She shook her head. “I didn’t get a look at her face, but I think she was a woman.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She wasn’t big, you know, like a guy. She was small.”
Murphy frowned. “What was she wearing?”
“Black pants and, umm, black boots, the kind you wear in the snow. She had a black hoodie pulled over her head. It was tied around her face so I couldn’t see anything.”
“What color was the hoodie?”
“Black. Everything was black.”
“Plain or patterned?”
“It was plain.”
“Was there any lettering on the hoodie?”
“Nope.”
“Any tattoos or markings?”
She shook her head. “I just told you, I couldn’t see anything. She was covered up.”
“Hair color?”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t see her actual hair. It was covered by the hoodie. I just said that.”
“How tall was she?”
“My height.”
“Which is?”
“Five foot nine.”
Murphy’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened, then said, “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I need to put an APB out. Suspect is female, approximately five feet nine inches, dressed in all black. Hoodie, pants, snow boots.” He gave some additional details and ended the call. “The car is registered to a Zack Montana. There’s only one problem. Zack reported the car stolen a few hours ago. Besides the fact he’s a guy and not a girl, he’s also six foot four, so he doesn’t fit the profile you just gave me. He said he ran into the coffee shop, came out, and his car was gone.”
Murphy looked at Chelsea. “I’m going to let you go, but you won’t be alone. One of my men will remain with you for now.”
“Uhh, I don’t want someone I don’t know following me around. My fiancé is coming to pick me up. So, no thanks.”
“Trust me,” Murphy said. “No offense to your betrothed, but he can’t offer you the protection we can. Besides, you don’t have a choice.”
CHAPTER 25
It had been several years since I last attended a funeral, but in some ways, it felt recently familiar, like an ephemeral dream I’d had only yesterday. A dream that haunted my existence. It took every fiber of my being to remain seated. All I wanted to do was bolt out the back door.
Few things were certain. Alexandra’s murder was personal. Louis’s murder was personal, but in a different way. I still didn’t know how yet, but they didn’t feel the same. The failed abduction of Chelsea was tied to her mother’s murder somehow. Although Barbara Berry had accused Alexandra’s husband, I didn’t believe he was the killer. He didn’t care enough about whether Alexandra lived or died. Not even when it came to his precious money. He almost seemed relieved to be rid of her. I didn’t believe he’d harm his daughter either.
At the back of the room, a man leaned against the wall, alone, his arms folded in front of him. He was too far away for me to get a good look at him, but for a split second he looked familiar, and I found myself struggling to draw breath.
“What is it?” Finch asked. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing. I thought I saw ... it’s just ... I thought—”
“Thought you saw whom?”
I was rubbing my wrist again.
Finch placed his hand over mine, stopping me from making my wrist any redder than it already was. He stood and turned, eyeballing the man until he was satisfied. Then he sat back down. “It’s not him, Joss.”
“I know. I know it’s not. I can’t help it sometimes, you know?”
“Nothing’s going to happen. Not while I’m with you.”
It was those rare moments when he wasn’t that I worried about.
I shifted my attention, focusing on the people around me. Most of the funeral attendees were nobodies, people I didn’t recognize. Scattered among them, attempting to look discreet, were a few officers dressed in plain clothes, including Blunt, who refused to look at me even though she knew I was there. Her eyes flicked around like darts trying to hit multiple targets, assessing every move, every twitch. My eyes were fixed on one person, Roland Sinclair, who kept his eyes on Alexandra’s casket.
The services concluded with a song, and Roland stood. In his hand were two pink and white lilies. He walked to the casket, bent down, lifted Alexandra’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. He tucked the flowers beside her waist, took a deep breath, then walked away. Porter approached him on his way out. The two exchanged terse words, none of which seemed pleasant.
Roland was the first to break away from the conversation. I stepped into the aisle before he passed me, wrapping my hand around his arm. “Mr. Sinclair, can I speak to you?”
Tears pooled inside his eyes as he looked at me. “Not here, Miss Jax. Come with me.”
I followed him outside and came face to face with Doyle Eldridge. His hands were folded in front of his waist. He paced the area in front of the first step, scratching at his head, then brushed past me, entering the funeral home. I didn’t know whether to talk to Roland or go after Doyle. I decided Doyle could wait. If he caused a stir inside, the cops would take care of him.
I looked at Roland. “Alexandra’s husband just spoke to you. What did he say?”
“Porter Wells isn’t Alexandra’s husband. He’s her ex-husband.” A black Jaguar with tinted windows pulled next to the curb, stopping in front of us. He opened the door, turned toward me, and said, “Get in.”
I surveyed the crowd still in the church and didn’t see Finch. Thinking I’d be fine sitting in the pew for a few minutes while he went to the bathroom, he would probably be shocked when he returned and didn’t find me inside the church. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t be so shocked.
“I don’t have much time,” Roland pressed. “Are you coming or not?”
