Hostile Makeover (15 page)

“Don’t say that. Damon Newhouse thinks she’s part of a government Bionic Babe Project or something.”

“Ah, Newhouse. He’s a lunatic, but I like him.” He nudged her shoulder. “And he could be right.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“He likes you.”

“He likes to make things up about me. And make me look like a lunatic, too.”

They turned to take another admiring look at the alleged Bionic Woman in full cry. It was quite a tableau, Amanda pointing and screeching, Stella gesturing wildly, terrorized underlings scurrying everywhere, when suddenly three loud
pops
rang out. It sounded like a car backfiring, but much louder. At first Lacey didn’t realize what it was. But Vic knew.

Before the second shot was fired Vic threw Lacey to the ground beside the fountain and covered her body with his. They hit the cement with a smack. Vic whispered in her ear, “Damn it, Lacey. I think she was right. Don’t move.”

“I can’t; you’re smothering me.” He adjusted his position slightly so she could breathe. She peeked out from under Vic’s protective arm. Stella had fallen to the ground, but Amanda had not. Amanda stood still for a moment, looking confused, and then gazed down at her chest. A dark stain seeped out through the red velvet of her dress. Amanda took a step and brushed against the stain with her sleeve, and the white fur came away bloodied. She looked shocked, but she kept walking toward them. She slowed down, wavered, and took one more step before she collapsed and fell to the ground.

It was as if Lacey were watching the scene in slow motion. As Amanda slowly fell to the sidewalk Lacey saw a familiar blur of color careen past, behind the supermodel’s falling body. Its tires squealed as it rounded the Circle and disappeared.
Oh, my God. That’s impossible. A drive-by shooting—and the shooter is using my car?
She didn’t want to believe that she had seen her stolen Nissan 280ZX speeding by, but how many silver-and-burgundy versions of that car could still be on the road? Lacey had a sudden hot jolt of nausea hit her, her heart was beating double-time, and tears sprang to her eyes.
It can’t be true; dear God, don’t let it be true.
She wanted to jump up and run after her car, but she knew she had to stay safe. She prayed that the others were safe too.

There were no further shots. Vic let her up, and they ran to where Amanda had fallen. People were crowding around the victim, and Stella was kneeling by her side, unhurt. No one seemed to know what to do. Someone was screaming and running through the traffic in the Circle. She thought she saw Harlan Wiedemeyer at the edge of the crowd, craning his neck at the spectacle. Young women were hugging each other and crying. All the bike messengers who had been peacefully hanging out at the Circle were taking to their bikes at once in every direction, not wanting to hang around for the police to arrive. Lacey wondered where Turtledove was and whether he was even on duty. She looked in vain for Dr. Greg Spaulding; she even wondered briefly if he was behind the wheel of her stolen car. Lacey focused on Amanda.
Maybe she saw who shot her. Maybe there’s still time. . . .

Amanda’s eyes were glazed. Vic was trying to stop the bleeding from her chest wounds. She was still breathing, but not responding to questions. Soon they heard the police sirens, and an ambulance screamed around the corner, stopping almost on top of them. Paramedics jumped out and took over smoothly from Vic. Lacey was unsure how much time had elapsed, but it seemed like an hour. She saw Zoe running for the ambulance, Yvette and Brad Powers following her. She hadn’t remembered seeing them before. More sirens pierced the night. Vic snuggled Lacey protectively into his arms and whispered in her ear.

“Lacey, honey, just a word of advice here. You don’t have to confuse the boys in blue by volunteering everything you know.”

“Just what are you suggesting?” she whispered back as a very intimidating boy in blue approached her.

“If they don’t ask,” he said, kissing her quickly, “I would leave out the part about how being something as benign as a fashion reporter has led you into a double life as an independent righter-of-wrongs and freelance killer magnet. They wouldn’t understand.”

“Take it back. I am not a killer magnet.”

He gave her a look, then put his finger to his lips. Clearly he was not taking it back.

Lacey and Vic were quiet while waiting their turn to talk with the police. She wondered briefly whether she should call Trujillo to tip him off, but she realized he was probably already on it.
Tony’s got such great cop sources, he’d get it before
The Post
anyway.
Besides, the photographers were still clicking shutters and rolling tape and Hansen and Penfield were there, so
The Eye
was covered. Passersby were watching curiously from the many street corners that ringed the green circle. Turtledove came into view. He was dangling a small man from his mighty arms, and his prisoner was squealing loudly.

