Five

The officer behind the counter clicked away at his keyboard, spotted me, and held up a finger. I nodded.

When he finished, he glanced up at me. “How can I help you?” He was young, early twenties, uniformed, and had soft brown Bambi eyes.

“I’m here to see Sergeant Den Brophy. My name is Charlotte Donovan,” I said.

“Hold on a minute, Ms. Donovan,” he said, picking up the phone.

I peeked around the small reception area. Clean, institutional-white bricked walls held trophies, encased badges, and awards. Papers, metal pipes, and white-and-red metal boxes donned the walls too, along with reward posters.

“He’ll be right here,” the officer said and turned back to his keyboard.

Soon the door opened and Sergeant Den Brophy shot me a smile, which landed in places in me I willed myself not to think about. Not today.

“Ms. Donovan, please come in,” he said.

He led me through a snaking path between cubicles and desks. The scent of stale coffee and industrial lemon soap hung in the air. We landed in a darker room with a monitor and another uniformed officer—a woman. “This is officer Grace Callahan,” Den said. “She’s an intake specialist and will take another statement from you. Then we’ll review the security footage, okay?”

I shook the officer’s hand, realizing then how sweaty my palms were. What was I so nervous about? It wasn’t as if I’d done anything wrong. But my heart raced. My skin heated. Was it warm in here? Or was it just me?

“Another statement?” I said as Den gestured for me to sit. I sat on a metal folding chair, which made an unpleasant squeaking noise.

“It’s just procedure,” Den said, taking the seat next to her. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning.”

The woman smiled at me. “Go on, please.” Her fingers hovered over at the keyboard.

I recounted the day and Justine’s death and answered their prompts and questions as best I could.

“Would you like some water? Coffee?” Den asked me after I gave my statement.

“Water, please,” I said.

“I’m finished,” said Officer Callahan, standing up after closing her lap top. She stretched her hand across the table to shake mine again. “Pleasure meeting you. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Den brought a miniature water bottle in, his thick fingers making it appear even smaller. “We’re doing these little bottles now. More environmentally friendly.” He handed me the bottle.

I sipped from it. Never had water tasted so good.

He reached for a remote and flipped on the monitor.

My heart lurched into my mouth. For there was Justine, sitting at her table, facing the camera, checking her cell phone, smiling up at Alfredo, drinking tea. So alive. Less than twenty-four hours ago. I drank my water. It did little to quench my thirst.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. My voice a hoarse whisper.

Then a man walked up on camera. He faced Justine, so his back was to the lens. His arm reached across and patted her on the shoulder—a quick gesture. But as he took his seat across from her, Justine’s face showed, and her distress was obvious. Her face was red with anger as she clutched at her chest. Her eyes darted back and forth—she never wanted to cause a scene. I read her lips as she said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

He didn’t move. Alfredo came up to the table and offered him tea, took his order, and Justine gained her composure. The man sat for a few more minutes, blocking Justine’s face, but at one point his face turned to Alfredo and the other half caught on the camera. Just a slice of it.

“There,” Den said, pressing the pause button. “Does he look familiar?”

The man’s upper face hid in a shadow, but not his distinct pointy chin and a jagged scar along his lower left jaw. I shivered and studied the grainy image for something, anything, familiar about that chin, that scar. “No, not at all.”

“We have a composite one of our artists came up with. It’s conjecture, but based on what we can see here, he may look like this,” Den said, sliding a paper toward me. “We’ve faxed a copy to the tea house as well.”

Lizard-like, the man in the drawing stared back at me as if mocking me. I’d never seen him before in my life and was sure I’d have remembered if I did. If the drawing was a good rendering.

I shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry. Not in the least bit familiar.”

“You’ve worked as her assistant for how many years?”

“Eleven.”

“You’ve never seen him?”

“I’ve never seen half the people she works with or knows. I work from home.” Images of my makeshift office in my family’s rundown cottage poked at me. “Cloister Island.”

“I want you to be certain you’ve never seen him,” Den said after a few minutes. His mouth narrowed, his dimples pronounced.

