by Sara Rosett
I found Summer’s name in the contact list, but paused, my finger hovering over the DIAL button. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t, either, but it’s the best thing to do in this situation.”
“How does Dwight even know about the kids?”
Ben rubbed his hand over his mouth, then said, “He’s into details and finding out everything he can about the people he comes into contact with. It’s all leverage to him. I promise you, Ellie, handing over the photos is the best thing to do.”
I closed my eyes briefly, then said, “Maybe. What’s in the envelope waiting for me downstairs?”
“Everything I’ve found. E-mails, text messages, Web histories, phone logs. These people killed Angela so the photos wouldn’t be published. Ruby contacted them—told them about the photos.”
“It was Ruby, not Angela,” I said, realizing I’d forgotten about her when I’d tried to work out Dwight’s involvement earlier. Ruby was the one arguing for “going to the source.”
Ben continued. “It’s all there. She e-mailed them, they replied back, said they were interested. Ruby met with Dwight at the hotel across the street from your hotel. He must have picked it because it was close, and he didn’t want to meet with her in public, in case she didn’t want to do things his way. I’m assuming she didn’t have the photos because Dwight replied to a text from Suzie that night, saying that he’d taken care of Ruby and had the information he needed to get the pictures.”
I said, “When Dwight realized Ruby didn’t have the pictures, he probably held her over the balcony to make her tell him who had them.”
“I think that’s what happened,” Ben agreed. “He sent the kid to get the photos from Angela, but he bungled it—a regular occurrence, apparently.”
“Lee,” I said.
“What?”
“His name is Lee. Lee Fitch. He’s Suzie Quinn’s newest PA. That’s short for personal assistant,” I said quickly. My battery was down to 11 percent.
“When he realized Angela didn’t have the photos, he decided to bring Angela back here. After a couple of hours with Dwight, he convinced her to give him her login information for her e-mail account. It wasn’t Chase sending you e-mails, requesting an exchange of the purses, it was Dwight. It’s all there in the e-mails. He sent the kid, Lee, to pick up the correct purse, but . . .”
“The purse we gave him didn’t have the photos, so he took you.”
“Yeah. Didn’t learn, I guess. When he brought me in the door, Suzie freaked. She shouted, ‘You brought another one?’ I didn’t get a good look at her until tonight, so I didn’t know who she was until a few hours ago.”
“It’s still hard to believe this is Suzie Quinn we’re talking about—America’s perky swimming sweetheart.”
Ben paused. “She’s nothing like she appears on television. It seems all she’s interested in is yoga and the calorie count of every food that room service sends up. But then, she’ll have a burst of screaming. Quite the diva. I have a feeling she’s aware of everything that’s going on, but is intentionally not asking for specifics. She keeps asking Dwight if the issue has been ‘handled. ’ The walls here are surprisingly thin for the amount of money they’re paying for this place. It’s easy to keep track of when I’ll have it to myself.”
“So there is definite proof in those papers that Angela was murdered?” I asked.
He tilted his head from side to side. “It’s not a signed confession. There’s motive—Suzie’s got a huge endorsement deal with a soft drink company. Her first appearance for them is tonight at Green Groves. She’s frantic to keep anything out of the news that could jeopardize it. Either Suzie, or Suzie and Dwight, set Angela up and planned to do whatever it took to get the photos, whether it was legal or illegal. Either way, the hardcopies prove we’re not lying.”
“Or insane,” I said. “My battery is almost gone and you need to get back to wherever you’re supposed to be tucked away,” I said.
“Yep. They’d be quite disappointed to know I was using the penthouse suite’s business center for myself. And the concierge is so obliging, too. They’ll deliver packages, like the one I have waiting for you. It’s just a phone call away.”
“Don’t eat any of the food they give you. And watch out for a powder—I don’t know how you’d do that, but be careful. Detective Jenson told me Angela’s things had a coating of a powder, a drug that causes the person who inhales it to become docile and do whatever they’re told. Breathing in too much can be fatal.”
