Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (6 page)

“Pops, you really should get a new coat. It’s time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what your mother says too. But I like this one.”

I giggle. You can’t change Pops. He digs his hand into a pocket and retrieves his car keys. He could use a new car too, but knowing Pops, he’ll be buried in the one he’s driving. A 1985 Chevy Impala that he’s had since his first day on the force.

Catching me distracted, he tilts up my chin with the thumb of his other hand.

“Babycakes, you like him.”

I laugh lightly. Nervously “He’s my boss. He’s an asshole most of the time.”

He tilts my chin higher “You more than like him. You’re in love with him.”

A sudden chill sweeps over me. My heart stutters. “What makes you say that, Pops?”

“I’m a detective. I may not read big books with fancy words, but I read body language.”

My father can read people like an encyclopedia. That’s what makes him so good at his job. My chest tightens, my throat constricts, and my heart speeds up. I let him continue because I’m speechless.

“It’s the little things. The way you look at him. Hang on to his every word. The tilt of your head. Those little eye tics. The way you let him touch you.”

Tears cluster in my eyes. My voice is a rasp. “It’s that obvious?”

He brushes away a rebel tear that’s fallen. “Yupparoo.” Before I can bemoan my fate, he adds, “And he’s in love with you.”

My heart skips a loud beat. That can’t be! I’m just his overweight, lowly assistant. “Pops, what are you talking about?”

“Trust me, I can tell. He can’t take his eyes off you. I saw the way those purple orbs tenderly held you when he found out you called 911. And how his hand brushed along your jaw. Only a man in love would do that.”

Pops’s heartfelt words are almost like poetry. Powerful emotions pull my chest apart. Like a tug of war. There is so much of me that wants to believe what my father just said, but doubt yanks at my heartstrings.

“Pops, he’s in love with Katrina. He just doesn’t remember. I’m not even his type.”

Moving both hands to my shoulders, Pops holds my teary gaze in his loving gray eyes. “Babycakes, you may not be his type, but you’re his preference. Trust me, I’ve seen that Katrina and she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

I warm at Pops’s compliment, but it doesn’t change reality. I remind him they’re getting married on national TV in May.

Unfazed, Pops smiles. “A lot can change in a couple of months.” He unlocks the car door and then swings it open. Before sliding into the beat up vehicle, he slaps a kiss on my forehead.

“Life’s not a done deal. One kiss…one night…one memory…can change everything. See you two kids tomorrow.”

He scoots into the car, turns on the cranky ignition, and then pulls out of the driveway. I hug myself to keep warm as he disappears into the night.

Zoey

“H
oly mother of Jesus! Is that who I think it is?” gasps Alma Lopez, who’s co-manning the front desk at my father’s busy downtown precinct.

I can’t help smiling. “Yes, Alma. Meet my boss, Brandon Taylor.”

Looking like she may faint, the flustered officer’s breathing grows shallow as she begins to fan herself.
“Dios mio!”

“I’d be honored to take a photo with you before I leave,” says Brandon, acting every bit the star he is. “You can post it on Instagram or Facebook or wherever you want.”

My eyes stay on Brandon while my smile grows bigger. I just love the way he gives back to his adoring fans. So willingly and unabashedly. So many stars don’t. I remember once when I was thirteen with a plaster cast on my arm (a stupid rollerblading accident), I encountered a famous star (sorry, no names) who I adored in a restaurant and built up the courage to ask him to sign the cast. The asshole refused. “Excuse me. I’d like to enjoy my lunch,” he said coldly and dismissively shooed me away. He made me feel like I was three feet tall. Total humiliation!

More and more people recognize Brandon while Alma calls my father. In no time, he’s mobbed. It’s almost a sitcom. Even the drunk homeless guy recognizes him and begs him to sign his tattered blanket. Brandon is cordial to everyone, regardless of race, background, or creed. With a big smile, he poses for one photo after another and signs autographs for everyone on everything—from body parts and outerwear to subpoenas and parole papers.

