As for assistant director Hank Murdock, he’d get a directing break now that Greg was dead, but again, at this late date, how much good would it do him? Endless Tomorrows would always be regarded as Gregory Kinsey’s last picture no matter who directed the final few scenes.
Production assistant Jerry Shaw didn’t stand to gain anything from the director’s death. To the contrary, he was barely out of the UCLA film program. He was riding quite happily on Greg’s coattails.
Cinematographer Daniel Ortiz, who’d allegedly been busy setting up for the next scene at the time of the killing, owned a piece of GK Productions. The company’s fate rested with the rise or fall of Greg’s star. Molly would have to find out what would happen to GK Productions now that its primary owner was dead, but odds were it had a better future with him than without him. If so, the temperamental but talented Ortiz wouldn’t want him dead.
All of which brought Molly right back to the women in the case. Again she dismissed Veronica as the least likely of the suspects. Laura Crain was Molly’s first choice, if only because the producer had blindsided her earlier with that attack suggesting that Molly had used sex to lure Greg to Miami. There was also the jealousy motive to substantiate the choice. Laura might have sought revenge against the man who was publicly humiliating her.
As much as she wanted to pin it on Laura, however, Molly couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility that the mysterious model had ended her argument with Greg with a gunshot. Oh, how she’d like to find her before the police discovered her identity.
Just then she heard a commotion at the registration desk in the lobby. When she turned, she spotted a dark-haired, khaki-clad photographer, laden down with camera equipment, who was arguing with the clerk behind the counter. He hadn’t come through the door since she’d been standing there, so she had to assume the man was checking out.
She listened to the exchange for several minutes before realizing that the two were arguing in a mix of English, Spanish, and a third language.
Italian! Of course! This had to be the photographer on location with Greg’s model friend. As she had told Sergeant Jenkins, there were six crews currently shooting fashion layouts all over town, but only one that she knew of had an Italian photographer.
She inched closer to the desk, trying to detect the man’s name in the barrage of words being flung back and forth. She finally gave that up as a lost cause. They were talking so rapidly she couldn’t even distinguish one word from the next.
When tempers seemed to have cooled a bit, she tapped the photographer on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
He turned his still-stormy, intense gaze on her. “Yes?” he said, immediately studying her with a photographer’s critical eye. Boredom followed rapidly. Molly didn’t delude herself that she was model material, but his relatively quick dismissal hurt.
She pulled one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to him. “You are here from Italy, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you working with a particular model? Dark hair. Dark eyes.” Admittedly, it was a weak description given the likelihood that it applied to half the models on location.
“I work with many models,” he said carefully. “Why do you ask this?” He studied her card more closely. “You have work for one of my models?”
She considered a blatant lie, but settled for a half-truth. “It’s possible,” she said. “Someone told me this one is very beautiful. I’m in touch with a number of casting directors who might be interested.”
“Casting directors? These are from pictures?”
“Yes. We have a crew filming here now, GK Productions. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Gregory Kinsey? He’s very famous.”
His expression immediately closed down. He handed the card back to her with a disdainful glance.
“She would not be interested,” he said, confirming her guesswork. She had the right photographer, and with any luck he could be persuaded to lead her to the right model.
“Perhaps I could ask her myself. What’s her name?”
“She would not be interested,” he repeated, then turned his back on her.
The reaction removed any lingering doubts that she had the right man. He clearly knew which model she meant, knew of her connection to Greg. And he was clearly protecting her, which must mean that he knew about the murder.
She moved to a more unobtrusive part of the lobby and watched as the photographer made a hurried call on one of the house phones. Then he gathered up his luggage and equipment and went outside, where a taxi was already waiting.
Molly nabbed a passing bellman. “Is there another way out of here besides that elevator?”
“The fire stairs. They come out on the alley in back.”
“Damn,” she muttered, racing through the door just in time to see the taxi turn into the alley.
She ran after it, cutting into the alley just as the taxi door slammed shut. It sped off in the opposite direction before she could get halfway down the alley. Cursing under her breath, she turned around and ran smack into Michael.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Trying to stop Greg’s model friend from skipping town before we find out what she knows about the murder.”
He regarded her incredulously. “You found her?”
“I found the photographer she’s been working for. Unfortunately, he figured out what I was up to and had her sneak down the stairs and come out of the hotel back here. I never even got a glimpse of her.”
“Then what makes you so certain it was the right one?”
“Couldn’t you, just for once, trust me? If I explain all that, they’ll be halfway to Rome.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Any idea where they were headed?”
“Offhand, I’d say the airport. Isn’t that where you’d go, if you wanted to leave town in a hurry?”
“Not at this hour. There are too few flights to choose from. I’d find some out-of-the-way hotel, hide out for a day or two, and then leave from Fort Lauderdale or West Palm Beach on a flight going somewhere other than Italy. I’d be a lot less conspicuous that way.”
