The Homicide Hustle (11 page)

Zane gave me a troubled look. “Damn. Who?”

I found myself telling him what I’d overheard between Nigel and Kristen, and about
Mickey Hazzard’s threats. “There might be another dozen people with grudges against
Tessa, for all I know,” I said. “I haven’t chatted much with a lot of the crew, the
camera guys and wardrobe folks, for example, or the band members . . . for all I know
one or more of them has worked with her before and hates her for some reason. It would
help if we knew where everyone was Tuesday night, but that’s not going to happen.
People aren’t going to tell me where they were or what they were doing, especially
now that Nigel has ‘outed’ me.”

Zane grinned at my description. “Maybe I could find out. We all live together in that
complex—most of the b-listers and some of the crew, anyway. Even Nigel’s there. Kristen’s
invited me over for drinks. I’ll start with her.”

I’d just bet a glass of wine or a G&T wasn’t all Kristen had in mind, but I stifled
the thought. “Why are you doing this?”

“Are you kidding? The police think I did it. That’s so far off base it proves to me
they’re not likely to catch the real killer. Tessa meant a lot to me at one time.”
He stuffed the folded clothes into a laundry sack and gave the cord a tug.

“Could I get your autograph, Hayden?” A woman about my age stood beside Zane, what
looked like an old receipt and pen in hand. From the hungry way she looked at him,
I knew she’d been a huge
Hollywood High
fan and would have bet my last nickel she’d had his poster up in her room, too.

“Sure.” Zane gave her a tight smile, not bothering to correct her about his name,
scribbled his autograph, and handed the receipt back.

“I voted for you last night,” she said. “As many times as I could.”

“Thanks.” Zane angled his body away from her, clearly dismissive, and after a moment
she took the hint and drifted off. “It’s a hard line to walk,” he said, reading my
expression. “I appreciate the fans and want to be kind to them because they keep me
employed, after all, but I hate it when they act like they know me, or like they have
a right to my time because they watch my show. Problem is, I like acting and I like
eating, and fans come with the territory when you’ve got a hit show.”

“It’s a catch-22,” I agreed. I checked my watch. I’d scheduled three students for
this afternoon, knowing Sunday was the only chance I’d get to work with them. “Sorry
I can’t keep playing laundry wench,” I said, “but I’ve got students.”

Zane’s lips brushed mine. “I’ll let you know if I get anything from Kristen. About
the case, I mean.”

I rolled my eyes and left, planning to get something from, or on, Kim Savage. I couldn’t
grill Zane about when his mom arrived in town or her dislike of Tessa, but I knew
someone else who’d be happy to talk about her.

Chapter 15

After sessions with my three students, I called Maurice, feeling a little sneaky about
offering to help walk Hoover when what I really wanted was to grill him about Kim
Savage.

“Thank you, Anastasia, but I’ve already walked the brute,” Maurice said, exasperation
in his voice. “I took him to Cameron Run. He rolled in a dead fish by the pond and
now he stinks to high heaven. Mildred’s coming home this evening and I’ve called three
grooming parlors, none of which is open on a Sunday.” He sounded about ready to tear
his hair out . . . or do away with one rambunctious Great Dane.

“I’ll help you give him a bath,” I said, thinking that most of my day was being devoted
to cleaning something or other. “On my way.”

I stopped at a Giant en route and bought three 64-ounce containers of tomato juice
since that was supposed to work on skunk smell. At least, I remembered Mom using it
when her beagle got sprayed, and hoped it would work on other odors. While I was there,
I got bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner, too, figuring Maurice might not have
enough on hand to wash Hoover. As an afterthought, I tossed a packet of dog treats
in my basket. Bribes.

Pulling up at Maurice’s small house with its elegant eggplant-colored door and ivy-covered
front lawn area, I didn’t bother knocking. The barks and curses coming from the back
told me where Maurice and Hoover were. Following the brick footpath along the side
of the house, I found myself in a small backyard with a brick patio just big enough
for a grill and a bistro table, a patch of grass about the size of my bedroom that
smelled newly mown, and a dogwood sapling. Maurice, with damp spots on his shirt and
yellow shorts, held a hose that he aimed at a barking Hoover. The dog did a play bow,
wagging his tail furiously, and danced out of the way of the stream of water.

Maurice hailed me with relief. “Thank goodness you’re here. I can’t both hold him
and wash him. Grab his collar and I’ll hose him down. Hoover, come.”

The big dog cocked his head, considering.