I slid onto the black leather in the backseat. Roland sat next to me. After the car pulled away, I looked out the back window and saw Finch, hands on hips, angry.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m going to the airport. Where you choose to go afterward is entirely up to you.”
It was easy to see what Alexandra saw in Roland. Dressed in a fitted gray suit, he was sophisticated and tall, at least six foot four, with short, dark, wavy hair and tanned skin. He looked Italian or Sicilian and smelled of jasmine and bergamot. I hoped he didn’t notice how I was shamelessly breathing him in.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“What question?”
“I asked you what Alexandra Weston’s ex-husband said to you just now.”
He twisted the top button on his shirt until it broke free, glanced out the window. “He blames me for Alex’s death.”
“Why would he blame you?”
“He has his reasons, which only make sense to him, I suppose.”
What were his exact words?”
“He said, ‘It’s your fault she’s dead. You murdered her.’”
CHAPTER 26
“Why would Porter blame Alexandra’s death on you?” I asked.
Roland tugged at his chin. “Mmm ... jealousy perhaps?”
“He knew about your affair, didn’t he?”
“Alleged affair.”
“It’s been in the tabloids for some time.”
He winked. “And that makes it true?”
“Are you denying it? I saw the way you looked when you leaned in to say goodbye. That wasn’t friendship. That was love.”
“Spoken like a true author. You have a sharp eye. Good for you. I love my wife, Miss Jax.”
“And you loved Alexandra too.”
“Would it be so wrong if I did? Most people are lucky to have one true love in a lifetime. I’ve had two. I don’t regret it, and I’m not ashamed.”
Forbidden love. It reminded me of the off-screen romance between screen actors Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy in the ’30s, a controversy still disputed today.
�
�I’m not trying to pry into your relationship with Alexandra,” I said.
“Then what are you trying to do?”
“Find her killer.”
“Why? What’s in it for you? You didn’t even know her. Not really. Whatever obligation you think you have because you’re here in town or because murder is what you write about for a living is unnecessary. The cops will sort it out.”
“Maybe, but I’m here and I want to help.”
He stared at me for some time before saying, “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“That’s okay. I’m not sure I believe you either.”
He smiled. “What do you want from me?”
“Answers to my questions,” I said. “Real answers.”
“What are your questions?”
“In your opinion, is there a chance Porter could have killed Alexandra?”
“There’s a chance any person you saw today did it, and though I dislike Porter immensely, it’s doubtful he had anything to do with it.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“He’s not clever enough to stage her murder himself.”
“He could have hired someone.”
“Again, I doubt it. Porter’s not a trusting fellow. He’s paranoid. He’d be too worried the person he hired would snitch, and then it would come back to haunt him one day.”
“What about Doyle Eldridge? Did Alexandra ever talk to you about him?”
He nodded. “Doyle’s a strange sort of fellow. You saw him today outside the funeral home, so you know what I’m talking about. I don’t see him killing her either. He genuinely cared for Alex. I do believe he loved her and had felt that way for some time.”
An oversized sign on the side of the road indicated we were within a few miles of the airport. I was running out of time. Did Roland have a theory about why Alexandra died? About who killed her? Would he tell me if he did? “Do you have any idea who killed Alexandra?”
“I have a lot of ideas. Doesn’t mean any of them are right.”
“Care to share them with me?”
“Perhaps. Not today though. I need time.”
I wasn’t the only one searching for answers. To whatever degree, he was too. The car rolled to a stop in front of the terminal.
“Time’s up,” he said.
I scrambled to find anything to say that would sway him. “Alexandra was supposed to be pitching an idea for a new book to her agent next week. I believe it was a book she’d already started writing, or maybe even had finished.”
It worked. He removed his hand from the handle on the car door. “How do you know about what Alex was writing?”
“You first.”
“Did Barb mention it to you?”
“Like I said, Mr. Sinclair. You first.”
“Alex told me about the book.”
“When?” I asked.
“Recently. Who told you?”
“Barbara. Was it going to be her last book? Was she really planning to retire?”
“Not just retire. Disappear.”
“Why?”
“For all the notoriety she chased, she’d finally reached a point where all she wanted was to live in peace, away from the public eye.”
“Her final book must have been important to her then.”
“It was. She wanted to go out with a bang. I warned her against doing anything without considering the repercussions, but she’s never been one to listen to what anyone else has to say.”
“Repercussions? What was the book about?” I asked.
He raised a brow. “You don’t know?”
I shook my head. He opened the car door, stepped out, and wrapped his hand around the handle of the luggage bag the chauffer placed next to him.
I slid across the seat, grabbing his arm for a second time today. “You know something. Something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
“Sometimes it’s better not to reveal things. Once Pandora’s box is open, it’s far too late. I, for one, am glad the book was never published. I hope it never will be.”
He glanced at the entrance to the airport.
“Walking away won’t stop me from figuring out the truth,” I said.
