by Jenn Black
Amber sat down, tucked her arms under her breasts and leaned forward. “Having a little trouble with your account?”
“Yeah.” He fished a crumpled check from his pocket and threw it on her desk next to her keyboard. “I need to cash this, but I don’t know my account number.”
Oh, for God’s sake. They interrupted her smoke break for this? Even those idiots behind the counter could look up account numbers if the customer could flash a driver’s license.
Amber nodded and curved her lips into an understanding smile. “Got an I.D.?”
“Yeah.” He tossed his license.
It bounced off the crumpled check, skated across the keyboard, and landed on the floor. College kids. He bent to retrieve it and Amber tried to keep from killing him.
“Okay, let me look it up,” she said when she had the license propped up in front of her monitor. The pitiful tellers couldn’t hunt up accounts without a matching license, but as an Account Manager, she could hunt up anyone in the state. She typed his name and hit Enter. Nothing. She erased his first name and tried again. One hundred hits matched his last name. No wonder the tellers couldn’t help him.
“You find it?” he asked.
“No,” Amber answered, wishing she were back outside with the sweltering sun and stinky garbage. At least she could smoke there. “You don’t have an account here.”
“I do so. But it might be in my dad’s name. The check’s from him.”
Ohhh. Daddy’s money. Why didn’t he say that from the beginning? Maybe he had. She hadn’t been listening. Amber unfolded the check and keyed in Rich Daddy’s name. Bingo.
Before writing the account number on a sticky note, she pasted on an I’m-concentrated-on-helping-you expression and paged through the account.
Yikes. Who keeps a six-figure balance in a no-interest checking account?
Daddy sure had money. What did he spend it on? Hm, pending transactions. Country club, golf, steakhouse. Last statement… there. Plane tickets to God-knows-where, yacht rental. Surprised he didn’t own his own yacht. Maybe he did, and rented another for his bouncing baby boy.
Amber finished scribbling the number before she yakked all over Mr. College Is My Life. Her daddy hadn’t given her checks for two grand. She hadn’t had a bank account or a father. She’d paid her dues, all right. The world owed her.
She was about to hand over the sticky note when the front door opened and a tall, skinny blonde bounced through the door. Lori Summers, Barbie doll extraordinaire. Unbelievable.
Snatching back the paper, Amber ducked her head behind her monitor. How did she track her down? What was she, half-Barbie, half-bloodhound?
“What are you doing?” asked the kid as he ‘scratched’ the inside of his nose.
Jesus. “Hiding, obviously.”
He twisted in his seat to look. Little Miss Model sauntered straight to the new teller, of course. Why would she waste her time with the two sorority dingbats when there was male blood behind the counter?
“Why are you hiding?” he whispered, glancing around the room like he ought to duck for cover himself.
“I stole her boyfriend,” Amber hissed. “Shh.”
He turned back toward the desk and eyed her appreciatively.
Without once glancing her way, Lori Summers retrieved some bills from the new guy, slipped them in her designer purse, and waltzed back out the door.
So she didn’t know. Not yet.
“Here’s your info.” Amber shoved the paper across her desk along with his sweaty license and crumpled check. “Give these to anybody up there and they’ll cash it for you.”
“Hey, thanks.” He backed away from her desk and loped to the counter.
God that was close. For the first time in her life, a stab of fear had sliced through her calm exterior. Amber was never caught doing anything. It was all part of her charm. Lori Summers wasn’t going to ruin that streak.
Now that the bank was empty again, Mr. Horny New Guy beelined for her desk and flopped in the customer seat.
“So,” he began. “Did you hear about T2’s death?”
Amber dug her lipstick out of her purse. “Yeah,” she answered while coating her mouth with an extra layer of shine. “It’s a shame isn’t it. Who was your girlfriend?”
He grinned. “You didn’t recognize her?”
Please. She’d know that witch a mile off. “Looked like Lori Summers,” Amber offered with a delicate shrug.
“What a hottie.”
