Savannah jumped up from her chair, dumping both cats unceremoniously off her lap in the process. They sauntered back to their window perch, die picture of wounded dignity.
Taking the phone from Tammy, Savannah entertained at least a dozen mental possibilities as to why Caitlin Connor’s agent might be calling her. But none of them made a lot of sense.
“This is Savannah,” she said into the phone, trying to keep the curiosity out of her tone.
“Yesterday you told me that you’re a private detective,” the voice on the other end stated without the customary greeting. Instantly, Savannah recognized the agent’s no-nonsense manner.
“Yes, I am,” Savannah replied.
“And that you sometimes work with that detective who was at Cait’s house yesterday...?”
“That’s right. In an unofficial capacity, that is.”
“Are you working with him on Caitlin’s case and Kameeka’s?”
So, she’s heard about Kameeka,Savannah thought. News travels fast.
“Like I said, only unofficially. Detective Coulter and I were partners for years when I was on the police force. Now, as friends, we sometimes help each other with our cases. May I ask why you want to know?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and Savannah thought she heard Leah Freed sniff. Then she said, “Ms. Reid, two of my girls are dead. I want to know all I can about what happened to them.”
‘Your girls? You were Kameeka’s agent, too?”
“Her agent and her friend, just like Cait. I can’t believe that they’d both die, unexpectedly like that, within twenty-four hours of each other... not accidentally anyway. Do you believe it?”
“That they both died accidentally? It could happen, I suppose, but—”
‘You don’t think so either, do you?”
Savannah made it a practice not to reveal too many cards too early in any poker game. But the woman seemed sincere and, considering her loss, deserved an honest answer.
“I have my doubts, Ms. Freed, that they died as a result of accidents. The coincidence is a bit much.”
“Then I want you to find out what really happened to them.”
“Well, this is Detective Coulter’s case, and he’s the best detective I’ve ever known. I’m sure that he’ll—”
“No, I want to hire you. I want you actively investigating this and reporting everything you find out directly back to me.”
At first, Savannah was taken aback by the job offer so blatantly stated. Then she decided that it had been too long between gigs if it took her that long to realize someone wanted to give her money for what she was doing with Dirk for free.
“Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to have you as a client.” She waggled one eyebrow at Tammy, who suppressed a series of giggles with one hand over her mouth and did a little dance in her desk chair. “Let me give you back to my assistant. She’ll discuss my rates with you and set up an appointment for us to meet.”
“I’m sure your rates are fine,” came the immediate reply. “And I don’t have time to wait for an appointment. I want you to come to my office. Now. I’m on the tenth floor of the Plaza Del Oro Tower, Suite B. I’ll see you in...?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Savannah said.
“Good.”
Even the click as Leah Freed hung up sounded more decisive than most, Savannah thought as she handed Tammy the phone.
“We’ve got a client?” Tammy said, jumping up from her seat and following Savannah as she headed back to the hallway.
“We sure do.” Savannah snatched her keys and purse off the table beside the door. “Leah Freed was both Cait’s and Kameeka’s agent She wants me to find out what happened to her girls, as she calls them.”
“And she’s going to pay you?”
Tammy’s shock seemed to be as deep as Savannah’s— a realization that gave Savannah a moment’s pause to consider whether maybe she should have grown up to be a flight attendant or a movie star, as she had intended to when she was an adolescent Something that actually made money frequently enough that getting paid wasn’t a novel experience.
“Yeah,” she said as she hurried out the door. “She’s going to pay me. And that’s how I know she’s up to something.”
“What do you mean?” Tammy called after her.
“She’s an agent... and she didn’t even bother to dicker about the price. Something’s up, for sure.”
With fourteen stories, the Plaza Del Oro Tower provided the only high point in the San Carmelita skyline. As Southern California was earthquake country, high-rise buildings were the exception rather than the rule. Savannah would never forget how disappointed she had been the first time she had beheld the Los Angeles skyline. Expecting something similar to the photos she had seen of Manhattan and Chicago, she had wondered where the skyscrapers were. From a distance, L.A. looked more like a giant parking lot than a bona fide city.
But after having been jarred from her bed by several quakes, she found herself of the same opinion as most of her fellow West Coasters—skyscrapers were overrated... especially during a 7.1 rumbler.
So, as she approached the Plaza Del Oro financial center, she looked up at the “massive” fourteen-story building and congratulated herself for not being successful enough to warrant an office at that prestigious address.
The lobby with its sunlit atrium was cheerful enough, as was the bank of elevators with their tiled walls and floor, bright with primary colors and South American motifs.
She quickly made her way to the tenth floor, and when she stepped out of the elevator she entered a new world.
The colorful tiles and Spanish influence disappeared, replaced by a chic suite of offices that looked like an Ansel Adams photo.
The walls, the clean-lined, contemporary furniture, and the decorating accents were all shades of black, white, and gray. And on the walls hung life-size, full-length photographs similar to the one they had seen in Kameeka Wills’s house.
Beautiful women of abundant proportions lined the walls, each more exquisite than the one before. Whether they were standing on a beach, sitting in a tropical garden, or posed against a blank backdrop, they commanded the camera with their presence.
