"I should turn myself in," she said finally.
"You will… just not right now. Karl talked to a friend. He's a lawyer who specializes in this sort of problem."
There was a specialty in this?
"He advised us," Hope continued, "and, if we need him, he'll come down. He's in Oregon, but he's licensed to practice in California. Anyway, the main thing now is to keep you in L.A., just away from your apartment or anyplace you could be recognized. That way, we can say you weren't on the run, just in shock. But that excuse will only work for a day or two, so we have to work fast. We need to give the police another suspect – preferably the real killer."
"You're…" She looked from Hope to Karl. "You're going to solve this yourselves?"
Hope smiled. "Hey, I'm True News's weird tales girl, remember? Solving mysteries is my thing. Karl's helped me before. He used to be in security."
"I'm not sure…"
Karl spoke from across the room, his first words since they'd arrived. "You don't have a lot of options right now, Robyn."
Hope shushed him with a glare, but he was right, and his cold realism felt somehow more reassuring than Hope's bright optimism.
Hope cracked open a water bottle. "I can't promise we will solve it. But we're going to try, and if we're no closer tomorrow than we are right now, we'll get our friend's help, let you turn yourself in and keep on working. We have some leads already."
"You do? How?"
"Like I said, there's an advantage to having a tabloid reporter on your case. I have the perfect excuse for snooping, and people aren't nearly as reluctant to talk to the tabs as they let on." She took a long gulp of water. "There's a rumor that someone heard Portia arguing in that back hall. She was talking about a cell phone. And maybe something about a picture."
"Cell…? Wait. Before she died, Portia mentioned her cell. I thought she wanted me to use it to call 911, but that didn't seem to be it."
"Her cell phone wasn't with her body. She had it earlier, didn't she?"
"She must have. I always swore it was surgically attached."
"What about pictures or photos? Does that ring a bell?"
"People were always taking Portia's picture. The only time she snapped shots was when she wanted to show something – a purse or an outfit she liked. She did send me one yesterday – from her cell actually – but it was just of Jasmine Wills."
"Jasmine?"
"In an ugly dress. Portia's been having this passive-aggressive feud with her, and she wanted me to send this picture to the tabloids."
"How big a deal would that be? I mean, I can't see anyone shooting Portia to stop her from getting a photo published, but maybe Jasmine tried to get it back, waved a gun and it went off. Sounds farfetched, but you did think the killer might have been a woman."
"At first. But Judd's killer was a young man, so maybe I was mistaken."
"That could have been a friend or someone Jasmine hired, after she realized you'd seen her." Hope shook her head. "Okay, that really does sound far-fetched."
Maybe, but people killed for less every day. Robyn had a scrapbook to prove it.
"We should look for more likely explanations," Karl said. "Was there anything else about the photograph? Was this girl holding something – drugs? Kissing someone's husband? Was there anything else in the frame? Something or someone Portia may have accidentally photographed?"
"I-I don't know. I didn't take a good look. It was just… Portia being silly. I filed it away, waiting to see whether she'd insist I send it."
"We're going to need to see that picture," Hope said. "Do you -? Shit. You tossed your cell, didn't you?"
"Lost it," Robyn said. "But I downloaded the photo to my laptop. I do that at the end of the workday to keep all my messages in one place."
Hope smiled. "As organized as ever. Now we just need to get your laptop."
FINN
Finn had never been to a spa.
No, that wasn't true. He'd once had a crime scene at a spa. The ghost claimed to have been bludgeoned to death by her romantic rival as they awaited some hot new treatment guaranteed to make them irresistible to the D-list actor they were both pursuing. As it turned out, the young woman had been pawing through a shelf of discounted hair products when a massive bottle of conditioner had fallen and hit her in the head.
Finn doubted the ghost had intentionally lied. She'd been bending over, felt a blow and made up her own explanation. If her version made her death feel less pointless, she was welcome to it.
Today he was tracking down witnesses. The death of Portia Kane was a high-profile case. The death of Judd Archer was just as big – at least for the cops involved. Whether the two were connected remained to be proven. A team had been hastily assembled, pulling in resources from everywhere. Other detectives would work the Archer angle, in case his death was related to his undercover work. Finn would lead the team working on Portia Kane, which included finding Robyn Peltier. Another team member was handling the press side – that really wasn't Finn's thing.
He'd also assigned a pair of detectives to look into Robyn Peltier's life – conducting interviews, checking her apartment, gathering background. Her husband had been killed six months ago in Philadelphia. Shot to death. Finn doubted there was a connection, but he had people working on it.
As for him, he'd spent most of the day tracking down people who'd been at the club with Portia Kane. He'd started with Marla Jansen, gotten three names from her, found them, learned nothing but got another name, and so on. Half the time, all they could say was that they hadn't seen anything unusual, but you should talk to their good friend Tina. Ask for Tina's last name, though, and apparently their friendship hadn't reached the exchange of surnames stage.
Finally, Finn's persistence had paid off. He'd followed a trail to these two young women who'd been with Portia's crowd at Bane. Madelyn and Kendra. And they had a lead for him. Robyn Peltier hadn't gone to Bane alone. She'd brought a friend.
As for details on that friend, though, that's where things got fuzzy. They agreed she was eastern – from the eastern U.S. by her accent and from an Eastern ancestry by her looks. Middle Eastern or East Indian? They bickered over that until Finn assured them a final call wasn't necessary.
As for a name, neither had caught it. And they got into another fight because their friend "Chas" claimed he recognized the girl from some high-society charity ball back east a couple of years earlier. He'd mentioned a name, which they'd forgotten, except that it was "totally Anglo, like Jill Smith," which Madelyn claimed proved Chas was too wasted to see straight and had mistaken the girl for someone else. Kendra disagreed about the "wasted" part, but admitted Chas might have just been angling for an introduction to an attractive young woman.
An attractive young woman who had come with her boyfriend, as it turned out. Now him they remembered.
"He was white," Madelyn said. "Older. Maybe thirty-five. He looked like a banker or a stockbroker. A money guy. Portia was all over him. Normally not her type, but he was very fine… for his age."
"Was that a problem?"
"His age?"
"Portia being 'all over' this other young woman's boyfriend."
"She didn't care. Probably used to that. The culture, you know? Arranged marriages, multiple wives…"
Kendra sighed. "The girl was obviously as American as you."
Madelyn dismissed the idea with a snort. Finn wrapped it up and jumped to his own dismissal after getting this "Chas" guy's cell number.
He was in the outer room when a deep voice behind him said, "Whoa. Those chicks were brutal. Meow."
A man stood across the room. Finn's cop eyes assessed him, spitting out vital stats. Roughly thirty. Six foot two. A hundred ninety pounds. African-American. Dark hair and eyes. Short beard.