Bubblegum Blonde (9 page)

"Do I have anything on the agenda for today?" I asked quickly, before Kelly had a chance to latch on to the subject of the detective and me. I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes.

"Your day's wide open, boss," Mandy answered. "I got those emails you forwarded me and called the clients. They're both on the books for next week."

"Thanks. Normally I'd celebrate the spare time and take us all out to lunch, but this Jason King case is top priority. I need to do a little questioning."

Kelly nodded. "Who do you plan to question first?"

"I thought I'd try to question Robert Hatchett. I probably won't get anywhere, but I have to at least try."

"The killer is usually the spouse," Kelly said and stirred the caramel that had settled in the bottom of her cup with her straw.

"I know, but from what I've gathered from the media and the police report, Robert has a solid alibi for the night his wife was murdered."

"And that would be?" Kelly asked.

"He was at a charity fundraiser. There're even pictures of him there with some of the models he represents."

"Why wasn't his wife with him?" Mandy wondered aloud.

I shrugged. "That's what I want to ask him. She's the one we see all over the media supporting their charitable organizations. Why would he be at the banquet when she wasn't?" I took a bite of my donut, chewed, and swallowed. "Besides, just because Robert didn't kill his wife with his own hands doesn't mean he didn't hire someone to do it for him."

The girls nodded their agreement.

"What excuse did Hatchett give the cops as to why his wife hadn't accompanied him?" Kelly asked.

I swallowed the last remnants of the coffee in my cup, then reached into my purse, pulled out a piece of gum, and popped it into my mouth. "Hatchett's statement said that he claimed his wife chose not to come with him to the banquet at the last minute because she wasn't feeling well, but I'm not buying it."

"Sounds fishy to me too," Kelly agreed.

"I want you to come with me," I said to Kelly. "I'm not expecting anything to go down, but I'd like a second set of eyes and ears just to make sure nothing slips past me.

"You got it." Kelly nodded. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as you're ready. We need to change into something a little more professional first. There're a couple outfits in my office closet." I stood and tossed my napkin in the trash. "I'd like to get this line of questioning over with. I really don't think Hatchett had his wife killed. I can't explain why. It's just a feeling I have. With those odd receipts I found in Lydia's nightstand, I think there's much more going on here than a disgruntled husband. I just can't put my finger on what that something is though. Not yet, anyway."

"Let's get changed, and then I'm ready when you are." Kelly tossed her cup in the trashcan and rubbed her hands together rapidly.

I turned to Mandy. "Can you hold down the office until we get back?"

"No problem, boss," she said with a smile. "But how do you plan on getting him to talk to you? His wife was just murdered. I'm sure the cops questioned him like crazy. Do you really think he's going to want to answer questions from a complete stranger?"

If there was one thing I'd learned about moguls like Robert Hatchett, it was that they loved the spotlight. After his wife's death, the media had been all over him. His name, business, and some of his clients had been all over the news, which meant more exposure for him and his company, which in turn meant the possibility of new clients, bigger contracts, and bigger money for Hatchett.

He might not talk to a couple of private investigators, but I was fairly certain he'd talk to a couple of reporters.

I tapped my bottom lip. "I'm thinking that he'll talk to a couple of reporters. If we say that we're doing a story on his charities, that might at least get us in his door. After that, we'll just have to wing it and get as much info as we can before he kicks us to the curb."

"What if he discovers who you are and who you're working for?"

I spat out my gum and took another donut from the box. (Don't judge me. My jeans still fit.)

"If Hatchett knows I'm working to clear Jason, he won't answer any questions I ask, that's for certain. But this is a risk we'll just have to take."

"What if he doesn't think Jason did it?" Mandy asked.

I paused with the donut midway to my mouth and stared at Mandy. "I never thought of that. But the cops have Jason's money clip and jacket as evidence. His fingerprints were all over the room. Surely that's convinced Hatchett that Jason killed her."