“That’s what they think happened to Angela?”
“Jenson is still working on it, but he really, really wants to talk to you about it.”
“Another thing to look forward to,” Ben said.
My battery was on 2 percent, and Ben was getting more fidgety by the moment, so we signed off. “See you at midnight?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said reluctantly.
Carrying the laptop, I hurried down to the lobby where Monica was pacing impatiently. “What took you so long?”
“In a second,” I said, and stopped at the front desk and requested the package they were holding for me. The same snotty clerk handed me a thick, oversized envelope.
I gripped it so tightly that I wrinkled the paper.
“What’s that?” Monica asked.
“Evidence,” I said in an undertone. “Let’s get out of here.” I stepped away from the desk and led the way across the lobby. I didn’t see Pete until he stepped directly in front of me, and we collided.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. He put out his hands to steady me, but I got the feeling he was using my shoulders to keep himself upright. He blinked, focusing on my face. His gaze sharped. He’d recognized me and noticed the laptop. “Hey, that’s mine.” He reached for the laptop in my arms.
I tightened my grip and stepped back a pace, leaving him weaving uncertainly.
“Hey!” He squinted at the desk clerk, raised a hand, and waved to get his attention. “She stole that from my room,” he called.
Chapter Eighteen
I glanced at the desk clerk, who narrowed his eyes and quickly picked up a phone. Clearly, the desk clerk had taken a dislike to me and relished the thought of calling security.
“Wait!” I said. “This is my laptop.”
“That’s true,” Monica said, coming forward. She gave Pete a scorching look and pointed to him. “He stole it from her.”
A ring of people watched us. The desk clerk glanced around the lobby, then put down the phone and marched over to us. “Is this true, Mrs. Avery? Is this indeed your laptop?” he asked.
He remembered my name? That was inconvenient. Not only could he describe me to the police, he could give them my name, too. I felt my breathing shorten and a dampness breaking out at my armpits and across my forehead. I didn’t think he’d take my word about the scratch Nathan’s truck had left on the laptop.
“She’s lying,” Pete said, angling his shoulder so that he cut Monica out of the conversation as he leaned in to try to grab the laptop again.
I shifted it to the other side and stepped back. “This is my laptop. He’s the liar,” I said, then had a thought. “I can prove it. I can unlock it with the password. Something this man can’t do.” I flipped the laptop open, praying there was enough juice in the battery to start the computer. It took a few moments to bring up the login screen. When it was up, I turned it toward Pete. “Care to give it a try?”
He lowered his head, staring at me from under his eyebrows. “No,” he barked.
I sat down in a chair, placed the laptop on a table facing away from Pete, and quickly typed in the password. A chime sounded and programs began loading. “See. There you are. It’s mine,” I said, waving a hand at the computer screen. “I don’t think there’s any problem here, is there?” I asked, looking at Pete.
His mouth was set as he shook his head. The desk clerk slowly said, “Very well, but please, no more disturbances.”
“Not
a problem.” With a blip and a gusty burst of the laptop’s fan, which almost sounded like a sigh, it went dark. The battery was totally dead. I closed the lid and stood. “We were on our way out.”
Monica fell into step with me, and we quickly crossed to the exit and stepped into the thick air of the still warm night. Pete stumbled along behind us. “That was a dirty trick,” he said.
I ignored him and kept walking to the parking garage, but Monica whirled to face him. “No, Pete. It wasn’t a dirty trick. It was the truth, which is a word you seem to have forgotten the meaning of. I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to break into a hotel room and steal.”
“You’d do it, too,” he said, poking a finger at her. I think he was aiming for her shoulder but missed completely, his finger shooting off into the air beside Monica, which set him wavering. “You were after the photos. You wanted them, too.”
Monica grabbed his shoulder and steadied him. “Sure I wanted them, but I was going to buy them, not steal them. And I would have given them to my editor instead of selling them myself.”
