Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (2 page)

2.

Homicide and haute couture

Every ca
r in the parking lot without a Richmond Police Department insignia sported a European one, the October splendor of the James River’s tree line stretching beneath the high-rise’s walls of windows.

Views (and cars) like that come with hefty price tags.

I pulled out my BlackBerry and texted my editor:
Save me a few inches. Got a corpse in the condos at Rockett’s Landing.
Dead rich people get news space even when nothing sinister is afoot.

Almost instant reply:
Will do, but I can’t hold the front. It’s expensive. Tick tock, kid.

I checked the clock. Forty-five minutes until they’d shoot page one.

Plenty of time. I hoped. I kicked open the door of my little red SUV and put one scarlet Louboutin on the concrete, nodding to Dan Kessler from WRVA. He didn’t respond, but since he didn’t have eyes for much of anything but his makeup mirror, I wasn’t offended.

I strolled toward the uniformed sentry at the head of the round driveway.

“No ma’am, I cannot tell you when we’ll have our mess picked up,” the officer, who couldn’t have been more than a week out of the academy with his fresh face and starched shirt, explained to a tall, thin woman with gorgeous blonde hair that could’ve been dyed to match the dog tucked under her left arm.

“I have guests coming at seven.” She waved a hand toward the coroner’s van. “This will make them uncomfortable, to say the least.”

I hung two steps behind her and clicked out a pen. The sunlight glinted off her Chanel sunglasses, making me reach for my Kate Spade ones.

The cop shot me a pleading look over her shoulder and I shrugged. Then his eyes skipped over the press credentials hanging from my neck and rolled skyward. I could almost hear the “frying pan, fire” in his head.

Turns out, a pissed-off socialite is even less appealing to your average cop than a reporter. After twelve more seconds of grilling from her, he straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat, trying for an air of authority his round, friendly face wasn’t suited to.

“We can’t rush a murder investigation for a dinner party,” he said. “We apologize for any inconvenience our presence may cause. You may go up to your apartment anytime.”

Murder investigation? Hot damn. I clicked out my pen and pretended to doodle.

Ms. Social Network opened her mouth to reply and he stepped past her, giving me a guarded look and a grudging, “Can I help you?”

“Nichelle Clarke,
Richmond Telegraph
.” I stuck my hand out and opened my mouth to ask if Aaron had arrived yet when Ms. Social Network stepped in front of me, her eyes still on the cop.

“I understand wanting to be thorough, but surely you can keep this out of the newspaper.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Last time I checked, what goes in the paper and what doesn’t is my boss’s decision.”

The cop smiled, his wall dropping a bit. Good. I nodded and noticed the dog, who was wriggling like mad.

“Be still, Percival,” she snapped, cinching her arm tighter. He yelped, and I shook my head.

“I think he needs to—” I began.

Too late.

She screamed as pale yellow liquid spread from her cashmere-covered ribcage to the pocket of her cream linen trousers. Her arm flailed and the dog whined as he tumbled toward the concrete. I dropped my pen and dove, my arms sliding between little Percy and a nasty impact.

He licked my hand and I scratched his ears as I stood and set him on the grass.

“He must be ninety percent fur,” I said, brushing dust off the knees of my navy pants and watching him hike his leg on a marble planter full of mums. “He weighs nothing at all.”

His owner was too busy bemoaning the state of her outfit and cursing the dog to notice, so I turned back to the cop, noting the silver nameplate that identified him as Officer Palmer. “Anyway.”

“No press allowed in the building,” he said with an apologetic smile. Better than surly. Maybe he was a dog person, too.

“I was actually on the phone with Aaron White when the dispatch went out,” I said, holding up my BlackBerry. “I was hoping to get a statement before our Metro deadline.”

“If you know Detective White, you know how much trouble I could get into for giving you an unauthorized comment,” Palmer said. “He’ll be down shortly to brief you.”

I stepped back and nearly tripped over Ms. Social Network, who was busy swatting Percival with the
Vogue
Fall fashion issue.

