“Can you ask someone about the extra fabric?” she asked Pike.
“I’m just a photographer, but I can ask one of the cops. . . .” he said, though clearly uncomfortable as he stepped back.
“I cannot believe you, Emerson. I knew you were a snake but I didn’t peg you for completely heartless. Reginald is dead.”
“And I’m sorry for that,” she said unconvincingly. “But he was still a competitor.”
I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head and for once, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. That seemed to be just fine to Emerson, who shrugged again.
“And then there were two,” she said before walking back toward her apartment.
I was shaking my head, still shocked, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and blinked into the slate-gray eyes of yet another police officer. This one was short and stocky, with tree-trunk legs and a little leather notebook clutched in his baseball-mitt hands. He used the tip of his Bic to scratch at his receding hairline. “Are you the one who discovered the body?”
For some reason, my voice was stuck in my throat so I nodded, dumbly.
“I just need to take a quick statement. Your name and address, please.”
I must have recited everything properly because the cop seemed satisfied. He looked up from his notebook, eyes laser-focused on mine. “What was the state of the body when you first entered the premises?”
I was trying to think of a kind way to say “hanged,” but nothing seemed to soften the blow. “It was, uh, deceased. Hanging. No one touched it, though.”
The officer, whose name badge read Hopkins, raised his eyebrows. “It?”
“The body,” I said. “Reginald. We went in with Felipe and saw him . . . there. Like that. Then . . .” I waved my hand, gesturing to the chaos.
“So, you were with the others when Felipe opened the door?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.
Hopkins wrote something in his little notebook and I wondered briefly why cops always seemed to repeat your answers back to you. “And the others were Felipe, Emerson, Pike, and uh, Nicolette?”
I suddenly drew a huge blank. “I think.”
Hopkins raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I mean, yes.”
Look—we have an impeccable sense of smell, super speed, and no discernible weight. Memory? Strictly breather-class. It’s not good.
Hopkins cut his eyes to me, then to Felipe, who hung back in the hallway, and back to me. He chewed his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, à la every incompetent cop I’d ever seen on TV. “What was your relationship with Mr. Fairfield?”
I swung my head. “We didn’t have much of one. We were colleagues. In the fashion industry.”
“So you didn’t know anything about Mr. Fairfield’s emotional state.”
I think it is perfectly obvious that Reginald Fairfield wasn’t of sound mind. No one in Easter-colored seersucker could be. But I pegged Hopkins for more of a by-the-book kind of cop rather than a down-the-runway one. “No, I didn’t.”
Hopkins sucked in a long breath, then tucked his pen in his chest pocket. “It’s likely we’ll have some more questions for you later, okay? You’ll want to stay around.” He turned and disappeared into Reginald’s apartment once more, and Felipe rushed toward me, a bottle of water quaking in his hands. He was no longer crying, but his body already looked ravaged from his grief. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes looked hollow and sunk into the redness around them.
“Since we’re not supposed to leave, why don’t you come inside, Felipe? I’m just down the hall.” I looked over Felipe’s shoulder and eyed Pike. “You’re welcome to come inside as well, Pike.” I liked the way his name sounded on my tongue and yes, I did admonish myself for thinking of Pike in my mouth while a team of police officers were cutting a dead man down next door.
I’m only vampire; so sue me.
I led Felipe into the apartment, Pike behind us. Felipe took a small sip from the water bottle and must have rehydrated. He immediately started crying again, full, body-wracking sobs while he wrung his hands and mumbled, his accent becoming thicker and more pronounced with each word. I might be without a soul but I wasn’t without a heart and mine ached for him. I filled a glass of water and pushed it into Felipe’s hands, then slung my arm over his shoulder and led him to the couch. He shivered under my touch.
“You’re freezing.”
“Circulation problem,” I said automatically.
Pike took a seat on the couch and scooted over, giving Felipe room to sit. I caught Pike’s hot chocolate gaze for a second and I was immediately warmed by the sweet concern in his eyes, and taken by the way his lips still looked full and tasty even when the corners turned down in a slight frown. He nodded to Felipe who crushed himself into the couch and heaved an enormous, hiccupping breath.
Through the open apartment door I could see the coroner and his assistant pushing through the crowd, could hear the squeaking wheels of the gurney as they laid Reginald out and wheeled him away. Thankfully, the din of chatter, police radios, and general city noises must have drowned out the dead sounds for Felipe because he sucked down his bottle of water and blinked repeatedly, the tears actually seeming to dry.
Officer Hopkins ambled down the hall and knocked on Emerson’s door. I watched as Nicolette pulled it open, her face a yellow-hued shade of pale, her eyes small and circled by exhausted purple bags. They darted past Hopkins and took in the scene in the hall, skidded over the coroner as he pushed Reginald away. There was a slight terror in her eyes and I could see the pale edges of her lips pulled down as she murmured to Officer Hopkins. When Nicolette disappeared and Emerson took her spot, I took a step forward, my head cocked.
“Your relationship to Mr. Fairfield, miss?”
Emerson blinked quickly and even from across the hall—and by way of my super-vamp sense—I could hear her heartbeat speed up, could hear the sharpness of the shallow breath she sucked in. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, watching, as Emerson licked her lips.
“He was a designer like myself.”
“And you all three live here in this complex? Is it, like, some sort of shared housing or artist co-op or something?”
I watched Emerson’s head swing from side to side, her straw hair brushing her shoulders. “We’re the three finalists in a design competition.” She bit her bottom lip, her eyes flashing and catching mine. “Well, we were.”
“So you’re competitors?” Hopkins tapped the end of his pen against Emerson’s doorframe, the rhythmic tap like a heartbeat. “Was there a lot of stress at this competition? Was Mr. Fairfield not doing well?”
Emerson straightened up, her hands going to the doorframe and gripping. I caught the smallest scent of sweat on the air.
Emerson was nervous.
“The competition hadn’t really started yet. I don’t see why Reginald would have been—would have thought he wasn’t doing well. Maybe Felipe knows more.” Emerson’s eyes crested over Hopkins’s head and she looked at me. “Or maybe Nina knows something.” She glanced at her non-ironic Swatch watch and shifted her weight. “Are we through now? I’ve got to work on my designs.”
Emerson left Hopkins standing in the doorway. He turned on his heel and we were eye to eye—me, standing in my apartment, door flung wide open, spying, and him, narrow-eyed, chewing on the end of his pen. He beckoned for me to come into the hallway.
“Can I help you?”
“Miss LaShay,” he said, shifting his weight in what I was guessing he thought was some sort of imposing manner. “Is there a reason you didn’t mention that you and Mr. Fairfield were direct competitors in this competition?”