THIRTY

Gillian went directly from Paulette’s funeral to JFK, where she promptly boarded Delta’s evening flight back to L.A. With no luggage, she had arrived on one flight, attended the service, and immediately left on another. The last thing she wanted was to hang around New York to be hounded by the press and continually reminded of the spiraling tragedy in which she found herself embroiled. Even though Paulette could be challenging under the best of circumstances, her loss was deeply felt, and a piece of Gillian had died along with her, that carefree spirit that thrived those first exciting years when they met in New York, when they were all young, ambitious, and beautiful.

At least in L.A. Gillian would be safely tucked away behind the security of Brandon’s money. With a sigh, she settled into the deep, comfortable leather seat, and accepted a glass of chardonnay from the perky stewardess.

It was a little over a year ago that she had taken this same journey from New York to L.A., but now she was flying first-class rather than hunkered down like a sardine in coach. At that time, she had had barely ten thousand dollars to her name, and no prospects for more; her future was about as uncertain as her shaky bank account. Today, thanks to Brandon, her bank account was flush with cash, and her career was set to explode. She also had a friend who was six feet under, and another lying badly injured in a California hospital.

Thoughts of Paulette took her back to that bright, sunny day when Gillian had first arrived in L.A. and somehow managed to claim the wrong bag at LAX, which was the beginning of a domino effect that brought her to exactly where she’d started: on board a Delta transcontinental flight, running from New York. She couldn’t help but think that if she hadn’t met Brandon, they would not have had the shower in L.A. at his house, and things might not have ended so tragically. But there were a million what-ifs.

When the plane landed, Gillian was the first passenger down the gangway. She made her way through the crowded airport, happy not to be bothered with bags. Her only concern was to find Charles so that she’d be driven home and tucked back into her sprawling oasis. Over the crowd of travelers she saw him standing rigidly in his formal driver’s uniform, looking about for her, so she headed in his direction, anxious to get home.

“Miss Tillman?” a deep voice said.

She turned, startled, and came face-to-face with a tall, broad-shouldered black man in a shabby suit and a nondesigner tie. “Excuse me?” she said. She had no idea who this man was, but she tried to inject some degree of pleasantness into her voice; after all, lately she’d been approached by fans who were recognizing her from the publicity blitz that Brandon had orchestrated. Thanks to his clout, she’d been on every red carpet in Hollywood, not to mention every entertainment TV show.

But this was no fan. “I’m Detective Harris, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you, if you have a moment.” He flashed his badge in one smooth move. Though he’d requested her time, it was clear by his stern demeanor that he didn’t plan to take no for an answer.

Every B movie she’d ever seen ran through Gillian’s mind: the tough cop in the bad suit with the shiny badge, and the rich, well-dressed murderess whom he’s forced to bring down, even though thoughts of ravishing her run through his mind. She gathered her wits as best she could. “Yes, I’m Gillian Tillman. How can I help you?” She kept walking, hoping he would follow her right out of the airport, to keep from making a scene. He didn’t. Instead he held his ground, and a few people who’d seen the beginning of the exchange paused to witness the rest of it.

“I need to talk to you about the murder of Paulette Dolliver.” Unfortunately—and probably deliberately—his voice carried, and Gillian sensed a small crowd gathering, wanting to know exactly what the attractive woman had done wrong.

“I would love to talk to you,” she said with a disarming smile, “but now is not a good time.” Gillian looked around self-consciously.

No one ever wanted to talk to a cop; besides, Detective Harris was one of those officers who seem pissed off at their salary in comparison to others whom they deem not as worthy. “We can do this here and now, or I can bring you into the station.” He raised his brow. “And, I don’t think you’d like that very much.” He seemed to be toying with her, amused by her polished veneer.

Her heart lurched in her chest. “Can we talk in my car? My driver is right here.” By now Charles was at her side, looking quite concerned.

He shrugged. “Sure, no problem.” The detective’s sudden appearance at the airport had had its desired effect on her. She was definitely shaken up; now it was just a matter of time before he loosened her lips.

They stood curbside, not saying a word, until Charles pulled the Bentley up. The sight of it further pissed the detective off. The fact that Gillian was black and so was he also pissed him off. She probably thought she was better than he was; he was sure of it. After getting into the back, Gillian raised the soundproof privacy barrier behind the front seat, then turned to face the detective. “So, how can I help you?” she asked. She suddenly regretted the cool crispness of the Valentino suit. The lines were hard and edgy, intimidating even, and the hat looked more mysterious than she’d care to appear at the moment. But this wasn’t the set of a movie, so there would be no wardrobe or set change.

She’s a pretty cool customer, the detective thought. She was as calm and composed as Marlene Dietrich in Witness for the Prosecution. She was, after all, an actress, he reminded himself. “I need you to tell me about the night of Miss Dolliver’s death. I understand she was at the home you share with Brandon Russell.”

“Y-yes,” she began. “We’d planned a baby shower for her.”

“Who is ‘we’?” he asked, never taking his eyes from hers. He was always careful to observe the exact moment when the subject looked away from his penetrating gaze. It was usually very telling.