“That’s three times as big as he is,” I said. “How would you like it if someone smacked you with a BMW?”

“I beg your pardon.” Her mouth fell open, revealing a collection of perfectly-bonded teeth. “How I care for my dog is none of your business.” She bent toward him again, magazine raised.

I pulled out my BlackBerry and cued up the camera.

“Maybe not. But something tells me the folks who write our society column will recognize you. There are a few people on the SPCA charity board who make frequent appearances on those pages. People you might not like to have annoyed with you.” I smiled.

Her hand drifted back to her side. “He. Ruined. My. Outfit.” The bonded teeth stayed clenched.

“I hardly think it was his fault. My Pomeranian doesn’t have fantastic bladder control even when I’m not pressing her midsection into a Louis Vuitton clutch.”

“No comment.” She sneered and flounced toward the door. I snapped a photo when she stopped to growl at the doorman.

“What’re we shooting? Anything interesting?” A familiar purr came from behind me.

“Hey Charlie.” I spun and flashed a smile. “Nothing you want to know about.”

“My mission in life is to know everything you know, isn’t it?” Charlie was the on-air investigative and crime reporter at Channel Four, and my biggest competition in Richmond. Ruthless, but sharp—if we weren’t both so competitive, she’d have made a good friend.

I laughed. “I don’t know much except there’s a woman on her way upstairs who’s pretty ticked about this murder interfering with her evening.”

Charlie pulled out a notebook and waved to her cameraman. “White gave a statement already?”

“Haven’t seen him,” I said.

“What makes you so quick to cry murder, then? Bored?”

“Call it a hunch.”

And the uniform playing sentry was green and let it slip, but Charlie didn’t need to know that.

“I can’t put your hunch on the air.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself. You said you wanted to know what I know. There’s what I know.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure your readers will be very interested in your intuition. I’ll wait for the real story. Who could get murdered in this building?”

“You know as well as I do how these things go. My money’s on a jealous spouse. Or a fed-up paramour.”

She turned for the door, but was promptly stonewalled by Officer Palmer.

I watched her bat her three-foot eyelashes at him for a full minute before he smiled and pointed to the lawn. Stifling a laugh, I turned my attention to the doorman. Could I catch his eye without Officer Palmer seeing me?

I stowed my notebook and press credentials in my bag and scanned the parking lot. Two radio reporters and the Channel Ten truck had just pulled in. Palmer was busy sweating the idea of fending off three reporters at once, but I had faith. If Charlie and I couldn’t get past him, he made a good gatekeeper. I’d drop that to Aaron later and get him an attaboy. He hadn’t let me in, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.

I waited for my colleagues to pounce before I strolled an arc around the taped-off walkway, looking for Charlie. She was back in her van, staring at her iPhone.

The doorman wore a sapphire and silver uniform, his legs shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes scanning the parking lot on repeat. When they landed on me for the second time I offered a purposely shy half-smile. He nodded, but didn’t move otherwise. Damn. I stared at the yellow tape flapping gently in the October breeze. It’s not illegal to go under it, but the doorman might not know that.

I waited for him to look my way again and waved. He tipped his head to one side, his flat-topped hat sliding two centimeters as his eyes ran from my hair to my scarlet slingbacks and back to my face. He shot a glance at Officer P (still fighting off the media) and stepped away from the door.

“Are you visiting someone?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth as dark chocolate.

Sort of. I smiled. “There are police cars in the parking lot. Everything okay?”

He shook his head. “Since cops crawling all over the place is a pretty clear sign, I’ll say no, it’s not. You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Visiting?”

Oh, right. “Percival,” I said.

One eyebrow went up.

“He’s a dog.” And the only creature in the building I could name. “Little gold long-haired Chihuahua?”

“Is that what she named him? Cute little fella. Wish I had his touch with the ladies.”

“Something tells me you do just fine.” I cast a glance at my shoes. I hate playing games to get information, but it’s occasionally a necessary evil.

Especially when it works.

He grinned. “Can’t complain.” His posture relaxed, and he leaned a shoulder against the wall. “You can understand, I’m sure.” His eyes lingered on my left hand and its bare ring finger.