“I asked you before why you’re so interested in all of this. Why is it so important to you? And please, don’t give me the same misguided answer you gave me fifteen minutes ago. Try again. Try the truth this time.”
The truth.
This morning I’d asked myself the same question. I didn’t know Alexandra. Didn’t know her family. Wasn’t invested in her life. And yet, here I was, involved in it like we were close friends.
“Well,” he added. “I haven’t got all day. Let’s hear it. Hurry up.”
It was hard to know which story to tell. The easier of the two would have to suffice. “A couple years ago, I lost a colleague of mine. No, not just a colleague. A friend. A woman who meant a great deal to me.”
There it was. Raw, honest, real truth all sliced up in tiny, agonizing pieces.
He ducked his head back inside the car. “This woman. Who was she?”
“My assistant. Her name was Clara.”
I’d piqued his interest. “How did she die?”
“She was killed.”
“In what manner?”
“She was murdered.”
He frowned. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No, I am,” I said. “Death strips life from us all eventually. I just wish it had come for me instead.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Most days I do. For five years, death has followed me like a boomerang, always returning, but never for me. People enter my life. Bad things happen. I survive. They don’t.”
“Why is your friend’s death on you?”
“It’s a long story. You’ll miss your plane.”
He let go of the suitcase, sat back inside the car. “Tell me.”
“I’d just finished recording the opening segment of Murderous Minds, and the director called a late-night meeting. I sent Clara out for Chinese food. An hour went by, she didn’t come back, then two. No Clara. I got worried, called the police. They said I should wait a bit longer, that she probably just got stuck in traffic. But I just had this terrible feeling, you know, a deep burning inside my body that kept growing.”
“What did you do?”
“I borrowed one of the staffer’s cars, took the same route she would have taken, found my car on the side of the road about six miles away.”
“And your friend, was she in it?”
I shook my head. “The car was parked next to a sloped area that went down to the coast. When I didn’t see her inside, I hopped the ledge and walked about halfway down, using my cell phone as a light. When I found her, she’d been raped, stabbed, and left like a discarded piece of litter.”
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “You couldn’t have known what would happen when you sent her on an errand that night. These things are unpredictable.”
“You’re right. There was no way to know what would happen. There was a way I could have prevented it though. Clara looked like me. From behind, she’d even been mistaken for me on several occasions. In the dark, in my car, it would have been hard for the man following her to know the difference.”
“What are you trying to say—she was being stalked ... or, I mean, you were being stalked, and the guy had actually intended to kill you instead?”
I raised the sleeve of my shirt a few inches, exposing the gash on my arm. “I had a stalker, and I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. Maybe if I had, he would have been caught, and she’d still be alive.”
“That’s quite a large scar. He did that to you?”
I nodded. “About halfway into the first season of the show, he started leaving notes on my car. They were simple at first. Legible. Neat. He said he watched every episode, was my biggest fan, that kind of thing.”
“And then?”
“The notes took on a different tone. The writing changed. Instead of n
eat and legible, he wrote sharp words in all caps, said he dreamed about me, fantasized about us living together.”
“How could you keep it to yourself and not tell anyone?”
“I figured it came with the business. I became more aware, kept my eyes open, carried mace in my purse, a knife in my glove box. I parked near the brightest light in the parking garage whenever I had a late night. For a month, the notes stopped. Then one night, I was carrying a bag of groceries to my car. He grabbed me from behind. I dropped the bag, tried to fight him off. He shoved me up against the car, kissed me so hard he bruised my lips. I shoved him off me, then saw he was carrying a knife. I raised my arms in front of me, trying to protect myself, and he cut me. I screamed. A man parked nearby came to my rescue, but my attacker got away.”
“How do you know the man who killed Clara and the man who stalked you is one and the same?”
“He taped a note to the steering wheel. It said next time he was coming for me. The handwriting was analyzed. It matched the notes I’d received before.”
“Did they ever catch the guy?”
I turned away, and he had his answer. “Every time I look at this scar, I’m reminded of what he did to me, what he did to Clara, the debt I need to pay. A debt I’ll owe for the rest of my life.”
The driver tapped Roland on the shoulder. “Sir, if you don’t go soon, you will miss your plane.”
Roland turned to me. “I was going to say my driver will take you anywhere you want to go, but your driver seems antsy to do the same.”
“What drive—” I turned, subjecting myself to Finch’s icy glare.
“Judging by the look on your—” Roland started, but I interrupted.
“Bodyguard.”
He nodded. “Okay, your bodyguard’s face, you have some explaining to do. I’d venture to say you’ve learned from your mistake, Miss Jax. It would be a pity if something happened to you.”
“How did you know he was here for me?”
“I’m a writer too. It’s my job to notice my surroundings.”
“Mr. Sinclair, I told you something private about my life, something intimate, something most people don’t know about me.”
A View to a Kill Page 29