Molly shook her head. “Will I ever be able to think deviously enough to keep up with you?”
He grinned. “Is that a compliment?”
“Given the context, I’d have to say ‘Yes.’ Under ordinary conditions, however, it’s not a particularly attractive trait.”
“I’ll try to use it judiciously.”
She scowled at his teasing tone. “At any rate, the cab company ought to be able to tell us who’s right.”
“I don’t suppose you got a glimpse of the taxi number or the license tag?”
“Actually, I did,” she said. She repeated the digits, along with the name of the taxi company, which had its headquarters only a few blocks away.
“Then let’s get back inside and give it to Sergeant Jenkins.”
Molly tried to hide her disappointment and failed. “We’re not going to track it down ourselves?”
“Not a chance, sweetheart. You’ve done enough amateur sleuthing for one night. We are going home.”
“It would only take one little phone call. We’d turn the information over to the sergeant.”
“The taxi company is not going to give that kind of information to anyone other than someone on official police business.”
“You have a badge number, credentials, the whole nine yards,” she reminded him. “You probably even have a contact there who’d like to do you a favor.”
“But I am not the officer in charge of this case,” he said with the pious tone of an altar boy wrongly accused of snitching a taste of wine. “I’m off duty, out of my jurisdiction. Are you getting the picture yet?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “What am I supposed to tell Vince? He expects me to handle things here.”
/> “Tell him that the police have everything under control. Tell him that they hope to have the case wrapped up very quickly.”
“Is that the truth? Or is that just meant to pacify him?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ve spent too much time around stonewalling public information officers. By the way, did Jenkins check on that flight from L.A.?”
“Better a little stonewalling, than a lot of wild speculation.” He ignored the question about Jeffrey Meyerson’s flight.
Molly gave up on that and tried to explain that facts tended to put a lid on speculation. She was so busy making her argument convincing that she barely noticed that Michael had steered her down the block and into her car.
“Give me five minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll take you home.”
Obviously he had no idea what she could accomplish in five minutes if she put her mind to it. As soon as he’d left, she raced for the pay phone on the corner, dropped in a quarter, and called the taxi company.
“I’m calling from the hotel. One of our guests left something behind and I’m wondering if you could tell me where your driver dropped him off. The pickup was about five minutes ago, a couple. Italian. Giovanni, yes. That’s it.”
The dispatcher named an address in Little Havana. “That’s a motel, I think,” he added. Molly could visualize him leering as he said it. She was familiar with the name. Not far from the airport, the motel wasn’t a stop-off for international travelers. Its usual clientele tended to rent by the hour.
Molly was back in her car, looking as innocent as it was possible for a guilty person to look, by the time Michael returned. He regarded her suspiciously.
“What’s up?”
“Actually, I’m starving,” she said. “I was hoping maybe we could stop for something to eat.”
“We could just walk to the News Café. It’s only a few blocks down.”
“Actually, what I’d really like is a medianoche or a Cuban sandwich. Could we go to Versailles or someplace else over on Calle Ocho?”
“This sudden craving for Cuban food wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain motel, would it?”
Molly felt her cheeks turning pink. “How did you know?”
“When Sergeant Jenkins called the taxi dispatcher, the man said he’d just had another call about the exact same couple. He said he’d told the woman they’d been dropped off at a motel in Little Havana.”
“Oh,” she said meekly. “I don’t suppose…”
“No.”
“But…”
“No.” He glanced across at her. “Still hungry?”
“No,” she muttered. “I’ll drop you at your car on my way home.”
He actually laughed out loud at that. “Not a chance. I won’t rest easy until I know you’re home and safely tucked in for the night.”
“You planning to stick around for that?” she inquired testily.
His gaze caught hers and held. “Don’t tempt me, Molly DeWitt,” he warned softly. “Don’t tempt me.”
Awareness slammed through her and left her downright shaky. “How’s Bianca?” she said in a desperate rush.
His eyes never left hers. “Fine,” he said. “Last time I talked to her.”
“You’re not living together anymore?”
“No.”
“I see,” she said. “Whose choice?”
“It was mutual.”
“I see.”
His lips curved just slightly. “Do you really?”
Actually, what she saw with a flash of vivid insight was a night of pure, unadulterated lust and a morning filled with regrets. She toyed with the tantalizing prospect of ignoring her common sense, indulging in some hot, steamy sex, and simply dealing with the regrets when the time came.
Then she decided regretfully that she and Michael had skirted enough danger for one night. There were too many questions she wanted answered before she slept with a man who fascinated her the way Michael O’Hara did. Tonight she was too exhausted to ask a single one of them.
Since she feared that she’d murmur something incriminating if she opened her mouth at all, she remained silent for the rest of the drive back to Key Biscayne.
