The Homicide Hustle (4 page)

Chapter 5

The press conference started only ten minutes late. As I’d expected, Marco Ingelido
and Solange Dubonnet were there, as were a husband and wife dance team who ran a ballroom
studio in Fairfax County, on the other side of the Beltway. The other celebs were
a pet psychic who had a call-in radio talk show, a Disney channel phenom, a disgraced
evangelist, and a reality show personality known for his big mouth and his “guns,”
which he flashed at every opportunity. I was pleased to see that Solange was stuck
with the evangelist who was muscle-bound in a bulky way that suggested he wouldn’t
be too agile. Reporters and onlookers gathered in front of a dais where the b-listers
sat at a long table studded with microphones, while their professionals stood behind
them.

The reporters fawned over the Disney singer-actress, a seventeen-year-old beauty named
Calista Marques who reminded me of a young Eva Longoria. With a breathy voice, a throaty
laugh, and the trick of looking up from under her lashes, she was the odds-on favorite
to win the Crystal Slipper, the dance shoe–shaped trophy
Blisters
awarded to the winner. Rumor had it she’d studied tap dancing and ballet, hoping
to break into musical theater, before Disney signed her for the
Hannah Montana
-ish show that launched her career when she was only thirteen. If so, her dancing
background would certainly give her an edge. I kept a smile pinned to my face as a
reporter asked her if she liked being a teen role model.

“I am absolutely honored,” she said, leaning into the table mike. “My fans are
so
wonderful and
so
loyal. I’d never do anything to disappoint them. I am
so
grateful to Disney for taking a chance on me and for giving me the opportunity to
be Lisa on
It’s a Double Life
. I know some young actors who are in a hurry to move to more adult roles, but I’m
happy to be a teenager and to play a teenager for as long as I can, because teens
are my fans and they are just
so
awesome.”

I couldn’t tell if she was sincere, or needling Zane. He responded with something
that made the reporters laugh again and Nigel, as the moderator, managed to direct
attention to Mickey Hazzard, the evangelist.

“Doesn’t your religion forbid dancing?” a female journalist asked.

Hazzard’s forehead sloped steeply so his deep-set eyes seemed shaded by an outcropping
of thick brows. His voice was deep and sonorous, the kind that made even everyday
phrases like “Pass the ketchup” sound like a benediction. He’d been a hugely popular
minister with a flock of thousands until the scandal broke. “God gave us bodies to
celebrate life,” he said. “Dancing is a form of celebration.”

I wondered if anyone else had noticed he hadn’t really answered the question. “Is
bonking underage girls a celebration, too?” someone called from the middle of the
audience.

Hazzard’s cheeks turned a mottled red and Nigel hastened to ask the professional dancers
to sum up their partners’ strengths and weaknesses. We’d been coached on this beforehand,
and when my turn came I gave my canned answer with a roguish smile and an inward wince.
“Zane’s strengths are his passion and how hard he works,” I said. “His weakness . . .
well, he’s just so sexy it’s hard to concentrate on dancing. This
Hollywood High
alum is
all
grown up.” Whistles and catcalls from the female members of the audience greeted
my remarks and grew to deafening proportions when Zane rose and swept me into a seemingly
passionate embrace, arching me back like we’d rehearsed.

“We could make this real,” he said, his lips a whisper from mine.

I was not remotely tempted to make out with him on national television. I pushed him
away with an eye roll and he took his seat again, grinning.

After the interviews, and the posing, and a bare minimum of mingling, Zane grabbed
my hand, all trace of the devil-may-care persona he’d put on for the cameras gone.
“Come to the hotel with me, Stacy. I’ve got a bad feeling about Tessa.”

Startled by his request, I asked, “Why me?”

“You’re a woman. You might spot something ‘off’ in her room that I’d miss. Come on.”

I let him pull me away from the press conference and changed hurriedly in the wardrobe
trailer, infected by his anxiety.

