by K. J. Emrick
“Shut up,” I tell him.
He smiles at me. I smile back.
Harry was worried about me coming here alone with Chris. The truth is I couldn’t feel more safe than when I’m with him. Nothing’s going to happen while we’re just here interviewing a suspect, anyway. If it starts to go sideways Chris will just bring the agent—Melissa Thorne—down to the station and continue the questioning in the controlled environment of one of their interview rooms. Or I’ll just put her in a keylock hold until she submits. Whichever seems easiest at the time. He watches my back, and I watch his. Harry should be glad that Chris is with me. Funny how upset he seemed to be over the whole thing.
When I get back, I’ll bring him a peanut butter shake. That’ll make him feel better.
The office directory on the wall next to the elevators tells us where to find Melissa Thorne’s office. Second floor, suite 204. There’s no security to stop us. This is a professional building, open to the public. Anybody can come and go as they please.
The elevator plays a muzak version of the Jonas Brothers as it takes me and Chris up one floor. It doesn’t give us too much time with the song, thankfully. I tell you what, the next politician who promises to outlaw muzak is someone who I’ll vote for in a heartbeat.
Suite 204 is at the end of the hall, where a frosted glass window in the door has the room number posted in gold stickers, and under that, Melissa Thorne, Agent to the Stars.
“Hmm,” I say, rocking on my heels. “I guess this is the place. Should we knock or just go in?”
“Well,” he says. “I’m feeling kind of like a star today, myself.”
He opens the door and steps aside, sweeping a hand across his waist to graciously let me go first. I scowl at him while he grins like a fool. He knows I hate it when he opens doors for me. I’m an independent woman. I know how to work a door.
I’m glaring at him so hard that I almost walk right into the secretary’s desk. I only turn around because I see the danger of the hard edge hitting my thigh three seconds ahead of time. My abrupt stop makes me lose my balance though, and suddenly I’m pitching forward and catching myself on my hands, palms down on the top of the desk.
The guy sitting on the other side, a weaselly looking man wearing a button-up shirt and a department store tie, looks up at me with surprise. The pen in his hand has scratched a line through the bottom of an important looking document. “Um. Can I help you?”
Time to think fast. I just came flying into this office like I meant business, and slammed my hands down on the desk, and anyone watching me would think I was all fired up about something. Might as well own it.
“Yes, you can help me,” I growl at the man. “I’m here to see Miss Thorne. She was supposed to guarantee me a role in the next MCU movie and my phone hasn’t rung once since I gave her my headshot! Yes, you help me. You can get me a role in that movie, that’s what you can do for me!”
The guy looks nervously past me, at Chris, probably hoping that he could explain why this crazy woman just broke into his office. Chris, backing up my play, just shrugs.
“Buddy, you know how actresses get when they’re upset,” he tells the secretary. “If I was you, I’d go and tell Melissa Thorne that we’re here to see her.”
“Er, right. I can… I can buzz her for you right away. Hold on, please.”
When his finger reaches for one of the white intercom buttons on the desk phone my hand whips over and slaps it away. “I do not pay Melissa five hundred dollars a week to talk to her over a phone! Do you think I came down here all this way to talk to her on a phone? I could have done that from the comfort of my living room couch! You go and get her. Right now. Right now!”
The man is so rattled by me shouting at him that he jumps up from his seat and promises to get his boss right away and then rushes to a door off to the side. This place is a lot smaller than I would have expected it to be. The outer office here is barely the size of my kitchen, and that’s saying a lot. In a building like this the rent on an office space must be insanely expensive. This has to be one of the smallest units in the whole building. Either Melissa Thorne is frugal… or she isn’t doing so good as an “agent to the stars.”
That’s odd, when you think about it. Isn’t Amelia Falconi one of the world’s best-known actresses? She’s been in everything from that kid’s movie with the dancing frog to those vampire films where she used a butt-double for the nude scenes. She’s hot property. She’s in town to film another movie now, is what I remember her saying at the Shake Shack.
