Katrina continued to glare at Libby, but no way was I hanging around waiting for her to unthaw.
“I’ll call you later,” I whispered to Peri.
She looked slightly envious when I walked away.
In the hallway I breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out of there. The rest of my afternoon was ahead of me and I had a few things that required my attention, but nothing pressing.
So what the heck? I decided. Why not do a little shopping before heading back to the L.A. Affairs office?
Even though I’d been to North Hollywood a number of times, I’d never really looked at all the shops in the neighborhood. I decided to hit the restroom, then check out the NoHo stores and see what I could find because, as I always say, you never know when something good is going to happen to you.
As I headed down the corridor toward the restrooms at the rear of the building, I spotted a handbag lying at the top of the wide mid-point staircase that led down to the first floor.
Okay, that was weird.
I walked over and took a closer look.
Immediately, I recognized it as a non-designer, black shoulder bag. The faux-leather was creased and the handle slightly frayed.
It couldn’t have been lying there long—I mean, jeez, how long did it take to realize you didn’t have your handbag with you? I looked around for the person who must have dropped it. I didn’t spot anyone. The hallway was empty. The glass-fronted office adjacent to the staircase was vacant.
I decided the best thing to do was take it to the old guy who worked at the security desk. He could hold it in lost-and-found, or maybe peek inside for some kind of ID.
When I bent down to pick it up I spotted a black flat lying on one of the steps.
Somebody had run out of her shoe and dropped her handbag?
I got a weird feeling.
I walked down to where the shoe lay.
My weird feeling got weirder.
I continued down and around the curve of the staircase. At the bottom, sprawled across the bottom steps and the floor, was a girl.
Oh, crap.
She was dead.
Chapter 2
I rushed down the staircase and stood in the hallway staring down at the dead girl. She looked young, probably no older than me. She had long dark hair and was dressed in black jeans and a tunic; a cell phone lay just beyond her outstretched arm. At first glance she appeared to be sleeping, except for the unnatural way her neck was bent, and the blood that trickled from her nose.
“What happened?” a voice behind me demanded.
I glanced back and saw a guy striding toward me from the rear of the building. He had on white painter’s pants over a white T-shirt—both splattered with a rainbow of paint splotches—and was wiping his hands on a rag. His blond hair touched his collar and his bangs were plastered to his sweaty forehead.
He stopped beside me and stared at the girl.
“Call 9-1-1,” he told me, a this-is-an-emergency command in his voice. He patted his pockets. “I haven’t got my phone on me—”
“She’s dead,” I said.
He looked hard at me, then at the girl, and back at me again.
“You don’t know that,” he insisted. “Call—”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “She’s dead.”
I had, unfortunately, seen my share of dead people, but I saw no reason to go into it with this guy.
“Stay here. Don’t let anyone get near the crime scene,” I said.
“Crime scene?” he asked, drawing back a little. “It was an accident. She fell down the stairs.”
“Did you see her fall?” I asked.
“Well, no,” he admitted, then glanced down at her again. “Maybe she was on her phone, not paying attention, and fell.”
“I saw her handbag at the top of the stairs,” I said. “She wouldn’t have rolled all the way down here without help.”
His eyes grew wider. “You think somebody pushed her? Deliberately?”
Even though I’d found myself in this situation before, that didn’t mean I wanted to hang around and have a discussion.
“I’ll notify security.”
I headed down the corridor toward the front of the building. In the lobby, about a half dozen people were coming and going, some taking the stairs, others waiting for the elevators. The guard was at his post behind the security desk.
“There’s a dead girl back there,” I told him, pointing.
His eyes popped open wider and his jaw sagged a little.
“You need to call 9-1-1,” I said.
He seemed frozen in place for a few seconds, then whipped around and looked down the hallway.
“You should call right now,” I said.
The guard snatched up the phone on his security console and started punching numbers.
I knew what would happen next—uniform cops would show up, followed by detectives, and the crime lab techs. I knew, too, they’d want to talk to me and would get around to it eventually.
No way was I hanging around all that time—not when a mere block away was one of my favorite locations on the entire planet.
I headed for the door.
“Hey, wait,” the security guard called. “You can’t leave!”
I left.
* * *
Aside from having lost my mind over designer handbags, I was also totally obsessed with Starbucks. I mean, really, how could I not be? What could be more comforting than a chilled blast of chocolate, sugar, and caffeine all in one beverage, the mocha frappuccino?
I took a seat at the window, sipped my frappie, and watched as, across the street, squad cars arrived at the building housing KGE, followed shortly by two detectives in a plain vanilla vehicle. I pretty much knew what would happen next and, honestly, I didn’t want to think too much about it, so I decided to distract myself by texting Marcie—which was exactly what a BFF was for.
We’d both been on the hunt to identify the latest hottest-bag-of-the-season but hadn’t found anything yet. Maybe she’d seen a fabulous tote or satchel I could check out online, and give my day the boost it desperately needed.
