Copyright © [2026] by Jolene Grace

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Rough Justice Press/jgrace@jolenegracebooks.com.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

First edition [2026]

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by

About the author

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Chapter 1

With displeasure, I polished a tall glass, studying the empty tables at my bar. Last Call was unusually slow for a Saturday night.

In the corner booth, a woman hid her face behind the thick covers of the menu. I caught her tracking my movements when she thought I wasn’t looking.

An hour ago, she’d walked in and seated herself in the booth. I brought her a Coke; she asked to see the dinner menu. Since then, the ice had melted in her untouched soft drink, and no dinner order had been placed.

What’s your deal? I thought.

“Another one,” said my only other customer. He threw a ten-dollar bill on the beat-up counter. “Keep the change.”

Tony Romero was one of Boston’s premier homicide detectives. His hair was blonde on the cusp of white, the color of washed wood, cut cop special. His face was lined and weathered, and his typically restless gaze was adrift.

“Keep your money. The beer’s on the house,” I said.

The old-fashioned bell above the door dinged. A group of co-eds showed themselves in, scanning the bar with ‘what’s good in here?’ They connected two tables together, rearranged the chairs, and gathered around. They were staying.

I left Tony Romero to nurse his beer and walked over to them, giving the mysterious woman a quick glance. Our eyes connected for a moment, gone too fast. She pulled the menu closer to her, using it as a barrier. I didn’t think I could hate a menu this much.

“What’s good here?” an energetic blonde in round reading glasses asked.

“Draft beer is half off tonight, and Dale in the kitchen can make you anything you ladies would like.”

The brunette to her right said, “The bar’s dead. Where are all the people?”

What she meant to ask was ‘Where are all the cops?’ College girls their age dropped by Last Call to mingle with off-duty lawmen. The place was a popular hangout spot for cops because it was owned by one. The beer I sold was cheap, the food was always hot and delicious, and you couldn’t beat the location: right across the street from Central and around the corner from Huntsville Community College. The twentysomethings taking criminology classes or policing 101, thinking of testing the waters of a career in criminal justice flocked to the bar nightly, not for the same reasons you might imagine. Talking to real cops was an eye-opener that no class would teach. You’d rethink your life choices, too, if you spent a night with a grouchy cop after he’d pulled in seventy-plus hours on the force. Most quickly switched majors to programs less life-consuming. Those who stayed ended up on the force.

“They’re off fighting crime,” I replied.

My answer seemed to disappoint them.

“Whelp,” declared the blonde with the glasses, “we’ll take your cheapest beer and whatever Dale can whip up for us poor and starving college ladies.”

As I started to walk away, the brunette added, “And can we have the TV remote?”

Giving them the remote eased their disappointment at having to spend the rest of the night keeping their own company.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tony scolded me.

“Haven’t you ever heard the customer’s always right? I got to make a profit, too, if I keep giving away free beer.”

They were clicking between channels fast enough to give themselves a seizure.

Eventually, they settled on News 7, the local news channel, bringing live coverage of the first of its kind movie premiere hosted by the city, the first of its kind. Boston’s not your typical location that attracts major Hollywood types. Movie premieres of this magnitude are a rarity, thank God. If we started to host them more often, I’d lose all my business.

“Told you.” Tony drained his beer.

The mystery woman was still hiding behind the menu, and I was working up an excuse to go talk to her. I placed her age around twenty-three, no older than twenty-six. Athletic, toned body, muscled and lean. Dirty blonde with skin kissed by the sun. If I wanted to know more about her, I’d have to do the legwork.

Thunder rattled the windows. The lights flickered on and off. None of the guests but Dirty Blonde seemed to pay attention. Boston was in the midst of a grueling rain season. The city hadn’t seen or heard from the sun in six weeks.

“This damn rain won’t go away.” Tony pushed his empty glass toward me. “Another one, please.”

“How about a black coffee and a cab?”

“Don’t make me beg,” he said. “Thirty years go by in the blink of an eye. Now you’re sixty, drinking alone in the bar of your dead partner’s son.”

“Last call,” I said.

He picked up his draft. I, a cold cup of water. We cheered.

“To thirty years on the force.”

He drank, I drank.

“Your ten-forty went in?”

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Tony said with zero excitement. “Officially off the clock in about an hour.”

“Central without your brutal honesty and unwelcome advice won’t be the same.”

“Well, then, last word of unwelcome advice—fall in love while you still can. Settle down. The rest don’t matter. One day, not today, but sooner than you imagine—it will be your last day in the circus. And I don’t want you to end up like me.” A tired sigh followed. “When did I get this old, Long?”

I went back to polishing the glasses and laying them on the dry mat. “We all do, eventually. You got any big plans?”

“Play golf down in Florida . . . first I need to learn how to play. Know anything about golf?”

I shook my head. “Lots of cops look forward to retirement.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say before they eat their gun and we have to shovel their brains in a bag.”

“If that’s what you intend to do, call me first to warn me. I have a sensitive stomach.”

“Wiseass,” Tony said.

“Truth be told, the job will be dull without you,” I admitted. “Any regrets?”

Tony smirked. He raised his beer to his lips before he said, “To all the wrongs that lead us right.”

I looked back at the booth by the jukebox. She had lowered the menu, pinning me intently with cryptic eyes, hiding more than they showed.

“You should go talk to her.”

“I intend to.”

But the universe had an entirely different plan for me. In the next moment, a group of about seven guys spilled into Last Call, shouting at each other, gunning for the type of trouble only too much alcohol fuels. Clearly, they were unable to broker a peaceful solution to a disagreement started elsewhere. And if they couldn’t resolve it with calm and reason, I assessed, their fists would.

Tony tensed up too. His assessment in line with mine. Cop’s intuition is not something we made up to impress women at parties and to show off to our friends. It’s a real thing.

“Call it in.”

“Screw you. I’m retired.”

“Not for another hour.”

His face was still lined and weathered, but his typically restless gaze had made a triumphant return, shunning away adrift.

“Okay, sonny. This is the farewell tour.” He reached for his cuffs.

“Cowboy up, Detective Romero.”

“Yeehaw!” yelled Tony. “Boston Police. Break it up.”

As Tony pinned a guy to the ground, I was on crowd control duty. Fists were flying. The girls screamed, and beer spilled. In the midst of it all, Channel 7 flashed a news-breaking alert. The whole bar was going up in smoke.

“My dad’s right—I’m more the artistic type,” Brunette mumbled.

Chairs turned over, glasses broke, beer leaked from pitchers. I softly cursed under my breath. By the jukebox, mystery lady was standing tall. Not a hint of scared or frightened on her. On the contrary. There was a special glint of fury in those concealed eyes of hers. If she could have jumped both feet into the action, she would have.

But I had run out of time to talk to her. Outside, police lights flashed, sirens looped. Captain Judy Jupiter snagged the front door. The bell above it quivered.

Pointing directly at me, Captain Jupiter said, “Detective Long Collins, you’re coming with me.”

Chapter 2

“Get in.” Jupiter pointed to the idling car double-parked in front of Last Call.

“I called it in, Captain,” I said as she slammed the door behind her.

“Benton, drive like it’s a car chase.”

Her driver knew exactly what Jupiter meant and didn’t need further instructions. He rammed the gas pedal, the engine revved, and we took off.

I counted at least eight police cars part of Jupiter’s convoy. This didn’t seem like an ordinary drive-along.

“This isn’t about the bar fight,” I said.

“Bingo, Detective,” she replied. Then back to Benton, “Eighty-four is closed. Take the bridge; the first exit on the tunnel will bring us right over.”

Benton twisted the wheel, compliant to her orders. The rest of the cruisers obeyed too. Captain Judy Jupiter had been born and raised in the Bronx, fourth-generation cop. She had married a doctor from Boston. Transferred departments, climbing the ranks. She was a no-bullshit and no-cuddles cop. Rumor on the street about Jupiter was that she’d led the charge on the drug bust that nabbed her own husband. After she testified at his trial and divorced the bastard, Judy from the Bronx stayed in Boston. Years later, she now oversaw the country’s largest detective homicide unit.

Her phone rang. It took a singular glance from Jupiter to say to Benton, “Kick it up a notch. The jackals are circling.”

“Who’s the prey?” I said.

Her stony expression told me I hadn’t struck the right chord. Keeping my mouth shut from now on would be wise.

“Mayor.” Jupiter answered her phone. “Yes, he’s with me, and yes, we’re about to pull up. In the meantime, I left some of my best at the hotel. Speak face-to-face shortly.”

Off the phone, Jupiter cracked her knuckles. Her shoulders were tight. With her attention on the road, wet from the last rainstorm, Jupiter exhaled like you do before the big jump.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard in briefing, tonight was the last of three exceptionally long days for Boston. Hosting Hollywood’s megarich and glamorous has been physically and mentally exhausting. Pretty much, Mayor Cote rented out the whole city to be the playground for bigwigs who know nothing about how our town operates,” she said in her tough-woman-from-the-Bronx accent. “For three days, it was on the shoulders of this department to see to it that none of them got in trouble. Every cop in town is on mandatory OT. If you’re not on patrol duty, you’re assigned to the Capitol Hotel, where most of the LA visitors are holed up.

“The first two days we managed without a hitch. On all accounts, Boston behaved itself. The mayor has been so happy she even personally called to thank me this morning. Tonight would have been the end of it all. Tomorrow we would have gone back to our regularly scheduled duties. And we’d put this farce behind us.”

Her phone lit up again. She let it go unanswered. Continued to speak as Benton circled around the block. “The spot in the far east corner,” Jupiter instructed him. “Kill the engine. This will take a minute.”

He parked us down the street from the Capitol Hotel. The other officers fanned out, parked, and stayed in their cars, awaiting their marching orders.

The Capitol Hotel extended into the air like a glass tower, but that’s where the wonder stopped. A wall of people had formed at the front entrance, shouting, pushing, shoving. Public distress forming.

“Benton—suit, tie.”

The medical examiner’s body van pulled in as Benton unbuttoned, undressed, and handed the items over.

I shifted in my seat, silently switching gears from bartender to homicide detective. Whatever I was about to walk into didn’t require the skill of pouring draft on tap for half off. It required a special set of skills I had polished and perfected, first as a Navy Seal and then as a Boston murder cop.

“The world premiere of All the Wrong Ones,” Jupiter said, “went without a hitch.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“No mocking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“After the lovely award ceremony, the speeches, and the endless rounds of applause, the real party kicked off.”

“Hollywood is good at partying.”

“It is. Too good.” She inspected the tie.

“What does that have to do—”

“Alcohol and illicit drugs flowing like an abundant river.”

“No shortage of illicit drugs in Hollywood.”

“I’d imagine not.”

“Captain—”

She raised the suit coat, measuring with her eyes its size and fit. “Alcohol and drugs are rocket fuel in the movie industry. At some point, things got out of hand.”

“As they do.”

“These things happened,” she agreed. “Unfortunately, of all nights, it had to be tonight.”

“Because it ruined a good party.”

“What did I say about mocking?”

“That I shouldn’t mock.”

“And you are.”

“A little. It’s Hollywood. Mocking celebrities is America’s favorite pastime.”

She pushed out breath, irritated with me, with the situation. Irritated.

“Long, someone unhappy about not getting the recognition they deserved socked a bigwig producer in the face. Bodyguards got involved, and soon the whole ballroom spiraled into a hair-pulling, face-punching stampede. The scene was so big and massive, we were overrun, out-manned, and overpowered.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I was overrun, out-manned, and overpowered at my own bar.”

My mind spun to the mysterious blonde, standing tall, gunning to lend me a shoulder in a fight that wasn’t her own.

From the body van, a crew extracted a stretcher and a black duffel bag. They headed into the Capitol Hotel, dodging people and cameras.

“You didn’t bring me here because a dozen entitled celebrities will require a plastic surgeon tomorrow?”

“Would I ever? You made it perfectly clear at the start of the week how you wanted to be kept away from the Capitol and anything that went on in there.”

“Glad my request was honored. Mockery intended.”

“I tried to. We were so close to nailing this without a hitch. So close.” Her voice trailed off. “Then four hundred and thirty-seven of them chose violence.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Wish I was. Four hundred and thirty-seven guests on the books, and they brought with them at least as many support staff.”

The front entrance of the hotel looked like a zoo, with traffic reaching bottlenecking capacity. I counted six patrol officers on the street directing traffic to alleviate congestion.

I did some quick math in my head. Our resources ran thin before the circus rolled into town. Whatever had gone down at the Capitol would put our police force to the test.

“Whose idea was it to host a movie premiere in Boston?”

“Not mine.”

“The city’s not equipped.”

“It’s the mayor’s call. She meant well. Boston needs the money.”

I glared at the hotel, sprawling to the sky. Decided to drop my argument and get on board.

“Dislocated shoulders and broken noses are not my specialty, but I’m here for whatever you need me to do.”

She cleared a catch in her throat. “You’re not here for the fight, Detective. I brought you over because there was a homicide.”

“Then you’re in luck. That’s my specialty. Lead the way.”

“Not so fast,” she told me.

She placed Benton’s tie and jacket in my lap. “Put these on. I can’t have my best detective looking like I pulled him out of a bar.”

“You did just that.”

The tie was slightly larger around my neck and drooped on me like it had nothing better to do. The coat sagged in the shoulders and the sleeves.

“Exactly. And I can’t have civilians speculate about your whereabouts. Smooth your hair. The back part is sticking out.”

I ran a hand over my hair. “There, fixed. You happy now? Am I pretty enough for my close-up?”

“You are, Long.” Her voice sounded distant, a hint of protectiveness I didn’t catch at first.

“Who’s the vic? Name? Age?”

“Long—?”

“Captain?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Take what the wrong way? Your criticism of my good looks? I won’t.”

“This murder brings heat on us. There’s so much on the line for our department and the city. It goes without saying—”

“—that it’s a high-profile case. You don’t have to keep reeling me in. I already said I’m in.”

I fidgeted with the tie and the jacket, half listening. The slow roll of the tires gently carried us closer to the hotel. Benton tapped the brakes.

“The vic got a name?”

Captain Judy Jupiter wasn’t a sentimental woman. She wasn’t the type to buy you a drink after a tough shift or cut you slack if your wife cut you loose. Judy Jupiter expected you to be on your A game, leave the touchy-feely things for your shrink, your priest, or your girl. But in this moment, sitting in a darkened car parked at the far east corner of the Capitol Hotel, Boston’s most prestigious lodgings, Jupiter aimed her head at the entrance, blocked off with a ribbon of yellow.

“I’m sorry, Long. This is not an easy request. I tried my hardest to keep it off your plate. It’s out of my control. The higher powers that be have spoken. They want you.”

“They want me?”

There was only one reason I could think of why the higher-ups would want me. And it so happened to be the same reason I’d requested to be kept away from the Capitol this week.

“Go. The cameras are waiting. Remember, they’re tapping our every move. Gosh”—she glanced over my shoulder to the street— “don’t they have anything better to do?”

She said other things, I’m sure of it. To put it simply, I stopped hearing her after she confirmed my suspicions.

I snapped the car handle. The cool wind of the wet night slapped me right across my face as I dashed ahead with a prayer in my head—please don’t let it be her.

Chapter 3

“Move, people. Make room,” an officer told the gathering of about a hundred people outside the hotel. “We’re trying to work here.”

I pushed my way through the impenetrable wall of humans, dodging a barrage of questions. The cameras went click, click, click in my face.

The lobby of the Capitol had been transformed by a thick red carpet over the polished tiles. Opulent. A glittering chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Tall, exotic flower arrangements stuck in grand vases added to the atmosphere. A movie backdrop set for the celebrities now sat oddly empty as I darted ahead.

Ten paces in, officers stood guard at the double doors to the ballroom. Through a partially opened door, I could see the extensive damage done to the interior. Chairs smashed. Tables flipped over. Tablecloths ripped off. A lady in a pink dress was crying over her damaged gown.

“It’s couture,” she said to someone off to the side.

Behind the award podium, All the Wrong Ones flashed on the video wall.

Just as I crossed the main hall, Detective Carlos and his partner, Bozman, rounded the corner.

“Would you look at that?” Bozman pointed to the ballroom.

“Is it as bad as it looks?”

“Worse, actually. Much worse. The whole place is totaled,” Carlos said.

“Over a movie premiere?” I said.

Bozman looked down at his notes. “Some actor sucker-punched the head producer. The producer returned in kind, breaking pretty boy’s nose. Personal bodyguards got involved.”

“Where was hotel security?”

Carlos pointed to a group of about twelve men dressed head to toe in black. “The head of security lays the blame on hotel management. Told us—he warned them about unrestricted alcohol, but no one listened.”

“The hotel wanted to give good times to their guests. Look what it led to.”

The elevator dinged. The sliding doors parted.

“We can’t interview ninety percent of them. Either too drunk or high to spell their name. Where are you off to?”

“Upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“The body,” I said.

Bozman stared at his partner. “Body. No one told us about a body. Carlos, did you hear anything about a body?”

“No.”

“There’s been a homicide. Jupiter—”

“—picked you up.”

“Yes.”

“See, we were wondering what happened to the captain. That explains it, doesn’t it, Carlos?”

“It does. To a degree.”

“’Cause we got here and she was gone. No one knew what happened to her. We heard that the hotel manager passed her a note—correct?”

Carlos nodded. “Yes.”

“She read it, apparently, and excused herself. We only knew Benton took her somewhere.” Bozman stuck his hands in his pockets, inspecting the damage around us.

“From the road, she radioed in the station. Ordered men off the street. Activated mutual aid.”

“She did, like Carlos said. Everyone assumed it’s because of the mega fight at the hotel. Our resources spread thin,” Bozman paused. “A murder still doesn’t explain the urgency—leaving this scene, coming to personally bring you—”

“It does if you think about it.” Carlos’s eyes quietly studied me.

“It must be a high-profile celebrity. Wait—we were advised guests were in the ballroom. The fight broke out seconds after the awards ended. What room did you say upstairs? Who kicked the bucket?”

The elevator doors started to close.

“He can’t discuss it.” Carlos stuck his thick arm in.

“Why keep it from us? Have you ever heard of anything this wild? It says ‘Boston Homicide’ on our badges.”

“—it’s kept from us because it’s not public yet, and because our best detective,” best was said with a hint of professional jealousy, “hasn’t seen the body.”

“Carlos—” I started to say.

“Fourteenth floor.”

“The fourteenth is the penthouse! The penthouse! Are you serious? Do you hear yourself, Carlos?”

“Long’s not denying it.”

“No, he’s not. Jesus Christ! I’m coming too.”

Carlos grabbed Bozman by the arm, holding him back.

“I’ll inspect the situation,” I said. “Call down for you if I need help. Secure the ballroom. Tell everyone we need to speak to them personally—all four hundred and thirty-seven of them and their staff, including anyone who might not have been at the party.” I pressed the button to the fourteenth floor.

I stepped out onto a sprawling private floor that led to the living room. Low lighting, candlelight—about two hundred of them in glass domes.

Romantic. Over-the-top, I observed. Opulent. It seemed to be a recurrent theme of the night.

White marble floor with splashes of black covered in red rose petals. A mirrored bar and several large sofas. A bottle of champagne uncorked. Two flutes on the white granite table.

One drunk from. One untouched. My mind took notes.

The panel of glass doors leading to the wraparound balcony stood wide open.

The rain-scented air fluttered on my skin.

In the middle of the opulence and the prestige, bathed in blood and lying face up, still wearing her evening gown, was the actress of the moment—Cassandra King.

I crouched beside her.

Her eyes, ocean blue, opened and stared back at me. My stomach flipped.

With a gloved hand, I touched for a pulse. None.

And not warm. Another mental note for later, after I absorbed, processed, unpacked.

A pair of boots stepped into the penthouse.

“She died relatively recently.” I stood up. “Maybe an hour ago, two tops. Her leaving the party should be on film. We’ll be able to nail the timeline like that.”

Jupiter moved to the side of the body. “She gave a moving speech. Smart, funny, human.”

“All three were true about her.”

“Will you be okay?”

Five feet from Cassandra, I noted a high school yearbook flipped open, a single page ripped out.

I wondered about its significance, mainly avoiding Jupiter’s question. “I want the floor sealed. The medical examiner is on-scene. I saw the van parked when we arrived.”

“Hollman’s here, waiting. I’ll tell him to come up.”

“And the crime unit—get them here too.”

“I’ll take care of that too, but I asked you a question. Stop avoiding the answer.”

Suddenly, the loose tie around my neck felt heavy, the jacket too roomy. I wanted to throw them over the balcony, watch them take flight.

“You can take them off if you’d like.”

I glanced away from Cassandra to Jupiter. “What?”

“The tie and the jacket. They weren’t your size. Benton’s bigger. Wider neck. His shoulders—broader than yours. So what do you say?”

“Do I have a choice? A say in this?”

“I warned you her murder will test you.”

“Homicide is my job.”

“Not when it’s her. Not when it’s Cassandra King. Say the word. Say it’s too much, and I move you off it.”

“The top brass up won’t like it.”

“Screw them. I’m the captain of the homicide squad. It’s my call which detective takes which case.”

I turned, careful not to disturb the crime scene before it was properly sealed. “Carlos and Bozman feel sidelined.”

“They are. Everyone’s sidelined.”

“They are capable. Good detectives.”

“Excellent at what they do. If you ask Carlos, the only reason his name is not in magazines as much as yours is the price of an expensive haircut.”

Cassandra King lay motionless in a bed of red rose petals.

My shoulders trembled, maybe from the cold breeze wafting from the balcony, or maybe because I imagined Cassandra teasing me endlessly about my hair.

I pushed off, stood up, walked away.

“Give me a moment,” I said.

“I need to know, Detective. Can you handle this or not? I’m already catching heat for leaving one massive crime scene to personally escort one of my detectives.”

“Carlos and Bozman said so. Why keep other homicide detectives in the cold?”

“I can hear the kids crying preferential treatment. That’s why I need you to commit or not. The choice is yours, but whatever you decide, I have a pack of hungry hyenas and one especially nervous mayor to soothe, and I don’t got a whole lot of time to do it all.”

“Call Hollman. I need him here. Looking at her—” I adjusted. “The vic.”

Alone, I thought about the scene. Studied it in the quiet. The body. The setting.

Cassandra walks in. Prepares to unwind. The champagne is chilled, waiting for her . . .

The glasses meant one for her and another for someone else.

She’d been expecting him, or had he been here waiting for her? Since the answer wasn’t obvious, I had to do some digging. For the moment, I thought, she came up first. He would come moments later.

I liked that scenario, because it explained the injury to her head. The killer had struck her from behind, when she wasn’t looking, when she had reached to unzip her dress. It went well with unwinding after a long night. What do you do first when you get the chance to be alone? You take your clothes off.

As I inspected the half-unzipped dress, Dr. Hollman entered.

Chapter 4

“Blunt-force trauma, but that’s unofficial. After I examine the body at the morgue, I’ll have the full picture.” Hollman reached in his bag of goodies as I loitered around him.

“When did she die?”

“Approximately an hour ago.”

“It lines up with the end of the awards right on cue. She didn’t stay for the after-show festivities. Got her award and left. Came straight up to her room.”

“Romantic setting. Sweet. Fitting for her popularity.” Hollman called over his assistants. “Help me flip the body over? You might want to step aside. This part is unpleasant.”

“Jupiter briefed you?”

“Yes.” Hollman placed his hands under the body’s shoulders.

“I’m okay.”

“She also said you will be stubborn and for me to insist. Go to the balcony. Take a second. I really don’t need you for this part.”

Across the street from her balcony, a billboard teased All the Wrong Ones. Cassandra wore a cheerleading uniform resembling her high school one. Her hair was highlighted. Her makeup—young and minimal—hid her real age well. On each side was a picture of a seventeen-year-old stud. Which one should she choose? The shy outcast or the popular bro?

It had played out similarly in real life. A little too real, actually. I pushed off the railing, refusing to think about the billboard again.

“Detective—”

I joined Hollman. Knelt back down. “They were tucked under her.” In my hand, I held the missing page in the yearbook, torn in two. The blood colored most of the pictures scarlet. “It must have been in her hands when the killer attacked her.”

“These two kind of look like Tom Crawford and Jetter Brown,” Hollman remarked.

I figured he’d tell me more without me asking.

“Cassandra’s love interests in All the Wrong Ones. Tom Crawford, the high school bad boy she’s madly in love with, and Jetter Brown she dumps for Tom...oh my...but you know it? Lived it? How much does art imitate real life?”

I ignored him. Given the circumstances, it was no one’s business how much a stupid movie imitated real life—my life.

Hollman’s team unpacked a yellow plastic sheet and laid it over Cassandra. I waited for them to finish.

“Blunt force trauma seems like a reasonable assumption for cause of death.”

“Correct, pending—”

“Your autopsy. Yes. I understand. Work with me here. It’s part of the process.”

“See the bruising around the upper lip and the eye socket forming?”

I saw.

“—it tells me she fell face first,” Hollman said.

“Again, it reinforces the theory she entered first, followed by her killer.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me. Watch the vids from the lobby. Whoever walked after her killed her.”

The pair of champagne flutes drew my attention while I listened to Hollman put it together.

“No.” I inspected the flutes up close. “These complicate the case.”Lifted the empty flute in the air.

“He drank from this. Hers untouched.”

Down on the street, sirens wailed.

“I think,” I started, “he killed her first, then, still feeling high off what he’d done, he reached for the champagne—drank and drank until not a drop was left.”

“Her stomach content will answer it for you.”

I shook my head, lowered myself back to the body, and lifted the sheet covering her. The trauma to her head was substantial.

“Can’t be done with a single blow. Two is not enough, either. Maybe three, maybe more—depending on how hard he hit and what he used.”

I scanned the room. The domes of the burning candles. The bottle of champagne. The several dozen vases filled with tall, exotic flower arrangements.

“None seem to be the likely weapon.”

Hollman packed Cassandra on the stretcher. Rolled her toward the exit.

“I’ll be in touch.”

In the corridor, outside the room, the hotel manager waited.

We shook hands, and by the way he squeezed mine, I could tell his emotions ran high. He looked at the blood-smeared marble floor, shaken.

I moved him to the balcony.

“Thank you,” he told me with his back positioned against the living room. “Tom Van Hoyte. Your captain said you’d need a statement from me because I found her. But I don’t know how much I can give you.”

“You’re doing fine. Can you tell me what happened? Best as you can.”

“After Mrs. King gave her speech thanking Mayor Cote for the award, she retreated to the penthouse to change.”

“Before or after the stampede in the ballroom?”

“Right before. We had a short intermission. Bathroom breaks. People stretched their legs. The band had to set up. About twenty minutes. Then the music began, everyone back to their seats or the dance floor.” He rambled on. “The ballroom will have to be closed for the foreseeable future. It’s totaled. The hotel will have to be renovated.”

“And how long after Cassandra left before you checked on her?”

Tom Van Hoyte shrugged. “There were fights going on in every direction. Chairs were flying over guests’ heads. Never seen anything like it in my life. The police looked stumped at who to arrest and who to question. It took a while to bring order. I’d say a good hour had gone by. After the melee, some people wondered where Cassandra was. Was she told about the fighting? I was talking to some of our more shaken-up guests, but after several local reporters approached me to ask about Cassandra’s absence, I felt compelled to notify her. Based on previous interaction with her, she was very approachable. Chatty and pleasant. Surely, I thought, she’d be mortified to hear about the unfortunate turn of events at her movie premiere.”

“That’s when you showed up to her room?” I asked.

“Not exactly. First, my office phoned the main line at the penthouse. No answer. The girl who works for me called four or five more times. Still no answer. So I got an ill feeling at the pit of my stomach. Something must be wrong. I decided to check up on Mrs. King personally. Inquire if she was all set. To make a long story short—I exited the elevator and I could see the door to the room ajar. It struck me as suspicious. It’s a private floor, no other guests, but still, it didn’t seem right she’d leave her front door wide open. Or am I off base here? I don’t know.”

“You’re not, Mr. Van Hoyte. People lock their doors. It’s a habit. For our safety and for our sanity.”

He nodded, agreeable.

“What happened then?”

“Called her name. Loud, clear—in case she was drawing herself a bath and couldn’t hear me from the water running. No response. That’s when I yelled my name. Again. Silence. I’m sorry”—he placed a weary hand on his chest—“I’m emotional. Running a hotel, it’s not the first time I’ve seen a dead body. It’s always been accidental. Old age. Someone slipped in the shower, that sort of thing.”

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes. I’d very much like some. My lips are so dry.”

He sipped. Sipped again.

“Are you okay to continue?”

“Perhaps. I think so. The room was set up romantic. The candles. The petals. The champagne. She must have done it herself. Our staff wasn’t involved. We only arranged for the flowers like the PR company instructed us. Everything else—her.”

“Her?”

“Can’t be anyone else. She had the passcode to the front door. Unique. Can’t be duplicated.”

“Okay. What did you do after you entered?”

His entire posture shook from the stress of the memory. He shut his eyes. Took another small sip. “The pool of blood drew my eyes first. Once I saw that, I told myself not to panic. She could have cut herself and was bleeding badly. I didn’t want to believe another possibility.”

“We’re almost done, Mr. Van Hoyte. Stay with me. And then?”

“I saw her body. I didn’t touch her, I swear.”

“You didn’t check for a pulse?”

“Should I have? It didn’t even occur to me to do that. Do you think I could have saved her?”

“No. Just checking if you felt for a pulse. Witnesses’ memories vary.”

“It’s a memory that I will remember. I’m no expert in your field, Detective, but it doesn’t take a trained eye to figure out—someone murdered Mrs. King.”

“My investigation will need access to your cameras.”

“There are none on this floor.”

“The elevator?”

“None in the elevator.”

“Why not?”

The hotel manager stared at the living room from the balcony.

“The suite goes for forty thousand a night. Our guests who pay that kind of money don’t want to be monitored by us. They usually come and go with their own private security that takes care of such things.”

“How many bodyguards checked in with Cassandra?”

“Zero.”

“She checked in with no personal protection.”

“Yes. Zero.”

“Did she say why?”

“Not to the hotel. And we didn’t ask. If she wanted them, she could have allowed them to stay in the penthouse. Plenty of rooms. Some guests do it because they don’t want to pay for single rooms. Others pay. It’s entirely personal preference.”

“Does anyone but you and Cassandra have access to this room?”

“My executive assistant, me, Mrs. King. The security code to this door is issued by the hotel head of security. He can give you additional names.”

“I’d like to speak with him after you.”

Tom Van Hoyte composed a brief text.

“What did you do after you found her?”

“I ran out as fast as I could and passed a note to Captain Jupiter in accordance with the security protocol. The police assigned her as a point of contact in the eventuality the unthinkable happened—which I guess it did.”

From there on, she left the ballroom in the midst of a major crisis to bring me to the Capitol, I fleshed that part mentally.

This was a good moment to take a break. I let him go after I instructed him to e-mail me a list of guests staying at the hotel and a second list of hotel employees scheduled to work the premiere of All the Wrong Ones. Handed him a business card with instructions to call me if a new detail jogged his memory. We said our goodbyes.

My phone vibrated with a call as Van Hoyte stepped in the elevator.

“Do you still have the coat and tie on?” Jupiter said to me.

“Took them off like you told me to.”

“Then put them on again. Be ready in five to give the mayor a private briefing.”

Chapter 5

“It stops the momentum of my investigation. Losing precious time on idling talk.”

“Detective—we have no leg to stand on against her. She brought Hollywood into town, promising them Heaven and Earth.”

“That’s her issue—”

Jupiter dropped her voice. “Here she comes, stepping into the elevator. She’s alone. A word of advice—Miranda Cote’s a clever politician, skillful. Don’t allow her to charm your pants off, or she’ll railroad us to the ground. Answer her questions, but be brief.”

“I’ve sparred with serial killers in the box,” I reminded her. “Handling the mayor should be a walk in the park.”

“Famous last words,” Jupiter said.

Miranda Cote was a slender woman with sandy brown hair in her early fifties. Her face was smooth and round. She had the smile of a customer service greeter.

“The newspapers say you’re the best murder cop Boston has produced in the past century—are they lying?” And apparently the attitude of Vito Corleone.

“Unfortunate overestimation on their part.”

“Am I okay to come in closer?”

She paused, covered her mouth with her hand, eyes on the pool of blood.

“—this is too real.”

“It is. If it bothers you too much, you can wait downstairs until I’m finished here.”

“Bullcrap. You can’t get rid of me this easily. I have the entire Hollywood industry in town locked up in a demolished ballroom, guarded by cops. Escorted to the bathroom by an officer. No exceptions. Two detectives want all electronic devices confiscated. Have you people lost your damn freaking minds?”

“They’re suspects.”

“We need to get several things straight—you’ll release them. Electronic devices are off-limits. And I want a minute-by-minute update on the status of your investigation.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually, there is more—”

“Actually, you’re out of line.”

“Excuse me?”

She headed for the fully stocked bar. Dumped two ice cubes in a short glass, then drained them with straight Scotch. The bartender in me admired her.

“You heard me the first time. Boston Homicide is in charge of this investigation. We don’t give minute-by-minute updates. When there is something to say, we brief you, we brief the media and the public.”

“Watch your tone with me, or I will march myself downstairs and order Captain Jupiter to fire you from this investigation.”

“Have at it. I’d tag along just to watch her wipe the smugness off your face.”

Cote stared me down, utterly shocked. “Boston is my city. I want to protect it. And I can’t if you drive Hollywood away. Movies will bring a much-needed fresh stream of revenue to revitalize our communities.”

“This is also my city, and I can’t protect it if you don’t allow it. A famous actress was murdered in her hotel room tonight by someone at the ballroom. Now, you can try to fire me—you’ll fail—or you can let me do my job!”

“Oh. Fine. Fine. Maybe I went a little overboard. Nothing like this was supposed to happen. But I need you to keep me in the loop. I have to go tell something to these people.”

“Tell them my detectives and myself will question as many of the sober as possible tonight. Starting tomorrow, we will conduct the rest of the interviews.”

“When can they—”

“I’m not finished. Yes, we would like their electronic devices, but we will work as fast as we can to return them.”

“How fast?”

“I can’t say. We will need more manpower. More crime techs. More. More of everything.”

“Is that a bit of an overkill?”

“No.”

“Can you do something else that’s less attention grabbing? I mean, just think how this will all play out for the cameras. The negative impact on Boston’s image. In the morning, the entire globe will be glued to their TV sets. The globe, Detective!”

“Boston’s image as a safe city will be restored once I’ve caught the killer. The globe will be watching then, too.”

She shook her head, let out a long, defeated sigh. “I think I like the movie version of you more. What happens now?”

“I’ll need a statement from you, since you were at the party. You can talk to me here or downstairs in the ballroom like the other guests.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you speak with the victim tonight?”

“Yes, briefly. After I handed her the award. She thanked me.”

“Do you know of anyone who had problems with her?”

“It’s been suggested she was a difficult person to work with.”

“And what do you think?”

“She had demands. Certain things.”

“The Capitol Hotel penthouse.”

“Yes, she wanted the best Boston could offer. The Capitol is. Then she wanted to read my speech beforehand. Made corrections.”

“Corrections to your speech?”

“I couldn’t mention the director’s name and the other actors involved in the movie. It was about Cassandra. Only her. And if this was the only issue—I would have swallowed the bitter pill for the sake—”

“More demands?”

“Tons more. My office can send you a list of them. Some of the things on there were so lacking I phoned the PR agency, asking them to sit her down and talk to her. I mean, Tom Crawford and Jetter Brown refused to fly in for the premiere because Cassandra threw a galactic-size tantrum.”

“Do you know if she had arguments tonight?”

She watched the billboard scroll on a loop. “I didn’t see it, but I was told Cassandra wasn’t happy with her husband—Ian King. They fought before the evening. Their assistant had to separate them for the night. Different tables. Away from each other.”

“What started the fight?”

“The movie. All the Wrong Ones. At least that’s what’s circulating in the ballroom.”

“Is Ian King there now?”

A pitiful moan interrupted me.

Both Cote and I heard it together. She placed the Scotch glass on the bar. I motioned for her to stay quiet. A second moan, longer and louder. It came from behind the mirrored shelves lined with expensive alcohol. I examined the smooth surface, stumped. I saw no handle, knob, or passage.

“Sounded human,” Cote said.

“Yeah. And the human behind this mirror is not moaning anymore.” I softly cursed under my breath.

Leaving me with no choice, I phoned Tom Van Hoyte.

“And it came from in there?” Hoyte pointed to the bar.

“Someone is behind this wall. Can you open it?” I said.

“Hurry up—the sounds died off.”

Hoyte removed from the lower shelf a bottle of Italian liquor, revealing a digital pad flushed with the mirror. From the inner pocket of his coat, Hoyte extracted a card as thin as a slip of paper, no bigger than your standard airbuds case.

“Hand it over,” I told Hoyte. “Stay with the mayor.”

I pressed the card over the ID slot, and a bright light read the digits instantaneously. The aerodynamic mechanism unlocked, and a secret door began to glide, then stop. Something was breaching it. I reached for my holstered gun, steadying myself. Then, as I leaned toward it, a staggering man mired in blood threw his weight on top of me. We toppled onto the marble. I felt his fist slam into my lower jaw. It sent my head backward, hitting the hard ground. Momentarily, I saw light bunnies and blinking stars. But my ordeal didn’t end there. Next, my body absorbed my attacker’s fall. He landed right on top of my chest, crushing my lungs. I winced at the hit. My vision blurred for a moment.

Miranda Cote yelped, “Detective!”

I realized the unidentified man was on top of me, ready to deliver a blow to my head.

Chapter 6

Without delay, I sprang into action. I threw my right leg from under him. Followed by a blast to his chest delivered with my left fist. He wobbled, unsteady. The look in his eyes was menacing.

Got him off balance. His knees softened. He staggered left to right with no particular direction.

“Boston Police. Stay down,” I said.

For a moment it seemed he’d cooperate, but he decided to fight it out.

“You,” he uttered as he raised a gold statue of a bare-breasted woman high above his head, readied to strike me.

“Ian—for Christ’s sake—stop!” Mayor Cote gasped.

She stood in front of him, arms stretched out.

“Move, Miranda.”

“He’s a cop! It’s not him. It’s not Jetter Brown. You’re plastered off your ass.”

Ian King released a snarling curl. “I don’t want to hurt you, but…”

“…but what?”

“But him and I have old, unsettled business,” he said darkly.

“Knock it off,” I snapped at him. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“You would like that, won’t you? Since you’re such a tough guy—come and make me.”

“With great pleasure.”

He pushed off, taking a swing at me. Missed. I swooped in. Avoided his fist. Hooked my arm through his bent elbow. Brought him to the ground. Began cuffing him. On the ground he squirmed, wiggling his legs.

“Stand up,” I ordered.

His face brushed against mine. I got a serious whiff of his ripened breath. It reeked of booze.

“You think putting on a badge—Cassie would crawl back in bed with you?”

“You’re under arrest.” I patted him down.

“Even in death, she still chose me over you.”

His white satin shirt was stained in blood. Not his, I observed.

Captain Jupiter filed in as I finished emptying his pockets. I looked up sharply at her. Mayor Cote and Tom Van Hoyte were huddled by the balcony, stunned into silence.

“Status report.”

“Ian King, husband of the victim, was discovered behind this wall.”

She turned to the mirrored bar. The room beneath.

“In there?”

“Tried to attack me after the hotel manager unlocked it. Witnessed by Tom Van Hoyte and the mayor.”

Jupiter circled around the bar, stepped inside. “It’s a hidden room with an elevator,” she said. “Why weren’t we told? The Capitol Hotel was instructed early on to turn over building plans. How are the police supposed to do their job if you keep something like this from us?”

Tom Van Hoyte stepped forward. “I didn’t think to mention it when I spoke with Detective Long. The head of security, I assumed, briefed you. The secret room is why the penthouse’s infamously called ‘The Hall of Mirrors.’ The architect was inspired by the classic funhouse Glass Mirror—a room lined with mirrors showing your reflection at many angles. A trick of the eye meant to distort how you see yourself, as you can’t easily tell where to exit.”

“It certainly is something else.” Jupiter stepped out. “We’ll need your statements again.”

In that moment, Ian King stirred in the cuffs. His bleak expression transferred from the bloodied marble floor to me, then back to the pool of blood.

“Too bad she’s in a body bag, or she would tell you so herself—you were a fling. I was the love of her life. Her world.”

“Wow. Oh. Wow. That’s just lovely. Mr. King, you have the right to remain silent. Use it,” Jupiter told him.

She snagged her phone from the clip on her belt. “Hang tight, Long. I’ll have Benton send a wagon for him. It will be a minute before we get a car ready to take him to the station. Mutual aid’s slowly trickling in.”

Ian King swayed gently from right to left like his knees were made of Jell-O. I helped him to the ground.

“Officers are downstairs to pick him up. But the elevator’s not working.”

“I’ll go get them. They’ll need a key pass.” Van Hoyte left.

“Do you see the gold statue behind you?” I pointed to the spot on the floor next to a dozen domes of burning candles.

“Yes. This?” With a gloved hand, Jupiter handed it to me. “She’s a heavy sucker.”

“Solid metal base. Sharp corners. It was on him. Came at me with it,” I said.

“And should have killed you,” Ian muttered sleepily.

“Ian—stay quiet, please. You’re in a whirlwind of trouble,” Cote interjected motherly. “And the base of the statue is silver and gold. It’s Cassandra’s award. Designed to her personal specifications. Even the award had to earn her esteemed approval.”

“And that’s blond hair.” I showed Jupiter several strands caked with blood.

“I’ll bag it.”

Tom Van Hoyte and the officers entered. They stood Ian up, each holding an elbow. As they balanced him upright, Ian leaned forward heavy. His soft knees buckled, the left leg tangled into the right, and he dove headfirst into the marble edge of the bar.

“Cancel the wagon. Start an ambulance. His breathing’s shallow.” I checked for his pulse.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Is he dead?” Cote fluttered by his side.

“No.”

“There’s so much blood. Bleeding from his head. And his mouth.”

“The ambulance is parking. Van Hoyte, make sure the elevator’s unlocked.”

With Ian in the stretcher, Cote said she’d escort him to the hospital and give a press conference soon after.

“Give me something good in an hour, or you can both start looking for a new job in the morning.”

“Miranda—” Jupiter said calmly.

“An hour.”

Cote reached over to Ian’s hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “He’s not the man you saw tonight. I know what it looks like to a pair of cops, but Ian didn’t kill his wife.”

With him and Cote gone, I examined the double crime scene now on my hands.

“It sounded more like a declaration of love than truth,” I said.

“She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Too emotional; brought on by the situation. A few hours away from the Capitol can only help calm her enough so reason prevails.”

“Squeezing his hand shows a level of relationship. It looked like more than the gravity of the moment. There’s something there.”

“He’s at least fifteen years younger than her. At least. And when he’s on a break from his marriage to the hottest woman, according to Entertainment Tonight, Ian prefers to keep company with actresses at least fifteen younger than him.”

I curved a brow.

“Don’t look at me that way. I watch TV too. Bonding time with my teenage daughter. Keeping up with Hollywood gossip lets me unwind after I’ve put in a grueling shift supervising death and gore.”

“Wasn’t judging. I was thinking.”

“And what were you thinking about exactly that required you to give me one of what People magazine calls ‘a piercing glare that crumbles killers’?”

“I was remembering how Cote pressed her body against Ian when he wanted to fight me.”

“Aagh. What?”

“It’s true. She told him I wasn’t him.”

“Him who?”

“Jetter Brown.”

“He is you in the movie. Big physical resemblance. Mannerisms all wrong. But the public won’t know the difference.”

“I intend not to watch it,” I said. “The mayor needs to come in. Give us a statement.”

Jupiter stirred, stared conflicted at the two separate pools of blood, connected by a small, weak streak.

“I suppose she’ll have to do it. No preferential treatment.” Her phone beeped. Read the text. Frowned. “Bozman and Carlos with an update—Cassandra in a body bag and Ian on a stretcher, cuffed, has caused quite the panic. I’m needed at the ballroom.”

“Go. I can manage.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can manage. Your intellect and skills have elevated your status to infamous, but even giants require help.”

“I’m a partner down. And with this case I don’t have the time to train someone new. Bozman and Carlos are handling the ballroom downstairs. They can help me.”

She peeked inside the hidden room behind the bar. “They can. Trust me—I won’t have to twist their arm hard. They’ve been asking for a high-profile case. This will ease their griping. When I go downstairs, I’ll tell them—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a female voice behind me.

A petite dirty blonde dynamo, with cryptic eyes, studied me from the opening at the front room.

“Yes, Detective, come in. We were just starting to discuss you.”

“We were?” I asked.

“Yes, we were.” Jupiter pointed to the room behind the bar. “Take a look at this. Tell me what you think,” she instructed the other detective.

“Blood on the carpet. Some on the walls. A bloody handprint. By the size, I’d say a male.” She knelt, examined.

“Go on.”

Standing up, she returned her attention to the smaller room, “The foul smell is vomit. Inexperienced killers sometime purge after they kill.”

“You think this is the case?”

“No.”

“Take your time, Detective. Now, care to change your answer?”

She approached the vomit, stuck her hand in it, protected with a glove. Extracted a glop, and sniffed it like it was a fine bottle of wine.

“The murder happened over there.” She pointed to the marbled floor in the main room. “Your vic took a hard hit. Several blows, probably. Something heavy, maybe sharp edges. I can’t tell conclusively without properly examining the body. Based on what I have in front of me—this is your primary scene. And this room was used by a drunk male. Unlikely to be the killer. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I repeated. “Captain, c’mon.”

“Detective Long”—she brushed me off—“this is Detective Rex Hobbs. Our newest hire. Transferred last week from Delmare, Florida.”

We didn’t shake hands.

“Play nice, children.” Jupiter poked her head one last time into the gruesome hidden room. “Life’s too short for anything else.”

I personally didn’t care for the life’s too short pep talk. As far as Detective Rex Hobbs from Delmare, Florida, was concerned, I expected some sort of explanation from her before I played nice.

Yet despite my cold welcome, Rex Hobbs seemed unfazed, unbothered, and worse, uninterested, which in turn bothered me plenty to rile me up six ways to Sunday.

“Your bar’s crap,” she said the first moment we found ourselves alone.

So much for playing nice.

Livid, I replied accordingly. “Yeah? You seemed right at home.”

Chapter 7

“Even in death, did Cassandra King still choose him over you?” She stepped onto the balcony. “So this flick is really about you and her . . . and your undying love for each other?!”

“Is that a question?”

“Maybe.” She leaned on the banister. “Cassandra King might have been the star of tonight’s evening, but Ian King was the hottest topic at every table.”

“Speaking from experience, he usually is. Relishes it, actually.” I leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “What did he do at the party?”

“He was a bit of a slob. Drinking heavily, rude to staff and guests. His wife and he got into it. An assistant had to separate them.”

“Cote thinks their fight was related to the movie.” I pointed to the billboard behind her.

“That would make a lot of sense. She obviously still had unresolved feelings for you.”

“Why do you think so?”

“C’mon, Long, even a man like you doesn’t need it to be spelled out.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Okay. Her last vid was based on choosing the wrong man: him.”

“Ian thinks even in death, Cassandra picked him over me. You said it yourself.”

“I was repeating secondhand hearsay. Testing you.”

“And why would you?”

“Just to see your reaction. How much you still cared for her.”

I returned to the living room, back to my murder scene.

“And you don’t want to talk about her, and her and you, and her, you, and him.”

“Bingo. I’d like to work.”

She frowned. “For this partnership to work—I’d need the backstory. Something. What’s the bone between you and him? How much does art imitate life?”

“I don’t know you, and I have no intention of discussing my personal life with you. If you want to gossip—go handle witness interviews in the ballroom.”

“Someone’s touchy-feely. I’ll drop it, but Miranda Cote seemed distressed you hurt her boyfriend.”

“What did you say?”

“You hurt her boyfriend; technically, if he’s married, that would make him her lover. And since he’s significantly younger than her—”

“Rex, why do you think they’re together?”

“—because she acted lovey-dovey with him, screaming orders to the poor medics in the ambulance. Friendly advice—stranger to stranger—Cote might be looking to bench Boston’s super-duper cop. Buyer’s remorse, so to speak.”

I skipped right over her obvious attempt at poking fun at me. Opted to check my phone for any missed messages from Tony. I had left him alone to mind the bar. None.

“What did you do for Delmare PD?”

“Homicide,” she said.

The wind caressed her soft features. From her pocket, she pulled out a giant-size chocolate bar. Unwrapped it.

“Aren’t you a little young to make homicide?”

“Twenty-seven in July, and Delmare’s small. If you’re good at your job, you rise quickly. Is something missing?”

“Her jewelry’s on her. Her purse is on the bench.” I pointed to the Hall of Mirrors. “Haven’t searched it yet.”

“What about vid?”

“Needs to be collected and reviewed.”

She dropped her head, chocolate bar in her mouth, while Rex examined the yearbook.

“High Grove High School. Class of 2008. It’s real. Have you found the missing page?”

“It was under her.” I handed her the two torn pieces.

She joined them together. “Hmm. Would you look at that?”

“It’s Ian and her.”

“And you.”

Rex turned the page over and pointed to the roll below them.

“I have a copy of the yearbook at home.”

“Does it trouble you?”

“Yearbooks usually don’t.”

“Two torn pieces of a high school yearbook, discovered under the murder victim.”

“She was holding them,” I said. “The ME found them in her hands.”

“That adds more to the mystery. Was she killed because of some significance the yearbook holds, or for an entirely different reason?”

“I can’t think with your jibber-jabber. Your narration messes with my process.”

“Talking is my thing. The process I have to do to see things clearly.”

“This isn’t working.”

“You think?”

“Yes, Rex. I do.”

“Your tie is too big for you, and your jacket’s the wrong fit.”

“They’re not mine. Borrowed. Usually I’m a much better dresser.”

I thought it silly to defend my clothes to her.

“I hear Jetter Brown dresses sharply in the movie.”

“And I heard that’s one thing we have in common.”

She stared right into me. “I have a deal I’d like to propose.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll shut up, even though it’s really cramping my style, if you tell me about High Grove High School.”

“Why? Why do you want to know?”

“Pure curiosity, and because you need your precious silence.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Okay? The three of us were high school classmates. Cassandra and I dated briefly in senior year before she moved on with Ian.”

“Ugh, excuse me, what? Ian King attacked you tonight, blabbing about how Cassandra in life and in death chose him over you. Accused you of sleeping with her, wooing her away from him. How much of that is true?”

“None of it. Ian was being an ass, as always.”

“So you expect me to believe Ian King out of the blue made it all up in his sauced state of mind? I’m not buying this.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but in this case, like almost always, art is more interesting than real life. Off the record speaking, Ian’s a world-class prick. He saw my badge. Recognized me. And chose to act out,” I said.

“Why?”

“Why? You’d have to ask him. I’m done discussing this.”

“Predictable. I suspected you’d say so.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“You’re no stranger to bending the truth to help yourself.”

Rex Hobbs fetched her cell phone from her jeans. Opened a saved web page of a news article. My picture was smooshed between layers of text.

“It says here you’re the only grandson of Charles Abbott, the great billionaire. But your last name’s Collins?”

“Abbott was my mother’s. Collins was my dad’s,” I explained.

“That’s something.” She read a few lines further. “‘A rare crossbreed between a young John Kennedy and George Clooney; if his looks don’t charm you, his intellect will . . .’” Rex rolled her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“The reporter for Boston Society Magazine is my sister. Overactive imagination. So far, I don’t see how I’ve lied.”

“The mag also says here you’re an only child.” She continued to read. “‘His only flaw might be the Boston Police badge and gun. As a top homicide detective with the highest murder clearance rate, his future soulmate should expect Long Collins to work terrible hours and pull all-nighters chasing after our city’s lowest of the low. Ladies, are you up for it?’”

“This information is only relevant to you if you’re trying to date me. Do you want to go on a date with me, Rex? Is that what you’ve been trying to do? You don’t have to stalk me. All you have to do is ask.”

“I recently swore off dating,” she said factually. “And I simply brought up the magazine because you closed a mega homicide investigation the media still talks about. You’re more well-off than well-off people, and yet you’re a cop. I’m trying to understand whom I’m ordered to work with.”

“They wrote about Dr. Letum down in Florida?”

“Yes, even in the backwater of the state of Florida, we get news. A cop pretending to be an oncology patient for four months to nail a doctor who murdered fourteen patients—that’s a big deal. How did you do it?”

She folded her arm on the bar, her hair flowing down her shoulder. Tempting.

Outside, rain began to pour fast, like maple syrup gushing on a hot stack of buttermilk pancakes.

“Again, the papers tend to exaggerate. And for the record, you still haven’t told me how I lied to benefit myself,” I said.

“Police lore. I heard initially the Dr. Letum investigation was shut down because of lack of evidence. You changed the brass’s mind. Correction—directly influenced the police commissioner.”

“That part of the lore would be categorically wrong. If I influenced anyone, which is not true, but for the sake of this conversation I’ll go with it, it wouldn’t be Commissioner Donovan.” My jaw tensed. “It would have been Captain Jupiter. Nothing goes around here without her approval.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. A speck of honesty, alas.”

“You don’t believe me? Ask her yourself. Something you didn’t read in the newsmagazine—I was first approached about Dr. Letum by the chef at my crappy bar, Dale. His sister—Linda—was Dr. Letum’s victim number six. She was getting sicker and sicker under his care. Dale begged Linda to transfer out, but Letum convinced her he, not Dale, had her best interests at heart. Dr. Evil turned Linda against her brother. She refused to see him. Dale came to me. He was convinced Letum was slowly poisoning Linda but didn’t have the evidence to prove it. I was skeptical at first until I spoke with the families of three other patients. They all said the same thing—until Letum took over their care, the patients were on the mend. And then they took a turn for the worse.”

“Did Letum fake their medical records?” Her voice sounded less accusatory.

I continued, eager to win over her trust for reasons I couldn’t yet explain to myself. “He was too cocky. Kept impeccable records of the meds he was giving them. What drew my suspicion was the wills. There was an odd number of patients leaving their money to Letum, but since they had cut off contact with their relatives and shortly thereafter died, legally Letum was untouchable.”

“So you went undercover? Faking cancer. Brilliant. How did you get him to trust you?”

“Brilliant or not, convincing him to choose me as his next patient turned out to be the easy part.”

“Your inheritance drew the Evil Doctor to you.”

“Like a fool to his ruin,” I said.

In the distance, thunder clapped. The billboard circulated All the Wrong Ones. But now it flashed a breaking-news ticker: “Cassandra King murdered.”

“The entire globe’s watching.”

“It is.”

“And you’re in the center of it. Another publicized murder that screams mega attention. More glowing write-ups nationwide for you.” She nodded.

“I won’t apologize for my work. Boston’s streets are safer. It’s all I care about. The rest is noise. Dr. Letum is where he belongs. It’s a win-win for the good guys.”

“Funny you see it that way.”

She entered the Hall of Mirrors. I watched her study the walls covered in flowery wallpaper.

“How else would you like me to see it?”

“To other cops, it looks like you threw your weight around, so the brass gave you a pass, then you used your last name and fortune to lure a killer. And tonight the captain of the homicide squad personally delivered you to the Capitol, overstepping several other well-qualified detectives to hand you the reins of this murder investigation. Like it or not, this police, this city, views you as something special.”

