Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

  As if she’d conjured him with her mind, his profile appeared through the window. Pacing, and on the phone. Davis had always hated talking on phones.

  He looked surreal. Taller. Older. Clean-shaven.

  His shaggy brown curls had been cropped close to his head. He didn’t seem like Davis without wavy hair and paint-stained fingers. Had he looked like this at the funeral? All she remembered was sadness, and the rain.

  Officer Bock motioned again at the window. “He’ll be right out.”

  How strange to think of Davis as a cop. He’d been an artist for so long.

  Lori had been so angry when he’d given in to his parents and gone away to law school. His father was a big shot defense attorney who expected his progeny to aspire for the same lofty paycheck. And unlike her, Davis had the SAT scores to do anything he wanted.

  But a cop? That was a big a stretch from lawyer as it was from artist.

  Why this path? For the sense of power? The Davis she’d known hadn’t cared much for power. But then, the Davis she’d known hadn’t wanted to go to law school, either.

  “Lori?”

  Suddenly, he was in front of her. Bigger. More muscular.

  Lori swallowed but couldn’t speak.

  The quiet, deep voice she remembered. The same soft brown eyes. New scent. He used to smell like paint and charcoal and art fixative. Now he smelled like cop—soap, sweat, spicy aftershave.

  Pure trouble either way.

  * * *

  “Lori?” Davis asked again.

  She stared at him without moving.

  Her scent invaded his nose and all he wanted to do was touch her. He couldn’t let himself act on his crazy impulses. One touch and he’d be lost.

  He had to remain objective. He was a cop. She was practically a suspect.

  Despite the self-warning, his fingers grazed her arm before he even realized he’d reached out to her.

  She jumped.

  Oh, nice. His very touch repulsed her. That ought to remind him to keep his distance.

  “Lori, do you want to go into a private room with me to talk about yesterday?”

  She nodded and fumbled with her sunglasses. They slid up to the top of her head. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

  Davis decided not to mention it.

  “All right,” he said instead. “Follow me.”

  She followed him into the interrogation room.

  For the first time, he wondered what the familiar room looked like to someone who wasn’t a cop. Stark walls, one of them halved by the two-way mirror. A single oblong table, covered in forgotten stains.

  Not exactly a Martha Stewart special.

  He motioned to one of the metal folding chairs and she sank into it gracefully. She’d always been graceful. Well, except for the hot nights when they’d been–

  “So.” Davis cleared his throat. “Tell me about yesterday.”

  “It’s good to see you,” she answered, her voice husky.

  He fell into his chair. “Yes,” he answered and stared at her as if he’d been given permission to breathe again. “It’s been a while.”

  “Since the funeral.”

  Davis nodded. “Since the funeral.”

  “You didn’t speak to me. You spoke to my mom, but not me.” She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand and for a moment, Davis was transported backward through time.

  “I– I saw you, but I didn’t know if–”

  “I got to the studio between six and six-thirty. I don’t know exactly. I don’t wear a watch. I was coming from across town, from the main library. Traffic was bad. Spring Break. Rush hour. Sunset. No place to park… that block is metered. The shots—I was pretty freaked out.”

  Davis checked his notes. “The 911 call came through at six twenty-five.”

  She paused, as if considering. “That’s about right.”

  “Did you call right away?”

  Lori shook her head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, I was pretty freaked out. Call me a coward, but I drove off. Headed for home. And as soon as I could breathe without hyperventilating, I pulled over and called.”

  “How much time would you say went by?”

  “I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten, max?”

  Davis nodded. “That jibes with the M.E.’s report. How do you know Tommy Turner?”

  Lori removed her sunglasses from her head and tucked them into the neck of her blouse. “I was in his first music video two years ago.”

  “And you kept up a correspondence?”

  “Not exactly.” The weight of the glasses tugged the neckline even lower and a hint of cleavage winked at him as she shifted in her seat.

  Davis swallowed.

  “Then why did you go over there last night?”

  Lori looked away. It was just for a second, but that slight break in eye contact pricked at Davis’s well-honed sense of mistrust.

  “No reason.”

  “Come on, Lori. We all have reasons for everything we do.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me at the funeral, then?”

  Dammit. “Focus. We’re talking about Tommy Turner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Were you his girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Were you going over to have sex with him?”

  Lori’s cheeks pinked. “None of your business, but no.”

  “We spoke to the band members.”

  “So?”

  “Tommy sent everyone away at five thirty because he was expecting a ‘hookup’. He’d told them about it on Sunday.”

  Lori crossed her arms. “Well, today’s Tuesday, and even I didn’t know I was going over there until yesterday. Monday, in other words. So I guess I wasn’t the hookup.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  She tossed her head. Much of the effect was lost without her long hair to flip over her shoulders, but the mulish expression was the same as old times. “To get his autograph, okay?”

  “Give me a break, Lori.”

  “Not for me, for a friend.”

  Davis could just feel Carver smirking from the other side of the glass. “Lori. Do you know how many times we’ve heard the ‘for a friend’ routine?”