Just as I grabbed my cell phone from my tote, it buzzed. Mom’s name appeared on the caller ID screen.
In addition to my don’t-volunteer-for-anything policy, I also had a don’t-answer-when-Mom-calls policy. Mom didn’t know about my policy—it never occurred to her that anyone would not answer when she called—so really, it wasn’t hurting anyone.
Being a former beauty queen who’d never abdicated her throne, Mom’s life tended to revolve around herself, pageants, herself, fashion, herself, beauty, herself—and, well, there’s only so much of that I can take.
Yet things promised to get worse very soon.
My cousin on Mom’s side of the family—certainly not Dad’s side, whom Mom referred to as the Clampetts—was getting married in a lavish extravaganza at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, and our entire family was attending.
An event of this magnitude, with its inevitable whose-child-turned-out-smarter-thinner-richer-better-looking one-upsmanship, was something I preferred to avoid at all costs. The comparison to my sister—a model and UCLA student—and my brother—a fighter pilot in the Air Force—left me woefully lacking, not to mention, of course, how I stacked up against my cousins.
Never had a family gathering taken place that I didn’t find myself on the receiving end of several you-lost-that-job-too eyebrow bobs, whatever-happened-to-that-last-guy-you-were-dating questions, and a number of you-still-don’t-have-a-career-path eye-rolls. True, it had taken me longer than most everyone else in the family to settle-in—career-wise, at least—and while my L.A. Affairs job was totally awesome, I wasn’t looking forward to enduring all those questions and remarks.
I stared at Mom’s name on the caller ID screen for a few more seconds. Since I was stuck here at Starbucks for a while and needed to fill my time somehow, I decided to get it over with—sort of like ripping off a bandage, although that would be
more pleasurable.
“You’re not going to believe what your cousin is doing,” Mom declared when I answered.
I didn’t bother to respond. Mom would tell me. She was a world-class gossip—along with most everyone else on her side of the family. Really, it was their sport. If it were an Olympic event, they would have the Gold.
“She’s thinking of changing the menu and serving Ethiopian food at the reception.” Mom made a decidedly unpageantlike noise. “I can’t imagine what she’s thinking.”
I hoped that didn’t mean the bride had also decided to cancel the open bar.
Really, every family event needed an open bar.
“Oh, and here’s some exciting news,” Mom declared. “Your sister will be living in Paris for several months.”
My sister—my younger sister who’d inherited Mom’s stunning beauty—was moving to Paris? Paris?
“She’ll be the muse for one of the most celebrated new fashion designers in the world,” Mom told me. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at the wedding. Isn’t that fabulous news?”
Yeah, okay, it was great for my sister and I was happy for her. All our relatives and friends at the wedding would surely be impressed—maybe so much so that none of them would think to ask what I was doing with my life.
I could only hope.
“Got to run,” Mom said, and we ended the call.
I dropped my phone into my tote bag. A number of things needed my attention this afternoon and I had to get them handled, which meant there was nothing left to do but go talk to the homicide detectives.
I grabbed my frappie and left.
***
The building was on lock-down. The double glass doors were propped open and two uniformed officers were turning away everyone who approached. Gazing past them into the building, I spotted crime scene tape stretched across the hallway and about a half-dozen official-looking men and women scurrying around.
In the lobby, I saw two men wearing off-the-rack suits that screamed I’m-a-homicide-detective. They were talking to the painter. The security guard was at his post apparently trying to look official by giving serious stink-eye to a group of lookey-loos gathered on the staircase.
As I approached the door, one of the officers held up his hand.
“I need to talk to the detectives,” I explained. “I was here earlier and I—”
“That’s her! That’s her!” the security guard shouted. “She’s the one!”
Everybody turned and stared. The detectives headed toward me. The two officers closed in.
Yikes! What the heck was going on?
My first instinct was to run but the vision of being thrown to the ground, handcuffed, and featured on every internet sign-in page courtesy of camera-happy bystanders stopped me.
“She’s the one.” The security guard barreled toward me, pointing. “She’s the one who fled the scene.”
The homicide detectives beat him to the door. They were both graying, slightly overweight, with been-there-done-that-way-too-many-times expressions.
The two detectives planted themselves in front of me. The uniformed officers circled around behind, hemming me in.
Not a great feeling.
“Miss, do you have knowledge of this incident?” one of the detectives asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying for a what’s-the-big-deal-I’m-innocent tone.
“Would you come inside?” the other detective asked.
They stepped back as I entered the lobby, then led the way to a spot in the corner. I caught sight of the painter standing nearby and did a double-take.
Oh my God, he was really good looking.
When I’d seen him in the hallway earlier I’d gotten the impression that he was kind of old, but now I saw that he was late-twenties, maybe thirty. Tall, with muscles bulging under the short sleeves of his paint-splattered T-shirt.
Jeez, why hadn’t I noticed that before?
