Always Watching

by Brandilyn Collins

  Some of our group hadn’t remembered to grab theirs on the way out. Apparently neither had half the hotel residents. People were already streaming toward the reception counter. “All right, wait a minute. Raise your hand if you forgot your keys — one person to a room.” Poking his finger in the air, Ross noted the hands. “Carly, Stan, Kim, Morrey. Okay, get on up to our floor. I’ll bring your keys.”

  Heading toward the elevator, I glanced back to see Ross wedging himself at the front of the line.

  Back in our room, I placed a small suitcase in the door to Mom’s suite to hold it open. Brittany and I fell onto our beds and waited for Detective Furlow to arrive at Mom’s room.

  I still felt lightheaded. I really needed something substantial to eat, but nothing was available at the hotel at that hour. And our room’s pay-as-you-eat bar with cookies and chips held no interest for me. My body craved protein.

  Brittany turned toward me on her bed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “You mean someone pulled that alarm to get us out of our rooms?”

  “Not us, Shaley. You.”

  I blinked. “Why just me?”

  “Come on. Who got the white rose and the photo? And who did that photographer take pictures of when we got downstairs?”

  “You mean I was the only one?”

  “Yup.”

  “You didn’t see the person’s face?”

  “No. I wasn’t even looking in that direction until the flashes went off. Then the light was too bright.”

  I stared at the ceiling. “Why go to all that trouble just to get another picture of me? Like they didn’t get enough today.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shaley.” Mom appeared at the connecting door. “The detective’s here.”

  I sighed and sat up. “You want to come, Brittany?”

  “They probably won’t want me in there. Leave the door open — maybe I’ll be able to hear.”

  “Okay.”

  The detective looked rumpled as usual, but in a different wrinkled shirt and pants. A shock of his hair stuck out.

  A still-agitated Ross joined us as we sat in the lounge area of Mom’s room. He sat forward on one couch, knees apart and a fist against his hip. “That photographer was planted, I’m telling you. Mick, the bodyguard who was with Shaley, reported he saw no other signs of photos being taken until they ran out the door. Someone was waiting there for her.”

  “You get a look at the photographer?” The detective turned to me.

  “No. The flashes were too bright, and I was too …”

  “She fainted about that time.” Mom drew her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Detective Furlow’s eyebrows rose. “Are you all right?”

  I leaned my head back against the armchair. “Yeah. I guess I hadn’t eaten, and I was kind of wobbly.”

  “You had anything to eat yet?” His tone was gentle.

  “No. We just got back into our rooms.” I tried to smile. “You got here pretty fast.”

  “What do you want?” Ross stood up. “I’ll call the front desk. They’ll get something from the kitchen for you even if it is closed.”

  I hesitated, not wanting to put anybody out.

  “Shaley,” Mom said. “Order something or I’ll order it for you.”

  My stomach twisted. Hungry as I felt, I wasn’t even sure I could eat. “I don’t know. Maybe a hamburger? Or a salad with chicken?”

  Mom nodded. “Ross, sit down, I’ll do this.” She headed to the nightstand and picked up the phone. Turning her back to us, she spoke in a quiet but firm tone that said her daughter would not be denied.

  Detective Furlow cleared his throat. “What happened to the photographer?” He looked from Ross to me.

  I pulled my arms across my chest. “He ran away. Just snapped the pictures, then took off.”

  “Do you know for sure it was a man?”

  I frowned. “No. Guess not.”

  Mom hung up the phone and returned to perch on the edge of her chair. “Food will be up soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  We exchanged tired smiles. It occurred to me that Mom had paid me more attention in the last twenty-seven hours than she had in the many days before, all added together.

  Detective Furlow focused on Mom. “At the end of our last meeting I told you we’d be questioning the photographers and reporters who showed up at the mall when Shaley was there. News footage has helped. We’ve been able to see for ourselves who was there. So far we’ve tracked down four people: The reporter for the San Jose Mercury; the photographer for Shock, Ed Whisk — “

  “Vulture.” Mom narrowed her eyes into slits. I made a face.

  The detective tilted his head. “I can see where you’d get the name. Also we talked to Brenda Bloomenthal with the All That’s Hot tabloid and a freelancer named Alan Crease.”

  Brenda Bloomenthal. We called her Frog. “What did the freelancer look like?”

  “Big, overweight. Heavy jowls.”

  “Frodo,” Mom and I said at the same time.

  The detective smiled briefly. “All were questioned on camera at the station. All had alibis for the time of Tom’s death, claiming they weren’t even in town. Each one said he or she hurried to San Jose after the news broke about the murder. They all live in the Southern California area, so it wouldn’t take long to hop a morning plane up here. But I’ve got people checking those alibis out.”

  “If that’s true,” Mom said slowly, “then none of them could have taken the photo that ended up in Shaley’s shopping bag.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about the other photographers I saw at the mall?” I asked.

  “Still tracking them down.”

  Detective Furlow’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from the clip on his belt and checked the incoming number. His head came up. “Excuse me for a minute.”