Not a skinny, heroin-addicted-looking one in the bunch, Savannah thought as she walked across the dove-gray carpet to a sleek ebony desk in the corner of the room. They all looked healthy, vibrant, and fulfilled, their eyes sparkling with consciousness and confidence.
Females... in every sense of the word.
If this was what Leah Freed’s agency was all about, Savannah decided she liked her a lot more than she had five minutes ago. There needed to be more of these photos in the world—pictures that celebrated the beauty of women in all shapes and sizes.
“Hello,” she said to the receptionist, a young woman who was herself a generous size. “My name is Savannah Reid. I believe Ms. Freed is expecting me.”
Instantly, the receptionist jumped to attention. “Oh, yes. Leah is expecting you. Just one moment, please.” She lifted the phone and punched a button. “Ms. Reid is here to... yes, I’ll send her right in.”
Hanging up, she rose and ushered Savannah to one of the three doors that led off the reception area, the door imprinted with the gold letters “L.J. Freed.” Opening the door, she announced, “Ms. Reid, this is Leah Freed and—”
“Yes, yes, Belinda, we’ve met.” Leah Freed came out from behind an enormous desk piled high with papers, glossy eight-by-ten photos, and multicolored files. One glance around the untidy office told Savannah that the agency’s first impression of chic and organized, given by the reception area, might be smoke and mirrors.
Today, Leah was dressed in a hot pink suit with white piping and a white neckerchief with pink polka dots. On a woman of lighter coloring, the ensemble might have been gaudy, but on a deeply tanned person with Leah’s black hair, it was only mildly garish.
Leah’s more attractive accessory, the cocker spaniel puppy, was nowhere in
sight, and the agent seemed less personable without the softness of her canine companion.
She motioned Savannah inside with an impatient wave of her hand.
The receptionist, formerly identified as Belinda, asked Savannah, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea or—?”
“Nothing!” Leah snapped. “Leave us alone and hold all my calls.”
With a submissive nod, Belinda turned and quickly disappeared.
“Here, sit down,” Leah said as she swept an armload of papers and files off one of the chairs beside her desk.
Savannah could feel the ruff on her back rising, as it always did when she encountered gruff, controlling people. Or at least, anyone who was more gruff and controlling than she was. But she decided to give Leah Freed the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to the fact that she was probably in shock, grieving the loss of her friends.
“What do you know so far?” Leah said as she plopped down in her own chair behind the desk and folded her arms in front of her.
“Bottom line, huh?” Savannah couldn’t resist giving her a small, baiting grin.
Leah registered the challenge and, for a moment, lowered her intensity a notch. “Always the bottom line,” she said, a bit more softly. “I’m not one to pussyfoot around.”
“Me either.”
“Good. Then we’ll get along. So, what really happened to Cait?”
Before Savannah could answer, Leah added, “I figured that stupid husband of hers did her in, but now that Kameeka’s gone, too...?”
For a moment, the agent’s lower lip trembled just a bit; then her face hardened as though she were steeling herself for Savannah’s answer.
“It’s a bit early to make any sort of determination about either of their deaths,” Savannah told her. “According to the medical examiner, Caitlin died of heat stroke, brought on by strenuous exercise coupled with dehydration.”
Leah gasped and covered her face with both hands. Savannah saw a shudder go through her as she fought to control her emotions.
When she finally moved her hands, Savannah saw tears in her eyes.
“Then Kevin was right,” Leah said. “Cait did kill herself trying to lose weight for this stupid cereal campaign.”
Savannah hesitated, wondering just how straight to aim with this self-acclaimed straight-shooter. She looked genuinely distressed, as anyone might who had lost a friend under tragic circumstances. The last thing she wanted to do was add to her grief.
“I’m just telling you what the medical examiner said,” she said. “The case is still open.”
Leah grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk, wiped her eyes—smearing her liner—blew her nose, and tossed the issue into a waste can. “And what do you think? Do you think she died because she was dieting and exercising too much?”
“I think the cause of her death was heat stroke, like the coroner said. But I don’t necessarily think her manner of death was accidental.”
‘You aren’t saying she deliberately killed herself, are you?”
Leah’s dark eyes searched hers so intensely that Savannah was tempted to glance away. But she didn’t.
“No, I don’t think she committed suicide,” she replied evenly.
Leah thought for a moment. “Then you’re saying it was homicide. That somebody murdered her.”
‘You asked me what I believe. And at the moment, I think that’s the most likely scenario.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Nothing definitive.”
Again, the agent’s eyes probed hers. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
Savannah refused to blink. “Not yet.”
“And how about Kameeka?”
An ugly picture played across Savannah’s mental screen—the wound on the victim’s head, the tire marks on her bronzed skin.
“What about Kameeka?” Savannah said, hedging.
“Do you think it was simple hit-and-run?”
It was Savannah’s turn to do a visual probe, and she fixed the agent with her own blue lasers. “Probably not. How did you find out about Kameeka?”
