She turned her head, bringing them face to face, nose to nose, lip to lip. “He broke in to start the dishwasher?”
“Or he’s a sicko fan and broke in to leave her his little home movies.” His voice was low and steady and patient.
“Let’s talk to the guy in 3702,” she finally said. “And if you want, you can call your black widow.”
“Good girl,” he said, backing away.
She seized a handful of his hair and pulled him even closer to her face. “But not a word to anyone at the station. Not yet.”
She had to cover every base. Wasn’t that what her sister would do?
God help her, she had no idea what her sister would do anymore.
The level of noise and activity in the newsroom was exponentially greater at three thirty in the afternoon than it had been at dawn the day before. Police radios blared from the assignment desk, and on each of the walls, long banks of monitors played all the major networks and cable stations. Phones jangled constantly and no one dreamed of using an intercom when yelling over heads would work just as effectively.
Jazz itched to get out there and into the thick of it. She missed a lively newsroom, having given it all up to work in the silent, dreary office of Sandusky Investigations and then, after breaking up with Elliott, in her own quiet apartment in San Francisco.
But she couldn’t take the risk of conversations with strangers. Alex stood sentry outside her glass door, eliciting a few interested looks—especially from women—but no one seemed that surprised that he was there.
That led Jazz to believe that the threats against Jessica must be public knowledge and considered legitimate. There were so many more questions than answers. Even the visitor to the thirty-seventh floor remained a mystery, since Jessica’s neighbor hadn’t answered the door when they’d tried earlier.
Glancing through the glass at the newsroom, Jazz searched the faces of her sister’s colleagues. Didn’t she have one good friend here? Why didn’t any women come in to shoot the breeze? Jazz longed to confide in someone, to identify the one person whom Jessica completely trusted, and tell that person the truth. Or ask questions of someone who might have an inkling of the story Jess was pursuing. Jonathan Walden had stopped by to make small talk, but a sixth sense told her he was no one to trust. His smile never made it anywhere near his eyes and he just smelled like a phony.
She read her copy for the live update and then the newscast as it was forwarded to her computer, and made a few changes. Then she rifled through the files in Jessica’s desk drawers, looking for clues, and dug again through all of Jessica’s recent e-mails, and even the database of local news stories. But whatever Jessica was doing, she hadn’t left a trail to follow.
When the floor director knocked on her door to announce it was time to get ready for the live update, she almost leaped out of her chair.
Alex fell into step with her as they crossed the newsroom and headed down the hallway toward hair and makeup.
“Jessie!” She turned to see Oliver Jergen hustling toward them. Alex immediately stepped forward and created a human barrier as the man rushed closer.
Oliver halted midstep as he realized what Alex was doing. “I’m a friend, not a foe,” he said, pulling his hands out of his pockets to show he was unarmed, adding a look of dismay to Jazz. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Alone? It’s, uh, personal.”
Jazz put her hand on Alex’s arm. “Please. He’ll walk with me to makeup.”
Alex shook his head.
“Never mind,” Oliver spat out. “I’ll catch you in your office after the update, Jess.” He gave Alex a disgusted look and walked away.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” she demanded. “What if he had something important to tell me?” She lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes at him. “Listen, I have to talk to some of these people to figure out where Jessica is.”
“So talk,” he said as they continued toward the dressing area. “I’m not stopping you.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re a little intimidating.”
A smile tipped his lips. “That should get me a bonus.”
She snorted and left him in the hall while a makeup artist dabbed concealer under her eyes and did her hair.
The update took less than five minutes, with Jazz seated at the main anchor desk, reading from a TelePrompTer above a robotic camera. The evening news promised to cover a murder in South Miami, a fire in Fort Lauderdale, the resignation of a local judge, and the next day’s opening game for the Miami Heat.
Oliver Jergen was waiting in her office when she finished.
“Your thug let me in,” he said with a quick smile when she greeted him.
“So, what’s up?” she asked as she dropped into her chair and casually clicked her mouse to the e-mail screen. Just in case.
“You tell me.”
His solemn tone grabbed her attention. She turned from her computer to see his hazel gaze on her, noticing that his beard had grown even shaggier since yesterday. An ancient “Dave Matthews Live” T-shirt hung loosely over narrow shoulders.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He leaned forward and dropped both elbows on the desk, no smile evident. “How long have I known you?”
Her chest tightened. How long had Jessica been in Miami? “Two years.”
“And in all that time, have I ever jerked your chain about anything?”
“Only if I deserved it,” she said with what she hoped was an honest smile.
“So why the hell are you acting like this?”
She tamped down a flash of panic. Was she doing something wildly out of character? “Like what?” she asked, innocently and with the perfect anchor voice.
“Like a goddamn bitch.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“Jessie.” He threw a look toward the glass wall where Alex’s back was plainly visible. “You said it didn’t matter.”
Damn. What didn’t matter? “Talk to me, Ollie.”
She saw color rise on his cheeks. “We talked enough. And you promised me, you promised me—” He punctuated his words with a finger pointed toward her, “—that you would treat me exactly the same. And now you don’t even say good goddamn morning.”