Amber’s phone rang, saving her from having to comment on that observation. Waving him away, she picked up the phone and tucked it on her shoulder. Her hoop earrings clicked against the receiver.
“Thanks for calling Isla Concha. This is Amber Tompkins.”
“Hi, Amber,” came the breathy male voice. George Culver always sounded like a dirty prank caller, not the bank manager of the branch across town.
“Hi, George,” she answered absently, calling up his name and finances on her screen. A far cry from Mr. Rich’s daddy. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to ask about Saturday. You never gave me a direct answer.”
Get a clue, moron. No answer means no date. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I keep forgetting to check my calendar. I’ll totally understand if you make other plans.”
Static crackled as George’s petulant huff filled the line. “I don’t want anybody else, Amber. I want you.”
A little subtlety wouldn’t hurt. Make a woman feel desired, not stalked. “I know, honey. I’ll get back to you soon.”
“When?” he whined. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday already.”
Amber clicked to the recent transactions screen. Pizza, renaissance fair, more pizza. “Soon. I promise. Now I gotta go. I interrupted a customer just to take your call.”
“You did? Oh, Amber.” The pleasure pulsed from his voice. “You shouldn’t have done that. It’s not professional.”
“I’ll let you go now, Georgie. Talk to you later.”
“Amber, I–”
Amber hung up. What she needed was Caller I.D. She backed out of George’s account and stared at the blank entry screen. God, the days here were so long. She’d probably memorized the account info for everyone on the planet.
What about people no longer on the planet? Amber smirked and keyed in Tommy’s name. Nothing. She tried the band name. Still nothing. Damn him for using some other bank. That would’ve been a fun one.
Wait.
Amber hit escape and her fingers flew across the keyboard. Bingo.
Wow. Lori Summers was doing even better than Mr. Nose Picker’s rich daddy, although she was smart enough to have most of it in savings.
What were her recent transactions? Beauty parlor. No doubt a tax on Miss Model’s time to keep up perfect hair. And the most recent charge... Who the hell spends $4.97 at the grocery store? Amber never escaped for less than twenty bucks. Bitch.
Where did someone with a healthy six fig’s live? Amber paged back to the main screen. Cypress Circle.
Of course.
Those houses were spaced widely enough to give the illusion of privacy, old enough to boast ‘Old Florida’ charm, and apparently flashy enough for man-stealing supermodels.
Some people. Amber narrowed her eyes at the screen.
She oughtta go by and give Lori something to think about. No. Even better. She oughtta go by and give Lori a reason to stop thinking. Permanently.
Amber grabbed a pen, printed the address in big block letters, ripped the sticky-note off the pad and stuck it inside her purse. When she got out to her car, she’d stick it on her gun. And when she got to Cypress Circle, she’d stick it to Lori.
For good.
* * *
Tonda Carver was leaning on his desk when Davis left the Sergeant’s office and returned to his station. Davis sidestepped Carver’s distended belly and sank into his swivel chair.
“Well?” she asked. “You know why I’m here.”
“He’s less than thrilled about the status of t
he case.”
Indignation colored her voice. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, well, chop-chop. He wanted a briefing on the Crimestoppers line. I had to give him that bad news, too.”
“He’s been around the block. He knows 99% of callers are crazy-cakes. What’s he expect to get, a quick buzz from the murderer himself? Or herself?”
Davis watched in fascination as Carver leaned backward, shifting her belly with her hands. “What are you doing?”
“Baby’s kicking me. I’d kick him back just to show him how it feels, but the best I can do is rock the boat once in awhile.”
“You’re a weird one, Carver.”
“Ha. Wait till you have kids. Then we’ll talk.”
Ice twisted in Davis’s gut.
If Carver wanted to see him with kids, she’d be waiting until hell froze over.
He’d come close, once. Real close. But he hadn’t known about it until after the fact, when Juliana’s doctor had called. She’d missed her post-abortion checkup. The phone had clattered from Davis’s hand. If he’d been a violent man, he’d have clobbered her with it.