“If my previous acquaintance with Ian King bothers you so much, you’re welcome to spy on me some more. Why were you at Last Call earlier tonight?”

Rex gathered her hair in a tie knot, taking her time to answer, I thought.

“It was a recon. Wouldn’t you if you showed up in a new town with a new police force and partnered up with Mr. Cop? Maybe I could read out loud the rest of the Boston Society article. On the flight, I debated if I should do it at all. By the time I landed at Logan, I was thirsty, and you own a bar. Natural curiosity won over. I ordered my Coke and waited for the ideal opportunity to introduce myself.”

“Predictable. I suspected you’d say so.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“What else should I call you?”

“And what lie did I tell you?”

“You said you were thirsty after your arrival in Boston.” I neared her. “Your soda was untouched.”

I could feel her energy, pulling me in. Carefully, she bent to one knee. I could hardly contain my breath. She rose again. My throat was parched now. Her magnetic eyes pinned me against the wall. If you had asked me to say my name, I would have trouble remembering it.

“I ordered a Coke, but you got me a Pepsi. I was polite by not sending it back. Let’s hope you’re as good of a detective as they say, because you leave a lot to be desired in the bartending department.”

She pushed an evening purse into my hands. “The vic’s. Here you go. Her cell is still in there.”

Chapter 8

I stepped off the elevator. No Rex in sight. I breathed out in relief.

Carlos emerged from the ballroom.

“How many statements did we manage?”

“Less than a hundred. They’re either too drunk or pretending to be, thinking they can avoid speaking to us. Most are embarrassed by what transpired. A few act humiliated and want to bargain with the police. ‘Keep my name out of the report, or I won’t talk’. The pushback’s not serious. We can delay their travel plans, and they don’t want that.”

“The mayor doesn’t seem on our side. Keep that in your pocket.”

“She has no room to gripe about any of this. Hollywood in Boston is her office’s doing.”

“She sees it as a golden opportunity to bring a new stream of revenue to the city. Revitalize the communities.”

“Noble of her, and puts the police in a jam. The entire evening, officers have been informing the esteemed guests that we expect their full cooperation. Some threatened us with their lawyers.”

“To be expected.”

“Yes. No surprises. And Jupiter left half an hour ago in a rush. I think she said she’s going to the hospital to wrestle sense into Miranda Cote. Now her hurry is justifiable.”

I walked into the ballroom. The destruction of the space hadn’t been overplayed. Furniture smashed, dishes destroyed, food smeared on the ground, walls covered in booze.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“The hotel manager said the damages are in the millions,” Bozman began. “You can see he cares a lot about the hotel. He needed to take a break from here, so he took your partner to the kitchen.”

“Rex Hobbs—”

“Previously from Delmare PD, Florida. Kind of young to be a detective. Twenty-four-ish, I’d say.”

“Twenty-seven this July,” I replied to Carlos. “She told me Delmare’s small department—”

“Fifty.”

I paused. “Fifty officers is small.”

“No,” Carlos rejected. “Fifty total that includes officers, command staff, dispatch, and civilians.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“A story for another time.”

“Listen to you two. What business is it of ours where she worked before? I think she’s impressive. Was something stolen from Cassandra King’s hotel room?”

I handed Bozman Cassandra’s evening purse. “Her jewelry was untouched. Phone and wallet are in there.”

“I’ll send it to the lab. Phone’s password protected?”

“What do you think?”

“I know—figured there’s always a small chance. Okay. I’m out.”

Bozman walked off.

“Ms. Sunshine got him interested in the robbery theory.”

“She asked me too, upstairs.”

“And she’s been asking guests if they had all their stuff.”

“Did they?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, Cassandra wore a diamond choker, several large diamond bracelets, and more diamonds stabbing her ears. Her purse and other belongings were untouched.”

“So Rex’s asking about potential robbery is because why?”

“Who knows? Trying to impress the captain, you, and Bozman.”

“Not you?”

“There was a moment in the penthouse when Jupiter introduced us.”

“What kind of a moment?”

“The captain asked Rex to explain the crime scene.”

“And did she?”

“She did a solid job. Impressive. But it fell apart for me when she settled on robbery.”

People milled about, speaking among each other in hushed, worried tones.

“If you’re done with them, we should tell them to go to their rooms. Electronic devices collected?”

“Yes. After some arm wrestling. Some were close to signing a murder confession if I’d tell them they can keep their screen gadgets.”

“If that’s all settled. Cut them loose. Tell them we’ll be in touch. Someone stood out to you?”

“The husband.”

“Ian King. He stood out the most. Found him in a hidden room. Attacked me with what will most likely be the murder weapon.”

“His grand exit on the stretcher and the cuffed hands sent the place spiraling. We got them back on track, but it ate up some of our time.”

“I heard he was a handful guest.”

“A major prick is what the general consensus is. He became especially awful to be around after the public spat with his now-deceased wife.”

“All the Wrong Ones ignited it.” I glanced at a poster of Cassandra King. Eight feet tall. Bigger and splashier than her costars’. “Cote told me Cassandra was just as difficult to manage as her husband.”

“She fluttered around Ian like he was her favorite boy toy.”

“You caught that? Rex suggested it too. I raised the issue with Jupiter, but she’s not on the same page as us.”

Bozman returned with three cups of coffee. “Tom Van Hoyte is keeping a skeleton crew working the kitchen. They will be serving refreshments shortly to speed up the sobering process.”

“Thanks.”

We each took a cup. I sipped it—black, bitter—not bad.

“Did Carlos fill you in about Last Call?”

“No. Fill me in on what? I left Tony in charge. Did something happen?”

Bozman eyed his partner. “You took the call. You do the honors.”

“One of you—go,” I said.

They exchanged you-tell-him glances. Bozman caved to Carlos’s stony glare. “Three of the guys from the bar fight filed complaints against . . .”

“Me?”

“Romero,” Carlos said.

“Are you updating him or me?”

“You. You.” Carlos nodded.

“Yes.”

“What’s their complaint?”

“They didn’t see his identification. Falsely arrested.”

“He most certainly did.”

“Customers at the bar confirmed Tony’s side of the incident. Those guys walked in itching for a fight. But they whined to night watch before they bailed out. We figured you could pass it along to Tony. Tomorrow he might get a few calls from command to explain.”

“Boys, Tony’s gone. His ten-forty was approved. Command will bury it because it’s a load of bullcrap.”

I zeroed in on the dirty blonde serving coffee from a cart, friendly, chatting up actors.

“There’s Rex.” Bozman seemed enthralled by her. “I’ll go help her and find out what she heard from the kitchen staff.”

“Florida, huh? Good weather, pristine highways, no winter, and Ms. Florida picks up and leaves all that behind for . . . Boston.”

“You’re suspicious of her, Carlos? Something you don’t like about her?”

“What’s she doing working for us?”

I had been wondering the same thing.

“Maybe she really likes Boston. Dreamed of living here since she was a little girl.”

“Yes, that must be it. She loves endless rainstorms, crappy roads, and months-on-end winters.”

“Why not, Carlos? We live here.”

“True,” he snapped, “but we didn’t choose it, Long. Despite the endless rainstorms, crappy roads, and months-on-end winters, Boston is our city. And now it’s hers too.”

Boston had been Cassandra King’s city once, I thought. Before the fame and the glamour of Hollywood, she had gone to High Grove High, breaking every boy’s heart, including mine.

Her eight-foot-high poster captured her radiant smile. When Carlos left, I allowed myself a small moment to reminisce about the girl I had once loved madly. What I remembered the most was her laughter—a sweet melody of happiness. Vibrant and alive.

“Hey, you.” Rex’s throaty voice interrupted my thinking. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Bozman’s cool. We hit it off. His girlfriend is a big fan of our victim. She was a puddle of tears when she called him to squeeze him for details.”

“We can’t—”

“We can’t publicly disclose anything. He knows. He was very careful about what he told her. They’re a cute couple.”

“Are they? I didn’t know he went steady with a girl.”

“She played hard to get at first with him, Bozman shared. A firefighter was in the running to win her heart, but she chose him. He’s over the moon, gleeful with happiness.”

“For someone who recently swore off dating, you seem gleeful yourself.”

“Love is love, man. I’m a romantic at heart. You—”

“Me what, Rex? Am I a romantic at heart?”

“Actually, I was about to ask you if you’d like to speak with these people here or at the station.” She produced a short list, drafted on a pale-pink napkin that read All the Wrong Ones in hot pink. “I skimmed over the statements Bozman and Carlos collected. These seem interesting.”

“The head of security is my first choice,” I said. “Then let’s do Nolita Skylar and Ellie St. James.”

“For the record, —I’m not overly romantic. The regular amount.”

“I already forgot about it.”

“Earlier, when I brought it up, you gave me a look.”

“No look.”

“Like you were judging.”

I sighed. “Things are winding down at the hotel, Detective. I need you to go to Central—do you have access to the building and assigned desk?”

“Yes. Julie from HR got me squared away.”

“Begin setting up the board and the murder book. Time to get to work.”

Chapter 9

Standing by the TV station near the DJ booth, I kept one eye on the press conference as it streamed live in front of the hospital. With the other, I scanned the ballroom, imagining the setup before the destruction.

Beside me, Bozman stomped in one place.

“They don’t allow her to answer a single question,” he said, fidgety.

And, “Cassandra looked hot tonight in her dress.”

I quickly killed the presser after the pertinent details were distributed to the media and the public.

“No hiding from it now. The whole world knows.” Carlos bared his teeth. “How much did Jupiter and Cote give them?”

“Sparse and economical. The basic outline of the murder.”

“A beloved actress discovered dead by staff in her hotel room. We’re treating her death as suspicious,” Bozman said, edgy.

“—until the morning when we tell them her death’s a homicide.”

“The mayor expects us to cuff her killer tonight,” I shrugged. “Never spoken to her personally until she arrived at the penthouse with nasty demands.”

“Let me guess—we release everyone, tell them sorry for the inconvenience, and please keep your phone.”

“It’s like you were in the room with us, Carlos.”

“He might have been. It’s one of his talents to see all. Unnerved me before I got used to it, but now it’s kind of fun.”

“If we’re to meet her expectations, boys, we’re behind the eight ball,” Carlos said.

“You said it perfectly.”

Josh Bozman worked a browser on his phone. “Cassandra’s IMDb page. It has her movie roles and accolades. A rather impressive compilation. Did you know that not only was she the main actress in All the Wrong Ones, but she also wrote and produced the film?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Well . . . yeah. I figured she reached out, called you in the least to get your approval. If not her, Jetter Brown preparing to play you in the movie?”

“No.”

“That’s selfish of her. It’s your life too.” Carlos watched my reaction.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference what my answer would have been. Cassandra would have gone ahead with it.”

“Again—”

“Selfish.”

“I won’t tell Amanda that part. Cassandra’s her idol. I was taking her to the movies on Friday to see All the Wrong Ones. She was a true fan. Showed her hairdresser a photo of Cassandra King. Highlighted her hair to match. There were tears tonight and tears in the morning.”

“Maybe Amanda will find comfort when you inform her—you’ll be assisting in the homicide investigation,” I said.

“Are you serious? I mean, Carlos and I were already handling the fight in the ballroom but not the actual murder. This is exciting. Carlos, isn’t it?”

“So. Very. Exciting.”

“Don’t bother with him, Long. My partner is a bleak individual.” To his partner, “Carlos—you’ve been talking for months how Long Collins gets every high-profile case and how the brass thinks he’s something special . . .”

“Why don’t we end it there, Boz. I get the picture, and thank you for pitching in, and you too, Carlos.” I pulled out the pale-pink napkin. “Can you tell me if these individuals are here? I’d like to question them before we leave.”

“Nolita Skylar is over there at table number seventy-five. She played the high school Cassandra King in the movie—”

“And Ian and her might have had a fling.”

“Unconfirmed.”

“Unconfirmed my ass. Ian King directed his assistant to move him to Nolita Skylar when him and Cassandra went at each other’s throats. As the night progressed, Ian and Skylar cozied up, their fondness of one another on full display.”

“Unconfirmed, but we’ve been told there is video of the night,” Carlos relented. “And the lady next to Skylar is Ellie St. James, the head of the PR company in charge of tonight.”

“The PR lady is some uber-famous PR guru. She can make or break your career. Feared by many. Cassandra was on St. James’s shit list—”

“Uncon—”

“Say unconfirmed again, and I’ll reach in and rip your vocal box out. Ellie St. James was seen following Cassandra out of the ballroom. They were overheard shouting at each other. St. James called Cassandra a ‘selfish, spoiled, whiny brat.’” Bozman read from his notes. “She was heard saying to Cassandra that she was finished in Hollywood.”

Carlos replied, “Who would you like to speak with first?”

“Nolita Skylar.”

“I’ll go get her.”

“Try to get her without drooling all over the floor or asking for her autograph.”

“Carlos, you can be such an ass, but you’re the best partner a cop can ask for, so I will disregard your classless comment.”

I handed Carlos a note.

“Where do you want them?”

“I sent them to the hospital to stay with Ian King. Told them to watch him and report on who stays to keep him company.”

“You have a person in mind?”

“I do. Miranda Cote. She seemed very broken up about—”

“Cassandra?”

“Ian King.”

“You think they’re banging?”

“I think I want you to make contact with the officers. Check in with them and put them through my cell phone if I’m out of the office.”

Bozman showed Nolita Skylar to the security office off the ballroom. She lowered herself into the chair across from me. She wore a pale-pink fitted dress. A streak of hot pink woven through her blonde-streaked hair pulled into a complicated hairdo.

“They said you’re the detective in charge investigating Cassandra’s murder? Was she really killed, or is this a PR stunt?”

“My name is Detective Long Collins. And yes, it’s true, but why would you think it’s a stunt?”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is Hollywood. Kind of seems fitting. We imagine love relationships out of thin air, pregnancies out of the blue to drum up sympathy, or for no reason at all. It seems unreal—her death. I guess I want it to be unreal, because otherwise prayers can be answered.” Her river-green eyes filled with tears.

“You prayed for her to die?”

“Like a million times a day.”

“Any reason why?”

“This is bad. And embarrassing. And I don’t want to do it, but at the same time, I owe her this much. She chose me, you know. Came to casting when I read for the part. Liked me a lot. I got the role practically on the spot. My agent later told me the film and cast directors preferred another actress for the role, but Cassandra threatened to fire them. I wish I never signed on.”

“What was the problem between Cassandra and you?”

“It started on day one of shooting. The moment I stepped foot on the set, Cassandra would find a reason to criticize me. Call me names in front of the cast. I didn’t have enough talent to pull off the character, or I was too timid. The real Cassandra in high school was bold, brave . . . wild. I’m sorry, can I say something to you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been told you look so much like Jetter Brown? It’s like you’re him and he is you, only he’s a spiffier dresser.”

I removed my tie, sick of hearing about it.

“Why do you think Cassandra treated you like that?”

“Jealousy, probably. Despite her trying to ruin me on set, people actually liked my work. I was starting to get some really nice write-ups in mags. Entertainment Tonight invited me on their show. Now I was under the spotlight and killing it, Cassandra not so much. She was peddling her next project, some weird documentary. People were getting sick of it. Once she heard I got a spot on Entertainment Tonight, she immediately put an end to it. Of course, I can’t prove it. Overnight, negative rumors started to circulate about me that I was sleeping with Jetter Brown, that he was the reason I got the part. I would totally do him, but none of it was true. The smear campaign was her doing. She’s done it to others. Nobody in this room could stand her.”

“What about Ian King? Did he have issues with her?”

Nolita Skylar shuffled in the chair, her body came alive with nerves.

“They had issues.”

“Anything more specific? I heard you two were—”

“Were what? Cozy? Sleeping together?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled loudly. “We banged. Okay? Banged a few times. Nothing emotional. I think we were both sick of the same person and wanted to get back at her. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. Are you going to tell the press?”

“No.”

Nolita forced a sigh. “Wish you were. I’d like my name mixed up in your investigation. The attention her murder will get—global to the max! I bet my agent can approach Entertainment Tonight, interview me for the Special Report they’ll produce for her. Hollywood might hate her, but she was gold in the box office. All the Wrong Ones is slated to win important awards, and the PR company didn’t have to pay for them. That’s a flex. Can I go now?”

“Nearly done. A few more questions. When Ian moved to sit at your table, did he tell you what the fight was about?”

“No . . . wait . . . he said Cassandra has been less bitchy lately. Ian thought they’d get back together. He prepared some grand romantic thing for her only for her to laugh straight in his face. Told him they’re never getting back together. That he should watch the movie if he wanted to find out who she wanted to end up with.”

“And how did he take that?” I said.

“Oh, he was livid. I’ve never seen a man so mad in my life. He whispered in my ear after she won her award that I should go to my room, take my dress off, and lay naked in the bed because we would have a reason to celebrate. When he went after she left the awards, I waited a few minutes. That’s a few minutes too long, because the stupid fight ruined the rest of my night. My vintage gown is totaled. Someone wiped their bloodied nose on the train while I was hiding under the table. Who does something so awful to a beautiful dress?”

“Okay, Nolita. I think that’s it for now. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.”

“Huh? All I can think is how much you look like Jetter Brown. I can do you instead of him. Then the rumors about him and I will be half a lie. Think about it.”

I got up to open the door for her. She placed a sensual hand against my chest. “Room five-oh-five, if you change your mind.”

Chapter 10

“You’re blushing,” Carlos said.

“It’s hot in here.”

“And the tie? She slipped it off your neck?”

“Carlos—” I stirred.

“Don’t have to tell me, Long. I have two eyes. Nolita Skylar’s looks can melt your copsicle.”

“Ask Ellie St. James to come in after that, you can go home for the night.”

Ellie St. James wore a large, roomy white-and-black checkered blouse, part of a set. She had a wide face, white powdered, thin lips outlined in brown pencil, dark cream-colored eyes, marked in heavy black eyeliner.

She slapped her purse on the desk and placed her coffee down next to it.

“Lottie Skylar was telling the truth—for once.” She poured bourbon from her purse into her coffee. “It’s like you’ve skinned Jetter Brown.”

“I’ve been told a few times we look alike.”

“After seeing you, it explains the last modifications Cassandra wanted written in All the Wrong Ones.”

“What modifications?”

She chugged down her mostly bourbon and a splash of coffee. “A steamy sex scene. The movie director warned her it might not be suitable for the movie theater, since it’s a story about high school kids, but Cassandra fired him, then rehired him when he promised not to touch the scene. Now All the Wrong Ones is a movie about horny high school kids.”

“You didn’t like Cassandra much?”

“I couldn’t care less that she’s dead. Find it a reason to celebrate. Want a swig?” She smiled over the rim of the bourbon.

“No. And you can’t drink until we’re finished.”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s a good bourbon, though. Good bourbon for a celebration. When you catch whoever killed that nasty bitch, call me; I’d like to French-kiss him. Lots of tongue action.”

“Did you go tonight to Cassandra’s penthouse?”

“No.”

“You were seen following her out of the ballroom after she received her award.”

“Yes.”

“You were seen arguing with her?”

“Yes. So?”

“Did you tell her she was finished in Hollywood? Did you call her a selfish, spoiled brat?”

“Yes. Am I a suspect?”

“Should you be?”

“No. I won’t allow you to threaten me like I’m a criminal. I hated Cassandra. No one off the top of my head particularly liked her. The more famous she became, the more ruthless, brutal, and competitive she became. Cutthroat. Dismissive of her competition.”

“And you had a problem with that?”

“I’m an LA native. My PR agency manages some of the biggest Hollywood stars. Ruthless, brutal, and competitive is how I like ’em. Cassandra tested me at every turn. Tonight was her moment, right? The award ceremony cemented her status as Hollywood royalty, which should have made her exuberant, logic goes. Wrong.”

“What happened tonight between you and her?”

“One of the actors moaned Jetter Brown and Tom Crawford should have been here. Cassandra didn’t take that well. Ordered me to throw out anyone who mentioned them. I told her that wasn’t happening. She flew off the handle. Yelling. Throwing a tantrum the size of Mars. I had to remind her she’s not the only actor. The agency did so much for her, I pointed out to her. Of course, Cassandra didn’t care. She’s bossy, spoiled—oh, and ungrateful.”

“How so?”

“I don’t have to think hard or go back too far—she made every actor on the set shiver with fear. She was particularly nasty to Nolita Skylar. Beat her up verbally in front of the whole cast. Cassandra was jealous of Nolita’s youth. Her success. You didn’t even have to have a speaking part in the movie, Cassandra hated you for breathing her air. Christ, she actually called it her air.”

St. James clapped her hands together. “Things got so bad, the PR agency did some serious damage control.”

“What would that entail?”

“Pay bumps for those still willing to work directly with her. Others got commercial side projects, a few signed brand deals. Whatever it took to buy their silence. And in the midst of us saving All the Wrong Ones from her destruction, Cassandra fired the director four times, butted heads with wardrobe. None of the clothes were up to her standard. So we allowed her to go shop. In a single week, she spent the whole budget for the entire cast on herself! It caused a nightmare.”

“Okay. Let’s move on to tonight. How did she act?”

“Like she was a queen. Finally, her name illuminated from the biggest freaking billboard Boston could hang. Staying in the most expensive hotel room. The finest meal prepared by a seven-star Michelin chef we flew in from Paris. Wearing a bespoke diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings. All she had to do was pose for some photos, mingle, smile, and say a few lines of pleasantry when the mayor handed her the award. She managed none of it.”

She sighed. “The entire night she pestered me about her next project.”

“A documentary?”

“Yes. Adopted children or whatever. It was never happening. Everyone who heard her pitch hated it. Cassandra couldn’t take a polite no for an answer, and fuck no was also not working. Please try to see it from my perspective—I’m in PR. My job is to handle crises; her agent’s, who Cassandra fired too, job was to handle her. Without that guardrail—Cassandra’s wheels were coming off.”

“That’s what your fight was about?”

“Yes. The fuck no portion of my statement. I said some things I now regret. But I didn’t kill her.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

“Do you think one of us hated her this much to kill her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should talk to her ex-agent. Beatrice Ashburn. She discovered Cassandra. Believed in her talent. Without Betty’s guidance, Cassandra King would be another LA waitress waiting on her lucky break.”

After that, I told St. James she could go.

At the door, holding her purse, she took a sip from the bourbon. “I’d still like to French-kiss her killer.”

***

In the lobby, Bozman sat in front of me a plastic container with a flash drive.

“Security vid. How did the PR lady do?”

“She came off strong. Admitted to following Cassandra after the award ceremony. And didn’t hide the fact that they were pissed off at each other.”

“Reason for the pissed off?”

“Cassandra’s diva antics. The movie crew was fed up by her never-ending list of demands.”

“Do you think she is capable of murder?”

“Can’t count her out. And Nolita Skylar stays on the suspect list. I need you and Carlos to work your magic and get me the works on them.”

A car horn blared from the street.

“That’s Carlos. He’s bringing me home. Do you want a lift?”

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

“Captain,” I said, watching Carlos speed off.

“Where are you?”

“The Capitol. Finished the last interview for the night. In the morning, I want to bring in the head of hotel security and Cassandra’s personal assistant. How is he?”

“In surgery. Brain bleed. The doctor thinks surgery will fix the issue, but he won’t know the full extent of the injury until he opens Ian up. I expect to hear from his medical team after he comes out of surgery.”

“It didn’t look that serious initially.”

She sighed. “I said the same thing. He’s in good hands. I saw that you posted two officers by his side. Good call. I would have done the same. Did you learn something useful?”

“Nolita Skylar and Ian King were having an affair. It’s been going on for several months. It started because they each wanted to get back at Cassandra. After the fight ended between Ian and Cassandra, he requested a chair at Skylar’s table. He told her—to wait for him in his room naked because they would have a reason to celebrate.”

“Did he say what the reason would be?”

“I’m afraid he kept his girlfriend in the dark about his post-award plans.”

“We have a pretty good idea about his post-award plans?”

Standing on the street, I shook my head at an image of Cassandra seductively gazing from a poster. “Yes. We arrested him in the suite of his dead wife, hiding in the Hall of Mirrors. On top of that, he attacked me with her award statue.”

“The same blood-soaked statue we collected.”

My attention shifted on the street as I walked away from the Capitol.

“I can send a car to pick you up,” Jupiter said.

“The weather’s beautiful. Clean air before the rainstorm about to hit tomorrow. I prefer to walk for a while to clear my head. There’s something Nolita Skylar said I’m trying to shake off.”

“What?”

“She suggested Cassandra’s death was staged?”

“Excuse me? I must not have heard you right. Someone actually believes this?”

“Yes. A PR stunt. Gave me examples of fake pregnancies and made-up relationships to drum up interest around them.”

I thought of Cassandra lying as cold as the marble beneath her body.

“This is not a movie, and her death is real—”

“I said something along those lines.”

“Our work shouldn’t be the backbone for Hollywood fake publicity to lift off box office ticket sales. Did you say that?”

“No.”

“I’d write it down, but I’m short on a pen and paper,” she said.

The wind picked up somewhere halfway between the hotel and my brownstone. Thunder rolled in. And a full twenty hours ahead of schedule, the sky opened up and unleashed grueling rain.

But what did I expect? I thought, misery never travels solo.

Chapter 11

I stepped into Last Call to find Tony wiping down the countertops.

“It’s me.” I picked up the broom to sweep the leftover damage.

“I didn’t think you’d be back. Those jerks did a number to the bar.”

“And those jerks filed a complaint against you, crying improper arrest.”

“What was improper about it?”

“You didn’t hold your badge long enough in the air so they could read it. Claimed they didn’t know you were a cop. Carlos said you might get a call tomorrow.”

“Just when I think I’m done—”

“They find a reason to pull you back in.” I counted the broken glasses, chairs, and tables.

“About eight thousand should pay for it all,” Tony said.

“Compared to the Capitol Ballroom—that’s not too bad. To fix it will take millions, the hotel manager estimated.”

“The presser covered the murder exclusively. None of the ballroom fight between the esteemed members of the Hollywood weirdverse made it on camera.”

“Watched some of it at the hotel.”

“The mayor said you’re treating Cassandra’s death as suspicious.”

“It’s homicide. Blunt force to the head. Killed with the award she received tonight at the ceremony.”

“But Cote and Jupiter couldn’t outright say it—”

“—pending the ME written report. Yes. She was murdered shortly after leaving the party. Still wearing her evening dress.”

“Robbery?”

“Everything worth taking was untouched.”

“So targeted.”

“And no shortage of suspects, Tony. Going out west had changed Cassandra’s core. She was immensely hated.”

“By?”

“Virtually everyone. Haven’t come across a single person who had a nice thing to say about her. They described her as spoiled, brutal, and unreasonable. The things they accused her of doing—hard to believe them.”

“I remember her differently.”

“I do too. Loved her for her big heart and that gorgeous smile. To solve her murder, I will have to set aside the version of Cassandra I held on to. That person’s been gone for years. Cassandra the movie star is someone capable of inflicting a great deal of pain for her personal amusement, if for nothing else.”

“What type of pain are we talking?”

I shed the wet suit coat. “Professional jealousy. Accusations of lousy treatment. Planted negative stories to ruin reputations. Dark stuff.”

“You think a guest at the movie premiere snapped? More moment of opportunity than planned.”

“Yeah. That sounds accurate. And that’s before I dig into the complicated personal trouble brewing in her marriage.”

“The presser alluded to Ian King being looked at as a person of interest.”

In my mind, I focused on Ian, hiding in the Hall of Mirrors. His attempt to attack me, the award statue in his hands. Why hold on to the murder weapon? Why so brazen and public about it? My thoughts trailed off.

“Jupiter spoke to Ian’s doctors. He’s in surgery to repair a head injury.”

“He lost his balance and drove headfirst into the corner of the in-room bar.” Tony sprayed bleach on the bar and dragged a clean towel over it.

“It took the strength of two officers and the hotel manager to prop him up—wait, how do you know?”

“Johnny Fairfax,” Tony said as casually as your morning Starbucks order.

“Fairfax’s at the hospital with Ian King. I plain and simple explained to him and Milford the situation. They agreed not to breathe a word out.”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“I thought you knew. The hospital kicked them out. Fairfax rang you at your desk. A woman answered—”

“No one should be answering my line.”

“Fairfax said a woman answered. She sounded hot, asked me if you’re dating someone new.”

“What else did he say about this woman?”

“That she took a message, told him thanks a lot, and asked him if he knew why the vending machine in the lobby’s broken.”

I sighed.

“After years of asking the same question—I’m glad someone’s finally looking into that machine. Takes your money no problem—”

“Tony.”

“Yes, Long?”

“Screw the vending machine. Why did the hospital kick Fairfax out? Did he say?”

“Yes. Ian’s assistant, or Cassandra’s. Someone who worked for the Kings—raised a stink to high heavens. Threatened the hospital with a lawsuit. Fairfax was fuzzy on the details. For the most of it he was in the can. Heard it secondhand from his partner Millford.

“Fairfax says he told the hospital administrator to beat it. They had a lawful order to stay with Ian. He didn’t know if he was supposed to tell them that Ian was a person of interest. You’d told them to keep their mouth shut. But even if he had named Ian as a suspect, it wouldn’t have mattered much. Don’t be upset at them.”

“Oh, I’m upset.”

“Listen—Miranda Cote stuck her nose in. Lent a shoulder to the hospital crusade.”

“She did what?”

“Yeah, Fairfax told me so himself. When he spoke to your hot assistant—”

“She’s not my assistant.”

“Fairfax dropped by the bar, figured it was late enough he could catch you here. Waited around for you a while, then left. According to him, Cote called his cell phone. Ordered him and Milford out of the hospital.”

“Did she threaten them?”

“Did she have to? She’s the mayor of Boston. What cop would stand up to her?”

“Jupiter,” I said through a clenched jaw, “assured me she’d talk some sense into Cote. It’s obvious the captain either didn’t get through to her, or they never spoke.”

“I’ve been out of the circus less than six hours, and I’m happy to report—I don’t miss the politics of murder investigations.”

“Then I suggest you prepare yourself—I asked Jupiter to bring you on. I could use a pair of extra hands and a set of experienced eyes.”

Tony shook his head. “You, me, again running against the rule book, trying to beat the clock.”

“More like you, me, Carlos, and Bozman. That’s who I got so far,” I said, standing up to stretch my legs.

In that moment, I caught sight of the booth by the jukebox. A cup of untouched Coke on the table.

“You should’ve taken your shot with the dirty blonde. Mystery lady left soon after you.” Tony shut off the big overhead lights. Only the small lights behind the bar stayed on.

“Her name is Rex Hobbs. She’s a cop. And my new partner.”

“Seriously?”

“The drop by the bar tonight was a recon. Played it down as no biggie. Anxious to meet me at Central. Read up on the Dr. Letum case. Got strange ideas about me. So when word got to her we might be paired up on the next partner rotation, Detective Hobbs decided to observe me from afar.” I felt a pit form in my stomach.

“That’s clever.”

“Clever? More like terribly stupid. What cop trusts a liar?”

“She didn’t lie. Give her a break. You’re an intimidating guy to meet.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Tony laughed as I walked behind the bar and dumped the drink in the bar sink.

“By the way—we’re out of Coke. Dale decided it’s okay to switch Pepsi for Coke in the soft drinks machine. Got a few complaints tonight. Had to stop serving it.” He turned toward the door to leave.

“Tony—” I called after him.

“Make it fast, son. I need my beauty rest, and you too if we’ll catch Cassandra’s killer.”

“About that. I got a favor to ask. If Jupiter calls to offer you the consulting gig, I need you to say no.”

“Why in the world would I say that?”

“Because I need to run a recon of my own. Can I count on you to be discreet?”

Chapter 12

There must be a study published in some important medical journal about the unhealthy relationship between living where you worked and working where you lived. The scientists prove their point by asking their human subjects to answer a single existential question: “Can you really leave your job behind if you live a flight of stairs away?”

But I was no scientist setting out to sort through an existential conundrum. On the contrary, I owned the brownstone above Last Call. And on nights like tonight, when my energy tank ran on fumes, I could only say Thank God for my short commute to work.

I unlocked the front door, let myself into the darkened living room. The neon lights of the boston police sign on the Central plaza peeked in from the window, providing ample light as I maneuvered to the kitchen island. I went to the fridge and took out the leftover lasagna, last night’s dinner and the night before. I could go on about a scientist studying the unhealthy living habits of a bachelor, but you get the point, and so I won’t.

I turned on the oven and left it to come to temperature. I could have nuked my dinner scraps in the microwave, but warming it up in a serving dish made it feel more homey. After all, I was a civilized man in a civilized society, not some workaholic married to his job who lived ten feet away from his place of employment.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I fumed at Cote. She was playing an angle, but what? To protect her lover? Maybe. Why not? To shield herself from the public fallout by embarrassing the police? Maybe. Again, entirely possible.

The banging of pots and pans in my kitchen shook me out of the momentum. I listened harder. Someone slammed drawers. Tussled with the silverware. Scavenged the cupboards.

It sounded like a burglar had stopped by to rearrange my cookware. I killed the lights in my bedroom. Reached for the top of the dresser, where I kept some awards and other personal effects. My hand by instinct selected the heftier of the bunch, a heavy, jet-black base of polished mahogany holding a bronze trident—the symbol of the Naval Special Warfare Command. Next, I slipped into the dark hallway with caution and slowly climbed down the stairs.

Bottles rattled, caps twisted, soda sizzled. The intruder must be thirsty. I could hear him behind the wall, guzzling a beverage. I raised the trident over my shoulder, held it still, readied myself to defend.

Before I could react—snap! The reading light over the recliner in the living room connected to the kitchen by a two-paneled French door, flickered on. It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light.

“Helen!” I said.

Jolted, I loosened my grip on the trident and clumsily placed it on the kitchen counter.

“What were you doing with that? Polishing it at two o’clock in the morning?”

She wore a taffeta satin gown, draped at the right shoulder, floor length. The stiff muslin under it shimmered with the movement of her dress. A pair of teardrop diamond earrings dangled from her ears. As always, Helen was well-groomed and well-manicured, with bright, clear blue eyes that enhanced her beauty.

“This is no dinner for a grown man.” My stepmom pointed to the scraps in the glass dish.

“Work took up most of my night off. Didn’t have time or expect company to plan ahead,” I said.

Helen came around the kitchen island, opened the fridge, and extracted a platter from it that hadn’t been there before. On the plastic dome, it said Capitol Hotel. She opened it, revealing the Capitol’s famous chuck roast.

“Always have a plan B. Haven’t I taught you anything after all these years?” she said.

“My plan B was waiting for you to feel bad for me and bring me food.”

“Aren’t you a little too old for the mockery?” She kicked off her heels. “My feet are killing me.”

“Where did you come from?”

“The Capitol Hotel.”

“The movie premiere. Of course you were invited. I’m sorry, it totally slipped my mind—”

“To what, Long? Look for me?”

“Yes.”

“And what could you have done?”

“Check on you, at least. Make sure you were cleared fast and let go.”

“You were never one to play favoritism, and if you had tried, I would refuse.”

“Are you okay?”

“Tired. My feet hurt. And I’m starving. Other than that, yes, I’m fine. You?”

I took a minute before I nodded a weak yes.

Barefoot, she circled the dining table, setting it up for dinner.

“We can eat on the counter. It would be easier.”

“You eat on the counter every night. Tonight feels—special.”

“Special?”

“Maybe special is not the right word. It’s time to grieve.”

“Do I have to?”

“Grieve? Absolutely. You just found out a woman you loved has been killed in the most tragic way. It would be devastating news to anyone. But especially to you, since you saw her murdered.”

“She was covered in blood, Helen. Her killer went for her and didn’t stop until he fractured every inch of her skull.”

Helen, I realized, had reached for my hand, holding it.

“And after talking to people at the ballroom, Cassandra will be mourned by few.”

“She didn’t care much for Hollywood—the business, the people. At the party, all everyone talked about was Ian and Cassandra and him and her and the rotting of their marriage.”

“Yeah. I heard the same.”

“And his affair with another actress. She was at the party. They sat together. Loved up. He had her in his arms.” Helen clenched. “Even during his wife’s award speech, his hand was firmly on the shoulders of his lady playmate.”

“Nolita Skylar. I spoke to her. She didn’t hide her hate for Cassandra. Out front and center. Told me Cassandra was out to ruin her. Smear her reputation in the press. Miss Skylar decided to get at Cassandra by banging Ian’s brains out.”

“Isn’t that so lovely? So Hollywood? West Coast on max—you do me dirty, I’ll get back at you by going after your husband. It’s a brutal industry. Not for the thin-skinned.”

“All in attendance agree Cassandra was brutal in how she approached people behind the scenes. Listening to them about some of the things she did—I found myself lost, completely detached from the Cassandra I met.”

“You met a girl, she died a woman, Long. A flawed woman. Let’s remember her as how we knew her, not the West Coast version.”

“Would like to do what you suggest.”

“But you can’t.”

“I think the killer wanted to erase the West Coast version of Cassandra. Her PR agent . . .”

“Ellie St. James.”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t mind Cassandra’s brutality. Quite liked that about her, but she took issue with Cassandra driving away the cast of All the Wrong Ones. The hit movie that almost didn’t come to be. The PR company did expensive damage control.”

“Ellie St. James likes the drama. Her company represents some of the biggest names in Hollywood. Handling diva behavior is her specialty.”

“I’m telling you, Helen, St. James drank bourbon to celebrate Cassandra’s execution.”

Helen’s eyes fluttered. “That’s just bad theatrics. She wanted you to believe Cassandra wronged her in some unforgivable way.”

“Why?”

“Most likely because tomorrow and in the upcoming days—St. James will play Cassandra one of two ways. Option one—magazines come out with headlines screaming Cassandra was a saint. All the Wrong Ones scores major money in the box office.”

“And option two?”

“I think you guessed it, but option two is Cassandra was a monster. All the Wrong Ones scores major money in the box office.” Helen got up, placed cups on the table, poured us cold OJ from a pitcher. “The headline won’t matter to St. James. The novelty of the murder will generate plenty of revenue for St. James and her company.”

Helen offered me a tasting spoon of the broth from the roast. It was tender, savory, and well marbled. The juice from the meat had been slow-rendered for hours. The veggies—peas, carrots, and potatoes—had soaked up the delicious umami flavors and melted in your mouth.

“I was married to a cop for thirty years. Eat. This might be your last decent meal for some time.”

Helen in her prime had played some small roles in major blockbusters. Brilliantly gifted, she had shunned the glamour of Hollywood, choosing to remain homebound in wind-swept Boston. My father and she had met on a local movie set. An extra had been shot with live ammunition instead of a blank. Dad and Tony represented Boston Homicide. Eventually, the death was ruled accidental and the investigation closed, but not before my father had fallen head over heels for the chirpy, blue-eyed actress and her thick Boston accent. But recently widowed and with a teenage son, Dad ruled against asking Helen out for drinks. Instead, he wrote his phone number on the back of a business card and charged an intern with it who was supposed to leave it in Helen’s trailer. No one knows what happened to the phone number, because Helen never got it. And their love story might have ended there had it not been for Helen taking matters into her own hands. On a windswept evening, Helen showed up at Central demanding an explanation from my father as to why he hadn’t asked her out. Her boldness must have further allured him to her. That night, he invited her for drinks across the street to the bar he owned—Last Call.

He wanted me to see him for who he was and decide if it was something I could handle, Helen would often recall when she shared the story of how they met.

Years after that bar date, Helen continued to act, and my dad remained on the force. Despite their different career paths, they had made it work.

“I suppose I can’t stop St. James from running to the press.”

“You can’t. Her objective’s singular. See that All the Wrong Ones achieves ultimate success.”

“Nolita Skylar suggested the movie has major award appeal.”

“Oh, no question there. Cassandra wrote a superb love story. We’ve all been in love in high school. Young puppy love. In the movie, Cassandra loosely follows real life, though.”

“I heard she ends up with—”

“You?”

“Jetter Brown.”

“You two look alike. Casting killed it with actor selection. Skylar is the only one I didn’t think was right to play young Cassandra. She was too timid. That’s not Cassandra.”

“I remember her fearless. Partly the reason why I loved her so much,” I mumbled into my fork.

“Will you watch it?”

“The movie? No. I lived it. Doesn’t make sense to go back to all that. Moved on from it.”

“Sure. Your point of view makes sense. But it was fun watching Cassandra dump Ian King for you. In the movie, he’s completely humiliated after he discovers them naked in bed after some of the hottest screen sex ever produced.”

“Helen,” I instantly said, “I draw a line at discussing sex scenes with my stepmom.”

“Oh, don’t be such a brute. I only brought it up because back in the day, your dad asked me not to say a word about Cassandra and Ian. Then the Navy shipped you off. We never got the chance to do this.”

“This?”

“Talk about the pain of the past. I never got the chance to tell you I was on your side. I am on your side—always.”

“Thank you. I didn’t need to hear it, but it is nice to, especially since the entire night I was compared to Jetter Brown. At one point, Ian pretended to mistake me for the actor. Tried to fight me. Can you believe he accused me of sleeping with Cassandra behind his back? Told a roomful of people that if Cassandra wasn’t already dead, she’d tell me personally how much she loved Ian. Not me. Like I care about it or something.”

“He attacked you?”

“Long story. He’s in the hospital. In surgery.”

“Will he make it?”

I crossed my arms. “His doctor thinks the procedure will help him. But I won’t know until the hospital calls me with an update. An update I didn’t have to wait on until Mayor Cote chose to insert herself in my investigation. Helped the hospital kick out two of my officers.”

“That’s frustrating. I wonder what her deal is? Miranda is usually an incredibly skilled politician. Odd choice.”

“It’s not as odd if she’s sleeping with Ian.”

“Ian’s fifteen years younger. She could be his older sister. Do you really think Ian would go for an older woman after knocking boots with Nolita Skylar?”

“Saw Cote with Ian. There is something between them. The romance could be from before. It doesn’t have to be a recent relationship. Unresolved feelings probably on her side. Ian, not so much, though he’s certainly benefiting from Cote’s protection.”

“Okay,” Helen said, “I can’t speak to their relationship.”

“Miranda Cote will have to answer. Ian King too. I intend to drag them one by one in the box and ask not so politely about it. Ian had a strong motive to murder his wife. Questionable comments made during the party. Witnesses reported him leaving the party moments after Cassandra. And the murder weapon was with him when I arrested him.”

“Long—”

“It’s true, Helen. After Cassandra wrapped her speech, Ian was seen leaving the ballroom shortly after. And he never came back. I found him covered in her blood in her hotel room. Tomorrow I intend to interview Cassandra’s assistant and her agent.”

“Her name is Beatrice Asborn. A lipstick-wearing bulldog. One of the best in the business. We’ve known each other for three decades. Without her, Cassandra would still be paid in beer tips.”

My phone pinged with a text message from Rex asking to meet me before work.

I begrudgingly left her on unread.

“Thanks for the tip, Helen. But you won’t get the last scoop of cherry vanilla ice cream in the icebox. Don’t think I didn’t hear you snooping in my freezer.”

She eyed my phone suspiciously. “Oh boy. There’s trouble.”

“And her name is Detective Rex Hobbs, formerly from Delmare PD. Jupiter decided I can’t work Cassandra’s case alone. So she paired me up with her. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t trust her. There’s something Rex Hobbs’s not forthcoming about.”

“Maybe it’s just because she’s new in town.”

“She doesn’t feel like a newcomer. To the city—yeah, sure. To the job—no. There is experience behind her. Experience she couldn’t have gotten in Delmare.”

“To be in your mind? It’s excruciating. Tony’s the only person you ever worked with. Give her a chance.”

“Helen, what cop runs a recon on another cop?”

“I don’t know. Why would she?”

“She says it’s because she was nervous to meet me. Threw in my face my grandfather’s name, the family money, my romantic involvement with Cassandra. A laundry list of private things about me.”

“They won’t be private if you let another person close.”

“She’s hiding something.”

“Or act like you didn’t hear a word I said.” She pressed her hands to her face. “Of course she’s hiding something. That’s human. Let the story play out before you decide.”

But this was not the glitzy streets of Hollywood. This was Boston. You get one shot at showing us who you are, or we’ll send you packing. You don’t like it? Tough. And there was no changing my mind about Rex Hobbs. Not tonight, at least.

Chapter 13

Rex waited for me at the curb in a cruiser.

“Get in.”

“I’m adding stalking to the list.” I lowered myself into the passenger seat.

“The lab?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t move.

“Are you forgetting something?”

“Gun, badge, annoying partner behind the wheel of my cruiser—I think I got all boxes checked.”

“The address, Long? I’m always lost in Boston. Who designed your streets? The layout doesn’t make sense.”

“We like to keep out-of-towners frustrated.”

After she punched it in Maps, Rex twisted the wheel, headed north on State Street.

“The board and the murder book are ready for you. I got in extra early this morning—to talk to the tech unit before other detectives hit them up for favors.”

“Cassandra King’s high priority—”

“As I discovered. They unlocked her phone.”

“And?”

“Take a look for yourself. This is prelim. More work needs to be done.”

I was already scanning the lines of text.

“What do you think?”

“‘Break a leg, bitch’?”

“Ian sent it to his wife minutes before she went on stage.”

“It’s troubling.”

“Then you should watch the video of him. Great quality. It’s on my phone.”

Ian King, I saw, slobbered on Nolita Skylar, swiped a bottle of champagne from their table, leaned in closer to her, whispered in the actress’s ear. She giggled. Winked. The video jumped to another angle from the lobby. It showed Ian, staggering. The champagne firmly in his grip. It cut off after.

“That’s it. He never comes back down from her room. The next video of him is in a stretcher. Handcuffed. With Cote by his loving side.”

I thought of her room. The setup. Romantic vibes. Candles. Flowers. Petals on the ground. The yearbook kept coming up in my thoughts. The torn pieces of the same page. Why? I couldn’t understand the significance.

“I could picture him in her room. Gone through all the trouble to do it romantically.” Rex threw a right blinker on.

“Yes. This part is clear.”

“What I can’t understand—where does the yearbook fit in?”

“It crossed my mind too.”

“Did it? It’s really out of place. Can you shed some light?”

“Me? Shed light on what?”

“Your name came up briefly on the news this morning. No mention yet of your previous attachment to the vic and her husband. It won’t be long, though, before someone with lots of free time digs it up.”

“The local media likes to drum up folklore around me after the Dr. Letum debacle. It should die down as the investigation goes on.”

She curved one eyebrow up. “It’s not the folklore they care about or the Dr. Letum debacle, though they certainly spent a substantial amount of air time talking ad nauseam about your distinguished military career and your success rate as a homicide detective.”

Taken aback, I said, “What are you getting at? In Boston we don’t beat around the bush.”

“Okay. They will find out about it. Talk about it. Write about the love triangle. Their curiosity amplified by All the Wrong Ones. In the movie she chooses you over him—”

Cold sweat rolled down my spine.

“Soon, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not lying to me,” she replied. “And one more point I’d like to make before we move on—you have an issue talking about Cassandra. You might want to be aware of that.”

“It’s not an issue. Cassandra moved with Ian to the West Coast after graduation. She forged a successful career as an actress. What I know of her life after high school is what I’ve seen in the media.” I spoke calmly. “See—my talking’s fine.”

“Oh, sure. It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.”

Rex drove into the parking garage. Waved her badge in the eye of the scanner. The lift pulled up and she moved ahead.

In the rearview mirror I noticed a gray sedan drive by. Meanwhile, Rex parked the cruiser on the upper level. She killed the engine, reached for the keys in the ignition as her mystifying eyes scanned me. I lost the sedan between the rows of cars.

“Would you ever tell me why Cassandra chose Ian over you?”

“Maybe I was just as bad as Ian in high school. Worse.”

For the first time since our introduction, Rex smiled. Her lips stretched to reveal a captivating Hollywood-worthy grin that unexpectedly shot an arrow through my heart.

“Then it would be wise of me to run a background check on you too. Be prepared if you turn out to be the killer beside me.”

“I could be, but my alibi’s kind of Teflon.”

“So you say.”

“I swear. I had a bar full of people. There was no sitting room, especially since a single woman was taking an entire booth all for herself. I was about to kick her out when my captain showed up.”

Rex let out a short laugh. “Your bar was dead.”

While I was enjoying watching Rex crack up, my phone vibrated from my pocket. My chuckle died in my throat when I saw the name on the caller ID.

“You’re on speaker. What the hell happened last night, Captain? I thought we had a deal. The hospital kicked out our people.”

“Trust me, I’m not wild about it.”

“Cote swayed them.”

“So I’ve been informed. By others. And the mayor. She seemed to be confused about what I will do and not do. Officer Fairfax’s coming in to see me. I want to hear his side.”

“It’s not Fairfax’s fault. Bossing the blue around is highly unethical.”

Jupiter replied in a measured voice, “No one’s assigning fault to the officers. And I tend to agree, Cote’s move borderlines on abuse of power, but before we jump to conclusions, in her defense, she might have been misled.”

“Misled or misguided by her feelings,” I said. “Any other person would be in cuffs. The evidence against Ian stacks. The lab report will nail him.”

“The vid of him following Cassandra—makes him look good for it.”

“And the text—”

“The text—‘Break a leg, you bitch’—sent minutes before she went onstage.”

“The bottle of champagne dangling from his hands. He took it from Nolita Skylar’s table. Brought it with him to Cassandra’s room,” I said, concentrated. “The evidence tells us what happened to Cassandra after she opened the door to him.”

“Long, wait.”

“Captain?”

“It’s convincing. Ian fits. I’ll reassign patrol to the hospital pending the lab report.”

“And the mayor?”

“Leave her to me. Now, is Rex with you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rex answered for herself.

“Good. I knew Sergeant Snow would be able to help you,” Jupiter told her. “After the lab, it goes without saying—”

“We’ll call with a status update.”

The line disconnected.

“She’s intense. Do I catch a New York accent in her talk?”

“Bronx. And Jupiter was a solid cop and is just as good as a boss.”

“I’m starting to get the same sense about her.” Rex called the elevator.

We jumped into the car. I pressed the ground floor level. My mind was running the conversation with Tony Romero frame by frame.

“Did you take a call for me last night?”

“Your line? I’m not your assistant, Long. A call came through on my line. Male. He never identified himself. Asked for you. I transferred it to your desk,” she said. “Fairfax. He called you, and you didn’t get it because I screwed up.”

“Sounds it.”

“Julie showed me how to work the phones yesterday, but I figured it’s the same as or similar to the system we use in Delmare. I see now that it’s entirely my fault.”

She sounded remorseful. I believed her.

“Considering it was your first day on the job, it’s pretty remarkable that the only thing you screwed up was a few crossed wires.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Even if I spoke to him last night, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.”

We stepped out of the elevator onto the cool floor of the crime lab.

Rex said, “It’s hard to imagine Ian King as Cassandra’s killer. Is it not? On the TV they made them look so in love. The golden couple. High school sweethearts.”

“The TV got it wrong. They didn’t start going out until prom night,” I said, oddly irritated by the misreported detail.

“Oh no? What happened?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“There it is again. That issue where you can’t talk about Cassandra from her high school days. If you don’t get over it STAT—it will come back to bite you in the butt.”

I rolled my eyes, fed up with the conversation. “The marriage was fake gold. Nolita Skylar confirmed her affair with Ian.”

“Cassandra knew? It didn’t bother her?”

I thought about Cassandra at the podium, a clear shot at Nolita Skylar’s table. Ian holding her in a public embrace. On display for everyone to see.

“If it did, she played it cool. They seemed headed for splitsville as soon as the movie premiere wrapped up.”

“That’s what I read in Carlos and Boz’s reports. Guests said Cassandra was obsessing over a documentary, her next project.”

“Ellie St. James, the PR guru, told me the documentary was a dud.”

The receptionist at the lab was not at her desk. A small TV in the corner replayed outtakes of last night’s murder.

“Is it possible Ian killed her because she was cheating on him with you?”

“Goddammit it, Rex—where do you come up with this stuff?”

The receptionist stepped in with a cup of hot coffee. Gave us a quick scan. “You from homicide?”

“What gave it away?”

“Showing up before the lab officially opened might have been a hint.”

I gave her the case file number. She looked it up and said, “Uh-huh. It’s flagged in the system as a high priority. Jeb’s the lab tech. He’s at his desk. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

She picked up the phone handle and placed it on her ear, balancing it between her shoulder and her cheek as she buzzed us in.

Jeb stood up from his chair, behind his desk. He was close to six-one, black dusty hair, parted to the right of his face.

He handed me the paper file with the tox screen and the rest of the blood analysis tests. I began to scavenge through the pages when I caught a glimpse of Jeb ogling my partner.

“Why don’t you do the honors,” I grumbled.

If Rex was onto me, she said nothing.

“Your victim’s blood was all over the male’s clothes. Same DNA matched the blood on the gold and silver movie award.”

“What about the gold statue?”

“Her blood on it too. The ME should be able to tell you if it’s your weapon.”

“Got him by the balls, Long,” Rex said under her breath.

“Oh boy. Should we go over the rest of the report?” Jeb turned to me.

“Oh boy, what? Her blood’s all over his clothes. The murder weapon too. What else you got there?”

“The alcohol panel.”

“Yes. What about it?” I said.

“It’s grab-balls troubling.”

“How?”

“See these levels?” He showed me a graph bar with several squiggly lines colored in red, yellow, blue, and green. “This is the toxicology report. We performed a BAC—blood alcohol concentration (BAC), Urine Drug Test, and GC-MC, which is the Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry analysis. What we learned is your suspect’s alcohol levels were six times the legal limit. For illustration—half a point over we’d classify his blood results as ethanol toxicity.”

“Acute alcohol poisoning,” I said.

Chapter 14

Outside the lab, gray and cold hugged Boston in a soggy embrace—a sure sign of more rain to come. As we walked back to the cruiser, I called Jupiter.

“Too drunk to commit murder,” she seethed.

“It’s a hard blow to the case. Rex and I are headed back to the Capitol. Walk the scene again.”

“This will have to wait. I need you back at Central.”

“Ma’am.” I spoke.

“Miranda Cote informed me she’d like to be briefed. Her scheduler set it up without my say-so.”

“I understand, but may I propose a compromise? Rex can meet Cote at your office.”

Rex gestured a silent no.

I continued, “She set up the board, the murder book, and coordinated this morning with the tech unit. Her knowledge of the murder is invaluable.”

Off the phone, Rex groaned at me, “If you want all the glory for yourself, I’m not the attention-seeking kind. Knock yourself out. But you should know something—I’m a good cop.”

“I know,” I said.

“No, you don’t. You have no experience with me in the field. I was dropped on your head with no warning. So I get your apprehension, and I don’t mind the mistrust. To a certain point. But I need you to know that I’m a good cop. And sooner or later—you’ll have to cut the crap.”

She was smart, I admitted to myself, and her intuition was sharp as hell. A killer combo.

“You got this all wrong. Trust me, attention is not what I’m after. And yes, last night I was thrown off when I learned you are a cop. But that was last night. Today,” I waved the lab report, “it’s an entirely different story. If you are a good cop, then go be a good cop. What that means now is briefing the captain and the mayor.” I placed a hand on the car door. “One more thing—watch Cote.”

“Watch her how?” she asked.

“Her body language. Her reaction to the evidence against Ian King. Give her a run-down of the lab report.”

“Okay. I can do that. She seemed romantically involved with him.”