“I don’t have a very good memory sometimes. I suffer from Lyme disease. But I do have a pretty good recall for faces, and that face? I’d remember.”

He studied me and grinned slow and sideways. If he looked at me like that in a bar, I’d be all over him. Maybe I was misreading, but the spark of attraction was mutual. Even in this rather unappealing environment. Still, his blue eyes sent shocks of electricity-like waves through me. Kate’s face and poking finger flashed in my mind’s eye.

I wanted to tell him about the death threats on Justine’s computer. But I wasn’t sure I should be staying at Justine’s place; in other words, if it was legal or not. The more I mulled it over, the more I thought Kate was right. So I kept the nugget of information to myself. For now.

“Did Justine have any enemies?”

“How much time do you have?” I said and laughed nervously.

He grinned. “Okay. Then let’s pick the top three. We’ll move down the list as methodically as we can.”

“It’s hard to imagine any of them would kill her. I mean, the people I can think of are writers, Hollywood types, and collectors. Not exactly your murdering kind.”

Den frowned. “I wish there were a kind. We see everything. Everyday people going off and killing their neighbor, their lovers …”

The word “lover” hung in the air and vibrated between us. I dropped my gaze.

“Severn Hartwell would be at the top of the list,” I said, lifting my eyes, attempting not to watch his lips as he spoke. Intellectually, I had this. But my hormones had dirty little minds of their own.

“Who’s that?”

“He’s another pop biographer. Justine’s biggest competitor. He wanted to write a Jean Harlow biography but she snagged a contract and made a big announcement, thwarted him.” I couldn’t help but smile. Justine. I dug through my purse for my phone. “I have his number right here.”

Den slid a white sheet of paper across the table, along with a pen. I copied down the relevant details. “Okay, who would be the second on your list?” he asked.

I mentally sifted through the possibilities. “There was a Holly wood collector … what was his name?” I scanned the contacts on my phone, searching for the email I’d saved because I’d found it deliciously funny. He was a man who collected the underwear of starlets, especially those from the Golden Era of Hollywood. “Ah, yes. Here he is, Kevin Jonquil.”

I wrote down the contact information. “I don’t have his number, but I’m sure you can find it. But there’s his email.”

“A collector?” Den smirked. Oh. That sideways smirk.

“Yes, it’s a thing,” I said. “This guy wouldn’t give up. He insisted that he knew about Justine’s secret collection of Greta Garbo underwear. He wanted it and was prepared to pay top dollar.”

“Underwear?” Den whistled, lifting his left eyebrow. “Damn.”

“But she didn’t have it, and he threatened her. Didn’t believe her.”

“Sounds, I don’t know, creepy.”

I thought a moment. “It is. And it’s sad. So many of these people have more money than they know what to do with and they become obsessed and will do anything to acquire an item with the right provenance. I’ll never understand it.”

My own grandmother could get a bit obsessed, but not over Hollywood items. She owned an antique store on Cloister Island that did a brisk business, especially during tourist season.

“And the other person?”

“Kyle Anderson,” I said.

“The Hollywood producer?” Den’s voice rose a decibel.

I nodded. “Yes indeed.” I wrote his numbers and email address on the paper. I’d memorized it years ago. “He became such a nuisance that we had to get a restraining order.” I paused and handed him a card. “Here’s one more. Gregory Horvath, a member of Hollywood Cartel Collections.”

“I gotta hand it to you, Ms. Donovan—”

“Please call me Charlotte.”

“Okay, Charlotte. All this is very helpful. You must have been one kickass assistant.”

Damned straight. “I’m glad to help. If Justine was murdered, I want to see justice done,” I said.

“Keep in touch, Charlotte,” he said as I stood to leave. He handed me his card. “If you need anything, or think of anything of relevance, anything at all, please call.”

My eyes met his, and a gleam sparked between us as his left eyebrow hitched. Kate’s five hundred dollars beckoned, so I reserved my “come hither” expression for another day.