  Lori glared at him, her red-rimmed eyes direct and unwavering. “Well, it’s true.”

  He sighed. “Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

  “Fine.”

  “Why are you in Isla Concha? Aren’t you usually traveling for photo shoots and the like?”

  “Why? Are you going to tell me I can’t leave town?”

  Davis grit his teeth. “Maybe.”

  “Screw you, Davy.”

  Davy. God. He hadn’t heard that name in… twelve years. Not since– no. Concentrate. “Lori, please answer the question.”

  “I’m not doing photo shoots anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” she snapped, her posture stiff and her glare belligerent.

  “Then how about this. What were you doing with the body?”

  “What?”

  “We know you were in the room after he was shot. Did you try to give him CPR?”

  “I didn’t give him anything! I didn’t even see him because I never went inside. I learned Tommy was dead on the eleven o’clock news. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Acting secretive isn’t helping you, Lori.”

  “I’m not being secretive, and I haven’t acted since high school. Not that my career—or my secrets—are any of your business.”

  Davis tried to relax his posture.

  The woman he’d once loved sat across from him, beautiful and seething. She had potential means, potential motive and plenty of opportunity—but no alibi. Her answers were shaky, at best.

  Although his gut told him she was no killer, his brain insisted that she visited the studio for more than an autograph. T
he sudden surge of jealousy coursing through his veins made him hope his suspicions were unfounded.

  The question burst from his lips. “Were you and Tommy Turner lovers?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Lori uncrossed her arms and stared over his head at the mirror. “I slept with him. I slept with the whole band. And their landlord, and their neighbors, and the guy who checks the meters. Is that what you want to hear?”

  No. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Davis’s chair scraped across the bumpy floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of her with someone else.

  He stood and strode to the two-way. Shading his eyes with one hand to his forehead, he tried to peer through the glass. All this interview proved was that he hadn’t gotten over Lori. Carver had to be rolling with laughter.

  A handful of amused observers watched and listened from the other room, but all Davis could see was darkness.

  * * *

  Lori stared at Davis’s back. It felt like hours had passed since he’d stalked to the mirror, but she doubted even a full minute had gone by. What was his deal?

  He used to be so fun. So passionate. A dreamer.

  Now here he was, a robot in a suit, stodgy, straight-laced, an empty copy of who he used to be. At least, until he’d leapt from his chair in a fit of temper.

  That was the first sign of life he’d shown, the first glimmer of the real Davis Hamilton.

  When he turned around, however, the old Davy was gone and the blank-faced detective had resumed his features.

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” he said, irritation in his voice belying his calm.

  What the heck did he want?

  “I don’t know what you expect from me,” Lori answered. “I heard shots, I called them in. I was asked to come to the station, here I am. You ask me questions, I tell you everything I know. Now what?”

  Davis flipped through his notebook without responding, his expression unreadable.

  Lori drummed her fingers on the table, her French-manicured nails clicking into the eerie silence.

  “Very fidgety, Lori. Feeling guilty?”

  She glared and refused to respond.

  This claustrophobic little room sucked. It stank of fear, cigarettes and disinfectant. People probably confessed to anything, just to get out of this tiny dank box.

  The pale concrete blocks closed in around her and the tick-tick-tick of her fingernails grew louder and more erratic. Lori sank her damp palms to the icy tabletop, willing her twitching fingers to hold still.

  “What I want,” Davis said at last, “is to solve this case.”

  Not a huge surprise. He was the cop, she was the witness, Tommy was dead.

  She’d never pegged Davis as the steady-day-job sort—well, if he was on duty last night, maybe he worked seconds, but all the same—he impressed her by sticking with it.

  By doing it at all.

  Being a cop wasn’t easy. Being part of a cop’s family was even harder, if not impossible. Lori swallowed. Now was not the time to dredge up memories.

  “Davy, trust me. I hope you find him, whoever did this. If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

  “Then tell me the truth.” His eyes never left her face.

  “I’ve been telling the truth.” The muscles in her back twitched with anger. “I went to the studio, I heard shots, I left, I called 911. What else is there?”

  “I want to know why you went there in the first place.”

  “I told you. For an autograph.”

  Davis rubbed the back of his wrist against his forehead. “An autograph for whom?”

  “Kimberley Jackson. My best friend.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Forever. She transferred into my math class the year after you graduated.”

  He scratched something in a small notebook. “If you’ve known Tommy Turner for two years, why did she wait until yesterday to ask for an autograph?”

  “She didn’t. She’s been hounding me since before I knew him. I just didn’t give in until yesterday.”

  “What made you give in? Why yesterday?”

  Lori sighed. “Her live-in boyfriend broke up with her last week and she’s been wrecked. I had to do something to cheer her up, even if it meant speaking to Tommy.”

  Davis frowned. “You didn’t like Tommy?”

  “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. But no, I don’t like him. He’s a lizard. Constantly making disgusting comments, groping at me and all the other women forced to work with him professionally. I have no idea how the girls in his entourage stand him. He’s very full of himself. Or was.”

