Were they putting too much emphasis on the stone-cold profile provided by the department shrinks? Since they were usually right, Devin chose to believe they simply hadn’t found the right suspect.
What about the sketch? Maybe the informant had deliberately misled them.
In the past few days, Devin had had an opportunity to review the videotaped interview and decided, like his colleagues, the informant didn’t have the nerve to deceive the police. He actually reminded Devin of Jimmie.
So their killer picked weak accomplices with shaky reliability. Was that because she was confident in her own talent at avoiding the law, or because she knew she’d eventually eliminate any connection to her?
NYPD had the informant in protective custody, so she wasn’t getting to him anytime soon. Did that frustrate her? Or was it part of her plan?
“We’ve eliminated several people,” Calla said, always the optimist.
“And quickly,” Reid added.
Anderson took a long swig of his soda. “So we keep at it.”
“We’re bound to hit on something useful,” Reid said.
Devin scowled. “Let’s hope we get something besides everybody in this city thinking we’re all corrupt and out to get them.”
“Hear, hear,” Anderson agreed.
Over lunch they talked about the assignments for the following day. Each team had two more interviews to conduct, and if those didn’t yield any results, they’d have to dig through the less likely files.
They were waiting for the waitress to bring their check when Reid’s phone rang. The conversation was brief, but Reid’s voice changed from tired professional to excited cop almost immediately.
Calla tapped Devin’s leg to get his attention, and he shrugged, having no idea whether Reid’s enthusiasm was a good or a bad thing for him. Oddly enough, his thoughts turned to the statement Howard had forced Reid to sign. Though Devin wasn’t big on trust, he understood blackmail.
Reid wouldn’t betray him at this stage of the game.
After flagging down their waitress, Reid signed off and dropped his phone in his jacket pocket. “Let’s go. We’ve got a witness who thinks she saw our suspect.”
* * *
CALLA AND DEVIN WERE shuttled behind the two-way window of interrogation room one, while Reid and Anderson questioned the witness.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t be part of the interview,” she said, annoyed.
“I’m not supposed to be working on this case.” Devin guided her to the metal folding chair beside him. “Relax. We’re finally getting a break.”
After all the wrong turns, fruitless searches and unconfirmed theories, were they actually on the verge of identifying the killer?
Calla sat.
“I’m sorry for the austerity, ma’am,” Reid said, leading a dark-haired woman into the interrogation room. “We need to record and videotape your interview for the record.”
The woman was a surprise. She was very attractive and fashionable. Her dark brown hair was expertly highlighted, she wore a trendy black-and-white outfit with a rust-colored scarf flung around her neck, and Calla could swear she’d seen her designer wedged heels in a magazine with an accompanying six-hundred-dollar price tag.
Clearly nervous, the witness’s gaze flicked to the two-way window. “Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Reid said.
“Monica Galloway. I’m a journalist.”
Calla gasped. “I absolutely don’t believe it. That’s Peeps Galloway.”
“Who?” Devin asked.
“That crazy chick who writes gossip articles for The Tattler. Journalist, my ass.”
“You’re a reporter?” Anderson asked in surprise.
Nerves apparently overcome, Monica aka Peeps smiled widely. “The best, sweetie.”
Reid and Anderson exchanged a skeptical glance.
“We need to get a message to them,” Calla said frantically to Devin as she paced in front of the window. “That woman doesn’t have information, she’s trying to get a scoop.”
“She’ll be disappointed,” Devin assured her. “Reid and Anderson are pros. They won’t tell her anything they don’t have to.”
Like that would stop the woman. Recalling all the details Peeps had gotten on the Robin Hood adventures over the past few months, Calla’s heart threatened to jump out of her chest. If she somehow hurt Devin’s case to serve her trashy, unethical, ridiculous column...well, she’d be hiring Howard for her own trial. “But—”
“And if she prints anything after the interview that compromises an open case, she’ll find herself on the wrong side of jailhouse bars.”
“Does she know she can’t publish anything?” Calla asked.