Pete pulled back. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t bother,” Monica interrupted him. “I know you sold them to the Brits, and you’re skipping town.” Pete’s face went wary. “I hope you enjoy running,” Monica continued, “because the photos are connected to what looks like murder, so you better hit the road fast, but keep looking over your shoulder. If you’d just stolen a laptop, the police might not get around to looking for you, but with a possible murder involved, I’m sure they’ll look a lot harder.”
Pete took a few unsteady steps backward and stumbled. “Oh, and look for my by-line,” Monica called out as Pete turned and tottered back to the hotel. “I’ll have the whole story. You know what they say, it’s not the crime, it’s the cover-up. I’ll have the murder and the cover-up story. You could have had an even bigger story, if you hadn’t been so greedy.”
“Come on,” I said, pulling at her arm. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Sure we do. There’s always time to gloat,” she said, but her abandon at the steering wheel more than made up for our little tête-à-tête with Pete. We made it to the other hotel in a few minutes. There were plenty of angry drivers on the beach road, but they didn’t bother Monica at all. She’d said, “Please. I drive the L.A. freeways. This is like kindergarten.”
During the drive, I only had time to look through the first few pages of the documents, but what I saw confirmed what Ben had said. The first e-mails were between Angela’s friend Ruby and Dwight. He’d e-mailed her, assuring her that “an arrangement satisfactory to both parties could be negotiated.” I quickly read the line aloud to Monica, and she whistled.
“This next one is from Dwight, too, setting up a meeting at the hotel where Ruby was pushed off the balcony.”
“I heard about that. She’s part of the story, too?” Monica asked as she pulled into a parking space.
“Yes. She’s been in the hospital since last night and isn’t talking to anyone. Says she can’t remember anything.”
We exchanged glances, and Monica said, “That’s what I’d say if someone tried to kill me and wasn’t successful. You wouldn’t want to give anyone a reason to complete the job.”
We shot through the lobby, up the elevator, and into the corridor. I checked my watch. It was nine forty-five. Plenty of time. Monica wanted to see the papers, too. She was like the persistent no-see-ums, the little gnats that come out every year in middle Georgia and pester you until you go mad or go indoors. I was handing her the first e-mails as I threw open the door to my room, then jerked to a stop.
“Mitch! I completely forgot about you.”
He stood in the doorway of the bathroom. He had on khaki cargo shorts and was pulling a polo shirt over his head. His hair was damp, and steamy air drifted out of the bathroom.
“Obviously,” he said, but there wasn’t any censure in his voice, only a bit of teasing. He worked the shirt over his head and came forward to kiss me. “I fly thousands of miles, drive through the night to get here, and how am I greeted? With an empty hotel room,” he said, sweeping his arm around the room. “Sight of a massive party, apparently,” he said, indicating the open suitcases and the general disarray of the room. “I was on my way over to Summer’s. I figured you’d be there. You look nice,” he said, taking in my gauzy top, jeans, and espadrilles.
“Oh, Mitch.” The stack of papers crumpled as I leaned into the solidness of his shoulder, relaxing into the curve of his arm. Everything went misty. Most of the time I didn’t mind being on my own, which was a good quality to have, considering that Mitch’s job took him away at frequent intervals, but there was an enormous relief to know I didn’t have to handle this situation alone anymore.
“Ah, I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Monica said in a small voice.
“No, it’s okay,” I said as I pulled away from Mitch, blinking rapidly. “Sit down.” I waved Monica to the couch and smiled reassuringly at Mitch. His face had gone from slightly teasing to concerned. “I’m okay. I just need to tell you what’s happened.” I took a deep breath as I put the papers and the laptop down on the coffee table. “It’s about Ben.”
I introduced Monica, then recapped everything as best I could. As I talked, I handed off the laptop to Monica. She connected the power cord, then I typed my password. She went to work, copying photos to the memory cards, one for her and one for me to give to Dwight Fellows.