So shouldn’t her agency be able to afford better offices out here in Detroit?
“What was that all about?” Chris asks me when the secretary has disappeared through the door to the inner office.
“Just making sure we get seen quick. Thorne might blow off a police officer looking to question her, but she’s not going to keep a potential client waiting.” I found an appointment calendar sitting out on the desk and spun it around to leaf through the pages real quick. “If Melissa Thorne thinks she’s getting money from us, she won’t hesitate to have her secretary bring us in. I figure that guy will be back out here in less than thirty seconds.”
“Seems weird to see a guy secretary,” Chris says, looking around the walls at the many celebrity headshots hanging there. “I’m just saying. That was taboo just ten years ago or so. I guess affirmative action really is working.”
“It’s not the Nineties anymore,” I tell him, flipping another page. “Men and women can be anything they want. Even each other.”
Another page.
Huh. Now that’s interesting.
Before I could show Chris what I’d found, the door to the inner office opens and that pencil-necked secretary comes striding out. He took his seat again, still too flustered to notice his appointment book is now closed and turned upside down.
“Miss Thorne,” he tells us, “has pushed aside some things in her schedule to make time for you. She always has time for her most valued clients.”
I don’t think I believe him, but then again, I’m not an actress so I don’t care. The door’s open, and we’re in. That’s all that matters to me.
Time to get some answers.
The inner office is maybe half again as big as the outer room, with a row of filing cabinets on one side opposite a wall with more celebrity headshots. I recognize some of the people, and I know for a fact that there’s more than a few up there that are not repped by Melissa Thorne. Jeremy Renner? Sam Worthington? As if.
Behind a desk that is too big for the room sits a woman with hair that’s been dyed a very unnatural shade of red. Her blouse is just as red as her hair. Melissa Thorne’s face is pale under her foundation makeup, and if that wasn’t enough to tell me that she spends most of her time in this office, then the mountain of paperwork that she’s shuffling from one side of the desk to the other certainly did.
The warm smile that she’d been holding in place drops when she sees me. By the time Chris is shutting the door behind us she looks positively annoyed. “I know all of the actors that we rep through this office,” she says in a frosty voice. “You are not one of them. Neither are you, sir, and frankly you look like a cop to me. A real one. Not just somebody who plays one on TV.”
Chris looks stunned to hear her say he might be a cop. He points at his chest with this ‘who me?’ look on his face. Then he stops joking around and waves his hand in the air as he sits down on this side of the desk. “I’m just kidding. Yes, I’m a police officer. We’re investigating the murder of Donnie Sterling. We’ve got some questions to ask you.”
After staring at us blankly for the longest time, she tosses her pen on her desk where it falls in between the piles of paperwork. “I’m sorry. Donnie who?”
I can’t tell if she’s faking. My gift is to see things before they happen, not tell if what I hear is a lie. Maybe she should be an actress, rather than an agent to the stars. “You don’t know who Donnie Sterling is?”
Melissa tu
rns to look at me. “You, my dear, do not look like a cop.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“Naturally. So who are you?”
“This is my associate,” Chris answers for me. “Sidney Stone.”
“Sidney?” Thorne says, and I can already hear what she’s going to say next. “Isn’t that a boy’s name?”
“Not the way she uses it,” Chris tells her with a smile. Usually I would be annoyed at him answering for me but it’s probably for the best under the circumstances. I tricked our way in here, but technically he is the actual law enforcement officer. “So. Like I said, we have some questions about the death of Donnie Sterling.”
Her eyes do all the talking for another long moment, speaking volumes while saying nothing nice at all. Then she clears her throat. “Can I see some identification, officer?”
“It’s detective, actually.” Chris reaches into his back pocket to take out his badge case. “Detective Chris Caine.”