“One more thing—”

“Long!”

“Before you go in with her, ask Carlos for the photos from the crime scene. Show them to Cote. Take your time with them.”

“Understood. Are you done with your ‘and one more thing’ laundry list?”

“For the moment.”

“Then I have a question for you. And I need you to be honest.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is this your way of unshackling yourself from me?”

I tossed the cruiser keys to her. “You drive. I’ll walk to the hotel.”

Behind me I heard her moan, “Looong!”

The lobby of the Capitol Hotel teemed with guests checking out. I pushed my way through to catch the elevator at the end of the hall. A large sign fixed on the front doors of the grand ballroom read under construction. A crew of workers were hauling a ten-foot-long ladder, paintbrushes, and demo bins. As they unlocked the central doors to get in, I could hear the banging of hammers, demolishing and gutting.

Crime scene tape hung on the front door to Cassandra’s room. I took it down. Entered.

A stream of weak sunlight pointed to the dried-up bloodstain on the marble floor.

I knelt briefly, remembering Cassandra but thinking of the small details. The candles, the champagne glasses, one drunk, one untouched, until eventually I settled on the yearbook.

Next, I individually checked the remaining bedrooms. Four were untouched, so much so that the chocolate mints were still on the pillows left by the maids. The master bedroom was at the end of a mirrored hall. In there I discovered seven large suitcases, opened and searched. Satin blouses, trousers, and undergarments in one. The second contained evening wear like short dresses and strappy tops. The next one was dedicated to shoes. Lots of pairs of high heels, black and beige. Some were sparkly, some more modest. Cassandra or her stylist, I suspected, had wanted the star of the evening to have suitable options.

For a few more minutes, I poked around, lifting an array of garments; most still had their tags on. In the end, I found nothing in the bags that could be the murder weapon.

Finally, I decided Cassandra hadn’t spent her time in the bedroom. She had probably unzipped her bags, selected the chosen gown for the awards, and dressed herself elsewhere.

The last room I stepped in was the Hall of Mirrors. Instantly, my stomach dropped to my feet. The entire space had been fabricated from mirrors. The main wall was divided into three large sections like a triptych. If you stood in front of it, you could see yourself in three-sixty form, and if not, a small, elegant sofa of blue velvet connected to an ornate gold frame was designated as the only sitting spot. Beside it—a glass table, round, about four feet in height.

On the wall by the sofa was a hook with a hanger on it, holding up a white satin zip-up bag. I pulled down the zipper, revealing a new gown, less flashy but equally beautiful. For a second, I imagined Cassandra in it.

Her face flashed before my eyes, before the professional hair and makeup, before her handlers and agents, before the cameras capturing her every move. Cassandra, a bright girl, quite lovely, with big ocean-blue eyes. It was hard to miss her in a crowded room. If her looks didn’t stop your heart, her contagious laugh captivated you for life.

What happened to you in Hollywood?

I opened the hidden elevator in the hidden room.

The sound of heavy footsteps outside the Hall of Mirrors drew me away. A man greeted me.

“Scott Lane,” he said, and put out his hand to shake mine. “Head of hotel security. Sorry about last night.”

He was fit, about forty-two-ish, neatly groomed. The only hint of exhaustion I spotted on him was the half-moon circles under his eyes, the sign of a night spent without a wink of sleep. Other than that, he was a trim man, with a short, closely cropped beard.

His eyes, the color of molted brown, swept the main living room, taking it in, then landing back on me.

“The crown jewel of the Capitol Hotel. Guests are quite drawn to this room.”

“Mirrors and hidden elevators are not my thing.”

“Not mine either. Tom was emotional about what he saw here last night.” Scott Lane’s eyes darted across the marble floor. “He wasn’t exaggerating.”

“He told me his version. I’d like to hear yours.”

“Anything I can help with. I spoke a few brief times with Ms. King.”

“Did you speak at the party?”

“Not really. Said hello. Asked if she had settled into the room okay. She said yes. Loved the Hall of Mirrors. Told me it was ideal for trying on outfits. That’s pretty much it. I had a lot going on. We were inadequately staffed to handle the night, I’ll be the first to admit that. The fight overwhelmed us. Preventable too.”

“Why?”

“The booze. Security saw the red flags. Tried to speak to Tom about it. Management brushed me off. Said I was controlling. The city expected the Capitol to deliver a killer party to match Hollywood’s expectations.” Scott pointed to the blood outline on the floor. “It’s fair to say we delivered.”

“Did you see Ian King last night?”

“The husband? My men dealt with him three or four times.”

“Dealt with him how, Scott?”

“Guests complained about his disruptive behavior. We politely asked him to calm down. But he proved to be extremely uncooperative.”

“So what did you do?”

“My hands were tied behind my back by the hotel. Tom told me to watch him.”

“And did you?”

“Of course. Personally kept an eye on him. I was about to kick him out of the hotel and tell Tom to screw off after Ian started it with Cassandra.”

“You saw them fight?”

“Everyone saw them fight.”

“What was the issue?”

He raised his shoulders. “That I can’t say. They spoke quietly at the bar. Then Cassandra erupted at him and told him, in words I’d rather not repeat, to leave her alone. He called her names. Snatched her arm. It didn’t look good.” Scott studied the dress on the hanger. “I saw her walk off. King started to follow her. That’s when I almost stepped in.”

“But you didn’t. Why?”

“His or her assistant stepped in. Dragged Ian off to the side. Worked it out with him. Then they came back to the dance floor. Ian switched seats. Bunked up with another actress. They seemed well acquainted with each other.”

“When did you discover Cassandra hadn’t returned?”

“I never did, to tell you the truth. Tom approached me. Told me he’d found Cassandra dead in her room. I wanted to go upstairs. But Tom said no. A police captain was handling it internally. She’d gone to get a detective the police wanted.”

“What did you do after Tom told you?”

“Some of my men were injured. I have one with a head concussion and one that required surgery. The rest of the night, I shuffled between the ER and the hotel, assisting law enforcement. The last thing I did was hand over security footage to two detectives. They told me to go home. So I did.”

“Straight home?”

“Yes, I drove myself. You can check my home footage too. I don’t mind.”

“Okay, Mr. Lance. Who, besides Cassandra and Ian King, had access to their room?”

“This is not their room. Cassandra was the only guest.”

“Ian didn’t stay here?”

“No. Originally, she asked for three passes. Changed her mind at the last minute. Dropped it down to two. Then only one.”

“Who was on the list?”

“Her agent. Cassandra yanked her access, didn’t say why. Her assistant. She kept the key pass. I can’t remember her name off the top of my head. I can get it to you, though.”

“Yes, please,” I said. “And the third person?”

“That’d be her husband, Ian King.” Scott Lane put his hands in his pocket, stalling. He spoke again after a moment. “From the airport, Cassandra called me on my personal phone. Every VIP guest gets my personal number if they wish to discuss their security with me. Usually it’s the head of their protective detail or an assistant I deal with, but Cassandra was different.”

“She liked to handle things herself?”

Scott Lane replied, “Exactly. I saw her in my office the moment she arrived. The conversation was brief. It was to tell me Ian King wasn’t welcome. And she wanted me to personally revoke his access to the suite.”

“I bet Ian King didn’t take the news well?”

Again, Scott Lane replied, “Riiight. There was a rather big eruption. He threatened me. He demanded he be let into the room so he could discuss it with his wife.”

“You didn’t let him, did you?”

“Absolutely not. While serving in the Armed Forces, I earned my degree in psychology worked as a military therapist. So I have some experience when it comes to delicate situations. I believe Cassandra was a victim of domestic abuse.”

“Any specifics?” I said.

“Always the big giveaways—fidgeting with her hands when she spoke about him, defensive, guarded about her privacy. She appeared especially anxious when she got a call. I thought it was him and she was ducking his attempts to get a hold of her.”

“What happened with Ian?”

“His assistant intervened. Made some phone calls. And soon he was transferred elsewhere.”

“To another hotel?”

“Don’t think so. I was left with the impression a friend was putting him up. The hotel sent Mr. King’s luggage to a residential address.”

“Do you have the address?”

“Yes.”

I diverted my attention to the Hall of Mirrors.

“What would it take for someone to use this elevator to go around the issue with the key pass to the front door?”

“I wondered about it too. Kept eating at me most of the night.”

“And what did you come up with?”

“It’s unlikely. See, this elevator’s original to the hotel. After the remodel, the architect liked the elevator, so he designed a room inspired by the old-fashioned funhouses. It made the suite more alluring to our guests and a nice story to tell—a hidden mirrored room. The elevator’s not in use by hotel guests, because it leads directly to the tunnel connecting the kitchen to the underbelly of the hotel. The only people who use it on rare occasions are the maids and maybe the waitstaff assigned to the room. And that’s a big maybe. The tunnel’s pretty dark, and it’s a long walk from the front of the kitchen to the elevator landing.

“And it’s modernized too. Again, you need a code. Only employees with the code can ride it. And I checked if it was in use last night.” Scott Lane shrugged. “As to be expected, no surprises—in use a single time by the waiter assigned to Cassandra’s room. During the time she was at the award ceremony. His name’s Ethan Shaw. Good guy. Never any issues with him.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

Scott Lane glanced briefly at his shoes.

“He’s on shift. I’ll call down to the kitchen. This will take a minute.”

Lane stepped into the hallway, returned moments later. His face tense. His assured posture less confident. His shoulders softer, curved slightly forward.

“Ethan Shaw was a no-show at work this morning.”

Chapter 15

Rex met me by my desk. I shed the top layer of my suit. She talked.

“Got pulling a report on Ethan Shaw as soon as we hang up,” she said in rapid fire. “And nothing. Like, not even a speeding ticket. Either Ethan Shaw is this earth’s purest angel or . . .”

“Or Ethan Shaw’s a phony.”

“Yeah.”

I flipped through a stack of messages left on my desk while I asked, “What about his social security? It should be in the file the hotel sent us.”

She rubbed her chin. “They did. More issues. The application definitely adds to the mystery surrounding Ethan Shaw or whatever his name is.”

I stopped and gazed evenly at her. “Explain.”

“The social security number comes back to Christopher Drum. In ’92, Mr. Drum would have been eighty-seven.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Wish it was. See for yourself.”

Rex handed me a printout with Christopher Drum’s file. I scanned it. Then dropped it on my desk. “It seems Ethan Shaw used a dead man’s social to get a job at the Capitol Hotel. How could the hotel allow this to happen?”

“I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it.” That’s when she reached for a typed list of names. “Give me a moment.”

My brows shot up. “What are you doing?”

“Patience. Here, yes. This is good.” She flipped the pages back to the front. “I’ll explain soon, but first, let me talk to you about something else.”

“Okay.”

“I did some more digging when I discovered the discrepancy between Shaw and Drum’s social security.”

“Digging? This sounds ominous.”

“Yes, sort of. So, because Shaw has no criminal record and the social is stolen, I obviously ran out of options to run a proper background on Shaw. Without much to do but wait for you to return, I tested a hypothesis.”

“Is this going somewhere important?” I said curtly.

“That depends. Are you going to drop your attitude? It’s not my fault Ethan Shaw pulled a fast one on us.”

I took a step back. “Go on.” I motioned.

“Do you ever look over the city crime stats?”

“Not particularly.”

“You should. Interesting read.”

“Rex . . .” I said diplomatically.

“Before you say anything, listen. Okay?”

“The floor is all yours. The city crime stats.”

“Not just any crime stats. A very narrow set of data. Robbery. Petty theft. That sort of crime.”

Her hand rested on a stack of reports. I silently counted seventeen complaints in total.

“Is that them?”

“Yes. Look.” She handed me a few at random.

“What am I looking at, Rex?”

“Stolen money, jewelry, iPads, and laptops. All open and unsolved.”

“Is this to show me Boston doesn’t take larceny seriously?”

She chuckled. “Petty larceny’s in every state, and I don’t know a single cop who takes those crimes seriously. We pretend that we do, but we don’t. Anyway, that’s not why I’m showing them to you. Florida is a big tourist destination year-round. And at Delmare PD, we work with tourists reporting this robbery or that. Well, a few years ago, there was an uptick in petty theft. Someone was swiping from upscale hotels in the area.”

I chose the top folder, picked it up, and briefly read the front page to familiarize myself. I did the same eight more times until I saw what she was driving at.

“In each case, a tourist filed a report.”

“Uh-huh. Warmer. What else?” she said.

I groaned. “I don’t know. They happened downtown, which is not unusual. The downtown area is where most muggings happen. Boston is like any other big city. We deal with the same crime as New York or LA. You still haven’t told me about the Ethan Shaw connection.”

“You almost had it. The locations are the key to my point. Upscale, pricey hotels. Of the ones I probed, they all use similar if not the same keyless security system. I was able to link only seventeen cases in your system, but I bet there are a hell of a lot more than just these.”

I stood up and walked to the window behind my desk. The domed roof of the Capitol Hotel was clearly visible from it.

“She wasn’t robbed, Rex. I thought I made myself clear last night.”

“Yes, not yet. But you don’t know if she was a target.”

“You want us to investigate a criminal ring hitting upscale hotels because of some old case of yours in Florida? Am I getting this right?”

“It’s more than that. If you let me explain—”

“Waste of time.”

“Long, let me finish. Five minutes. If after that you want to blow me off, okay. Do it.”

She summarized the Delmare case. A sketchy hotel employee reported by a guest threw the investigation into high gear. Soon there was a lengthy connection of hotel robberies leading three years back, or that’s as far as she could trace. Florida, Rex said, was one of six other states. She thought the first robbery started in California. But she wasn’t very sure about it.

“The robberies always start after the hotel hires a new employee—I narrowed it down to a male and a female. They work in separate hotels but are very much together. A couple. Maybe siblings.”

She placed a file she had been holding on my desk.

“Ethan Shaw,” I said.

“That’d be my guess. He’s worked there less than six months. The seventeen cases you saw are dated—”

“Six months back.”

“Cassandra King could have walked in on Ethan Shaw. Thwarted his robbery. He killed her to stop her from calling the cops. Why not?”

She was standing by me at the window. I was keenly aware of her presence, and those feelings I felt at the bar the first night I saw her stirred in me.

“Now it’s your turn to talk. On the phone, you only said, ‘Get me everything on Ethan Shaw,’ then you hung up. By the way, you need to get better manners. For a man with an expensive private school education and a retired Navy SEAL, you lack basic phone etiquette.”

I shrugged. “I was in a rush. During an op pressed for time, you drop the pleasantries. I forget sometimes I’m no longer a field operator.”

“Look, the evidence points to Ian King. You have a strong case against him even with the lab report suggesting he was too inebriated. All I’m saying is don’t overlook Ethan Shaw. There’s something there.”

“Rex—the head of security, Scott Lane, said Shaw was a hard worker, never any trouble, guests liked him. He was open about the fact that Shaw had access to Cassandra’s quarters. According to the log records, Ethan Shaw was recorded entering her room once while she was mingling at the party with her guests. He used the lobby elevator. On camera. In plain view.”

“The Hall of Mirrors, then. He could have used the secret elevator.”

“No, he couldn’t have. Scott Lane explained what we considered to be a secret elevator is not so secret. The hotel advertises the Hall of Mirrors heavily to guests whose wallets are fat enough to afford it. Apparently, guests get a tickle out of renting a forty-thousand-a-night hotel room with a hidden room no bigger than a cupboard that comes with a personal lift.”

“Yikes. Does a night really cost that much?”

“Yes. Really.” I turned my back against the windowsill, folded my arms in front of my chest. “Hotel maids take it if they want to get an extra break without actually clocking out.”

Rex dipped her chin, following along. “Then I’ll run a deep background on Scott Lane. He could be in on it too.”

“You’re not hearing me. Ethan Shaw’s not in play unless we get something hard on him. Best I could offer is to have the lab swab the Hall of Mirror elevator for Shaw’s fingerprints.”

“And if we get a positive hit—”

“No guarantees, Rex, okay?”

“I’ll call down to the lab.”

“A step ahead of you. Jeb’s on it.”

“Scott Lane, then. I’ll start the work on him.”

“Don’t see how it can hurt us. Check the rest of the security guards. Lane swore they’re clean. Personally vetted by him, but you know how that goes.”

“Yes, Long. Yes, I do.” She stroked some keys on her keyboard. “Mind if you ask Carlos and Bozman to drive by Shaw’s apartment? It’s a fact he was in her room.”

“Called them from the road.”

Impatiently, she glanced at the silver watch on her wrist. “You’d tell me when you hear back from them?”

In that moment, Captain Jupiter opened her door and called my name, loud and clear. She seemed irritated at something or someone. “You too, Detective Hobbs.”

I took one of the chairs in front of her desk, Rex the one next to it.

“Spoke with the director of the head trauma department at Mass Gen.” Jupiter crossed her fingers, arms resting on her desk. “Turns out Ian King’s head injury is more serious than they originally suspected. His doctors put him in a drug-induced coma to help his brain with the swelling.”

“Will he make it?” I asked.

“Too soon to say. The main physician sounded optimistic. In a few days they’ll repeat the CT scans, and if Ian’s swelling is responding to the course of treatment, they’ll wean him and wake him up. At that point, we’d be able to interview him. How did it go at the Capitol?”

“Scott Lane confirmed most of what we’ve been told. He witnessed the fight between the famous spouses and added more details—Ian grabbed Cassandra.”

“Why didn’t he intervene?”

“The Capitol had security on a tight leash. He was told to watch. Step in if he saw no other choice. The whole thing lasted less than twenty seconds. Cassandra left Ian fuming. His assistant placed him at Nolita Skylar’s table. Ian was back to behaving.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, Captain. Ian’s on video following Cassandra to her room—”

“—the lab report,” she interjected.

“It doesn’t tell the whole story. Scott Lane said Cassandra kicked Ian out of the room before they checked in. Revoked his access. Ian lost his cool on Scott Lane.”

“This sounds troublesome.”

“Yes.” I handed her the note with the address Scott Lane had kept. “He stayed at this location.”

“Another hotel?”

“Private residence. The assistant set it up. Lane thinks it was a closer personal friend opening his home to Ian. Save face. If they moved Ian to a second hotel, away from Cassandra, the coverage the entire week would have been on their deteriorating relationship. It would hurt the movie premiere.”

“I’m not sure they cared to keep things amicable. They’d been fighting with each other for at least three months. Lots of ROs in LA issued to both of them,” Rex commented.

“They were the epitome of happiness on the red carpet,” Jupiter said. “Hollywood’s weird. What’s next, Detective?”

“Interviewing Cassandra’s agent—Beatrice Ashburn.”

“Cassandra fired her. Why?”

“Unclear. Ellie St. James told me without Ashburn, Cassandra would be another wannabe actress. I’m curious to hear what she has to say about Cassandra. Get her take on Ian.”

“That’s smart. I think roping in the agent could give us details. Flesh out things for us. When is she coming in?”

“She’s been out of the country. Left several messages with the resort she’s staying at to phone me. In the meantime, I’d like to speak with Ian’s personal friend.” I pointed to the note.

Jupiter picked it up. “Crap.”

“You know the address?”

“Very familiar with it.” She stood up, closed the blinds in her office. “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room until my say-so. Understood?”

Chapter 16

“Anyone thirsty?” Jupiter asked.

She walked to her personal fridge, chose a water in a dark-blue glass bottle. She unscrewed the golden cap. Poured some for herself in a plastic cup.

I said I was good on the water. Rex opted out too.

“First, what’s your initial observation of Scott Lane? Can he be trusted?”

“Well . . . no. Rex’s running a background check on him after the meet.”

“Good. Do it. Keep me informed.”

“I will, ma’am.”

“This”—she meant the note—“could stir a viper’s nest unlike anything the department has experienced in the past. I want to be absolutely certain Lane’s not playing an angel.”

“He could be, but I don’t see it. Our own put Lane on the floor during Cassandra’s murder. That pretty much rules him out as the killer. And he cooperated. Handed over the file of a waiter, Ethan Shaw, the last hotel employee on record to be in Cassandra’s room.” I thought back to Rex’s theory, so I replied, “There are issues with him.”

“What sort of issues, Long?”

“Stolen social security, and his name’s not in any database we can find.”

“You suspect he used a forged identity.”

“Precisely what I’m thinking. But I’m far away from suspecting him in Cassandra’s murder. Carlos and Bozman are at his apartment. Checking him out. Lane said he didn’t show up for his shift this morning, which is unusual.”

“A waiter? Why would a hotel waiter kill Cassandra?”

“I think I could answer this for you,” Rex said formally. “Ethan Shaw is a bit of an enigma, Captain. Like Long informed you, he used a stolen social—the number goes back to Mr. Christopher Drum, a deceased male since ’92.”

“The Capitol’s world-renowned. Best in class. How did they let it happen?”

“The head of security—Scott Lane—is in charge of background work on every employee. And I suspect—no, I believe—Lane helped Shaw gain employment at the Capitol.”

“Purpose?”

Rex had been waiting for her moment. She showed the seventeen criminal complaints to Jupiter.

“They all happened during Ethan Shaw’s time at the Capitol.”

“No robberies at the Capitol where he worked. Explain that?”

“Happily.”

Rex recited her theory about a male-female team robbing their way from California to Boston for the last three years.

“Fascinating,” Jupiter concluded.

“And not related to Cassandra’s murder.” I heard the tension in my voice.

Rex tucked a dirty-blonde wisp behind her ear. “Yet. As Long said—Carlos and Bozman are at Shaw’s apartment. I’d like to hear what they have to say before we throw him out as an alternative suspect. After all, the lab report exonerates Ian King to a degree. I can’t be the only one in this office who thinks his pricey lawyers will have him out of cuffs in seconds if we charge him with what we have now.”

“Why didn’t Delmare catch your pair of thieves?” Jupiter asked.

“We failed, plain and simple as that. Someone probably tipped them off that we were coming. You know how it goes. Can’t stop the leaks,” Rex said bitterly. “A good cop lost his life in that raid.”

“And you think this Ethan Shaw and unknown female could be the Florida duo?”

“Yes. I’m close to betting my badge on it.”

“Your badge is worthless to this department if we allow them to slip through our fingers. From what you’ve laid out in front of me, it’s clear Boston PD is five months behind the eight ball. And a bonus—a famous murder victim to boot.”

“If you’d like, I can call the Delmare field office and ask for the investigation files on the case?”

“That’s okay. I can work a phone. There are some follow-up questions I’d like to ask privately.”

“Did Delmare ever suspect Shaw in a murder?” I stirred.

“No. That doesn’t mean—”

“That’s because thieves don’t usually murder,” I pointed out. “I can’t be the only one in this office who thinks thieves take what’s not theirs, sell it for a profit, then move on to the next job. By nature they’re cowards, pretty low on the crime totem pole.”

I carried on without a pause. “I agree, Ethan Shaw’s a curious twist in Cassandra King’s homicide, and when he’s brought in, he’d have his turn in the hot seat. Until then, Captain?”

Jupiter crumpled the note in her hand.

“What I am about to say will sound strange. I’ve been withholding something I saw at last night’s premiere. I shared a table with Mayor Cote along with a handful of city hall delegates. The night was splendid right about the moment Cassandra accepted her award and walked offstage but before the main fight broke out. There was a good ten- to twenty-minute window of people chatting, laughing, and having an old-fashioned good time. Then someone said Cassandra and a female were shouting at each other backstage. Of course my cop antenna went up, until I caught a glimpse of Cassandra making her way across the ballroom hall, in high spirits, smiling, pausing for pictures with guests. Shortly after, Cote returned to her seat. And I don’t know, but she seemed frazzled, out of sorts.”

After a moment of uninterrupted contemplation, Jupiter spoke again. “I leaned in to ask her if she was doing okay. Cote said she was perfectly fine, but I noticed blood on the front of her satin blouse. She caught my stare. Threw on her coat, concealing it. I let it go, but after seeing this, I can’t disregard it anymore.” Jupiter lifted Scott Lane’s note. “Four thirty-six Morgan Street is her secret residence. She goes there on occasion.”

Outside, another rainstorm ravaged the city.

“Damn it,” I said.

“Long, we don’t know what we don’t know. I had every intention of sharing what I saw with you.”

“You should have—”

“Told you sooner? Absolutely. I’m not perfect, Detective. No one is.”

Chapter 17

This time I drove. The streets were terribly wet. Walkers crossed brazenly in front of moving cars to get away from the storm. The windshield wipers glided back and forth, clearing the rain dumping on us, but the task was beginning to overwhelm them.

Rex drove a hand through her damp thick hair. “They said low chance of rain on the morning news. Why do we hire meteorologists if they’re never right?”

“I suppose it’s because deep down we like to be lied to,” I said half-jokingly. “Missing Florida?”

“Not yet. It’s hurricane season. The city empties out. It gets boring after a while staring into the ocean with not much to do.”

“Why field office?”

“Huh?” She looked me dead in the eye.

“You called Delmare PD—Delmare field office.”

“No. You must have heard me wrong. Why would I call the PD—field office? That’s silly.”

We rode in silence, mainly because I thought she worried what other lie I would catch her in.

“Long, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Have you done this before?”

“Drive?”

“C’mon. Questioning the mayor.”

“I met her last night. She’s—” I paused.

“A difficult woman.”

“Correct.”

She drummed her fingers on the dashboard.

“Calm down, Detective Hobbs. It’s a routine interview. You’ve done those before, right?”

“Nervous tick. I’ll stop.”

She started again less than a minute later.

“Rex—”

“Yes. Oh. I’m drumming again,” she said. “Most people see me as a kid cop. They question my age. Then they question my rank. It fills me with dread to always have to prove that I’m a good cop, not some young kid.”

“In Jupiter’s office you were quite good. Thinking quick on your feet. And what you pulled off earlier by connecting those seventeen cases of a criminal enterprise hitting up upscale hotels is nothing short of remarkable. Jupiter won’t come out and say it, but I could tell she was stunned.”

Visibly proud from the praise, Rex shook her head. “Are you flattering me because you feel bad? It’s obvious you wanted to unpartner . . .”

“Unpartner is not a word.”

“But it’s true. You don’t want me around.”

“Like I explained before, you’d be more useful at the station briefing Cote and Jupiter. Look at what you accomplished.”

“Yeah. You’re right. And you have every right to suspect Cote’s up to no good. I watched her for you like you asked me.”

“And?”

“This stays between us. Cote has a major stick up her butt. If not that—something major’s off about her. In my official report I won’t describe her as overbearing and domineering. I’ll say she’s relentlessly undeterred and highly committed to finding the truth.”

“Holy crap.”

“There is more. How about arrogant, overbearing, and ultra micromanaging. The complete contrast to Jupiter. I like the captain a lot. For a while it was Cote’s show, and Jupiter allowed it like a steamboat waiting to run out of steam.”

“You make it sound like you’ve witnessed a battle of great giants.”

“Sounds pretty accurate. Cote went on and on about PD zooming in on Ian King without proof. We were his crusaders.”

“She actually called us crusaders?”

Rex rolled her eyes. “Not us—you, really. Your tumultuous relationship with the Kings was brought up several times. It was starting to grind on my nerves, even. But when she tried to suggest that maybe we ought to look at you as a suspect before Ian King, something ill stirred in Jupiter. And the gloves were off. For the next twenty or so minutes, Jupiter straightened her up real good. Put her in her place. I was about to leap off my chair and hug her. Never seen a brass stand up to a politician like that to protect a cop.”

“Told you Jupiter was a solid cop. She’s a take-no-prisoners kind of a boss. We’re really lucky to have her at homicide. Some of the other units are not as fortunate.”

“Cote cooled off after. Chirping lines in Ian King’s defense when I presented my findings. Went real quiet when I laid out the crime scene photos in front of her. Cemetery silence when I brought up King’s record. Mentioned the ROs.”

“ROs on both?”

“Cassandra and King’s marriage was nothing like what they showed on the red carpet. Each spouse accused the other of emotional and physical abuse. They were separate for the past month. Her in their house. He rented a condo.”

Where had it all gone wrong for the it couple of High Grove? I thought. They were the envy of our school. She was popular, well liked and admired. Ian had been the bad-boy heartthrob, the center of every seventeen-year-old teenager. The most-likely-to-make-it-in-Hollywood couple in our high school had lost its spark through the years. It gnawed on me that I didn’t know why.

“Ian hasn’t changed much since how I remembered him.”

“Cassandra?”

“It’s like a person I’ve never met,” I said.

“What happened between you and her?”

“Unlike the movie, she dumped me on prom night. No explanation given. The next morning I enlisted in the Navy, wishing to be millions of miles away from them. I guess being shipped across the world made the hurt and the pain easier to deal with. After ten years of service, I retired, returned to Boston, and became a cop. Cassandra was on the West Coast making a splash in Hollywood. Our paths didn’t cross, and they wouldn’t have.”

“She never reached out?”

“No.”

“Did you wish she did?”

I ignored Rex’s question.

“If they were headed for divorce—why put on an expensive romantic setup in her room?”

“For the attention. Everyone was dying over how good they look together.”

“Then why set up her hotel room? That’s private. In public, they both behaved awful toward each other. The public fight was attention grabbing enough they had to be separated. And that text Ian sent her—”

“‘Break a leg, bitch.’”

“If they were trying to repair things why not ‘I love you’? ‘Kill it onstage’? Something along those lines professing love, support, admiration. You’ve gone through all the trouble to prepare a huge room with flowers, candles, expensive champagne.”

“He could have tried to surprise her? She refused Ian’s advances. In a fit of rage, he killed her.”

“That would only make sense if Ian had access to her room. He didn’t. Remember Scott Lane—Cassandra personally instructed him to kick Ian out of the hotel. She was clear about the fact Ian was not welcome near her.”

“Someone else, then, on his behalf. His assistant.”

“Yeah—maybe. Wouldn’t the assistant ask the hotel to arrange those details? A lot of work went into the setup. And Tom Van Hoyte said the hotel was not involved in anything besides the flower arrangements on behalf of the PR agency as a surprise to Cassandra.”

My cell chirped.

“Ethan Shaw’s MIA,” Carlos informed me. “His landlord tells us pretty boy skipped town. But his rent’s paid until next month.”

“If rent’s paid, why does he think Shaw’s skipping?”

“Good question. The landlord is currently suffering from a mysterious case of amnesia-phitas. But he’s in luck, cuz amnesia-phitas is mine and Bozman’s specialty. Give us another hour with him.”

Off the phone, I relayed the conversation back to Rex.

“Carlos can get anyone to talk.”

“Shaw can’t keep hiding from me forever,” Rex said quietly.

As I drove in the rainstorm, an uncomfortable idea crossed my mind.

Who are you, Rex Hobbs?

Chapter 18

I parked along the curb of a smart-looking neighborhood. Rows of Cape-style homes lined both sides of the street. The light rain predicted by the local morning meteorologists was nothing short of a fiction. It down-poured so hard I took an extra minute to unbuckle, not looking forward to setting my foot out.

In front of the cruiser, people in raincoats and windbreakers and laced-up sneakers carried on with their daily activities—jogging with their dogs, braving the unfavorable weather conditions. Life went on. Boston’s weather was tough. Bostonians tougher.

The house was the second to last. Dark gray, black shutters, sectioned by a white wood fence prettied up with blue and white hydrangeas. The large bastards were soaking up the rainwater, thriving, while the rest of us had thrown up our hands in defeat, telling each other, “It has to stop eventually. Even the Great Flood dried up.”

I followed a dark-red brick path from the front gate to the yard, where mature oaks and weeping willows greeted us. It was a good, cared-for home, from the potted flower arrangements on the white steps to the lush green grass on the lawn.

The door parted. A silhouette of a woman in a white robe and white house slippers met me. She pressed the handle of the glass door and motioned me in. I stepped in, tracking wet and dirt with my boots.

“Sorry about that,” I said, feeling the sogginess of my clothes.

“Somehow I doubt it,” Mayor Cote replied, and I didn’t think she meant the rain. “This is my private home. What are you two doing here?”

I shook the rain from the back of my neck. “New information has come to light about the Kings.”

“I was briefed this morning. Whatever else you’ve learned will have to wait. It’s not a good time for me.”

For the first time, I took a good look at her under the pen light of the hallway. Her skin was pale and dull. Her hair was lifted and hidden under a satin wrap. But what really stood out to me were the hollow marks under her usually lively eyes. The mayor of Boston looked as gray and vibrant as the current outside conditions. All of a sudden, freezing chills tangled down my spine.

“I’m afraid I’d have to insist. It’s time sensitive.”

She chuckled. Padded into the house.

“Don’t see how anything could be of such importance you think it’s smart to see me at this address. I stay here on occasion when the mayor’s mansion starts to feel too formal. Living close to where you work’s not good for the mind and soul—I read that somewhere in a magazine a long time ago—and I’ve come to realize the truth in its words. We should be able to escape the pressure of our professional life.”

She led us through a short corridor, its walls painted in the lightest shade of gray. Framed pictures of family adorned them. There was a small dark brown table with a vase holding more beautiful flowers and more pictures of people who seemed more like models than relatives of hers.

The corridor opened to a nice-sized living room. On sunny summer days, I imagined, the natural light from the windows gave it a cozy vibe. It looked dreary and somehow sad against the storm ravaging the tree branches outside.

“The rain . . . it has to stop eventually.” Cote settled into a white sofa, pointing to the other white sofa sectioned by a low coffee table.

A phone beeped in the distance. Someone soon picked it up. I scanned the empty formal dining room connected to the living room, expecting to see who else was in the house with us.

“The dang thing hasn’t stopped ringing off the hook since practically the entire movie industry witnessed Ian King wheeled on a stretcher out of the Capitol Hotel,” she said in an exhausted voice, that I believed came from physical exhaustion and not for sympathy points.

“We’re working as fast as we can to solve the slaying.” Rex settled into a love seat.

“And I appreciate it, of course. Your brief was comprehensive. You laid out the facts meticulously, yet it was easy to follow along. Those crime scene photos were telling.” Cote shifted her stare to me, fixed her sickly eyes on mine. “And before you say anything, I’ve already made arrangements to speak with Officer Fairfax. It really wasn’t fair to him. I’ve calmed down. Last night I was running on fumes, still upset about Cassandra’s murder. Seeing Ian leap from that hidden mirror room, dipped in the reddest shade of blood, had me pacing the floor of my bedroom the entire night.”

“Captain Jupiter would be glad to hear it,” I said.

Cote crooked her head slightly to one side. “Sure she will. Your captain stepped over the line by reprimanding me in her office, but I’ll get over it. We’ve known each other for far too long to let a small setback ruin a good friendship.”

The landline rang again, interrupting her train of thought. “I could rip the cable off the wall to make the calls stop, but I’m waiting to hear from Ian’s head doctor.”

“You two seem close? Is there something more going on between you?”

“If there is—it’s not any of your business, Detective. Don’t forget your setting. It would do you good to remember your rank and my position.”

“That I can’t do, ma’am. It’s my job to explore all unanswered questions in a homicide investigation. And those without a reasonable explanation, I have to look at harder. It’s uncomfortable, I understand, for both of us, but it’s the job, and I am it.”

“I don’t like the insinuation in your voice. There’s nothing romantic between us.”

“And yet I don’t fully buy it. Cassandra and her husband weren’t as in love as they wanted the rest of the world to believe. But I suspect you knew that.”

She flexed her shoulders like a stiff stick whacked her.

“Okay. Trouble in paradise. Marriages are long, hard, yada-yada. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I wish you’d just make this move along easier, Mrs. Mayor.”

“Mrs. Mayor? Ha! How formal. Jupiter really sent her very best, didn’t she? Where do you get off questioning me, huh? Shouldn’t we be examining your relationship with Cassandra? Her own husband alleged you were sleeping with his wife. Shouldn’t we be suspicious of you?”

“You should and you could—but it will be a complete waste of your time.”

“So you say.”

“Yes.”

“Then why would Ian suggest it? No. Believe it.”

“Because Ian King is a mean, egotistical drunk,” I said.

“Your bias against Ian is on full display is what I was trying to tell Judy, but she wouldn’t hear of it—that’s how hard she went to bat for you.”

“It’s not bias…”

“How can Boston trust you…”

“If you let me finish…” I said.

“…to solve Cassandra’s murder?”

For a moment, there was dead silence in the room, broken only by the dry cough in Cote’s throat.

“My relationship with Cassandra ended over a decade ago. We haven’t been in each other’s lives for years. And as far as Ian King, there’s plenty of bad blood between us, but that’s not why I’m in charge of this homicide. It’s because there was a murdered woman, and someone did the murdering. And I’ll be damned if I let a killer get away with it in my city.”

I could feel Rex watching me. She pivoted her attention to the mayor. “What my partner is trying to say, ma’am—you could chase off two uniforms, but the buck stops with us. We can have a polite conversation in your warm, private home, or you can come with us to the station. It’s not what we’d like, but it’s what we’ll do.”

The threat of a perp walk worked on Cote. She softened up.

“If it were up to me, Detective Long—I’d kick you off the investigation so fast it’d make your head explode.” She dabbed the dry edges of her mouth with the back of her hand. “For whatever reason, Judy is stuck on doing exactly the opposite. She won’t learn unless she burns herself. Mark my words—she will if she keeps you on.”

“I’m not your enemy,” I said. “Wish you’d see it.”

“And do what with it—leap for joy discussing deeply personal matters, huh?”

“Then you’ll really love the next question—did you take in Ian King after Cassandra told the Capitol he wasn’t welcome with her?”

She sighed. “Yes. Stayed in my guest bedroom. First floor. His stuff is still there. I took him in because the movie premiere was vital to Boston. And Cassandra and Ian’s constant bickering threatened to destroy what me and others worked so hard for. I did it to save Boston. My house’s off-limits . . . usually.”

“Didn’t it bother you that Ian has been cited for domestic abuse against Cassandra?” I asked.

She glided a reedy thin hand across the satin turban on her head. “They were both at fault. Lots of issues in their marriage, Detective. With them it goes back to day one. Ian wanted a wife by his side. Cassandra, an admirer. They couldn’t quite figure out their roles. And when you wear too many masks, you eventually forget how to recognize your face. Both were lost.”

Rex chimed in. “Hotel security told us—Cassandra feared Ian.”

“Pure fiction. She was soaring high in the box office, lucrative product deals, and on the cover of the best magazines. All the Wrong Ones opened to raving reviews. She was finally the star she always dreamed to be.”

“As you said, Ian likes the sun to shine on him. Maybe he was angry Cassandra so publicly humiliated him on the eve of the biggest night of their lives. It’s an appealing motive to kill her.”

“If that’s the direction of your investigation, Boston would be wise to seriously reconsider your spot on the best-cop list.”

“Why?”

“Because Cassandra had Ian by the balls. He wouldn’t have dared. That man was trying anything he could to talk her out of divorcing him. He was begging her on the phone to let it go. She wouldn’t. He was depressed over it, I don’t know how I talked him into going to the premiere. The entire ride to the hotel, Ian kept repeating he only wanted to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?”

“Public embarrassment. She’s been demanding studios produced her next project. Some type of documentary. Ian said the idea was so awful, important people were laughing behind their backs. She was becoming a joke in LA.”

“Ian didn’t like that?”

“It made him angry with her. Yes. His business was suffering because she didn’t take no for an answer.”

“Seeing Ian in emotional turmoil must have made you angry?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“You’re putting him in your nice home, protecting him from public embarrassment.”

“The least I can do. His father and mine go way back. We go way back. My dad started PlayStar Productions, a small movie company producing local films.”

The name of the company sounded familiar. Helen had been an actress in some movies produced by PlayStar.

“The company peaked, gathered the attention of Hollywood powerhouses looking to expand on the East Coast, while Ian’s dad was searching for an investment opportunity to break on the Gold Coast. He made my father an offer for PlayStar. Ian and his family became movie producers in a single night. And with the money my dad left me, I forged my own legacy.”

“Solid history between the two families.”

“Nothing more than that, Detective. But I will admit, I always had a soft spot for Ian. He grew up without his mother. And my own brother died in an accident when he was just a boy. Ian filled a void in me, like I filled in him.”

“That’s why you cornered Cassandra after the award ceremony. Multiple witnesses saw her and another female shout at each other. Captain Jupiter says you left for a while during the brawl. When you came back, you didn’t look like yourself.”

That raspy cough returned. Cote trembled. I had hit a nerve. So I went on, putting pressure on her.

“There was blood on your dress when you returned to the table. Jupiter saw it. You covered it up with your coat.”

The cough was choppy. Cote gasped for air between coughing fits. Her nostrils flared. She put her head up, wheezing under her breath. I watched for a moment before I looked over to Rex.

“See if you can find who else is in the house besides her. Get them here.”

Rex bolted through the formal living room. I could hear her boots rushing frantically, searching for help.

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

Cote pointed with a fragile finger to a glass pitcher with water. I filled up a glass. Handed it to her, but she seemed too weak to steady it herself. I held it to her lips. She sipped.

Once the health episode passed, her head slumped forward, allowing a small trickle of blood to flow from her nostrils. She fetched a napkin from her robe. Dabbed the blood. Then, without a word, she slowly disrobed her turban, revealing a mostly bald head with fuzzy peach strands hanging like ropes.

Chapter 19

“Take a breath, Detective. You look like you’ll pass out,” Cote said. “Judy Jupiter and her famous sharp eye. Nothing gets past her. I could feel suspicion rising in her when I came back to the table.”

“She’s sharper than a blade,” I replied, holding a steady gaze on Cote.

“Do you know how hard it is to suppress a cough?”

“In your condition, I assume very.”

“Exceptionally hard. Practically impossible. The entire time I was presenting Cassandra with her award, I wanted to spit my lungs out. Without a warning, the ballroom began to spin in circles. My vision blurred. I nearly passed out in front of a thousand people. My career would have been over in a flash.”

“What did you do?”

She patted the bridge of her nose. “I couldn’t faint on the stage. But no one would have minded if I did in the bathroom. I knew where to find a single private stall with a door that locks from inside. Earlier in the day, my assistant scouted the hotel, searching for the most convenient one in case of a medical emergency.”

“How often do you have . . . episodes?”

“There are good days and bad. Lately it’s been getting worse. Frequent blackouts.”

“I am sorry.”

Cote sighed. “I should be saying sorry to you, and thank you.”

“Neither is expected, ma’am.”

“That’s sweet of you. There is this unassuming softness to your gruff exterior that Judy spoke of, and I see it now. It makes it impossible to dislike you,” Cote said. “It’s been hard to accept my diagnosis. Fought with it, went through the emotions. But until moments ago, I hadn’t fully believed it. The night of the movie awards I fainted, and when I woke up in the bathroom I was angry with myself and the entire world. Then the fight in the ballroom happened, and I was needed. And soon after Cassandra was slain. For a minute I forgot about my sickness. I meant to speak with Judy, personally dispel any suspicion in her about my involvement in Cassandra’s death—again things didn’t quite work out as I hoped. She sent you here and I resent her for it. But why should I? She’s doing her job. And you’re doing yours.” She dipped her chin. “I had nothing to do with Cassandra’s murder.”

In that moment, Rex ran into the living room with a man on her heels.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He knelt by her side, squeezing her wrist for her pulse.

“Bad cough. My chest felt tight.”

He stood up, reached in the right pocket of his white coat. He placed a pill under her tongue. Its effect was instantly obvious, freeing Cote of her pain.

“She overheated herself.” He addressed me.

“Dr. Asher?”

“Judging by your reaction, Miranda—sorry, Mayor Cote—didn’t tell you about me.”

“No,” I said.

“Asher’s why I should thank you.” Cote took a short sip of water.

“Officially meet Dr. Letum’s patient number eight,” Asher explained. “He oversaw her treatment plan when you exposed him as the fraud and the killer he truly was.”

I had lived in Dr. Letum’s hospital wing for four months while painstakingly building the case against him. Read his files, interviewed patients he saw, questioned the hospital staff, and testified in Letum’s trial and retrial thereafter. He went down for killing seventeen patients. Patient eighteen had been a female, who had been listed as deceased mid-treatment.

“You must be mistaken. Peggy-something, died early on from complications of her cancer. She never set foot in his hospital.”

Asher and Cote exchanged conspiring glances.

Cote said, “Peggy Hooper.”

“Yes, Hooper. Female, fifty-five. Stage four of inoperable cancer cells that had invaded the bone marrow.” I recited by memory the chart of patient number eighteen.

“Meet Peggy Hooper.” Asher pointed to Cote.

“I don’t understand.”

“Peggy Hooper was my mother. When Letum selected me for his experimental treatment trial, I couldn’t be listed under my own name. So I opted to go with my mother’s. He admitted me, forging hospital forms, and agreed to personal treatment at my home. I felt like I had hit the jackpot. And then the DA informed me about your investigation into Letum. I couldn’t believe it. My anger with you was so big, I immediately phoned Jupiter to ask her who the hell you were to go after one of the most prestigious doctors in Boston.”

“You?” I said. “You put pressure on the PD to shut me down?”

“Yes.”

“People died.”

“Yes. I wish I could go back and tell you to hurry up and lock up Letum. But he had given me a promise no other doctor did. Told me he could cure me. Who else on earth wouldn’t take those odds?”

“Six more patients lost their lives before I could cuff him,” I said, feeling I was about to lose my damn mind. “I put my career and life on the line when I convinced Letum I had cancer and I needed him to save me.”

“By the time you came on board and started to sniff around, I had my growing suspicions of Letum. Miranda and I had grown close, so I felt I could confide in her. I told her about you and what you were trying to prove.”

“Won’t deny it, detective. I was out to get you fired. Have your badge. But Asher changed my mind. Because of you two, I have what little life I have left.” Cote reached for Asher’s hand, and he took hers in his.

I saw red. There were unkind words stuck in my chest, barreling to be unleashed, and if it hadn’t been for Rex stepping in, I might have voluntarily handed in my shield and my gun. I felt disgusted to my stomach.

“The ME’s office has been trying to get a hold of Detective Long,” Rex said. “We should be going. Thank you for your time. If you think of anything . . .”

“There is something, actually, I need to say before I forget it. Backstage, before my dizzy spell, I walked by Cassandra. She was speaking on the phone with someone. A doctor. Didn’t say his name. I remember her asking if it’s confirmed. He must have said yes, because I could tell the news wasn’t what Cassandra had been hoping for. There was despair in her eyes, the type you feel after you hear a life-altering diagnosis.”

Chapter 20

I fumed and cursed with full-on disregard for professional decorum. If Rex minded my display of rage, she didn’t scold me. After a while, I had run out of profanity-laced adjectives to propel into the open. Quieted down. And retreated to myself.

“Phew. Didn’t see that one coming.” Rex casually said. “Cote has announced her reelection campaign. Her people are fundraising. She’s practically running unopposed. Will she make it?”

“Unlikely. Letum’s specialty was end-stage cancers.”

“Why did no one in the medical world report him? He was a complete fraud.”

“They couldn’t have. The Evil Doctor was renowned for his cancer research. His lab occupied three full floors at Harvard Med, working on breakthrough cancer research. Some of the brightest minds reported to Letum. Heck, the president himself was considering Letum for the presidential medal of honor.”

“Why did he do it, then? Kill so many of his patients, I mean? Was he experimenting on them? Or did he kill out of pure joy?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both. Patient one was his wife,” I said. “She died because he convinced her to reject conventional treatment methods. Put her on experimental meds his lab had developed. At first, she showed signs of improvement, and then she died, much quicker than if she had taken the standard meds.

“After her death, Letum’s research was gathering lots of attention. Instead of admitting his cure failed, Letum called it a miracle.”

“But his wife had died. Where’s the miracle?”

“Oh no, no. Here’s where Dr. Evil truly became Evil incarnate. He forged his research, doctored every report. Told the world his wife had been cured.”

Rex said, “There’s so much more to this than was ever reported in the media. I didn’t realize. If she died, who pretended to be Mrs. Letum?”

“There is no pretend Mrs. Letum. The Evil Dr. Letum told the world she had gone on a European excursion after her life had been saved. It went on for about seven months until, eventually, her parents filed a missing-persons report with the PD.”

“Was she ever found?”

“No. His wife to this day is classified as MIA.”

Rex shivered. “I got goose bumps.”

“I’m too numb to feel anything at the moment. Cote’s admission of meddling in my investigation made me sweat. She’s doing it again with this investigation too.”

“Hot-blooded man,” Rex replied. “You handled her.”

“Far from it. Don’t remember the last time I lost it like I did. But thanks for trying to boost me up.”

“Hey, who hasn’t lost their shit ion this job?!” she said. “Mind if you drop by my house to change? All my clothes are wet from the rain.”

Her apartment was a one-bedroom, one-bath in a building occupied by other young, single professionals. It was scantily decorated. A cheap table and a few chairs in a cookie-cutter living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. No personal effects on display. I couldn’t tell if the place came furnished or if Rex’s taste was the clearance aisle at the big-box store.

“Make yourself at home. There’s water and OJ in the fridge. I’ll be a minute.”

I opted for the OJ. Carried my glass to the window, inspecting the high peaks of the tall, clustered buildings. My eyes roamed freely. A gray sedan parked on the corner, manned by two males in suits, piqued my interest. I took down the license plate.

From the bedroom, I could hear Rex rummaging through the clothes, hangers clacked, and drawers were opened and shut.

“This is a nice place. Close to Central. Didn’t think there were single-occupant apartments left to rent in Boston. College students drive the housing market up year-round.”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbled from behind the closed door of the bedroom. “Got lucky, I suppose.”

A phony answer from a phony woman pretending to rent this phony apartment. Rex, I reminded myself, was beautiful on the outside, a sham inside. And I thought the plate number would prove it.

“Ready.” She stepped into the living room. Light-washed jeans, white T-shirt, dark-blue blazer. Her damp hair lifted in a high pony tail. Radiant skin. She could easily pass for a college student.

Her lips were stretched in a friendly smile. Earnest. Trustworthy.

If only, I said to myself.

“Jupiter called for you on my cell,” she said. “I was with Asher. Ignored her call. Checked my phone a minute ago. If she doesn’t hear from us both, she’s promised to suspend us! I believe her.”

“As you should. Jupiter doesn’t give empty threats.”

At the station, we split. Rex went into the break room in search of chocolate.

“Sugar keeps me calm,” she said.

I stopped by my desk. The stack of pink slips was an eyesore. I shoved the pile to one side, promising to deal with them shortly. Presently, I couldn’t get out of my head what Cote had said about Cassandra.

I dialed the morgue. Waited on the line until the evening desk assistant, usually a medical student, answered. According to her, Dr. Hollman had stepped out for dinner with his wife, Sybil.

“He might be back later, or he might not.”

What kind of answer was that, I considered replying to her. But stopped myself.

“Just have him call me the moment he returns. It’s urgent.”

Off the phone, I placed a call to Jupiter, but her voicemail picked up. I left a message for her.

Meanwhile, I could see Rex chatting with one of the younger detectives. He was telling her something about a baseball game on Sunday and an extra pair of tickets. For whatever reason, the image of Rex and Mr. Hot Shot living it up at the Sox on Sunday rubbed me the wrong way.

Before I could stroll to them and break up the idyllic moment, the phone on my desk lit up with an incoming call.

“Hello. Detective Collins. Boston Homicide,” I said, irritated.

“You sound sexier than I imagined,” the caller replied.

Unfamiliar voice. Female, older, maybe fifties or sixties.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Who is this?”

“Mmmm. I could put you in my blender with ice and slurp you right up.”

“Ma’am, this is the police department. Around here, we frown on prank calls. It’s not the best use of our resources. So what do you say? If I forget you called, will you promise never to call us unless it’s a true emergency? Deal?”

“You’re no fun. Disappointed. In the papers, you look like a good time. Boo! What a letdown.”

“Should I send an officer to talk to you?”

“’Tis why I’m calling. To talk to you.” She dropped the crazy voice and switched to business.

“You have me. I’m all ears. What do you want to talk to me about?”

By now, Rex had waved goodbye to her Sunday night date. Her phone rang too. She answered it, still sporting a big smile on her face, I noticed.

“A crime, dear. You’re the police. Homicide. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. What crime do you wish to report?”

“I don’t wish to report any crime.”

I dropped my head. She was insolent.

“Then what, Ms. . . . ?”

“I didn’t give you my name.”

“Would you like to?”

“If you say please.” She giggled rebelliously.

“Have a nice day.”

“Wait. Don’t hang up. It’s Beatrice Ashburn. And those photos of you lied. No fun.”

“Color me offended,” I mumbled. “We need to speak.”

“What’s that, sexy? You have to speak up. The doctor gave me new hearing aids. I’m breaking them in.”

“Let’s get back to the reason for your call—Cassandra King.”

“Murdered,” she said factually.

“Yes. She was killed at the Capitol. How soon can we meet?”

“The sooner the better. Preferably before I die of boredom talking to you. How can someone as good-looking as you not be fun? Ever wonder about it?”

“Never. Give me your address?”

“Ponte Drive, seven-six-eight-nine. The lux home community up on the Hill. Know where it’s at?”

“I do, actually. Are you there at the moment?”

“Not for long. I have a striptease class at eleven thirty.”

My mouth gaped. Ashburn rendered me speechless.

“Give me thirty. I’ll meet you at your home.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be here. Striptease class at eleven thirty, remember? You’re no fun, and your memory’s shit.”

“Reschedule.”

“If you say please.”

I clenched the receiver. “Please.”

“Was that so hard?”

“You can’t even imagine.”

“Don’t mumble! I’m breaking in new hearing aids,” she said. “Do you have a pen and paper handy?” She gave me an address. “The dance studio’s on the corner. Meet you there.”

“We made a deal.”

“Changed my mind. You might be no fun, but I can’t deprive you of the chance to see me strip.”

Rex swiveled her chair and pointed it in my direction.

“What was that all about?”

“Beatrice Ashburn. Cassandra’s agent. Correction: ex-agent. This woman has a few screws loose.”

“Come on. She can’t be all bad?”

“You want to bet? She will only agree to speak with me if I agree to a lap dance from her.” I lifted off my chair. Took the keys to the cruiser from my desk drawer. Tossed them in the air and caught them. “I’m headed to reason with her. You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, so that’s why it hurts me to say no. I got to run for a thing.”

I shrugged. Turned my back. Rex called my name. “Hey, Long”—she tossed me a wad of ones—“don’t forget to tip the lady!”

Chapter 21

There was never a strip club or a strip dance studio of any sort, I discovered.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I scanned the low-rent strip mall on the side of a train track she had chosen for our meeting.

The sandwich board sign in front of the business read Mr. Marvels Movie Factory Extraordinaire.

I frowned, underwhelmed. It certainly matches her kooky personality, I remarked to myself.

Weeds were growing between the cracks of the pavement. It was on a busy intersection, on the last city exit before the highway.

Nothing extraordinary about it.

When you’re asked to meet someone on a movie set, you expect to run into production trucks, sets, camera, and lighting. I saw none of that.

Where were the extras? The producers? What had happened to the sound guys and boxy equipment I imagined filmmaking required?

I couldn’t reach Beatrice Ashburn on her cell phone, because she’d never given me her number. So I clambered over dug-up chunks of the pavement to the main doors.

From behind them, I heard the sounds of shooting cannons, female screams, and the hoofs of galloping horses.

This has to be the place.

I tried the handles. Locked. I banged. No answer. I banged and I yanked until the locking mechanism switched. A woman, no taller than five two with tattoos on her arms and neck, appeared none too pleased to see me.

“Where did you come from? Who sent you?”