“Look what I’ve got,” I said, tempting him with a treat.

He trotted over and snarfed it down; the stench of rotting fish nearly knocked me
down. “Pee-yew! Hoover, you reek,” I said, reluctantly grabbing his collar to keep
him in place. “Do you think we just dump the tomato juice over him, or do we have
to rub it in?”

“I’d rub it in some,” Maurice said after a moment’s thought. “Just a minute.”

He disappeared into the house, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. Emerging
a moment later carrying a toilet bowl brush, he said, “Bought this yesterday. This
wasn’t how I was planning to use it, but needs must . . .” He handed it to me. “I’ll
pour. You scrub.”

While I held Hoover’s collar, Maurice poured the first container of tomato juice over
the dog’s back and haunches. Hoover immediately shook himself, spattering red droplets
all over me. Thank goodness I’d changed into my scruffiest pair of denim shorts and
a T-shirt before coming.

“Hoover! Sit.” I pushed down his rear end, and scrubbed at his back with the plastic
brush. “How was your date last night?” I asked casually since Hoover seemed to like
the scratch of the toilet brush on his back and shoulders and wasn’t squirming to
get away. “I’ll bet Kim Savage isn’t spending her day dousing a putrid-smelling dog
in tomato juice.” I congratulated myself on how subtly I’d brought up her name.

Smiling, Maurice said, “Undoubtedly not. She has a bichon frise, but Layla has a standing
appointment with the groomer.”

“You met Layla?” Not quite as monumental as meeting the parents or the kids, but it
was interesting.

“I think we’re ready for the hose.”

I held Hoover’s collar with both hands and Maurice drenched him, rinsing off the tomato
juice. I gave the pooch a sniff test. “Smells better. A little shampoo ought to do
the trick.” I squirted half a bottle of the coconut-lime-scented shampoo into my hand
and began massaging it into Hoover’s coat. It smelled a lot better than
eau de rotten fish
. He slurped my face with his tongue.

“How long’s she been in town?”

“Since last Sunday. She wanted to come out with Zane, but she had commitments in California.”

Bingo. She’d been here before Tessa died. I tried to think of a tactful way to ask
where she’d been Tuesday night, but couldn’t come up with one, so I asked bluntly,
“I don’t suppose you happen to know where she was Tuesday night?”

Busy soaping Hoover’s hind legs, I couldn’t see Maurice’s face, but his voice held
surprise and disapproval. “Surely you don’t suspect Kim had anything to do with Tessa’s
death?”

I peered over Hoover’s flank. “I wouldn’t rule her out. She’s”—
obsessed
,
desperate
—“intent on restarting Zane’s career and Tessa stood in the way. Potentially.” I explained
about Tessa threatening to remove Zane from
Blisters
. “She’s also smart and looks strong. If she saw Tessa as a threat to Zane . . .”

“Kim Savage is a lady,” Maurice said. “She’s educated and talented and a loving mother.
She raised Zane and his sister alone after their father left, you know.”

As if that made her an instant candidate for sainthood. She’d threatened to get me
booted from
Blisters
because I didn’t let her into the studio fast enough. What would she do to someone
who
really
got in her way?

“I thought you were through with investigating. I know I got you started, but you
need to call it quits. Implying that Kim is capable of murder . . .” He shook his
head as if disappointed in me.

His tone stung. “You’d rather see Zane arrested?”

“I’d rather let the police figure it out. Poking around in people’s private lives
feels sneaky, underhanded.”

Trying not to sound as hurt as I felt, I said, “Rinse.”

Turning the hose on Hoover, Maurice managed to get as much water on me as on the dog
and I wondered if it was an accident, despite his contrite-sounding, “Sorry, Anastasia!”

“I’m covered with tomato juice, dog hair, and fish scales—a little water isn’t going
to hurt anything.” I released Hoover and the giant dog dashed around the yard in circles,
stopped to shake himself vigorously, and resumed running. He dropped to the ground
and lay panting. Then, before we could stop him, he rolled onto his back, paws waving
in the air, and proceeded to coat himself with grass clippings.

“Hoover!” Maurice and I yelled.

He scrambled up, shook himself again, and looked at us expectantly. Blades of grass
stuck off him at funny angles, making him look like a chia pet on steroids. We couldn’t
help it: we laughed.

* * *

Mildred Kensington was pulling up to reclaim Hoover when I left, and I eyed her in
this year’s Cadillac sedan, wondering if the leather seats would be grass-coated and
coconut-lime scented by the time she got Hoover home. We exchanged cordial greetings
and I told her she’d find her pet in the backyard.