  He held the phone to his ear. “Furlow.”

  His eyes roved over the room as he listened.

  “Great. Good thinking. On my way.”

  He flipped the phone shut and stuck it back in his belt.

  “Well.” He looked from Ross to Mom. “We got a lucky break. Looks like one of our officers stopped a speeder not too far from the hotel. When he shined a flashlight into the vehicle, he spotted a large camera. The speeder’s name is Len Torret. Said he works for Cashing In.”

  Len Torret. We called him Cat. The slinky, disgusting-looking man with bleached blond hair. Mom and I couldn’t stand him.

  The detective stood up. “The officer would have given Torret a ticket and let him go, but he got mouthy and refused to cooperate. So he was arrested. At the station, the officer heard talk of the fire alarm. I had checked in with the station after you called me.” Detective Furlow nodded to Ross. “The officer put two and two together.”

  Cat. He’d been at the mall. Now it looked like he’d been the one in the parking lot tonight.

  Had he put the “always watching” photo in my shopping bag?

  As he started to leave, Detective Furlow shook hands with Ross. I watched their fingers clasp, and a sudden memory seared my brain. A memory of Tom … and Cat.

  My mouth dropped open. I turned wide eyes on the detective. “Wait.”

  33

  Dark, chillingly empty streets of San Jose rolled by the window of Detective Furlow’s car as we rode to the police station. The salad with chicken I’d ordered sat in a Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I played with the plastic fork.

  “Eat.” Mom tapped the side of the container.

  I forced a bite into my mouth.

  We’d left Brittany in the hotel room. I hoped she was sleeping.

  Ross sat in the passenger seat up front, unusually quiet.

  Detective Furlow had been the one to suggest we watch him question Cat after I told him what I remembered. Things might go faster, he’d said, if we were there to prod him with information that came to mind during the interview.

  Under any other
circumstances, none of us would have chosen to stay up. We all needed sleep too badly, and tomorrow was a travel and concert day. Mom especially needed rest. Singing lead for Rayne was a lot of work — her voice had to be in tip-top shape, and the dancing required energy. Lack of sleep wreaked havoc on a voice. But the show had to go on — and go on it would. Mom would just have to rest as much as possible the following day.

  Since Detective Furlow was with us — and he carried a gun — Mom hadn’t pulled one of the bodyguards from bed. “Let them sleep,” she’d said. “They’ll need to be alert tomorrow, when the rest of us are dead on our feet.”

  I knew what she meant. All the same, I shivered at her use of the word dead.

  “Here we are.” The detective turned into a lit parking lot and stopped the car.

  He led us into the station, passing the front desk and a few officers coming and going. “It’s quiet here for a Saturday night,” he remarked.

  I followed mindlessly. If we went up or down stairs, turned right or left down halls — I have no memory. No way could I have retraced our steps on my own.

  We ended up in front of a glass window in a small room. Along our side of the glass ran a rectangular table with three chairs. On the other side Cat sat in a second room of about the same size. That room looked grim and bare — except for its own battered square table and a couple of chairs. No pictures on the walls, nothing to make the place look comfortable or safe. I couldn’t imagine being questioned in there by a policeman. It looked intimidating and frightening.

  Although we couldn’t see it, we were told a camera was mounted in the upper corner of the wall nearest us, pointed at the square table. At that table Cat slumped back in his chair, looking not one bit intimidated. More like annoyed enough to strangle somebody.

  He was dressed in jeans and a blue, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up. His white-blond hair looked ratty, and he had bags under his eyes. Cat was probably in his forties, but right now he looked more like sixty. He bounced a forefinger against the table, his other hand plastered to his hip.

  His head turned, green eyes focusing on the window. Cat sneered right at me.

  My head jerked back.

  “It’s okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the glass. “Remember, this is a one-way mirror. Looks like he can see you, but he can’t.”

  My shoulders drew in. This man had hounded me today — at least once. And he may have done more than that. I didn’t like standing mere feet from him, separated only by a window.

  The detective gave us an encouraging smile. “Once I get in there, if at any time you think of something important I should ask, tap on the door to the other room and then stand back in here. I’ll come out, and we’ll talk. All right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Mom pulled in a deep breath and shook back her hair. Ross and I nodded.

  “Okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the chairs. “Sit down if you like. We may be in there awhile.”

  He disappeared out our open door. A few seconds later we saw him enter the other room.

  Mom, Ross, and I sank into the chairs.

  Mom squeezed my leg. “Let’s hope this gets us somewhere,” she whispered. “And if Cat knows anything about the murder — I hope Detective Furlow gets him to spill his guts.”

  Me too.

  I thought of Tom. Then remembered the black, bloody hole that had once been his eye.

  Me too.

  34

  The anger had flamed into a crackling fire in his gut. Sleep would not come.

  He gave up trying. He just lay there, staring up in the darkness at nothing. Shutting out all sound. The blackness above reminded him of another night, in a place far from this one, when he’d first talked to the person who’d sent him.

  “Watch her on tour,” the sender said.

  “Why?”

