Hot Secret (4 page)

“Sergeant, believe me, if I had any choice in the matter, I would go home, pour myself a glass of wine, and forget all about the events of the last couple of hours. However, like you, I am paid to be here. I will try not to get in your way, but I will stay.”

The masculine groan behind her registered about the same time that the Miami Beach detective deliberately turned his back on her. Since further conversation with Jenkins appeared likely to be unproductive, Molly turned and found herself face-to-face with yet another police detective, one with whom she’d become more or less intimately acquainted when he’d investigated the murder in her condo building.

As she met Michael O’Hara’s resigned gaze, she mustered a cheery smile. She could guess with some accuracy what his reaction was likely to be to her declaration. Cops, to a man, were reasonably predictable when it came to having outsiders play amateur sleuth. Mix that with Michael’s instinctive Latin machismo and mile-wide streak of protectiveness and she had a pretty good idea of what was on his mind.

“You heard?” she said, trying not to notice that he looked every bit as gorgeous as the last time she’d seen him. She’d had this wild hope that his appeal would fade with time. It hadn’t.

When he nodded, she said, “How much?”

“Enough to know that you’re up to your pretty neck in another murder investigation. Molly, take a
little advice. Do what the detective suggested. Go home. I will be happy to take you, in fact.”

She sighed. “Believe me, I wish I could, but I can’t. The film office is going to have to do everything in its power to counteract the bad publicity from Greg’s murder. Vince insists that I stick around for every little detail.”

Michael grinned. “Exactly how many details are you expecting to get from Miami Beach’s finest law enforcement officers?”

Molly glanced at the stiff, retreating back of Sergeant Jenkins. “Not many,” she admitted. “What are you doing here anyway?”

He shrugged in a lousy attempt at innocence. “Hey, it’s Saturday night. South Beach is hot. Even cops get a night off once in a while.”

Molly glanced around for some sign of his live-in lover, the sexy and volatile Bianca. As far as she knew, they were still together, despite his vague promises to end the relationship. He seemed to be alone. He was wearing faded jeans that hugged narrow hips and a knit shirt, not the kind of classy attire a man with Michael’s elegant taste would choose for a night on the town. It didn’t add up, especially since no more than an hour or two ago he’d been coaching a gang of eight- to ten-year-old soccer players way down in Kendall. Judging from the grass stains on the knees of his jeans, he hadn’t gone home to change. She probed for a more truthful explanation.

“So as long as you were in the neighborhood, you thought you’d check out the latest hot murder scene?” she said, her skepticism showing.

“You know how cops are,” he said blandly. “We can’t resist the lure of a dead body.”

She shook her head. “Try again.”

His grin was unrepentant. “Okay, you got me. I stopped by your apartment when I brought Brian home after the soccer game. Liza told me what had happened. She guessed you’d be in the thick of things. The three of us agreed that I’d come check things out and get you out of here.”

“How democratic! Don’t I get a vote?”

“It’d still be three to one. We win.”

If she was prepared to be totally honest with herself, Molly had to admit that it had crossed her mind that Liza might tell Michael if the opportunity arose. She hadn’t been at all certain what he would do with that information. As he was a Metro-Dade homicide detective, Miami Beach was not his jurisdiction. Nor was she his responsibility, for that matter.

Though she had seen Michael occasionally at Brian’s soccer matches, more often than not Bianca was in the stands keeping a watchful eye on him. He’d been careful to maintain a polite distance from Molly in the months since he’d rescued her from that awful shed and solved the condo murder.

That hadn’t stopped Molly from occasionally wanting to wrestle him to the floor and have her way with him. The man was sexy and elusive, a dangerous combination. Despite his past disclaimers, it was also clear to her that he was spoken for, which made him more dangerous yet. The fact that he was a memorable kisser added to the potential for fireworks. From her perspective the man represented
nothing but trouble. Naturally, she was intrigued anyway.