“Calm down, Ollie,” she said softly. “You don’t understand.”
He dropped back into his chair and crossed his arms. “Oh, I understand plenty.”
“No,” she said quickly, “You don’t. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
He just shook his head. The hurt in his eyes was evident and Jazz whirled through the possibilities. Had he been jilted? Not for one moment would he be someone Jessica would be involved with, but…
Could he be Mr. Amazing? Or could he be one of the very cutthroat colleagues Jessica wanted to keep in the dark about her story?
“Ollie.” She reached out a hand across her desk. “Can you just give me a few days? I’m having a really hard time with this whole bodyguard thing and the…” The what? “This story I’ve been working on.”
She watched his face for any possible clue or reaction, but he pushed the chair back and stood. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you’re not fooling me,” he said with a scathing look. “You’re a complete phony and it’s only a matter of time until he finds out.”
He? Who?
He bolted out of the room, leaving Jazz to stare at his back and replay his words.
Did that mean he knew she wasn’t Jessica? If so, wouldn’t he come right out and accuse her? However she had inadvertently hurt the guy, she could only hope the relationship would be mended by Jessica when she came back. Surely she’d tell her closest friends what she’d done to get her story.
If Ollie was indeed a friend.
Denise Rutledge managed to slip through the sliding gate into the Channel Five parking lot behind someone with a key code pass. Gripping the Reliant’s wheel, she pulled into
a spot far away from any other cars, but where she could still see anyone entering or leaving the TV station.
Her whole body hurt from work today. That jerk-off director made her swallow every drop those guys could eke out of their balls, and then he eighty-sixed the one condom Dirk Pierce bothered to wear. “No rubbers!” the asshole had insisted, stopping the shoot and ripping the thing off poor Dirk’s flagging cock himself. “Viewers hate rubbers!”
Viewers. Puhlease. Like they had freakin’ fans.
Pathetic losers too stupid to get their porn from the Internet, more like. Morons who had to buy videotapes so they could get their rocks off the old-fashioned way.
She had to try one more time with Jessica Adams. Because, face it, no one else gave a rip about the lousy working conditions of a porn actor. Denise would have continued doing them without any real hope, but then that pretty red-headed woman walked up to her outside the studio, waving a Metro-Net business card.
They both worked in front of the camera, Jessica had said in her smooth voice to get Denise to talk. Yeah, sure, Jessi-belle. How many orgasms did you fake during the eleven o’clock news?
But now Denise was in too deep. She’d committed a crime by stealing paperwork and all those DVDs from the studio. The thought made her temples throb. Even worse, she’d made the biggest mistake of all—imagining she could live a different life, could realize her dream of returning to Minnesota, and Grady.
If she got caught having these “conversations” with a TV person, she’d be blackballed so fast, she’d never get the money she needed. She’d already lost plenty of work to packs of silicone-enhanced eighteen-year-olds who thought screwing for the camera was a ticket to Hollywood. Or worse, the girls doing it on the Internet for free.
Denise had no such illusions. She fucked for money. She might not like doing it in a cold studio and having to service a few crew members for extra cash, but it was not against the law. At thirty-three, she wasn’t really stripper material anymore. Plus, she got professional hair and makeup, pretty clothes that she could sometimes keep—or forget to return—and the money was decent, especially if she was willing to do some of the more kinky shit.
Then came Jessica Adams and her empty promises.
No, maybe not empty. If she could get what Jessica promised—and what they all deserved—she could go up to Minnesota and get a legitimate job, like working at a makeup counter in a department store. Those girls must make enough money to live. Enough money to pay for school and clothes and health insurance. She was good with makeup and hair. She’d love that job.
She had to give Jessica Adams one more chance.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a security truck cross the parking lot. She dropped down on the passenger seat until he passed.
Slowly, she sat up and watched the main door every time it opened, praying she hadn’t missed her. What would Jessica say when she saw her? She might not be too pleased that Denise had tracked her down at work, but what else was she going to do?
The guy caught Denise’s attention first—he was really tall and great looking in that steamy Latin way. His hair was so long and straight it fell over the collar of his shirt, black as night. Right behind him strolled Jessica Adams. Dressed, of course, in clothes that cost more than Denise made in a month.
Grabbing her backpack, Denise opened the car door. Heels tapping on the asphalt, she started for the steps leading up to the TV station lobby.
She felt the dark eyes on her like daggers immediately. If looks could say “don’t take one more step,” that man’s piercing black stare did the trick. She instinctively slowed down as his gaze raked her.
Jessica’s attention was on her own feet, then she looked up. First, straight ahead of her, then, as if following the man’s gaze, directly at Denise.
Denise’s heart leaped to her throat and she swallowed a nervous hello. Jessica’s gaze flitted over her, then beyond her, then back down to her feet. Denise almost tripped. She couldn’t believe it. The bitch was completely ignoring her!
The guy still stared hard at her. She averted her eyes and then took one more look at Jessica, just as they passed each other. Her cool grayish eyes stared straight ahead. No flicker of acknowledgment, not even a casual nod.