“Police.”

“Lemme see some identification.”

Behind her a smoke machine breathed out a tornado of thick gray smoke that tasted like burnt garlic and black pepper if inhaled. It made me cough and sneeze at the same time—an option I didn’t know till now was even possible.

“It’s the glycerin fluid. Cheap stuff. Pumpkin refuses to buy decent crap. People got sick the first two days. Eventually your lungs give up fighting the Chinese chemicals and you get used to it.” She read my badge, handed it back. “So, what do you want? Permits? I got ’em. Paid six grand out of my own pocket for this shithole. I own it for the next month.”

“Not here for you.”

“Good. Cuz I got permits. And I pay the crew daily. Did that freak, Seven or whatever he calls himself today—report me? It was self-defense.”

“Wrong again.”

This time she thought before she said, “I’m drawing a blank.”

“Is there a Beatrice Ashburn at this address?”

Her lips stretched wide, forming dimples at the center of her round face.

“Sorry. I’m Cherry. And yes, Betty’s somewhere around here. She mentioned something about a boring cop dropping by. Come on in. It’s so wet tonight. Are we ever gonna see the sun?”

The smoke machine let out a forceful stream of choking poison. My lungs revolted. I choked down a raspy cough.

“Tipsy,” Cherry called out, “kill the smoke monster. We have a guest on set. Everyone, let’s take a break.” Cherry said to me. “The last two hours have been a waste. Can’t find talent to work for cheap anymore. Everyone thinks they’ll get their break in show business by constantly posting on their socials.”

Big headlights came on. The burst of sudden light blinded me.

“Ugh!” I uttered.

“This was the old loading depot for the train station. The lights are hard, but you get used to it. Just don’t look directly at them. Someone told Pumpkin you can get permanent eye damage. Don’t know how true it is, but none of us are taking any chances.”

“Duly noted.”

“You don’t look boring. I kind of think you’re quite cute. Single?”

“Yes.”

“Nice. Maybe we can get drinks after?”

“I won’t be a good date. The loading depot lights permanently damaged my vision.”

Cherry flipped her hair side to side. “I wouldn’t go out with you even if—actresses and cops go together as well as soup and ice cream.”

Suddenly, she froze in place.

What now? I wanted to scream.

“Wait a minute! Are you the cop investigating Cassandra King’s murder? Of course you are! Betty was her agent before the spoiled brat fired her.”

“Why call her a spoiled brat?”

“Betty did, though you can practically smell the entitlement on her Hollywood smug from the small screen.”

“Not a fan of hers?”

“Cassandra was too mainstream. In it for the money, never for the art.”

We resumed walking.

“It’s just talk in front of the other starving actors,” Cherry said. “Truth be told, if Cassandra called me in to audition for one of her flicks, I’d drop this hellscape in a beat. I still might. Tired of living broke.”

Standing at the head of a spiral staircase, Cherry pointed to the second floor. “Betty’s in the office. I’m going out for a smoke, if you still want to grab a drink after.”

I knocked on a fogged glass door.

“Pumpkin—go eat your cat’s litter box.”

I pressed on the door handle and walked in.

The office reminded me of the cluttered living room of a bag lady. Stacks of papers, pencils shoved in mugs, an old-fashioned typewriter in the center of the desk where a computer should be. The faded brown leather chair had its back against the door.

“Told you what would happen to you if you came around again.”

Suddenly, I heard the click of a gun. The chair slowly spun around. Now I faced a loaded revolver wielded by a woman in thick-rimmed glasses, shriveled like a raisin.

I put my hands in the air. “Police.”

“Police my ass.” Beatrice Ashburn aimed the gun at my chest. “If you’re not gone in three, you get to see how good my aim is.

“I’m…”

“One.” She counted.

“Boston PD…”

“Two.”

“Here’s my badge.” I rushed my hand into the inner pocket of my jacket.

Bang! The revolver went off, striking the door, missing my thigh by two inches.

“Three.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I yelled. “You could have hit me.”

“That’s the point, duh?!” she said.

I saw her lift the gun again.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.”

“Do you feel lucky, punk?”

“Long Collins! My name is Long Collins,” I shouted. “We spoke on the phone. You offered me a lap dance.”

Beatrice Ashburn clicked off the revolver and set it aside.

Chapter 22

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” I flung my cuffs from the pouch attached to my belt.

My pulse quickened. My mind spun in every direction simultaneously. I breathed in and out to allow my nerves to subside.

“What’s the matter, Detective? C’mon. Where’s your sense of—”

“Won’t repeat myself, ma’am. You’re under arrest for threatening law enforcement, discharging a gun at a business, and whatever else I can tag you with. Stand up.”

“Not a fan of Dirty Harry! I can see that now. Let’s start over. Okay? Maybe you prefer something less threatening. How about—‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner’?”

She had the audacity to wink at me. What was the matter with this woman?

“I prefer—You’re under arrest for being a pain in my ass.”

“Demolition Man. There is that steely, hard-edged, suave macho man Cassandra regretted leaving behind.”

I pulled away.

“It’s true. She imagined you’d watch All the Wrong Ones and come running back to her.”

“It’s all irrelevant,” I said. “Get your stuff together. I’m taking you downtown.”

“Okay. Honest to God, you looked like Pumpkin from afar. Your photo in the magazine spread looks nothing like you in person. I should be pressing a complaint against you for scaring me into my early grave. But I won’t if we both forget the unpleasant start between us.”

I hovered over, the cuffs dangling in front of her. “On three I’ll pick you up and throw you over my shoulder. I don’t want to, but I will.”

She tried to lift the revolver. This time my instincts worked. I threw my arm out, blocking hers.

“It’s a prop. Movie prop. See for yourself.”

I inspected the weapon with care. Emptied its chamber of bullets. It was cheap plastic but convincing. From ten feet away, you wouldn’t spot the difference.

Placed my cuffs on the desk, near her eyesight. If she tried to pull a fast one on me again, it won’t be tolerated.

“It will be wise from now on if you behave civilized.”

“Oh, please,” she said, inspecting me. “Okay. I’m behaving.”

I dipped my head. She pointed to the chair at the head of her desk.

“Cassandra always said you were like an arrow, headed in a straight trajectory, oblivious to what’s around you.”

“Highly doubt she said that.”

“Okay. The dramatic reading was mine, but the straight-arrow comment came entirely from her. Come closer to the natural light. I can’t turn the lights on or I risk permanent damage to my eyes. And I’m dying to see up close the man who broke Cassandra’s heart.”

“I’ll keep my distance. Can we talk about who might have hated Cassandra enough to kill her?”

“The universe loved her. Type her name in a web browser and read. The world adored Cassandra.”

“If I wanted to read drivel on the web, I would have stayed at the station. But instead I drove to meet a stranger at a strip class.”

Beatrice Ashburn fanned herself with her hand.

“If a man’s willing to meet you at a striptease class without ever laying eyes on you—you know he’s dedicated or at least curious.”

“How about that? I came to you because you knew Cassandra better than anyone else in the world, which means you might know who wanted her dead.”

“I don’t have a clue. Cassandra and I . . . parted ways. Unpleasant story. Leave it for another time,” Beatrice Ashburn said.

“There won’t be another time or a better time than now. I’ve been told Cassandra would still be an LA waitress waiting on her big break if it wasn’t for you.”

“And a bad one at that.”

“You trained her. You polished her. You packaged her into the actress she became. Who had it in for her? Besides you.”

“The entire industry. Cassandra was a disciplined woman but cold and detached from the world.”

“Narrow down the pool for me. Who hated her the most?”

“You, me, and Ian.”

“I know you didn’t kill her—you were out of the country.”

“It could be a fake alibi,” she remarked.

“A weeklong safari trip to Tanzania organized by National Geographic. Your resort confirmed your arrival and your checkout dates and times. And if I still had pressing questions about your alibi—well—the State Department dispelled those too by providing me with a copy of your passport, stamped. Simply put, Mrs. Ashburn, I ruled you out a while back as a person of interest. So how about it? I got time and questions. And I think you got answers for me.

“Why did Cassandra fire you at the most pivotal moment of both of your careers? The head of security at the Capitol Hotel said Cassandra revoked your access to her room. To her, really. Why? You two were close at one point.”

Beatrice Ashburn rubbed her hands together.

“I’d like for you to leave. The conversation’s over. I wasn’t sold on talking to you to begin with, but I said, why not? I see now that you’re not a fit for me.”

“Fit for you? Lady, I’m not auditioning for a role here. The sooner you realize this, the better. Her murder affects you too, you know.”

Got her attention. “How so?”

“Forget it. I was misled about you. Clearly Cassandra had good reasons to let you go.”

“Get out!”

I kicked the chair from under me. “With pleasure.”

Beatrice Ashburn’s lower jaw clenched. She pushed herself up. Leaned across the desk. Her eyes were manic, laced with acid, raging at me. There was the lipstick-wearing bulldog Helen had mentioned.

“Cassandra was an ungrateful wasp who believed her talent and beauty allowed her to act unchecked. You asked who would want her dead? Truth is—there wasn’t a person she hadn’t pissed off in Hollywood.”

“Okay. That’s a start.”

She shrugged. “No, that’s the end.” She glanced at the door as if to say Be gone.

I swiveled on my heels, thinking of what else I should say to her. Clearly, I had touched a sore spot. Cassandra. The firing. Her death. Maybe, I told myself, if I leave it alone, Beatrice Ashburn will come around and cooperate.

She sat down again. “Ah, I shouldn’t be mad. You don’t understand the film business. Hollywood. What it takes to live and breathe an industry designed to eat you up and spit you right out.”

“Try me. I’ve survived a brutal industry of my own.”

“The Navy? Soldiers. Orders. Not even close. The show business is performative. It’s not what it seems, and it seems what it’s not. That’s its allure.”

“Try me.”

“No. If I think of something that could help you—I’ll call you. Otherwise, we’re wasting each other’s time. Like you’ve pointed out—I’m cleared as a suspect. Tanzania is rather lovely at this time of year if you’re looking to book a vacation.”

I went for the door.

“Don’t take it personal, kid—Ian King wasn’t the right husband for Cassandra, you don’t feel like the right cop to solve her murder.”

“And you, Mrs. Ashburn, judged the reel by the first frame,” I said, bitterly disappointed.

“Wait. What? Say that again.”

“So you can mock me more. You heard me right the first time. After all, I know something about your industry, raised on the fringes of it by my stepmom. But as you’ve said, we shouldn’t waste our time. Not a good fit.”

“Stepmom?”

“Yes. Helen Abbott.”

For a moment, I felt like she would budge. She didn’t. Stared me down with silent, despondent eyes that once had been vibrant.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Ashburn wouldn’t open up to me. With reluctance, I told her good-night and threw my card on a pile of dusty scripts.

“If you think of something . . . or if you change your mind.”

Chapter 23

I climbed the steps to my brownstone, unlocked the door with a grunt, and pushed in. The warmth of my home greeted me without objection.

I threw the keys on the table along with my wallet and phone. From the fridge, I drank cold orange juice straight from the box. Not much food to choose from. And I wasn’t particularly hungry.

As I started for the stairs, I heard soft snoring sounds from the living room. In my oversize reclining chair, Helen slept. Her reading glasses were still on, a movie script lay in her lap. I pulled the cover up from the bottom of the sofa. Placed it over her. She stirred. Opened one eye. Smiled warmly at me.

“What time is it?” She stretched to get up.

“Stay. It’s very late.”

“No, no, no. I can get up. Fix us a pot of coffee.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Absolutely not. If I have one more cup, I won’t be able to go to bed. And I need to.”

In my bedroom, I undressed to my boxers. Walked into the bathroom for a ten-second teeth brushing. As soon as my head hit the stack of pillows on my bed, I drifted off.

I slept, but not well, tossing and turning for an hour, my imagination refusing to shut down and allow my mind to unwind. Eventually, Cassandra materialized in my dreams.

At first, she was a teenager. We were at the bleachers, holding hands. The football jocks were on the field, practicing. Cassandra tipped her head sideways and told me we were through. I felt the devastation of her rejection. I tossed on my side, shoved my hands under my armpits.

Next, Cassandra returned as a successful actress. This time I was in my Navy uniform. A trailer for her movie was showing at the Navy SEAL training school. In my dream, she showed up before deployment. Told me she’d wait for me, that we’d be together, to stay alive. Then she leaned in for a kiss, but before we connected, I was holding her dead body, blood from her head gushing out. She was soaking wet, cold, and very much dead. Her magnetic eyes were glassed over, a thin film of waxy clear coating covering them.

I suppressed a scream or a cry, a combination of both, probably. There was nothing I could do to bring her back. She’d been forever seventeen on the cusp of eighteen in my memory when I had loved her. And she’d forever be thirty-eight in her death, as I had seen her last.

Cold sweat dampened my forehead and neck when I sat up in my bed, still holding my toothbrush. The room was dark, but the early hours of dawn bloomed outside my window. Shaken to my core by the nightmare, I climbed out of bed. In the recliner, I found security. Turned the small night light on the table beside it. Under the amber glow, I pulled out Cassandra’s murder file from my work bag. Spread it open across my lap.

I started by reading the notes from the night of the murder. Cassandra’s body had been discovered by Tom Van Hoyte. He’d gone to check on her after Cassandra had failed to show up for an autograph signing. In her room, Hoyte had seen Cassandra’s body in a halo of blood. He’d never checked for a pulse. It bothered me to a degree, but I decided to move on.

Fourteen flights below in the ballroom, four hundred guests unleashed fury, using fists and furniture, causing damages in the millions.

At some point after Cassandra had left and after the start of the fight, her killer slipped out and bludgeoned her to death.

Ian King remained at the top of my suspect list. Lots of issues between the spouses that made him that much more appealing as the killer. But the lab report told me Ian had been incapable of walking. How could he have struck his wife in the head not once, not twice, but three or four times?

I took a break from reading. Shifted my attention to the crime scene photos. The award statue with its sharp corners, heavy enough to crush a bone. The candles lit under domes. The expensive flower arrangements. Next, I picked another photograph. It showed the Hall of Mirrors. A second gown on a hanger. A fresh pair of shoes. A pile of vomit Rex had said belonged to Ian, not the killer. How did she reach that conclusion?

The employee elevator was in the picture too. The same elevator Scott Lane said maids sometimes used when looking for an extra smoke break.

My mind circled to Ethan Shaw, the missing waiter with a stolen social security. Rex believed he was part of a team robbing expensive hotels. Again, where did she come up with these things? I thought.

If Shaw killed Cassandra, why didn’t he take the diamonds, the expensive laptop, the gold-and-silver award? Nothing had been taken from her room, not that night or at any point during Cassandra’s stay at the Capitol.

Shaw, I came to realize, hadn’t murdered Cassandra, but I had no proof. So I left him for Rex to sort him out.

By now, the sun was slowly climbing out. I briefly toyed with the idea of Cote murdering Cassandra. Weak from her cancer, she was the least likely, but I still imagined her—feeble and sickly against the athletic and energetic Cassandra. It looked like a scene from a low-budget movie. Soon, I decided to ask Carlos and Bozman to interview her staff. If they confirmed she’d passed out in the hotel bathroom, then I’d take her off the suspect list.

That left only one more name: Beatrice “Betty” Ashburn, Cassandra’s lipstick-wearing bulldog of an agent. Her reluctance to discuss Cassandra bothered me. She was hiding something, but what and why?

I revisited her alibi: in Tanzania for a week. A trip booked through a reputable organization. Her travels confirmed by the airlines. The State Department had stamped her passport. The resort had showed her arriving and leaving a day after Cassandra’s murder was already a breaking news story circulating the entire globe. Unless Ashburn was a shape-shifter, she couldn’t have traveled to the States and back to Tanzania without detection.

Crushed, I closed my eyes, allowing my brain to digest the pieces of the investigation.

The sounds of laughter woke me up quite suddenly. I opened my eyes to a bright room and a floor covered in my murder notes.

Chapter 24

“You?” I said accusingly.

I cleared the last two steps in a single hop. Crossed the short threshold between the kitchen and the living room. Stood by the kitchen window facing the police station.

Helen was serving coffee and an assortment of baked goodies on a tray.

“Join us for breakfast.”

“Another time.” I poured my own coffee from the canister.

“I’d like to apologize,” Beatrice Ashburn said. “Last night, I wasn’t myself.”

“You were exactly yourself.”

“He’s not going to make it easy, is he?” Beatrice said to Helen.

“Go on. Say you’re sorry.”

“Sooorry,” Beatrice mumbled. “It’s not easy talking about Cassandra. She was my longest and biggest client. Since she fired me, I’m scrambling. You saw my office. I represent Cherry and others like her who believe commercial work is not art.”

“Social hour’s over. I have to get ready for work.”

“The last thing I told her was I’d bury her in the Hollywood cemetery.”

The proclamation delivered a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Beatrice Ashburn clapped her hands.

“Proverbial cemetery, people. Keep up. I traveled to the most remote place on earth to hide. Tanzania!”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Travel to the most remote place on earth?”

“Why do you think? Cassandra. The movie premiere. She chose to host it in Boston. It’s my backyard. People would notice I was MIA. Needed a cover. So Tanzania.”

“An alibi,” I corrected.

“No. It’s not what you think. You said something last night that’s been eating at me. I judged the reel too fast.”

“If you want to talk—we’re doing it across the street. At the station. Formal. On tape. Your name on record.”

“Out of the question. I won’t do it.”

“Then you should go. Don’t leave town while the investigation’s ongoing.”

I headed upstairs to wash and change. On the agenda was a pit stop to the morgue, an appointment I had been putting off long enough.

“Long.” Helen was on my heels.

She closed the door to the bedroom. Leaned her back against the frame.

“Give her a chance, please.”

“Last night I did. She fired a gun at me.”

“A prop gun, and she thought you were someone else shaking her for money.”

“Since you’re her defense attorney—take her statement and drop it off at the station.”

“Interview her yourself. That’s your job, Detective Collins,” she said in a tone only mothers know how to use to get you to pay attention. “I have to run to the bar. Dale forgot his keys at home. Wants me to unlock the back door for him. Should be gone for ten, fifteen tops. Don’t hide in your bedroom the entire time.” Helen pressed the door handle. “Go talk to her. She could be an asset to you.”

Beatrice Ashburn was sipping coffee when I returned to the living room.

“Is Ian King really in a coma, or is Ella St. James pulling a PR stunt?”

“He is. Broke his head on the edge of the bar in Cassandra’s room. His doctor thinks his meds are working. Expect to wake him up today or tomorrow.”

“Can I ask one more question?” she said.

“You can always ask—”

“Did that ass murder her?”

“Why do you think he killed her?”

“He said he would.”

“When?”

“At the private screening of All the Wrong Ones. He saw the ending. Saw Cassandra running in the hands of you . . . Jetter Brown—the likeness is strong.”

“And what happened?”

“Ian took it literally. Threw a bottle against the screen. Smashed a chair. Hurled a table against one of the windows.”

“And Cassandra? What did she do?”

Beatrice Ashburn stared me dead in the eye. “Laughed.”

“Laughed?”

“You heard me. While he was destroying things, she . . . laughed. Walked us all downstairs. Told the room, ‘Ian can be a child. Best to leave him alone. When he calms, he’ll join us.’ We left. I asked her if she wanted me to stay, call the police, take her to a hotel—she said Ian wouldn’t dare touch her. She had him by the balls.”

“Ian told someone else Cassandra was holding something big over his head. Any ideas?”

“No.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Last month. Not long before she fired me.”

“And a few days ago they arrive to Boston together, but not together. Separate means of transportation. She flies private. Ian, second plane. Again, private. In public, though, they pretend to be the happy couple for the cameras. Yes?”

“That’s correct.”

“Ian was supposed to stay at the Capitol with Cassandra. Same hotel, shared room. Can’t let the fans down. Nothing to disrupt the movie premiere.”

“Uh-huh. You’re getting it.”

“In addition to her hotel key pass, Cassandra granted three additional privileges to her hotel suite. You, Ian, and their assistant.”

“If she meant for me to have a key pass, I never received it. She fired me the night before she left for Boston. It left me scrambling last minute to arrange to travel out of the country.”

“Tanzania.”

“Tanzania.”

“So something must have happened between Ian and her that night. Cassandra phoned Scott Lane, hotel security, when she arrived in Boston. Told him to revoke Ian’s access to the hotel.”

“First I’m hearing about it.”

“—yes. Cassandra told him there were last-second changes to who got access to her room. I see why she yanked your privileges, but I don’t understand why she canceled Ian’s. Do you see the issues I’m having? They were supposed to pretend to be a couple. Then she fires you and kicks Ian out of the Capitol. Why? It seems erratic. Illogical. Cassandra finally gets her big movie break and risks it all by choosing to publicly separate from Ian.”

“You have a point. I see.”

“Cassandra’s not stupid.”

“No, she’s not.”

“We both agree that she’s smart and All the Wrong Ones was her moment.”

“She allegedly wrote and produced the movie. Big moment for her. And Ian too. His production company paid for its production.”

Her reply bristled in my ear.

“Allegedly?”

“Yes.”

“What’s ‘alleged’ about it?”

“Nothing. Rumors. Hate to repeat things I can’t prove.”

“Betty—if there ever was a moment to repeat said rumors, now would be it.”

“There are ramblings—ramblings Cassandra stole the script from an unknown writer.”

“Do you believe it?”

“It’s just rambling, Long. Nothing more than jealousy talk. I’ve seen Cassandra with my own eyes writing scripts, going to workshops, putting in the work. She really wanted to be taken seriously by the industry as a producer.”

“Do you believe she stole the script?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I confronted her about it. Told her only bad can come of stealing from another artist but Cassandra vehemently denied the entire situation. Fired me for it. And formally disinvested our business relationship. That’s what I get for treating a business relationship as a family matter.”

My mind spun to the four-hundred-and-thirty-seven guests at the reception. Cassandra’s killer could have been any one of them. Or anyone in the country. I tried to calculate how many unknown script writers there are. My mind couldn’t come up with a computable number.

I asked, “Any idea of who might have given the script to Cassandra?”

Beatrice Ashburn shrugged. “I called some places, workshops, made inquiries with people in our industry, and no one seemed to know or care about the origins of All the Wrong Ones. All anyone could care about was getting their name tagged to the hottest flick in Hollywood. But I heard the enthusiasm around Cassandra was dying down fast. No one wanted to buy her next project. It was a stinker. She wrote it too. So I’m inclined to believe . . .”

“That she stole the script.”

She shrugged. “You said it—not me. She’s been knocking on doors as self-represented, trying to gather interest in—”

“The documentary?” I cut in.

“You’ve heard.”

“Only that it’s a documentary. It’s been veiled in secrecy.”

“And it should stay a secret. Listen to this crap—adopted children confronting their bio parents.”

“That’s it?”

I thought to myself—Hollywood’s running out of fresh ideas.

“Underwhelming, right? The moment Cassandra pitched it—I could tell it was dead in the water. Told her to take it behind the barn and shoot it.”

“It’s so different from any other work I’ve seen her in. Adopted children and their bio parents. I don’t get the appeal of it to her. Why choose it?”

“She got the inspiration for it on her last solo trip to Boston this summer. That’s all she’d tell anyone about it.”

After that, the conversation lingered. We swapped our memories of Cassandra. I asked if Cassandra might have been sick, remembering Mayor Cote had suggested it. Beatrice Ashburn said she didn’t know.

Helen returned from Last Call not long after.

“It started to rain again. Ha. Worst start of spring that I can remember.”

I picked up my keys and wallet from the kitchen table. I waved goodbye to Helen.

“—can I have her diary back?” Beatrice Ashburn asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Her diary. Cassandra’s? I don’t want Ian to auction it off. He would—he’s just that tacky.”

A knot tied in the pit of my stomach.

“It would be devastating if Cassandra’s most private secrets are aired in public. I don’t want that for her,” Ashburn proclaimed.

Chapter 25

“What diary?” I inquired, astonished.

“Brown leather notebook. Old. Cassandra carried it everywhere with her. By the look on you—I take it the diary’s missing?”

“Not necessarily. Could be with evidence. I’ll check.”

“Check fast. A diary of a famous dead actress is pure gold in the wrong hands. Listen to me—why do I bother? Cassandra fired and humiliated me.”

“You care about her.”

“Yes. I do. She’s a Boston girl. We have to stick together.”

From the car, I dialed Rex. She answered groggily. It sounded like the call had interrupted her sleep.

“No,” she answered. “I’ve been awake for a full ten minutes. Waiting for my coffee to cool off before I chug it. What’s up?”

“You helped box evidence from Cassandra’s room?”

“Yeah. Me and a sergeant cataloged them. Anything come up?”

“That depends.”

“I am all ears,” she said.

I heard her take a gulp.

“Ouch. Son of a . . . still scorching,” she exclaimed. “Go on.”

“This morning, Beatrice Ashburn dropped by my house.”

“A personal visit? Aren’t you special?”

“To apologize. It’s a long story, not for over the phone. I’ll read you in when I’m done at the morgue. Ashburn said Cassandra had a diary. Brown leather. Old. Called it pure gold if it fell in the wrong hands.”

Rex said, “No. There was no diary in the boxes. What’s the significance of it?”

“A minute ago, it was just something I thought we’d missed. Hoped you’d tell me you personally saw it, read it, and decided it held no value to our criminal investigation.”

“Sorry to pour cold water on your hopes. I’m certain there was no such item logged in, but if you give me thirty minutes, I’ll personally review what we have. Off the top of my head, lots of designer clothes, shoes, jewelry, a laptop bag, and her computer and phone.”

“Is the tech unit making headway with the electronics?” I parallel parked in front of a fire hydrant, a full violation. Placed my police plaque on the mirror as my insurance policy against some eager meter cop or firefighter who wished to tow my car.

“The breakthrough happened last night. I’m now going through my messages. It’ll take some time because she used a sophisticated protection program, their report says. They’re running diagnostics. Probably will hear back from them this morning or later in the afternoon. And the phone company should be sending her data again today, tomorrow. It’s tag homicide. They usually are pretty good not jerking us around for months.”

“Give them a nudge. I want to see who called Cassandra. Scott Lane suspected Ian. After talking to Beatrice, I learned some disturbing new facts about him.”

“What?”

“Not over the phone.”

“It must be bad.”

“It’s not great, I’ll leave it at that.” I headed in. “The connection’s spotty at the morgue. I might lose you.”

“Okay. I have to jump in the shower anyways. Start the day.”

I tried hard not to think of water splashing on her naked body.

“. . . are you there, Long?”

“Huh? What? I think I lost you for a second.” Or lost myself in my thoughts of your toned, soaped body.

“I said I can nudge the phone company first, unless you prefer I look for the diary?”

“I’m curious, too, to see what made Cassandra act spooked in Lane’s office. If it’s Ian—your case against him is starting to look pretty good.”

“Not after my conversation with Beatrice Ashburn.”

“Christ! Really. Now you have to tell me.”

“I can’t. I’m going in.”

“Loooong! You’re a tease.”

And I can’t stand the teasing thoughts of you in the shower, I told myself.

“Can you at least give me a small highlight if I’m going to be stuck in the office splitting time between the phone company and the tech unit—I want something to occupy my mind.”

“Okay. We could be reading the murder wrong.”

Dead silence.

“Rex—are you there?”

“I am, but I’m pretty sure I heard you wrong.”

I heard the sound of cascading shower water in the background.

“Wrong how, Long? What does that mean?”

“Ian and Cassandra were at each other’s throats for . . . for . . . for years.”

“Yes, true.”

“Fights—public and private. Divorce was imminent.”

“Yes, true again.”

“I’m not suggesting that everything we know is wrong, only that there may be another reason that led to her murder. It’s been buried because we’ve been focused hard on Ian King,” I said. “Betty—”

“Who’s Betty?”

“—Ashburn”

“—the disgruntled ex-agent?”

“—yes—she suspected Cassandra stole the script.”

“The script?”

“The script to All the Wrong Ones. The actual writer is an unknown someone. Who he is and how Cassandra met him remains also unknown.”

“Hmmm. That’s not good.”

“No.”

“That’s actually terrible. Really terrible.”

“Yes, Rex, it’s terrible.”

“Four-hundred thirty-seven in attendance—”

“—about another hundred support staff,” I said.

“Hotel employees is another two hundred. Jesus, Long!”

She did the math in her head.

“Get it now? If true, the entire framework of our case is blown.”

“Phone first, then diary. You sure?”

“I’m sure, Rex.”

The morgue was the one place cops, if given a choice, liked to avoid. Dead body in the harbor, no problem; cops would stare at it. Dead body on a bridge, they’d say a prayer and jump into action. Dead body in a car crash, ‘who’s safe anymore on the roads’, they’d mumble and go about their duties.

But something about dead bodies lying still on a metal slab, draped in a white sheet, and cops were done for.

I was one of those cops.

The first time I saw a body in the morgue, it was a girl—Monica Salazar. She had died a day before her eighteenth birthday in the arms of her adoptive father. Monica had been discovered in the trunk of an abandoned car, partially torched. Viewing her body was routine work. I felt bad for her. My heart hurt she wouldn’t get to experience the sweet notes of life. Standing over her, I silently promised Monica that the monster who took her away from this world would be held accountable.

It wasn’t until I saw her on Hollman’s table that I felt an ill feeling stirred in me. I felt helpless.

No smart police questions for the ME. I stood speechless, looking down at the partially burned body of a girl who’d never grow up. The weight and the pressure of solving her murder hit me all at the same time.

Perhaps realizing my fears, Hollman had guided me expertly through the autopsy report, often asking and answering for the both of us. At the end, he’d closed the file, handed it to me, and as he draped an arm over my shoulder, he said, “This is the hardest part. Don’t get used to it, or if you do, quit.”

That same ill feeling stirred in me as I stared into the vacant eyes of Cassandra King. What had happened to her?

Her lush, long strawberry-blonde hair had been shaved off entirely. The top half of her skull had been removed.

Hollman cleared his throat gently, as if to give me a small push back to reality.

“You should have called,” he said. “I could have prepared her for you.”

“Last night, I did,” I uttered, my lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling.

“You’re in shock. Seeing a personal friend dead in this condition’s hard. We can sit in my office. I can go over the report there. Lots of ground to cover. Get you a drink too.”

“Maybe for a minute,” I said. “What did you do to her brain?”

“I’ll explain.”

“Dr. Hollman—this is not the hardest part, is it? The worst is yet to come.”

Chapter 26

Much worse than I feared.

Dr. Hollman extracted his horn-rimmed reading glasses from the front pocket of his white medical coat. Fixed them atop his nose. Her autopsy file had been placed on top of his desk, expecting to be reviewed.

“Cause of death—blunt-force trauma,” he read dryly.

“I could have told you that.”

“Send your partner in. I’m not sure you should hear this.”

“This is my case.”

“She’s more than a body to you. That’s my point.”

“The autopsy report, please.”

“It’s clinical. Graphic,” he said. “I strongly advise against it.”

“Either you read it to me or one of your assistants.”

Hollmand shrugged. “She encountered a blow—a 2.5-inch laceration to the right parietal region of the scalp. Severe contusion and swelling with underlying depressed skull fracture palpable beneath the soft tissue. The blood clot was one of the biggest in my career.”

He handed me a diagram of the body containing markups of the injuries.

I looked it over. It told me a story. Provided a visual.

“It rendered her unconscious but not dead. She sustained three more hits, a total of four, before she died. Her brain was severely compromised. Its core functions extinguished.” He lifted his head. His eyes trained on me over the rim of his glasses. “Should I go on?”

“If there’s more—yes.”

“Extensive subgaleal hemorrhage underlying the laceration, extending anteriorly toward the temporal region. The skull exhibits a linear depressed fracture measuring approximately three centimeters, with bone fragments displaced inward toward the cranial cavity. The underlying brain shows a focal subdural hematoma and cerebral contusion in the right parietotemporal lobe. There is evidence of brain edema and early signs of herniation, consistent with a rapidly fatal head injury.”

Hollman took his glasses off and began wiping the lenses with a black polishing cloth. He raised them against the light to check for smudges. When he found none, he put them back on.

“Questions?”

“Her award? The blood came back positive for her. The hair’s also the vic.”

Hollman nodded. “It’s your murder weapon.”

He spread an array of computer-generated photographs of Cassandra’s skull. “The edges of the base match the points of the injuries. Here and over here.” He circled two spots in red pen.

I showed Hollman the blood analysis of Ian King. “Your take. Could he have done it?”

Hollman studied it.

“BAC’s exceptionally accurate science. Alcohol level six times the legal limit—” he said thoughtfully, “that’s a coma. Half a point over and it’s ethanol toxicity.”

“I know what the report says. In your opinion, could Ian, as drunk as his blood suggests, pick up the award and deliver four blows to Cassandra’s head?”

“It’s not impossible—”

“Really?”

“You didn’t let me finish. With levels this high, his reaction time is diminished. He was fighting to stay conscious. Coordination compromised. To deliver the blows—”

“He’d need strength and balance …”

“Yes, precision. Looking at his BAC, Ian had to vomit. His body’s natural response to clean itself out from the alcohol toxins.”

“We found the vomit in the Hall of Mirrors.”

“And what about the crime scene?”

“What about it?”

“There’d be a staggered impact pattern. More than one vomit site. Someone this drunk would be sloppy.”

“The pattern, the vomit, and the sloppy—all centralized to the Hall of Mirrors. Nowhere else,” I said through a clenched jaw.

“He’s not your guy,” Hollman said.

“Can the tox be wrong?”

“It’s exact science, Detective. I’m as certain of it as my name is Thomas Hollman and you’re Long Collins. Someone else killed her.”

My eyes studied the diagram of Cassandra’s deadly injury again.

“I’d like to take a look at the body.”

Hollman stood beside me as I leaned closer to Cassandra. Her skin had weathered away; what was once soft, supple, and vibrant was now like rubber. Next to her was a metal tray containing the top half of her skull. I moved closer to it.

Out of nowhere, I recalled biology class, fifth period, senior year, Mrs. Orla’s class. We were working in teams. Cassandra had run off my partner, a boy whose name I didn’t recall. Mrs. Orla had assigned a microscope and slides to each team. It was Cassandra’s turn to study the brain slices of a pig. I took notes. While chewing gum, she casually said, “If anyone tried to slice open my brain, I’d challenge him to a death match.” Our laughter caused Mrs. Orla to shush us. When our biology teacher wasn’t looking, Cassandra blew me a kiss. Less than a week later, she dumped me for Ian King.

I faced Hollman. “You never mentioned defense wounds. Why?”

“None to note. The killer could have surprised her. Attacked her fast before she had time to react.”

“Or she knew her killer. Trusted him enough to open the door. Let him in. ‘Make yourself at home.’ And when her back was turned, he struck her with her award,” I said, still imagining Cassandra in Mrs. Orla’s bio class, chewing her gum.

Chapter 27

After the morgue, I made a pit stop. A lady in a dark-blue uniform at the hospital visitor’s desk informally glanced at my credentials and pointed at the bank of elevators.

At the ICU nursing station, Ruby was in charge.

“And you said no visitors?”

“Just the assistant. She’s plenty.” She was a heavyset woman, with long braided hair held back in a surgical cap.

“How’s he doing?”

Ian King, Ruby informed me, was awake, taking solids, sleeping well, and the doctor might discharge him home soon if his condition remained stable.

“Why weren’t the police notified?” I asked.

“Take it up with the assistant! She calls the shots. The way she bosses everyone around, you’d think she’s his wife and he’s the love of her life.” Ruby snorted.

“I’d like to see him. Is he alone?”

“Saw She Must Be Obeyed step out for lunch in the cafeteria about the time I was rounding on him.”

“What room is he in?”

Ruby reached into the insulated lunch bag on the chair next to her for her yogurt cup. She peeled off the top and scooped a spoonful.

“Room four-seventeen. The sunset’s best from that window, we have been formally informed,” she said with sarcasm.

“Thanks.”

“You want me to tell him the police are on their way?”

“That will take the fun out of it.”

“You’re playing with fire. The assistant won’t like it. And mercy knows, after the day I’ve had, I don’t think I could keep my tongue in if she starts wagging hers at me.”

“Maybe we can help each other out?”

Ruby placed the spoon back in the container of half-scooped yogurt and shoved it to the side.

“What you got in mind, Detective?”

“I’d like to speak with Ian King without disruptions. Can you manage that for me?”

“The physician rounded on him already, and the patient had his meds. Only thing to do is food. His snack tray’s not due for thirty more minutes. I can push it another ten.” Ruby shrugged. “I’m told the patient prefers only the strawberry Jell-O. Maybe Ben might be persuaded to make a mistake. He’s kind of new.” She winked at me.

It would have been a good plan if I hadn’t found Ian sound asleep under the care of a nurse.

“Sorry, Detective, I gave him something for his headache. He’d been out for a while. Swing by after your shift, maybe you can talk to him then. His headaches are less severe then.”

Propped against the doorjamb, I leaned back and shook my head at Ruby. No-go.

Chapter 28

Outside in the hallway, I ran a desperate hand through my hair, devising a course of action. Then I heard Ruby clear her throat behind me. Her chin dipped slightly forward, guiding me to the elevators.

“Ruby! How hard is it for you people to keep a schedule? His snack tray is late,” a female shouted.

“Sorry, Ms. Blackbird. I told Ben in the kitchen how it thrills you when we don’t bring the tray on time.”

I stepped in as Ruby cocked her head sideways, saying, “Actually, I’ll walk my fine self to the cafeteria and personally watch Ben prepare it.”

“Do that,” Sapphire Blackbird said, unmollified.

“Ian King’s assistant, I presume?”

“If you’re a fan, Ian’s not signing autographs,” she said dismissively. “Where’s your visitor’s pass? Ruby!”

But Ruby was gone. Standing there with my credentials open, I patiently waited for Sapphire Blackbird to notice.

“Police. Homicide Division. Detective Long Collins.”

Sapphire Blackbird adjusted her attitude from princess to more professional, but not much more. “Yes. You’re in charge of Cassandra’s investigation.”

“May we speak?” I said.

“I should check on him,” was her reply.

“Let me save you the ten-foot walk. He’s asleep. A nurse gave him a pill.”

“The headaches are back. His head might never fully recover.”

“The nurse seemed to think it’s a minor issue.”

Sapphire Blackbird pressed her lips flat. “Is she a neurosurgeon?”

“No.”

“Then how would she know? I’ve seen the level of care in this place.”

“Mass Gen is one of the finest medical institutions in the country,” I said, suddenly feeling both offended and protective of Boston and its hospital.

“Uh-huh. If subpar is what you’re used to, then I guess best’s not that hard to reach. One can only hope the Boston Police are better trained than the medical staff. This wouldn’t fly in LA.” She checked on Ian through the window of his hospital bed.

“That’s what the travel brochure says about us,” I replied.

Her impassive, dull sapphire eyes shifted from the window to me. She licked her lips like I was sour milk; a swallow would give her stomach indigestion.

“Ask your questions. Ian might wake up any second now, and I’d like to be by his side.”

“Did you tell staff not to notify the police when Ian woke up?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s a patient. Talk to him when he’s healthy, back on his feet. What’s the point in badgering him in this condition?”

“It’s not up to you to make these decisions.”

“That’s what I’m paid for, Detective. I’m used to making all kinds of decisions for Ian and—and—oh Jesus—Cassandra. I’m still processing that she’s been murdered.”

“Best to stay out of my way, Ms. Blackbird, so I can catch her killer.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Friendly warning. The only one I’ll give you. Now, talk to me about the night of the award show.”

“What do you want to know? I was busy the whole night with Ian. Cassandra told me to watch him. They were at each other’s throats.”

“Over what?”

“They don’t need a reason, really. Ian was getting on Cassandra’s last nerve. Making a pass at her. She told me he wasn’t getting it. They were never getting back together, she kept saying, which Ian didn’t take well.”

“What did he do?”

She crossed her arms. “Let me see—act like a royal baby. His galactic tantrum threatened to ruin the entire night. So many people were pissed off at him and Cassandra, but for different reasons.”

“I’d like to hear the reasons.”

“Well, Ella St. James was boiling mad because Ian was calling Cassandra a bitch to everyone. Out of options, I sat him next to Nolita Skylar. Her attention seemed to distract him for a while. At least long enough so Cassandra could give her speech.” She snorted. “And oh boy, what a speech that was!”

“You didn’t like it?”

“I personally didn’t care what Cassandra said or didn’t say. By then, my feet were killing me. I was starving and wished for the party to end so I could go back to my room.”

“But you said everyone was upset with Cassandra.”

“The speech! No one was wild about her to begin with. I’m sure you’ve heard she’s difficult on set—”

“It’s been brought up.”

“Nolita Skylar? You talked to her? Yeah, Nolita was especially angry. The two didn’t like each other very much. They both accused the other of planting dirty stories in the press. Things were especially tense when Ian was seen staggering one morning out of Nolita’s trailer.”

“What was Cassandra’s reaction?”

Sapphire cradled her chin in her hand. “It’s interesting you ask that. She didn’t seem to care much. I mean, why would she? Their marriage had been over for about a few months by then. Cassandra found it annoying how others pitied her. That she hated. Her one goal was to wrap up All the Wrong Ones, since production was running behind schedule and over budget. She told me she wanted to focus on her next project—”

“The documentary.”

“You’ve heard about it.”

“I heard it was a tough sell.”

“Did Beatrice Ashburn tell you that? Don’t tell me. It has to be her.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s her.”

“It could be someone else.”

“Detective, Betty is the only person who stood up to Cassandra and told her the documentary was a steaming pile of garbage, that she should drop it and focus her attention on commercial work. And for her honesty, Cassandra fired her.”

“Sounds complicated to work for someone like Cassandra.”

“Sure. Yes. Complicated. Taxing. Tiring. But never a dull moment. Hard to keep an assistant.”

“Not you?”

“I’ve stayed with them for six years. That’s unheard of.”

“Then why stay?”

Sapphire Blackbird looked on as Ian snored from the bed. “I might be gone soon too. It didn’t feel right to ditch Ian in his condition, especially not before he buries Cassandra. I wanted to make sure her funeral was handled properly. But yeah, after that, I’m gone. Cassandra promised to give me a bigger role—”

“Acting?”

“Christ, no! I hate the acting gig. There’s so much more to movies than the actors. I wanted to make movies, not be in them. Eventually, when Cassandra got bigger as a star, she said she’d bring me on. All the Wrong Ones would have been her big break, mind you. Now she’s dead, and I can’t bring myself to spend my career as Ian’s caretaker. Nolita Skylar can have him.”

“I’d like to talk about what you remember after Cassandra left the party?”

“She wrapped up her speech fast. Thanked herself. Only herself. I could already tell how annoyed everyone was at her, so I used that moment to order a drink. But there was a line at the bar. After I came back, Cassandra was gone. I waited a few minutes for a text from her to ask me to go to her room.”

“And when she didn’t come back?”

Sapphire shifted her gait, uncomfortable somehow.

“I was probably the last one to notice she was gone. The fight broke out. Everything happened so fast after that. Chairs were thrown in the air. Glasses smashed. And everyone screamed. When bodyguards get involved, you better hide. These people are trained to act first, ask questions later. I had no intentions of getting hurt, or at least I didn’t—” She lifted her hair, exposing her neck. “I think a chair must have knocked me out. I woke up to the ballroom destroyed, guests in cuffs, and detectives collecting our phones.

“The first I heard about Cassandra was when I saw Ian on a stretcher. Your mayor was screaming at the medics to be careful. I asked a cop what had happened, and he informed me Ian King was a suspect in Cassandra’s murder.”

“What did you do after?”

“Followed Ian to the hospital. There were cops guarding him, trying to question him while the nurse was placing an IV. The mayor was barking orders. My head was hurting so damn hard. I threatened everyone with Ian’s thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyers. Told them to back off and leave him alone. The mayor totally backed me up. They left, and it was quiet again. I took a pill for the headache. Slept on a chair in the waiting room, not because I was that afraid for Ian—if he killed Cassandra, he should rot in hell—but because I didn’t want to go back to the Capitol.” Sapphire’s eyes welled up. “She was like a big sister to me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too.”

“She was talented—produced All the Wrong Ones herself.”

Sapphire brushed the tears away. “She believed in it.”

“Wrote the script.”

“Yes. Wrote it too.”

“You saw her working on it.”

“Absolutely.”

“—did you ever see anyone else work on the movie script besides her?”

“Lots of people work on a script before it’s ready to be shot. If you need their names, call the production company. They’ll have a list of anyone who ever made changes to it.”

“But what about before she handed it off to the production company? Did she ever share it with anyone? Writers usually seek the opinion of other writers. Feedback? Advice? Did she do any of that?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she said.

“You said you saw her work on the script.”

“Yes. I saw her write it. Sometimes she’d bounce an idea off me.”

“No one else but you?”

“I . . . I . . . I mean, I can’t be sure. She could have shared with others. I just don’t know who it could be.”

“She was in a writing group, no?”

“Some time ago, yes.”

“Not recently.”

“Quit going to the group because it was a waste of her time—at least that’s what she told me.”

“You seem unconvinced. Why?”

“I don’t see how you can say that. She said the group was a waste of her time. Saw no benefit to it. Ian needed her more.” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Ian.”

“They were at a particularly bad spot in their marriage. I suppose it’s possible Cassandra’s priority shifted from her writing to her marriage.”

“And she didn’t keep in touch with a writing friend, a mentor, or a coach?”

“Again, Detective, you keep asking me these questions, and it’s complicating my thoughts. She might have stayed in touch. Unlikely, but, hell, why not, she could have. Can’t you read her emails? Search her phone data? You know, do what police are supposed to do besides ask me the same questions over and over again?”

“We are doing all of that.”

“Good, because I’ve told you what I know, honestly. Why would Cassandra ever need to go back to a writing group and share All the Wrong Ones? Someone might have stolen her idea. And the success of All the Wrong Ones could be theirs,” Sapphire Blackbird said. “Cassandra was smart if you ask me—to stay protective of her work. Look how far she got on her own. Instead of wasting time with other struggling writers, Cassandra parked her butt in front of her computer and hammered the keyboard night after night. All the Wrong Ones is proof of how much you can accomplish if you put in the hard work.”

The intercom crackled above our heads. Code blue for room seven-twelve. Nurses rushed us with machines and boxes of drugs.

“Hospitals depress me. Wish they would clear Ian finally so we can go home to LA.” She glanced at the gray clouds thickly covering the sky. “It’s been raining since we got here. Haven’t missed the sun this much since—ever!”

“It will stop raining eventually,” I said. “And it’s weird for me to speak about Cassandra in the past tense.”

“Right? Strangest thing. You knew her?”

“Long time ago.”

“She was something else. Smart.”

“Smart and protective.”

“Always,” Sapphire Blackbird agreed. “Careful with her words, thoughtful with her actions. She played chess while the rest of us played checkers.”

“Is that why she kept the documentary a closely guarded secret?”

Sapphire Blackbird placed her hands on her hips. “That I can’t tell you.”

“Why did she choose to produce a documentary and not stay with commercial work? A documentary about adopted children, a topic so far removed from anything she’s done before?”

She jumped back a step. “Beats the hell out of me. And it’s not focused on adopted children. That’s secondary. Its main theme was adult children searching for their bio parents. Kind of controversial. She was having trouble piloting the project.”

“What’s the controversy about it?”

“Well . . . it wasn’t your regular feel-good stories of kids finding long-lost families. Cassandra spun the story on its head. Her approach was viewed as combative. I didn’t see or read the pitch—but LA’s a big gossip town, everyone knows everyone.”

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“Look, I heard the documentary was kind of mean. Left-for-adoption children confronting their bio parents. A la ambush- style. Think of it like this—Cheaters meets America’s Most Wanted. On paper it sounded entertaining, but production companies saw legal issues mounting, which translates into dollar signs pouring out the door. No one wanted to touch the documentary with a ten-foot pole. People in town tried to gently let her down. She wouldn’t back off. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told. Like I said, Cassandra kept the documentary—”

“A closely guarded secret, yes. She must have discussed it with someone. Can you think of a name?”

“No.”

“I’d like you to try. Maybe she forgot to close the office door when she was on the phone, or it could be she had you type an email for her, or as simple as you overheard her?”

Sapphire’s nostrils flared. “Perhaps what you’ve mentioned is possible, but it would be unethical to share. Breaking confidentiality. If word gets out I talked, my credibility’s gone.”

“You liked Cassandra?”

“Yes. Very much so. She was good to me.”

“Her big break was supposed to be your big break.”

“Supposed to.”

“What did you hear or see, Ms. Blackbird? Cassandra trusted you. She gave you a key pass to her room. Only you.”

“Play on my loyalty so I betray her loyalty—that’s not cool.”

“I’m sure this one time, Cassandra won’t mind.”

“Fine. I heard her once on the phone with a doctor. She was discussing some tests. That’s it. When Cassandra saw me at the door, she waved me off and closed it shut behind her.”

“A doctor?”

“She was the healthiest person I know. So I thought to myself, she’s discussing the documentary. Why else ask the doctor to go on tape? Can I be done? I think I need to take a break and go breathe in a paper bag. I’ve been getting awful anxiety attacks since I was a kid.”

“Not yet.”

“And if I don’t want to, am I being charged with a crime?”

“Calm down, please, Ms. Blackbird. And you haven’t committed a crime to my knowledge, unless you’re trying to obstruct my investigation. Are you?”

“Screw you, Detective. How’s that for obstruction?”

I smiled. “Not bad. But your subversion is growing old on me.”

“And I think I’m done talking to you.”

“You have two choices, okay? Door one, you play the I don’t want to talk to you game, and I take you to the station on an obstruction charge. Or door two, you answer my questions.”

“More questions. I’ve told you everything!”

“Not everything. What happened to Cassandra’s diary? As her personal assistant and the only other person with a key pass to her room, I’m sure you’ve seen it laying around.”

“The diary—”

“Old, brown leather. You must have seen it.”

“Her diary is gone? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Gone. Missing. Not in her room.”

The corners of her mouth dropped downward. “Why would someone take it? Cassandra bought it at the Salvation Army on her last trip to Boston. She came here to clear her mind. Hollywood, the movie, and Ian were too much. She visited the city to blow off some steam. But when she came back, she was absolutely focused on it and the documentary she wanted produced. I only saw it, Detective. Never read it,” she said. “And you think her murder and the diary are connected?”

“No, Ms. Blackbird. It just keeps popping up. Police don’t like when we have unanswered questions.”

Sapphire Blackbird said nothing for a beat. “Eliminate every possibility until you’re left with a single probability. An old cop saying.” She read the surprise on me. “I’m from Hollywood. Got my break in show business as a PA for Blue Lights, the crime show. We had real homicide detectives consult on set to bring realism to the stories.”

Ruby slowly walked by us with the cart holding the food tray.

“Go on,” I told Sapphire Blackbird. “Call me the minute Ian wakes up. No more playing stupid games. This is not LA; it will serve you well to remember this small fact from now on.”

Chapter 29

At quarter to five, I finally managed to arrive at my desk. Where had the entire day gone?

The civilian assistant, Alice, waved hello when I passed her.

“Have you seen Rex?” I asked.

“Check the break room,” Alice suggested.

By the vending machine, Rex dropped four quarters in the slot. The machine ate the money, then froze. Rex slammed a flat hand on its side. It didn’t work. Next, she proceeded to shake it.

“Give me my dollar back, you damn thing!”

“That won’t work.” I shimmied my arm behind the machine. “It was unplugged.” I took a dollar bill out of my wallet. The vending machine ate it.

“C7,” Rex mumbled.

The chocolate bar dropped. I bent down and scooped it up. “Candy for dinner. How old are you?”

She glared. “Careful. I have a loaded gun.”

I unwrapped it. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She went for the chocolate. I pulled it away to tease her.

“But I’ll steal a bite.”

Rex watched me. “You’re playing with fire, Long, if you don’t give it back.”

“Okay. Fair. What’s going on that requires you stress-eating candy?”

“Who said anything about stress eating...”

I lifted a stack of folders off her desk.

“What do you call all of these?” I scooped about ten of the kid-size candy bars into the wastebasket.

“Didn’t realize how many I had. A call came in for an officer in need of immediate assistance. I stayed back and—”

“Ate your stress away.”

“I guess. Holy cow.”

“What’s the issue with the officer?”

“Cops broke up an illegal car race in Southie. Things got out of hand. Some thug took off while an officer was coaxing him to step out of the vehicle. Dragged him for an entire mile before the cop rolled over on the street, unconscious.”

“It’s all hands-on deck.”

Rex pulled her chair from behind her desk. “Jupiter’s leading the rescue tactical response team. She’ll be there for some time. The cop—” Rex verified the information from her monitor, “Dave Axel—discovered unresponsive. Airlifted to Boston Mercy West, it says in the notes.”

“Mercy West’s a smaller, local hospital. Not a trauma one. I assume they will shuttle Officer Axel to one of the bigger hospitals when he’s stable enough to transport,” I said.

“His wife is by his side. Nothing else new in the notes.”

“Is he out of surgery?” I draped my coat over the chair.

“It doesn’t say. Last entry mentions the wife. Mercy West still remains as the hospital on record. I can call the nurse station and find out directly?”

“Jupiter’s managing that crisis. Best if we stay out of her hair.”

Rex polished off her candy bar but still looked hungry, and so was I.

“Are you in the mood for something with more carbs?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Fifteen minutes later, Dale from Last Call delivered my order.

“It smells like heaven.” Rex took a deep whiff of the aroma wafting in the air.

“Black pepper– and sweet chili–crusted fried chicken and warm waffles with New England maple syrup and homemade pumpkin butter,” I said. “Served at Last Call only in fall.”

“Suddenly fall became my favorite season,” Rex said between chews.

Fall had been Cassandra’s favorite season too, I remembered.

I logged in to my employee portal and located a copy of Dr. Hollman’s autopsy report. Hit print.

Rex was pouring a liberal amount of maple syrup on her waffles when I shared it with her. She eyed it.

First, she examined the body diagram. Her brow furrowed. “Laceration to the right parietal region of the scalp. No doubt severe contusion and swelling. The depressed skull fracture’s unmistakable. Blood clots?” Rex asked, as if we were a pair of medical examiners casually discussing a recent autopsy.

“One. The biggest Hollman’s seen in his career,” I replied, stumped at her medical knowledge. “How could you tell?”

Rex placed the diagram on the other side of her keyboard and set her attention on the actual report as she fumbled a half answer. “Delmare’s small. You learn to read your own medical reports, or you’re cooked on the street.”

I found it hard to believe.

Hard to believe you.

But without proof of my own, I humored her.

“Cassandra’s brain was severely compromised by the blunt-force trauma. Four blows in total. It took substantial force.”

“Correct.”

Next, she spread out the computer-generated images of Cassandra’s skull and stood up, hovering over them, paying close attention, I noticed, to the two red circles Hollman had marked.

“The killer murdered her with her own award. Significance? Weapon of choice or weapon of opportunity?” she quietly mumbled.

While Rex was reading the autopsy, I selected the tox screen.

“The tox—”

I handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She spent less than a minute looking at it before she glared at me.

“You see the problem?” I said.

“It’s hard not to. The primary scene doesn’t support Ian King as the killer. On video, he’s staggering, which means he was substantially intoxicated when she opened the door to him. If he’s the killer, then we’d see it in the staggering pattern. Vomit pockets, poor gait control.”

