Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (7 page)

“Name and number?”

“Cindy Emerson,” I answer then rattle off her cell number.

“And you say she arrived around two in the morning?”

This sounds strange. A woman coming over at two in the morning and spending the night. About now is when I should explain that Cindy lives next door. Of course if I do, Shay will probably want to see if she's home so he can question her. I have to tell Cindy that I've suddenly become psychic on top of being a werewolf before he speaks to her. It would be just my luck for her to pop in about now.

“Lou! You here?”

Oh, my God. I
am
psychic! Leaving the coffee perking, I make a beeline for the living room. I groan upon seeing Cindy. She hasn't bothered to change from her outfit last night.

She draws up short upon seeing me. “What's with the face?” she asks. “You look guilty. You got a man in here or something?”

At about that time Cindy's gaze strays past me and widens. I'm sure Shay now stands behind me. “Cindy Emerson, Detective Terry Shay. Detective, Cindy Emerson.”

This is a bad situation. Cindy showing up in leather and a cop in my apartment who is suspicious of me for somehow being involved in murders I should know nothing about, but that I unfortunately do.

Shay steps around me. “Ms. Emerson, can you tell me where you were last night?”

He's clever, indicating that he doesn't already know where she supposedly was last night, at least from two in the morning on. Cindy blinks at him.

“And why is that your business?”

I inwardly groan again. Cindy's watched enough police shows to know you don't get cocky with the law.

“I'm investigating a crime,” Shay answers. “I'd like to know your whereabouts last night, say around two in the morning. And for the record, it has nothing to do with you, Ms. Emerson, but it does involve Ms. Kinipski.”

“Oh.” Cindy visibly relaxes. What a friend. She's relieved I'm the one in trouble, not her. “I was here at two this morning, spent the night in fact.”

“Cindy lives next door,” I feel moved to add. “We're, ah, friends.”

Shay takes a moment to appreciate Cindy's outfit. He continues, “Did it appear that Ms. Kinipski had been home all evening?”

Cindy considers his question. “It appeared that way to me. She was wearing her favorite flannel pajamas, wasn't wearing makeup, and she had been sleeping. I came over because—”

I frantically shake my head while Shay's focused on Cindy. I don't want her talking about the nightmares. “Because she had a falling-out with her friend,” I answer for her. “Cindy was upset. She wanted someone to talk to.”

Damn. Cindy is an open book. Now she has this “I did?” look on her face. Fortunately, she's a quick study. “Yeah, that's right,” she agrees. “Hey, let me ask you something. This ‘friend' I had over last night took some of my stuff. I want to know if she's psychotic.”

Now would be a good time for Shay to tell Cindy he has no further use for her and she can go. “Depends on what she took,” he says instead.

Please do not answer something weird.

“My knee-high boots, my little black whip, and all my underwear,” Cindy provides, as if there isn't anything odd about having knee-high boots and a black whip.

“Definitely psychotic,” Shay says, and I'm impressed that he can keep a straight face. “I'd steer clear of her.”

“Stupid dyke,” Cindy mutters. She glances between the two of us. “Why is Lou in trouble? I can vouch for her. She's a good citizen, a supermodel, you know?”

“I'm aware of Ms. Kinipski's profession,” Shay assures her. He takes in Cindy's outfit again. “And what profession are you in, Ms. Emerson?”

If Cindy hadn't already made it perfectly clear that she's gay, I'm sure Shay would think she must be a prostitute.

“Makeup specialist,” she answers. “I was there that day you came to see Lou on the roof, remember? Someday I hope to become a construction worker.”

Too much information. “Are you finished questioning Cindy?” I ask Shay. “I'm sure she has other things to do.” I give Cindy a look that tells her she'd better find something else to do if she doesn't.

Shay snaps his notebook closed and places it back in his inside pocket. “That's all for now. I have your cell phone number if I need anything else from you.”

“Right,” Cindy says. She turns and heads for the door. Upon reaching it she says, “You should come watch
COPS
with us sometime. You can tell us what's real and what's just a load of crap.”