Maybe my thoughts had been clouded by the smell of paint and turpentine.
Or maybe it was the dead body.
I sensed everybody in the lobby staring as the detectives asked for my ID. I handed over my driver’s license and they introduced themselves as Lindquist and Hoffman.
“Why did you leave the scene?” Detective Hoffman asked, as he copied my info into a little notepad.
“I went to Starbucks,” I said, holding up my cup.
“Leaving makes you look guilty,” Lindquist said.
“I came back,” I pointed out.
They didn’t seem to appreciate that fact.
“We have a witness who discovered the body,” Hoffman said, handing back my ID.
Their witness, obviously, was the painter. I didn’t have to be an LAPD detective to figure that out.
“You were seen coming down the staircase, standing over the victim,” Lindquist told me.
I glanced at the painter. Oh my God, was he throwing me under the bus?
“You want to explain how that happened?” Hoffman asked, and his tone indicated there was no way I could possibly do that.
“I had nothing to do with this,” I insisted.
Lindquist and Hoffman exchanged a look, then gave me major homicide detective stink-eye.
“Are you claiming you don’t know the victim?” Hoffman asked.
“I have no idea who she is,” I said.
The detectives shared a should-we-slap-on-the-cuffs look.
“Are you sure you want to stick with that story?” Lindquist asked. “We have a witness who told us you’d been involved with the victim.”
Oh my God, what the heck were these guys talking about?
“So who was she?” I asked.
“She worked for the KGE Model Agency.”
Oh, crap. This couldn’t be good.
“You’re involved with that agency,” Detective Hoffman said. “Don’t bother to deny it. We have a witness who confirmed you’ve been spending a great deal of time there lately.”
It was the security guard, obviously, and he’d wasted no time pointing a finger at me.
“I’m an event planner. I’m working with KGE on the fashion crawl,” I said, trying to make my connection to the agency sound minimal.
I mean, really, how much further could a fashion crawl be from a murder?
“So you do have a connection to the agency,” Lindquist said. “And the victim.”
Okay, so maybe the detectives had a point—not that I intended to agree with them.
“She didn’t look familiar.” I glanced down the hallway. “Who was she?”
Hoffman consulted his notepad and said, “Her name is Rayna Fuller. She’s one of the agency’s models.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. I hadn’t interacted with any of the models but I’d seen them in the agency’s lobby and had passed them in the hallways. Rayna was pretty—even dead, which says something about her—and full-figured, making her one of KGE’s plus-size models.
“According to our witness,” Hoffman said, “you immediately assumed this wasn’t an accident, that the victim had been murdered. Why is that?”
I didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
“Is that because you’re the one who pushed her down the stairs?” Lindquist asked.
Okay, now I really didn’t like where this was going.
“You were seen standing over her,” Hoffman said. “It looks like you came down the stairs to make sure she was dead.”
“Is that what happened?” Lindquist asked.
“Is it?” Hoffman echoed.
They both glared at me like they really expected me to confess. The security guard was staring, along with the painter and all the nosey Nellies gathered on the staircase.
No way was I hanging around to answer any more questions.
I channeled my mom’s how-dare-you attitude and said, “I had nothing to do with this except to find the body. That’s it. If you any more questions, you know where to find me.”
I whipped around and left t
he building.
I made it almost to the curb when I glanced back and saw somebody running toward me.
Chapter 3
“Hey, wait! Hold up!”
Shouting and hurrying toward me was the painter, the guy who’d ratted me out to the detectives and implicated me in Rayna Fuller’s death. No way did I want to talk to him—except he was really good looking.
I stopped.
We’ve all got our priorities.
He gestured toward the building with his chin and said, “I saw those detectives giving you a hard time.”
A couple of days’ worth of whiskers darkened his jaw and—wow—he had really blue eyes. Still, I intended to blast him for trying to make me look guilty.
He must have read my expression because he said, “I didn’t tell them you were involved in what happened. I just told them what I saw.”
“Which was what?” I asked.
He shrugged. “That I was working, checking the hall every few minutes. The next time I looked, the girl was lying there and you were coming down the stairs.”
Okay, that sounded innocent enough, and I knew homicide detectives had a way of twisting witness statements to try and get a confession.
“I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t trying to make you look guilty, or anything,” he said, sounding genuinely concerned.
I fumed for a few more seconds just to let him know none of this suited me, then said, “Thanks.”
He grinned, and oh-yeah, he had a killer grin.
I couldn’t help grinning back.
“Clark Phillips,” he said, extending his hand.
We shook and a wave of warmth zinged up my arm as I introduced myself.
“So, do you work here?” he asked, nodding toward the building.
“I work for L.A. Affairs.”
His brows bobbed, which was the reaction I often got from men when they heard the company’s name and assumed it was a call girl service.
“We do event planning,” I said.
He looked surprised and slightly disappointed—another reaction I usually got from men.
Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Page 2