As I caught Mitch up on what had happened, I skimmed over a few tiny things, like the balcony stunt. I noticed Monica shot me a raised eyebrow when I seamlessly avoided that in my narrative, but I kept going until I wound up with the description of how I’d remembered the photos were on the laptop.
When I finished, Mitch ran his hand over his mouth. “So, the deadline to get that memory card to this Dwight Fellows guy is midnight?” he asked, checking his watch.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then we better get going.”
“I love you, you know that,” I said, giving him a solid kiss on the lips. No questions, no recriminations. He just focused on what needed to be done.
He smiled and pulled me close enough so that only I could hear him say, “Yeah, you can tell me all the parts you left out later.”
When he released me and went to get his shoes and wallet, Monica handed me the memory card and raised her eyebrows. “He’s delish. And a man of action. Do you know how lucky you are?”
“I think I do,” I said.
Monica got a phone call, listened for a moment, and motioned that she would be in the corridor. She stepped out the door, and I gathered up the papers. I paused with my hand on the laptop. To bring it or not? I quickly logged into my e-mail account and attached the photos to an e-mail, then sent it to my own e-mail address. Now the photos were out there zipping through cyberspace. In fact, they’d probably already come to rest at a server farm in some anonymous warehouse in Nevada or Arizona. The sent e-mail popped into my inbox, and I felt better. I really did need to look into an online back-up service, I decided.
“Ready?” Mitch asked.
“I have to be, don’t I?” I said, shifting the memory card from one hand to the other so I could wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
“Where’s Monica?”
“In the hall,” I said, heading for the door. “The cell phone reception is terrible in here.” I stepped out the door, but there wasn’t anyone hovering near our room. I did a quick scan of the whole floor and the elevators. No blond pageboy. No shimmering green dress. “Where is she?” I asked, hurrying to the end of the hall and throwing open the door to the stairwell. No one.
“Looks like she took off.”
“I can’t believe she’d do that.”
“You said she’s a tabloid reporter, right?”
“Yes, but this is a huge story. She’s got the best angle, the inside track, if she sticks with us. Why would she go it alone? I hope nothing happened to her,” I said, thinking of the o
minous Dwight Fellows and his back-up plan involving the kids. “If Dwight figured out who she is—that she’s a reporter—who knows what he’d do.”
“I think she can take care of herself.”
I turned down the hotel hallway. “There are three other emergency stairwells—”
Mitch cut in. “We need to go. The earlier we get to Green Groves, the better,” he said with a quick look at his watch.
“You’re right,” I said, reluctantly. “The elevator will be faster than the stairs.”
I was still scanning the lobby for Monica as we hurried through it, but there were plenty of places to hide. All she had to do was step behind one of the oversized elephant ear plants and I wouldn’t be able to see her.
As we passed the business center, I grabbed Mitch’s elbow and changed course. “Copies! We need copies of these,” I said, patting the package from Ben. I’d been careful to make sure I had digital copies of the photos. I needed copies of the papers as well. I was sure that if Dwight or anyone in the Suzie/Nick orbit figured out what Ben had done, the files would vanish off hard drives faster than Nathan could make a scoop of chocolate ice cream disappear.
I stopped short in the door of the business center. Monica was hovering over the printer, eagerly pulling each sheet out as it printed. “Monica, what are you doing?” I asked.
She jumped. My voice had come out a bit sharper than I intended. It had the same accusatory tone that I used when I found the kids doing something they weren’t supposed to do, like digging in my purse or playing on the computer long after I’d told them to quit their game.
My thoughts switched from thinking, oh-no-Monica-might-be-in-danger to oh-no-what-double-cross-has-she-pulled? I couldn’t help thinking of how she’d told Pete she had a phone call from her editor and slipped out of the bar. Had she sold us out? Had she sent the photos to her editor before we’d even had a chance to trade them? I suddenly had the weirdest sensation that the walls were tilting, closing in on me, and I couldn’t breathe properly.