“Like we see it in here.” I pointed to a photograph of the Hall of Mirrors.

“Precisely. Damn. Can the tox be wrong?”

“The science behind it is as accurate as the ME’s name is Thomas Hollman and mine is Long Collins.”

“That’s accurate. What now?”

“Someone else, not Ian, killed Cassandra,” I said.

“You had your reservations about Ethan Shaw,” she said, “but maybe it’s time you come around. Especially now since her diary is gone.”

“It’s not with evidence?”

“No, I’m sorry. I searched every inch for you. We didn’t box it, which could only mean the killer took it.”

“I still don’t think Ethan Shaw killed her, but the fact is we can’t locate him; the issues in his employment history make him a curious individual to the investigation.”

She snorted, irritated. “Curious individual? Give me a break, Long. He’s more than that. You just don’t like it because I found him and not you.”

“That’s not it—”

“Really? You probably think we ought to investigate the nameless writer who might have killed Cassandra as revenge because she stole his movie idea. Is that it?”

I shrugged.

“Sounds like something Hollywood cooked up.”

“After speaking with Cassandra’s assistant—Sapphire Blackbird—it sounds like a long shot.”

“Rumors usually are. What else did you learn from her?”

“The assistant thinks she saw Cassandra write it. She didn’t think her boss shared or exchanged scripts with anyone else. Cassandra kept it all private, to herself.”

“Just like that diary that seems to have grown legs and run off.” Rex leaned back in her chair, placed her hands behind her neck, and let them rest there, ready to listen.

“There’s more to it than that. More to Cassandra than I ever remembered.”

“There’s more to us all than we show the world. And to tell you the truth, I’ve looked everywhere for the dang diary. Is it possible she left it behind in LA? Can we send an LA unit to her house to look for it?”

“It’s not a bad idea. I’ll make the call. Beatrice Ashburn said the diary hasn’t left Cassandra’s side. Sapphire Blackbird remembers the diary but doesn’t remember if she saw it at the Capitol. She was too busy babysitting Ian King.”

“Isn’t Beatrice Ashburn in her eighties?”

“She is.”

“She could be mistaken.”

“It crossed my mind too.”

“What’s with that diary? Who even journals anymore?”

“You never journaled as a teenager?” I asked.

“No. Never saw the appeal of it.”

“Me neither. And, as it turns out, neither did Cassandra.”

“You had me turn the entire evidence locker upside down for a diary that isn’t even hers?” she groaned. “I’ll need more chocolate.”

“Sapphire told me Cassandra purchased it in Boston. Then flew back to LA with it and was suddenly possessed by it. She couldn’t wait to wrap filming All the Wrong Ones to free her time to produce the documentary.”

“And we’ve made a full circle. Back to the documentary.” Rex rolled her eyes. “Didn’t Ashburn assure you the documentary was a vanity project?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t she know? She was Cassandra’s agent.”

“She would.”

“Then why do you still harp on it? Move on.”

“The pitch is kind of catchy.”

“Okay. I’ll bite. Tell me. But I’m warning you, a plotline about adoption doesn’t sound a convincing motive to murder an award-winning actress.”

“Not just adoption stories. A highly combative style of storytelling. Children, now adults, given up for adoption confronting their bio parents. She pitched it as Cheaters meets America’s Most Wanted. As entertaining as it might sound, producers were fleeing from it in droves because of mounting potential legal issues. The project might have been too expensive to defend in court if any wronged party chose to sue. It might have been the cause for the breakdown in Cassandra’s marriage, or at least the final nail.”

“It sounds like a convincing motive for divorce. Are you sure it’s not as simple as that?”

“Could be. I don’t know. Ian’s napping currently. His nurse told me to go back in the evening when he’s lucid.”

Her personal phone line rang. She picked it up while I stepped away to fix us a cup of coffee. When I returned, I placed two cups on our desks.

“Thanks. I needed this as much as I needed real food. Please tell Dale—he’s an absolute food maestro and he should quit working for your low-class watering hole.”

“Ouch,” I said. “Tell him so yourself. He doesn’t need to hear any more praises from me. I sign his paycheck every Friday. His creative genius costs me more than what I turn in a month’s worth of profit.”

“Then why keep the lights on and the doors unlocked? Why don’t you sell it?”

I considered her question and said to her, “When you’re neck-deep in trouble, sing loud.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“No, but it’s the reason I’m keeping the lights on and the doors unlocked. I am singing loud. One day I’ll explain.”

“Okay, and in the meantime, that was Sergeant Bootwinks from evidence. He’s asking if he should search anywhere else for that diary? I told him we’re all set.”

“I’ll make that call to LA,” I said.

Chapter 30

The murder squad began to fill up with detectives returning from the street, sweaty, red in the face, their ties undone.

Detective Josh Bozman, flanked by his partner Carlos, shuttled in too.

Carlos threw his coat on the desk like it was baggage and he was tired of lugging it around. He muffled a ‘was-up’ to us but waited for no reply on his way to the john.

His partner, Bozman, said, “The drag race was mayhem unlike any I’ve ever experienced. Complete disorder and chaos.”

“How many did we bring in?”

“Two arrested for assault and battery. Not nearly enough in cuffs for the property damage the race caused. Four of our own ended up at the hospital for minor injuries. They’ll be out of work for the rest of the week, I heard.”

Rex pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk. Tossed Bozman a bottle of Gatorade and a granola bar.

“Thanks,” he said, graciously accepting her offerings. “One officer’s in critical condition.”

“Dave Axel?”

“So you’ve heard.” Carlos dried his hands with a paper towel. “The idiot who dragged him got away. And the physical description’s shit. Connecticut plates, but partial. Jupiter was on the phone with the state troopers figuring it out.”

“I worked with Dave on the foot patrol. He’s legit, a cop’s cop.”

Alice walked around with an Amazon box with Dave Axel’s picture taped onto it. We each reached into our wallets and dumped whatever cash we had on hand into the box.

As Alice moved on to collect donations from others, Carlos said, “It happened on D Avenue and Sixth Street.”

I said, “Go figure.”

“What’s the significance?” Rex asked, confused.

“It’s an intersection with no cameras on the traffic stops. The city ran out of money, and the company in charge of putting cameras around the city cut them off. D Avenue and Sixth has been a huge problem for us. But no one’s doing anything about it.”

Josh Bozman said, “Complete disorder and chaos. I don’t think I’m making it home on time tonight. Good thing I took my girl to see All the Wrong Ones. There wasn’t a dry eye in the theater. Her parents are in town; they wanted to see it tonight. I should call her, give her the news about Dave.”

As he came around Rex’s desk, Bozman spotted the autopsy report on Cassandra King. He picked it up and thumbed through it.

After about a minute of watching Bozman squint his eyes at the text, I said, “The COD is blunt-force trauma, four blows, died quickly thereafter.”

Bozman looked up at me. “Thank God the ME always explains his findings; otherwise, these reports are all foreign to me.”

“They are,” Carlos said, typing on his computer. “If the ME’s not around, I’ll have to ask AI to explain them to me like I’m a five-year-old.”

“We were just going over the suspects in her murder.” Rex swiftly changed the topic. “Based on BAC reading, Ian King’s not looking too hot as our guy.”

Carlos settled back in his chair.

“Based on some new discovery, I think Ethan Shaw’s our next-best option. You two went to his apartment.”

“Your boy hasn’t been back since the night of the murder. The landlord—Ravi Patel—is keeping an eye on the place for us.”

“We should get a car parked on the street,” Rex said.

Carlos worked to suppress a laugh. “Patel’s better at it.”

“He’s a civilian. Why would he be helping us?”

“Bozman and I had no issues with Patel. He cooperated. Freely unlocked Shaw’s apartment for us and let us look around …”

“And?” I asked.

Now, Bozman picked up. “Small place, clean. No legal or illicit drugs. And no weapons. Shaw’s been living there for about six months.”

“It lines up with the robberies,” Rex said. “And Ethan Shaw’s not his real identity.”

“We’ve done the full work up on Shaw. No criminal record. And no hits in the facial date recognition system—”

“The FBI facial DRS is the most sophisticated software in the world.”

“And the FBI will laugh and laugh at our request to scan Shaw based on what we have now,” Carlos explained. “Patel still remains our best option.”

Determined to battle, Rex replied with, “Why didn’t Mr. Patel report him missing?”

“Because Mr. Patel didn’t know he was missing. They never actually crossed paths. Patel doesn’t live on-site. His job is to show up on the first of the month to collect rent. But starting next month, the company is deploying a checkless system. Tenants will be required to log in to a pay portal and sign up for autopay.”

“Shaw had to fill out a rental application. It’s the law. Pull it up,” I said.

“Already done. He listed the Capitol general inquiry number under emergency contact.”

I dialed the number.

“Capitol Hotel Welcomes you”, a pre-recorded message sounded in my ear.

“Now that’s interesting. The landlord required two people for emergency contact. The Capitol listed first, the second only the initials S. L. Who’s S. L.?”

Rex dialed that number. “Capitol Hotel welcomes you . . .”

“Surprise, surprise,” Carlos said. “It’s the general inquiry line. The missing waiter had a sense of humor.”

“Why was he allowed to rent? This application is a violation of city ordinance.”

“Hey, Long, you want to explain to your new partner the difference between homicide and city building inspection enforcement?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Rex shot back. “This application is screwing us over—I’d think as a homicide detective that’d upset you a little more.”

“It doesn’t.”

“That I can see.”

“—she’s not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not—”

“—and Carlos has a point. The police are overburdened with so much crime—”

Rex pushed herself away from her desk. “Save the lecturing for another time. Now I have to figure out a new way to search Etan Shaw’s identity, because unlike you, I don’t think a stolen script or a documentary about adopted children is the reason your old girlfriend got murdered.”

Rex stood up, began pacing.

Bozman said, “You two good?”

“Let’s just move on,” I said.

“Then,” Bozman said, “S. L. could be the female Patel suggested he’d seen coming and going from Shaw’s apartment. Thought they were in a relationship, which wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but since Shaw didn’t put her down as an authorized visitor or tenant, Patel was gearing up to talk to Shaw.”

“Did the landlord at least give you a description?”

“Nah.” Carlos shook his head. “He never actually got around to chatting with Shaw.”

“Why?!”

“Maybe because Shaw paid the rent on time and Patel was willing to look the other way as long as Shaw’s checks cleared. I know”—Carlos waved his hands in the air—“a wild idea.”

“Damn,” Rex declared, frustrated.

“Hang on,” Bozman said. “Patel did say she was blonde, petite. He thinks she had a neck tat. His description is based on an incident reported to him by Shaw’s next-door neighbor. The young lady was banging on her boyfriend’s door pretty hard the night of Cassandra’s murder, woke up the building.”

“Okay, people—you should have led with that,” Rex said.

“Your new partner thinks she’s the boss of us,” Carlos said.

“I’m standing right in front of you.”

“I can see that.”

“Cut it out—both of you,” I said. “Bozman, go on.”

“That’s it. When Patel showed up, she had cleared out. Shaw wasn’t there. Patel left.”

“Jesus Christ. I need some fresh air. Did you even think to interview the neighbors?”

“I was not under the impression Delmare, Florida, is a major city—say, like Boston or New York or LA.” Carlos scratched under his eye. “But to tell you the truth, lady, you act like you’re some kind of badass FBI or CIA special agent. Are you?”

Rex didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so.” Carlos pointed to the door. “Go get some fresh air. When you come back, maybe you’ll feel better.”

Rex didn’t say a word. She left in silence.

“You could have handled this better,” I said to Carlos.

“Ms. Sunshine could have handled this better. Why am I busting Patel’s balls? He cooperated. Didn’t jerk us around. Answered our questions. Told us to give him a call anytime, he’ll talk to us more.”

Bozman, “And Patel didn’t suspect Shaw in anything. Why would he remember what Shaw’s girlfriend looked like? And we did knock on next door—no one answered. We left our business cards.”

“You did good. Let’s give the fresh air time to cool Rex off, and I’ll talk to her.”

“She seems to really want Ethan Shaw. No physical evidence ties this guy to the crime scene, I’d like to remind the group.”

“But don’t you think it was odd, though?” Bozman asked from across the desk.

“What was odd?” I said.

“Ethan Shaw’s apartment.”

“...he liked movies. Bozman suggested Shaw could be a superfan.”

“And I also suggested that we distribute Shaw’s photos to local theaters—see if anyone had spotted him.”

“And he also suggested that,” Carlos said, bored.

“—you always undermine me,” Bozman quipped.

“Don’t start too.”

“Cassandra King was obviously his favorite. Shaw had several posters of hers among other movie memorabilia, like signed cards and bobbleheads of celebrities. The mat in his bathroom was like a fake star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”

“This is not a coincidence,” I said. “If Shaw was infatuated with celebrities and Cassandra especially, maybe he went into her suite, spotted her diary, and stole it. It’s weak, but it’s a good enough connection for us to keep investigating Shaw.”

“Told you,” Bozman said to Carlos.

“—I’m getting coffee.”

“Did you see a diary in Shaw’s apartment?”

“A diary? No, I don’t think so. Did you expect him to have one? Who journals anymore?”

“The diary is the single unaccounted-for item from Cassandra’s room.”

“She could have left it back in LA. We can have an LA unit check for us.”

“Already phoned and en route,” I said. “Her agent believes Cassandra would have brought it with her. The assistant couldn’t remember if she saw it in her room or not.”

“Maybe she kept it in her purse to keep an eye on it during the award show,” Bozman said.

Carlo interjected. “Cassandra was without a purse that night.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Take a look for yourself.”

He played a montage of video cuts from the evening: Cassandra arriving at the red carpet, posing for photos, followed by Cassandra at the table happily chatting with guests. Next was of her walking onstage, followed by Cassandra giving her acceptance speech. The very last shot of her, and possibly the last of her alive, was Cassandra stepping offstage as Mayor Cote trailed close behind.

“No purse,” I uttered. “Carlos, call Patel and tell him I want to meet him at Shaw’s apartment. I want to check it out for myself.”

“You don’t think we did a good job searching it?” Carlos said.

“That’s not what I said.”

“You implied it.”

“That’s not true either, Carlos. I found out about the diary not too long ago myself after you spoke to Patel. If you saw it, maybe you missed it.”

“I’m back. Sorry about a minute ago. I guess I needed some time to myself.”

“Take your hotheaded partner with you.”

“You going somewhere?”

“To Shaw’s apartment.”

“I’m coming,” Rex said, enthusiastic.

Her phone rang. It was the tech unit. She stared at it.

“I’m not going with you, am I?”

“I’m afraid not this time. I need you to ask them to look for anything connected to the documentary—names, phone numbers, addresses. Cassandra was gunning for an adversarial storytelling style. Anyone connected to the documentary must be tracked down and interviewed.” I glanced at Bozman and Carlos. “It would be long, painstaking, cumbersome work. Even if an alibi sounds plausible, we can’t disregard it. Check them all out yourselves.”

Rex reached for the phone, but I stopped her. “Next, the tech unit should search the digital files for any mention of a diary or a journal. I need to find the person who sold it to Cassandra. See if he can shed some light on what was so interesting in it that got Cassandra gassed up.

“I know it’s a lot of work I’m asking you to do, but we can’t be ruled by complete disorder and chaos. We still have an unsolved murder in front of us and lots of knotted leads.”

Rex was the first to back me up “Aye, aye, captain.”

“All of you—I want to say something—we are all doing the best that we can under unfortunate circumstances. Let’s remember that. Stick together.”

I pointed to Bozman. “I like your idea. And since you and your girl like the movies, maybe you can work with foot patrol to distribute photos of Ethan Shaw.”

“On it,” he said.

“And Josh, one more thing before we break for the night—if you know any chat boards for movie buffs, check them out, see if anyone is talking about Cassandra. Pay special attention if a diary is mentioned.”

“Diary, okay. Anything else?”

“No . . . yes. And anyone taking credit for writing All the Wrong Ones.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Just check it out. It’s a wild rumor.”

Bozman left soon after. Not longer than fifteen minutes later, Carlos set me up to meet Ravi Patel at Shaw’s rental.

“He says another tenant missed this month’s rent and is behind on last. He was already headed there to serve them with an eviction notice,” Carlos told me before he said, “See ya’ll in the morning.”

Rex was hanging up with the computer unit. “They asked me to meet with them. I’m heading out.”

“I hate to ask another favor of you.”

“But you will anyways, so cut to the chase. What do you want?” She paused, “—you will ask me to expand the search warrant on her phone. The time frame currently is forty-eight hours—how far back?”

“Three months.”

“Three months? Long! Holy crap. Tell me this isn’t you snooping around your ex-girlfriend’s dirty laundry—”

“This isn’t me snooping my ex-girlfriend’s dirty laundry.”

“—good. That’s good to hear.”

“Three months ago, Cassandra came to Boston, left with a diary—”

“—not the diary again. Long . . .”

“Listen—I can’t find it, and I don’t see any prospects of it turning up on its own.”

“Okay. Three months back. Am I looking for anything else? Anything other than a mysterious old frail yellow-page journal?”

“Yes. Remember Cote told us she overheard Cassandra talking on the phone after she received her award?”

“Cote said, ‘Cassandra looked like she received bad news,’” Rex said. “Health related, she suspected.”

“Dr. Hollman couldn’t find any illness. She was a healthy female in the prime of her life.”

Rex shrugged. “The mayor’s very sick. She could have misheard, as simple as that.”

“And I would be inclined to agree with you, but Sapphire Blackbird overheard Cassandra arguing with a doctor on the phone, requesting permission to record.”

“Record what?”

“It beats the hell out of me. I sure would like to know.”

“Okay. I agree, it’s a little odd. I’ll get her data for you, but it will cost you.”

“Name your price?”

“More of Dale’s chicken-and-waffles fall special. Can’t stop thinking about it!”

“Now watch it, Rex Hobbs, or I’ll think my crappy bar is rubbing off on you,” I said.

Chapter 31

I read the message from Tony Romero as Ravi Patel pulled into the parking spot in front of Ethan Shaw’s building. Irritated, I placed my phone in my back pocket when Ravi Patel cut the engine of his Mazda.

“You the detective?” he said, puffing on a vape. “His apartment’s the last one.”

Ravi nudged to the three-story house painted in faded red. It was facing a curving street in a busy neighborhood on the outskirts of Boston. The area wasn’t the most desirable.

“Thanks for letting me see his apartment.”

“No word of Shaw, yet, huh?” Ahead of me, Patel climbed the stone stairs leading to the front door tucked under an overhang sagging favorably to the left. “Carlos and his partner searched it. Found nothing illegal. Why return?”

“We’re being thorough,” I said. “Shaw give you any trouble?”

“No. Tell you the truth, he was kind of goofy.”

“Goofy?”

“Maybe goofy’s not the right word. What do you call someone who’s into stuff?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on the stuff. Lots of words come to mind. What was he into?”

“Movies. He knew all sorts of things about movies.”

“So you can call him a movie nerd.”

Ravi shrugged. “Nerd, hmmm. No. Nerd is not the right word either.”

“Then I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either. And it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re asking if he was trouble to me. No. Paid rent on time. No complaints from the other neighbors, which is good. Sometimes renting to young guys is a hit-and-miss. Shaw was all right.”

“All right’s good.”

“Quiet kid, goofy. I like goofy. I’ll stick with it.”

“Okay—”

“Besides the dustup with his next-door neighbor, I have had no issues with Shaw.”

“The female the neighbor called you about?”

“Yes. Sonia Clipper’s the name of the lady. Six A.” Ravi jammed the key in the keyhole, twisted, then shook the doorknob. “The lock’s a little rusty.”

“What did Ms. Clipper say?”

“Who? Oh, the neighbor, right. Someone was at Shaw’s apartment. Banging loudly. The noise woke her up. I was on the phone with her when she came out to tell her to shut up.”

I marked the incident in my memory.

Ravi said, “The lady told Sonia to screw off. This didn’t concern her. Sonia’s a tough broad. Works on an oil rig. Tough. You get it?”

“I think so,” I said.

“The lady doesn’t scare easily, so Sonia goes back in to get a monkey wrench—the woman sees Sonia holding the tool and flees without further issues. Sonia has a temper. I hurried over after. My house’s not far from here. Couple streets over.”

He let us in a hallway so dark I couldn’t see my own feet. He flipped the switch on the side of the wall.

The white light didn’t beautify the tall, dank staircase leading to the next level, which was covered in blackness.

“Did Sonia tell you anything else about the woman?”

“No. I saw her leave, though. Do you want the description of the car?”

“What do you think?”

“Small, two-door Beetle.”

“A Beetle.”

“Funny car. Not many of them around.”

“Did you see the color of the car?”

“The parking lot’s too dark. The city lights went out four years ago, and the city still hasn’t fixed them, if you can believe it.”

“I believe it.”

“I figured you would, as a city employee. My tenants don’t. They think it’s on me to fix everything from split street pavement to leaky gas pipes.”

“What did Shaw say about the woman? Did he explain himself?”

“I didn’t talk to him. I checked on Sonia. She’s not a bad-looking woman, you know. She assured me she was fine. Then I knocked on Shaw’s door. He didn’t open it, so I turned around and left. It was three o’clock in the morning. I forgot about the incident until cops showed up. I figured I’d mention it to them. Seems now that it was kind of important.”

“I’d like to speak with her. Sonia Clipper. Six A?”

“Six A, but if you want to talk to her, you’d have to fly down to Panama City. Dunesand Oil Rig.”

Damn, I thought. “How about a phone number? Do you have a good number I can reach her at?”

“It’s an oil rig in the middle of the Panama Canal. No phone connection. If you need to get in touch with her, you call the oil rig directly.”

I thanked him after he dictated the number for the switchboard on Dunesand Oil Rig.

“Shaw’s in four B, third door on your right. I got some business with the tenant on this floor. If you hear yelling, don’t be alarmed. He’s hard of hearing. I’ve dealt with him for years.

“Most of my tenants are colorful characters—you have to be to willingly occupy these homes.” He glanced toward the street, meaning this neighborhood.

“Like Shaw?” I said. “Colorful like Shaw because they lie on their rental application.”

Ravi rolled his eyes. “You’re doing the cop thing, aren’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“The mistakes on the application.”

“False information is not simple mistakes,” I said. “It bogged us down.” Rex had first pointed it out, and I agreed with her.

“Can’t be that hard to track down a goofy kid. He’s not from around here.”

“Where’s he from?”

“The West Coast. Told me he worked in the movie industry for a while, but he wasn’t making a stable income. Wanted to make movies, but for that he needed a steady flow of cash. Someone he knew got him started in hospitality.”

“He said he worked in the movie industry? Anything more specific—”

“Yes, on the West Coast. What else did he say? Can’t quite remember. Shaw talked. Movies. Knew a lot. Too much. That’s why I call him goofy.”

“Did he give you the name of the company where he worked?”

Ravi vaped, thinking. “No. Or I don’t remember. I didn’t really know him that well.”

Bogged down, I looked up at the stars.

“Is he dangerous? Shaw. Are I and my tenants in some kind of danger?”

“Don’t think so. But if you see him, call us. I wouldn’t approach him.”

“Why? It’s not like you want him for murder?”

“He’s a person of interest in a homicide investigation, Ravi. Simply, we don’t know what Shaw did or did not do. He’s not who he said he is. His name is not in any government system, and his social security belongs to a dead man.”

Ravi shivered. “I’ll have to tell the others, unless you think that will scare them too much.”

“That’s up to you. I don’t see how it would hurt them or my investigation if your tenants are watching out for Shaw.”

“Then I’ll talk to them.”

“Give them my direct phone number and my partner’s.”

“If Shaw returns, they should call you?”

“Yes, and tell them not to approach him or talk to him. We don’t want him tipped off.”

“The element of surprise.”

“Exactly.”

“Shaw thought the element of surprise is what distinguished great cinema from mediocre. See what I mean? Goofy talk.” Ravi leaned closer to me, his voice now hushed. “But he has some nice stuff up there. Movie junk, but on eBay you won’t believe the price people would pay for those things. Do you think you’d catch him in two weeks’ time?”

Taken aback, I said, “Oddly specific.”

“No, right, of course. It’s hard these days to be an honest landlord; the state stiffs you, and the tenants squeeze you. In two weeks’ time, though, if Shaw doesn’t turn up or if you don’t lock him up by then, legally I can sell off his stuff to recoup my losses.”

“We don’t know if Shaw’s criminally involved in anything illicit. It’s a matter we wish to discuss with him. The force is not prepared to arrest him at this moment. Maybe Mr. Shaw has left town and he will be back soon.”

“Maybe, but in two weeks, next month’s rent is due. That goofy movie stuff he has in four B might be worth something.”

***

Carlo and Bozman’s assessment of Shaw’s apartment had been accurate. Small, tidy, sparsely furnished, heavy on movie decor. Posters, pictures of celebrities I didn’t recognize, but they loved the camera lens.

The living room and the kitchen were a quick-walk-through affair. Pretty much the only suspicious thing I found was a moldy ham-and-cheese deli sandwich in Shaw’s fridge. Again, Carlos and his partner, Bozman, had been accurate. Shaw was looking as clean as a whistle.

In the bathroom, I spotted the rug shaped like a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame as I checked the medicine cabinet. Clean. Also clean was the cabinet under the sink.

Shaw must never have experienced seasonal allergies or a bad case of the flu, judging by the lack of any type of medication in his apartment.

Before I was ready to call the bathroom a done deal, I decided to lift the lid on the toilet tank. Why? Because I imagined it would be a nice hiding spot. As I pushed the heavy lid aside, I heard the rustling of curtains in the next room—noise so easily missed. I paused. It took several seconds of standing still before I heard the tap, tap, tap of tiptoeing coming from the bedroom.

Ravi Patel was on the first floor, locked in a shouting match with his nearly deaf tenant. I was alone in Shaw’s apartment, or should have been.

My back hugged the interior bathroom wall, giving me a small exposure of the barely lit small kitchen and living room. But I couldn’t assess the situation in the bedroom without setting foot outside, which left me vulnerable and exposed. The other guy had the advantage point.

In my decade-long career as a Navy SEAL, I had found myself in plenty of dicey situations. The higher the level of danger, the higher the level of calm it required, because panic kills.

With heightened senses, I inhaled slowly, waiting for my heart rate to lower so I could find my natural rhythm. With a cleared mind, I reminded myself to accept danger, not avoid it.

The gun was in my hand when I leaned toward the open bathroom door and pulled the doorknob, widening the gap. Slowly and carefully, I allowed myself to push off the wall where I’d been standing, preparing my plan of attack.

The first sign of good news was the fact that the bedroom door was shut. Whoever was on the other side could see me as well as I could see him, meaning we were both operating blind. I liked the odds, unless the other guy was an ex–Bravo operator; then we were both cooked.

Moving as soundlessly as possible, I took my position on the other side of the bedroom door, placed my free hand on the knob, and let it rest.

I heard no sounds, which was practically meaningless, because he could be lying still, expecting me to make the first move.

And he might have scored a point had it not been for the fact that he grew pensive. Old window latches squeak like a dog’s broken chew toy. Regardless of how gentle you are with them, the latch mechanism can be your demise.

It was his.

I bolted. Rushed into the bedroom, gun extended in front of me, finger on the trigger.

But I quickly realized my aim was trained on a shadow darting out the window using the backside staircase.

Holstered my gun and leaped after the intruder. Three feet in, the heel of my boot caught a raised edge. I lost my balance, tripped, one foot tangled in the other. A second later I was in free fall, taking the stairs like Super Mario.

In the fall, I hit my head on the railing. The pain was mild, but remained as I pulled myself up by grabbing onto the wood staircase guard.

The wind whistled a warning that sounded like a gray wolf howling against a full moon.

Two floors below, the shadow was looking more and more like a six-foot-three male in a beanie hat, black puffer vest, and jeans. He was making good time. If I were to catch up to him, I needed to step up my game.

Maybe I should have continued down the stairs, but that would have taken too damn long. I was pressed for time, so I threw my weight over the railing and jumped.

In the landing, my kneecaps absorbed the hard ground. I winced at the popping pain that now began to radiate up my thighs. That should serve as a painful reminder never again to James Bond a chase.

I wobbled back up. Puffer Jacket had widened the space between us. I hoisted myself up and went after him.

Never one to quit, my unsteady jog loosened up to a relaxed pace, and I gained momentum. I might have a fighting chance here.

Where did he go? I found myself standing in a dark parking lot jam-packed with cars. I knelt to see if I could spot him hiding under a car.

He was gone.

I cursed slowly under my breath. The rumble of an engine perked me right up, though. I scanned the lot once more.

Where are you?

The outline of a head popped up behind the wheel of an SUV. We spotted each other.

“Gotcha,” I said.

“Police. Come out,” I approached from the side. “Hands above the dashboard.”

I was near, almost at the side of the SUV. Another several steps and he would be in full view.

He ducked his head low, then threw the bright lights on. The sudden glow blinded me.

“Don’t do anything stupid” is the last thing I remember saying to him as he threw the top-heavy SUV in reverse. His tires hit the cement border. He managed to raise the SUV onto the grass and skillfully maneuver backward. He switched gears on the main road, burning rubber as a breath of gas fumes filled the air.

Limping back to the front door, I leaned against the hood of Patel’s Mazda to his astonishment.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

I pointed to the staircase on the back of the building.

“My tenants don’t use them. In case of a fire emergency, they have to use the front door. Code violation, I know, but I’ve been meaning to fix a faulty step, haven’t gotten to it yet. If you think of writing me a ticket, I’ll remind you of my cooperation. Could have dicked you people around for a warrant to open four B, but I didn’t.”

“I’m homicide, Mr. Patel—not from the building code department.”

“So no ticket, because I can’t afford it. The state stiffs you and the tenants squeeze you, like this guy on the first floor. I’ve given him break after break. He’s threatening now to call the city on me because he thinks I’ve exposed him to black mold, so he feels entitled to stop paying rent.”

The cool air was breathing life back into me. With each passing second, I felt stronger.

I touched a sore spot on the right side of my temple. Winced.

“You’re bleeding. How bad did you fall?”

My fingers were smeared in red. Blood.

“Pretty hard, I suppose.”

Patel vaped. “What were you doing on the staircase?”

“Chasing after the guy who broke into four B.”

“A break-in? Oh, that’s bad. Really bad for me.”

“How so?” I straightened up.

“A break-in to a building gives it a bad reputation, which means paying tenants break leases or don’t renew. Then I have to lower the rent. No. A break-in leads to all kinds of bad scenarios for me.”

“There was a break-in,” I said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Shaw wasn’t up there?”

“Shaw’s gone.”

“Gone as in dead? Because murder in the building is worse than a break-in.”

“Gone as in not physically in four B,” I said. “I have to call in Robbery.”

“Was something stolen?”

Ravi was grinding on my nerves. “Can’t say. We’ll have to investigate.”

“Well, maybe Shaw or his girl let someone in the apartment. A friend of theirs to pick up some clothes for Shaw.”

“His girlfriend?”

“Yes. Let’s call her and ask.”

“Let’s,” I said and waited. “What’s her name? What’s her number? Where does she reside?”

Ravi stomped in one place in frustration. “You don’t have all that?”

“No. Do you? Did Shaw give you all of that?”

“Work with me here. I’m cooperating. I’ve been cooperating. Let me think. I’m thinking. Shaw talked. Talked too much. S. L.? His girlfriend. Okay, here. I remember. They’re both from the West Coast, and he worked in the movie industry.”

“That helps a lot, Ravi.” I planted my face in my hands.

Chapter 32

Carlos arrived first. Gym shorts, muscle tee, oblivious to the biting breeze.

“This is where it happened?”

“Right there.”

I inspected the broken pavement, the deep drag marks, and the oil stains across the road.

“And you think you saw him or saw him?”

I had said so. But with each passing minute, the face was losing its sharpness in my memory.

“Kind of. It went down fast between us. I saw part of his profile behind the wheel. Male, trim. Between six one and six three.”

I also described the hat and the jacket. Dark colored, no visible logos.

He chuckled. “Not the worst I’ve heard, but it’s not a lot.”

“I didn’t expect the attack,” I said, more to myself.

“The element of surprise.”

“Yes. He used it to his advantage. Otherwise—”

“Smart of him”—he shrugged—“and very stupid of you.”

Bozman joined in. “Got here as soon as I read your text. Amanda’s mom has this stupid rule—no phones at dinner. I think she does it on purpose to irritate me. She knows I’m on call and I have to have my phone on me. But every time I glance at it, she makes it known to the entire table how she feels about it with one of her frosty side-eyes.”

“You didn’t miss much,” I said to Bozman. “Carlos and I were just about to canvass the neighborhood. Knock on some doors.”

“—ask if anyone has seen a six-one male, trim, in a hat and jacket.”

“No logos,” I said.

“—my bad, boss. Can’t forget the no logos. It brings it all into focus.”

“It’s not the worst description I’ve heard.” Bozman shone his flashlight on the ground. “Dark, corner spot. The back of two buildings. No working streetlight. He had you to himself.”

“It’s been established,” I replied.

“The element of—” Bozman started to say.

“Let me guess.” I shook my head. “Surprise.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s been established,” Carlos said. “Honestly, the more I stand here, the more I think about it. He could have killed you.”

“It’s secluded. Quiet. Bad spot to get jumped, unless—”

“What?”

Bozman said, “Unless we’re thinking—it’s a setup? Did you get followed tonight?”

“No. I think we can accurately describe tonight’s events as the wrong-time, wrong-place thing.”

“Him or you?”

“Him—”

“—because from everything you’ve told us, I feel it was you.”

“Can’t be,” I said.

“Why? Why can’t it be? Did you check to see if you were followed?”

“No. I wasn’t the target.”

“Look where we’re standing. Tonight you might not have been the target. Tomorrow, chief . . .”

“You both have it wrong. He was already in the apartment when I walked in. Found him in Shaw’s bedroom. I chased after him when he fled.”

“—why would you do that? Alone. No backup. No cover.”

I had operated on pure adrenaline.

“Couldn’t let him skip on me, Carlos. He refused a lawful order to stop. What would you have me do? When he leaped out the window, I leaped after him.”

Carlos stroked the side of his bicep. “Leaping out of a window? The news headlines are getting to your head, supercop.”

“My head’s fine. I’m fine. Now, transmit his description to patrol, Carlos,” I said. “Bozman, organize on-scene resources and ask officers to interview neighbors. If no one remembers seeing him, then give them the SUV’s description. A Ford Explorer. Older. Dark color. Blue. Maybe black.”

“It’s a three-story building.” Carlos hadn’t transmitted a word I’d said.

“Yes. I’m painfully aware of its height. Jumped off the second floor to catch up to him.”

“You mean to tell us you hurtled yourself to the ground like a goddamn Olympian?” Stunned, Carlos asked.

“No other good option, he was faster than I anticipated. Something we should all keep in mind the next time we encounter him.”

“I, for one, think it’s utterly impressive, Long,” Bozman replied. “If the department was keeping a scoreboard of cops performing mind-bending stunts—you’d be up there with the best of them.”

Carlos cocked his head sideways. “The department does keep such records—we call it the morgue! I can’t wait to hear Jupiter rake you over hot coals for your little act of heroism.”

I hadn’t thought about Jupiter. I hadn’t thought about the dangers of the pursuit. I hadn’t thought about a lot of things.

“And it’s not Ethan Shaw stopping in to grab some of his belongings? Could be as simple as he panicked, didn’t know you were a cop.”

I shook my head, a confident no.

“Heavier set than Shaw. And somehow he felt mature. There was experience in his movements.”

We broke off. Carlos and Bozman walked ahead. I could hear them discussing tonight’s circumstances between them. Carlos was annoyed, Bozman amazed.

I circled back to the staircase. Something tugged at me in my mind. Couldn’t figure it out. What? What had given me pause up there? What was it? I recalled the chase frame by frame, in slow motion. He was already a full floor below me, making headway. I would lose him. Right there. In my mind I saw a shadow that distracted me as my boot caught the raised edge, I lost balance and fell. I stopped the reel. Rewound. Did so two more times before the shadow came into focus.

Carlos’s voice broke my concentration.

“. . . yes, you heard me. Detective—Long—Collins.” He said my name slowly. “Yes, that’s right. Homicide. On-scene now. . . okay . . . yes . . . I’ll ask,” Carlos said into his smartphone. “Night watch’s asking if you want medical assistance?”

“Negative.”

Carlos returned to the phone. “He’s good. How should I know, Sarge? He says he’s good, and he looks unharmed. Okay, I’ll tell him.”

I joined the rest of them.

“Command wants to see you with his own eyes. You’re ordered in. He thinks he’s capable of ruling out a concussion by looking at you. Seems like his mind was made up. Good luck with that,” Carlos telegraphed.

“I’m fine.”

“Your actions tonight will be under a microscope. There will be inquiries.”

“They will be wasting their time.”

“Maybe. Command is touchy after Dave Axel. The entire force is on edge.”

“Then instead of ordering me in, they should—”

“—charge you with insanity. Glad we agree. Your third-floor Cirque du Soleil maneuver will be studied at the police academy.”

“I get it, Carlos. You disapprove. You can lay off now.”

Bozman chuckled. “He’s not wrong, Long. I heard the mayor was especially malignant briefing the press on the drag racing incident. Personally phoned the injured cops to tell them how sorry she was. Have you ever heard a politician to ever take responsibility for anything that goes wrong on the streets?” He chuckled. “Strange times we live in.”

Carlos mumbled, “It’s because of her we’re in this mess. She brought Hollywood to Boston.”

Back in four B, we went to work.

“The bedroom.” I pointed to the single room at the end of the hall.

The window was still open. A cold stream of wind blew in, tangling the long curtain panels. I had seen the intruder kneeling on the floor, the space directly under the windowsill. He had leaped onto the back stairs landing and taken off.

Kneeling now, I knocked on the wooden planks, listening for a hollow sound.

“Give me more light,” I said to Bozman.

The groves were carefully dug out with a sharp tool. Using the slender, pointy side of the key to my bar, I dug into the tampered groves. The plank dislodged fast with a little probing.

Buried inside the hidden space was a metal toolbox. I brought it out and carefully the lid.

“This changes things,” I said.

The crime unit cataloged each item, by photographing it from every angle. It would be a long night, I thought. Standing by the open window, I tried my memory again. The chase. He was first. I was distant second. Wide distant. What should I do? I didn’t want to jump. I saw it clearly in my mind. The hesitation. Next scene, the shadow moves. Below. On the street. A car speeds up. I’m frantic. I should be paying attention to my feet, but I’m not. I’m watching the speeding car. What is it doing? Driving by Shaw’s building. No. Leaving. Not good enough. What is the car doing? Taking off. That’s right. The car was taking off. Why? A single stream of fragile light strikes the driver’s side. I see a face. Whose face? Who is it? It’s there. Almost. Another push.

Rewind. Run it again. With each pass, I saw a new detail. Something more in focus. Until it was all revealed. I leaned back against the wall. Exhaling in utter exhaustion.

Chapter 33

Behind the bar, a customer ordered a Long Island iced tea as I pulled up a seat. Tony wiped a sweaty brow, quickly realizing he’d never drunk a Long Island tea and never mixed one.

With some help from the internet, he stirred, shook, and dumped alcohol in a cold tall glass, gladly serving his version of the drink.

While waiting for him, I thought about Ethan Shaw’s apartment. The metal box hidden in the floor. The male figure prying the planks open. Looking for what? For the box or something inside the box? I saw the open window and him running.

Tony placed a cup of coffee in front of me.

“Let’s go elsewhere before Long Island Tea asks me to remix it.”

In the corner booth, Tony managed a grin. “What happened to you?”

“A suspect got away. Someone broke into Ethan Shaw’s apartment and ran off before I could catch up to him.”

“You’re losing your touch.”

“How my knees feel, I have no room to disagree. Stupid faulty step. My boot got caught. Tripped and fell. To make up for lost time, I jumped off the second floor.”

“Long—” Tony clapped his hands together, astonished.

“Not you too. Carlos called me a failed circus performer. And wished to be in the room when Jupiter finds out, so he can watch her skin my back.”

“There was a reason why I always got along with Carlos. The man has common sense to him, apparently you lack it.”

“My back’s killing me. I need to ice it. Your message said the news was bad.”

A customer walked to the jukebox, put a quarter in, and stabbed a button at random. The machine didn’t bother.

“It’s been out of service for eight years,” Tony quickly informed him.

“This place needs music.”

“It’s not a dance hall, pal.” Tony handed off the TV remote. “Watch whatever you like or beat it.”

“You’re supposed to make the customers feel welcome.”

“You want them to feel welcome?”

“If possible.”

“Fix the music box.” He pointed to the jukebox standing as silent as a stage prop, collecting dust. “It’s been broken long enough.”

“Tony—”

“The message?”

“Tell me.”

“It’s diabolical stuff.” Tony saw that his words upset me. “Down there in Delmare. Something’s fishy.”

“You talked to him?”

“The chief of police? Yes. But he was useless. Pressed him about her—he acted like he had trouble remembering her. It’s a department of fifty! Telling you, Long—odd bunch.”

“But he recognized the name?”

“Well . . . yes.” Tony shook his head. “You’re missing the point. Delmare’s tiny. The last time they had a transfer before her was in 2011. You do the math.”

“Everyone knows everyone is what you’re saying.”

“You got it. If she was this superstar in Florida—”

“We don’t know if she was.”

“—Carlos says otherwise.”

“They had a falling-out.”

“She was bossy. Telling them how to run their side of the investigation. Unhappy about some landlord, Carlos said. Or is he wrong?”

“He’s not wrong. She came hard on them. Uncalled for but apologized. They put it behind them.”

“So she’s not some rookie detective. There is an established tone to her methods.”

“There is. I felt it too.” I thought back to Rex reading the autopsy report.

“And that’s the problem. The Florida chief acted like he’d heard of her. Not like he knew her. Heard of her.”

A couple by the register waved their bill.

Tony and I walked over to the bar. I asked myself why the Delmare chief would be apprehensive to talk about Rex Hobbs.

“Tracking her DMV records proved to be as easy as buying enriched uranium.”

I steadied myself. “Did you get anything from them?”

“Called in a big favor—only to learn she’s not in their system.”

“Tony—how is that possible?”

“You know how? Rex Hobbs is not from Delmare, Florida.”

“Where would she come from?”

“That I can’t tell you yet. It will take some more time. Calling in favors. Big ones. Might not be able to answer some questions. But I’ll keep at it.”

“She doesn’t exist,” I mumbled.

“Not in Delmare, or her name’s not Rex Hobbs.”

“But the Delmare PD chief verbally confirmed her existence to you.”

Tony flinched. “Forget about the chief. I don’t know what was wrong with him. If you talked to him, you’d understand. Stumbled over basic facts. If I had asked him to pick her out of a photo lineup, Long, I think he couldn’t have done it.”

“Why is she here? Boston?”

“I don’t know yet. Look, how much does she have access to the King’s homicide?”

“Full access. She brought us the hotel robberies; she pushed to investigate Ethan Shaw; she’s—”

“—in the middle of it.”

“Exactly,” I said, pressed. “I’m afraid to ask—”

“—the hotel raid in Florida? Yes. That’s true. I found local newspaper clippings. Most of what she’s told you is in the paper. The city experienced a brief dustup with some hotel robberies. A cop died in a shootout. They never caught the thieves—a male and a female, probably romantically involved, a source to the investigation was quoted.”

“Rex thinks it’s the same team operating in Boston. And after talking to Shaw’s landlord, I suspect it’s true.”

“What did he say?”

“Shaw told his landlord he was from the West Coast, worked in the movie industry before switching to hospitality for stabler pay. His apartment confirms Shaw’s love for movies. Cassandra was his favorite.”

“She was?”

“Lots of pictures of her. Movie posters. Can’t tell you if it went beyond that. Initially, I didn’t think Shaw was anything more than a curious brick in the investigation. Nothing was stolen.”

“You changed your mind?”

“Cassandra’s diary is gone. And Shaw seems the most likely to have taken it.”

Tony hesitated. “If he’s a hardcore fan—I could see him doing it. Rex is all over it.”

“She wants him, bad.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to tell Jupiter. She has the right to know about what you brought me. Christ, Tony, we’ve been allowing Rex to brief the mayor.”

“Speaking of Cote—I saw her on the news tonight. She’s not looking good. Might be getting a bad case of the seasonal flu. I hear the bug’s nasty this year.”

“It’s not the flu—”

“Then it’s something equally nasty. I’m telling you, she didn’t look well.”

“It’s cancer.”

Tony would have looked less astounded if I had told him aliens had landed on top of Plymouth Rock.

“It’s true,” I said.

“How bad?”

“Stage four. Inoperable. She doesn’t have a lot of time left.”

Neither one of us realized that the Long Island tea customer was two feet away, hanging on every word of the conversation.

“Captain!” I said, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

Jupiter stepped into the light. Her features hardened.

“Apparently drinking the world’s worst Long Island iced tea”—she spoke to Tony directly—“and watching two brilliant detectives dig themselves into a hole.”

“It’s not our hole I’m worried about—you should hear Tony out. Rex is compromised. I don’t know how or why, but she didn’t feel right from day one.”

“Oh, I heard it. The Florida odd bunch. The bungling chief. Rex’s not in the DMV system. That pretty much cover it?”

“For now,” I replied. “Tony will keep—”

“No, he won’t. Both of you will leave it alone. Rex’s not your headache.”

“That’s not wise, Captain. Rex—”

“—is not your problem. I’ll take care of it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Something about Rex doesn’t add up. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

“Like what? The fact she could read an autopsy report without the ME holding her hand? I’d think that’s a good thing, but apparently to you that’s a strike against her.”

“If you saw her, you would have questioned her sincerity too, Captain,” I said.

“What I’ve seen with my two damn eyes is an eager detective who jumped on the opportunity to assist in a highly contentious murder. It was her work on the hotel robberies that led you to Ethan Shaw. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong. Rex is a good cop. Her skill set wasn’t the issue.”

“Then what? What is it about her that I’m missing?”

Hands stretched out against the bar, I said, breathless, “I don’t know, and you’re ordering me not to look into it.”

“That’s correct. Not a word to anyone about Rex. Jesus Christ!” Jupiter shifted. “No Florida address, correct?”

“None,” Tony said.

“No DMV records of her too?”

“Rex Hobbs has never resided in the state of Florida, at least not under this name.”

“Long, tomorrow morning I expect you in my office at eight a.m. sharp. By the tire track marks on your body, I feel like I’ve missed a lot. Understood?”

I nodded my head yes.

“I repeat—I will personally take care of this issue.” Jupiter put her cap back on. The nightly news came on. Cote appeared on the monitor. Frail. Deep-purple circles under her drained eyes.

“What will you do to her—Rex? I don’t want her to lose her job, Captain. She does seem like a smart cop.”

Distracted, Jupiter watched the news reels. “Smart cop. Yeah . . . sure . . . as you say.”

The newscast cut from the mayor to the news studio.

“Behave, gentlemen, until you hear from me again.”

“Will you fire her?” I insisted.

Jupiter threw her head backward. “Haven’t decided, Detective Collins. First, I owe an old friend an apology. I prejudged a situation when I should have put more trust in.”

“Tomorrow’s shaping up to be epic,” I said to Tony.

“Not nearly as epic if Jupiter had waited a second later to surprise us.” He placed a folder in front of me. The cover flap secured with two metal prongs.

I pulled it toward me.

“Do with it as you wish,” Tony said.

Chapter 34

The file contained a memo, its author unknown. An external agency had shared it with Delmare PD, its name redacted with thick black lines.

The memo was well composed and neat, to the point, stripped of any attention-seeking proclamations. The author laid out in clear format that it was urgent without ever stating it.

It was an impressive little memo.

The author suggested trouble started in LA, California. Several hotels were burglarized between three to six months. Then the robberies stopped. Local cops had an open investigation. The next city listed was Las Vegas, Nevada. Again, a string of hotel robberies. Another law enforcement agency was investigating. Phoenix, Arizona, and then Delmare, Florida, were on the list.

The memo profiled a male and a female team behind the robberies. It alluded to a romantic relationship between them, though it said they might be siblings.

I glanced at the clock on the wall at the station. Eight a.m. sharp, like Jupiter ordered.

I returned to reading—the author warned the two criminals wouldn’t stop on their own unless they were stopped.

Alice, the civilian assistant, dropped off a note on my desk. I stopped reading the memo. The note said Ian King to be discharged at 11 a.m. Call Ruby at the hospital.

Ruby didn’t answer. I checked my watch again for the time. Jupiter was now fifteen minutes behind schedule. Alice swung around, having delivered the rest of the mail.

“Alice—”

“What?”

“Have you heard from the captain?”

“Yes. She’s not coming in until noon. Told me to say ‘Behave.’” Alice plopped herself behind her desk.

I picked up the receiver.

“She also said not to be disturbed.”

“This is important.”

“She also said it’s a personal matter. Sounded serious.”

It must be, because my call went straight to voicemail. Nervous that someone might see the memo, I shoved it back in the file and buried it in paperwork.

The memo, I told myself, wasn’t connected to my homicide investigation. It was an interesting take on hotel robberies across the country, but, I admitted, nothing in it helped me find Shaw or catch Cassandra’s killer. The best I could think to do with it—wait for Jupiter to come in and hand it off to her.

By now, Bozman and Carlos arrived.

“—watch out,” Carlos mouthed.

“What?”

“—here she comes.” Bozman pointed to the swinging doors.

Rex Hobbs slung her backpack off her shoulder and slammed it on my desk. The thud was loud. The entire room quit what they were doing to watch.

“How dare you? You had no right to go behind my back.” Rex’s words came at even intervals.

“—slow down.”

“I don’t think I will.”

All eyes were on us.

“Would you lower your voice?”

“No I won’t—” she pointed her finger at me. “Fifteen hours and counting—and you still haven’t read me in on last night.”

“What about last night?”

Despite her bitterness, Rex was in control—total control of the room.

“—as your partner, you should have called me first. You didn’t. I demand to know why?”

“Shaw’s apartment.”

“Yes. Shaw’s apartment. What else? I heard it from an officer. That’s humiliating.”

“It’s not that big a deal. Tell her, guys.”

Bozman averted his gaze; Carlos slowly sipped his coffee, pretending he didn’t hear me.

“Seems you’re on your own—on your own like last night. Someone was in Shaw’s apartment. He’s my suspect, you know that. And you chased after him. Lost him—for God’s sake! If you had just called it in, he could be in lockup now. Why, Long?”

“Look—it all went down fast. I was at the wrong place—”

“—wrong time. I’ve heard.”

I shot an accusing glare to Bozman and Carlos.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you jumped out of a three-story-high building.”

There was an audible gasp in the room.

“Yes.”

“I heard that too.”

“Rex—” I said calmly.

“Oh, I’m not done. Not by a goddamn mile. Patrol’s on the street searching for a male, six feet, in dark clothing and a hat, no logo. Drives an SUV. How am I doing?”

“Great.”

“Keep patronizing me, Long. You think this is over? I’m just getting started.”

I said nothing back. Rex was on the warpath. I was her casualty.

“The landlord is saying Shaw’s a scrawny guy. Doesn’t match the description from you. So now we have someone new in the mix. A third person connected to the hotel robberies.”

“You’ve talked to Ravi Patel,” I said.

“Of course, I talked to the landlord, and Sonia—”

“—she works on Dunesand Oil Rig in the Panama Canal. I have her phone—”

“—no, I have her phone, and I spoke to her on my way in. She was glad the police are finally paying attention.”

“Did she describe the female for you?” I said.

Rex placed her hands on her hips. Smiled. “Oh, Long, Sonia Clipper said a lot more than that.”

She removed her backpack from my desk. Rolled her chair and sat down.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

“In fifteen hours, I will,” she replied.

There was total silence in the pit. I felt defeated.

“Okay. You got me,” I said.

“Yes, Long. Yes. I did.”

“Can you tell me now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been talking for a while, and I feel tired. Why don’t you start by explaining the physical evidence in Ethan Shaw’s apartment. Like the stuff in the lockbox under the floor.”

I stared hard at Bozman and Carlos; they both shrugged.

“Carlos.”

“Huh?”

“Tell my partner what she wants to hear.”

Carlos’s chair squeaked when he shifted his girth from side to side.

“Thus far, my partner and I were able to connect about half of the items in Shaw’s apartment to recent hotel robberies.”

Rex leaned back in her seat, rested her feet on top of her desk. “Did you, now? That’s a stunning development.”

“You called it first, Rex,” I admitted.

“So it seems. None of you can any longer deny the hotel robberies. And none of you can any longer pretend Shaw and his accomplices aren’t behind Cassandra’s slaying. They have to be.”

“Rex—”

“I’m not done. All of our resources should be allocated to finding Ethan Shaw, don’t you agree, Detective Long?”

“No resources spared.”

“It feels so good to be right. You should try it sometimes.”

“If you’re done with your little fun—”

“I’m not, but go ahead, what were you going to say?”

“Ethan Shaw is from the West Coast.”

“West Coast, mm-hmm. Where Cassandra’s currently living.” Rex chuckled.

“And he used to work for a movie studio. Shaw mentioned it to Ravi Patel.”

Rex relaxed back. “Cassandra’s a famous actress with the biggest hit movie of the season. Things are lining up.”

“And yet nothing was stolen from her hotel room besides a diary, and nothing was reported stolen from the Capitol Hotel. I don’t know what to tell you, Rex—don’t pop the bubbly so soon,” I said smugly.

Bozman cracked his knuckles. “That’s not true. I guess Hollywood’s finally back on the West Coast and unpacking, because they’re starting to realize some of their personal belongings have grown legs and run off.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like nice watches, electronics, some diamond earrings, bracelets. Items someone could sell fast for a quick profit.”

“Anything stolen from the Capitol in Shaw’s apartment?”

“No”—Bozman examined an electronic copy of a spreadsheet—“but there are from the Royal and the Taj; both hotels were hit as recently as a week ago.”

“It’s them,” Rex said, capping her pen.

“Okay, I see the robberies. The evidence is there. It’s the same couple from Delmare. But murder—I don’t see murder. Why kill Cassandra with her award? Why not take it with you? Sell or throw it in the river? The killer left it on the ground beside her dead body. That’s telling us something.”

“What, Long? What is it telling you?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Here is what I know, though—Delmare to Boston, that’s crossing state lines—that makes it federal.”

Rex hesitated, shifted. A flare of temper showing on her face and in her voice.

“Yes, I suppose. It’s the captain’s call if she wants to involve the feds, and you’re wrong about the murder. Cassandra’s their second vic. Let me explain.”

Rex stood up and circled between our desks before she continued.

“About a year ago, Delmare PD began to take notice of tourists phoning in the police department asking to file a complaint that they were robbed. Now, Delmare’s a tourist city. We get a million outsiders yearly. Serious crime’s low, but robberies are common. It took us a while to pick up the noise from the real thing, but when we did, the department hit the ground running in days. A task force was established, which followed months of painstaking work developing sources and working them. Eventually, a pattern emerged. Once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it, as is the case here in Boston.

“It goes something like this: A hotel hires, unknowingly, an employee with a phony name, social security, and a local address. Nothing raises red flags about him. His paperwork is clean. The new employee is given access to the guests and their rooms. To simplify, I’ll call this employee X. Time goes by, weeks up to a few months. X, in the meantime, is learning the inner workings of the hotel. Sometimes that involves watching the security guards coming and going, the position of security cameras, how involved the floor managers are, et cetera. Then X takes someone else’s badge, passes it along to his partner; they take as much as they can for as long as they can, then they leave. Hotels have a hard time keeping employees, no one’s paying attention. Shaw and his girlfriend must have netted at least a million in stolen goods, probably more.”