“Hey, you cannot hold me. I have not done anything,” the man protested. He struggled while Turtledove dropped him in the lap of a couple of cops. He turned to Lacey and Vic.

“Shit, man, I missed the whole thing. Amanda sent me to follow this squirt because he was hanging around, harassing her stylist.” Turtledove pointed to Stella, who was braced by two cops and looked small and cold and scared to death. In the spring, when they were looking into the death of one of Stella’s stylists together, Stella had told Lacey she didn’t “do well” with cops.
Oh, no,
Lacey thought,
she’s really in for it now. But at least she’s alive.

“I wish I could talk to her now,” Lacey said to Turtledove. She took a closer look at the little man. “He’s the stalker? Is that the same guy you threw out of the boutique?”

Turtledove shrugged.

The man seemed to be resisting the officers’ attempts to talk with him, and they had limited patience. Something about his pinched, thin face was familiar. Then it hit her: John Henry Tyler, the man with the Web site calling on Amanda Manville to tell the truth about Caleb Collingwood. The cops were leading him to the ambulance when he twisted away from them. He ran to where Amanda was lying on the gurney and spat in her face. The cops had enough. He was handcuffed on the spot and hustled into a cruiser. The two cops came back and headed toward Vic and Lacey, and she realized it was now their turn.

And I passed up the chance to start my weekend early,
Lacey thought ruefully.

Chapter 11

Detective Broadway Lamont was as big and broad as a bull, but he didn’t look like he would take any from Lacey. She could imagine him locking horns with Babe the Blue Ox—and winning. A middle-aged African-American with cocoa-colored skin and salt-and-pepper hair, he wore khaki slacks, a pink knit shirt, and a brown tweed jacket that hugged his broad shoulders like a wet suit.

The detective looked like he would just as soon throw her up against the wall as talk to her. Lacey checked the wall for any recent body imprints. It was too dirty to tell. Lacey never actually had a burning desire to know what the D.C. Violent Crimes Branch looked like, and yet here she was, among the witnesses to Amanda Manville’s shooting who had been taken to this police facility in Southeast D.C. for questioning.

Broadway Lamont was not in charge of Amanda’s shooting; he was just assisting the lead detective. Lacey figured that meant she was among the second tier of witnesses. She didn’t know exactly where Vic was; they had been separated for individual interviews. Stella, who was closest to Amanda when she was shot, and Forrest Thunderbird, otherwise known as Turtledove, the bodyguard, were presumably in line to talk to the head guy, one Detective Steve Rogers. Stella would no doubt keep him on his toes. As for John Henry Tyler, who knew where he was? And had he really shot Amanda? And what on earth was Lacey’s missing car doing at the scene of the shooting? And who was the driver?

Detective Lamont fixed his skeptical dark brown eyes on Lacey. One eyebrow went up and the other went down. Based on years of reading her editor Mac’s expressive eyebrows, Lacey took this to be a don’t-mess-with-me look. He had a face that was fierce even at rest, achieved presumably from years of staring down bad guys, but his voice was a rich, creamy baritone. He started with an insult. “So you work for that rag,
The Eye Street Observer
? ”

“Yes, I cover fashion. For that rag.” It came out as a squeak. But as intimidated as she was, she was also curious to see a real, live D.C. homicide detective in action.

He snorted. So she and her paper didn’t impress him. That was apparent. Lacey assumed his manner was meant to be intimidating. At least, that was what she told herself in order not to be intimidated. He began the interview standing and paced the floor while she sat. His badge was attached to his belt, along with a cell phone. He removed his jacket to reveal his bulging biceps, and if they weren’t enough to make someone think twice, there was the shoulder holster with the black nine millimeter.

“I am Detective Broadway Lamont,” he introduced himself. “And I don’t sing and I don’t dance. I don’t tell jokes. I’m not here to entertain you. We are here to dialogue. We start with introductions. I have just told you who I am. And you are . . . ?”

“Lacey Smithsonian.”
He knows who I am. Is this a test?