  The sender told him the reason. “And I’ll pay you.”

  “You have the money for that? ‘Cause if I do that, I’m not free to get a regular job.”

  “I have the money.”

  The memory ran vivid. He shifted positions on the bed. Laid an arm across his face.

  That night had started it all. But at the time he’d never guessed where it would lead him. Where it would take his heart.

  After a while he no longer cared about the money. He’d moved from just watching and reporting the actions of the Special One to protecting her. Because he loved her. Because she needed him.

  Now she wasn’t even grateful.

  Such injustice. Such denigration. After all he’d done.

  He would not stand back and take it.

  Grunting, he turned over in his bed.

  Tomorrow.

  He opened his mouth, pulled in a deep, cleansing breath.

  Tomorrow.

  35

  Hello, Mr. Torret. I’m Detective Furlow.”

  The detective’s voice sounded pleasant and friendly. A tone, I thought, that was designed to make Cat trust him.

  He held out his hand. Cat refused to shake it.

  The detective dropped his arm and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

  Cat reared back in his chair with a loud sigh, head flopping to one side. “About time you showed up. You got no right keeping me in here; I haven’t done anything.”

  They regarded each other. Cat’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  The detective inhaled. “Before we start, I need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand these rights?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just get on with it. I want to get outta here.”

  The detective shifted his legs. “I hear you were speeding tonight when the officer stopped you.”

  Cat stuck his tongue under his upper lip and glared.

  Detective Furlow drew the sides of his mouth down. “Almost seventy in a forty-five zone. That’s pretty fast.”

  “No reason to take a person to jail.”

  “No, but interfering with the performance of a policeman’s duty is. California Penal Code 69, in case you’re interested. It’s punishable by a fine of up to ten thousand dollars, up to a year’s imprisonment, or both.

  “I didn’t ‘interfere.’”

  “That’s not the way the officer saw it.”

  Cat shrugged.

  “Why were you going so fast anyway?” Detective Furlow asked.

  “I had places to go and people to meet.”

  “Man,” Ross muttered. “We’re not going to get a thing out of this guy.”

  “Which places, what people?” the detective asked.

  “What difference does it make?” Cat’s voice sharpened.

  The detective let the nonanswer hang in the air. I wanted to slap Cat.

  “I see you’re from the L.A. area,” Detective Furlow said. “What brought you to San Jose?”

  “The Rayne concert.”

  “The concert? So you were there Friday night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mom and I gaped at each other. Cat was at the concert.

  I thought back to our limo ride away from the arena. With all the flashes going off in the night, we hadn’t been able to see the faces of any reporters or photographers.

  Here was a member of the paparazzi who may have been at the mall, had been caught near our hotel tonight, and had been around when Tom was killed.

  Cat had to be involved somehow. He had to.

  But how could he have gotten backstage?

  “Do you follow this group wherever the band goes?” the detective asked.

  “No.”

  “What brought you to this particular concert then?”

  Yeah, Cat — what?

  He lifted a hand. “Rayne’s been on the road three months. They went east through Texas and finally got back to the West Coast. Since they were so near, Cashing In — the ma
gazine I work for — sent me up. It’s only an hour’s flight.”

  Magazine, right. It was a tabloid.

  Detective Furlow processed the answer. “Is that the only reason you came to the concert?”

  “Yup.”

  I thought about the camera in their room. It would be recording everything Cat said. Every lying word.

  Detective Furlow leaned back casually and laced his fingers on his lap. “Okay. Let’s move on for now and talk about where you were coming from when the officer stopped you. I think it was the hotel where Rayne is staying tonight.”

  “Really.”

  “In fact, I think you were in the parking lot when the band’s members spilled out the door due to a false fire alarm. You took pictures of Shaley O’Connor.”

  Cat crossed his arms, chin tilting upward. He surveyed the ceiling as if it were a piece of art.

  The detective bounced his clasped hands against the table. “We have your camera. Not a hard thing to review the photos on your memory card.”

  Cat’s chin came down. His eyes shot daggers. “So what if I was at the hotel. It’s my job to take pictures of celebrities.”

  “How did you know to be there when a fire alarm sounded?”

  “I didn’t. I just got lucky.”

  “After one o’clock in the morning — you just happened to be hanging out in the hotel parking lot?”

  The hotel had security in its lot — I knew that. Cat couldn’t have wandered around there long without being spotted.

  He shrugged. “I’d been following them all day. That’s nothing new for me. It’s what I do for a living, and there’s no law against it.”

  Mom made a disgusted sound in her throat. “There is if it turns into stalking.”

  The detective conveyed no reaction to Cat’s attitude. “So tell me why you were there at one a.m.”

  “I already did.”

  He frowned. “I spoke to the two outside security guards at the hotel after the alarm. Neither of them remembered seeing anyone loitering in the parking lot. And they patrol on a regular basis.”

  “So I’m sneaky.”

  “Yes, I believe you are. Sneaky enough to stage that alarm to force everyone out of the hotel — so you could take pictures of Miss O’Connor.”