“Lauren, Reese, and me,” Gillian answered.

“Just the three of you for a baby shower?” He looked skeptical. Those events usually included at least fifteen or twenty cackling women, he thought.

“It was a reunion of sorts, as well as a celebration.”

“I can’t imagine that all of you found Miss Dolliver’s pregnancy cause for celebration.”

She knew where this was headed, but decided to elude the implication. “We were all very good friends.”

“Do good friends usually sleep with one another’s husbands?” he asked. It was a good question, which—not for the first time—made Gillian wonder about the true value of their relationships. They were four women who came together at a time when none of them knew exactly who they really were, but found a semblance of recognition in one another. At the end of the day they all wanted—whether for themselves or their image of themselves—the finer things in life.

She shifted and lowered her eyes. “I had no idea that Paulette and Max were having an affair.” And this was true; she was just as stunned as Lauren to find out that Paulette had been sleeping with Max. It was unimaginable. How could Paulette do that to her own cousin? It was the ultimate treachery.

“But Lauren knew; isn’t that right, Miss Tillman?” His voice took on an accusatory tone.

“Not until that night.” Lauren would have had to be a better actress than Gillian to have pulled that scene off. The girl was genuinely shocked by Reese’s slip. Gillian had never seen Lauren that angry before in all of the years they’d known each other.

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because that’s what started it all.”

“Started what?”

She took a deep breath. “Reese had had a little too much to drink, and let it slip that Lauren’s husband was the father of Paulette’s baby.” She’d wondered on more than one occasion if it was truly a slip, or if Reese told the secret just to get a dig in at Lauren, which she would certainly be capable of.

“And the two, Lauren and Paulette, got into a fight?” he asked.

“Not a fight, just an argument.”

“Did your lover, Brandon Russell, know Paulette?”

The statement about Brandon and the question about Paulette were both tossed out the way a pitcher might lob a changeup, but she quickly adjusted to the new rhythm. “Not really. They’ve met before, but that’s all.” She shrugged lightly.

“What do you know about Mr. Russell’s business problems?”

Again, her gaze shifted from his. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“About the ongoing federal investigation into the financing of Mr. Russell’s record label.”

It was obvious to Gillian that the detective was simply fishing around, and there was no way that she would take his bait. “I’m sorry, but I know nothing of it,” she answered defiantly.

This was not altogether true. In fact, Brandon had finally confided his legal troubles to her. According to the feds, his label was built on illegal gains. They alleged that it was financed by profits from the prostitution and drug trade of a Southern gangster called Crazy Joe. After Sunset Records took off, Crazy Joe kept Brandon’s feet to the fire with a campaign of blackmail, and insisted that he continue their relationship by cleaning up the gangster’s money. Brandon swore that none of this was true, and that video proof that he was being set up was on the missing flash drive.

Brandon told Gillian that the authorities—one agent in particular—were on a witch hunt to bring down a successful black man any way they could, and money laundering was a nice catchall category, kind of like tax evasion.

Agent Wimbley, a redneck agent from Arkansas who was driving the investigation, was pursuing a personal vendetta, and had told Brandon to his face, when he thought they were alone and that the conversation was off the record, that he hated arrogant niggers, and he considered it his duty to help keep them in their place. Brandon explained to Gillian that the missing flash drive contained the secretly taped video from the meeting when these racist remarks were made. He was sure that if a prosecutor or jury, should it come to that, heard those damaging statements, the flimsy case against him would collapse like a house of cards. But unfortunately, after the meeting, which was held in New York, he was in such a hurry to get to the airport that he tossed the flash drive with the incriminating footage into his checked luggage instead of his carry-on.

After Gillian admitted that Paulette had been alone with his bag, Brandon became convinced that Paulette must have taken it, so immediately after the car accident, when Gillian went by Paulette’s place to get clothes for Reese, he’d insisted that she also search for the missing flash drive. He told her that if the authorities were to find the video while investigating Paulette’s death, they would surely erase it to protect a fellow law enforcement agent, which could be the end of his company, and her film career, since Gold Diggers was partially financed with his money. So, while Paulette’s body was still warm in the morgue, Gillian had driven to the apartment and gone searching inch by inch through Paulette’s things. Though she didn’t find the flash drive, she did find a copy of Paulette’s letter to Max, which she later gave to Lauren.

Detective Harris reached for the door handle. “I’ll be back in touch,” he warned Gillian. He turned to get out of the car, but stopped and faced her again. “Just how close were you and Miss Dolliver, anyway?” he asked with a lewd grin.

“We were friends, as I said before.” She gave him a steely glare. She was offended that he would go there, but not surprised. He was a contemptuous little bastard.

“I’ll bet you were,” he said, smiling slyly. Then he was gone, leaving Gillian with a sheen of perspiration.

The whole thing was actually amusing to Detective Harris. He didn’t really buy the idea of a crazy lesbian love affair leading to murder, or that Brandon’s investigation had anything to do with the car crash. There just wasn’t enough of a motive. But it did make for compelling press. Besides, he had a long list of other very intriguing suspects that he was just about to sink his teeth into.