  “Then why did you do it? Work with him, I mean. Professionally.”

  “Publicity, of course.” Lori gave a self-mocking smile. “You know what they say. As long as they spell my name right…”

  Davis leaned against the mirror. “My partner is watching you. Listening to us.”

  “I figured as much. Officer Carver, right? Or is it Detective Carver?”

  “Detective. Good memory.”

  Lori shrugged. “Cop’s daughter.”

  Davis started. “I completely forgot your dad was a cop.”

  “Was.” Lori stared at her fingers splayed on the table. “There are a lot of ‘was’es in my life.” She slid her hands into her lap. “Your dad’s still a lawyer, and your mom is still a–”

  “Society princess.” Davis retrieved his chair and plopped back down at the table. “So let’s brainstorm a minute about the case.”

  “Is that why you mentioned your partner? Do you want him in here?”

  “Her. She’ll be all right. If she detects violent tendencies, she’ll come in to save me.”

  “Funny. And I’m glad your partner is a woman. It always seemed like such a man’s world.”

  Davis cocked his head. “I never pegged you as a feminist.”

  “I’m not a feminist, I’m a female. I could never be a cop myself.” Too many details to track. Studying every night, she’d barely passed remedial math. No wonder drama had appealed, and why modeling, with all its travel and excitement, had stolen her heart. “So, what do you want to brainstorm about?”

  “The killer.”

  “Davy, I swear to you. I have no idea who killed him.”

  He took a pen from his pocket and set it down on the table. “We have his Blackberry and his email contacts.”

  “Sounds like a good place to start.”

  “Are we going to find you in his address book?”

  “Not my home address. My cell number, sure. I told you—we worked together. I did the first video and the album cover. It was lucrative. Just because I don’t like a client’s attitude doesn’t mean I’ll pass up a career opportunity.”

  Davis flipped through his notepad. “And your friend, Kimberley Jackson. Will we find her connected to Tommy Turner?”

  “She wishes.”

  Davis’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means she’s one of the zillion fans that had a crush on him from the moment he burst onstage with a microphone and a muscle t-shirt. Why do you think she wanted an autograph?”

  “Did she know where to find his studio?”

  “Davy, get real. Is there anybody in Isla Concha who doesn’t know where his studio is? Kimber didn’t kill him either. She just wanted his autograph.”

  “No need to get defensive. I’m only asking questions.”

  “Well, your questions are stupid,” Lori snapped. “I didn’t sleep with him and I didn’t shoot him. And neither did my friends. May I go now?”

  Davis watched as she sprang to her feet, his calmness boiling her blood even hotter.

  “You’re not under arrest,” he answered with a little wave toward the door. “You’ve always been free to leave.”

  “You’ve always been free to leave,” Lori mocked under her breath and stomped past him as best she could in high-heeled sandals.

  * * *

  Ambe
r slipped out the back door of the Isla Concha Savings & Loan to catch ten minutes of peace. She withdrew the crinkly softpack of Virginia Slims from her purse, knocked out a cigarette to place between her lips, and dipped her head to light it.

  Ah. Nothing like the satisfying feel of hot smoke filling her lungs. She held the cigarette, now tinged with red lipstick, between two scarlet-taloned fingers and closed her eyes to the hot sun in order to better enjoy the nicotine zipping through her veins.

  It wasn’t every day that she killed somebody. Amber smirked. Nah, it’d been a good decade since the last time. She’d forgotten the amazing rush, the sense of power, of satisfaction, rightness, victory.

  Except, last time, everything’d gone right. Exactly perfect.

  This time, there was Lori Summers to deal with. Little Miss So Perfect She Can Steal Anybody’s Sugardaddy. Dead wrong.

  The back door squeaked open. “You out here?”

  Amber’s eyes flew open and she immediately squinted, shielding her face from the sun’s rays as she whirled toward the door. “What?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” said the new guy.

  Please. He wasn’t sorry. He was a teller. The only reason he escaped his cage behind the counter was because of his barely veiled hope of getting in her pants. He probably thought if he were lucky enough, he’d score a quickie right here, between the steamy brick walls and the pungent Dumpster.

  Amber took another drag on her cigarette, letting the words unfurl from her mouth. “What can I do for you, honey?”

  “I, uh.” He stared at her lips, then dipped his gaze to the damp cleavage visible between the curling flaps of her blouse. “I mean, they need you inside. Somebody needs help with their account.”

  Amber pouted and took one last puff before flicking the butt to the ground and sliding past him. Piercing Musak assaulted her ears as her vision adjusted to the softer lighting. Facing her desk slouched a kid, late teens, with gelled hair, sunglasses, a t-shirt, and swim trunks. Welcome to Spring Break in Florida.

  She sashayed over to her desk and gave her sexiest smile when he caught her eye. Holding out a hand for him to shake, she asked, “Now, what can I do for you?”

  He smirked, staring at her chest when he should have been shaking her hand.