Thorne handles the leather bi-fold wallet, flipping it open to examine the ID card with Chris’s name and picture, and then the gold badge on the other side with the eagle overtop the shield. It took her a lot longer to be satisfied with it than I thought it should have. When she hands it back, she plants her elbows on the arms of her chair and folds her hands together.
“Detective,” she says, enunciating the word. “You’ll have to forgive me. The media has been all over this case and since you got into my office under false pretenses, I had to be careful. You could have been reporters, for all I knew.”
“Of course.” Chris puts his badge away with an unconvincing shrug. “You can never be too careful. I suppose if Donnie had been more careful, he’d still be alive.”
“Yes, well. My client, Amelia Falconi, categorically denies any involvement in this terrible event. Her bodyguard’s death was tragic. We send our sympathies to the family.”
“That sounds like a press release. How long have you been practicing that?”
“All day, actually.” Thorne sighs, and drops her hands into her lap, rocking her chair back and forth. “Listen. Having my client’s name associated with a suspicious death is something I can spin to our advantage. An affair with her bodyguard, however, is going to be a problem. All the guy fans who are in love with Amelia will lose interest because she’s off the market. All the female fans who want to be her will lose interest because she’s dating some ordinary guy instead of a millionaire playboy. Amelia Falconi represents a dream to a lot of people. A dream of what they could be themselves with a little luck and hard work. The lifestyle. The money. The glamour of it all. That’s the dream.”
Chris nodded. “Sure, sure. Men want to date her, and women want to be her.”
“Exactly. So you understand if we don’t have a lot to say to the police about all this. I’m doing spin control for my client. She had the bad taste to get into bed with a guy who was going to up and die after a romp in the sack. That’s bad luck, is all that is. Amelia shouldn’t have to suffer being put on trial for bad luck.”
“That’s another fine speech,” Chris tells her. “Only, what happened to Donnie Sterling wasn’t just bad luck.”
Thorne stops swinging in her seat. “What do you mean?”
“He means,” I tell her, “that Donnie didn’t die of a heart attack or overexertion in the sack or some other medical issue. He was murdered.”
Her painted eyes went very wide. “Murder…? Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying that Donnie Sterling was… he really was? You guys aren’t just overreacting?”
“We’re police officers,” Chris tells her. “We’ve got better things to do than arrest people for no reason.”
“But… this isn’t just some trumped up charge the police came up with to harass a famous actress? This is real?”
“That’s right,” Chris tells her.
“He was killed right there in the bed next to Amelia?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
“Someone killed him while they were sleeping?”
“Exactly,” Chris says.
Reaching over to her phone while she keeps her eyes on Chris, she presses the intercom button. “Walter? Cancel my schedule for the rest of the day. I’m going to be busy.”
Then she sits there, and lets out a long, low whistle.
I will say this, her reaction seems genuine. If she knew about this being a real murder before we walked in here, she’s hiding it well. Of course, she’s probably very skilled at lying considering her business is working with actors. Like that speech she gave us when we first got in here. Besides. I learned a long time ago not to take people at their word.
She might have actually thought the police jumped the gun. I mean, people are that stupid. Lots of people believe the police are inept, or corrupt, or just bored enough to make arrests without any evidence just to see what happens. I’ve worked with the police for years. For the most part they’re hardworking, honest people. There’s a few exceptions, like Lieutenant Baker, but they really are the exception, not the rule.
“Miss Thorne,” I ask her, “now that we’re all on the same page, who knew about the love affair between Amelia and Donnie? Obviously you did. You said so. But you also said you wanted it kept quiet.”
“Well, yes. I knew about it but I haven’t discussed it with anyone else. Like I told you. If word of this got out then Amelia’s career would take a big hit. When she isn’t making money, my company and I aren’t making money. She hasn’t worked in two years as it is. I didn’t want her making things worse. I finally convinced her that it was in her best interest to keep it quiet so as far as I know she only told one other person.”
Chris leans forward, very interested in the answers we’re getting. “And who did Amelia tell?”