“That’s quite a name. And in my family we know all about having fancy names,” his deep voice rumbled. He didn’t look convinced. “You putting me on?”

“Nope.” She cleared her throat. “That is my name. My legal name, and the family name is a long story. No relation to the museum.” She fumbled in her pocket and produced her congressional press pass, the one with the really awful photograph, to prove both her identity and her profession.

“Lacey Smithsonian.” He squinted at the picture, then at her. “I guess that’s you. You look better in person. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, let’s make this simple. Tell me what you saw, what you heard, and what may have occurred to you at the time Ms. Manville was shot.”

“Is she still alive?” The vivid picture kept playing in her head; Amanda looking puzzled, trying to continue walking with three bullets in her chest, then falling.

“You know what I know. She was breathing when they put her in the ambulance.” He shrugged. “Three shots to the chest. Course, miracles do happen.”

Lacey repeated what she heard and saw, though she thought she couldn’t possibly have seen anything that would help the police. She also tried to follow Vic’s advice not to volunteer confusing information. But the accusatory voice of Amanda rang in Lacey’s head:
“You promised!”

She sighed and looked up at Detective Broadway Lamont. She didn’t know if she could trust him or not. Probably not.

“I interviewed her yesterday for
The Eye
. She told me someone was trying to kill her,” Lacey said in a small voice. “I didn’t believe her.”
Would it have changed anything if I had?
she asked herself. She knew the answer was no. And now she was stuck with a promise to find out what she could. Lacey consoled herself with the thought that she had never actually agreed to find the killer. After all, Amanda told her whom she suspected. And besides, Amanda was still alive.

Lamont stopped pacing and paid close attention to her for the first time. “Say what?”

“She asked me to help her.” Lacey put her face in her hands, willing herself not to be emotional.
I’m not going to cry. Reporters don’t cry.
“I couldn’t.”

The big man grabbed a chair, turned it backward, and sat down slowly, hoisting one leg over the seat and resting his elbows on the back of it, facing her. “Say all that again.” Lacey repeated it all while Lamont stared intently at her.

“She told you that out of the blue? Yesterday? To a complete stranger? Why?” he asked when she finished.

You are a complete stranger and I’m talking to you
, Lacey thought rebelliously. “People tell reporters surprising things sometimes. Like cops, I imagine.”

“Just like that.” He glared at her. “ ‘Hello, Lacey Smithsonian, someone is trying to kill me’?”

“Pretty much.”

“I don’t want pretty much; I want exactly.”

Lacey walked through it several more times, growing increasingly testy. “I told her to call the police.”

“What did she say?”

“That she had bodyguards.”

“Did she happen to say who was going to do the deed?”

“Dr. Gregory Spaulding. He’s the one who performed the plastic surgery on Amanda. And they were engaged for a while. But it ended recently. Not well.” Lacey’s throat was suddenly very dry. She needed something to drink.

“The surgeon giveth and the surgeon taketh away? Interesting.”

“But that’s just crazy. He’s a famous guy, and he’s doing charity work now.”

“Many things seem crazy, Smithsonian, and yet they happen. Every damn day of the week. And you know what? Even though it’s supposed to look like just a random drive-by shooting, it’s most likely someone close to her. Nobody ever wants to kill you more than your nearest and dearest; I guarantee it. So, Lacey Smithsonian, in your professional journalistic opinion, leaving aside motive, would this famous doctor have an opportunity to do it?”

Lacey shrugged and wrapped her jacket around her in the cold room. “He’s in town for a conference of plastic surgeons. At the Mayflower Hotel.”

“At the Mayflower. Nice place. You ever notice how doctors and lawyers always get to go to the finest places? The rest of us? Some wretched Holiday Inn off the Beltway.” He snorted again. “The Mayflower.” He didn’t say anything for a while. “Do you think it’s possible Spaulding shot her?”

“I talked to him this morning.” She rubbed her eyes. “He seemed convincingly appalled by her accusation, but I don’t know. You’re the detective; what do you think?”

“I don’t think nothing at this point. And I’m not the lead detective on this one. I’m just gathering information,” Lamont said. He shrugged his giant shoulders wearily. “But anything is possible.”