Tonight, however, she was at least marginally more interested in his brain than in his body. He was a hotshot detective with an arrest-and-conviction record that was the envy of his peers and kept him on the good side of his superiors despite his troublesome tendency to question authority. Whatever his reasons for coming, Molly was very glad to see him. At times like these, it never hurt to have a staunch ally who knew the ins and outs of a murder investigation. She was not about to let him know that, though. A woman deserved to keep some secrets, after all.

Michael dropped into the chair just vacated by Sergeant Jenkins, waved her back into her own chair, and pinned her with that intense, brown-eyed gaze that had the ability to make the most reluctant witness spill his guts. It had an entirely different effect on her, but she was trying like the very dickens to ignore it.

“Fill me in,” he suggested.

When he asked a question in that tone, she knew enough to cut to the bottom line. “Someone shot Gregory Kinsey in the head.”

“Kinsey is?”

Molly regarded him incredulously. It frequently astonished her that not everyone followed the film industry as closely as she did. “He is …” She corrected herself: “He
was
one of the most talented new directors in Hollywood.”

She listed his string of smash box-office hits. No sign of recognition flickered in Michael’s eyes. She
had a hunch if she added Greg’s list of female conquests, he might have better recall.

“How long’s he been in town?” he asked.

“Production started the beginning of June. He was here a week or so before that. He made one or two trips prior to that to set things up.”

“Not long enough to make any enemies, then?”

“None I’m aware of. He was a perfectionist, which could set some people off, I suppose, but generally he was pretty easy to get along with.”

“Into drugs?”

“Careful, Detective. You’re guilty of stereotyping. All those Hollywood badasses do cocaine, right?”

“Just covering all the bases. Drug deals gone wrong account for a lot of untimely deaths around here.”

“Believe me, I’m no expert, but from what I saw Greg was as straight as they come. The only things that made him high were great lighting and a perfectly delivered line.”

“Anybody blow their lines today?”

Molly scowled.

“Okay,” he said without the faintest hint of regret, “let’s assume for the sake of argument that the killer is most likely someone connected with the film. Has Kinsey been coming down hard on anyone in particular?”

Molly was amazed at how quickly they fell into their old routine of tossing around ideas and evidence. “I’ve gone over and over Greg’s interaction with every crew and cast member since the minute they arrived on location. I haven’t been on the set
every minute, but I think I have a pretty good idea of the dynamics.”

“And?”

“On the surface, every single person involved seemed to regard Greg with a certain amount of awe. When people had legitimate gripes, he listened. Once he made a decision, though, it was final and everyone knew it. Only Veronica dared to argue with him. Believe me, though, she could hold her own without resorting to shooting someone. Everyone connected with GK Productions had a vested interest in keeping Greg alive. As for Veronica, she had more to lose than anyone else if Greg didn’t finish this picture.”

“Then why is this Veronica the one Jenkins is zeroing in on?”

“I don’t think he is anymore, at least not exclusively. I tried to set him straight. Veronica was with me at the time Greg was shot. He was still alive when she left that trailer. I heard him shouting after she’d slammed the door and started across the street.”

“Then why’d she skip?”

“How do you know that?”

“They put out an APB on her while I was driving over here. Innocent people don’t usually run.”

“Maybe she figured they’d blame her and got scared. Maybe she just got fed up with waiting and left before she even realized anything had happened. There’s only one way to find out.”

Michael was shaking his head before she’d finished the sentence. “Oh, no.”

Molly was already on her feet. “Oh, yes. I’m going
after Veronica. I have to warn her that the police are looking for her to question her.”

“If she’s the killer, don’t you think she’ll have guessed that?”

“She is not the killer. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Until you can suggest a viable alternative,” Michael retorted. “Until then everyone connected with this production is a suspect. Including, I might add, you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Just stating the facts as Sergeant Jenkins is likely to view them. Despite whatever he said about presuming Veronica to be guilty, I’m sure he’ll do a thorough investigation to rule out all the other candidates. In the meantime, don’t you think you ought to get home to your worried son and distraught friend?”

Molly glowered at him. “Brian will want all the gory details. As for Liza, the only thing she’s distraught over this week is the decimation of the rain forest. If I get home too soon, she’ll have me licking envelopes. You, too.”