 "That coupled with the fact that Jason doesn't have an alibi for the night of the murder, it looks more and more like he did it. I agree with Barb," Kelly said. "I don't think Hatchett will give us the time of day. But I also can't see why Jason would hire us if he was guilty."

I swallowed the last of my donut. "I don't know, but I think it's about time we find out."

*   *   *

Twenty minutes and Kelly giving three people the finger later, we found the Hatchett Modeling Agency. We got lucky and found a free parking space across the street.

The building was a tall, twelve-story, glass-and-chrome nightmare. The noonday sunlight reflected off the glass in a prism of color. I often wondered how the glare from the building hadn't caused any car accidents in the years since it had been constructed.

I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror and applied a fresh coat of lip gloss. While I wasn't a fashionista or diva by any stretch of the imagination, I still liked to look good and felt I could do so even without applying so much makeup that I had to use a putty knife to scrape it all off at the end of the day.

"All set," Kelly said as she pursed her lips in the compact mirror she held.

I nodded. "It's now or never."

Kelly snapped her compact shut and tossed it in her handbag.

Getting any useful information out of Robert Hatchett was a longshot, but I was determined to get him to talk to us. In all my short years as a private investigator, boobs, whether they were bare or covered and attached to a hot girl or not, and the promise of being in the spotlight usually got the job done.

We got out of my tiny red Beetle, locked the doors, and hurried across the semi-busy street while there was a slight lull in the traffic.

Kelly adjusted her skirt, and I fluffed my wavy hair one final time before we pushed through the revolving door that led into the main floor of the Hatchett Modeling Agency.

The interior décor matched the chrome and glass of the exterior. Even the main receptionist station was a completely garish, all-glass-and-chrome structure situated in the center of the lobby. I looked at the clear glass desk and wondered briefly how the receptionist was able to keep from flashing her undies at every person who passed through the doors.

The floors were a gleaming black reflective finish, and once again I wondered about the receptionist's panty-flashing problem. Or any woman who wore a skirt for that matter. I looked down to see if my panties were visible on the mirror-like floor but was surprised when all I saw was the swish of my silky black maxi skirt, everything else in the reflection was too distorted to make out.

Kelly and I made our way across the lobby and approached the reception desk. A six-foot-tall, blonde goddess who had to weigh less than a buck-o-five was screaming at the surprisingly calm receptionist about having to walk a block to reach the building because of the terrible parking. The receptionist handed her a slip of paper and smiled. The beautiful nightmare snatched the paper out of the receptionist's hand, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and stomped away from the desk toward the elevators.

The receptionist, a twenty-something redhead with a pert ski-slope nose and full, pouty lips, looked up and smiled at our approach.

"Welcome to Hatchett Modeling Agency. I'm Amanda. How may I help you?"

I was a little taken aback at her friendly demeanor but recovered quickly. I knew that this was a modeling agency, and she more than likely had to deal with divas and tantrum throwers, like the blonde who'd just laid into her, on a daily basis. Were it me in her position, I would've already tossed out some throat punches followed up with some eye gouges and been done with it.

"I'm Allison Reynolds, and this is my friend Kathrine Kelly," I lied, flashing the fake press passes I'd asked Mandy to whip up for us while we changed into more professional attire before we'd left, and hoped she didn't look too closely. "We're with the
Gazette
. We were hoping to have a word with Mr. Hatchett. We'd like to possibly do a feature on him and his wonderful charitable contributions."

Much to my surprise, she smiled and nodded her head. "Of course. Just let me make a call."

I stepped back and cast a sideways glance at Kelly. She shrugged.

"Mr. Hatchett would like to see you," Amanda said in a cheerful tone, then handed us two white slips of paper. "Take those elevators"—she pointed to the set of elevators to the right of us—"to the top floor and give those passes to the receptionist at the front desk."

"Thank you." I took the slips of paper from Amanda and handed one to Kelly.

Kelly's high heels clicked on the glossy floor as we took the passes and made our way to the elevators at a quick clip. Once on the elevator I hit the button for the top floor, and the doors slid shut. Kelly released a breath and shook her head. "That was a ton easier than I'd expected."