She’d been talking for some time.

“Patel said Shaw liked working in the hospitality business because it was a nice, stable income,” I said.

Rex tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Interesting small twist, isn’t it? Stable income. I wonder what they’ve done with their profit. It will be interesting to go through their bank records when we capture them. I’ve been tracking them for a really long time.”

“Then what a happy coincidence you moved to Boston and crossed paths with an old, unsolved case,” I said.

“—this time I’ll catch ’em. Now, since you’ve heard my theory and how it links to Cassandra’s murder—will you stop fighting me and help me?”

“We’re on the same side. Are we not?”

“That’s good to hear. Really good. I feared there was an unresolved issue between us. It worried me some. I hate to go over anyone’s head on this.”

“—won’t have to. I still don’t think Shaw killed Cassandra—”

She took a deep breath.

“—but,” I said, “—I can’t find a hole to poke in your theory.”

“Then, I should tell you about Sonia Clipper,” Rex said. “Shaw’s next-door neighbor described her as petite. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. She had childlike features. Sonia thought the girl was trying to break into Shaw’s home. She had run off by the time Sonia returned holding her monkey wrench.”

“Matches Patel’s. Did Sonia say anything else?”

“Oh, yes. Here’s what I found incredible—Sonia heard the female talk on the phone with someone she called Scott. We now have a possible name for the guy I think you encountered at Shaw’s apartment.”

“Scott?”

“Yes. And who do we know that goes by Scott?”

“Scott Lane, the head of security at the Capitol Hotel,” I said.

“Who did Shaw list as S.L. as his emergency contact on his rental application?”

Scott Lane.

I saw Scott Lane in my mind. Estimated his build. Yes, he could be two-eighty. And yes, he was tall, so six one wasn’t out of the question.

“Lane’s clean. No record. Ex-Marine.” Carlos read off his monitor. “What about him don’t you like exactly?”

I tuned them out, preoccupied myself with remembering Scott Lane the day I met him. There was something about him. Something that hadn’t felt right about him at the crime scene. But what?

“. . . the statement he made to Detective Long,” I heard Rex say. “For starters it was Scott Lane who pointed us to take a look at Ethan Shaw. I now believe he is the patsy in this situation. Lane also has access to the security system, a master key that overrides key cards, and established rapport with Cassandra. A bond of trust—”

“—they bonded over Ian King. Cassandra didn’t want her husband to stay at the Capitol with her,” I said.

“Exactly. And who did she call?”

“Scott Lane,” I said.

“And who canceled Ian King’s key pass?”

“Again, Scott Lane.”

“And who told you Cassandra was afraid of her husband? So afraid, in fact, it made Lane think she was a victim of domestic abuse?”

“Scott Lane.”

“See—Scott Lane—is in the center of two highly contentious police investigations. In both instances it’s the same man providing us with possible suspects to run cover for himself,” Rex said.

Bozman scratched his chin. “He’s listed as an ex-Marine. A vet like me. I’ll make some inquiries. Give me till this afternoon. I’ll get back to you.”

Carlos watched the action unfold with mild interest.

Bozman told him, “Don’t be a baby, Carlos.”

Carlos put his hand out like a bored student accepting an assignment from a teacher to get his failing grade up.

“Glad you decided to offer your help.” Rex handed him a list of numbers and names. “These are former Capitol Hotel employees who either left on their own or were fired. All within the last two years. I’d like you to talk to them, see if they can tell you something about Scott Lane that can help us.”

Smiling, she turned toward me, offering me a warm thank-you nod of her head that felt more like forgiveness than gratitude.

“Let’s get coffee,” I suggested to her.

Chapter 35

“Coffee?” I poured her a cup.

“Sure. Thanks,” she said. “What don’t you want the kids to hear?”

“What makes you think I want this to be private?”

“Come on. You’re that predictable.”

I poured a cup for myself. “We got overheated out there. I’m smoothing things over between us.”

“We’re good,” she said, not touching her cup. The steam rose in the air. “But I have to tell you—I still feel tension between us. I can’t describe it. Do you feel it too?”

“No. I can only feel the searing pain in my knees.”

She laughed. “I’m sure. Kind of kicking myself in the butt for missing it—”

“Even if you were there—what could you have done? I don’t hold you responsible for skipping out on me.”

“Responsible?” she said. “I don’t feel responsible. Last night, it’s on you. I only said it because I wish I was there to see you leap off a three-story building. Incredibly stupid.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Furthermore, it was you who asked me to stay behind and work on the search warrant to cover three months back of phone data. A favor to you.”

“Thank you.” I blew on my coffee.

“—and to wait for the tech unit to finish scrubbing Cassandra’s computer.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Since you remember, why would you say you ‘don’t hold me responsible’?”

“Because you’re not.”

“Of course I am not. I know that!” Her voice began to rise again.

“Good. Are you going to drink your coffee?”

She glanced at her cup. “No.”

“You should. It’s fresh.”

“No thank you.”

“I thought maybe we can drink coffee here and you can tell me more about Delmare. The raid.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

My brow shot up.

She noticed the skepticism. “I have.”

“Rex—I’d like to trust you. There are questions about your work with Delmare PD.”

“There are questions about your work too, Long. Let’s not play stupid games. If you have something to ask me—ask.”

“Okay. The cop who died in Delmare—”

“Yes. What about him?”

“—was he a Fed?”

Her composure went rigid. “Where did you come up with something like that?”

“I read it somewhere in the news. Probably wrong.”

“It’s wrong. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Sure. Aren’t you at least a bit curious?”

“About what, Long?”

“Oh, I don’t know—if your task force was infiltrated?”

“Infiltrated? Now why would you use such a word?”

“Kind of fitting. Undercover FBI agents posing as local Delmare cops?” I pretended to shudder. “One of them dies wearing a Delmare PD uniform. Killed in action. The press will eat the PD’s lunch and the FBI’s. Everyone involved will want to keep it quiet. To make it go away.”

“Far-fetched,” Rex said.

“Far-fetched, but it’s possible.” I put down my mug next to hers. “Any thoughts?”

“None to share with you. Thanks for the coffee, Long. I really should get back to building a case against Scott Lane. You should too.”

“I really should. But you don’t mind if I go by the hospital first? Ian King’s being discharged at eleven. I’d like to question him. Might give us something useful. Who knows?”

“I don’t mind, Long. Not at all. Take as much time as you need.”

She turned to leave.

“Rex?”

“Yes, Long?”

“Are you forgetting something?”

“Am I? I don’t think so.” She kept my gaze. “What am I forgetting?”

“Cassandra’s laptop? What did the tech unit find?”

“Yes. Yes. I did forget something, I suppose you could say.”

I nodded in agreement.

“The techs extracted two documents from her computer using your requirements. I didn’t fully read their report. From what I scanned late last night—they contained lots of information about the documentary you’ve been so curious about.”

“I have been. That’s good to know.”

“I had them forward the files to your email. You should have received them.”

“Great. Thank you. And what about the diary?”

“Aagh! Nothing on the diary. It looks like Cassandra was very careful not to leave a digital footprint leading to her private journal. But you always thought the diary is what inspired the documentary, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then this next part will be of great interest to you. That phone call Scott Lane claims Cassandra received.”

“Yes, he thought it was Ian King.”

“Not at all. It turns out it was a DNA lab. Frankfurt.”

“As in the German city?” I asked quietly.

“Precisely as in the German city. I called them, but they were closed due to the time difference. Left a message and your phone number figured it’s for the best since you knew Cassandra better than any of us.”

Thinking, I picked up my mug again and chugged the rest of my coffee and hers. What was Cassandra doing talking to a DNA lab in Germany?

Chapter 36

On the ICU floor of Mass Gen, Nurse Ruby was pretending to stay out of the drama by reading a novel with a yellow dragon and a bird tangled in a dance on the cover.

Our eyes connected for a brief pause.

“You got my message.”

“Discharge at eleven,” I said.

“Might not happen. The patient in four-seventeen’s preoccupied.” Ruby’s brow curved upward. “I can tell him you’re coming, but I don’t want to disturb them. It’s been going on for about thirty minutes. Administration has been notified. Of course, they’re taking their sweet time dealing with this crisis. Someone has to do something about it.”

At the door, Sapphire Blackbird had stuffed personal effects in a smooth black leather bag, holding back tears.

“You’ll regret this, Ian,” she yelled.

“See ya, cupcake.”

I watched Sapphire reach the elevators, stab the button impatiently, softly cursing Ian under her breath. The last thing I heard her say was, “Damn this place and damn you, Ian King!”

“This sounded heated. What was the issue between you two?” I regarded Ian.

In bed, propped on a towel of fluffed pillows, Ian King looked slightly older than how I remembered him. His body had filled out, still lean, but some neglect of the years showed. His hair, jet black before, was salt and pepper woven through the sideburns.

“Cassie’s not in the ground yet, and she’s pushing for higher pay.” He rocked his head side to side. “Un-freaking-believable. I won’t miss her—one—bit. Her lurking nature. Like a shadow. Good grief.”

He hadn’t shaved in quite some time, sporting a five o’clock shadow.

“You look good. Feeling okay?” I said.

“It had to be you.” He adjusted himself. “You!”

“Take it easy. I’m only here to talk.”

“—only here to talk. Then talk. Caught my wife’s killer yet?”

“No.”

“No? Then you should get to work.”

“Talking to you is me at work.”

“I despise you. You know that.”

“I had a hunch.”

“Always have. I despise your smugness. Of all the cops in Boston, it had to be you. It had to be you investigating her death. I despise you.”

“Okay. I got it. You despise me.”

His room was adorned with flowers. Some of the get-well cards were from Hollywood studios, actors, and magazine editors, no doubt vying for the exclusive scoop on Ian King, the widower.

“I really do.” Fury glowing in his eyes, studying me. “Missed my chance to take you out at the Capitol. Who would blame me for hating you? For wanting you to die?”

“The justice system might frown upon it.”

“Joke all you want, but if you don’t catch Cassie’s killer, I’ll make sure the justice system frowns upon you. I’ll do it. I have the power. The connections. The money. I play golf every Tuesday with a number of senators and federal judges.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll squish you like a bug.”

“Take it easy, Ian.”

“You’ve been warned.”

“Yes. You’ve put the fear of God in me. If I fail to solve Cassandra’s murder, the justice system will deal with me. Okay. Got it.”

“I’ll squish you—”

“—like a bug. I didn’t forget,” I said. “Now, can we talk about Cassandra? I have some questions I’d like to go over with you.”

“Me? Assist you?” He let out a forced laugh. “I’ve been in a medically induced coma for days—if I’m your only hope at catching Cassie’s killer, we’re screwed.”

I leaned against the windowsill, watching him squirm in bed. He had been a master bully at school, selfish and spoiled.

He hadn’t changed much, I thought.

“Yes, Ian. I can’t compel you to cooperate with my investigation, but your lack of cooperation impedes my police work. You want to squish me like a bug . . .”

“As much as I want Cassandra alive again.”

“That’s good. But you can’t destroy me if you don’t cooperate. The justice system might frown on your refusal to assist the very law enforcement tasked with solving your wife’s homicide.”

Ian King paused.

“Happy you agree, Ian,” I said. “What do you remember of the night of the award ceremony?”

“Nothing. It’s all dark in my mind. Dark and empty. And confusing. So much confusion. When I try to think about it, to remember, I get the worst headaches. Stabbing pain right between my eyes. Oh, it’s so awful. I can’t! I can’t work through the pain, Long. Don’t ask me to do it. To try. I can’t. My current doctor thinks my short-term memory’s shot to hell. I might never remember a thing . . . which, of course, I think is tremendous, because I’ve been told several things about her murder.”

“Do you remember your public fight with Cassandra?”

“Oh, that. It was nothing. Really. She accused me of not supporting her enough. I reminded her that it is kind of hard to support her after she banged Jetter Brown’s brains out on the big screen. We went back and forth. Sapphire stepped in. Separated us. I sat at another table.”

“Nolita Skylar.”

“She’s a close friend. I like her company. Easy girl to get along with, doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Cassandra was unnecessarily mean to her. And that night, I could use easy. I could use nice. We were minutes away from showing All the Wrong Ones to the world. My stress levels were through the roof.”

“Is that why you texted her ‘Break a leg, bitch’?”

“Yes, yes, not very nice of me, Long. But Cassandra had pissed me off so bad. ‘Break a leg’—it means good luck in the movie industry—and ‘bitch,’ I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Nolita Skylar said you asked her to wait for you naked in her room—you’d have a reason to celebrate. You never told her what the reason was?”

He lost some of the pink color in his face. “I told you, Long, Nolita is a simple girl. She gets easily excited. I meant the movie premiere would be over. The movie would be a big hit, and we could have some good sex to celebrate.”

“Cassandra didn’t object to your affair?”

“Long—the marriage was over. No pretending about it. I tried to stop it, to change her mind, but Cassandra—she didn’t want me. She wanted you.”

“Why did you follow her?”

“We had made a pact in high school—when we made it big in Hollywood, we’d drink champagne on the balcony of the most expensive hotel in the country—whether we were still together or not.”

“Is that why you set up the candles and the champagne in Cassandra’s room?”

“Me? How could I? Cassandra told security to take my key pass. It was so humiliating. Security wouldn’t even let me see her. No. I thought she had set it up. It made sense—the yearbook open, the candles, the champagne in the crystal flutes. I saw it, and for a moment it made me think we still had a fighting chance.” His lower lip trembled. “Then I looked down on the ground. There she was—my Cassandra—bludgeoned to death.”

“What did you do after you found her?”

“Drank myself into passing out.”

“How did you get in the Hall of Mirrors?”

“Don’t remember. Woke up in a strange place with lots of mirrors. It petrified me. Tried to bang on the door, but it wouldn’t open. I could hear voices from the other side. I tried to call out—then the door glided aside. The first face I saw was yours. I wanted to hurt you. Badly.”

“Can you think of anyone else Cassandra had an issue with that night?”

“… I feel a tremendous headache incoming.”

“Ian—”

“Like, everyone, Long. Ellie St. James was going around the tables telling guests she was done representing Cassandra. According to her, my wife was an ungrateful bitch. She wanted to bury her deep.”

“And that didn’t worry you?”

“I was pissed off at Cassandra. Part of me wanted to see her buried, too, after what she did to me in public and private,” Ian said. “Will you ever solve her murder? I lie in bed, imagining her killer and what I’d do to him.”

I had suffered from similar ideations, but I decided on not informing Ian of them.

“Absolutely.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“No, I am not.”

“I loved her. You know that. I have been in love with her since high school.”

“Yes.”

“Where did it go wrong for us? Who knows? And yet, despite her lies about me, I still wanted to stay with her. Did my best. Did what she asked me to. All to keep her. All to make her love me again.”

“I’m sure she appreciated it—”

“No, she didn’t. She wanted a divorce.”

“After the movie premiere.”

“Nothing to interfere with the movie premiere and the awards and the show. It was her moment. She loved every second of it. I didn’t kill her—”

“No one thinks you did.”

He rested on the tower of pillows like a boy king. Entitled. Arrogant. Happy to have cleared his name.

“What do you want from me?” Ian asked.

“Who wanted Cassandra dead?”

“No one.”

“Someone did; otherwise she wouldn’t be dead.”

He shrugged.

“Her killer could be a stranger. Have you considered that? Why are you hassling me, Long? Why?”

“A stranger wouldn’t break into a hotel room to murder a Hollywood movie star. Where’s the reasoning for that?”

“A mentally disturbed man could be behind her slaying. Yes, a stalker.”

“No stalker she complained about. And a stalker wouldn’t have the sophisticated knowledge of how to navigate the strict security at the Capitol.”

“Then I don’t know. Ask security.”

“Ian—” I said his name slowly, “your wife’s killer is still at large. Help me get him. Who hated Cassandra so much that he wanted her murdered? I saw her in the morgue. Her skull was bashed in, the ME removed half of it.”

Ian gagged. “Stop.”

“No. You have to hear this.”

“Stop, no.”

“Four hard blows. The ME said it was the worst blunt-force trauma he’d seen—in his entire career.”

“I want you to leave. Nurse,” he yelped. “Nurse, Nurse.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve told you. Now go!”

“I’ll leave when I’ve covered my bases.”

“Stop! Stop! Where’s the nurse? Nurse!” His yelping grew into shouting. “I need help. Please.”

“Ian—look at me—you can help me catch Cassandra’s killer. You can be her hero.”

“I’ll squish you like a bug.”

“You coward.”

“Nurse!”

“Is her murder connected to the diary?”

“Diary’s garbage. A vanity project. Cassandra knew it.”

“Okay,” I said. Ian wasn’t talking much, but at least he was talking again.

I said, “Could it be someone Cassandra approached for the documentary?”

“No. She wasn’t there yet. First, she needed to get a studio on board. No one wanted to produce it.”

“Have you heard of Ethan Shaw?”

“Shaw? No, who is he?”

“The waiter assigned to Cassandra’s room.”

“The creeper. Yes. He hit her up for some autographs. She turned him down. The guy was a total loser. Lightweight. No match for Cassandra’s sharp tongue.”

“Okay. That’s good, Ian. What about a female? Did Cassandra tell you anything about a female maybe hanging around her?”

“There are lots of wannabes hanging around. Cassandra was the IT girl. Everyone lined up to have their picture taken with her. Lots of females. She hated them. All she cared about was for them to make her famous.”

I handed him a photo of Ethan Shaw. “Take a look at the waiter again. He’s from the West Coast. LA area. Working for movie studios. Are you sure you two never saw him before the Capitol?”

“I’m sure, Long. He’s a lightweight. Why do you keep asking me about him? Did he kill Cassandra?”

“Maybe. Stole her diary, I think.”

“There, there you go. He’s your suspect. Go arrest him. Leave me the hell alone.”

I didn’t think he was telling me the truth.

“Ian—”

“Yes, Long?”

“Why was Cassandra communicating with a DNA lab in Frankfurt?”

“Germany.”

“Germany,” I said.

“You mean besides to ruin me?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“Oh, Long. You won’t understand.”

“I have to.”

“Frankfurt is not the reason for her murder—”

“Okay.”

“—but it’s the reason for our divorce.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“No. I will never speak of it,” he said.

“I’ll find out. It will come out.”

“Promise me—you’ll keep it private.”

“It’s not up to me,” I said.

“Sure. Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.”

“Ian—”

“Yes, Long?”

“Did Cassandra steal the script for All the Wrong Ones?”

Ian turned his head away from me. “Close the door, Long. No one can hear this.”

Chapter 37

Talking to Ian eventually gave me a splitting headache too. I left him half asleep, rambling nonsense.

Outside, Ruby manned the nurses’ station, keeping an ear to the ground.

“Did someone call for a nurse?” she said.

“Ian. He settled down on his own.”

“Thank you, Lord.” She busied herself with work.

I hung around, processing the conversation with Ian.

“He’s a piece of work, ain’t he?” Ruby said, almost as an afterthought. “In his coma you’d look at him and think—poor man. Feel sorry for him and his situation. His pretty little wife murdered in the most heinous way.”

“It’s hard not to.”

“—But I swear to you, Detective” she crossed herself with three fingers touching together in the middle, “the moment this man opened his eyes—he piled on the demands, expecting to be treated like a king. I used to think that snooty assistant of his was a lot of work, now I’ll miss her because dealing with him falls on my shoulders.”

“What happened to discharge at eleven a.m.?”

“No one has bothered to sign the paperwork, which around here means he’s not going anywhere. Not today, at least. Do you think she’ll be back?”

“Who?”

“The assistant. I don’t think I can handle them together again or I might lose my mind. If I go off on them, I could lose my job. And I need this job.”

“You’ll be okay, Ruby. I think she’s gone for good. Do you know what the fight was about?”

She shrugged. “No clue what started it. They’ve been back and forth since I got on at six this morning. They kept the yelling on low, audible, but low—then Ian King must have said something to offend her. She’s easily hurt, that one. Small things set her off.”

“Give me an example? Like what?”

“Well, let me think—yeah okay—like when you left the first time, she ordered me—me!—to stop talking to you.”

“Why?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“Did she explain herself? Give you a reason for the said order?”

“You and Ian King had a tiff going on between you. Something touchy, personal. The dead wife was involved. The assistant, I gathered, didn’t want you around. But who knows? Maybe she didn’t want you around out of personal reasons. Did you date her and break up with her?”

“Never met her until that day at the hospital,” I replied.

“Well, she was whiny and hard to handle after you left. She was buying an airplane ticket.”

“She’s from LA. Lives or lived with the Kings.”

“Nah. Canada. Ontario.”

“Canada?”

“Her laptop was open when I gave Ian his evening meds. Told the scraggly thing Ontario’s a fine city. Making small talk. Asked her if she wanted me to recommend some restaurants. My brother’s kids moved there to be with their mom. I’ve been there enough times to offer suggestions.”

“Did she take you up on your offer?”

Ruby sucked her bottom lip. “No. Told me to mind my damn business. Glad she’s gone. Really glad. You don’t think he’ll ask her back?”

“You’re in the clear,” I said. “Ruby?”

“What, Detective?”

“When was she supposed to leave Boston? Did you happen to see?”

“Only saw the airline web page. Why? Is it important?”

“No, but I would have liked to know. Just asking.”

“Sorry. Didn’t see.”

“I appreciate it.”

I gathered to say goodbye.

“Can’t be today or tomorrow. It’s sometime this week after a meeting she had.”

“A meeting in town? Are you sure?”

“It’s what she said on the phone. She had a habit of talking in the hallway. We tried to encourage her to make calls in the room, but she dismissed us.”

“This might be pushing it—”

“—happy to assist you. I like when the newspaper writes about you. Always a nice photo. Your work on the Dr. Evil case was astonishingly impressive. You must be a brave man to put yourself in harm’s way like you did. Faking cancer to lure out a serial killer.”

“Thank you, Ruby.”

“So ask me. What can I do for you?”

“I wondered if you heard who was talking to Sapphire Blackbird? Maybe she mentioned them by name?”

Ruby was already shaking her head. “Sorry, Detective. No. It has to be something about a movie, right? Must be. She worked for Hollywood royalty. Can’t be anything else?”

In the elevator, Rex sent me a single line in a message. Headed to the Capitol. See ya there!

Here we go, I said to myself.

Scott Lane fit the profile. The evidence lined up together. Tell anyone off the street what we knew of Scott Lane and they’d convict him on the spot. Save the taxpayers a pricey trial.

I should have been relieved. First official arrest in Cassandra King’s murder. I wondered how long before Scott Lane would give up Ethan Shaw and his girlfriend?

In the hospital garage, I unlocked the door to my car. Took the seat behind the wheel. I placed the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. Why would Scott Lane kill Cassandra? Where was the motive? The means was obvious. As the head of hotel security, he could easily break into her room, scrubbing any digital footprint of ever using his master key to enter. I moved on to opportunity—again the explanation was obvious.

A little too obvious, don’t you think, I pondered.

He could have slipped away during the award ceremony brawl, followed Cassandra to her room, and killed her. All under fifteen, then back to the function hall with the rest. Even if he didn’t follow her, I countered, Scott Lane knew and used the underground tunnel connected to the kitchen, leading to the service elevator—a direct shot to the Hall of Mirrors. I shuddered at the image of the blood-smeared mirrors. He’d killed her there, plain and simple.

Back to the not-so-plain-and-simple—the motive.

The front passenger door flung open. It broke my concentration. Carlos’s large frame lowered himself and squeezed in.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said crassly.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“From up there.” He tossed his head backward.

“The hospital?”

“Yep.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“Maybe I should be. For the last four minutes you’ve been talking to yourself. If I didn’t cut you off—you’d still be doing it.”

“I was not talking to myself,” I protested.

Carlos shifted his body toward me. “Listen to me, chief, I saw you with my own two eyes. You were talking to yourself. I was starting to feel bad for you. Said to myself—what if some stranger walks by and sees you. What would he think?”

I put my hands on the wheel and placed my head on top. “Dealing with a bitch of a headache. Got some aspirin on you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. The interview with Ian King kicked my butt. And I haven’t been sleeping well. So, if I was talking to myself, it’s not because I lost my mind—”

“—I didn’t think you had.” Carlos swept in his view the quiet lot. “Ian King’s a swiney manchild.”

“Yes. He’s exhausting.”

“Demanding.”

“Yes. Okay. Now you’re weirding me out.”

“The hospital has had enough of him. Reports of disruptive fights with his touchy assistant. He let her go this morning. It didn’t go over well.”

“How did you—”

“—staff liked Ian King better when he was in a coma. They felt sorry for him because his wife was murdered.”

“Nailed it.”

“His discharge was scheduled for eleven today, but the hospital’s afraid, if his midafternoon headaches aren’t resolved, they could end up with a malpractice lawsuit on their hands. Ian King’s connected. Has power and money. His campaign donations to senators offer him a level of protection.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Isn’t it obvious, chief? To show you—you don’t have to always read me in—I still have the means to find out.”

“I always read you in, Carlos.”

“No, you don’t. And that’s okay. Like I told you, I don’t need you to. I prefer if you keep something from me. Makes it more fun to dig it out for myself.”

Carlos rubbed the top of his head, amused by my comment.

“Carlos?”

“What, Long? What do you want to ask me?”

“Did you bug me? My phone? It’s highly unethical if you did.”

“Nothing of the sort. I got something far better than an eavesdropping device. They aren’t always reliable.”

“Then what?” I said. “Why are you at the hospital? What business did you have here that couldn’t wait?”

Carlos dropped his smile. In a serious voice he said, “A girl I’m seeing works on the ICU floor. We ate lunch together. She likes to talk. My girl. Nice lady. Your name came up, sporadically. Did she tell you about Ontario?”

“She did,” I said.

“Good. I suggested to her that she share it.”

“You’re a dangerous man, Carlos. Glad you’re on the side of the good guys. I would have hated if you were a criminal. Arresting you would suck.”

“No one would ever arrest me if I turned to crime.”

“I would.”

“Sure. Sure, Long. I appreciate the enthusiasm. Keep up the spirit. Seeing that I’m still a cop, you won’t have to,” Carlos said.

My phone beeped again.

“It’s your new partner,” Carlos said, not glancing at the caller ID.

“She secured the warrant for Lane’s arrest. Waiting for me at the Capitol.”

“Isn’t it interesting—”

“What, Carlos?”

“—isn’t it interesting how some Florida cop shows up in Boston and in her first week in homicide scores the biggest murder case we’ve had on our hands since Dr. Evil?”

“Jupiter put her on the case.”

“Seems interesting to me. And you know what else?”

“You’d tell me anyways—”

“—yes, Long, yes I would. Isn’t it interesting how this Florida cop connects seventeen obscure misdemeanors in our system? Kind of random. The pattern.”

“Good police work, Jupiter thinks, but yes, kind of random.”

“And there is the autopsy report—reads it like Ruby reads a trashy romance novel.”

“Delmare’s a small department. Maybe they trained them better at the medical stuff than us.”

“That could be it. Uh-huh. Explains it, right? Delmare trains their detectives to read medical reports like a medical examiner would. Makes us Boston cops look like idiots. You buying that?”

“Jupiter says—”

“Jupiter’s way over her head on this. And I bet—I bet—you tried to warn the captain your partner can’t pass the sniff test.”

“Rex’s a good cop. Yes, there are questions about her credentials—”

“Her credentials are good. She’s a lawman like you and me.”

“Then, what?”

My phone chirped again. Where are you?

“I’ll let you go. Don’t want her crashing through the Capitol Hotel without proper local supervision.”

He exited the car, fixed his suit jacket.

“Carlos—what do you mean?”

Leaning against the open window, he said, “Watch your back on the street, Long. I hear unfriendlies have infiltrated us.”

I wrapped my fingers around the leather covering of the wheel.

“Carlos—”

“I love you too, buddy.”

He had read the memo. It’s the only explanation, I told myself.

Rex texted me again. She sounded impatient.

I reversed from the parking spot. Threw the shift in Drive and peeled off.

Chapter 38

In front of the Capitol Hotel, a group of tourists was disembarking from a double-decker bus. Our paths tangled.

“The weatherman called it this morning about the rain. Can you believe how much it rained in Boston? Ruined the whole Freedom walk, Gail,” I overheard a woman talking on the phone as she strutted to the front doors of the hotel.

Another woman, however, held my gaze. She was standing by a coffee cart, dressed in distressed jeans, white tee, and her signature black leather jacket.

In that moment, Rex spotted me. She lifted her hand holding a cup of coffee.

“Started to think you wouldn’t show up. That you’d let me crash the Capitol alone.”

“Ian took a while. Spotty reception at the hospital.”

“It’s all right. Glad you made it.” She handed me the coffee. “For you. A thank-you.”

“Whatever for?”

“For backing me up in front of the boys this morning. Carlos doesn’t like me very much. Wonder why?”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

“He likes you. Fell in line quick when you encouraged him. That’s a sign of respect.”

I shrugged. “Talk to me about Scott Lane.”

“He’s in his office. Staff has been alerted to clear the floor, let us work without unnecessary concern for civilian safety.”

“You worry Lane will try to run?”

“Wouldn’t you? With his military record, I suspect he might try something funny. It’s a busy hotel, lots of options for him to run and hide. Called Jupiter to give her heads-up but the phone went straight to voice mail.”

“She’s out for personal reasons.” I took a sip of the coffee.

“Four packs of sugar and a dash of milk,” she said through a heart attack–inducing smile. “And before you accuse me of spying on you or anything of the sort—Tony told me how you like it.”

“When did you talk to Tony? And the coffee tastes exactly how I like to drink it.”

“Ran into him by chance at the grocery store in my neighborhood several nights ago. We bumped into each other in the coffee aisle. He said he lives nearby. His cart was loaded with small pink packets of sugar. Said the bar ran out, so he stopped by to buy some to hold you over until delivery day.”

“And how did the conversation shift to my coffee likes and dislikes?”

She stirred a pack of sugar in her own coffee before she tasted it. “I believe I asked him how you like to drink your coffee. Since that night Jupiter paired us up, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. And it’s been awkward ever since. Tony seems to think it’s all in my head. And told me to always call you all on your crap. Anyway, I think it’s a nice gesture between partners who trust each other to know their coffee likes and dislikes.”

“What’s yours?” I asked.

“Black usually, one sugar if it’s late in the evening and I need an extra boost.”

“Easy enough,” I replied, not thinking of her coffee order.

The group of tourists had cleared the street. It was only the two of us now. She pointed to the Capitol.

“Bozman’s Marines connections came through.”

“And?”

“Lane’s service record’s impeccable.”

“Why are you smiling? If his record’s clean—” I asked.

“—military record’s clean, yeah, but his rap sheet from California’s colorful.”

She handed me a printout. Six pages thick. The top page was an array of arrest photos: Scott Lane with short hair, blurry eyes; Scott Lane with shaved head, bloodshot eyes; Scott Lane with shaved head sporting a shiner under his right eye. The rest of the photos were pretty similar.

I skipped through the pages: simple assault, petty theft, disturbing the peace, public intoxication, disorderly conduct.

“A far cry from the spiffy suit-wearing head of security he’s now. Read the last page,” she said.

“The last time LA PD picked him up—he had a kid in the back seat of his car.”

“His daughter. Bozman’s looking for her. I think by the time we bring him in the station, Bozman should be able to tell me where she’s at. With a little luck, I think she will be in Boston.”

“Ethan Shaw’s girlfriend is Scott Lane’s daughter.”

“Exactly. Her and Shaw ran in it deep in Delmare. Escaped barely from our clutches. With no money and means to hide—I suspect Lane put them up. Found a job for Shaw at the Capitol. His daughter—somewhere else.”

“It’s good. I don’t see a problem with it.”

“But you still don’t think Shaw killed Cassandra? Jesus—Long, you’re so stuck in your ways.”

I watched her chug her coffee.

“Mind if I leave his rap sheet in your car? I parked in the back.”

She leaned in to drop it on the front passenger seat. Above us, the Capitol Hotel loomed, fourteen stories high. From the street I could see the wraparound patio of the suite where Cassandra had been killed.

“Why do you have this?”

Rex held a copy of the Delmare memo.

“Who gave this to you?” she said startled. “Long?”

I put my hand at the back of my neck, smoothing my hair. This was uncomfortable.

“Someone gave it to Tony—he gave it to me.”

“Someone? Someone who?” She scanned the page. “Who else has read it at the station?”

“No one yet. Jupiter has a copy of it, but I don’t think she’s seen it yet. Maybe Carlos. Why, Rex? What’s the big deal?”

“You should have talked to me about it first. Allow me to explain.”

“Explain or explain it away?”

There was the rushing of footsteps behind us. Tom Van Hoyte, the general manager, trotted over. “Detective—” he pointed to Rex. “You asked to tell you when Scott returned to his office?”

“Yes.”

“He’s there now, and the entire floor has been cleared, again as you asked. Do you expect more cops?”

“The two of us should be able to handle him, right?” Rex glared in my direction.

We headed in, Rex stomping two feet ahead of me. In the elevator, we ignored each other. As soon as the doors parted, she touched the butt of her gun.

“Lane’s mine. Try not to get in my way.”

“And if I don’t—”

“You’ve seen the memo, probably have a pretty clear picture of who I am—”

“I do,” I said.

“—then I will also assume you know the people I work for won’t go easy on you if you screw this up for them.” She meant her.

I opened my mouth to reply. She cut me off.

“Furthermore, those same people have the authority to bring the top of the world on your head—your local popularity and your military accolades—won’t impress them. No funny business, Long.”

“No funny business, Rex. Lane’s your guy. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“There is so much you don’t understand.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

In the hallway, we heard a female voice talking, then clapping and cheering.

“On my count—”

“On your count, Rex. No funny business. Scott Lane’s yours.”

I stepped aside. Hugging the wall, she tactically reached Lane’s office. She lifted three fingers in the air.

One. Two. On three, she led with, “Scott Lane. Open up. Police. We have a warrant for your arrest,” and kicked in the door.

A second or two behind her, I entered. She had him pinned on the desk. They struggled.

“Help me, Long. Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

I studied the seven large monitors mounted on the walls. Cassandra in each frame, captured from a different angle.

“Don’t just stand there. Come on. Help me.”

I pressed my arm on the small of Lane’s back. He continued to fight against the cuffs. Rex placed him under, locked the cuffs, and hoisted him up. “You’re coming with me.”

“Rex—”

“Scott Lane—you are—under arrest…” she started to read his rights.

“Not now, Long. Later. Later at the station,” she pulled Scott Lane by his elbow. They started for the door. She barely turned her head to me, “—and from now on—it’s Special Agent to you.”

Chapter 39

“A fed? Are you serious?” Bozman asked me. “Undercover in homicide? Why? You two must be joking.”

“No. Rex Hobbs joined the feds four years ago after graduating—med school—as a pathologist.” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “At the FBI academy, her instructor recommended her for the field. Carlos—”

Carlos said, “—the hotel robberies are her first case. She’s been on it for three years. And it’s not going as well as they expected. She screwed up in Delmare. Her mistakes cost another agent’s life—her partner’s.”

Two pairs of nervous eyes glanced at me.

“After Delmare, her supervisor requested her removal from the field office in Florida. They were furious. If our bureaucratic system didn’t move so slow, she’d have been fired.”

“How’d she end up in Boston?” Bozman crossed his arms.

“Don’t know all the details.”

Bozman was processing. “She picked out seventeen reports of hotel break-ins, Delmare to Boston. Still sounds impressive. But it also feels like a setup.”

“We all thought she was impressive.”

“I did some digging—”

“Of course you did, Carlos, because you don’t have a personal life. You come to work to dig, then go home to dig more—” Bozman rubbed the bottom of his chin with his thumb.

“—and I think I saw the connection between the seventeen break-ins and Rex. It took me some time.”

“Don’t make us squeeze it out of you. Talk.”

“I’m curious too,” I said.

Carlos’s eyes flickered with excitement. He enjoyed this part, the telling. “Peter Swayen.”

“Peter Swayen?”

“Yes. Peter is a lawyer. Works in a pricey firm in NYC. His law office sent Peter to Boston to represent a client. Booked him a room at the Metropolitan.”

“Nice place,” Bozman said. “Excellent restaurant.”

“It measured up to Peter’s expectations until—”

“—until? What?”

“His vintage Rolex went missing. Someone stole it from his room when he was lunching at the excellent restaurant at the hotel.”

“You mean to tell us a stolen Rolex is why FBI agent Rex Hobbs is in Boston?”

“The watch’s worth north of seventy thousand.”

Bozman swallowed hard. “I’m in the wrong line of business. Maybe I should go to law school.” He turned to Carlos. “There must be more to it, right? I need more.”

“You think the stolen Rolex triggered an alert in the FBI? Seventy thousand is an eye-watering sum—it might have interested the feds but sent Rex Hobbs here . . . I’m not sure. This is an expensive federal law enforcement operation. It took time to plan and execute—”

“What’s the connection between Peter, the FBI, and Rex Hobbs? How would the feds even know to look in Boston?”

“There is none.”

“There must be. Either you don’t know or you don’t want to tell us.”

“I’d tell you.”

“You’d tell us, yes, but first you’d have some fun with us.” Bozman took a step away from his partner. “Carlos—you and your games.”

“Okay. There is a small connection between Peter and the head of the local FBI field office. I looked him up, and you should too. His name is Hulk.”

“It doesn’t sound like a real name,” Bozman said.

“Hulk Swayen.”

“—Hulk Swayen activated the internal alarm system. Ran things up the flagpole. Eventually, it traveled to Florida,” I said.

My attention averted to Scott Lane. What had Rex called him?

Our guy.

Bozman still unsatisfied, fretted.

“The brother connection answers only part of the Rex Hobbs problem, doesn’t it? It doesn’t actually explain why the FBI sent us an undercover. Why? Why? I don’t understand.”

“This is his process. It will take a while before he settles,” Carlos said to me.

“—we can combine resources, run a joint investigation. Why keep us out of the loop, people?”

“The decision wasn’t unanimous, if that helps,” Carlos said. “My source thinks—”

“Your source? Now you have a source? What source? You have a spy at the FBI?” Bozman threw his hands in the air. “Are you hearing this too, Long? Carlos—talk!”

“Her name is Penny, a fine woman. Likes to talk. Works in the travel department. Arranges agents’ relocations. Sporadically, she tells me small, unimportant things—”

“—why am I not surprised.”

“Continue, Carlos. What did Penny say?” I said.

“The FBI, these unprofessional backstabbers. I feel like talking to someone. Writing a strong-worded email to the local field office.” Bozman picked up a pen, uncapped it.

“It’s not a good idea, Bozman.”

“Sure it is.”

“No.” Carlos stepped in.

“They must explain.”

Carlos stared at me with his little knowing smile.

“Something else we haven’t considered.”

“Yes—all three should sign the grievance letter.”

“No, Bozman. We don’t know if the FBI requested a joint investigation or not. They could have. But maybe they got shut down.”

“Someone’s thinking. It’s Delmare that initiated the request. Probably Rex Hobbs asked for it. The request was overruled.”

Bozman chuckled. “Overruled? Hmm. Let’s think about this. The FBI first cooperated with the local Delmare PD.”

“They did,” I said.

“Things went horribly wrong for them, for the two agencies.”

“Yes. One dead.”

“And they lost their suspects. Now the FBI looks like they don’t know how to run a clean operation. Rex’s career is on the chopping block.”

“That’s good. Her supervisor wanted her gone, off the case and out of Florida.”

“The trail to the criminals is cold. The FBI’s putting feelers out, but no one’s biting. The more time goes by, the more helpless it seems the FBI will have a breakthrough. Then Agent Hulk Swayen raises a stink, catches Florida’s attention.”

Bozman had been talking for some time.

“Now Boston’s in play.”

“Florida field office’s open to cooperate with us, if we can trust Carlos’s source.”

“We can.”

Bozman lifted his arms in the air, shook his head. He was stuck. “Then who overruled them? Who has the power?”

“There is an option we haven’t considered yet,” I jumped in.

“Which is?”

“When did Rex show up in town, Bozman?”

Bozman paused. Remembering. “The week of the movie premiere.”

“Correct. Let’s stay on it. Boston doesn’t host movie premieres. It’s Hollywood or New York’s game. First time for Boston.”

“—because Cote wants Hollywood to invest in Boston. A new stream of revenue to revitalize our entertainment economy.”

“Yes. You’ve been paying attention. Cote’s directive is clear, every cop on the street and on their best behavior.”

“Okay. Okay. For three days straight our resources are spread thin at the Capitol, managing the movie premiere.”

“Do you see it yet?” Carlos asked.

Bozman scanned the floor. He picked up his foot to inspect the bottom of his shoe. “Media was on top of us.”

“National media.”

“Lots of celebrities in Boston.”

“Famous people. Keep going,” I said.

“Speeches every day by politicians.”

“They love to talk,” Carlos said.

“Mayor Cote! She told the FBI to go undercover.”

Carlos interjected.

“It would make the city look bad if the FBI announced they’re working a joint task force with Boston PD trying to bring in a pair of robbers after the issues they had in Delmare.”

“Now, the situation is made worse after Cassandra is killed in her hotel room. Cote’s applying political pressure on Jupiter and the FBI. Rex’s quietly inserted, even I’m not read in.”

The three of us stared at Scott Lane.

“We did everyone’s dirty work, didn’t we?” I asked.

Carlos chinned toward me. “The feds underestimated you, though. They didn’t suspect you’d ask Tony to check out Rex. Penny tells me—his call to the Delmare chief raised lots of internal red flags.”

“Tony was checking out Rex? What are you talking about?” Bozman asked quietly.

Carlos nodded, “It’s a good story. Remind me to tell you after this is over.”

“Don’t think I want to hear it. My head hurts. Years ago I accepted the fact, Carlos, that you see it all, know it all.”

“What do you want to do now? The feds have Scott Lane. They won’t let anyone near him.”

A long pause passed. Going around the FBI to talk to Scott Lane would be impossible. Impractical to try.

“Well—Captain Jupiter’s trying to prevail,” Bozman said. “She’s held up in her office with several FBI supervisors. And she’s giving them hell.”

“Too late for that, boys. Jupiter and Cote are tight. Their back-door deals could cost me Cassandra’s murder.”

Scott Lane shuffled in his seat. Cleared a catch in his voice. I studied him. Thinking about the monitors in his office, watching outtakes of Cassandra King. Why?

The questions were eating me up alive. He was in my interrogation room, and I couldn’t touch him. He belonged to another agency.

I rubbed the bottom of my lip.

“Long?”

“Yes, Carlos?”

“You remember how I told you I like mysteries?”

“I do. Keep you out of the loop because you like digging up the dirt.”

“That’s right. Well, this is not one of these times.”

“You want the dirt?”

“Yes. Why are you hiding out here? Why aren’t you in Jupiter’s office, raising hell about the unfriendly invaders?”

“—it was Lane in Shaw’s apartment that I saw. It was him I ran after. And he wasn’t alone. Bozman—have you found Lane’s daughter yet?”

“Still working on it. She experienced stretches of homelessness as a child. Some too as an adult. Never held a driver’s license under her birth name. But she did work as a maid in hotels in Arizona and Las Vegas. I placed calls to them. Waiting for a representative to get back to me.”

“Good. Arizona and Las Vegas are the locations specifically named in Rex’s memo. I think there’s a pretty good chance—Ethan Shaw and Lane’s daughter are behind the robberies.”

“Are they behind Cassandra’s murder?” Carlos said.

“I need to talk to Scott Lane—”

“You’d have to wait—”

“Before the feds, Bozman.”

“That’s not happening.” Bozman placed a supportive hand on my shoulder. Squeezed it.

“No. I can’t wait. It’s crucial.”

“It always is,” Bozman waxed on.

“You’re not listening to me. Scott Lane knows something about Cassandra’s murder. When we arrested him, he was watching tapes of hers.”

“I’ll have a unit bring them over, try to see what he was searching for.” Carlos got on the phone.

“Carlos,” I said. “I need five minutes alone with Scott Lane. Can you manage that?”

Carlos smirked. “Of course I can.”

“Five minutes away from the interrogation. Somewhere I can talk to him without interruption. Bozman, go call those hotels again. Don’t stop until you get a person to talk to you. Have them fax you anything they have on Lane’s daughter.”

“Are you okay with this, Carlos?” Bozman fisted his hands.

“I am,” Carlos replied.

“I’m not. Absolutely not. It’s nuts. Maybe after I get fired, I can go to law school and finally afford a seventy-thousand-dollar Rolex.”

I left the recording room, tense. If Carlos delivered Scott Lane to me, I would be able to add the last piece to my investigation.

And finally, finally solve Cassandra’s murder.

Chapter 40

Lane squinted against the weak light. From a dark corner, I spotted a folding chair, extracted it, unfolded it, and placed it in front of Scott Lane.

“Sorry about the shabby accommodations.”

For several seconds, Lane studied the basement closet he’d been deposited in. Brooms and dustpans to the right, ladders and janitorial cleaning supplies to the left.

“How come you’re alone?” The metal handcuffs rattled against the metal frame of the chair.

“Who? My partner? She’s preoccupied.” I checked my watch. “Not for long. We should talk.”

“I already gave her my statement. I’m not talking—”

“—until your lawyer gets here. Yes. You’re a smart-dumb criminal, Scott, but you’re wasting time. Really, we should hurry. She’ll find us, and when she does—my partner won’t like that I’ve taken you out of the interrogation room.”

“Why did you? Is the closet to scare me?”

“Is it working? Are you scared, Scott?”

“No.”

“Good. You’re here because I’m hiding you.”

He looked at me with confusion.

“You don’t get it?”

“No. Whatever game you and her are playing—”

“We’re not. Actually, we’re not real partners. Will you talk to me now?”

“Of course you’re partners. Good cop. Bad cop. Who are you supposed to be? Man—” He threw his head backwards. “I’m not dumb.”

“You’re smarter than most criminals I’ve cuffed. And dumb because you’re wasting time you don’t have.”

“I have all the time in the world, Detective. This is the long game.”

I had to pause. Change my tactics. He wasn’t willing to trust me. And why would he? His daughter’s fate hung in the balance.

“Scott? May I call you Scott?”

“May I call you Long?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, Long.”

“Upstairs, the feds know something about you. I’ve seen their case file against—someone you love.”

“They’re wasting their time. I’ve done no harm to anyone, ever, in my life. My record’s spotless. The Capitol Hotel will back me up. My men too.”

“Nice words that won’t impress the feds. Your name is all over their investigation going back at least three years back.”

“Years?”

“Yes. Scott—years.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Scott—be smart now. You might not have the full extent of it, but you’ve been told some, and you’ve figured out some on your own.”

“They can keep looking at me—but—”

“They will find you haven’t stolen anything.”

“Yes.”

“Now, again, you’re not listening. They know that. They don’t intend to pursue the charges against you.”

“Then why bring me in? The cuffs? The interrogations? At the Capitol, I run good security operations. My men are vetted. We keep the floors secured. It’s always a smooth operation.”

“You like the Capitol?”

“I do. It’s the best job.”

“You care about people’s safety?”

“Absolutely. That’s why no one is robbing our guests.”

“That’s not entirely true, Scott.”

“What has gone missing? Tell me.”

“Cassandra’s diary.”

Scott grew pensive. “An old notebook. She could have left it in LA.”

“She didn’t, Scott. Who took it? Ethan Shaw? He’s a huge movie fan. Loves Cassandra King. You’ve seen his apartment.”

“Never been there. And I liked Shaw. Nice kid. Don’t know what happened to him? Why is he missing?”

Outside the door, noises disrupted us. Scott Lane stared at the door in anticipation.

“It must be them, going door to door till they find us. Quick. There might still be time left to save her.”

“Save who? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lane’s attention stayed on the door. The noises grew louder.

“They know about her. They have her on video working as a maid in Arizona and Nevada. And they have him in Delmare. Like I told you, the feds have been after Ethan Shaw and his girlfriend for years. I’ve read the memo. Impressive little document.”

He flinched.

I carried on. “Don’t let them get to her first. The woman that arrested you—Rex Hobbs—a cop died on her watch in Delmare. She wants justice. She wants it bad. And you’re all that stands in her way to getting it.”

“Stop talking!” he said defiantly.

“Where’s the diary, Scott? Do you have it?”

Scott Lane froze.

“This has nothing to do with me. I never saw the diary or had it.”

“Okay. I tried, Scott. I really tried. When the feds get your daughter, and they will, you won’t be able to help her.”

“I don’t have a daughter.”

“You don’t?” I said.

“No.”

I showed him a digital photo on my phone. The girl was young, like twenty-something young. Skin flushed with youth. Dark, loose waves. Brown, daring eyes.

Scott Lane glanced at her, then shifted in his chair. The noises had paused for the moment.

“Never seen her before.”

I adjusted the size of the photo to be smaller.

“How about now? Better?”

I pointed to the corner of the screen. “That’s Cassandra’s signature. A personal autograph from her to your aspiring actress daughter—Sunbell Lane. It took one of my partners a lot of dirt digging to find Sunbell Lane’s name. You’ve taught her well.”

“This girl?”

“Yes. This girl?”

“—I’ve never seen before.”

I exhaled. “I wish you’d stop it. May I remind you who’s after Sunbell? The feds. They don’t care if she’s your daughter. Their single objective is to bring her in and throw the book at her.”

Scott Lane trembled in the chair. His shoulders vibrated. The anguish on his face could crush you.

“She’s a stupid kid. Made a mistake.”

“Made a series of really—really—really bad mistakes, Scott. Someone died in Florida over her mistake.”

He resisted. “You got me. Charge me. I waive my rights to an attorney.”

“Scott—”

“—bring in the FBI lady. Rex Hobbs. I’ll give her the signed confession.”

“That’s admirable of you and, on some level, very fatherly. But it won’t work. Sunbell’s an adult, and she needs to answer for her crimes.”

“It’s my fault. I told her and Shaw what to do.”

“No. You were never part of their crimes. The first time you heard about it was after you got Shaw the job at the Capitol and your daughter at the Metropolitan. She stole the Rolex. Both you and Shaw were pissed off at her. They were supposed to leave that life behind, but she couldn’t walk away. That’s why Shaw broke up with her, because after Delmare, he was done. He didn’t want to rob anymore. Not Sunbell.”

“She’s sick. I tried to get her help.”

“Help she didn’t want.”

“No. She tells me she can stop on her own.”

“But you don’t believe her.”

“After the awards, Shaw was supposed to quit and take Sunbell back to LA. I couldn’t have them in Boston. I told Shaw to finish off his shift. Cassandra was irritated with Shaw asking her for an autograph. I asked her if she wanted a new waiter. She said no, so I let Shaw stay on until his shift was over.”

“When you heard Cassandra was killed, it crossed your mind? Did you wonder if Sunbell had murdered her?”

“Yes. There were diamonds, expensive clothes, watches—I thought Sunbell had snuck into Cassandra’s room. Cassandra had shown up and surprised Sunbell. I feared Sunbell bludgeoned Cassandra to death to protect herself.”

“But then I told you nothing was stolen—”

“And I felt relief, until I discovered Shaw was missing. I had asked him to see me that morning. I wanted to search his locker, make sure nothing had been stolen.”

“How did you discover Shaw took Cassandra’s diary?”

“Sunbell told me. She wouldn’t give it back unless—”

“—you broke into Shaw’s apartment.”

“—and stole the metal box. She wanted to sell the jewelry and the watches for cash. Hit the road. The diary—I wanted to give it back to you. If you had the diary back, you wouldn’t have a reason to look for Sunbell anymore. That’s why I broke into Shaw’s apartment. Didn’t think cops would be there. You startled me. I feared you’d catch me after you jumped off the balcony.”

“Why were you watching tapes of Cassandra?”

“I was trying to find Sunbell. She showed up at the Capitol. I was furious with her, but she told me she would wait for Shaw to leave work. They would go back to his apartment. Pack and leave town. Of course, I believed her, left her alone for a minute. And then—”

“We have the tapes, Scott. Do you want me to tell you what’s on them?”

He nodded.

“The tape shows Sunbell tracking Cassandra King. It also shows Sunbell following Cassandra to the private elevator. There the tape stops. No cameras on the elevator. Then, twenty minutes later, Sunbell is back in focus. Loiters for another five minutes, seems to be looking for someone. I think she was either looking for you or Ethan—when she doesn’t find either one of you—she leaves through the back.”

Lane stayed quiet.

“Where is she?”

“My baby girl didn’t kill Cassandra.” He broke down. “My kid’s not a killer.”

“Scott—”

He didn’t reply.

“Scott—”

“What, Detective? What do you want? I’ve told you everything. Offered to go to jail if you leave Sunbell alone. I want to be left in peace. Can you take me back to wait for FBI agent Rex Hobbs?”

“Almost done. Scott. Soon I’ll bring you back.”

The noise started back up. This time, it sounded threatening. Doors were opened and slammed. I had no more time.

“We need to talk faster now. Okay?”

“Okay? What more can I tell you?”

“Where is she? Still in Boston, right? She can’t leave, because you didn’t bring her the box from Shaw’s apartment, so she’s stuck with no money and an old diary that’s not worth a lot of money.”

Doors opened. Then slammed.

“I’ve been looking for her too, Detective.”

I glanced behind me. Rex Hobbs yanked open the door to the broom closet.

“Detective Collins,” she said officially. “Step away from Mr. Lane.”

“Where’s Sunbell? Where’s Ethan Shaw?” I asked.

“Detective, another word and I’ll arrest you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I shot back at Rex.

She snapped out her handcuffs, bumped her shoulder against mine.

“I don’t want to, but you leave me no choice. Now—step back. It’s over. You hear me? Over.” She underscored the last part.

Lane shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. Find her, please. Don’t let her get hurt. She’s a stupid kid. A stupid kid that made some awful choices.”

Rex Hobbs positioned herself between Lane and me. Lifted him up by the elbow. “Come with me.”

“He’s all yours, Agent,” I said.

Chapter 41

I was hungry. Exhausted. And my mind was numb. I walked into Last Call. Only the regulars were there. Tony waved hello as he collected empty beer bottles and dishes off a table, then placed them in a big gray plastic bin.

Helen and Beatrice Ashburn were at the bar splitting a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

They giggled when they saw me and took turns giving me a hug. It felt good to be out of the station. Away from Rex Hobbs.

“Join us,” Helen said.

“Bartender, we will need another bottle.” Beatrice turned over the bone-dry bottle of Pinot.

“Not tonight,” I said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I told you, Helen, something big’s going down across the street.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I prefer to be alone,” I said to Helen.

I opened a new bottle of wine for them and refilled their cups. For myself, I chose gin. I splashed a finger in a glass and cheered with them.

I gulped it in a single breath.

Their eyes met my gaze.

“You never drink gin,” Helen said.

“I do now.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason? I felt like it.”

“What’s wrong with the gin?” Ashburn asked.

“Nothing—” Helen stopped. “Gosh, it’s Cassandra, isn’t it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You don’t have to be. The gin gave you away.”

“What’s wrong with the gin?” Ashburn repeated.

“Nothing—”

“You already said that and right after you mentioned Cassandra, and right after that you—” Ashburn pointed at me, “you confirmed it. Should I repeat my question?”