A familiar voice grabs my attention. Pops. Munching on a sandwich, he lumbers through the security door. He grins at the sight of Brandon’s fandom.

“C’mon, babycakes. Brenda, our sketch artist, is eager to meet with you.”

I tug at Brandon’s non-stop autographing arm. He turns to me and I’m seriously in awe of how hot damn gorgeous he is even under unflattering florescent lighting. My heart thuds.

“I’m going with Pops to meet with the sketch artist.”

“Want me to come with you?” he asks while signing someone’s police report.

Pops answers before I can. “It’s better if they’re one on one.” And then he grins. “Besides you have your work cut out for you.”

“It’s all in the line of duty,” retorts Brandon with a line that’s straight out of a
Kurt Kussler
episode.

After exchanging a smile with my busy superstar boss, I follow Pops through the door to a small, windowless room at the end of a long, bustling hallway. An attractive, casually dressed forty-something woman with a coil of copper curls is seated at a table. She smiles at me warmly.

“Hi, I’m Brenda”

I glance at her badge. Her full name: Brenda McCay. Her sparkling hazel eyes meet mine.

“We’re going to work together to figure out who this asshole is.”

I like her…her choice of words…her fuck-the-bastard mentality.

“I’m ready,” I say, taking a seat across from her. In addition to her laptop and a tablet, numerous binders are scattered on the surface of the table. The memory of talking to a sketch artist right after Mama’s shooting comes back to me as if it were only yesterday. The binders are filled with reference images that will help me pinpoint the features of the man I saw with Scott and help Brenda build her facial composite.

“Babycakes, I’ll be back shortly,” says Pops. “Don’t hold back. Brenda is top notch.” My eyes follow him out the door.

Brenda turns her laptop so that the screen faces me. I watch as she lays a sheet of paper over the tablet.

“Don’t you have a sketch pad?” I ask, remembering how fascinated I was by the sketch artist I met with when I was five-years old.

“You’re looking at it,” she says, adjusting the sheet of paper. “We’re going to do this digitally. While I draw on my tablet, you’ll be able to see the image on the laptop screen and let me know if I need to make adjustments.”

“Cool!” Just like on
Kurt Kussler!
LAPD has joined the twenty-first century.

Brenda begins her interrogation. Not only do criminal sketch artists need to have drawing skills, but they also need people and listening skills.

“So, Zoey, tell me about the man you saw. What did he look like?” Brenda’s voice is warm and immediately puts me at ease.

With my eidetic memory, I picture him clearly in my mind’s eye. “He had a broad, pockmarked face with a squashed nose. Oh, and a really thick neck.”

As I talk, Brenda sketches, and an outline of the suspect’s face materializes on my computer screen.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Kind of. His face was squarer and his nose more spread out. Like it’s been broken a few times.” I flip through one of the reference books to show her what I mean. She modifies the sketch.

“Yes! Like that!” Excitement colors my voice.

“Tell me about his eyes.”

“They were dark and beady. Very close together.”

“And his brows?”

“Dark and bushy. Very close to his eyes.”

“Did they cross the bridge of his nose?”

“Yes. They met in the middle.”

“And what about his hair?”

“Reddish brown. Very short. Almost a buzz.” I flip through another notebook until I find an almost identical hairline.

“And his mouth?”

“Like a pair of sausages.”

My eyes grow as wide as saucers as I watch the face take shape. And then as Brenda fills in the lips, I gasp at the image on the laptop screen.

“Oh my God! That’s him!”

“Are you sure, Zoey?”

“I’m one hundred percent positive.”

“Let me call your father.” My eyes stay on the composite while she uses the tabletop phone to summon Pops. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with anticipation.

Two minutes later, Pops rejoins us. A thick accordion folder is in his hand. It’s marked: Case #1567: Angela Hart. My mother’s file. It’s now considered a cold case though Pops has never stopped searching for Mama’s murderer. He plops down on the chair next to mine and sets the file down next to the laptop. Reaching inside it, he withdraws a sheet of paper and lays it flat on the table. I recognize it immediately. It’s the police sketch of the man who fired a gun at me twenty years ago. My eyes bounce from it to the computer screen with the new sketch and then flick to my father.