* * *

The production company was housing the b-listers and crew at one of those executive
suites places that were like a cross between a hotel and an apartment complex, intended
for people who needed temporary lodging for two or three months. E
AKINS
E
XTENDED
S
TAY—
Y
OUR
H
OME
A
WAY FROM
H
OME
proclaimed the neon sign atop the porte cochere. The complex had two wings, five
stories each, on either side of a central lobby with a breakfast area. Four men and
two women sat around the big-screen TV opposite the registration desk, munching popcorn
and watching a baseball game. I felt a shiver of apprehension as I trailed Zane into
the elevator and up to Tessa’s fifth-floor room. Thick carpet hushed our footsteps
and we passed no one before Zane, with his longer stride, stopped in front of a closed
door. He felt along the top of the doorjamb. “The advantage of knowing a woman’s habits,”
he said, holding up a key.

“Tessa?” Zane knocked lightly and paused. When Tessa didn’t appear, he slid the key
into the lock, pushing the door inward.

The apartment was dark, the draperies closed, and smelled like nothing more sinister
than stale air-conditioning. Zane pressed the light switch. I let my breath out in
a whoosh of relief at the sight of the neat, unransacked, empty room. Tessa wasn’t
here. It was an efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette in an alcove, and a sitting
area with a desk in addition to the king-sized bed, but we could see from the foyer
that the place was empty. The TV was off, files and papers were stacked neatly on
the desk, and the only sound was a faint hum from the refrigerator. The place couldn’t
have felt emptier if it’d been unoccupied for weeks.

“She’s not here.” Zane stated the obvious.

Without answering, I crossed to a half-closed door I thought must be the bathroom.
Taking a deep breath, I used one finger to push the door wider. I peered inside. Folded
towels, cosmetics and lotions on the countertop, toilet paper edge fashioned into
a point . . . no body. If the toilet paper was anything to go by, Tessa hadn’t been
here all day, at least not since the housekeeper went through.

“See anything, Stacy?” Zane asked. He stood close enough that I could feel his breath
on my neck.

Backing away from the bathroom, I walked into the sleeping area. “She wore those clothes
yesterday,” I said, pointing to the brown slacks and caramel-colored silk shell draped
over the desk chair. “She must’ve come back here after work yesterday.”

“We know that,” Zane said impatiently. “We all saw her at Club Nitro. She wasn’t missing
then. She’s just been missing today.”

I tried not to take offense at his tone, realizing he was worried about Tessa. What
was their relationship, I wondered. Friends? Something more? What had he meant about
“knowing a woman’s habits”? “Well, I don’t see any nightclubbing clothes, so it looks
to me like she didn’t come back last night.”

Zane yanked on the closet door and peered into it. “You’re right. She was wearing
black pants with a stripe—”

“Tuxedo pants.” Very chic.

“—and a silvery . . .” He brushed his hand up and down near his chest.

“Cami? Tank top?”

“Yeah. They’re not here.”

“Mystery solved.”

Zane looked at me with a confused expression. I rolled my eyes. “Do I have to spell
it out?” Apparently so. “She met someone at the club. A guy. She went home with him.”

Zane was shaking his head before I finished speaking. “No way. I mean, it’s possible
she met someone and let him pick her up, but it’s not possible that she blew off work
today to hang with some guy, no matter how hot the sex. Never happen.”

I didn’t know Tessa well, but she gave off the kind of ambitious, competent vibes
that made me think Zane was right. “Well, if she’s not playing footsie with a new
boyfriend, where is she?”

“I don’t know.” Zane looked around with frustration.

“Why don’t you leave her a note,” I suggested, “in case she comes back.”

“I already left six voice mails.” Still, he stalked to the desk, ripped a piece of
paper from a small notepad and wrote “CALL ME. Z” in block letters. He left it on
top of the laptop. “I’ll walk you home.”

Without waiting for an answer, Zane ushered me out of the room, locked the door and
returned the key to its spot, and escorted me onto the elevator. We rode down in silence.
On the ground floor, the door whooshed open and a couple of photographers surged forward,
cameras clicking and whirring. I would have stopped in astonishment if Zane’s hand
at my waist hadn’t kept me moving forward.