“I work too much to have time for anything else.”

“You some kind of dog whisperer?”

My temperamental toy Pomeranian flashed through my thoughts, and I nodded. “You could say that.”

“Poor dog. I can’t decide if I feel worse for him when she leaves him up there alone to whine at the door or when she dresses him up and carries him around like a trophy.”

“How long has she had him?” I asked.

“Three months, give or take.”

Ten more questions, and I knew all about Percival and his owner. (Clarice. And the cute, cut doorman was Jeff. Aries, thirty-one, and single. He told me the last thing four times.)

By then, Officer Palmer had dispatched the rest of the local press corps to the lawn. I rested one finger on Jeff’s arm. “I’m late for my appointment.” True. Technically. I was a week late for a dental appointment I kept forgetting to call and reschedule.

“They said residents only.” He waved one arm toward Palmer, a heavy steel watch with intricate swords flanking the face rattling on his wrist.

“He’s not looking.” Yet. Batting lashes. Good Lord.

I followed Jeff’s glance at Palmer, who was eyeing the knot of reporters and talking into his radio. To Aaron, no doubt.

“What harm could I possibly do?” I asked. (Answer: none. I don’t snoop in crime scenes to cause trouble. I do it to get leads, and I’ve done it enough to know how to be careful.)

“Come on.” He lifted the tape and smiled, hustling to open the door for me.

I ducked inside and half-ran for the elevator before he could get the last of “Do you want to get coffee sometime?” out of his mouth. The last thing I needed was a new guy in my life. And he could probably do with less workaholic and neurotic than I had to offer.

The elevator binged and the doors whispered open to reveal Aaron—standing beside Chris Landers from the homicide division.

“Nichelle,” Aaron drawled, the clear lack of surprise in his voice making me smile with self-satisfaction.

“Detectives.”

“Residents. Only. How hard is that?” Landers barked. “Damn rookie.”

“To be fair…” I began, and he raised a palm.

“Save it. I know exactly how persuasive you can be when you put your mind to something. I also know I gave a direct order and it wasn’t followed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You done? Because before you go jumping poor Officer Palmer, you should consider that the doorman let me in. And that this building has more entrances than the one Palmer is guarding. Charlie will figure that out before long.”

“There’s an officer on every door, and the damned doorman—” He bit off the last word and shook his head. “So hard to find competent help these days.”

My eyes jumped back and forth between the two of them for a long minute, but all I got were tight smiles. Which could mean ten thousand things, since there was a corpse upstairs.

“You headed out to brief the press?” I asked, pulling my notebook and pen out.

“Briefly.” Aaron winked.

“Ha ha. What’s going on? Landers looks harried, so this isn’t rich Uncle William who died in his sleep.”

“No one ever said you were slow,” Aaron said.

“Name?” I poised my pen.

“Not available pending notification of next of kin,” Aaron said.

“Fine. Can I have the basics?”

“Caucasian male, sixty-four, open homicide investigation,” Landers said.

“Cause of death?”

“Don’t know.”

“Signs of trauma?”

“Yes.” Aaron smiled when I looked up.

“Care to elaborate?” I asked.

“Sorry,” he said.

Hmmm. It wasn’t like I’d asked to sit in on the autopsy. I glanced at Landers, who was scowling at the world in general and me in particular, and wondered if he was the reason for Aaron’s attack of tight lips.

“Okay. For now,” I said.

“Anything else?” Aaron asked.

Sixty-something white guy with money who didn’t die of a heart attack. “Was he married?” Because the wife could be a good source.

“No.” Aaron’s half-smile said he knew what I was thinking. “He lived alone.”

Damn. I jotted that down and let them turn me back toward the door. The elegant clock set into the marble wall by the elevator said it was coming up on six thirty. If I could get an email off to Bob, we’d have the story on the web well before the eleven o’clock news.

Jeff furrowed his brow as Landers shot him a go-to-hell look when they walked me back outside, and I smiled and shrugged. He shook his head and resumed his post.