Shay doesn't respond. “Coffee should be done,” I say to distract him. I head back into the kitchen. Shay slides back onto his bar stool a moment later. I pour coffee in two floral-decorated cups and place one in front of him. “Sugar or cream?”

“No. Just black.”

His coffee preference doesn't surprise me. Maybe I am psychic. Maybe it's because I was a waitress before I became a supermodel. I can always tell the just-black type guys. No nonsense. No frills. Just give them the caffeine and don't try to dress it up. Manly men. I wonder what it means that Stefan likes lattes … and girls with broad shoulders?

“Your
friend
is interesting.”

Sipping my coffee, I consider the use of his emphasis on the word “friend.” Does Terry now think I'm gay? Maybe it's best to let Shay draw his stereotyped conclusions. I detect a hint of interest toward me from the detective. Not just the business between us, but the fact that he's seen me mostly naked and has possibly thought about that a time or two. As hot as he is, I don't want him sniffing around me any more than necessary.

“She's a little out there,” I agree. “I've known her since kindergarten.” That's all I'm giving him concerning Cindy. “Shouldn't we get back to business so you can leave?”

Shay nods, easily switching back to business. “The murder took place shortly before two
A.M.
It happened across town. You couldn't have been there and gotten back home, removed your makeup, and changed your clothes before Cindy Emerson came over. That is, if she's telling the truth.”

I suppose it's his job to be suspicious. I let the remark about Cindy's credibility slide. “And it was a sex crime, right? I also couldn't have had sex with her before I ripped her throat out.”

Coffee cup raised halfway to his mouth, Shay suddenly sets it back down. “I never told you that.”

Oops again. “I'm assuming it was the same as Sally Preston's murder. Am I right?”

Eyeing me with the baby blues, he nods. “Yeah, it was the same guy. No semen samples to confirm it, but everything else was the same. I just find it odd that you automatically assumed that.”

Shay has worn out his welcome. “Is it your normal first reaction to mistrust everyone you meet, or is it just models or women in general you have a problem with?”

“Yes,” he answers. He rises. “Look, I don't believe in psychics. If you want to convince me you have special abilities, tell me something we don't already know about this guy.”

I'm not falling for any tricks. “I need to touch the photo again because the karma has faded.”

He stops himself before he can do a complete eye roll and removes the photo. I don't want to look at it, at her, not knowing what I now know. I close my eyes and hold the photo in my hands.

There is something I know that no one else knows. Something I should not mention. Something that will send Terry Shay running, never to darken my door again. I open my eyes and look at him. “The man who killed both women is a werewolf.”

I get nothing from him. No widening of the baby blues. No frown. No laugh. Nothing. Shay takes the photo and stuffs it back into his pocket. All delicious six feet two of him turns and walks away. I hear the door close a moment later. He thinks I am totally whacked. Well, that's one way to end a forbidden relationship before it gets started.

*   *   *

Call me a glutton for punishment because the next day I make the short ride downtown to the dilapidated building housing one Morgan Kane. I don't hear music blaring from behind his closed door. All is quiet. I test the knob. I know most people would simply knock, but if the door's open and Kane isn't around, I might do some snooping of my own.

The office is not empty. Kane sits in the chair behind his messy desk, head leaned back, eyes closed, cowboy boots propped up on his desktop … sleeping. I'd say he looks innocent in sleep, but he doesn't. I stalk across the room, surprised I can be quiet in high heels—surprised I'm stalking, period.

I'm pretty good at it. I come up behind Kane and stare down at him. At least he doesn't snore. I get close … real close. His breath smells like peppermint. I had expected tobacco and liquor. He still needs a shave. He does shave his neck, I note. He's groomed to look like he needs to be groomed.

Having Kane's neck so close puts thoughts in my head. If I can will the fangs to come, maybe I can just kill him instead of being forced to hire him. As tempting as the idea is, I know that, deep down, like Cindy believes, I am not a killer. Or at least I sincerely hope not.