“Zane!” one called. “Are you a couple off the dance floor as well as on it?”

“No comment.” Head slightly lowered, Zane bulled past the paparazzi, grabbing my hand
to pull me along.

The baseball watchers stared curiously and I felt like I’d done something wrong, even
though I hadn’t. If this was fame, the Hollywood crowd was welcome to it. We emerged
into the muggy July night and walked briskly for half a block before I tugged on Zane’s
hand to slow him down. “My shoes.” I pointed to the kitten-heeled sandals that showed
off my pedicure, but weren’t meant for racewalking down Old Town’s brick sidewalks.

“I am going to kill Nigel,” he ground out, skin tightening around his eyes.

“You think he sicced the photographers on you?”

“Not a doubt about it. He’s from the school that thinks any publicity is good publicity,
so I’m sure he’s let every photog in town know where all the celebs from
Blisters
are staying. He’s hoping they’ll stake out the hotel and get a good shot or two,
preferably something scandalous that can go viral on the Internet.” He looked down
at me, forehead puckered, streaky blond hair feathering over his eyebrows. “I’m sorry
you got caught up in it, Stacy.”

“No biggie,” I said, shrugging. I started walking toward my house again, at a slower
pace, a little disconcerted by the concern in Zane’s eyes. He was a nice guy. His
niceness, combined with his hotness, made him hard to resist . . . not that he’d actually
made a move or anything. If he did, what would I do? Danielle’s face popped into my
head. I chased it away. Then, Tav’s face, so like Rafe’s, seemed to float in front
of me. Any relationship with Tav was doomed, I thought sadly, reliving the moment
I’d walked in on Rafe and Solange. I didn’t necessarily think Tav would cheat, but
his life was in Argentina, mine was here, and we both had memories of Rafe getting
in the way at inopportune moments. If I let myself start something with him, our business
partnership would suffer when things went south, as they inevitably would. We reached
the town house. “Well, here we are,” I said brightly.

A blue glow came from my neighbor’s window, along with the faint sounds of crashes
and gunshots that suggested she was watching a cop show or thriller. The gray cat
that lived behind me skittered along the base of the staircase beside my house and
a young couple strolled by, arms twined around each other. The sticky humidity clung
to my arms. There was a moment of hesitation when my gaze met Zane’s. Was he going
to kiss me? Was I going to let him? I caught my breath.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Zane said with a smile. “I
am
going to master that turn series tomorrow.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek,
watched until I let myself in, and then walked back toward the hotel.

Idiot,
I told myself, kicking off my shoes and heading for my bedroom. Stripping, I let
my clothes fall to the floor, and pulled my sleep cami over my head. I brushed my
teeth with more fierceness than my poor gums deserved, still beating myself for that
moment of almost-hope on the front sidewalk. I did not need the complications that
a relationship, no matter how shallow and temporary, with Zane Savage would bring.
So I was glad he hadn’t tried to kiss me. Really, really glad. Immensely glad.

Chapter 6

Tav greeted me when I climbed the interior stairs to the studio Thursday morning.
I was makeupless and draggy, and my hair needed washing. I’d intended to do some cleaning
before the film crew arrived—we’d cut costs by letting the janitorial service go—and
I wasn’t expecting to see anyone. When I entered the office and saw him at his desk,
I jumped. “Tav!”

“Good morning, Stacy.” He wore a suit that told me he was headed into the city on
business, and a frown. He looked unusually forbidding and formal.

Something must be wrong. He never stopped by this early. My stomach knotted. “Is everything
okay?” I asked hesitantly. “Your family?”

“My family is fine,” he said, his accent more noticeable than usual. His expression
didn’t lighten. He passed a folded newspaper across to me. “You can imagine how I
felt when I saw this this morning.”

I gazed at the photo of me and Zane getting out of the elevator. My head was tucked
down in a way that made me look like I had a double chin. Ugh. “What?”