“No idea.” Devin’s eyes sparkled. “I imagine Reid will make that clear before he lets her go but after he gets all the information he needs.”
“What publication do you work for?” Anderson asked Peeps, his tone less comforting than Reid’s.
“I have a column in The Tattler.”
The disappointed expression on Reid’s face was almost comical. “You’re Peeps? The gossipmonger?”
Peeps winked. “And proud of it, darling.”
Like Calla, Anderson and Reid no doubt now considered this once-promising interview as a giant waste of time. “You have information for us?” Reid asked, sitting across from Peeps, while Anderson wandered around the room.
Calla turned to Devin. “Please tell me they’re going to do good cop/bad cop and that Anderson can be really,
really mean when he plays his role.”
“Anderson interrogates way more scary people than a gossip columnist. If he needs to, he’ll have her trembling so badly, she won’t type a coherent word for a month.”
Satisfied, Calla faced the window, eager to see the show.
“Last night,” Peeps began, leaning forward in apparent excitement, “I went out to Swizzle and—”
“What’s Swizzle?” Anderson asked.
Peeps stared at him in astonishment. “You’re kidding, right?”
Anderson simply crossed his arms over his chest.
“I really need to sponsor a Cop’s Night Out,” Peeps mumbled. “It’s a bar. They specialize in exotic martinis. I had a—”
Anderson glanced at his watch. “It’s three o’clock on Friday. You’re just now coming to us. Why?”
“I went to Swizzle last night,” Peeps said, more slowly this time, as if she were unsure of Anderson’s level of intelligence.
“Let her finish,” Reid commanded, pretending irritation at his colleague.
“They’re throwing her off her pace,” Calla realized. “If her story is rehearsed, she’ll have a hard time recovering and making her account sound plausible.”
“It works” was Devin’s comment.
“So, anyway...” Peeps began, her tone brisker. “I was at Swizzle. It is the hot spot for October, so the place was packed as usual, though Cameo didn’t show up as rumored.”
Anderson and Reid were either fascinated or hip hop music fans, since neither asked who Cameo was.
“Naturally, I had a pomegranate martini,” Peeps continued. “They extract nutrients from the actual seeds, so you can apparently get trashed and still feel healthy. Since I was in work-mode, I, naturally, had only one.” Her gaze swung to Reid’s. “People do all sorts of scandalous and wonderful things when they’re tipsy. I once sent a case of Hypnotic to a pop star’s hotel room and was first on the scene when she appeared at a CD signing naked. So, anyway, this blond chick strides up to the bar. She was striking even though that hair was very last summer. Oh, and there had to be extensions because there was simply too much volume for au naturel. The bartender snapped to attention immediately, and she ordered a bottle of champagne.” Peeps frowned. “I mean people drink champagne cocktails in the summer and over the holidays. Otherwise, they’re strictly passé.”
Calla didn’t have to turn to imagine Devin’s eyes glazing over the same way
Anderson’s and Reid’s were.
Calla, however, was at full attention. In between the frivolous notes were vivid details. If she’d concocted this story, she was a much better writer than Calla had given her credit for.
Peeps tapped her dark green painted fingernail against the table. “That iron-stomached chick drank every drop of champagne herself in less than two hours, then started on a second bottle. She didn’t eat anything, and she expertly deflected all attempts to be picked up—by men, women and anybody in between. Well, since Cameo was MIA and there were no exhibitionist pop stars around, I gradually moved closer until I was sitting on the bar stool next to her. She toasted me and said she was celebrating. She was secretive about why at first, but I ask questions for a living, so it wasn’t too difficult to get her to spill, considering her seriously altered state.”
Calla could tell Reid was losing his patience with all the unnecessary details and the general silliness. “And this is connected to Detective Antonio’s assault case how, exactly?”
“She mentioned him by name,” Peeps said, as if this were obvious. “She said he’d finally gotten what he deserved, and she couldn’t wait to see him led off in chains.”