Anger and shame roiled through Denise. Not knowing what else to do, she climbed the three stairs to the front doors, hearing the click of Jessica’s high heels on the pavement of the parking lot.
She opened the door, stared for a moment at the security guard behind the desk, and then snapped her fingers as though she’d forgotten something. “Be right back,” she said with a fake smile, turning to face the parking lot just in time to see the ice princess climb into the passenger seat of a big black SUV. She memorized the license plate, swearing viciously.
Who the hell did she think she was, that she could snub someone who risked her whole career just to get her the fucking information she needed?
You’re going to be sorry, bitch. Payback sucks. And she knew just who to call to settle the score.
Chapter
Seven
A lex would have preferred to interview the neighbor alone, but he didn’t bother to suggest that to Jazz. True to form, she stood in front of him, knocked on the door of 3702, and stuck her face right in the peephole of Christopher Norton’s condo.
“Mr. Norton? Can we talk to you for a moment?” she called out. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Is that you, Jessica?” The question was muffled through the door, but the note of surprise was evident.
Jazz threw Alex a quick look of warning over her shoulder before answering. “It’s me, Christopher,” she called.
The door opened a crack and a diminutive man in his late twenties poked his face through the space just above the chain. “What are you doing here?” he asked, openly surprised.
“I live here,” she responded without missing a beat
“Why aren’t you at the studio?” Norton’s confused gaze slid up to Alex. “What’s going on?”
“Ms. Adams has reason to believe her apartment was broken into, and the security tapes are malfunctioning,” Alex announced. “We’d like to talk to you about a visitor to the thirty-seventh floor yesterday.”
Bottle green eyes raked him with a mix of interest and disdain. “Are you a cop?”
“I’m a personal protection specialist.”
A broad grin broke across his face. “Jessica, you hot ticket, you got a bodyguard.” He closed the door, slid the chain, and opened it just enough for them to get the message that they weren’t invited in. He propped a hand on his hip and looked skyward. “Somebody was bitching about this at the condo association meeting last week. That’s the sixth time since I’ve moved in that the camera malfunctioned.” He looked sympathetically at Jessica. “Did they take anything valuable? Are you all creeped out, honey?”
Christopher Norton couldn’t have been five foot six, wearing a Hugh Hefneresque silk bathrobe with bare feet. The aroma of cinnamon and sugary spice drifted from inside the apartment.
“I’m fine.” Jazz gave him a noncommittal smile. “We’re trying to identify a person who knocked on your door around three thirty yesterday afternoon.”
Norton lost some color. “Are you serious, Jessica?”
“We’re trying to identify the last person recorded on the hallway security video tapes,” Alex corrected. “And if you don’t know him, then we know he simply used knocking on your door as a cover for the few seconds he had to be on camera. He may have disengaged the system to break into Jessica’s apartment last night.”
“He’s really not a cop?” Norton asked Jazz.
She shot a warning look at Alex before answering. “No, he’s not.”
“All right,” Norton said, holding up fingers to make air quotations. “Official statement here: Nobody was here yesterday at three thirty.”
As much as Alex wanted to believe him—it supported his theory that the person on tape broke into Jessica’
s home—he knew Christopher Norton was lying.
“Would you be willing to look at the tapes with us?” Jazz asked. “Just to be sure you don’t know the person who knocked on your door?”
“It’s not necessary.” He gave an exaggerated eye roll, then examined the fingernails of his outstretched hand. “I was alone, okay?”
“All day?” she prodded.
He looked hurt. “Are you really going to do this to me?”
Do what? Alex wondered. “Could it have been a delivery person?” he asked. “Do you work from home, Mr. Norton?”
“Yes.”
“Were you working yesterday?” Jazz asked.
“Couldn’t you smell it? I had a big fat chipotle fest.”
Jazz gave him that genuine look of concern Alex had seen her use when she read about a crime victim on the TelePrompTer. “If you insist that no one was here, then I’ll have to let the police run their checks on the man they have in the security photo.”
His Adam’s apple moved up and down. “Can they do that?”
“Absolutely,” she assured him.
Alex managed not to give her a look of complete disbelief. Who was she kidding? They couldn’t get an ID with that picture.
But Mr. Norton’s interest had clearly ratcheted up to concern. “Really?”
“Or we could avoid that,” Jazz said gently. “If you can verify that the man…was with you.”
“There was no guest,” Norton said quickly.
Why was he lying? “What do you do for a living, Mr. Norton?” Alex asked.
Norton tsked, as though it were common knowledge. “I’m a writer.”
“What kind of writer?”
Norton gave Jessica an imploring look. “You didn’t tell him?”
She paused for just a second. “No. Not yet.”
“I write cookbooks,” Norton said with a proud grin. “And she’s so modest. Jessica is going to be one of the featured celebrities in my next book. Wait till you taste her chilled papaya soup.” He kissed his fingers like a classic French chef. “Award-winning.”
Kill Me Twice Page 9