“I do hope he’s been a good boy,” she said in the doting tones of a woman who thinks
her pet isn’t capable of being anything else.

Waving good-bye without answering, I headed for home. Despite Maurice’s disapproval,
I intended to find Tessa’s killer. Keeping Zane out of jail and earning a reward that
would pay off half the tax debt were worth it, even if I had to be a teeny-weeny bit
sneaky. Okay, Maurice’s words had hurt more than I wanted to admit. A plan formed
in my mind. Zane had stopped me from approaching the drug dealer Tessa talked to before
she disappeared, but I’d bet he hung out in the same spot every night. Drug dealers
didn’t take Sundays off, did they? It crossed my mind that even if the police had
interrogated the man, he might have been reluctant, given his line of work, to be
totally honest with them. Maybe if someone who wasn’t a police officer talked to him—someone
like me, say—he would reveal something that would help me figure out if Tessa left
the club on her own or if someone was with her. Of course, there was always the possibility
that the drug dealer had, for whatever reason, killed Tessa himself and dumped her
body in the river, disposing of her car later, although I didn’t know how he could
figure out which one was hers. So, it would probably be smart not to go to the park
alone. I dismissed the thought that it might be smarter not to go to the park at all.

I envisioned asking Danielle or my mom to visit a D.C. park with me to confront a
drug dealer and grinned at the thought. Vitaly would do it, happy to expand his circle
of American acquaintances, but he was in Baltimore with John and Lulu. Maurice was
clearly not a candidate. Tav was out of town. Who else . . . ? The answer came to
me in a flash and I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of Phoebe Jackson immediately.
Why, she’d undoubtedly dealt with dozens of drug dealers over the years and was probably
fluent in drug dealerese. I didn’t know how to get hold of her, though. I was sure
she had an apartment at the same complex that Zane did, but I didn’t know what unit
she was in. I glanced at the sky. It was barely six o’clock and the sun would be up
for another two and a half hours at this time of year. I suspected drug dealers, like
vampires, didn’t come out until after sundown, so I had plenty of time to find Phoebe,
even if I had to knock on every door in the complex to do it.

* * *

By the time I showered and changed—choosing “meet the drug dealer” clothes took time—and
located Phoebe, it was pushing eight thirty. I’d knocked on random doors at the apartment
complex, starting with the units near Tessa’s, until I found a crew member who knew
Phoebe’s unit number. Luckily, the action star was in and looked pleased to see me.

“Stacy! What’re you doin’ here, girl?” She invited me into an apartment that was a
duplicate of Tessa’s, right down to the same cheesy print over the sofa. Three sets
of dumbbells and an exercise ball sat beside a yoga mat against the wall. Miscellaneous
items of clothing and most of the Sunday
Post
were draped over the sofa and easy chair. Multiple pairs of shoes peeked out from
under the love seat. It took me a moment to place the song playing from an iPod docking
station: “Cell Block Tango” from
Chicago
.

“Margarita?” She gestured toward the blender and half-full glass on the counter.

“No, thanks,” I said, although it was tempting. “I’m actually here about drugs.”

Phoebe’s dark brows snapped together. “I don’t—”

“I know you don’t.” I explained what I wanted.

Phoebe was still frowning when I finished. “Zane had the right idea,” she said, moving
to the counter with two long strides. She swallowed some margarita and eyed me over
the glass’s rim. “You don’t want to go messing with no drug dealers. They are not
nice people.” Bad memories shadowed her face.

“I know, but listen. I had a thought on the way over here. What if we told him about
the reward? Nigel’s reward for information about Tessa’s death.”

Phoebe considered, absently licking salt from the glass. “That might work,” she admitted.
“I still think it’s a dumb-ass idea. Let the police brace him.”

“Right. Like he’s going to tell them anything.”

Her eye roll conceded me that point. “What are the chances the dude saw anything,
Stacy? It’s not worth it.”

“That’s okay. I understand.” I headed for the door, hoping she’d stop me.

She did. “Where’re you going?”

I turned and gave her a look that said she knew.

“Damn, girl.” Phoebe worked her lips in and out. “That’s blackmail. You know I can’t
let you go down there by your damn-fool self.”

I didn’t say anything. With a sigh, she slung a large purse over her shoulder. “Don’t
blame me if we wake up tomorrow at the bottom of the river.”