“Late lunch,” he says, taking another chomp of his sandwich. “Want the other half?”
I’m tempted. The juicy Pastrami sandwich looks and smells so good, but I force myself to pass.
“You not feeling good or something? You look like you lost weight.”
My dad, the detective, is very perceptive. “I’m fine. I’m just watching it.” God, I’d love a bite. But I know I won’t be able to stop with just one.
Pops puts down his half-eaten sandwich. “Thanks for coming by. You know I’m investigating the Brandon Taylor hit and run.”
I nod. My stomach twists at the mention of his name. “Jeffrey told me you met with him.”
“Yeah, he couldn’t have been nicer.”
Ha! He must have met the wrong person.
“He even autographed the box of DVDs I brought along for your mother. She’s in seventh heaven.”
Jeez. How embarrassing! I suddenly feel bad I never got her a signed set. She begged me for one so many times. I just never felt comfortable asking. Leave it to my outspoken, fearless father. A total charmer.
Pops takes a long swig of his soda and then sets the bottle down. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very helpful. The poor bloke’s got post traumatic stress and can’t remember a thing. Lucky he didn’t get killed in that accident.”
“Jeffrey told me you’re treating it as a possible homicide.”
“I have no choice. He’s a major celebrity. Something in my gut tells me someone wanted him dead.”
A shiver creeps up my spine. As many times as I’ve wanted to kill him for driving me crazy, including today, the thought of Brandon Taylor dead rattles me. Pops’s gut feelings are always spot on. A troubling thought crosses my mind. My stomach knots up and my pulse accelerates.
“Pops, am I a suspect?”
Pops laughs his hearty laugh. “Of course not, babycakes. You’re the one who found him. If you hadn’t, he would have bled to death. Plus, if you recall, you were running errands at the purported time of the accident. All the shop owners have confirmed that as well as Brandon’s gardener, who, by the way we questioned, and is not a suspect either.
Though I’ve tried to block it out, I flashback to that fateful day. Driving home from my final stop, the drycleaner, I was halfway up the private road to Brandon’s house when I spotted his lifeless body sprawled on the ground. Blood was pouring from his head. Wearing his running clothes, he was already swimming in a crimson pool. My car came to a screeching halt and so did my heart. In a panic, I leapt out of my car and rushed over to him. At the time, I had no idea what had happened—I thought perhaps he’d taken a terrible tumble—but I knew he needed help. Fast! With trembling fingers, I called 911. I cradled him in my arms as I awaited the paramedics. Tears filled my eyes. Fear filled my mind. Grief filled my heart. I talked to him. Told him to hang in there. Told him it wasn’t his time. And then I spilled my heart out. My tears trickled onto his soft face and I…
My father’s husky, Jersey-accented voice catapults me back to the moment. “You okay, babycakes?”
I nod though I feel shaken. “Yeah, I was just thinking about that day.”
“It must have been hard on you.”
“Yeah, it was.” He has no idea.
“Do you remember anything unusual about it?”
I shake my head. “It was just like any day. Brandon went for a jog. I was doing errands.”
Pops takes a deep breath. “Can you think of anyone who would want Brandon Taylor dead?”
I rack my brain and shake my head again.
“A crazy fan? An ex-assistant? An employee? Someone who works on the show?”
“No, Pops. To the best of my knowledge, everyone worships him and he’s never been stalked.”
“What’s his manager Scott Turner like?”
“A total slime bucket.”
“A murderer?”
“No, Pops, he’s slimy in that icky slick Hollywood kind of way, but that’s about it. He’s been with Brandon since the beginning of his career. He’s the last person who would want Brandon dead. He’s all about Brandon. And Brandon, in return, treats him well.”
“How much do you think he makes?”
“Not sure, but probably a couple hundred thousand dollars a year. Plus, he gets hefty bonuses. Last Christmas, he bought himself a brand new Corvette thanks to Brandon.”
“What about Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina Moore?”
The mention of her name makes my stomach churn, and once more the repulsive image of her sucking him off flashes in my mind.
“She’s a piece of work, but again no murderer. I mean, she’s marrying a superstar. The sexiest man in the world. Something every woman in the world dreams of. If that was me, I sure wouldn’t want him dead.”
If that was me. I inwardly sigh. I don’t hold a candle to Katrina. She’s Hollywood royalty. Supermodel beautiful. America’s It Girl. She may be a bitch to me, but she’s the perfect woman for Brandon. Second thoughts bombard me—maybe, I should implicate the bitch. Get rid of her!
My father bites into the other half of his sandwich. “Sure you don’t want some?”
It looks so damn delicious. I’m mentally drooling, but I pass once again. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
My father swallows, but not before getting another mustard stain on his light blue shirt. Smiling with amusement, I hand him a paper napkin.
“Thanks, babycakes.” He swipes at the yellow blotch. “Your mother’s gonna kill me.”
I laugh while he asks me another question.
“Do you know Katrina well?”
I tell my dad just well enough to know she’s a bitch. Like Pops, I’m a straight shooter. I tell it like it is. Although I can’t say the same when it comes to my feelings about my boss.
He chuckles. “Was she involved with Brandon for a long time before getting engaged to him?”
“To be honest, I met her only once—shortly before Brandon’s accident—and then again at the hospital. Except for having me make restaurant and hotel room reservations for his hook-ups, he’s never shared his social life with me. I’ve usually found out about whom he’s seeing from the tabloids and online celebrity gossip sites.”
“Was Katrina one of his hook-ups?”
I shrug, gazing longingly at the sandwich. “I don’t know. People Magazine said it was love at first sight and a whirlwind romance.”
Pops takes another messy bite of his thick sandwich. “You know, you can’t always believe what you read.”
Pops is right, especially when it comes to the tabloids, which survive on blowing up celebrities’ lives even if it means feeding the gossip-hungry public utter bullshit. People Magazine is different. You can believe what you read in it, and I defend the periodical’s honor to my dad, the penultimate detective.
Pops chuckles again. “Your mom swears by People.”
I smile. That’s Auntie Jo for you. Like my brother Jeffrey, she’s a total celebrity hound. Brandon is number one on her list. She almost fainted when she saw that he was named People’s “Sexiest Man Alive.”
Pops wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, missing a crumb of bread on his upper lip. I reach across the desk and flick it off with a finger.
“Thanks, babycakes.” He washes the sandwich down with more of the root beer. “Have you ever watched her show?”
Opening my mouth, I point my index finger at it and feign barfing. “Once was enough. Ugh! It almost made me throw up. The only talent she has is being famous for being famous. Her spoiled rich girl antics make Paris Hilton look like Goldilocks.”
Pops picks up a piece of greasy pastrami that’s fallen onto his desk and stuffs it into his mouth. I wish I’d gotten to it first. My stomach rumbles.
“You know she’s not actually rich,” he says matter-of-factly.
My salivating eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“She’s ten million dollars in debt. Maxed out on all her credit cards.”