Instead, he read the writing on the wall.
“Nah,” he said aloud. “Kids aren’t in the cards for me.”
“No kids right now, dingdong,” Carver said with an affectionate grin. “You got no wife. You oughtta try it sometime.”
Davis shook his head.
When he’d joined the Police Academy instead of his father’s law firm, the expression on Juliana’s face had screamed her disapproval. A few months later, when Juliana refused to ruin her figure for a cop’s baby, Davis didn’t bother to contest the divorce. He wished he wasn’t always right.
“Been there, done that,” he told Carver with a cynical smile. “How ’bout you? You’re a good one to talk.”
Carver’s shoulder jerked, and Davis regretted the question.
Being a cop’s wife was hard, even for women who weren’t Juliana. It had to be just as tough to be a cop’s husband. If it weren’t, she’d be married. A good woman like Carver deserved to be married. She hadn’t mentioned a painful past, but he was a cop. Cops were paid to read between the lines.
“Let’s talk shop,” Carver said with a forced smile.
Davis nodded. He felt like a jerk. “Any news while I was gone?”
She smiled with relief and fetched a folder from her desk. “Forensics.”
“What’s the word?”
“Incomplete.” She fiddled with a lemon drop. “But a few choice details.”
“Caliber?”
“9mm.” The candy popped into her mouth and the words came out garbled.
“Range?”
Carver tossed the wrapper in the trashcan. “Two to three feet.”
“So, even if the perp’s arm was straight in front of him, adding another, say, three feet… The furthest away he could be is six feet. Definitely someone Turner knew.”
“We figured as much from the crotch shot, Sherlock.”
“Perps are smart. They watch Law & Order and CSI. They know how to make things look like what they’re not. Take the wallet, for example. That could be another attempt at misdirection.”
Carver inclined her head, her unruly poodle-curls obscuring her face. “True.”
He sat up straight. “Want to do some detecting, Detective?”
“Ready when you are.” She got to her feet and followed him out of the station.
Davis drove to the recording studio in silence. Carver frowned to herself, as preoccupied with mulling over the case as he was. He helped her under the tape and opened the door. Shadowed movement flickered in the darkened corner of the studio.
He motioned to Carver and withdrew his weapon. “Police!” he called out, stepping to one side. “Come out where I can see you.”
A black-clad form blurred past him, almost bowling Carver over. Davis leapt and knocked him to the ground, landing on his back and twisting his arms behind him.
“Who are you?”
“Mrrgle Blempgorf.”
“What?” Davis snapped on the cuffs and rolled off him, letting the kid lift his face from the concrete and spit a stream of dirty spit to the ground.
“I said, I’m backup vocals for Tommy. Can you take these things off?”
Carver stuck her toe in his ribs. “Not until you tell us why you went all Speedy Gonzalez. Wanted out of the band, did you? Enough to kill T2?”
“No!” The kid rolled over, fear in his eyes.
“Then what are you doing here?” Davis asked.
“Forget it, Hamilton. Killers always return to the scene of the crime. We’ve got our murderer.” Carver gave him another nudge with her boot.
“No, I swear. I just… I left something here. I needed it.”
Davis ran his hands down the kid’s sides and felt something crinkle in the side pocket of his cargo pants. A second later, they had their answer.
“Weed? You trespassed into a crime scene for weed?”
The kid scowled. “I’m in the band. I can come whenever I want.”
“Wrong. Not when the peripherals say, ‘Crime scene. Do not enter. Police only.’”
“And not when you’re coming to get illegal contraband,” put in Carver with another jab to the ribs.
“All right! Keep it. Forget it. Take the cuffs off. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” Davis asked. “What do you want him to do, Carver?”
“I don’t know,” she mused. “Anything we want to know?”
“Sure, I’ve got it.” Davis hauled the kid to a sitting position. “Who killed Tommy?”
“Man, I don’t know! Could be anybody, according to him.”
What did that mean? “Have you been talking to him since he died?”