“Pops, they’re one and the same!” Even though the man I just described is substantially heavier and now has a receding hairline and facial lines that show his age, they are undoubtedly the same person. The same ugly monster. My heart is racing.

“Brenda, can you run your new sketch through our data base and see if we can get a match?”

“Absolutely.”

With baited breath, I wait for the results. This is something that wasn’t possible to do twenty years ago. Computer technology has allowed for so many breakthroughs in criminology.

In a matter of seconds, a mug shot appears on the screen next to the sketch. My heart skips a beat.

“Pops! That’s him! The man I saw with Scott! Mama’s murderer!”

Wordlessly, Pops presses a couple of keys on the laptop keyboard. In a few rapid heartbeats, the suspect’s name pops up.

Pops reads it aloud.

“Frank Donatelli. Age 51.”

Hastily, he puts the phone on speaker and punches a four-digit extension.

“Mancuso,” booms a deep voice on the first ring.

“It’s Pete. I’m with Brenda.” Pops’s voice is urgent. “Get me everything you can on Frank Donatelli. I need it NOW!”

“On it.” The call ends.

Five minutes later, Lieutenant Mancuso, one of Pops’s favorite and most reliable officers on the force, joins us, with a printout in his hand. He hands it to Pops. Pops slips his reading glasses that are on top of his head over the bridge of his nose. With lips pressed tight, he reads the material.

“Fuck.”

“What, Pops?”

“Donatelli is a loan shark who works for the Mob. He’s known as ‘The Finger’—for both his fuck-you attitude and his trigger-happy skills.”

“You should be able to find him.”

“Babycakes, it’s not that easy. He’s a ghost.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s invisible. Off the grid. No address. No social security number. Uses fake identities and only burner phones. In other words, he’s untraceable.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. If Pops doesn’t think he can find him, no one can.

“What’s the next step?” I ask my father, my voice thick with disappointment.

“We’re going to circulate his photo, issue a warrant for his arrest, and maybe bring in the FBI.” He pauses. “And have someone on the force keep an eye on Scott. They may have contact again.”

“Do you still think his meeting with Scott had something to do with Brandon?”

Pops rubs his dimpled chin. “Not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe it has something to do with you.”

I inwardly shudder. “Pops, I’m positive he didn’t recognize me.” While I’ve never lost all my baby fat, I no longer look like the chubby, pigtailed little girl who witnessed her mother’s murder. “And besides he has no clue about my identity or whereabouts.”

The latter is true because the police kept my name out of the press to protect me. Frustrated, Pops rakes his stubby fingers through his full head of slate hair. His face is pinched.

“Has Scott ever threatened you?”

“Pops, he threatened to fire me, but he’s never threatened my life.” Yet, I wonder—does despicable Scott despise me enough to want to kill me? Is that motive enough?

“Does he perceive you as a threat?”

I answer Pops honestly. “Somewhat. He doesn’t like my relationship with Brandon, but truthfully, I don’t think it would drive him to kill me.”

“Babycakes, at this point, we can’t rule anything out. I’ve seen people kill for no reason at all.” He turns to Mancuso. “Mancuso, do a thorough investigation of Brandon Taylor’s manager, Scott Turner, and get me everything you have on him as quickly as you can.”

“Will do boss. I’ll get on it right away,” the uniformed officer replies, already out the door.

Pops returns his attention to the computer, and with a couple clicks of the mouse, prints out Donatelli’s image. “Brenda, would you do me a favor and grab the printout.”

“Sure,” she says, swiveling her chair to retrieve the photo that’s spewing out of the printer behind her. She faces front again and hands it to Pops.

“Thanks,” says Pops, carefully slipping the photo into Mama’s case folder. “And thanks for working with Zoey and doing a stellar job.”