“I’d rather lick a few envelopes than watch you get entangled in another murder investigation. Didn’t you learn anything last time?”

Molly had to admit that Michael looked genuinely troubled by the prospect of her involvement. “I didn’t ask to be involved with this one. It happened. I’m here. I can’t very well pretend everything’s hunky-dory, can I?”

“You could,” he said—a little wistfully, it seemed to Molly.

“But I won’t.” She could be every bit as bull-headed as Michael O’Hara. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a little chat with Sergeant Jenkins before we leave?”

“We?” he repeated, ignoring the rest. He, at least, knew better than to interfere in someone else’s case.

“I can’t imagine that you actually intend to let me go in search of Veronica on my own. I mean, I could sneak away when you’re not looking, but being the outstanding detective that you are, you’d figure out in no time where I’d gone. Then you’d feel morally compelled to chase after me. Ergo, we might as well go together and save on mileage for the county.”

A familiar, irksome expression of tolerant amusement spread across his face. “Since you’re the only one on the clock, we’ll take your car.”

Once they were in her snappy white LeBaron convertible with the top down, Molly regarded him slyly. “What exactly would it take to get you officially involved in this case?”

“An act of God,” he said. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Just curious,” she said blithely. If she couldn’t get him on the case officially, she’d just have to see that his curiosity was aroused. Veronica ought to be able to accomplish that without batting so much as an eyelash at him. At heart Michael was a man who just loved rescuing damsels in distress.

CHAPTER
FOUR

The hotel housing the cast and crew from the
Endless Tomorrows
production was one of the larger Art Deco structures facing the ocean. Its exterior was a brilliant white, trimmed in shades of turquoise and yellow. Elaborate bas-relief designs edged the doorway. A stucco railing, trimmed in the same pastel shades, curved around the porch that embraced two sides of the building.

At the moment that porch was crammed with enough reporters, photographers, and television cameras to intimidate anyone less determined than Molly was to enter the building. A harried hotel night manager, his balding head bathed in perspiration, was attempting to placate the hungry news-hounds.

“Sorry,” he said. “I cannot allow you inside. I must protect the privacy of our guests. You understand.”

They obviously didn’t understand anything except their own need for information. They pushed forward, backing him into the glass door. Another few minutes and he was likely to be as squashed as some bug on a windshield.

“Is Veronica Weston hiding out inside?” one aggressive TV reporter demanded, shoving a microphone toward the man.

“I really cannot answer your questions.”

Molly pushed her way through the crowd until she reached the door. Michael was one step behind her. He leaned down and spoke quietly to the manager. Relief spread across the man’s face. “Yes, yes, at once,” he said, turning a key in the door.

Before they could enter, a reporter from the morning paper tugged Molly to one side. Though he looked as if he’d been awakened from a sound sleep and had grabbed the nearest rumpled shirt from the laundry basket, she recognized him from the mug shot that always ran with his Sunday column.

“You’re with the film office, right?” Ted Ryan said. “Mrs. DeWitt?”

Molly nodded.

“Can you get me inside?”

“And have the rest of these guys accuse me of playing favorites? I don’t think so. I’ll try to get all of you whatever statements you need from anyone connected with the film. I can give you one myself on behalf of the film office.”

“Fine. I’ll take that at this point. I’ve got another twenty minutes to file. After that, anything I get will have to wait for the Monday paper. I’m
ready to try climbing up the fire escape. I think my photographer’s already halfway up to Veronica Weston’s floor. Is she in there?”

“As far as I know.”

“Are the police going to arrest her?”

At a warning glance from Michael, Molly modified her response to a politically correct “You’ll have to ask the police that.”

“What about you? What did you see at the scene? I hear she and Kinsey have been at each other’s throats ever since shooting started. Any idea why?”

Molly shook her head. “Look, the only thing I can comment on for the record is that the film office will do everything in its power to cooperate with the authorities to see that the killer is identified and brought to justice.”