Thirty-Five

The next afternoon, Den called with news. “Breast implants,” he said.

“She was transgender, so I figured.” I turned away from the keyboard. “So, what does it tell us? Anything?”

Now that I was drawn away from my words on the screen, images of her body played in my mind. Would I ever forget that heartbreaking corpse on the metal table?

“Evidently there are traceable numbers on the implants, which should be able to tell us where she had the reassignment surgery, at least,” he replied.

“That’s a start,” I said. Thank goodness for implant manufacturers. Never thought I’d be thinking any such thing.

“Have you had further luck finding information?” he asked. Papers crinkled in the background.

“No. I’ve been writing. Haven’t been online at all,” I said. “I might do some research later tonight.” I wanted to tell him what I’d found out from the impersonators, but I needed to do that in person.

“Speaking of later tonight,” he said, “I thought I’d stop by with a pizza and some wine. What do you think?”

I blinked. The real world beckoned. And I had to eat, didn’t I?

“But I thought we’d agreed not to see one another until after we solve the case …” I wasn’t sure I could handle the temptation.

“This isn’t a date. This is a brainstorming session,” Den said, but his voice spoke of a different kind of session.

I paused. I really wasn’t sure I could contain myself and it hadn’t quite been a month yet. I couldn’t lie to Kate, but it was tempting.

“Well, sure then.” A girl had to eat. And drink wine.

Sometimes I lived too much inside my head. The realm of ideas and words was my comfort zone. When I’d been in the zone for days, the world I created in my writing seemed more real than the physical one. I appreciated people like Kate and Den in my life, who pulled me out of my reverie from time to time. Human contact was necessary.

“Okay,” Den said. “See you soon.”

Curls of excitement rippled through me.

I straightened up the place a bit. I was still hunkered down in the library, so I gathered my papers there, folded the blanket I was using while sleeping on the chaise, and took a few dishes into the kitchen and rinsed them off. The gleaming faucet curled around in a curlicue, hovering over the porcelain sink.

In my mind’s eye, Justine stood next to me, running her fingers through the warm water. Every inch of this place spoke of her. It still carried her scent within the walls, carpets, and draperies.

I hadn’t been back to the secret room. The book deadline was pressing and I was in the zone, words were flowing. Besides, it freaked me out a little. A secret room filled with Hollywood memorabilia. Maybe some of it was priceless. A secret that Justine kept hidden from me all these years. It stung.

But she’d also kept her apartment a private haven, never allowing the “help” to enter. Yet here I was. Struggling to unravel the mystery of who killed her, and who killed my stalker, and trying to figure out if there was a link.

The Jean Harlow look-alike knew Justine lived here, of course. Had she been stalking her? Did she know about the secret room?

Just how many apartments in the building might have such a room? The L’Ombragé had an interesting history. Known as one of the city’s finest art deco buildings, its apartments had been gutted and updated so many times that the floor plans were sometimes inaccurate. The apartment in its spire intrigued me. Who lived there? Why would you live in a tiny circular abode?

The buzzer buzzed. “Ms. Donovan?”

“Yes,” I said, pushing my little black button.

“A Den Brophy is here to see you.”

“Send him up.”

Excitement spun through me. No greater aphrodisiac than temptation existed. Could I resist if he made a pass? Would he? He seemed determined to not date someone involved with a case. But how far was he willing to stretch it?

“I’m coming up too. Surprise!” Kate’s unmistakable voice came over the intercom.

Oh boy.