“The modeling industry is a tight community—the legitimate sector, that is. News travels fast.”
“And,” Savannah repeated, unwilling to let it slide, “how did you find out?”
“Jerrod Beekman called me. He’s the president of the public relations firm that handles the Wentworth Cereal account.”
“How did he know?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No. He called me about an hour ago and told me that Kameeka had been killed by a hit-and-run driver while she was out jogging this morning. And, of course, he had heard about Caitlin on the news this morning. Needless to say, he’s quite upset.”
Savannah nodded. “I see. Then he knew both women personally?”
“No, but he’s based a multimillion-dollar, nationwide campaign on four plus models losing weight while eating Slenda Flakes, and now two of them are dead. He’s beside himself.”
“Hmmm... I’ll bet he is.” Savannah retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse and began to scribble. “And where can I reach him?”
Leah threw up her hands. “No, no, no. I don’t need you poking around, acting like a detective, asking people like Jerrod Beekman questions and causing problems.”
Savannah looked up from her writing. “But I thought that’s what you were hiring me to do, work this case as a private detective and—”
“Heavens no. That’s the last thing I want you to do. That would be a disaster!”
Savannah shook her head, confused. “Then why am I here? If you don’t want an investigator, I don’t think I can help you. I—”
“I don’t want you to work this case as a private detective,” Leah Freed said, clicking her long acrylic fingernails together in a manner that set Savannah’s teeth on edge. “No, no, no. That would be far too obvious.” She swept Savannah from head to toe with the experienced eye of a professional. “You’re a pretty girl, so we might as well take advantage of the fact. I want you to work the case as a model.”
Chapter
9
The next morning, Savannah stood at the foot of her bed and surveyed what seemed like an acre of accessories, makeup items, and foundation garments that she had spread across her satin comforter. In her right hand she held a black bag that was approximately the size of Marietta’s overnight suitcase.
Leah Freed had given her the bag... and the endless list that she held in her left hand.
Tammy poked her head through the half-open door. “Aren’t you packed yet?” she said with a sarcastic little grin on her face that made Savannah want to box her ears. “You’re going to be late for your first shoot.”
“Shut up and get out of here. I’m thinking.” Giggling, Tammy pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom. “Thinking? You mean it takes brains to be a model? I thought I heard you say that one of those supermodels on TV ought to get a real job and stop walking around in her underwear.”
“If you’re going to quote me, get it right; I said, ‘She should stop prancing around in her knickers there in front of God and everybody.’ And I only said that because she was skinny, and I was jealous.”
Savannah scanned the list once more, comparing it to the piles on the bed. “It’s not all that easy, you know, being a model. It takes brains, too.”
Tammy walked over to the bed and picked up a body shaper. She held it up, studied it, looked confused, then laid it back on the bed. “And when did you decide that?” she asked.
“Yesterday, when Leah Freed started telling me all the crap I’d need to know today.”
“Why do you have to take all of this stuff?”
“Because Leah says a professional model carries her model’s kit with her at all times, like a doctor and his black bag. And if anybody asks me for... say... some hairspray or a nail file, or a new pair of body-shaping panty hose, I’d better have them or they’ll get su
spicious.”
“But what do you need body shapers for?” Tammy picked up a long leg girdle and frowned at the spandex panel across the front. “If Leah specializes in plus-sized models, you shouldn’t have to resort to all these torture devices to squash things in. Big doesn’t matter, right?”
“Wrong.” Savannah laid the list aside, took the girdle from Tammy, and tossed it into the bag. “I got some depressing news yesterday. I’m too hefty to be a bona fide model. Even a plus one.”
“You? No way!”
‘Yep. Get this: The ideal plus model is a size twelve. ”
“What’s plus about a twelve? Isn’t the most common size of women in the U.S. a fourteen?”
“My point exactly. I haven’t been a size twelve since I was twelve. And even if you’re a twelve, you’re still expected to be muscular and trim and superfit. No jiggles or ripples anywhere.”
“Hence the girdles and pressure-bandage panty hose?”
“Precisely.”
Tammy shook her head. “Wow, I’m so disillusioned. And here I thought the plus-model industry was promoting the idea of ‘beauty in all shapes and sizes.’ ”
“Maybe some agencies do. But Leah Freed’s certainly doesn’t. And unfortunately, she’s the one I’m supposedly working for this afternoon.”
“What sort of a shoot is it?”
Savannah tossed four pair of panty hose into the bag: suntan, black, smoke, and nude—followed by three bras: an uplifter, a minimizer, and a longline. “It’s part of that cereal promotion, the stuff that was supposed to cause Cait Connor to lose weight Apparently I’m one of the girls who didn’t eat their cereal, being the robust bigger-than-a-size-twelve that I am.” Adding a couple of swimsuits to the mix, she said, “It’s got something to do with a hot tub. With any luck, I’ll get to sit in a spa and soak all afternoon.”
“Sounds like fun. Can I go along?”
“I don’t think models take their personal assistants to shoots... at least, not the models in my category.”
“Which is...?
‘Just starting out. Green behind the ears.”
Cereal Killer Page 9