"I know." I nodded. "Let's just hope Hatchett himself is as easy to deal with."

"I don't count on it."

"Neither do I," I said reluctantly.

I'd never met a talent agent before, so I was a bit nervous with not knowing what to expect. I'd watched a few videos online of Robert Hatchett making speeches at some of his benefits and doing some interviews alongside some of his clients. He seemed like a cheerful, kind-hearted man, but that could all be, and most likely was, an act.

The elevator dinged when it reached our desired floor. We stepped through the doors and onto a floor identical to the lobby. The same clear glass desk loomed before us. The only difference between this floor and the previous one in the main lobby was the stern-faced receptionist behind the desk.

She wore a grey pantsuit (yes, I said pantsuit) with grey pumps. Her favorite color must have been grey, and even I knew better than to try to rock a pantsuit.

Her salt-and-pepper hair was twisted into a neat bun atop her head. She had a long, straight nose, thin lips pressed into a straight line, and her expression was completely unreadable. All in all, she looked like a totally ticked-off librarian.

Kelly and I shared a quick glance at each other but lifted our chins and made our way across the floor to the desk. We had questions that we needed answers to, and we'd be darned if we were going to let a grumpy receptionist keep us from getting them, even if she was a bit scary.

"I'm Allison Reynolds, and this is Kathrine Kelly," I said with much more enthusiasm than I felt. "We're from the
Gazette
. We're here to see Mr. Hatchett concerning a feature story we'd like to run." I repeated my earlier spiel to this woman and handed her our passes.

She looked over the slips of paper, looked up at me from over the top of her glasses, and raised one eyebrow. "I'm Carla," she said in a wispy voice. "Take a seat and Mr. Hatchett will be with you in a moment."

I thanked Carla, and we turned toward the waiting area.

Much to our surprise, the waiting area was fairly empty with the exception of two women, obviously models, or soon to be, relaxing on one of the plush couches.

We took a seat across from the ladies. I couldn't keep my foot from tapping as nerves slithered across my skin. I wanted answers and to get Jason out of my hair once and for all. He was a blast from the past that I'd rather never think about again. But now because of him I was in the middle of a murder investigation. One that put me directly in the crosshairs of a hunky detective who promised to lock me up if he caught me meddling in his business one more time.

In addition to getting Jason out of my hair and closing a huge career-making case, getting Detective Black off my back, even if closing the case didn't get him out of my head, would be a nice bonus.

A picture of Black getting me
on
my back flitted through my head, and I quickly squashed it. He was hot, intense, oozed sex appeal, and I was certainly interested, but I wasn't in the market for a demanding cop boyfriend at the moment, no matter how good the idea sounded in theory.

I was in the market to prove my client innocent and make an even bigger name for myself in my chosen profession.

"You shouldn't be nervous."

I looked up to find one of the women smiling at me. She was tall and rail thin with brilliant black hair, blue eyes, and exotically high cheekbones. In other words, she was gorgeous.

"I'm sorry? What do you mean?"

"Mr. Hatchett isn't like what you would expect an agent to be. He's really quite pleasant." She smiled kindly. "If he's agreed to meet with you it's a good sign. He usually doesn't meet with people unless he's interested in signing them."

"Thank you." I returned her smile. "But I'm not a model. We're reporters."

I actually wondered for a moment what kind of drugs Miss Model was on to have mistaken five-foot-tall curvy little me for a model.

"We're from the
Gazette
," I continued. "We're here to do a story on Mr. Hatchett, if he's interested." I motioned to Kelly and myself.

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up. "Is this about his wife?" She held her hand beside her pouty lips and faux whispered.

"Yes, it is," Kelly, seeing an opening to pump them for information, chimed in.

The woman nodded. "I'm Claudette, and this is Venetia." She indicated the woman seated beside her. "That whole mess with his wife was so sad for Mr. Hatchett."

"Really, it was," the woman introduced as Venetia said. "He was heartbroken." She pushed a lock of curly blonde hair away from her face, but it promptly fell back into place.