“I’ll let you tell her the story. It hasn’t been a good day. I need to be alone. Excuse me, ladies. The wine’s on the house tonight.”

In the corner booth, I slid in with the bottle of gin and poured myself a second drink. I sipped it.

Before I left the station, I’d instructed Carlos to type up the Sunbell Lane information. “Include a general overview of our theory. Name Sunbell Lane and Ethan Shaw as the masterminds behind the hotel robberies.” Scott Lane, I’d told Carlos, was nothing but a hapless father caught in the middle of it all.

Lastly, I told Carlos to keep my name out of the report.

“Give it to Rex Hobbs directly,” I had said on my way out. “She’ll place it in the right FBI hands.”

I should have felt relief that this part of the investigation was over. There was a small chance Sunbell Lane and her boyfriend, Ethan Shaw, were connected to Cassandra King’s murder. I began thinking of the different scenarios where that could be true. The most convincing one was the tape.

Sunbell had tracked Cassandra King. Followed her to the elevators. Twenty minutes later, she was back in the lobby. The film didn’t lie.

My mind turned to Ethan Shaw. Now, he was more complicated. From his employee key card, I knew he’d clocked in once during the day to deliver a pastry tray and coffee to Cassandra. He was scheduled to deliver room service to her again after the ceremony—I had no record of him doing that. I couldn’t connect him to the murder scene using the employee log in. I stayed on Ethan Shaw. He was an inspiring movie writer who worked on movie sets and was obsessed with Hollywood. His apartment was a treasure filled with expensive Hollywood memorabilia. In my mind, I saw him as a potential killer.

I sipped from the gin.

“Carlos called for you.” Tony Romero took a seat.

“Take a message.”

“Already did. He said ‘he did what you asked him to do, but if your name came up he won’t lie.’ What did you get yourself into?”

“Carlos handed a report to Rex outlining my theory about who is behind the hotel robberies. Asked Carlos to sign it without mentioning me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“She should know. It’s her case. I would like to know if I was in her shoes. It’s the right thing to do, and it backs up the memo she wrote three years ago.”

“Absolutely. But it’s not what we’re discussing. And it’s not what Carlos said.” Tony looked down at my empty glass. “Why didn’t you want Rex to know you helped her close her case?”

I saw her fling the broom closet door open. She dangled her handcuffs in my face. Bumped my shoulder to the side.

“She threatened to arrest me on federal obstruction if I didn’t stop questioning her suspect.”

“Wait. What? Charge you with a crime?”

“You heard me. Yes. If I didn’t stop questioning Scott Lane. She was this close to slapping the cuffs on me.”

Tony cursed quietly under his breath.

“Now at least the feds case’s nearly closed. She won’t be sticking around town.”

Tony poured gin in my glass.

“Thanks,” I said.

“If anyone calls for you, I’ll tell them you’ve gone home for the night. You earned it. I’ll leave you be.”

Police grille lights flashed on the street. It reminded me of the night Jupiter drove me to the Capitol Hotel. A second passed, I stood in the middle of Cassandra’s suite. The walls of the Hall of Mirrors were smeared in blood. Hers.

My stomach churned. I drank gin.

Next, I examined the marble floor. A halo of her blood. Cassandra’s dead body in the center of it.

A sip from the gin. And another.

The crime scene stayed. It was trying to tell me something, but the gin was kicking in, slowing the natural flow of my thoughts.

In the sluggish state I found myself in, I hit pause on a single image—the award. What was the trouble with the award?

Silver-and-gold base, sharp edges, the bust of a breasted woman. A beautiful statue that symbolized Cassandra’s astronomical success as a writer, producer, and actress. The award, a symbol, I told myself, of her success.

I pretended to see Cassandra holding it. It didn’t fit right and I didn’t know why. She was on video accepting it, thanking herself to a packed room, angering everyone with her selfishness.

“Eyes up here, Long.”

Rex stood next to the booth. Still a touch of fury splashed across her beautiful features.

“Haven’t you seen a pair of cop standard-issue boots?”

“I figured yours were FBI standard-issue boots,” I said.

“Whatever.” She pointed to my glass. “Gin?”

“Yes.”

“Usually when I drink, I prefer a spicy margarita, but Captain Jupiter warned me about the quality of mixed drinks in this bar. ‘Beer or nothing,’ I believe, were her exact words.”

She picked up the gin, splashed a finger in my glass. Drained it.

“Gin. Had it once in college. Worst hangover of my life.”

“Can’t picture many pathologists to be lovers of gin.”

She put the glass down. It made a dull thud.

“They are not. Pretty boring crowd, honestly.”

“Explains why you didn’t stay in the field. Not as exciting as the FBI.”

“Long—”

“Rex.—”

“You’re still pissed off.”

“Yes.”

“Would it change how you feel if I told you I advised my superiors to be truthful with you?”

“No.”

“Would it change how you feel if I told you coming to Boston wasn’t up to me? I didn’t have a choice?”

She continued to speak. “The head of the field office in Boston sent a nationwide notice alerting the FBI of a robbery at the Metropolitan. The MO of the crime fit the criteria in the Florida branch. The whole operation was put together hastily. Not a lot of planning went into some of the logistics. At first, I was supposed to investigate if the Metropolitan Hotel could be connected to the robberies in Florida. The rest came naturally.”

“Do me a favor— pack your bags and hastily go back to Florida.”

She squeezed her fists. “Why do you always have to make everything so hard, huh? My boss gave me an order. I followed it. You would have done the same.”

“And now your work in Boston’s done, so leave!”

“Not yet. I read the report Carlos handed in.”

“What report? He didn’t tell me. I swear we need to teach him how the chain of command works at the police department.”

“The report in which he brilliantly outlined Sunbell Lane and Ethan Shaw’s role behind the robberies across the country. I particularly liked how it wove in a memo I wrote post-academy— first connecting several random hotel robberies in California.”

“Did the report help?”

“Yes, very. Another team’s on it. Checking with hotels in Boston and Delmare. Boston PD has their description too. We will get them. This time together. A joint investigation between the two law enforcement agencies, as should have been done from the start. No more secrets. No more lies. We’re in this together.”

“This deserves a toast.”

“Long—”

“Rex—”

“I know you wrote the report.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t want your name to be attached to it.”

“Where would you get a silly notion like that?”

“I know you were trying to protect me by questioning Scott Lane without me. I was hyperfocused on Lane. So hyperfocused that I lost track of things. You tried to voice your concerns but I shut you down. I do that sometimes. I question myself more so now after they shot the agent in Florida. I had the lead, but I didn’t have the foresight to see when I walked the team straight into a trap—”

“No one could predict these situations. That’s why our job is inherently dangerous.”

“You do, and you did. Tried to warn me. I’m sorry, Long.”

“Would you like your own glass?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

“I can ask Tony to look up how to make a spicy margarita.”

“No. I kind of like drinking gin. Drinking gin with you.”

We drank another glass. It was getting late. The bar was officially closed for the night.

At the bar, Helen and Beatrice Ashburn had finished their wine. Helen waved goodbye.

“I’ll make sure she gets into an Uber. See you at home,” she said.

I smiled.

“Long, any chance you’ll arrest Cassandra’s killer tonight?” Beatrice Ashburn asked.

“Yes. There’s always a chance. Why tonight?”

“I’m judging Pitch Fest tomorrow at the Boston Public Library. Everyone will be asking about the investigation. I’d like to tell them something positive; otherwise, the entire day will drag on.”

I glanced at Rex—smiling, pretty, skin flushed with color from the gin.

“Beatrice, you can tell them the FBI and Boston PD are running a joint investigation. We’re closing in.”

Chapter 42

In the darkness of my apartment, I shed my coat and let it fall on the floor. I kicked off my shoes and unbuckled my belt. It felt good.

I drank some cold orange juice from the fridge. There was a woman on the bottle who looked a lot like Rex.

My phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor. I let it do its thing. I headed for the stairs to shower. Maybe I’d sleep if the dream gods showed me mercy.

As I climbed to the bedroom, I heard the second and third attempts someone made to get me on the phone.

I’d call them after my shower.

At the top step, the phone rang again.

Now, paranoia let itself in uninvited.

I darted back down and fished my cell from my coat. The area code seemed strange. Foreign.

“Hello. Detective Long Collins, Boston Homicide,” I said, the usual spiel.

The connection was crisp and clear when the caller introduced himself.

Dr. Otto Klaus Volmer. A German scientist.

“Frankfurt?”

“Yes. With the National DNA Laboratory of Human Genealogy,” he explained in a thick German accent I struggled to understand at times.

He explained the reason for his delayed call to me. A symposium in Belgium had kept him away from his lab. His secretary didn’t deem a request from American police merit she disturbed him in Belgium.

After several seconds of pleasantries, Dr. Otto Klaus Volmer cleared his voice and got to the point.

“Cassandra King,” he said.

“Yes. I’m the detective investigating her murder. She called your lab frequently. I was wondering if you can explain why? It might aid my investigation.”

A brief pause followed that spread to a few minutes.

“Doctor—”

“I’m still here,” Otto Klaus Volmer said.

For the remainder of the conversation he spoke exclusively. Walked me through his initial conversation with Cassandra, the reason why she hired him, and the reason why she chose a German DNA lab over a domestic one.

“The potential fear of getting out was the driving force,” he explained in his German accent.

He took my silence for an invitation to continue.

Soon, in a gentle manner, he walked me through the results of the test Cassandra had paid for.

I listened, profoundly stunned at the revelations. With an unsteady gait, I sat at the kitchen table. The cell glued to my ear.

The Boston Police Metro glowed in yellow light, outlining its letters on my apartment walls.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Did I? Only about a million of them.

“Can you repeat?”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” I said, “but this time explain it to me in simple terms like I’m a fifth grader.”

The reference was lost on the German scientist. He explained himself again, using twice the medical jargon, sending me spiraling in utter confusion.

“Could the lab have made a mistake?”

He replied, “No.” The science was precise. The results indisputable. “But if you wish, my lab can send you the files. Have them checked in an American lab.”

I thanked him.

“I saw her movie—All the Wrong Ones—in Brussels. Had no plans to do so, but after I learned of her death, I felt compelled to. Nice production. Talented woman. She wrote and produced it?”

It depends on who you asked, but I didn’t say it.

I bid him good-night. “Before I let you go, Doctor—”

“It’s lunchtime in Frankfurt. I don’t mind. What else?”

“Did she know?”

“Yes. I planned on waiting after the awards show to tell her, but Cassandra phoned. Said she had the award in her hands, so technically the awards show was over. She pressured me into disclosing the results to her.”

I sat at the table, staring at the now-quiet phone. In my head I replayed every word of the conversation. Somehow, thinking about it left me further spiraling into a mental block.

The hows and the whys kept coming at me from each direction. My mind was an empty, cavernous space.

A text from Jupiter put me in a better place. “My office. As soon as humanly possible.”

It gave my brain a reason to refocus instead of keep dwelling on the news from Frankfurt.

It was standing-room-only in Jupiter’s office. I was one of the last detectives to trickle in.

“Listen up, people.” Jupiter’s voice boomed over the lively conversations happening.

“Since I have your attention,” Jupiter swept the room with her eyes, “there has been a development.”

There has been a major development, only I didn’t think the captain was talking about Germany.

“Bozman—you’re up.”

A copy of a single piece of sheet was distributed.

“The woman is Sunbell Lane,” Bozman said. “She’s wanted by us and the FBI in connection to hotel robberies and the murder of Cassandra King.”

Chatter broke out. The general idea was Sunbell looked too young, too innocent, and too wholesome to be a murder suspect. They were iffy if she was a thief.

“Trust me.” Rex Hobbs spoke up, bringing the room to a standstill. “—she’s neither of these things. Sunbell Lane—” Hobbs declared “—Miss Lane is ruthless and calculative with remarkable shooting skills. She gunned down and killed a good agent in the Florida raid. This man—Ethan Shaw—might be with her. His status is presently unknown.”

Jupiter took over from Rex. “A motel receptionist called our Crime Stopper tip line. It seems one of our street units was canvassing the area earlier tonight; showed around Miss Lane’s photo, that’s how we know where our suspect is hiding. But our window is narrowing down. She might flee the state any second.

Jupiter paused for effect. “Pack your gear, no one’s going home yet, until Sunbell Lane’s in police custody. You all are going back on the street.”

“—on behalf of the FBI, I’d like to express our gratitude for your cooperation,” Rex said, “the Bureau didn’t have the right approach at first, we are not perfect.”

“Who is, in our profession? Things change too quickly for us to chase perfection.” Jupiter directed her attention on me.

“Remember,” Rex said as we started to leave. “Sunbell Lane’s not the innocent face from the photo you have. She’ll shoot you if your guard’s down. So don’t let it be.”

I reached for the door.

“Long, stay,” Jupiter said. “You too, Agent Hobbs.”

After everyone else left, Jupiter studied us carefully.

“You must have many questions.” She eyed me.

“I don’t—”

“—and every right to be upset—”

“I’m not—”

“—and if we weren’t pressed for time, I’d be offering you a better explanation as to why I supported Rex’s cover.”

“That’s not—”

“Soon we will discuss it. Won’t we?” She turned to Rex.

“Yes. Count me in. I want to make this right.”

“It’s not necessary. Agent Hobbs and I already talked—”

“You did?”

“Yes. At my bar. She stopped earlier. The air is clear. I have no pressing questions. Honestly, I really want to move on. Bring in Sunbell Lane. Assisting Agent Hobbs in closing her case is not a problem at all.”

“That’s right . . . wait a minute.” Rex shot me a disbelieving look. “Closing my case? Sunbell Lane’s on film following Cassandra to the elevators.”

“Long—is there anything you want to share with the group?”

So much more I want to share.

“In the spirit of cooperation, I would like a chance to interview Ms. Lane before the FBI.”

Rex shuffled beside, “Out of the question. Captain, you’re not actually considering this absurd request.”

“I am. Why not?”

“Because the longer Sunbell Lane’s on the ropes questioned by anyone else than the FBI she might wise up and stop talking. We lose momentum.”

“If Agent Hobbs insists, we can look at it this way—murder charges carry a more serious penalty than robbery.”

“Not when a federal agent has been killed.”

“Okay.” Jupiter restored peace in the room. “I’ll give your request strong consideration—”

“It shouldn’t be considered at all. Your detective removed an FBI suspect to question him unauthorized—the damage—”

“—no damage was done to your case. Scott Lane actually provided Detective Long with crucial information the FBI is now in possession of. As I previously stated—upon apprehending Sunbell Lane and upon her agreeing to speak, I’ll allow FBI Agent Hobbs to interview first. Unless—you have something else to say that could change my mind.”

I didn’t.

Rex stepped forward, “Fair point. I won’t make excuses for the Bureau. From an operational standpoint, things could have been handled with more transparency. And I tried to make my superiors see the error in their decision.”

Jupiter stopped her with a wave of her hand.

“You’ve proven to be a cop with excellent instincts; this is why I find it hard to come to terms with my decision.”

“What do you mean? Not pulling me off the case, are you?”

“Technically, you’re not Boston PD. Jurisdictionally, you belong to another agency.”

“But I have been on the Cassandra King murder since day one. I know it better than any other cop.” Rex chinned to the pit outside Jupiter’s office.

“There’s no argument there, Agent. The cops you’re referring to have a badge and a gun issued by the city of Boston. And you don’t.”

I should have let it ride out.

“I trust Rex’s judgment as I trusted Tony. In the field, she’s top tier. Grant her a consulting status and I can take her with me.”

“An FBI consultant with Boston Homicide? It’s a sell I can make. Prepare to go out together. I’ll give you an update soon.”

Jupiter kicked us out. I heard her say behind me, “I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Long. This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”

“I’m in the business of catching killers, Captain. Not to play games.”

Rex waited for me outside. “I thought we were good. That we made nice at the bar.”

“We are. We did. All nice between us.”

“I don’t understand you—”

“Rex—I want coffee. You want one?”

“Yes.”

“Black, one sugar.”

“Yes.” She followed me to the break room. “I need to close this case, Long. I can’t allow you to run off again with a federal suspect.”

“I won’t.”

“—because I’m in deep with my supervisors.”

“I heard. You’re now consulting with us. It doesn’t have a good ring to it.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She took the coffee from me. “Did you mean what you said in there?”

“I do.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“There are a number of things I haven’t told you. For example, I hold the Navy record as the shooter with the longest distance. Fifteen hundred meters. Are you impressed?”

“Yes. What are you not telling me? I can tell when you’re hiding something from me. I got use to your quiet moments.”

“Quiet moments?”

“Yes, when something about the investigation sticks out to you. And only you—you retreat. Talk to me, okay? Or don’t. You have your pick of reasons not to trust me. But I’ll appreciate it if you put some trust in me. I can really use a boost in confidence right about now.”

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

Chapter 43

The Quality Inn was tucked away on 95 North. It offered free HBO and cable. For the stellar price of two hundred dollars a night, free breakfast was included.

A gated pool took up the courtyard. At night, the place gave off pleasant vibes. I’m sure in daylight pleasant was a far stretch.

“She’s on the third floor,” Bozman explained. “Checked in at eleven o’clock this evening. According to the receptionist, Uber dropped off a sandwich in a bag and french fries.”

“Is she in her room alone?”

“The receptionist thinks so, Long. She hasn’t seen any visitors.”

“No Ethan Shaw?”

“We showed her Ethan’s photo again, but the lady doesn’t recognize him,” Carlos said. “I sent another unit to the motel down the road. Maybe Ethan’s staying there. What do you want us to do?”

I looked up to the third floor. From under the curtains, I could see the lights of the television.

“Remember, she’s armed and dangerous,” Rex said.

“Has Scott Lane made any attempt to contact her?”

“None. He went straight to his apartment after we cut him loose. His phone’s shut off. A unit’s watching him.”

“I’ll call the FBI street unit. They’re watching him too.”

Bozman stepped closer to me. “She seems extra nervous.”

“Like a baby bunny.”

“Both of you, cut her some slack. An agent died on her watch in the Delmare raid. She’s doing her best.”

Carlos studied me. “Did the Frankfurt doctor get a hold of you?”

“Carlos—”

“He called me after he tried to call you two times. I advised him to keep trying you.”

“We spoke.”

“He told you about the DNA test?”

“Yes.”

“What test?” Bozman asked.

“Cassandra hired a German lab for a DNA test.”

“Why?”

“Yes, Long. Why? The doctor must have told you.”

“He did, Carlos. We should talk about it after we catch Sunbell Lane.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “The birdy nesting on the third floor is not your killer.”

“She could be.”

“Why did Cassandra hire a DNA lab? What did I miss? Carlos, you tell me if Long won’t.”

Rex rejoined the group. “The FBI also thinks Scott Lane’s laying low out of abundant caution for the safety of his daughter.” She studied our faces. “What? Did something happen?”

“Carlos and Long won’t tell me why Cassandra hired a German lab. Something about a DNA test.”

“They don’t know?”

“Carlos does. I don’t. And judging by your reaction, I must be the last one to be clued in.”

The TV lights in Sunbell Lane’s room went off. Pitch-dark. I considered the option she might have gone to bed. Seemed too innocent for a woman of her kind. No. I believed she had a loaded gun next to her waiting for us to come through the door.

“Hey, guys—”

They stopped the chatter.

“Did someone check with the front desk if the room next door is rented?”

“I didn’t. Did you?”

“Can one of you check?”

“Carlos—” Bozman glared at his partner, “you do it. And while he’s gone—Long—I expect some explanation.”

“You have to tell him,” Rex whispered. “It’s so unbelievable. I’m still processing.”

“I learned about this an hour ago myself. It’s complicated. And I don’t know how much to believe it myself.”

“It can’t be worse than what I’m already thinking.”

“It might be. Ian King and Cassandra King are brother and sister.”

Bozman stared into space. “They’re related?!”

“Yes, the test results confirmed it.”

“Did they know? I mean, did they just not care?”

“The doctor was left with the impression neither one of them knew.”

“Why was he left with that impression? Christ!”

Rex nodded, “Cassandra called herself ‘the wrong wife,’ when the doctor gave her the news.”

“The wrong wife, that’s fitting.”

“You told him. Good.” Carlos returned.

“A brother and a sister cosplaying as a husband and wife, Carlos.”

“That’s why I didn’t say anything at the station. Keep your voice down, Bozman. We are still in the middle of a raid. What did the receptionist have to say?”

“The room’s unoccupied.”

“—then let’s not stand outside. We need to bring her in.” Rex unholstered her gun.

“Not so fast. You’re incredibly eager—a quality the FBI loves—but on the streets—it will get you killed.”

“The longer we stay here, the longer we give Sunbell time to spot us.” Rex sighed.

“All supporting units are in position. Less than ten seconds away from us. We’ve moved to a protected channel. Sunbell is unaware she’s going down tonight,” Bozman said.

“Carlos—”

“Maybe she is aware.”

“Impossible. The receptionist wants us to take Sunbell away. She hasn’t opened her mouth to warn our suspect.”

“The receptionist is not the problem.”

“Then we have no problem. This raid will go as smooth as ice. In under twenty, we can have her in cuffs and disarmed. No threat to our safety.”

“The unoccupied room’s the problem,” I said.

“Yes, Long. And why is that?”

I checked the third floor.“She’s smart.”

“It’s something I’d do if I was a criminal.”

“Sunbell picked this specific room, didn’t she?”

Carlos and I were talking between us.

“Asked only for that room, even after she was offered a room on the ground floor facing the pool. Why would she do that?”

“Her room and the next door are connected by a door. She must have known that. Chosen the Quality Inn for a reason. This motel is not a random pit stop.”

The radio quietly crackled. Carlos answered it. Explained he’d call on the cell. He left and returned.

“The unit at the other motel says Ethan Shaw had a room there. Called and prepaid but never checked in. They’re going in to search it now.”

Ethan Shaw was still missing. Not in the motel room, not at his apartment, and not with Sunbell Lane. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Carlos and Bozman took the front. I circled around the back. Rex took the other side of the motel. For several minutes, I could hear Carlos’s powerful knocks. Bozman yelled, “Police. Open up.” Then nothing happened for a minute.

It took them several kicks to burst through the door. More yelling. I listened for gunshots. None. I heard them clearing her room. She wasn’t there. They moved on to the unoccupied unit. She wasn’t there either.

Where are you, Sunbell?

Then my mind switched suddenly to where are you, Rex?

She should have been here.

Something wasn’t right.

I pointed my gun toward the top of the building. Quietly lit windows. Guests tucked into their beds for the night, unaware of the police raid happening.

Up on the third floor window, Carlos waved—she’s gone. No danger to them.

But what about Rex?

The first shot rang. It split the night like a hissing firecracker.

I bolted. With each stride, my speed increased.

“To all units,” I said into the mic of my radio, “shots fired.”

The sirens activated immediately. Ten seconds, I told myself, back ups are ten seconds away.

But ten seconds had never felt longer than in this moment in time.

Then a second shot went off.

I dashed ahead. Faster than I’d ever run in my life. In my head, I revisited our plan of attack. What did we miss? What did we do wrong?

The sound of a third shot returned me to reality. I was about to clear the building corner when a female moaned on the ground. This part of the motel was pitch-black. Total darkness. I couldn’t see a foot in front of me.

“Put your weapon down and come out with your hands above your head,” I ordered.

There was a moan again. Agonizing. Life threatening. I’ve heard moans like it on the battlefield. Someone was dying nearby, and I couldn’t do anything to help them.

That thought scared me. Acting out of fear made you impulsive. Irrational. And I had to remain rational.

I dropped down on my knees. Gun in one hand, touching with my finger the ground around me, looking for the injured. I first felt a part of a shoulder, possibly an arm. Cold to the touch, lifeless.

“Get up,” I seethed through clenched jaws.

Police sirens wailed from the front parking lot, not the back. I needed grille lights. I needed to see who I was touching.

As I cursed the darkness, drenched in fear, I spotted the faint outline of a moving figure.

“Stop, police. Don’t move,” I yelled.

I fired rapidly. Two shots. Someone yelped.

“Long? Long? Are you there?” Rex mumbled as I scooped her into my arms. “I’ve been hit. I’m hurt. Is it bad? I can’t see in the dark. My arm. I can’t feel or move it. Sunbell Lane—shot me.”

“Shhh, Rex. Save your energy. Here’s the ambulance. We’ll get you help now.”

“Will you hold my hand, Long? I’m scared. Like, really scared. Like I’ve never been scared before.”

I squeezed her hand. She muttered something under her breath.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Rex. Try to rest.”

“Long—”

“What?”

“Did we get her? Is Sunbell in our custody? Please don’t lie to me. I can take the truth.”

Rex winced in my arms. I could feel her shivering. By now, both Bozman and Carlos made their way to us.

Carlos shook his head. No trace of Sunbell Lane.

“Yes, Rex.” I stroked the top of her head. “We got her. Sunbell’s not going anywhere but lockup. We’ll wait till you question her first.”

She drifted off as I cradled her head on my knees until the ambulance arrived.

The medics woke her up again by securing the stretcher.

“I screwed up. Again. This will get me fired. I’m done. And I can’t blame the Bureau.”

“Rex—rest.”

She didn’t heed my advice. I admired her stubbornness.

“During your investigation into Dr. Letum, everything was going to hell in a hand basket. What did you do then? You could have called off the investigation. In fact, you were ordered to.”

“Lethum had to be stopped. I screwed that up, more people would have died.”

She turned her head away from me. Dirt streaked her face. She looked like she had been to hell and back. But even under the harsh lighting of the ambulance, Rex appeared strikingly beautiful. For a second there, I cursed my job and hers. If only we were anything else but cops, I’d lean in and kiss her.

Chapter 44

“Are you a hundred percent positive it was Sunbell Lane in the alley?” Carlos asked.

Police lights illuminated the entire back parking lot. Bright, beautiful lights. Unfortunately, a little too late.

“No,” I replied. “But who else could it have been?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Bozman said, “The FBI has been notified. Her supervisor’s meeting Rex at the emergency room. They assured me they will take good care of her.”

“I want—”

“They know. He will call you personally the moment she’s out of surgery. For the moment, the Feds have requested access to the crime scene. They want to run their own investigation with their own teams on the ground.”

“That’s the opposite of a joint investigation.”

“They want us gone,” I said.

“Yes, they do, and they don’t,” Bozman said. “The head of the Boston field office asked us to continue searching for Sunbell Lane. Report to them any progress we make.”

“Now we work for them. Tell them to go screw themselves,” Carlos said.

“Do they have any idea where Sunbell might be headed to?”

“Well, Long, they don’t.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Carlos interjected.

“Bozman—call them back. Tell them to cut Lane’s access to her bank accounts. Anything else they can do, we’ll accept their help.”

Bozman jotted down a note. Reached for his cell phone.

“One more thing—have one of their unit stay on Scott Lane. Now, more than ever, Sunbell will need help. She might reach out to him.”

Bozman delivered my instructions to the feds. They agreed to the terms.

In Sunbell’s motel room, we discovered incriminating evidence linking her to robberies at the Taj and Capitol Hotels.

“More nails in her coffin with the feds, not with us.”

“I’m aware of that fact, Carlos. What about Cassandra’s diary? Sunbell used it like a trading card with Scott. Told him she’d give it back to him if he broke into Ethan Shaw’s apartment and brought her the toolbox. She wanted the jewelry and electronics in there to sell for money.”

Alone, I glanced nervously at my phone, silent like a grave. I didn’t want to imagine graves and cemeteries, because it made me think of Rex dying. I couldn’t allow my mind to wonder about losing her. Not in that way, anyway.

“They don’t have it.”

“That’s frustrating.” I sighed.

“We’ll get her, Long. I’m headed back to the station. The captain wants to see us all together. She said if we’re done with the crime scene to clear out and allow the feds to do their thing,” Bozman said.

“Go,” I said. “You can go too, Carlos. I could use a few minutes of alone time.”

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at my desk. Carlos was typing up a report and complaining about it. Bozman pretended to listen to his partner’s bitching, but actually he was killing time on the internet.

“Clock out, both of you. We’re done for the night.” I dropped into my chair.

“Any news from the hospital?” Carlos stopped typing.

“Yes. She’s out of surgery. A through-and-through shot in the shoulder. She’ll make a full recovery, and with the right PT, she can return to full FBI duties in six months.”

“Phew. Rex got lucky tonight,” Bozman quipped.

Carlos yawned. “It’s pushing four. I’m turning in. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

He stood up, fetched his windbreaker draped on his chair.

“Bozman, you need a ride?” Carlos asked his partner.

“I’ll stick around.”

“That’s okay. No point in all of us staying awake. Rex’s doing good. Our officers are on the street looking for Sunbell Lane, and the feds are watching her father—Scott.”

Bozman, never taking his eyes from the monitor, replied, “It’s really fine. I’m a night owl. More so now these days. My girl’s visiting her sister on the Cape. The bed feels roomy without her, and I can’t sleep anymore without Amanda taking up half the bed.”

I envied Bozman for having found someone. For a moment, I imagined Rex and I spooning.

“And . . .” he said as Carlos started for the door.

“And what?” Carlos asked.

“And I’m on eBay.”

“Online shopping at this hour? What’s wrong with you?” I said.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m watching an item to see if it will sell. So far, no takers. If the seller doesn’t receive an offer in the next fifteen minutes—I could swoop in and low ball him. I think he might accept.”

“Can you do that from your own bed?” I stood up, seeing the dark window of my own apartment calling out to me. Wondering if I’d ever be able to sleep again.

“I could, but then I’ll have to phone you to come over. Saving us both time since we’re here already together.”

“What are you betting on?” Carlos said, his neck cranked toward Bozman’s computer. His windbreaker dangling off his shoulder.

On the monitor, I saw a brown leather journal with dog-eared corners. The pages were yellowing and frail. It looked aged.

The headline above it read “Genuine article. Authentic. Hollywood Actress’s Personal Journal.”

“The asking price is ten thousand dollars.” Carlos whistled.

“This is a fake.” I blocked excitement.

“Maybe. I almost scrolled past it, then I checked out the seller.”

“What about the seller?”

“It’s a brand-new account. No customer reviews.”

“Talk. Explain. Why is that unusual?”

“This is why I didn’t say anything to both of you until I knew for sure. Now you’re excited. There are expectations.”

“I assure you the expectations are none. But I want to understand.”

“Okay. The listing was uploaded about three hours ago.”

“Fits the time frame,” Carlos uttered.

“Can we find out who the account belongs to?”

“We can, but it will take weeks. Days if we’re lucky.”

“That would do us no good.”

“No. There is another way.”

“Yes. What?”

“The official bidding is almost over.” Bozman refreshed the page. “It’s listed local, Boston, and ten thousand is crazy high for an unvetted item. Don’t expect there are a lot of takers willing to burn cash on an item unauthenticated by a third party.”

“You want to place a bid?”

“Kind of thinking about it. Yes.”

“How much do you think the seller will go for?” I asked.

“A thousand is about as much as I can afford. Saving to buy my girl an engagement ring.”

I put down my Gold Amex card. “Let’s see if he’ll agree to come down to half the price.”

“Five thousand? It’s too much. We don’t know if it’s real or not.”

I pointed to the screen name listed on the account.

Chapter 45

“HeartlandBabe,” Rex grumbled, fighting off the sleep from the anesthesia. “I like it when suspects are grotesquely obvious and charming.”

“It’s her.”

“I can see how you’d go there, but let’s slow it down, Cowboy. First off, the raid went—up shit creek.”

“Shit creek. These things happen, Rex.”

“And second off, you told me we arrested Sunbell Lane. I remember.”

“I lied.”

“Yes, and thank you for that. I don’t think I could have gone to the hospital without your white lie.”

I smiled through the phone.

“Stop smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, but I guess you’re allowed to. I only wish I was there with you all. Oh, Ruby says hi!”

“Ruby’s a gem.”

“She really is.” Rex coughed. “Bozman really got you convinced, huh?”

“He really did.”

“You think Sunbell Lane has Cassandra’s journal and is selling it on eBay because she needs the funds?”

“I do. She’s out of money. On the run from two powerful law enforcement agencies. And she has no one to take her in. Let her lay low until the heat dies down. She’s cornered. Desperate.”

“Excuse me if I’m a lil’ skeptical and not as enthusiastic as you are. I’ve been after this feral woman for three years. In my mind, I’ve her up to be bigger than she is, I suppose.”

“It happens.”

“HeartlandBabe,” a soft mumble.

“Sunbell’s from Ohio. It’s in your report.”

“Ohio roots. It’s in my memo. Funny now to think about it—I wrote it three years ago as I was graduating the academy. A funny little project as I thumbed through the newspaper headlines, trolling for major crime to sink my teeth into.”

“Exceptional detective work,” I said.

There was a moment of silence.

“Look at who’s the one smiling now.”

“I’m not, Long.” Rex shuffled in bed. “The name of the account—”

“HeartlandBabe—”

“The Heartland part,” Rex replied.

“Heartland. Midwest.”

“That’s too obvious. Can she really be this much of a show-off?”

“Who cares if it’s obvious as long as it’s her.”

“I do. Sunbell Lane has been occupying my mind for years. She’s been stuck up in my head like an ungrateful roommate. Am I really about to catch her?”

“Yes. But I need to know—are you in or out, Rex? Last time you lost your mind because I didn’t read you in immediately. Now is your chance.”

“All right. Okay. I’m in.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“When?”

“Bozman will make contact with HeartlandBabe when the ad expires.”

“Which is when? I can’t relax if you don’t tell me. No white lies either, okay? Three years after her! Three years, please.”

“In ten minutes the ad ends. Bozman will shoot the seller a friendly message with an offer. If she accepts, then we’re on. Rest for now.”

“I can’t. Call me back soon. I’ll be waiting.” She yawned.

I clicked off.

“Is she in?” Carlos said.

“She says she’s in,” I replied.

Bozman cracked his fingers over the keyboard expectantly.

“What do you think is in the journal?”

“Don’t know. Something pretty important. Cassandra went to great lengths to safeguard it, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe she described in lots of details her romantic relationship with her brother? That’s something wild.”

“No. Can’t be that. Dr. Otto Klaus Volmer was rather clear on the fact Cassandra found out about Ian the night she died. And remember—the journal’s not hers. She purchased it in a garage sale.”

Bozman pushed off the desk. Frustrated. “Then why are we doing this? If the journal doesn’t belong to her—”

“It belongs to her, but she didn’t write it, yes. Whatever is in the journal caused Cassandra to put all she had on the line for a documentary. A controversial story everyone agrees is entertaining but carries an inherently high risk of ending up in court.”

“Long, I think we’re grasping at straws.”

“Yes.”

“And,” Bozman stared at me, “I think you know it.”

“Yes, straws. Look, the ad is down.”

“Long, we can still walk away. Sunbell will turn up whether the feds catch her or us—”

“No doubt, Bozman. No doubt. In the meantime,” I placed my Gold Amex near him. “I’d like to keep grasping at straws, if you’re okay with it.”

Bozman typed a message to HeartlandBabe, punching up the Hollywood fan language. We sent it. Nothing else to do but wait.

Carlos left to fetch us food. He returned with coffee and warm bagels and a tub of cream cheese. We ate at our desk.

There was still no reply from HeartlandBabe by the time we finished filling ourselves on bagels.

“We scared her away.”

“There was always a chance she won’t write back.”

Carlos dusted the top of his desk. “Let’s give her another fifteen. Keep in mind she’s running from the cops. Maybe she can’t answer us, but she will.”

“Fifteen, then what?”

Carlos replied, “In fifteen, I’ll tell you.”

I stood up to stretch my legs. “I might go to the hospital.”

“Ruby said Rex is sleeping like a baby. The surgery wiped her out,” Carlos said. “Unless you plan on talking to Ian King. He’s still not discharged and driving the staff crazy.”

“My dealings with Ian are over, for now at least.”

“Did he know about him and Cassandra?” Bozman asked.

“No. She meant to tell him after the award. When I spoke to him, he confirmed this much to me.”

“But he has no idea?”

“None. She sent him a text to meet in her room. Never disclosed what it was about.”

“Are you going to say anything? Doesn’t he have a right to know?”

We stared at each other.

“I’ve done death notifications, but I’ve never notified a husband his wife was also his sister.”

“Someone has to tell him.” Bozman looked up to Carlos.

“Don’t look at me, Bozman. Long went to school with both of them. Dated Cassandra King.”

“In senior year. For only a couple of months.”

“Who broke up with whom?”

“Let’s drop it. I don’t want to talk about ancient boring history.”

“He’s hiding something, Carlos. Now I need to know. I’ve seen All the Wrong Ones. Everyone says it’s an alternative ending to a love story based on true events. Jetter Brown played you, so that means . . .”

“That means screw off—”

“Hard to imagine you and Cassandra King. She doesn’t seem like your type,” Carlos snarled.

“I agree. Cassandra and Ian, I see the show-off aspect. They loved the social energy. Long—you hate the attention you get from the media. She would have made you miserable, I think.”

“Maybe,” I replied, tasting the bitterness in the back of my mouth. “Cassandra was spirited and lovely. But I don’t disagree we weren’t meant for each other. I ended up where I was supposed to be—the Navy. A SEAL. Loved that life. It saved me,” I said.

“But how did Cassandra and Ian end up together?” Bozman sipped coffee. “Half brother and sister, husband and wife.”

“We’ve established Ian and Cassandra didn’t know they were biologically related,” Carlos said.

“We’ve established what the doctor told us. We’ve established Cassandra was astonished at the news. What we have not established is why their parents didn’t put an end to the relationship. Long?”

“I don’t—” I paused to think. “Cassandra was adopted as a baby.”

I jumped off my seat. “Yes. She never knew her bio parents. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to remember. The mystery surrounding her birth—tormented her for years. She hated discussing it but told me she had plans to find out where she came from. Christ!”

“What? Did you remember more?”

“Confront. She dreamed of confronting them. What if—”

“What if what?” Bozman asked.

“Long thinks there is a chance Cassandra actually found them. By discovering the true story of her birth, she discovered her husband was also her brother.”

“She calls herself the wrong wife. Meaningful when you put it in retrospect.”

“As fascinating as it is to imagine these things, guys—we have nothing as proof.”

“The journal, Bozman. It must be in there.”

Bozman’s mailbox dinged.

“It’s her. She answered my message.”

“Open it. Hurry.”

Captain Jupiter strode in. “Don’t think about it, Detective Bozman. Back away from the computer.”

“It’s Cassandra’s journal,” I protested. “Sunbell Lane posted it for sale on eBay.”

“Can you prove it?”

“No. The username is HeartlandBaby.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Well, no.”

“Bozman, don’t dare touch that email. Detective Long—this feels like grasping at straws.”

“It is. But it might be more than that.”

I told Jupiter about the connection between the stolen journal and the documentary Cassandra dreamed of producing. I even told her about the German DNA doctor.

“Ian King and Cassandra are related.”

“Yes. Half siblings.”

She patiently listened to my passionate explanation.

“And you’re putting up five grand of your money.”

“Bozman has my Amex.”

“This could be viewed as entrapment, and anything we obtain after, a judge will toss out. I’ll speak to the DA when they open,” she checked her watch. “In four hours.”

“We don’t have four hours, Captain.”

“Of course, I get it. For the record, I like your theory. It has convincing elements. I can make a few phone calls. Wake up a few people. Get their opinion.”

“Wait—”

“You have another idea, Detective Long?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be entrapment if someone else buys the journal and turned it over to the police.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t be. I’m listening,” Jupiter said.

I picked up the phone. Dialed.

Chapter 46

“Helen said yes?” Rex said into the phone.

“Yes. She’s sitting at the bar. We’re in position and waiting.”

“I wish I was there.”

“You are.” I switched the phone from my right ear to my left.

“And Tony is in place?”

“Minding the bar like a pro.”

“He’s a better detective than a bartender. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He knows.”

I swept the bar with my eyes. Last night’s football highlights replayed on the television sets.

“Who else is there?”

“The captain, Bozman, and Carlos.”

“You kept a small crew. All trusted and experienced cops.”

“We’re down one.”

She sighed.

“How is your arm?”

“Killing me.”

“Pain meds help with that.”

“You sound like Ruby. I like her a lot, but I’m not used to people fretting around me. Makes me feel like something’s wrong with me.”

“You got shot.”

“Long?”

“What?”

“Do you think she’ll come? Sunbell Lane has outmaneuvered me for three years. If she falls for it, I think I’ll quit the FBI.”

“She’ll come because she’s out of money and needs to disappear. When someone’s out of options, they’re more willing to take risks.”

Bozman was killing Carlos at the billiards table. Jupiter kept a wandering eye on their game, the other on the door.

“Is she there yet?”

“No.”

“Running behind. She probably won’t show up,” Rex said, frustrated. “Ouch. Damn shoulder.”

“Buzz in Ruby.”

“Long—I don’t want to be asleep. You promised I could listen in on the action. My injury is not life-threatening, only career-shattering.”

“It’s neither of those things. You’re in the dumps.”

“Rightfully so. It’s easy for you to say. Practically everyone in the media is fawning over you. Long Collins—Mr. Boston’s Best of the Best—Catches FBI’s Most Wanted. The headline writes itself.”

“I had some help from my partner.”

“Now really is not a good time to mock me. I’m injured. Gravely wounded.”

I snickered. In the background, I heard a voice I recognized.

“Who’s there with you?”

“No one, Long. The TV is on. I can’t reach for the remote to mute it.”

“It sounded like—”

“Cassandra King?”

“Yes. It sounded like her.”

“It is her. The patient before me must have been a fan of gossip channels. Currently, they’re showing a promo for Cassandra’s latest flick. It’s nominated for six major awards. Six! That’s incredible. Best picture, best female actress, best screenplay—if she were alive, she would have scooped them all up.”

I didn’t reply for a while.

“Why aren’t you talking? Is Sunbell there?”

“No. I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“About her killer.”

“You still have your doubts about Sunbell?”

“I do.”

“The film—”

“The hotel tape is damning. It shows Sunbell following Cassandra to the elevators. I’ve seen it lots of times.”

“Then? What is the matter? Sunbell’s a thief. She wants something; she takes it. Done it to many people.”

“Thieves don’t just kill people.”

“Some do. If not Sunbell, then who?”

The television sets in the bar cut to a commercial break. A flashy ad for All the Wrong Ones played on the monitors.

“Long?”

“Here. I think we’re watching the same movie promo.”

“I’m nervous. Can you talk to me? It helps slow my mind. If not Sunbell, who killed Cassandra? You must have an idea.”

“Yes. At least I think I do. But I don’t have a name. I don’t have a physical description. I don’t have a single clue of where to look. All I know is Cassandra didn’t write the script of her latest hit movie.”

“You do?”

“Ian King confirmed it. Cassandra stole it from a struggling screenwriter she met in a writing class or somewhere else. Ian didn’t know.”

“She told him that? Sounds impossible. They were stuck in a terrible marriage. Domestic ROs issued to both parties. The divorce papers were drawn up. Ian could have told you that out of spite, to get back at her for the misery and pain he blames her for between them.”

I considered her point.

“No, Rex. Ian was telling the truth.”

“Something else you found confirmed it. What? Talk to me, or my mind will explode.”

“Cassandra’s own agent—”

“—Beatrice Ashburn?”

“—also suspected Cassandra took the script from someone. She went as far as calling a few writing groups, LA local, but no one was talking.”

“I am not sure I buy it. Why wouldn’t the anonymous writer come forward and claim glory for himself now, since Cassandra is dead and can’t dispute fact from fiction?”

“Probably that’s why. Look at it from his point of view. If he claims he wrote All the Wrong Ones, he stands to turn the entire movie industry against him, the entire country, even. People are still mourning her. Think what they would do to him.”

“I would speak up. If someone stole my work, claimed it as their own, I’d speak up.”

“A minute ago, you said you’d quit if Sunbell fell for my trap, because she’d, quote unquote, ‘outsmarted you.’”

“That’s not the same.”

“The details are different. But in both scenarios—a bully won in the end.”

She paused. Silence spread. Stayed there like a wall.

HeartlandBabe was running half an hour behind schedule.

“Helen’s doing okay?”

Helen was at the bar, sipping spiced apple tea, reading a script she was considering.

“She’s got this. This will all be over soon. Are you sure you don’t want to go to sleep?”

“No. I think—I fear—Sunbell has realized she’s walking into a trap. And fled.”

“Rex—Sunbell sold us the diary. She needs the money. She’ll turn up.”

The bell above the front door chimed. A female, midthirties, athletic, walked through the door. She swept the bar in one glance. Her dark-brown eyes paused on each face. Saw no cause for alarm, picked a stool, one seat over from Helen.

“She will turn up. Long, you stopped talking again.”

I didn’t reply. I pressed the mute button and placed the phone on the table. Picked up my coffee mug, and registered faint interest in the sports reel replays.

Sunbell called out to Tony. He nodded his head.

Placing an order, I imagined. Tony said, “You got it,” and disappeared into the kitchen through the swinging doors.

Carlos and Bozman continued their game, but they hadn’t laughed.

“Last Call’s a funny name for a bar,” Sunbell said.

She was dressed in brown slacks and a camel-colored turtleneck. If you saw her on the street, you’d think she worked at a white-collar job in a big corporation in the Financial District.

Her poise exhibited self-control and trustworthiness.

“I’ve always thought so too. The name has something to do with the police station across the street, I suppose.” Helen, casual and relaxed, matched Sunbell’s confidence.

“And the food?”

“Oh, the food will knock your socks off. Get anything off the menu; you won’t leave disappointed.”

Sunbell smiled, tossed back her mid-length black hair. Again, Sunbell scanned the bar, paused on us, but quickly moved on. I suspected she didn’t want to appear as overly staring, too obvious.

I gulped some coffee. A small trickle of sweat slid down the small of my back.

Rex was staying quiet. She must have understood why I wasn’t talking to her.

Tony returned. He placed a platter of fruit and cheese in front of Sunbell Lane.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Holding her glass and the platter, Sunbell decided she wanted to sit elsewhere.

“Why don’t you join me?”

“Me?” Helen said.

“Why not? We’re both alone in this bar with a funny name. I feel like talking, and the cheese-and-fruit platter is bigger than I expected. Plenty for both of us.”

Friendly, disarming, I thought of Sunbell. Man, she was good at drawing you in.

“I’d love to.” Helen asked Tony to give her a glass of whatever her new friend was drinking.

Together they selected a corner booth farther from the bar. Sunbell sat with her back turned against the door, facing the street window, with a clear view of the police station.

I glanced back at Carlos and Bozman, shook my head in disappointment. Helen wasn’t wired. We had no way of listening in on their conversation.

Bozman walked up to the bar and paid for two beers. He stayed there. Sipping his. Carlos hit the can. Jupiter stayed in her spot.

Sunbell and Helen, from what I could see, were hitting it off, laughing, chatting; things were friendly between them.

“Damn it, people, I can’t hear a word,” I said into the mic wired under my shirt.

“...I collect Hollywood actors’ journals and private correspondence. Mostly from older generations. Think Richard Gere, Sigourney Weaver, Diane Keaton,” Bozman quietly replied.

He was reading their lips.

“I have no idea who any of these people are . . . You might not want this, then.” Sunbell slid a brown paper bag toward Helen with her foot. “It belongs to an actress, dead now, unfortunately. No names, please.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Wait—” Sunbell leaned closer to Helen. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

Helen winked at Sunbell. “Take a good look at me; pick a number, any number after seventy—and you still wouldn’t get close to my real age.”

A message bubbled on my screen. Rex texting, ‘I can’t hear a word? Status?’

Sunbell retreated back. “Yeah, sorry about the paranoia. Look, I don’t have a lot of time. Kind of looking to offload this fast and get the hell out of town.”

“Not from around here?”

“Toledo, Ohio. Ma’s in the hospital. I don’t have a need for personal journals. That’s why I was willing to settle for less than what I paid for it. Sometimes it’s best to cut your losses and move on.”

You have no idea, I said to myself.

“The ad said it’s genuine, but I’ve been scammed plenty of time. Burned too many times by online sellers. Mind if I inspect it?”

“Do it fast. I’m leaving soon.”

Helen held the journal in her hands. She flipped through the pages. Talking, asking Sunbell questions.

“What will you do with the money?”

Sipping wine, Sunbell mumbled a reply. “It’s not that much money, but I could stretch my budget. Hold me over till I get a new job, settle in Toledo. Soon I’ll get back on my feet. Figure out my next move.”

“Starting over. Been there.”

Sunbell glanced behind her, spotted Bozman. How long had he been there?

“If you need more time with the journal, I’m afraid I have to cancel the transaction.”

Not waiting for Helen, Sunbell shot straight up, threw the journal in the brown bag. “Finish up the platter for me. I have to go.”

Sunbell nearly made it to the front door when I spun her around.

“I’m afraid you’re missing the train to Toledo tonight.” I flashed my badge in her face.

“Are you arresting me? No! You can’t do that. I haven’t done anything illegal.”

“Calm down, Ms. Lane. We’ll have plenty of time to talk at the station.”

“What are the charges against me? Let me go!”

Bozman and Carlos walked her across the street. Jupiter followed them.

I stayed back to see if Helen was all set.

“Thank you,” I placed a kiss between her eyes. “You were marvelous.”

“I was rather nervous when she asked me to sit with her in the booth.”

“If you were, it didn’t show.”

“Years of working on sets for demanding directors—but inside I felt like I might have a heart attack.”

“Did you get her? Hello? Are you there, Long?” Rex said in the phone.

“Yes, I’m here. Sunbell is in our custody.”

“Thank you, Jesus! I nearly peed my pants when she first arrived. I said, ‘Here we go—action time!’”

“It’s under control, Rex. How is your shoulder?”

“It hurts far less now since Sunbell is in lockup.”

I smirked. “Rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Call me—”

“—with updates. I will. Go to sleep now.”

Chapter 47

I gathered my files at my desk. Carlos was at his, feet up, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Bozman cooed into the phone, wowing his potential fiancée with juicy details.

“Ma’s deaf,” he said, “I’ve been reading lips since I was in diapers.”

He dipped his head when I mouthed, “Good job.”

Jupiter had retreated to her office. The door was shut. From the window I could see her outline pacing the floor, also on the phone.

I’ll catch her up later.

It took me calling Carlos’s name three times for him to stir.

“Is she processed?”

He handed me a print-out. “Stewing in A1. Refusing to speak.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The doors to the homicide squad glided open, revealing in front of me a woman who didn’t belong here.

“Rex—”

“You didn’t question Sunbell without me, did you?”

“About to head in. You’re not supposed to be walking. Carlos called the hospital.”

“Carlos, don’t. I know my name, what month it is, the name of the president. I’m perfectly fine to refuse to be under medical care.”

Rex was wearing a pullover hoodie three sizes too big, a pair of light-washed jeans. Her hair was slicked back.

“Whose clothes are you wearing?” I asked.

“Had to improvise. Mine got ruined at the hospital. Asked the cab driver to make a pit stop at a big-box store.” She checked out her reflection in the window. “Not too shabby.”

“Take a seat.”

“I’m good. I feel great.” She had heavy bags under her eyes. “C’mon. Sunbell Lane—that’s her file? May I?”

“Rex—”

“Don’t take this away from me, Long. I need a win. I need to win. Did you forget what it was like for you when you started? Everyone questioning your every move? Feeling like you don’t belong.”

“I remember. They still question my every move. They are supposed to. Sunbell shot you—”

“The doctor says I’ll make a full recovery.”

“You’re not recovered today.”

“What’s going on?” Jupiter approached us. “Detective Hobbs, the hospital let you go?”

“Not exactly?”

“Her clothes were destroyed by hospital staff.”

“That explains some.”

“Captain—it’s taken me three years to locate Sunbell Lane. I want to interview her.”

“Out of the question, Detective. You’re not going near that suspect. She shot you!”

“You can kick me out if you wish, but I can be an asset to Long in there. Sunbell’s not dumb. She excels under pressure. But not if I’m around, because I know her like I know the back of my hand. If she tries to bullshit him, I’d be able to spot it. Bring Detective Long’s attention to it. We can tag-team it.”

Rex, Carlos, and Bozman set up in the listening booth. I knocked on the door of A1.

Police interrogation rooms are notoriously dreary, stripped of any comforts. Several metal chairs and a table. A bottle of water and a coffee is all a suspect gets from us.

Sunbell Lane had asked for coffee and water. Her coffee was untouched.

I placed Cassandra’s journal on the table in the space between us. Lane refused to glance at it.

Under the table, I located the record button. Pressed it. “Your rights have been read, and you have agreed to speak with me, yes?”

“Yes,” she said, defiant.

“State your name for the record.”

“Sunbell Lane.”

I smoothed the edge of my necktie.

“Where are you from, Ms. Lane?”

“Toledo, Ohio.”

I asked her to spell her address.

“Currently don’t have one. Been doing some traveling around the country the last several years.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Like to change things up.”

“How do you support yourself?”

“Doing odd jobs here and there. I’m really not much of an office person. Obligations and ties are not my thing.”

“Then why go back to Toledo?”

The question surprised her momentarily, but Lane recovered quickly, just like Rex had said. “Visiting my mom.”

“Sarah Alberta. Address 543 Main Street, Toledo, Ohio.”

“That’s her. She doesn’t know I’m coming.”

“Yes.”

“You had someone drive by?”

“I did.”

“Did you talk to her? Did you tell her I’ve been arrested?”

I paused. “Mrs. Alberta was admitted to the oncology wing at Memorial Hospital of Toledo. I’m sorry, Sunbell, but your mom lost consciousness in the grocery store, according to the local PD report. And she hasn’t regained it since.”

Sunbell adjusted in her chair. Bit down hard on her bottom lip.

“How long is this going to take? I’d like to get back to Toledo to see her. Clearly, she needs me.”

“I can’t possibly give you an answer.”

“Why now? Look, you have the diary—that’s what you were after, right? Take it. Like I told the lady at the bar, good acting, by the way, I believed her—”

“I’ll be sure to pass along your compliment,” I said.

“Have the diary. I don’t have a need for it. Nothing in there is worth this.” She glanced down at her cuffed wrists.

I tapped the journal with my capped pen.

“Where did you find it?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“No clue. It could be yours. Did you lose a journal? Take it. Don’t feel the need to express gratitude.”

“If you don’t know who owned it, why were you hawking it on eBay for ten thousand?”

“eBay, you say? Not me. You must have the wrong person, but if you cut me loose, I won’t hold it against you. Won’t ask you to say sorry.”

“You think you’re clever, Ms. Lane? That you’ll get out of the cuffs if you deny your connection to Cassandra King’s journal?”

“The dead actress? That’s who it belongs to? I’m in shock.”

“Drop the act. Our computer forensics department links the HeartlandBabe eBay account to your cell phone number. You created the profile three hours after midnight. Barely forty minutes after you shot an FBI agent.”

She swallowed slowly. “An FBI agent?”

“Yes. Agent Rex Hobbs. Quality Inn. We have you on video paying for the room. The receptionist phoned the police line when you picked up your sandwich and fries from the front desk.”

“That bitch. I gave her twenty to keep her mouth shut.”

“She didn’t.”

“Detective—someone stole my phone today, which means you can’t prove it’s me behind the HeartlandBabe account. As far as the shot agent—wasn’t me, otherwise I’d be in federal custody, not yours. Good try, though,” she said.

She quickly switched to confident again. “Want to uncuff me, Detective? You have nothing to hold me on.”

