Silent Reckoning. Debra Webb
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He shook his head. Nothing like that. She wanted to be a star. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before meeting my gaze once more. That wasn’t going to happen. She was a nice girl and I liked her, but she wasn’t star material.
The worst kind of heartache. In my experience with the entertainment business, a guy could break a girl’s heart and she would get over it, but having him doubt her ability to become a star, well, that was a whole other epic struggle.
“How did she take it?”
Not well. She egged my Bentley.
Poor guy. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
Then she spread rumors about me to my friends.
“Rumors?” My curiosity piqued again. This could be significant. Maybe she got involved with the wrong people in an effort to get back at Lane.
That I was gay. He made one of those faces that said he was mortified and very nearly mortally wounded. I can’t believe she would do that. We may have had only one night but she had to know.
That her final hours had been spent engaged in violent sex flitted through my mind. A scorned man might very well see that as the perfect revenge.
“When did you last see her, Mr. Lane?” I purposely made my voice accusing. I wanted him to squirm some more.
He shifted in his chair. Excellent.
Let me see. Another shift of position. Perhaps two weeks ago. There was a party. He waved a hand. You know the type, where everyone who’s anyone makes an appearance.
Yeah, I knew the type. I’d been to a couple myself. Before. But that was another story. Another life. Definitely not anything I wanted to dwell on today.
Mallory had too much to drink, as usual, he went on. She completely embarrassed herself.
“Who was she with at this party?” That information could be very useful. Could give me a contact who’d had more recent dealings with the victim.
His brow furrowed in concentration. Jones. He scrubbed his hand over his chin. The new guy making all the circuits. I haven’t had the pleasure of working with him. TriStar got him.
Rafe Jones. Young. Gorgeous. A little wild, according to the gossip rags. A rising star, according to country-music gurus. He had that controversial country-rap style down to a personal style that appeared to suit his sexy persona.
TriStar was another music video company in Nashville. The biggest, actually. A new company that had breezed into town three years ago and knocked the old-timers out of the top spot. Most likely made a few enemies in the process.
“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Miss Wells?”
He thought about my question for a time then shook his head. Not really. She could be cloying but she wasn’t a bad girl. And it wasn’t that she lacked talent, she simply didn’t have that star quality. The club circuit was the best she could ever hope for.
“Like Reba Harrison?”
This question startled him all over again.
“She was one of your clients, as well,” I went on. “Did the two of you have a physical relationship?”
No. Strictly business. She hadn’t been my client in almost a year. And you’re wrong—she had real talent.
That might be true but he was not telling me everything. The way he kept his eyes averted and allowed his hands to fidget told the tale.
“She had been invited to play the Wild Horse.”
Yes, I know. He met my gaze briefly. Her death was quite a shame.
I found it surprising that he would know her agenda if they’d no longer had a business relationship. “You keep up with who’s playing at the Wild Horse?”
He looked surprised at the question but quickly recovered. Detective Walters, I keep up with everything related to this business. It’s what I do.
Okay, I guess his answer wasn’t as surprising as I’d thought.
I stood and thrust out my hand. He got to his feet almost awkwardly and took it. The brief exchange revealed a sweaty palm and a shaky grip.
“Please let me know if you remember anything else that might be useful to this investigation.” I took a card from my shoulder bag and passed it to him. “No matter how seemingly insignificant. You never know what will make or break a case.”
He saw me to the door. I stopped there, frowned in concentration a moment then said, “By the way, do you know of any reason someone would be out to make you look bad?”
His face paled. Certainly not.
“With two murders victims linked to Lucky Lane Productions, it looks like being on your client list is hazardous to a girl’s health.”
I left, closed the door behind me. I wanted him to think about what I said…stew over it. I could imagine him leaning against the massive wood door and trying to pull himself back together.
Maybe he was innocent, and personally I leaned in that direction, but he was nervous. A one-night stand with a client who got herself murdered didn’t make him guilty, but something about the case made him edgy.
My guess was he knew something he wasn’t telling.
That seemed to be the theme for the day.
Secrets.
I didn’t like secrets.
The trip back to Nashville turned interesting as I neared my neighborhood. I’d noticed the car following me a few miles back. Several unnecessary turns had confirmed that the vehicle was, indeed, on my tail.
So I did what any fired-up cop would do: I performed a little swoop and swap.
I floored the accelerator. Took two hard turns and whipped into a hidden driveway on a street I knew as well as I knew my own. I was out of the car before it stopped rocking and rushed over to watch from the overgrown shrubbery at the curb.
The sedan, four-door, gray, plain and ugly, slowed to a stop and the driver, male, thirty-five maybe, surveyed the neighborhood without getting out of his vehicle.
I eased down the shrubbery row until I reached the rear of his vehicle and then I dashed across the sidewalk and hovered near the trunk. He hadn’t turned off the engine but he had shifted into Park. I’d seen his back-up lights flash as the gear shift passed through Reverse on its way to Park and I could feel the heat coming from the tail pipe, indicating the engine was still running.
Adrenaline fired through my veins as I risked a peek over the top of the trunk. He’d taken out his cell phone to make a call.
Distracted. Perfect.
I rounded the end of the vehicle and watched him in the driver’s-side mirror as I moved toward the door in a low crouch.
Three seconds later I stood, my weapon aimed at his head through the window.
“Get out!” I roared.
He looked up at the gun then at me. Pallor slid over his face. I liked knowing I could make a man go white as a sheet.
Without a word, he closed the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat and reached for the door handle.
“Keep your right hand where I can see it,” I ordered. He’d used his right hand when tossing the phone. That was the one I needed to watch.
I backed off a step as he opened the door with his left hand, his right held up in a sign of surrender, and got out. If the bland, featureless car hadn’t been a dead giveaway the cheap suit he wore would have.
Cop.
“Why are you following me?” I had my ideas but I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.
He