Devin must have realized the cautious excitement building in Calla, since he commented, “Quite a coincidence.”
Naturally, he was right. How did they know this incident had even happened? Peeps could be making it all up. In fact, she had to be.
Thankfully, Reid also wasn’t so easily swayed, though he kept his delivery calm and even. “Antonio has arrested a number of people during his career. Maybe even this woman you saw. She probably heard about the case in the media and is simply happy he’s unable to do his job.”
As if genuinely mulling over the idea, Peeps cocked her head. “I don’t think so. She’s got these scary, hard eyes—even when she’s toasted. I think she’s directly involved in this case. I always thought it was strange Detective Antonio had been accused in the first place. I’ve covered him extensively, you know,” she added in a low, confident voice. “What if he’s been framed, and this woman is responsible?”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Calla muttered. She and Peeps were on the same page.
“Anything else?” Reid asked neutrally.
Peeps pursed her brightly painted pink lips as she considered. “She rambled on about chess a few times. Something about the best use of pawns. But I don’t play the game. Seriously? Who does?”
Pawns like Jimmie?
Calla’s excitement shifted from a distant tingle to an outright buzz. Crazy Peeps Galloway had dropped their best lead right into their laps.
“You didn’t document the conversation?” Reid asked, leaning back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less, though he most certainly did. “Reporters often carry recorders.”
“I don’t. At least not last night.” Peeps looked disappointed by her mistake. “I was carrying an original Samoian cocktail bag. I could barely squeeze a lipstick in there, and my assistant had my phone. She was waiting to video—hopefully—Kerry Castle cheating on her new husband with her old flame, Drake Mastrano. Hey, do you guys have a video and microphone that could be contained in a lip gloss container? I’ve appealed to the FBI, but they’re reluctant to share.”
“Did you identify yourself?” Anderson asked, aggressively bracing his hand on the table beside her. “Maybe she recognized you and was attempting to get her name in the paper.”
Peeps glared up at him. “She didn’t know who I was. The secret to getting people to tell me everything is to, you know, be secretive. Very few people know what I look like.” She paused. “And I’d like to keep it that way. You guys aren’t going to blab my identity all over the city, are you?”
“Blab her...” Calla started, then shook her head, wondering if she’d actually heard the wildly arrogant and ironic question Peeps had asked or if the stress of the investigation was affecting her senses.
While she tried to gather herself, Anderson and Reid argued with Peeps over her statement for another couple of minutes, questioning her conclusions and observations, trying to find inconsistencies.
Peeps never wavered.
Much as Calla doubted in the beginning, she was fully on board by the end.
Devin had said little during the interview, and though she was still trying to work out her own hope and worry, Calla sat beside him and grasped his hand. It was his freedom, future and career they were fighting for, after all. “Peeps knows the killer.”
Since she’d expected him to argue over her bold conclusion, she was surprised when he squeezed her hand. “Too bad she doesn’t have a picture, name or address stowed in her tiny cocktail bag.”
Calla had gotten so excited by the break in the case, she hadn’t jumped forward far enough to realize that while their theory had been basically confirmed, they were actually no closer to getting their hands on the suspect than before.
“We’d like you to look at a sketch,” Reid said, easily avoiding any guarantee about exposing Peeps’s identity. He slid a piece of paper across the table toward his witness. “Does this look like the woman you saw last night?”
Peeps slapped her hand on the paper without so much as a glance at its wording. “I don’t want my name and image released to the media. I can’t do my job if every potential scandal-maker in the city knows what I look like.”
Reid, obviously giving up on his good-cop persona, narrowed his eyes. “I can’t do my job unless you cooperate fully with an investigation that could ruin a good cop’s life and career. Look at the sketch, Ms. Galloway.”
Leaning back in her chair, Peeps shook her head. Calla winced, reminded of her own stubbornness, though she admired the other woman’s instinct for self-protection.
“When did everybody become so damn distrusting?” Reid wondered in obvious frustration.