The door burst open, Rex strutted in. Disheveled, arm in a sling. Heavy bags under her eyes and totally unbothered by Sunbell Lane’s lying act.

Sunbell Lane livened up once Rex hipped herself at the side of the table.

“You don’t know me—” Rex said.

“Should I?”

“I have been the shadow you’ve been running from for the last three years. New city, new state, new hotels to scout and rob. I have been behind you every step of the way.”

“You’re nuts, lady. What is this?” Lane pointed to us. “Good cop, crazy homeless-looking cop.”

“Play it down all you wish, Ms. Lane, but while you were robbing hotels, I have been quietly building a rock-solid case against you.”

“Read my lips—I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have the wrong person locked up. Is your shoulder doing okay? You look in a lot of pain.”

Rex placed an iPad in front of Sunbell Lane. “I’ll give you one last chance to cooperate, and if you don’t, the FBI is fully prepared to throw the book at you. I have you on multiple robbery charges, murder of an FBI agent, and attempted murder on a second FBI agent. Any of these charges carries a maximum of life in prison. Would you look at that? Ms. Lane, I have to say, you’ve suddenly lost some color on you. Are you doing okay?”

“I never killed anyone. Certainly no FBI.”

“Did Ethan Shaw?”

Sunbell Lane quivered. Rex had cornered her. The walls were closing in on Lane.

“Ethan Shaw—”

“Yes, your partner in crime and your boyfriend.”

“Oh God. Ethan!”

“Where is he? Don’t cover for him. Look—you will spend the rest of your life in supermax. Are you willing to go down while Shaw enjoys life on some white-sand beach?”

“He wouldn’t—”

“I’ve seen it happen,” I said. “If you know where he is—”

“He wouldn’t—” she interrupted “—because he’s dead. Died the night…”

“The night?”

“The night of the movie awards ceremony at the Capitol Hotel.”

“Died how?”

Sunbell Lane shook her head. Her eyes flooded with tears. “I honestly don’t know.”

“She’s lying to us, Long, because she’s a con artist.”

“No. It’s true. I didn’t kill no FBI, and Ethan died untimely.”

Rex sucked in a breath and turned her iPad on. She showed a picture to Lane of a man in his later fifties with dark hair combed to one side, a black beard, and a suit. The badge hanging off his front pocket read ‘FBI.’

“Take a good look at Emanuel Garza, fifty-five, father of six, working undercover as a night janitor for the Marina Del Mare Hotel and Resort in Delmare, Florida.”

“I . . . have . . . never seen this man. You can put it away.”

“Deny it all you want, Sunbell, but your fingerprints were discovered in the hotel room where Agent Garza’s body was found shot multiple times.”

“No.”

“No? More like yes. See, no agency had your fingerprints in their system, because you’ve been quite good at dodging the law—until recently—when my partner over here arrested you tonight. We didn’t have a second set of prints to run against Delmare’s. Now we do, and they match! They are yours.”

Lane’s shoulders trembled.

“Brick by brick, I’ve dismantled your criminal enterprise. You had a nice, long run, but it’s all over for you. As far as Ethan Shaw—maybe he’s dead, maybe not—he will be found.”

“What do you want from me? What? I didn’t kill this agent. And yes, I shot at you, but I didn’t think I’d hit you. I shot high. It was pitch-dark. The shot was meant to scare you off, give me time to run. I’m not a murderer. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Save your tears for the courtroom, Ms. Lane. I’ve informed you of the federal charges against you. I’m turning you over to Detective Long, who’s looking to hit you with a separate murder charge.”

“Wow. Stop. This is insane. I have never murdered a person in my life. Robbing the hotels wasn’t even my idea. It was Ethan’s. He was stealing way before we met. I joined him because I ran out of money, and he was kind of cute. The shootout in Delmare got to me. I told Ethan I wanted to get out. Boston was supposed to be our last city. We were going to earn enough money to split. He planned to go back to LA. I was returning to Toledo to be with my mom. That’s it. I’m a thief, not a killer.”

I took charge of the interview and immediately steered Lane to the night of the award ceremony. I showed her the hotel lobby tape. She confirmed it was her loitering, waiting for Ethan to get off work. And yes, it was true, Ethan planned on robbing Cassandra King. They needed the money. Her estranged father, Scott Lane, was beginning to be suspicious of the couple. She wanted to get away from Boston as soon as possible, fearing her father might turn them in.

Strangely, I believed this part of her story.

“Cassandra King was to be our last. Then we’d leave this life behind. We’ve been on the road, from state to state, new town constantly, ever since the shootout with the Delmare cops. The cops scared the hell out of us. At one point we considered turning ourselves in, tired of looking behind our backs.”

“Why Boston?”

“Why?” Lane said. “My dad. He works at one of the most expensive hotels in the world—the Capitol Hotel.”

“Worked—”

“He didn’t have anything to do with the robberies. It was me and Ethan. He’s a good guy, wish my mom would have let me see him as a kid. Maybe I would have turned out less rotten.”

“You and Shaw are in Boston. What next?”

“Dad got me a job at the Metropolitan. Ethan at the Capitol. For a while, the three of us had a good time. But then, something changed.”

“You stole an expensive Rolex from a lawyer.”

She erupted in my face. “If you know everything, why are you asking me to repeat it? Yes. I took the Rolex. It all started to fall apart after. Shaw lost his mind on me. We weren’t doing okay stealing small. He rented a shithole apartment, and I stayed at my dad’s a few nights a week. Sometimes I crashed with Ethan, whenever we felt like sleeping together.”

“Go on. Cassandra King. Why her?”

“She’s rich! Like super-rich. If we stole from her, our money woes would be solved for a while. Ethan had it all set. My dad made sure Ethan was waiting on her. He was supposed to enter her room when she was at the party. Rob her, then we’d flee that night. By the time cops realized it was us—we’d be halfway across the country. New names. New identities. New lives.”

Sunbell Lane paused. There was an ache in her stare.

“The night of the premiere should have been a night like any other. We’ve pulled this con so many times before. The whole place was crawling with celebrities and their minions. Shaw and I could have been anyone, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Hotel staff were distracted, overwhelmed. They were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Cassandra was the woman of the hour, posing for photos, signing autographs—loved by her fans, rich, famous, and not very well liked by people around her.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ethan told me she spent her time screaming on the phone with her husband, producers, some doctor. It seems she was working hard on a project no one wanted but her. I guess famous people have problems like the rest of us.”

“Yes, they do,” I said.

“Whose idea was it to kill her? Yours? Shaw’s? Or was it a collective thought you all voted on?” Rex said.

Lane glared. “Lady—I didn’t kill Cassandra King. Ethan didn’t kill Cassandra King. We didn’t—”

“Okay. Let’s stop shouting,”

“She can shout. It doesn’t bother me,” Rex said.

“Does she really have to be here?”

“Yes. The FBI and Boston Homicide are running a joint investigation.”

“Fine. Again, we didn’t kill anyone.”

“Where’s Shaw?”

“Shaw’s gone. He died.”

“Lane—”

“Yes, Detective?”

“Where is his body?”

She rocked back and forth. “Somewhere in the Charles River. After we ran out of the Capitol, we went to the bridge. He was showing me the diary he stole from Cassandra. I kind of lost it on him—who takes a diary? You can’t sell it. It’s not diamonds, Rolexes, laptops. We need product to move fast. But Ethan was an aspiring movie director back in LA. He loved Hollywood and the movie industry—told me he had to have her diary. Right after that, he clutched his chest and flipped over the bridge. I freaked out, took the journal, and ran away.”

“What was your plan?”

“Listen, I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t have money. Ethan kept what we stole with him in a box under the floor in his bedroom. I was keeping an eye on the place, waiting to see if cops would show up, sniffing around. Then, finally, I decided that I couldn’t wait anymore; the entire city was on fire over that dead actress. I didn’t want to be caught with her journal. So finally, I struck a deal with my old man—Scott would break into Shaw’s apartment for me, bring me the box, and in return, I’d hand him the journal. He planned on handing it over to the cops after I left town. But he got jumped by a cop that night at Shaw’s—couldn’t secure the box, and so I was left once again with the freaking journal.”

“I saw you there,” I told Sunbell Lane.

“You jumped out of a three-story building. What kind of cop are you?”

“The ex-SEAL kind,” Rex said.

Lane seemed impressed.

Rex got closer to me. “I’ll order the dive team to head over to the Charles River. If Ethan Shaw’s there—we’ll get him out of the water.”

“Your girlfriend’s extra.” Lane watched Rex slam the door behind her.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but you want her to be.”

“Sunbell—there are a lot of people who think you murdered Cassandra. There is film, hotel camera footage of you—”

“Following her?”

“Yes.”

“I walked behind her. But she took the private elevator. I ducked in the side door for a quick puff. Waiting for Shaw was more than my nerves could take. I was back in twenty.”

She had been back in twenty. I made a note in the file to check for a side door leading to the hotel tunnel.

“Then the fight started. I was kind of amused. Swung back around to the elevators to see what was taking Shaw so long.” Sunbell toyed with the cuffs locked on her wrists. “Cassandra had returned. I saw her texting. Her award was gone, which told me she had been to her room. Ethan, I think, must have taken the service elevator; that’s why he asked me to meet him in the kitchen.

“I walked by Cassandra. Now, listen, I should have kept walking, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her stunning gown. I turned my head for just a second—that’s when I caught Cassandra getting into a shouting match with another female. I was pretty far away to hear exactly what they were fighting about, but Cassandra was being read the riot act. That woman was livid. Cassandra asked her to go with her. They went upstairs, and that’s the last I saw of them.”

“Do you think you can provide a physical description of the female you saw with Cassandra?”

“Dunno. I was pretty far away and not paying attention.”

“I need you to try.”

“Why? Is she important?” Lane said. “Important to your case? Say, Detective, I provided you with details, what do I get out of it?”

I shrugged. “One less murder charge if what you’ve told me is true. I’ll send in a sketch artist,” I said.

Chapter 48

The next several hours yielded crucial answers. Ethan Shaw’s body was dredged from the river. Hollman promised to expedite his autopsy, but he didn’t discount the possibility that Shaw had died of natural causes. The revelation lent some credence to Sunbell Lane’s story.

I studied the sketch given to the artist by Lane.

“It could be anyone. Blonde, blue eyes, slightly elongated nose. No hair length because of the updo. Black or dark-colored dress.” Jupiter drew in a breath. “Your suspect fits half the female population at that gala.”

“I agree. Carlos is watching tape. Bozman is on the phone with the Capitol, checking if anyone recognizes our mystery woman.”

Rex said, “And I’ll stay on Sunbell Lane. There’s more about the incident at the elevator she’s not telling us.”

“You think?”

“Yes, Captain. A woman with a criminal mind like hers is holding something up her sleeve.”

“Why?”

“For a better deal? To spite us? The reason could be anything or for no reason at all. I’ll keep talking to her. She’ll crack.”

“In the meantime—” Jupiter shifted on me. “Have you read it?”

“Cassandra’s diary—yes.”

“Anything in there pertinent to the case?”

“To who murdered her? No. It’s not Cassandra’s. The journal belonged to her mother. Reading it helped me understand why Cassandra was willing to throw all her hard-earned success away to produce the documentary we’ve been hearing rumblings about.”

“The adopted children?”

“Yes. The diary is a poignant portrait of her own origin story.”

Jupiter straightened up. “There’s more to her origin story than marrying her own half brother?”

“A lot more.”

Jupiter placed her reading glasses in front of her eyes. Drew the diary close to her. Read for a minute.

“I thought your victim picked it up at a church sale? But it belonged to Cassandra’s mother?”

“Beatrice Ashburn assumed Cassandra bought it at a yard sale in Boston. She was almost correct. Cassandra retrieved it from Old Trinity Church. I spoke to the priest. He told me Alison—Cassandra’s mom—was a devoted member. After her death, some boxes belonging to her ended up at the church attic. They were located after the church began clearing space for the construction of a new roof. He called Cassandra to ask her if she wanted anything back. According to him, Cassandra was surprised the journal existed. With a great deal of interest in it, she took a flight to Boston practically the next day.”

“When my mom passed away, my siblings donated whatever they could to clear her home and put it up on the market for a quick sell. I wasn’t around. What I wouldn’t give to receive a call like that telling me a piece of my mom had been left behind,” Jupiter shared.

“I think that’s how Cassandra felt too. In there, Alison shares many sweet memories of Cassandra’s childhood. She had been loved despite the difficult beginning of her life.”

“A private school-educated girl who ends up a successful actress is hardly the rags-to-riches story I’m used to. Unless that’s not it?”

“It’s none of our business. We should forget about the diary. Nothing in there connects it to her murder.”

“Long—we’re not reporters or bloggers. I plan on telling no one. Do you?”

Rex shook her head. No.

“On Christmas Day in ’97, someone left a newborn on the front steps of Old Trinity Church. It was a terrible winter. Negative temperatures. The city battled a barrage of storms dumping so much snow there weren’t enough plows to keep up. Boston was at a standstill, paralyzed by the winter. The roads were closed off by snowbanks. If people wanted to get to work they had to walk. Most didn’t, but that’s not the case for fire and police. Essential personnel the city relied on to rescue Boston. It was a whole miracle a fireman happened to be tracking Newbury Street, returning to the fire station after he walked his wife to her job—a nurse at the hospital. He heard what he described as the cries of a little child, but the white of the snow was disorienting. He searched. The cries were slowing down. Infrequent. Afraid the child might be dying of exposure, he started knocking on doors, calling anyone who’d open to help him look. Little by little, people were drawn to the street searching. They all heard the cries, but no one seemed to know where they came from.

“Desperate, the fireman rushed to Old Trinity Church to use their phone to call nine-one-one and the fire department. I remember reading a story in the newspaper quoting the fireman saying he almost tripped on the baby because she was wrapped in a white blanket. It looked like a snowbank on the church steps.”

“Seriously? Is this a true story?” Rex said.

“I was a sophomore at Bronx St. James Middle School in ’97-’98, not calling Boston home yet. Continue. Your story got us both on the line.”

“Yes. He picked up the baby off the freezing steps. She was nearly frozen to death. Wrapped her in his jacket. A church orderly, meanwhile, opened Trinity for him and the baby. People from the street gathered in. They formed a prayer circle asking she survive.”

“How old was the baby?” Rex was starved for details.

“Hours old!”

Rex couldn’t fathom it. “What happened next?”

“The baby lived. The fireman and his wife adopted her. The end.”

“If they turned this into a movie tomorrow, I’d be watching.”

“The appeal is there.” Jupiter eyed me. “You’re quiet. Somber.”

“Wait a minute. The baby—” Rex stumbled over her words.

“Cassandra Ann Nicholas, born on December twenty-fifth in 1997, was adopted by Don and his wife, Alison Nicholas. Almost three decades later, Cassandra married and changed her last name.”

“The Christmas Day baby was Cassandra King,” Rex said, bravely holding back a flood of tears.

“That’s right.”

Chapter 49

The uncomfortable silence was broken by Carlos knocking on the door.

“There’s pizza in the lunch room, if anyone’s hungry.”

Jupiter said, “Thank you, Detective.”

“What’s with the morose expressions?” Carlos asked.

“It’s been a dang long day. Long said you’re on tape duty?”

“Yes. Been through the film twice. Blonde, blue eyes, strappy gown. She matches the description of at least sixty percent of the females in attendance. Can we show the sketch to Ian King? See if he recognizes her. Might help speed things up?”

“I intend to. He went in for a minor procedure, his doctor told me. Honestly, I’m not sure how much Ian will cooperate. He doesn’t know he was married to his half sister.”

“Cassandra never told him?”

“No.”

“I think I speak on behalf of us all—good luck, Detective.”

They laughed at my expense. I didn’t mind. Hearing laughter around me lifted me up from the slums I’ve been in over the mysterious woman I swore to myself looked vaguely familiar. Was she another actress?

“Rex—”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep Sunbell Lane talking. Carlos is right—the sketch needs to be fleshed out. And in a few hours we turn her over to your agency. If you think she’s holding back—you’re on a time crunch.”

“Understood.”

“We all are,” I said.

Three hours later, I received a call back from Ian King. The hospital finally discharged him, he told me. Would you mind coming in, I asked. He said he would, but he didn’t have much time. His private jet was taking him back to LA at eight.

I filed in the conference room a few minutes after the floor secretary showed him in. He had leaned out. I don’t know how many people look good after they leave a hospital, but Ian did.

There was tension in the room. Old wounds that won’t heal, I said to myself, and they never will after this conversation. I expected Ian King would leave Boston forever, hating me more than ever before.

“I miss her,” Ian led with. “I miss her too much. She wasn’t an easy woman to love. Especially toward the end of our marriage. Nothing I did made her happy. My shadow repulsed her. I suspect you’ve uncovered an affair. Was she?”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. You’d hide the truth.”

“Ian—”

“Late-night phone calls—when I asked, she wouldn’t tell me his name. Then the Boston trip. She hasn’t been back here since her mom died. When she got back, I’m no longer welcomed in our own home, our bed. She was having an affair. I started to think, obsess—who could she be sleeping with?”

“Ian—” I said again.

“Were you screwing my wife?”

“No.”

“Riiight!”

“It’s the truth. I didn’t know Cassandra was in Boston. Last time we spoke was the night she . . .” I swallowed hard, words against a raspy throat.

“—she dumped you,” Ian said. “I’ve been living with your shadow in my marriage since that night. She’s dead, Long.”

“She is.”

“—and you can’t look me in the eye and admit you were screwing my wife behind my back.”

“I’m not admitting to something that I never did for your personal satisfaction.”

“Then who was she seeing in Boston? Don’t I have the right to know? If you were in my shoes—what would you do?”

“It wasn’t a man that broke your marriage.”

I placed the journal on the table.

“A notebook?”

“The reason why she came to Boston. It’s her mother’s.”

Ian immediately rejected my answer. “Liar.”

“Ian, you’re shouting.”

“Yes. Of course I am. Cassandra kept a few things after her mother died, donated the rest to churches and charities.”

“One church.”

“What? One, two, three, a thousand. Who cares.” He slammed his fist on the table.

“Slamming your fists in my face is unwise. Sit down. And listen. Cassandra wasn’t sleeping around. Nothing in my investigation pointed to another man. What I’ve been trying to explain to you might be particularly difficult to comprehend for anyone, but especially you, and especially if you choose not to listen. Okay?”

He didn’t reply. His fists still clenched. But at least he was willing to listen.

Quickly, I walked him through the reason Cassandra showed up in Boston. Showed him the name on the front page of the journal. He confirmed it belonged to his mother-in-law, who, according to him, was a woman who never approved of their marriage.

Next, I asked him if Cassandra shared with him the content of the diary.

“She wouldn’t let me or anyone near it. Even her assistant was barred from reading it.”

For a stretch of time, Ian peppered me with why this or that. Often times getting off topic, fighting me when I tried to keep us moving along.

“You must love how stupid I look at the moment. I bet you’re thinking—karma’s real.”

“Nothing of the sort, Ian. And I’m only talking to you because it will help me solve her murder.”

“If the roles were reversed—I’d be gloating at your pain and suffering.”

There was plenty more pain and suffering to come before I was done, but I kept my thoughts private.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hold ill-will toward you for years. You stole her from me,” I said. “Took a time of self-loathing before I decided to let her go. And I did, Ian.”

“She was special.”

“Yes. Special. Beautiful. And someone killed her because she was special and beautiful. My only goal is to catch her killer. But I can’t do it without your help. We have to work together. Put aside our hate for each other. And work together. You understand?”

“I hate you, Long.”

“Keep hating me, Ian, if it helps your pain. I don’t mind. Now, have you ever heard Cassandra mention ‘The Christmas Day Baby’ to you?”

“No.” Something else crossed his mind. “Christmas was her favorite holiday. Lit up the entire house with lights, Christmas trees in every room. She used to host an epic holiday dinner for all of our friends on the West Coast. And always, always wished to see snow on the ground.”

“There might have been a reason why Christmas felt so special to her.”

Ian was stunned into silence after I told him the story described in the journal.

“That’s a lot. My God,” he said softly. His fists relaxed. “Why wouldn’t she tell me this? Of course I would have helped her produce the documentary. I would have moved heaven and earth to see her happy.”

“Ian—there’s more.”

“More?”

“You need to hear this, but I understand if you want to take a break. We can call for coffee, food. Are you hungry?”

“No breaks, Long. For the first time in months, I feel genuinely connected to Cassandra. To the only woman I ever truly loved.”

From a faded police file, I extracted a police report typed on a typewriter. Slid it toward him.

“Your father had an affair with a young actress who worked on a movie his film company was producing. She became pregnant. The baby was born on Christmas Day—”

“Long—I hardly saw my father growing up. An army of nannies raised me. Christmas Day—” his mouth agape.

“Yes. That’s right. The baby was adopted by a fireman and his wife.”

“Cassandra’s dad worked for Boston fire.”

“He did.”

“Long—is Cassandra the Christmas Day baby?”

“She is.”

“My half sister,” he whimpered.

“The DNA results. A copy for you. When we’re finished talking, I’ll put you in touch with the doctor to explain the results to you. He’ll do a much finer job at it than I ever could.”

“I was married to my half sister!”

“Cassandra found out the results the night of the awards.”

“She texted me to see her at the room. I was hoping she’d ask me to come back.”

“She was planning to tell you the truth. File for divorce by morning.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“I’ll call for water.”

“No. How many people know this?”

“Not many. Only the detectives working her murder.”

“Do you know what would happen to me if the media gets a hold of this story?”

“I can imagine it will cause a stir.”

“It will ruin me. Destroy Cassandra’s legacy.”

“The media is in the dark, Ian.”

“You don’t know that! Cassandra hated me. Maybe she planted a story about us.”

“Why would she do that?”

“We had no prenup, that’s why. Or out of spite. Or who knows, Long. Does anyone really know what goes on in women’s minds?”

“Ian—let’s take a step back. Cassandra could have divorced you when she read the diary—”

“That would have overshadowed the premiere of All the Wrong Ones.”

“Or she wanted things to end amicably between you. Handle the siblings angle in private. Neither you or her knew about your biological connection. No one in your private circle knew it.”

He was spaced out. Staring into a wall.

“Say something. Anything. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I married the wrong wife, Long,” he mumbled.

“You don’t look well.”

“I don’t feel well.”

I fetched the wastebasket with a second to spare before Ian puked his guts out.

“It’s a lot to process. I’ll give you some time alone. Send out an officer to fetch us a pot of coffee,” I said, feeling queasy myself.

Chapter 50

In front of the interview room, Rex joined me. Reticent, she scanned the empty hallway. Eyebrow curved upward. Her rail-thin frame worried me.

“I wouldn’t go in there.” I pointed to the interview room.

“You told him?”

We heard Ian empty his stomach.

“I did.”

“He’s taking it well, I see.” Rex crossed her arms. “Is he talking?”

“Not really. It started rough. He accused me of sleeping with Cassandra.”

“He did what?”

“Boston. Me. Cassandra.”

“—and he decided you two were going behind his back.”

“Exactly.”

Ian barfed again, louder, dramatic.

“Where did you leave it off?”

“A small breakthrough.”

She chuckled helplessly. “I’m not getting anywhere with Sunbell. She insists she has nothing up her sleeve.”

“But you don’t believe her.”

“Absolutely not. So far, I’ve been nice to her. Rushing to get her coffee and snacks. Ran into Jupiter again, and she reminded me we’re on a time crunch. My armpits are sweaty, and the stupid arm sling’s pinching me. But when I try to take it off, my shoulder hurts like hell.”

“Take it easy, Rex. Don’t overexert yourself. Remember, your case’s close.”

“Nonsense. I signed on to solve Cassandra King’s murder with you—”

“—that was your undercover story.”

“—you’re wrong, Long. It might have started as me going undercover, but it’s become much more than that. I’ve never worked with anyone like you.”

“Thanks, Rex.”

I wondered what else she liked about me. We walked to our desks.

“Carlos says he has several women who might possibly match the woman from the sketch. He wants you.”

“How many?”

“Six in total.”

“That’s still too many.”

“Bozman’s compiling background work on the possible six. Get a look at them. Pick the one you think resembles the sketch the most, then we’ll work our way backwards.” Rex paused.

“I have to go back in. Ian’s flight leaves in less than an hour.”

“He flies private. Tell him to get a later one.”

“He won’t. Especially not after I told him he married his sister. He’s terrified of the media, of Boston, of pretty much anything that has to do with the investigation. Tonight might be my last chance to question him.”

“Carlos won’t like you asking him to wait. What should I tell him?”

I shrugged. “If he and Bozman are looking for something to do, tell them to work the phones.”

“Anyone in particular you want them to call?”

“Yes, LA writing groups. Beatrice Ashburn can give you some suggestions. Show them the sketch, see if someone recognizes her.” I readied to go back in with Ian. “He’s been catatonic. I’ll go check on him.”

“I’ll tell the others.”

Alone again, I showed Ian the sketch. Using the back of his shirt sleeve, he wiped the corner of his mouth. Swished coffee to rinse out the taste.

“Do you know her?”

No reply. Refusal to acknowledge me.

“Ian?” I sighed. “Ian—Cassandra needs your help, okay? Can you tell me if you recognize this woman? It’s important. She saw your wife—”

“Please call her Cassandra. She couldn’t have been my wife.”

“...she saw Cassandra alive last. There are confirmed reports the two argued. They left together and rode the executive elevator, presumably, Cassandra invited this woman up to the suite.”

Ian studied the page, holding it in his hands. Slight tremor. His attention drifted off into space. Disinterest rolled off him like a raindrop glides off a leaf.

“The sketch might be slightly off. The eyewitness saw her for several seconds. Does she look like anyone?”

“The nose is shorter and the eyes are smaller, slightly pinched at the corners. If you make those corrections, she’s a dead ringer for our former assistant.”

“Sapphire . . .” I searched for a last name.

“Sapphire Blackbird.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m not certain of a damn thing. You just told me I’ve been married to my sister. I’m questioning my entire life.” He threw the sketch on the ground. “It’s Sapphire. I’m positive.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“I need a reason why you think it’s Sapphire Blackbird, Ian. She told you you’d regret it that day I came by the hospital. The day you fired her. I need to make sure you’re not—”

“—lying to you?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m not. For the last three years, Sapphire pretty much lived in our house. Cassandra and her were close, brainstorming and writing. Sometimes I thought Cassandra took advantage of that girl. Sapphire worshipped her.”

“And how did Sapphire react when Cassandra pushed her aside? Told you to hire Sapphire as your assistant?”

Ian King shrugged. “Not well. She took off for Malibu. After two weeks away, Cassandra felt bad for the girl, and they struck a deal. Sapphire came back. Things went back to normal.”

Normal, I thought to myself, closing the door to Ian.

A gathering formed at Carlos’s desk. Bozman stood in the middle of it, distributing copies. “Six females. Each take a packet. Hit the streets, work the phones.”

“Carlos, can I see the list of the six?” I asked.

“What happened? Is Ian still catatonic?” Rex asked.

I scanned the names in front of me.

“Not as much.”

“I’d like to add a seventh name on here. Sapphire Blackbird.”

“Cassandra’s assistant?”

“Yes, Rex. Ian thinks the sketch resembles her.”

“You think he’s wrong?”

“I think he has a motive to be her. But he might be telling the truth too. Two things can be true.”

“I’ll run her through.” Carlos set up at the computer.

“Bozman—go, LA writing groups. What’s the status there?”

“Three answered. They were happy to talk to me about Cassandra. Gifted student. Incredible how she wrote All the Wrong Ones. They’re grieving her death.”

“Did they—”

“—recognize the sketch?”

“None of them did.”

I chuckled. “Thanks for trying. It was a long shot.”

“A salty lady runs the fourth and last group on the list.”

“Explain.”

“According to her, Cassandra’s a talentless twat.”

“Not everyone is a fan,” I mumbled.

“Oh, but it’s much more than that,” Bozman said, amused. “This woman says Cassandra didn’t write the movie. She stole it from someone.”

“Who? Did she give you a name?”

“No. Nobody in her class. Cassandra shared some pages of the script with the group, the instructor suspected Cassandra stole it. The writing was too good. The instructor can’t prove it, of course, and doesn’t want to go on record, but yeah, she pretty much thinks Cassandra is a fraud.”

“This lends credence to your theory Cassandra’s killer is the actual movie writer. The unknown, forever afraid to come forward with the truth because the world is grieving Cassandra. No one will believe him.”

Carlos cued up the film from the hotel lobby.

“Found the assistant.”

He played a montage of several frames. Different quality, sewed together, showing Sapphire Blackbird.

In a few, she was a smudge, washed out in the crowd. And in a few, she was at the forefront.

“The gown kind of looks like the description Sunbell shared,” Rex said. “The nose’s short, though, and the eyes are wrong.”

“Smaller and pinched at the end.”

“Yeah. That’s actually pretty accurate,” Rex replied.

“Ian pointed them out.” I picked up the sketch. “I’m going back in. He’s not going to LA tonight.”

Jupiter put her hand up. Stop.

“Who can tell me, what’s the issue with Ian’s statement?” she asked.

None of us answered.

“Anyone? Dig deep, people. Go back. Waaaay back to the beginning.”

“Crap,” I said.

“Glad you caught on.”

“His blood alcohol levels. Six times over the limit.”

“If you want to bring the assistant in, you’d need something else beside his word.”

“We barely got this far,” Rex said, watching the film of Sapphire Blackbird pacing the lobby.

In the corner of the last frame, my eyes zoomed in on another female. Also pacing, but she was dodging the cameras.

“Print a nice photograph of the seven women on the list. Show each one to Sunbell Lane.”

Rex gathered the images from the printer and left.

“Bozman contact the airport and give them Sapphire Blackbird’s name. She might have a flight to Canada tonight. If she’s on their manifest, have them flag her. I want to be notified immediately.”

“And if she’s not?”

“I still want her flagged.”

“Where could she be?” Carlos asked.

“Honestly, I don’t—”

“It’s her. It’s Sapphire Blackbird.” Rex rushed in. “We have a positive ID.”

“Sunbell Lane played her last hand?” I said.

“Not exactly. Pretty close. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Remember, Sunbell saw the back and partial face of the female arguing with Cassandra. Something else stuck out to her. It’s actually perfect.”

“For Christ’s sake, Rex, what?”

“A thief might not remember a face or a name, but he will remember what you have of value to steal.”

Stabbing her finger at the image of Sapphire, Rex fired off, “Our suspect wore a pair of bespoke white diamond teardrop earrings with a large blue sapphire.”

I examined the image.

“We got her, Long. Why aren’t you jumping for joy? We’re so close.” Rex asked the group, “What’s her location?”

“The airport says no one under that name has a ticket to Canada.”

“Have them check—”

“They are. It will take some time, but someone will call me if Sapphire Blackbird purchases a plane ticket,” Bozman said.

“This means she might still be in town.”

“Yes. She might be. But where?”

“I’ll call local hotels.” Carlos picked up the phone.

“Too many, Carlos. She could be checked in under a fake name or rented a room from a local person.”

“We can’t stand around, Long. We have to keep looking. Keep moving,” I heard Rex say.

Where could she be? Scorned. Feeling betrayed. She couldn’t escape the attention All the Wrong Ones is receiving. Her idea. Her script. Stolen. Taken away from her. Across the road, the lights clicked on in my brownstone. Helen had arrived for her nightly check-in, dinner in the oven. The table set up. Looking after her wayward son, the forever bachelor.

My thoughts carried me away for a while. Sometimes I thought of Helen. Sometimes of Cassandra. Both actresses. Movie sets. I had detested Helen’s work as a child. The nights my dad spent helping Helen practice her lines. The dinner parties they hosted with actor friends of theirs, some writers too, directors and then my mind paused—could the answer be right in front of me?

Behind, phones were ringing off the hook, Carlos talking to his network of lady friends, spies. Bozman directing foot patrol, telegraphing a BOLO of Sapphire Blackbird. Rex was pointing at me, animated in her conversation with the night courts, telling them she’d be right over with an arrest warrant for Sapphire Blackbird.

I spoke. My voice was scratchy. They didn’t stop. Probably because I spoke softly. Again, I spoke, louder. Nothing. Each was attentive to their task.

Finally, I let it out, “I know where she is.”

Instantly, the noise died down. Now the attention was on me.

Chapter 51

The grille lights flashed on max. The police horns still blared. The dust from our tires hadn’t settled back on the ground when Rex and I arrived at Pitch Fest, a weeklong convention for movie enthusiasts looking for their big break in the industry.

“It’s a huge deal.” Rex read about Pitch Fest on the ride over. “They have panels where you can literally pitch your movie. Or if you’re a movie director, they have movie sets that you can use to shoot a quick film.”

I studied the building: large, multilevel, unknown number of exit points. “How many people are inside?”

“The website didn’t specify, but based on a generalized idea—it’s twenty thousand, maybe a few thousand more. And it gets worse.”

“How, Rex? How can it get worse than twenty thousand civilians congregated in this multiplex?”

Rex folded the brochure for Pitch Fest. “Today is the last day. They’re hosting a gala with awards, followed by a black-tie dinner and open bar.”

“Goddammit.”

The air was cool and crisp. The wind mild. Nightfall was quickly descending.

Bozman exited his car. “Event coordinator said—Sapphire Blackbird checked in this morning?”

“Did she check out?”

“That she couldn’t tell me. Everyone’s invited to the party, but they had to purchase tickets in advance. Sapphire paid for a table and prepaid for a drink.”

“Where’s the party?”

Carlos joined us. The blueprints of the building were recalled on his iPad. “Ground floor. The ballroom. The event starts in an hour. According to their schedule, it’s snacks and light refreshments at this moment.”

“We can go in posing as guests. See if we can spot her. Calmly and quietly apprehend her,” Rex said.

A good suggestion, I told myself. Hadn’t I met Sapphire before? When pressed into a corner, Sapphire erupted. Hard to control her emotions. Impulsive personality, I admitted. Calm and quiet, I feared wouldn’t be an option when dealing with her.

“Call the captain—request all available resources.”

“Long—that’s overkill, don’t you think?” Rex whispered.

“The woman we’re dealing with is over-the-top: bossy, demanding. And I fear after she murdered Cassandra, Sapphire might have lost touch with reality. This is her shot at the fame Cassandra deprived her of. I’m erring on the side of caution.”

Carlos stepped off, Bozman behind him. Standing beside me, Rex softly reached for my hand, squeezed it, and immediately let it go. I wished she hadn’t. I liked the feel of her touch, her skin and mine.

“Any reason to suspect she’s armed?” Bozman said.

“Can’t be sure. She could be.”

Bozman returned to the phone conversation.

Soon, the building was surrounded by cops. The sheer volume of us descending made me think we knew how to make a grand entrance.

“The event coordinators have been briefed. They aren’t happy. They’ve threatened us with a lawsuit.”

“Imagine they would.”

“And they refuse to cancel the award ceremony unless we can prove Sapphire Blackbird’s armed,” Carlos said. “They think we’re overreacting.”

“Imagine they would.”

“If they won’t let us evacuate—it’s questionable we can pull this off calmly and quietly like we hoped. Twenty thousand–-plus civilians drinking alcohol,” Rex added. “What’s the play here, Long?”

“I go in alone. Watch the room. If Sapphire Blackbird’s there, I’ll find her. Bring her out. Alone.”

The idea was met with no enthusiasm. Flat rejection from all three.

“Alone. Do you really think now is the best time to play the hero?” Rex flinched, adjusting her arm sling.

“Long—” Carlos said, “the captain won’t sign off.”

“She will. Call her,” I replied. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s the way it has to be. If she sees us before we see her—she’ll run. Someone will definitely get hurt in the process if we don’t contain her.”

“And you think you’re the best man for the job.”

“Do I think it—no, Rex, but it’s the plan we’ll go with. Call Jupiter, Carlos. She’ll sign off.”

The ballroom was lively. The lights were deemed low. People were mingling. Happy chatter. Laughter.

A small band played cover songs from the nineties. Several couples showed off their dance moves on the dance floor. The party was underway. I canvassed slowly. After a while of walking, examining faces, my brain bogged down. They began to seem all the same.

After I walked the entire length of the ballroom, it looked impossible for a lone man to find Sapphire Blackbird. At the bar I asked for a glass of water. Waiting for it, I felt a bump on my shoulder.

“You don’t look fun.” Beatrice Ashburn smiled. “In the newspapers you look like a good time.”

“I can be fun when I’m off duty,” I said.

“You’re at a black-tie—loosen up. Wanna dance?”

“Can’t. I’m looking for a woman.”

“Who isn’t? In the meantime, I’m standing right here.” She pointed to the couple having fun on the dance floor.

“Another time. There is a woman at this party I must find.” I reached in my pocket.

“Miss Attitude, yes.” Beatrice handed back my phone. “She felt, because we were both connected to Cassandra, I’d agree to represent her. I, of course, rejected. Losing Cassandra showed me that I’d gotten too close to her. So I wished Sapphire the best of luck.”

“How long ago did you see her?”

“Less than an hour. Why? What’s going on, Long?”

I leaned in closer to Beatrice Ashburn. Whispered a few carefully managed words—not to sew panic in her, but enough to convey the gravity of the situation.

“Second floor. Room nine twenty-four. Long—”

“—police are outside. I’ll send them in. It’s not safe here.”

“Long, she must be in the ballroom. Everyone got kicked out but the movie set pitch. They’re in session now.”

I told Beatrice to leave immediately. Next, I called Rex. Filled her in. In the background I heard Carlos give the orders to take the convention center. Begin to evacuate.

I took the elevator to the second floor. Dark. Empty. The rooms were locked, I realized after I tried to enter a few doors. She wasn’t in the ballroom, I told myself. If she had been, I would have seen her.

Then where did she go?

As I walked down a dark corridor, I kept checking the doors.

The very last door opened to a movie theater. The projector blasted All the Wrong Ones. It rolled to credits. Cassandra King’s name flashed in big, bold letters with the title, writer, then producer, lead actress.

I turned around to leave, but the sound of a soft whimper told me I was at the right place.

The entire theater was empty except for a single seat at the front. I could see the outline of a woman.

The movie cut to a scene. Cassandra King’s beautiful face graced the big screen. Her infectious smile, which I had spent years forgetting, punched me in the gut.

She was a knockout.

The whimper grew louder as I hurried down the aisle. More Cassandra on the screen. More disappointment for Sapphire Blackbird.

Another several steps and I would be at the front aisle. A side door cracked. The lights from outside illuminated the theater.

“You can’t be here.” A security guard walked toward Sapphire.

“It’s my movie,” Sapphire replied.

“This movie? Okay. Sure. Beat it.”

“You’re making a mistake. It’s my movie, and I want to stay.”

“Lady—” he put his hands on the cuffs. “I’ve been told to clear the building. Get out.”

“Who told you that? Why are you clearing the building?”

“Police matter. They’re looking for someone. Now, go, or do I have to walk you out myself?”

There was no time for me to react. Sapphire leaped—an unhinged jump.

She screamed, “I’d like to see you try.”

She threw herself on top of him. They fell to the ground. The theater was plunged again in darkness. The movie shut off suddenly.

Blackness swallowed us.

I could hear their struggle. I could hear the cop panting, fighting off Sapphire, but he was no match for her. She was unstoppable.

In the darkness, I saw shapes and outlines. Out of options, I drew my weapon.

“Boston Homicide—Sapphire Black—”

The sound of a loaded gun interrupted me. The lights came on—harsh, bright theater lights. My eyes first landed on a cleaning lady holding a mop, standing by the door. Next, I saw the security guard. Sapphire Blackbird kept him immobilized with her arm around his neck. With the other, she pointed a gun at my head.

“Drop your gun,” she turned the weapon to the cop’s head, “or I will shoot him.”

“Let him go,” I said calmly. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe not. Either way, I don’t give a shit.”

“What?” the security guard mumbled.

“You’re choking him out. He can’t breathe.”

“Is something wrong with your hearing? I’ll only keep him alive until I’m in the clear. Now, move out of my way.”

“Can’t do that,” I said.

“Throw your gun on the ground. Kick it with your foot.”

I stalled.

“Do it, Detective. Or watch me blow his head off.”

My gun slid about twenty feet away from me.

“Hands where I can see them,” she ordered.

“Don’t shoot. Don’t do it. Think about what you’re doing here.”

“What I am doing here is finally standing up for myself. If I had done it sooner, maybe Cassandra wouldn’t have stolen my work. How could she? I trusted her. Never again.” The gun pointed at me now. “No one will ever screw with me ever again!”

“Put the gun down and we can talk.”

“Talk? The time for talking is over. You know who was good at talking—Cassandra. She promised me movie rights, put my name in the credits. Stupid, stupid, stupid Sapphire.”

“Is she okay?”

“Am I okay?” she yelled at the security guard. “Do I look okay to you? Cassandra King stole my movie. It was supposed to be my big break! But no!” The gun slackened in her hand. “Cassandra lied to me. How could she do this to me? For years she pretended to be my big sister. And what did I get in return for my blind loyalty—a knife in my back.”

Her face contorted in pain. “I couldn’t take it anymore after I watched the mayor of Boston hand the movie award to Cassandra. My award! It was supposed to be mine. Not hers! The entire place on their feet clapping for her. Christ—I have more writing talent in my hair than Cassandra King in her entire body.”

The gun was now dangling by her side as she looked away. If I didn’t take action now, it might be my last chance.

To keep her talking, I asked, “So you confronted her?”

“By the elevators. Yes. I asked her how she could live with herself after what she had done to me. And instead of apologizing, she laughed in my face. Told me I was a nobody and no one would believe me. The entire time she was speaking, she had her award in her hand, shoving it in my face.”

I leaped from my spot, but Sapphire reacted fast. Her gun was directly pointed at the security guard’s temple.

“Twitch a single muscle and he’s a goner. You know I’m capable of it. You’ve seen what I did to Cassandra.”

He quivered in Sapphire’s iron grip.

“I won’t. I’m backing away.”

“At least you’re smarter than Cassandra. After humiliating me, she ordered me upstairs to help her change gowns. She couldn’t zip herself in. So I did what I was told.”

He moaned. His eyes blinked. Shifted.

“Stop it. Cut it out, or I’ll blow a hole in your head,” Sapphire said, driving the gun deeper into his temple.

“Focus on me. Hey, stay on me. What else? You are at the suite. And what? Cassandra keeps running her mouth.”

“Oh, please. I was done listening to the sound of her voice. The moment she turned her back on me, I struck her. Kept going at it until I could see her brain splattered on that glimmering white marble floor.”

The visual made me sick to my stomach. The security guard went limp in her arm.

In the second it took her to push him to the ground, I body-slammed her. We struggled. She was agile, quick too. She rolled on top of me as I held her down. The weapon was gone, slipped out of her hands. I couldn’t see it. Mine was somewhere far, not in reach.

I flipped her over. She was now on the ground, reaching, pulling, fighting to get to the gun. I hooked my arms under her. Sapphire forced me off. Again I pressed her to the ground. She punched me to the side of my head. I tasted blood in my mouth.

In the next moment, she seized the gun in her control, cocked the hammer, and pressed the trigger. Driven by instinct, I put an arm up to defend myself.

The gun had fired, I realized.

Opened my eyes.

Sapphire sat there, pressing the trigger.

I slammed it right out of her hand, spun her around just as Rex burst through the door.

“You had to do it all alone.” She sighed, placing her own gun in the holster.

Then she bent down and picked up the gun from the ground, inspected it.

“It’s a prop, not real,” I said to my partner.

The security guard was waking up. “They won’t let us have real guns. We use them only as deterrence.”

In my cuffs, Sapphire was crying softly again. “Gosh, I hate Hollywood so much!”

Outside, I walked Sapphire to an idling cruiser. Cameras were recording it all. She held her head high, smirking, bruised lip, mangled hairdo, strappy gown ripped at one end.

Leaning on the open window, I said to her, “Ms. Blackbird, you’re about to be more famous than your wildest dreams.”

I banged the top of the cruiser, and the officer rolled off the curb.

***

A few days later, Cassandra King’s case was officially closed. I was standing in the break room, one eye on the news, while pouring myself a fresh cup of hot coffee, my back against the door.

“Hey!” Rex shouted behind me, startling me.

“Ouch.” I ran to the sink to rinse the scalding coffee off my hand.

“My bad,” she teased.

I placed a dampened stack of towels on top of the red splotch forming on the side of my right hand.

“The sling’s gone.”

“Got the all clear from my doctor.”

“Happy for you, Rex.”

She stepped closer to me, holding steady on my gaze.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” I said.

“Jupiter asked me in to sign paperwork. And . . .”

The TV was playing in the background. I went for a sip. My cup was empty.

“—and, Rex?”

“And we never formally said our goodbyes. After Sapphire was booked in, I kind of lost you in the shuffle. Heard you went to jail to watch her formally arraigned. Waited to hear from you, and when you didn’t call or text, I felt bad leaving without saying how much I enjoyed working with you.”

The glorious sun was illuminating the breakroom; Rex and I were bathed in the warm light.

Neither of us said anything for a minute. I imagined my hands on her waist, reeling her in and kissing her like I wanted to.

The news said Rex’s name. I shifted my attention to the monitor. The station played a clip of Sunbell Lane being perp-walked by Special Agent Rex Hobbs to an FBI van. The following frame showed a sound bite of Rex talking to the cameras, explaining the three-year-long search for the infamous pair of hotel robbers.

“You look good,” I said.

She sighed. “I now know why you hate when the public attention is on you. My phone’s been blowing up. The head of the FBI wants to meet me, give me some award. Told me I get to punch my own ticket after arresting Sunbell Lane.”

“So what are your big plans for the future?”

“Go back to Florida.”

“Are you really from Florida?”

“Yes. That was true. Raised in the Sunshine State. Moved out there when my parents divorced. So, yeah, Florida’s home. You?”

I spread my arms.

“Right. You’re home too,” she said. “The bar and the brownstone.”

“It’s the short commute to work that keeps me around.”

She waved goodbye at the door and left. I stood in the break room with a giant lump in my throat and a voice in my head that told me to run after her like a fool.

Bozman rapped his fingers on the door soon after Rex left.

“Dead body washed ashore. Jupiter wants me and Carlos to take it, but he’s going home. You want in?”

I clicked off the TV as Rex flashed a thousand-watt smile for the cameras. The screen went to black.

“Why not? It seems once again, I’m in need of a new partner.”

Epilogue

Last Call was nearly empty when I arrived, some time after eight p.m. on a Saturday night. Six months had gone by since I closed the Cassandra King’s murder. The media obsession with her investigation was finally beginning to die down. The attention it received put me in the center of endless requests for interviews and half a dozen requests from authors to write books about me.

I received a commendation and an award of excellence for my work. It led to a stream of photo ops I seldom chose to stand in for.

I saw no pleasure in the notoriety Cassandra’s homicide brought. On the contrary. My name was blasted on the evening news and in magazines. Radio hosts from Coast to Coast spoke about me as if they’d grown up down the street from me.

The weight of it all had begun to wear me down.

Tonight, however, for the very first time in six months, my name wasn’t mentioned on the news. No one glanced at me when I entered the bar. No one stopped to ask me questions about Cassandra and what it was like to solve the murder of Hollywood royalty.

“The service was beautiful.” Tony slid a beer toward me.

“Yes, it was.”

We both directed our eyes on the TV showing highlights of Mayor Cote’s funeral. She had died on Monday, at her home, surrounded by a group of life-long friends.

“Captain Jupiter gave a stoic but moving speech,” Tony said.

I had been in attendance and could attest to that. Jupiter wasn’t a woman who could move you to tears, but her eulogy hadn’t left a dry eye in the standing-room-only.

“She was flawless. We were all bawling our eyes out.”

“You didn’t want to go to the memorial service?”

“I dipped after the funeral. The Capitol Hotel is not a place I want to go back to anytime soon.” I scanned the empty tables. “Slow night for us.”

“They’ll be back—as soon as someone famous dies.”

I shook my head. “I won’t work another case of a dead celebrity. I’d rather quit the job. Cassandra’s investigation changed my entire life. Rearranged it in some ways I can’t get back to being like before.”

“And we all know how much SEALs love change.” He offered a friendly nudge.

“Routine keeps us grounded.”

“Something else’s missing in your life, and it’s not routine, Long.”

“What? Tell me since you seem to be a part-time bartender and a part-time psychologist.”

“What’s the point? You won’t believe me. You won’t believe anyone.”

“Forget it. Is Dale in the back? I’m starving.”

I stood up, headed for the double swinging doors separating the bar from the kitchen.

“Have you heard from her?”

His question sent icy chills up and down my spine.

“No.”

“Then go to Florida, surprise her. Tell her how you feel. If she doesn’t feel the same. Finally take a vacation!”

It had crossed my mind, but I’d ruled it out a while back, I thought. Soon after Rex left Boston, I had picked up the phone a half dozen times. Always hung up before it ever rang. I didn’t know what to say to her. Her life was there. Mine—here.

The last day we saw each other, Rex had beamed. The FBI finally was giving her the star treatment she deserved. Any city, any division. Her choice. A call from me would mess things up for her. I told myself at least a million times to let her go.

“Mind if I go?” Tony asked. “You have a customer in the booth by the jukebox. Everyone else is pretty much paid up for their drinks.”

“Go. I’ll manage.”

The bar cleared out on its own pretty soon after. Beside the single customer in the booth, still reading the bar menu. I wanted him to leave. I wanted to turn the key. Go to bed and forget.

I approached. “The kitchen’s closed. All I can offer you is a grilled cheese or grilled cheese extra cheese.”

The menu dropped on the table. “Coke’s fine.”

I couldn’t think of anything wise to say.

“Aren’t you at least going to say hello?” Rex smiled.

She was dressed in a black leather jacket, white tee, and blue jeans. Her hair was blonder, sun bleached. And her skin had that summer glow. Radiant.

“Hello. One Coke coming right up.”

She placed a quarter in the jukebox, selected a song at random. Michele Bublé’s “Home.”

She stirred the ice cubes with her straw.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go to the memorial service. Captain Jupiter suggested you’d be there.”

“You spoke to my captain about me?”

“Hope you don’t mind. I was coming to town for the funeral and wanted to see if she’d be okay if I joined her so I wouldn’t go alone. She mentioned that she’s helping organize the funeral; all her time is tied up, offered to put me in touch with you.”

“And since Jupiter never mentioned you to me, I assume you told her you’ve changed your mind.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

“Something like it.”

“Something like it?”

“Okay. You hit the nail on the head. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No. It’s not even close. What I want to hear can’t never happen, so hello, enjoy your drink, goodbye, and have a nice life.”

Our conversation was broken up by Ian King reading from a teleprompter, staring directly at the camera.

“They named the Capitol Hotel ballroom after Mayor Cote? That’s sweet. Really nice gesture,” Rex said.

“Ian paid for the renovations, so the hotel asked him if he wanted to name the ballroom after his late wife.”

“Yikes, it must be awful to be him, walking around, hiding the truth about Cassandra and him and their shared siblings bond.”

“I think that’s one of the reasons he asked the ballroom to be named after Cote. He’s honoring Cassandra in a more fitting way.”

“What? I haven’t heard.”

“They haven’t made the announcement yet, but Beatrice Ashburn and Ian have teamed together to produce a movie inspired by the Christmas Day baby, the story about how Cassandra was discovered at the steps of the Trinity Church. My stepmom has been tentatively cast to play Cassandra’s mother in later years.”

“It sounds remarkable. I’ll buy a ticket to watch, and I haven’t been to the movies since I was a teenager.”

We fell into silence.

“Why are you really here?”

She ignored my question. “Dance with me.”

I took her hand in mine. Swaying between the empty tables, our bodies were pressed against each other. Our hearts beating in rhythm.

Outside, raindrops began to beat against the windows.

“It’s raining again, like the first night we met, do you remember?”

“All I remember is you. At the table, running a recon on me. You were so damn sexy,” I said.

“Does it ever stop raining in this town?”

“It’s the beginning of the rain season. It will go on for months.”

“I guess I better get an umbrella if I’m going to be living here.”

I paused. Still holding her. Our eyes connected.

“Living here? Here, as in Boston? Here as in the same town as me?”

“Yes, Long, as in Boston. As in the same town as you. After I went back to Delmare, things were going pretty great at the FBI. Like I told you—they’d send me anywhere I asked for. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about Cassandra’s homicide investigation. The work was thrilling, unlike anything I’ve done for the FBI. There’s so much red tape and paperwork, agents rarely go in the field these days. And if you dare complain, you get sent to the filing room in the basement until you quit or retire. I still hadn’t made up my mind, until I found myself at a bar one night talking to a down-on-his-luck ex-serviceman. He had no job, no money, nothing to his name, but he seemed so happy, so I asked him what was the secret to his happiness. Do you know what he told me?”

“Absolutely no idea.” My heart was beating right out of my chest.

“His secret was to sing out loud. I told him that I knew a SEAL from Boston who once told me the same thing and until that night I didn’t understand the meaning of it. The next day, I quit the FBI. As of a week ago, Boston PD offered me a spot in the homicide division. And I accepted.”

I hadn’t uttered a word.

“Say something, okay? I’m mortified. I had this speech prepared in my mind, and now I can’t think of a single word.”

Michael Bublé’s voice spilled around us. I tipped her head back. Kissed her lips like I had imagined for months. It lasted for a while, and when we pulled apart, I could see the lust in her eyes.

“Welcome to Boston, Detective, where the weather is always crappy, the roads are terrible, but it’s the only place on earth you’d never want to leave.”

Acknowledgements

First I would like to say a big heartfelt thank you to you, the reader. Your support has allowed me to write and share my stories. I appreciate you. And I understand how precious your time is and it means so much to me that of all the books in this industry, you chose THE WRONG WIFE. It’s the greatest gift you could have given me. 

Next, I would like to say thank you to my family. My husband in particular for his love, encouragement, and understanding. Often I had to withdraw to my special nook to imagine, write, and edit. My absence meant missing meals together, family activities, and trips. Since day one my husband has been my biggest supporter and my greatest source of strength when I didn’t believe myself. 

And to our four beautiful children, I also owe a huge thank you. They make me laugh by reminding me daily how important it is to stay silly and to let things roll off my back.  

As a mystery writer, I strive for my stories to mirror real detective work.  On occasion, I bend the rules to fit the creative narrative. The overall accuracy remains the goal. And when I feel stuck in my research I always seek the advice of the ultimate expert on police procedures  — my husband, who has over a decade behind him on the police force. 

If you enjoyed, THE WRONG WIFE, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or any other book platform you chose to shop from. Your words can be transformational. 

Happy Reading,

Jolene Grace

THE WRONG WIFE

OUT FOR BLOOD

GOING DARK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jolene Grace knew only one thing with absolute certainty when she was a child — she’d become a writer when she grew up. At first, she wrote her stories in journals, scraps of papers, napkins, even her schoolbooks. Writing gave her an outlet to create worlds in which bad guys got punished for doing bad things. And the good guys always won.

Fast forward several decades later and Jolene continues to create fictional worlds in which her characters embark on a thrilling journey, navigating a maze of suspense and intrigue. She loves to wave a web of plot twists and puzzling clues that leave the readers guessing until the very end.

In her spare time when Jolene is not at her desk working on one of her next books, she co-hosts the fastest growing true crime podcast ‘The Crime Room.’ On the show she shares her unique perspective as a murder mystery novelist on all aspects of criminal behavior, police investigating techniques and psychology.

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