“I’m going to write this up,” I told Aaron. “Holler when you’re ready to go?”

He nodded. Landers stared at his phone.

I thanked them and strode to the parking lot before Charlie could see me talking to Aaron.

Sliding into my car, I opened an email to Bob on my BlackBerry.

Richmond Police suspect foul play in the death of a man discovered Tuesday in a condominium overlooking the James River. The victim, 64, was Caucasian and lived alone, Department Spokesman Aaron White said.

Detectives declined to comment on cause of death, and are awaiting notification of family before releasing a name, but said a homicide investigation has been opened.

I added the remaining few details I had, threw in a description of the building, and emailed it to Bob. Clicking to my messages, I texted him:
Check your email, they think he was murdered.

He replied with confirmation twenty-one seconds later. Even threw in a “thank you” and a smiley face.

“The end is nigh,” I muttered, looking at the little yellow emoji with my gruff-but-lovable editor’s name at the top of the screen.

“Seems like some crackpot is always saying that,” Aaron said, leaning on the closed door of my car. “What’s doing us in this time? Plague? Zombies? Nuclear fallout?”

“Emojis. Bob’s use of them throws the universe off-kilter. It’s going to rip up the whole space-time continuum.”

“That’s the most plausible end times theory I’ve heard in a while.” Aaron laughed. “Bob Jeffers did not put a smiley in a text message.”

I flipped my screen around. “He’s arrived in the twenty-first century.”

“Lord save us.” Aaron shook his head.

“You wrapping up?”

He nodded. “Your story done?”

“For now. Unless you have new information to share.”

“Not just yet. Give me some time.”

“Why?” I paused, possibilities ticking through my head. “Who was this guy?”

His microscopic flinch told me I was on the right trail. “It’s complicated.”

That just made my inner Lois Lane sit up and pay attention. The victim wasn’t your ordinary sixty-something white guy.

I studied Aaron’s friendly face. He was the king of getting information without giving up much—except with me and Charlie. But he wasn’t budging on this. Today, anyway. And I’d already turned in my story, so it wasn’t worth pushing when I needed his help with something else.

“Keep your secrets,” I said, gesturing to the passenger seat. “I have other sources I can pester.”

He walked around the car and opened the door. “I’m aware. And I feel a little bad for unleashing you on them.”

“They don’t deserve your pity, Detective.”

He buckled his seatbelt and closed the door. “So what’s this you need to pick my brain about?”

“Messages. I’ve gotten a few odd ones from the same account the past few weeks.”

“What kind of account?”

“Twitter.” I turned off Main toward Shockoe Slip and cut my eyes to him. “Why?”

“I can’t get a warrant for social media unless the person is making actual threats,” he said. “There’s no harassment statute.”

“Law hasn’t caught up with technology?”

“It’s a little more basic than that, even,” he said. “When someone calls or texts or pages you and you don’t want them to, they’re using a service you’re paying for to contact you. So it’s essentially theft of service. Which means that even if what they’re saying isn’t threatening, there’s a legal basis for making them stop it. But you don’t pay for your social media accounts.”

“I pay for the services I use to access them, though.”

“Which is the sticking point for the House of Delegates every time this comes up. But so far, they haven’t managed to convince enough people that it would stand up in federal court to get the law passed.”

Huh. “I don’t think this person is out to get me. But I’m beginning to think they might be more than just talk. Wondering if you’ll see something I haven’t.”

“Happy to give it a look.”

I parked the car and climbed out, chatting about the brilliant foliage and the mild October breeze as we walked the two blocks to the restaurant.

Settled in a booth across from the bar with a glass of Moscato to Aaron’s Sam Adams Octoberfest a few minutes later, I dug out my phone. “Is there a way to find out who owns this Twitter account? The profile is blank, but if there’s some magical police thing you can do, maybe you could send a car by to check on them?”

“You can register for an account with any name you like, so the profile might not help us if it was even filled out,” he said. “They might have opened it just to get in touch with you. I can trace an IP address, but that’ll take a couple of days.”