Twenty-Five

The next day, I was able to move back into Justine’s apartment. We’d boxed up most of her clothes and were just waiting for the charity to come and get them. Kate was back at her Chelsea townhouse, checking in with me what seemed like every hour on the hour. My Jean Harlow look-alike was still at large, which made her nervous.

I remained ever-watchful when I took my daily walks in Central Park. Once I thought I saw her near Strawberry Fields, the section of the park dedicated to John Lennon. But it turned out to be another platinum blonde, of which you don’t see many these days.

Maybe the look-alike was gone. Maybe she’d finally stopped stalking me.

I wished I could say the same for my cyber-stalkers.

What information was I missing? Along with the psychics, Hollywood strangeness, and collectors, there was a thread of dark angst running through the newer emails I was seeing, but they seemingly had nothing to do with the ring. Or maybe they did and I just wasn’t understanding how. A family secret?

I forged ahead, diving into genealogy records of the Carpenters, examining newspaper accounts and probate records, poring over the timeline again. Nothing had stood out. Perhaps the craziness only surrounded the ring and the superfans, who oddly enough were worse than any fans we’d previously run across. And I hadn’t been prepared for this. It was astounding how so many people were still so interested in Jean Harlow.

One thing was clear in the middle of all of this murk: I needed to get the book finished and turned in. Then my life would get back to normal. Well, semi-normal. I’d need to find a job.

I nodded to Gerald as I entered L’Ombragé’s glittery lobby. I knew is name now, as well as his wife’s. He nodded back. “Miss Donovan,” he said. All the staff were familiar with me and had been alerted to the break-in, as security had been taken up a notch.

I still couldn’t make my mind up about what to do with the ring. And the book wouldn’t get finished until I decided. I could write an afterword covering the ring … but without provenance and proof, I couldn’t be certain the bauble was the real thing. If I took it to a jeweler, it would only be a matter of days before the news was out. And my life would be hell.

A crushing sensation filled my chest. I was certain the ring was why Justine was killed.

I focused on the story in front of me, willing away monkey-mind notions of another deeper narrative here. It was just my imagination. I had no real proof of anything. Stick to the facts. Stick to what I knew.

After several hours of writing, my cell phone brought me out of my reverie. Den.

“Sergeant Brophy,” I said.

“Charlotte,” he replied. “How’s it going? Any news?”

A stab of guilt tore through me. How could I keep this secret from Den? He was working so hard to find Justine’s killer.

“No news,” I said. “I’m still getting emails. So is Justine. I have stacks of them. I’ve been printing them out and organizing them. There’s a psychic pile. A collector pile. A Hollywood pile. And then the mysterious pile from someone pleading for help, but those stopped a while ago.”

“Have you seen your look-alike?”

“Not at all,” I said. “How’s the case going?”

“We’ve got a bit of a lead. Can you meet me at Bryant Park in about an hour? I hate the phone.”

I glanced at the clock, then back at my computer. I was on a roll. But Den might have news. And, well, Den. “Sure. See you there.”

The only time I didn’t like Bryant Park was during fashion week. I tried to steer clear of long, lanky, beautiful women wearing outfits that would cost me a year’s salary.

I found a seat at a metal bench and took in the view. It was a nearly perfect late spring day. People were strewn over the middle lawn, which in the winter was an ice rink. Metal tables and chairs were scattered along the sidewalks. A young mom pushed a stroller holding her daughter, dressed in pink. The girl held her doll and giggled while the mom talked into her cell phone.

I glanced around for Den. So far, I hadn’t spotted him.

A maintenance guy walked by me pushing a rolling trash can with one hand and eating a huge soft pretzel with the other. I wasn’t the cleanest person in the world, but that nearly made me gag.

The scent of spicy food, greasy and peppery, suddenly distracted me. Where was it coming from?

Tourists snapped photos with their phones, couples hunched together drinking coffee, and the carousel spun forward.

Still no Den, and no spicy food. Soon the scent was replaced by a strong perfume. In the crowd, a sign poked up. Was someone protesting? What this time?

He moved forward, dressed in a wrinkled suit and tie. The sign said, Jesus is my boss.

“There you are,” Den’s voice came from behind me.

I shifted my gaze to him. My breath caught in my throat. I’d been trying not to think about him, since we couldn’t date as long as he was on this case. And we couldn’t sleep together because of my bet with Kate. It was best not to fantasize about him. But a hot rush moved through me as he took a seat next to me. Our thighs touched, barely.

“What’s up, Den?”

“I’ve got some news. A lead.”

“Ah, yes.”

“The tox reports are back on Justine. And she did in fact have a heart attack, but it was brought on by a mix of Valium with some other drug we’ve not been able to pinpoint yet. The guys are working on it. Said something about chemical reactions eliminating traces of the other drug.”

The news hit me like a brick wall. Proof. We had proof Justine was murdered—as if the security footage wasn’t enough.

“We can’t be certain, but all the clues we have lead us to the ring as the motive. Someone wanted that ring and determined that by getting rid of her, they’d get access to it.”

A rush of fear shot through me as I sat there with the ring in my purse. “What would make them think they’d get access to it?” I asked. “If Justine had it, it would be hidden away somewhere,” I managed to say. The maintenance guy strolled by us with another trash can, still eating his large pretzel.

“Still, maybe if we find the ring, it will lead us to her killer.”

Not likely. My heart skipped a few fluttery beats. Here I am, lying to Den.

Well, not exactly lying, but not telling him the truth, either. Nevertheless, I resolved to go with my gut on this. The ring would stay in my purse.

“How would it help?” I said.

“If we found it, we could make a big splash about it, luring the killer out of hiding.”

Not bloody likely.

“Sounds dangerous,” I said, breathy.

Den nodded. “It would be.”

We watched a few children walk toward the carousel.

“But since we don’t have it, the point is moot.” He paused. “But we do have a lead. At least I think it’s a lead.”

“What? What do you have?”

“One of those emails stood out. It was one that was asking for help. Came from the Dream Girl agency, according to the guys in the cyber crimes unit. Do you recognize the name?”

“No.”

“It’s an entertainment operation that specializes in impersonators. You know—the actors work through this agency, get jobs. It runs a club where some of them work.”

“Is my stalker in show business?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” He paused. “I think if we find your Jean Harlow impersonator, she can shed some light on what’s going on, where the emails are coming from, and so on. At least she can tell us why she’s been following you.”

It made sense. Where else would a Jean Harlow look-alike work? The entertainment industry. My heart sped up in excitement. Maybe we were getting close. Maybe she could tell us everything we needed to learn to bring Justine’s killer to justice.

“Let’s go,” I said. “What are we waiting for?”