“That is you and Zane Savage at his hotel.” He took the paper back and read: “‘Former
child star and
Ballroom with the B-Listers
contender Zane Savage leaves the Eakins Extended Stay apartments with his dance partner,
Anastasia Graysin, leading to speculation that they are partners off the dance floor
as well as on it.’” He dropped the paper on his desk.

I felt a confused jumble of emotion. First, I was pissed off with the newspaper for
the unflattering photo and innuendo. Second, I was annoyed that Tav was annoyed—he
had no right to be. Third, I was a little bit pleased that Tav was annoyed. The combination
of feelings irritated me. “Zane and I went to the hotel to check on Tessa King, who
is missing. We didn’t find her. We left. He walked me home.”

Tav looked taken aback, either by my explanation or my tone. He leaned forward, palms
on his desk. “Look, Stacy, I know I have no right—”

“No, you don’t.”

His brows soared.

“You have no right to assume I’m sleeping with Zane or anyone else, merely because
a newspaper prints a photo of us in a hotel lobby.”

“I did not think—”

Now it was my turn to cock a brow.

“All right. I did think.” He smiled ruefully. “I am sorry.”

The genuine contrition in his eyes melted my anger. “It’s okay. Forget it. What are
you up to today?”

He filled me in on his schedule, saying he hoped to return from a downtown meeting
in time to watch some of the filming, and then left, stuffing the newspaper into the
trash can. A glance at the clock told me I no longer had time to scrub the bathroom
before my student arrived for a private lesson, so I contented myself with sweeping
the ballroom quickly and darted downstairs to shower.

An hour and a half later, sweaty from practicing jive flicks and kicks with the government
worker who’d taken up ballroom dance to get a little exercise and meet women, but
now competed successfully at the Silver level, I needed another shower. I rinsed off
quickly and was reapplying deodorant when the phone rang. I answered it, simultaneously
trying to pull up the stretchy shorts I was wearing for today’s
Blisters
practice session. It was Danielle.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” she yelled.

Holding the phone away from my ear, I said, “Take a chill pill, Dani. What are you
talking about?” I knew what she was talking about, of course—the photo—but I wanted
to hear her accuse me of sleeping with Zane Savage.

“You knew I was interested in him, but you still had to have him.”

I rolled my eyes and set the phone on the dresser so I could tug up the shorts. I
could still hear Danielle’s aggrieved voice.

Admiring my tight abs in the mirror as I pulled a cropped top over my head, I picked
up the phone again. “I haven’t ‘had’ him,” I said, and explained about the photo.
“But if I wanted to have him, I could. There’s no ‘Property of Danielle Graysin’ sign
tattooed on his forehead.” I couldn’t help but poke at her, even knowing it would
make her furious. It was a sister reflex.

“We’ll see about that,” she said, and hung up. I felt sorry for any of the union employees
who wanted her to arbitrate a grievance today.

Upstairs, the filming chaos matched my mood. Nigel Whiteman, the camera guy, and both
our celebrities had arrived while I was changing and they were all gathered in the
ballroom, along with Vitaly.

“Nigel, you’ve got to go to the police,” Zane was saying as I slipped into the room
and began stretching at the barre. “Phoebe, tell him.”

Phoebe shrugged muscular shoulders. “Tessa’s a big girl.”

Zane almost growled with frustration. “It’s not like her to disappear like this.”

“You would know,” Phoebe shot at him.

I pursed my lips. What did that mean? I was getting the distinct impression that there
was something between Zane and Tessa besides star and producer.

Nigel made a calming motion. “Zane. You’re concerned. I get it. Me, too. But the coppers
aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about an adult woman who’s been missing—what?—about
thirty-six hours. If she hasn’t shown up by—”

“If you won’t go to the police, I will.” Zane’s mouth was set in a grim line.

“Excuse me.” The voice came from the threshold.

I recognized it and whipped around, snagging my heel on the barre and almost falling
on my face. Catching myself with my palms on the floor, I stared up with dismay at
the man entering the ballroom. At first glance, he didn’t look like much, in his mid-fifties
with thinning dishwater-colored hair, too-red lips, and freckles spattering his face
and even his ear lobes. Black, Clark Kent–type glasses made him look like an escapee
from the 1960s. His suit said Penney’s or Men’s Wearhouse rather than Hugo Boss or
Calvin Klein, but his shoes were polished to a mirrorlike shine. It was the badge
hooked over his belt, though, that brought conversation to a halt.