Anderson dragged over another chair and sat next to Reid. “We guarantee not to reveal your identity to anyone outside the investigative team.”
“Thanks.” Peeps glanced at the sketch. “Usually cops don’t warrant a mention in my column.” She smiled, though her lips trembled. “No offense. I didn’t like exposing Detective Antonio’s troubles, but he’s been featured in the past as a hero, so I did my job and reported the bad with the good. It happens that way sometimes. But if the woman I talked to is trying to hurt him or the NYPD, I’m on board. If I ever have to call 9-1-1, I’d rather not be hung up on.”
“The system doesn’t work like that,” Reid said gently.
“Maybe it should.” Blinking back tears, Peeps cleared her throat and picked up the sketch. “This could be her. Hard to tell with the glasses covering her eyes. The hair’s almost big enough. Is the sketch artist and/or witness male and fellow cops, by any chance?”
Reid recovered quickly from the off-topic question. “Both are male. One’s a cop.”
“Well, that accounts for the fact that this woman looks more like something you’d see on a post office bulletin board rather than a gallery on Sixth.” Peeps ran her finger over the drawing. “The jawline is right, the narrow cheekbones, the body. With more hair and laser-beam eyes, yeah, this could be her.”
“It was reported she wore a wig,” Reid prompted.
Peeps shook her head. “Not last night. She was strictly an extension girl.” When Reid looked doubtful, she added, “She spends a great deal of time on her appearance, Lieutenant. She wouldn’t wear a wig. I’ve worked with several cancer organizations to provide pieces to cope with hair loss. Thank goodness, there’ve been many advances. But a trained eye can still tell the difference.” She slid the sketch across the table toward him. “I’m a trained eye.”
Reid stared at Anderson, who rose. He walked around the table, slowly, never saying a word.
Calla, though on the other side of the glass from him, and knew he was digging into his bad-cop role, shivered.
Finally, Anderson stopped next to Peeps. He bent forward and spoke directly in her ear. “If you’re sh
oving crap in our face, Ms. Galloway, I’ll see to it that the next story you write is an extensive exposé on how neither prison orange accessorized by chains and cuffs, nor fake beef stew and instant mashed potatoes are sexy enough to be included in fashion week.”
Yep, he was pretty scary.
“I understand,” Peeps said in a stronger voice than Calla would have given her credit for.
“So, this suspect...” Reid began, picking up the ball. “Was she carrying a handbag with gold fabric on it anywhere?”
Peeps seemed surprised, then confident. “No. She—” Another pause. “She didn’t have a bag. She paid with cash out of her blazer pocket. Mind you, it was a Pilo Carruba blazer, so the pockets aren’t all that large, but I—”
“We’d like you to sit with a sketch artist,” Reid interrupted.
Briefly, Peeps’s eyes widened like saucers. “Really?”
“Yes.” Reid rose. “I think your information is vital to solving our case.”
Peeps flipped her long, brown locks over her shoulder. “Certainly, it is. Didn’t I say that from the beginning?”
“Anything else at all you can remember about her?” Anderson asked, joining Reid. “A name? Some indication of her profession, where she lived?”
“No, but I did notice she smelled like gardenias.”
14
“GOOD HEAVENS, I MIGHT actually have to be grateful to that loony gossip.”
Gathering around the table at Shelby’s catering kitchen, the most central location for the gang, Devin experienced the oddest combination of comfort, relief and fear at Calla’s declaration.
Comfort because the gang had, yet again, rushed to his side as nobody in memory had done. Relief because his nightmare frame-up might actually come to an end, and fear because when it was all over he’d likely lose Calla.
He shouldn’t ask her to hang around. He couldn’t.
As Calla stalked around Shelby’s kitchen, and her friends inexplicably remained silent, Devin knew he had to say something. “She saw the suspect,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “She’s our best lead.”
“I’m trolling nightclubs with her tonight!” Calla ranted. “That’s my assignment for the NYPD.”
Undone by Moonlight Page 16