“Either kiss me or slit my throat, cupcake.” His eyes open. They aren't as bloodshot today.

“I didn't plan to kiss you,” I assure him, not bothering to say that I didn't plan to kill him, either.

He smiles at that. “What can I do for you, Sherry?”

Kane purposely baits me. He must assume if I changed my name, there's a reason. Lou Kinipski isn't exactly a name anyone would choose to flatter their celebrity image, so he probably finds it curious. “First, you can tell me how you found out my name.”

After removing his boots from his desk, he straightens in his chair. I stare at the back of his head. My first impression concerning his hair was that it's dirty. Not so. The color is dirty blond; the hair itself is not dirty.

“You could use highlights,” I decide, walking around him to sit in the cold metal chair.

“I'll discuss that with my hairdresser next time I'm in the salon,” Kane says sarcastically. “Now, what is it that you wish to discuss with me, cupcake?” He cringes. “I mean, Sherry, or do you prefer Ms. Billington? Ms. Kinipski? I get so confused.”

“I'd prefer that you go to hell. But Ms. Kinipski is fine. Now, answer my question.”

Kane leans forward, places his elbows on the desk, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “First, I deduced that you were from Texas. You've almost lost the accent, but not quite. Second, I suspected that you don't have a good relationship with your adoptive parents, or they would have given you more information than you have concerning your biological parents. By tracing your modeling career, I know that you've lived in New York for at least six years, probably a little longer. By my guesstimations, that would have made you fairly young when you left your Texas roots to seek fame and fortune in the big city.”

Kane opens a drawer and takes out the whiskey. I guess he needs to wet his whistle after trying to impress me with his gift for deduction. I am a little impressed, but I'm not going to tell him that.

“Young women flock to the city every day to do just that,” I point out.

“True,” he agrees. “Your name bothered me. I can see you taking a more glamorous name to further your modeling career. Lou Kinipski is not a glamorous name. Yet it reeks of falseness. So if you didn't change your name for professional reasons, then why? The natural conclusion is because you didn't want anyone from Texas to find you. Why? Runaway, of course.”

I reach across his desk, lift the Wild Turkey bottle, and take a drink. “And that's why I became a famous model and had my picture plastered in magazines, on billboards, and so on. I didn't want anyone to know who I am.”

“That also bothered me,” he admits. “Just on a hunch, I looked through the reports on missing girls who would have been about your age when you left Texas. I ran across an interesting article about a couple eloping on prom night, never to be heard from again.”

My heart lurches. Were there pictures along with the article? There couldn't have been or Kane wouldn't believe for one moment that I am the same girl who disappeared.

“And?” I prod him.

“The article was very small. The snapshot was poor quality. Even so.” He shakes his head. “How much plastic surgery did you have and who the hell paid for it? Good ol' Tom? Where is he now? Did you ditch him after you got what you wanted and decided you were too good for a Texas farm boy?”

I'm sickened that Kane actually knows what I once looked like. More so that he knows there is a connection between me and Tom Dawson. Of course he would assume I had plastic surgery. That is the only logical explanation. I need to get him off any connection between Tom and me or no telling what else he might dig up.

“I didn't run away with Tom Dawson,” I say. “I have no idea where he is. He was the star football player for our high school team. As you saw by the picture, he wouldn't have been interested in a girl like me.”

While I lie like a son, or daughter, or whatever, of a bitch to Kane, I hope I've developed enough facial reaction skills during my modeling career to look truthful.

“Then where did you get the money to have the plastic surgery, and why did you run away to begin with?”

I'm not on trial. At least not yet. “None of this is really any of your business,” I remind him. “All I want is for you to find my birth parents. I had a little work done. It wasn't that expensive.” More lying. “I was a late bloomer, also. It's not that I don't want anyone from Texas to know who I am; it's that I don't have a good relationship with my adoptive parents and we parted on bad terms. I changed my name before I started modeling. I wanted a fresh start. Can we drop this now and get back to the real issue?”