“You going to invite me up?” Michael inquired as they pulled into the driveway at the Ocean Manor condominium. His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes was anything but.
“Not tonight,” she said finally.
“Too bad,” he said, still keeping it light. “I was going to tell you what Sergeant Jenkins found when he checked the airlines about flights from L.A.”
Molly chuckled at the deliberately devious ploy. “You can tell me that right here.”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll save it for breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“That’s not breakfast. That’s brunch, especially with an eight-year-old boy in the house.”
“Give Brian a bowl of cereal to tide him over until I get here. I usually refuse to budge before nine thirty on my day off. I’m making an exception for you.”
“Oh, in that case, I suppose I should be suitably grateful.”
He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss against her lips. He was there and gone before the gesture had time to set off sparks. “Don’t tax yourself. Just try to stay out of trouble until I see you again.”
“I’ll do my best,” she promised. She had a feeling she’d already dodged the worst of it. A seductive Michael O’Hara—an apparently available Michael O’Hara—represented trouble with a capital T to most any woman past puberty. To one who’d clung to celibacy as fervently as Molly had ever since her divorce, he lured like those sirens who beckoned ships to their doom.
Even so, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to court disaster.
CHAPTER 6
It wasn’t until she was upstairs that Molly realized how cleverly Michael had stranded her right where he wanted her—far from the scene of the crime. If she hadn’t been quite so exhausted, she might have dragged Liza out to chase after the sneaky detective who’d left her with nothing to drive. She wondered what would happen if she called the police to report that he’d made off with her car.
So much for the chance to race back to Miami Beach to do a little more sleuthing. There were plenty of people she hadn’t really talked to after the discovery of Greg’s body, beginning with the film’s somewhat enigmatic director of photography, Daniel Ortiz.
Sternly reminding herself what curiosity did to that ill-fated cat, she checked her answering machine for messages instead. There were half a dozen from Vince, all self-described as urgent, and one from Liza telling her that Brian was sound asleep in her guest room and that he might as well stay the night.
“I, however, am waiting up for you,” Liza’s taped message reported. “I want to hear everything the minute you get home and I do mean everything, including how you’re getting along with the hunk. Whoops! Probably shouldn’t have said that. He could be there listening. Sorry. See you.”
Molly chuckled at Liza’s belated sense of discretion. She started for the door, only to hear the key turning in the lock. Obviously, Liza had heard her come in and hadn’t trusted her to stop by and fill her in.
“Hey, there. It’s me,” Liza called from the doorway. “You alone?”
“What if I weren’t?” Molly said. “It’d be too late now.”
“True, but nothing shocks me anymore, and I’m a specialist at hasty exits.”
“Right. Like the time you got out of Spain one step ahead of that bullfighter who took a fancy to your…”
“Never mind what he took a fancy to,” Liza said, curling up on a corner of the sofa and tucking her bare feet under her. Her moussed, flattop hairstyle gave her the look of an innocent pixie, but the expression in h
er eyes was every bit as intent as Michael’s in mid-interrogation.
“Okay, tell me what happened,” she demanded. “Who killed Greg Kinsey?”
“About the only thing I can say with certainty is that it wasn’t me,” Molly told her from the kitchen. She poured them each a glass of wine before joining Liza.
“Is Michael working on the case?”
“Officially, no, but he can’t resist checking out clues any more than I can. Thanks for sending him over, by the way.”
“Sending him? Are you kidding? I mentioned murder and the man flew out of here. I barely had time to tell him where you were. God, I love all that macho protectiveness.”
“I told you, he can’t resist a good homicide investigation. It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Molly said, deciding Liza did not need to know just yet that Michael had all but invited himself into her bed tonight.
“Right. The man decided to spend his one night off chasing a killer who’s not even in his jurisdiction. I’m telling you, Michael O’Hara would not have gone anywhere near Miami Beach tonight if you hadn’t been involved.”
Molly couldn’t stop a wistful, unliberated sigh. “I have to admit I was glad to see him. It’s as if whichever side of my brain is supposed to do deductive reasoning goes into high gear the minute he’s around.”
“To say nothing of your hormones.”
“Okay. That, too.”
Liza drank the last of her wine and stood up. “You look beat. Since you can’t offer me anything juicier than speculation, I’m going home. I’ll send Brian over in the morning.”
“Just make sure he’s back here before ten. Michael’s picking us up for brunch.”
“Oh, really? Maybe I’m getting out too soon after all. Isn’t there some other little detail you’d like to share with your best friend?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face. There are no details,” Molly retorted. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”
As it turned out, going to bed was achieved far more easily than getting to sleep. She kept remembering the sight of Greg Kinsey lying dead and the sound of the heated argument that had preceded it by what must have been no more than minutes.
Seaside Lies Page 5