“Detective Lissy,” I blurted, getting a bad feeling. I straightened, face red, and
unhooked my foot from the barre. “What are you—?”

His gray gaze swept me, moved from Zane to the camera guy, and finally settled on
Nigel. “I’m looking for a Nigel Whiteman.”

“I’m Whiteman.” Nigel stepped forward, shorter than Lissy, but overshadowing the detective
with his smile and personality. “How can I help you, constable?”

“It’s detective. Detective Lissy of the Alexandria Police Department.” He seemed completely
unfazed by Nigel’s attitude. “I understand you work with Tessa King.”

“Oh, my God,” Zane breathed. He took a hasty step forward, coming to a halt between
Nigel and Lissy. “What about Tessa? Have you found her?”

Detective Lissy gave him a considering look. “And you are?”

“Zane Savage,” he said impatiently. “Where’s Tessa? Is she hurt, in the hospital?”

Lissy pursed his lips and I think we all knew what he was going to say before the
words left his mouth. “She’s dead.”

“Impossible,” Nigel huffed.

“Is badly,” Vitaly said.

“Oh, my God,” Zane said again.

“Tessa. Poor Tessa,” Phoebe said. “I can’t believe it. Was it a car accident?”

I strode forward, hands on my hips. I knew a homicide detective wouldn’t be standing
in my ballroom if Tessa had died in a garden-variety car accident. “What happened?”

Lissy’s eyes cut toward me. “Ah, Ms. Graysin. I saw your photo in the paper this morning.”
His gaze flicked from me to Zane. “Not very flattering.” He didn’t answer my question,
merely announcing, “I will need to interview each of you individually. The officer”—he
gestured toward the hall where I could see a uniformed sleeve—“will take your details.
Your office will work best, Ms. Graysin.” Taking my agreement for granted, he crossed
the hall to my office door and stopped in the opening. “I’ll start with you, Mr. Whiteman.”

Nigel sputtered, but then joined Detective Lissy, leaving the rest of us looking at
each other with varying degrees of confusion, grief, and anxiety.

“I guess we are not dancing today,” Vitaly said, plucking his grapefruit juice bottle
off the stereo cabinet and taking a long swallow.

“Excuse me.” Phoebe hurried from the room, one hand pressed to her lips.

“Turn that damn thing off, Larry,” Zane snapped.

Larry, tall and gawky with a fringe of curly hair around a bald pate, shrugged and
complied, lowering the camera from his shoulder.

I realized the camera had been running the whole time and wondered if any of the footage
would make it onto the air. Another thought hit me. Maybe they’d cancel the show.
I asked Zane about it and he gave a bark of unamused laughter.

“Cancel? Nigel? He’s in there right now, talking to that detective, trying to figure
out which media contact to call first to get the biggest ratings bump out of this.
Nigel wouldn’t even slip the schedule—forget canceling— unless
he’d
been killed. Come to think of it, he’s probably got a clause in his will that would
keep the cameras rolling even in the event of his death.” Zane rubbed his palms along
his stubbly jaw.

“I’m sorry about Tessa,” I said, putting a hand on Zane’s arm. “It seems like you
two were . . . close.”

“We dated for a few months. Even though it’s been over for two years, I still care
about her.” His face was a stony mask, as if he was willing himself to show no emotion
for fear that letting a hint of sadness show might loose more emotions than he could
handle.

I’d sensed that there was more between them than actor and producer. Still, his admission
took me by surprise; I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. It certainly explained his
concern when Tessa went missing.

We stood silently for perhaps five minutes until Nigel came through the door. “You’re
up,” he told Zane. “Nosy bugger.”