“No way. I mean, that dude was paranoid. He thought everybody was gonna get him. Ain’t you never listened to his songs?”
Davis glanced at Carver for corroboration. She raised one shoulder and gave a little nod.
“Okay, but who have you seen hanging around him?”
“Come on, man. I seen everybody hanging around him. He’s the rock star of rap around here. He’s got more women than Hef.”
Carver smirked. “I doubt that.”
“How about Lori Summers? You see her hanging around him?”
“That one? Nah. Hot as hell, but cold as ice, if you know what I mean. He tried and failed. Nobody else had any luck with her either.”
A strange sense of smug satisfaction warmed Davis’s middle. “When? This weekend?”
“Are you crazy? Ain’t seen her in years.”
Carver bent toward the kid. “Any reason why she’d be crawling around here again?”
“I don’t know. New album? Maybe she’s gonna be on the cover of this one, too.”
There’s a thought that even made sense. But if it were true, why wouldn’t Lori have mentioned it?
“I thought Tommy sent you kids home because he had a hookup that night,” Carver said.
“Yeah, but not with her.”
Carver loomed over him, her back to the sun. “Who with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know it wasn’t her?”
The kid shrugged. “Guess I don’t. Just figure he’d’ve said if it was her.”
“Who do you know for sure that Tommy was seeing?” Carver asked, enunciating each word as though speaking to the hard of hearing.
“I told you. That dude was ‘seeing’ everyone.”
“Names,” Davis interrupted, retrieving his pad and pen from his inner jacket pocket. “I’m going to need names, numbers, addresses—whatever you’ve got.”
By the time Davis finished chronicling the laundry list of Tommy’s lovers, he’d almost run out of paper. By the time they finished interviewing the sixth vapid vamp, he’d almost run out of patience. Tommy had a pattern: blonde and willing.
When they pulled up at the seventh, Davis was ready to shoot himself in
the eye. The brown, nondescript condominium complex was sandwiched between two other brown, nondescript condominium complexes, and the elevator was tight and humid.
Carver knocked on the door, flashed her badge, and stepped inside. Davis followed. The high-cheekboned woman in the doorway dragged her gaze from his face on down, and there was no mistaking the invitation in her eyes.
“Miss Tompkins.” Davis checked his notes. “Miss Amber Tompkins?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“You can call me Amber,” she interrupted in a practiced drawl. Davis had the feeling she’d spent years perfecting the Southern belle accent. She smelled like gum and cheap perfume, but the condo stank like a smoke factory.
“Amber,” he acquiesced, and Carver rolled her eyes. “We’re here about Tommy Turner.”
“Wasn’t that the worst, most scariest thing?” Amber cooed.
God save him from groupies. “How did you meet him, ma’am?”
“Oh,” she answered, brushing her hand across his sleeve. “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’.”
No surprise she went home with Tommy. From behind her, Carver made exaggerated gagging gestures.
“How did you meet him, Amber?”
“At the bar,” she answered, blinking heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him.
Like the rest of Tommy’s girls, her face was pretty, but overdone. The black eyeliner was too harsh a contrast for the blonde hair and pale blue eyes, the intensity of her red lips burned his corneas, and he’d never been a fan of sweeping blue eye shadow.
However, there wasn’t a man on earth who’d deny the effect of two possibly augmented breasts bursting from a sheer blouse, a miniskirt so short it could double as a leather belt, and a pair of heels so high she must have been born in them to walk without wobbling.
“Bar, Hamilton,” called Carver, making hurry-up motions with her hand.
“Right.” Davis scratched a note on the paper. “When was this?”
“Saturday.”
Davis stopped writing. “This Saturday?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, and licked her lips. “We just met once.”
Damn. He’d been hoping to find someone more girlfriendish. Someone with an axe to grind, who fancied herself in love, who looked a little guilty.
This one hadn’t even known Tommy long enough to look sad. She looked like she’d just as soon rip Davis’s clothes off as the rapper’s.