made a face. “It’s icky and warm now.”
As Detective Furlow started the engine, I sank back, my sluggish brain doggedly going over everything I’d just heard.
“You were great in there, Furlow,” Ross said from the front passenger seat.
“Thanks.”
Mom buckled her seat belt. “At least he’s off the streets for a while.”
“That was my goal. We needed to keep him behind bars as long as possible while we continue investigating the murder. I’m still not convinced he knows nothing about it.”
Ross grunted. “Is he facing jail time over these current charges?”
“I hope so.” Vengeance bittered my voice.
“Possibly.” Detective Furlow pulled out of the station’s parking lot onto the street. “The fire alarm tampering and the stalking charges each carry a maximum one year. But all his charges also carry fines, so it’s possible a judge may only hand down that kind of sentence. For now, though, these multiple charges allow the prosecutor to ask for higher bail. Maybe that will help us keep him behind bars for a day or two.”
My heavy eyelids closed. The vibration of the car was lulling me to sleep.
Mom heaved a sigh. “Can’t you keep him because he’s a suspect in a murder? Isn’t that enough?”
“I wish it were that simple, but it’s a stretch. We know he’s been harassing Shaley. We know he was in town at the time of the murder. But we don’t have anything concrete to tie him to that crime.”
Anything concrete. That’s what we still needed.
I massaged my forehead, dragging in deep breaths. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever sleep again. Once in bed, would my brain even shut down? Plus I’d have maybe four hours before the alarm went off. I had to get up in time to eat something in the morning, or I was likely to faint in the airport.
Wouldn’t that “vulnerable pose” put the paparazzi in a tizzy?
At the hotel, Detective Furlow escorted us inside and to our floor. He shook hands with each of us before leaving. We thanked him profusely.
He shrugged. “Just doing my job. And it’s hardly done yet. Even though we won’t be seeing each other, you can know I’ll keep on this case. And I’ll be in touch. I hope to have an answer about the white rose tomorrow.”
Ross moved his wide neck from side to side, trying to work out the kinks. He had to tilt back his head to look the tall detective in the face. “And if Torret’s lying about sending the rose?”
“Then I’ll question him again. And next time I won’t be so nice.”
Part 3
Sunday
37
The buzzing alarm pounded nails in my head. I slapped it off and stared blearily at the closed curtains of the hotel room.
Brittany and I moved like slugs as we dressed, dreading our parting. Hopefully we could stay tog
ether until the last minute since she was flying on the same airline and our gates shouldn’t be too far apart.
I so wanted to go home with Brittany. If only Mom had said yes.
I have to stay with you, Shaley, or there’s danger …
Brittany’s expression told me she was thinking the same thing. Neither of us spoke it.
I was achingly tired, and my head felt pressed in a vise. I’d promised myself I would eat breakfast but now had no interest in food. My growling stomach stretched within me like a deep, black hole.
Our limos pulled away from the hotel shortly after ten a.m. Sitting next to Brittany, I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the seat. I felt miserable. At that moment I hated the tour. I hated the band. I just wanted to go home.
“You all right, Shaley?” Mom sat on the other side of Brittany, Kim next to her. Facing us on the opposite seat were Mick, Ross, and Morrey.
“No, thanks to you.” My tone dripped with accusation.
Mom’s voice edged. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Shaley.”
“I’d be safer away from this tour.”
“You’ll be safer where I can keep an eye on you. Not to mention the bodyguards.”
Little good they’d done.
No one else spoke. Tension swirled around us all the way to the airport. I kept my eyes closed the entire ride.
The limo pulled to a halt.
“Heads up, Shaley, we’re here.” Mom sounded irritated. “And mind yourself if reporters show up. The last thing we need are news stories of you acting snotty.”
Snotty?
Okay, so Mom was tired too. Still, didn’t I have a right to be angry? I railed to myself. How about Cat and the other paparazzi? Not to mention the reporters. They were hounding me, remember?
Besides, at that moment I couldn’t have cared less what anyone thought of me. Why couldn’t everyone just leave me alone?
We entered the San Jose terminal, pulling our own bags, and headed for the upstairs level where check-in is located. Mom and I stepped off the elevator straight into a mass of reporters.
I shrank away. The reporters shouted, and TV cameras whirred. Flashes battered my eyes. Microphones were thrust toward me. I ducked and put a hand in front of my face.
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