I assumed he meant Detective Lissy and not Zane. As Zane crossed the hall, Nigel texted
from his iPhone, and directed Larry to pack up. “Did you get all that?” he asked,
and the camera guy nodded. “Bloody hell,” Nigel muttered savagely, slinging his briefcase
across the room. It smacked against the wall. The room went dead quiet. “Bloody damn
hell.” Nigel retrieved the case and walked out, not looking at any of us. Zane and
Phoebe left immediately following their interviews with Detective Lissy, so I didn’t
get a chance to find out what he asked about. Vitaly was in and out of the office
in less than two minutes and left to meet his John with a somber, “I will seeing you
tomorrow.”

With a little trepidation, I walked into my office. Lissy had made himself at home
behind my desk, aligning the file folders I’d had out with their spines along the
edge of the desk, and sizing my framed photos from shortest to tallest. I sank into
the love seat, glancing out the window. The usual noonday traffic clogged the street,
stopped by the traffic light at the end of the block, and pedestrians hurried down
the sidewalk, meeting friends for lunch or getting in a quick workout before returning
to their offices for the afternoon. Sunburns, cameras, and shopping bags made the
tourists easy to spot. Reluctant to talk about sudden death on this bright summer
day—or any day, for that matter—I dragged my gaze away when Detective Lissy cleared
his throat.

“Ms. Graysin, I’m interested in your observations on this case.”

“You are?”

His nonconfrontational tone surprised me. We’d first met when he investigated Rafe’s
murder and he thought for a long time that I’d killed my fiancé. We met again when
Corinne Blakely was killed because Maurice was lunching with her when she keeled over
and that made him a suspect. I got the feeling toward the end of that case that maybe
Detective Lissy was thawing toward me a little bit. I sat up straighter, ridiculously
pleased that he didn’t seem to consider me a suspect this time. It was a nice change
of pace.

“You’ve known Ms. King how long?”

I thought back. “About two weeks.”

“How did you meet?”

I explained about the call from Nigel, about agreeing to participate on
Blisters
. “She was one of the show’s producers, as you probably know.”

He nodded. “Did you get along well with her?”

“Pretty much. I didn’t see her all that often. It was mostly Nigel here when we were
filming practices. I think Tessa spent more time at the other studios. They were—”

“I’ve got the names, thank you. How would you describe her mood lately? Did she act
any differently the last couple of days? Scared, worried, depressed?”

Biting my lip, I thought. “I don’t think so. She was always professional, not like . . .”
Not like Nigel Whiteman, who wore his mood—usually testy—on his sleeve and could go
off like a rocket when he was angry.

“Did you ever see her socially, outside the studio?”

Shaking my head so my ponytail swished across my shoulders, I said, “Nope. Not once.”

“But you saw Zane Savage socially.”

Something new had crept into Lissy’s pedantic voice and I eyed him narrowly. “No,
I didn’t.”

The detective gave me a disbelieving look. “That photograph in the newspaper this
morning suggests otherwise. Are you lying about your relationship with Savage because
he was still involved with Tessa King?”

“He wasn’t— We weren’t—” I glared at him. “You’re not interested in my observations.
You’re trying to trick me.”

Giving a small, satisfied smile, he leaned forward. “Tricks don’t work with someone
who’s got nothing to hide.”

I jumped up. “I’m telling the truth. Zane and I went to the Eakins to check out Tessa’s
room. We are not dating. I didn’t know until today that he used to date Tessa. They
ended it a couple years ago and were just friends. Not that it mattered to me,” I
added hastily.

“According to . . . ?”

“To Zane.”

Making a notation in his notebook, Lissy laid down his pen. He fussed with his cuffs
momentarily, and then pinned me with his gaze. “Where were you Tuesday night?”

I thought back, trying to remember. “I took a ballet class at five and left the studio
about seven, after I showered.” I gave him the name of the ballet studio and the teacher,
and he wrote them down. Great. Now everyone I knew would wonder why the police were
asking questions about me again. “I walked home and made myself dinner. Then I watched
a couple of
NCIS
episodes—they were doing another marathon—until bedtime. I went to bed around ten.
Alone.”