“Well, Amelia has a—”
“Sister!” I finish for her. I remembered it just as soon as I heard that word in a future flash. Amelia had a sister.
Melissa and Chris both turn to look at me, surprised that I knew the answer. “Um. I mean, I remember her having a sister in high school. She was a couple of years ahead of us, but they were kind of close. I read somewhere that they stayed close even after Amelia’s career took off.”
“Actually, yes, they did.” Thorne shrugs, and then pats at her styled, dyed hair. “So I guess if she told anybody about the affair, it would have been her sister.”
“Where’s the sister living now?” I tried to remember the sister’s name. Barbara, I think. Barbara Falconi.
Thorne finishes putting her hair in place. “Currently, if I remember correctly, her sister’s living in New York.”
“Hmm,” Chris murmurs. “I doubt the sister had anything to do with this if she’s all the way out in New York.”
“What? Why would you think the sister is involved in this?”
“We’re looking at anyone who knew about Amelia having this affair,” Chris says smoothly. “So far, that’s Amelia, and her sister, and you.”
“I see.” The way Thorne taps her fingers on her desk I can tell she’s calculating what that means. “Obviously you don’t think Amelia did this, or you wouldn’t be asking about other people.”
“We’re exploring all options.”
“Like her sister?”
“Sure, but… I don’t know. I mean if she’s out there in New York, I don’t think she’ll make a good suspect. Besides. How would she have gotten into the room?”
“How should I know?” Thorne sounds annoyed now. “Maybe Amelia invited her here. Maybe she even gave her a key to the hotel room where we put her. Maybe the fact that Amelia’s living like a queen while her sister Barbara had to borrow money from her at least four times—that I know about—finally pushed the two of them apart. Maybe this is Barbara’s way of making them even again, like they were back in high school. Maybe she thought she could get access to Amelia’s money if Amelia went to prison. I don’t know. I frankly don’t care.”
“Why not?” I ask her.
“Because I
know I didn’t do it.”
Uh-huh. She’s doing her best to cast doubt on Amelia’s sister. She knows there’s a short list of suspects, and she’s in the top three.
Speaking of which…
“Miss Thorne, wasn’t it you who made the reservation at the Excelsius for Amelia?”
“Of course. It’s part of our job to make sure the stars have a good place to stay when they’re in town. It’s good business to make them feel comfortable.”
“Sure, sure. So you knew what room she was in, and you knew her schedule for this new movie. You knew when she’d be in her room with Donnie, and when she wouldn’t. You are on our suspect list, Miss Thorne, for some very good reasons.”
Her face went blank again. “You said her movie schedule?”
“Yes. You had to know her schedule. You knew where she was, and when she would be there.”
“Well, that wasn’t very hard. As far as I know, Amelia was in her hotel room every night.”
“As far as you knew?” Chris jumps in to ask. “Are you saying you didn’t keep track of whether your star was making her rehearsals? There must be a whole schedule that people need to keep when they’re filming a movie.”
Her nod is condescending. “Of course there is. Location shoots, script read-throughs, there’s tons of work that actors do that people don’t even know about. It’s not an easy life.”
Considering how much money Amelia threw around on that champagne, I’m not about to cry her a river. “So it wouldn’t be very hard,” I say to her again, “for you to know exactly what night Amelia and Donnie would be in her hotel room together.”
Thorne looks from me to Chris, and then back to me again. “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. There was no schedule, because there was no movie.”
Chris and I look at each other, and then we look back at Thorne and say at the same time, “Excuse me?”
She scrunches one shoulder up. “Amelia Falconi was not here to shoot a movie. I have no idea why she came to Detroit, unless it was to make my life miserable with all these demands for a driver to take her around town and champagne bottles in her room and a pedicure session at a local spa. There’s no mistaking when Amelia Falconi is in town, but she sure isn’t here for a movie. I’d know if she was because the studio would have set everything up through us. Oh, I’m not saying she didn’t have tons of offers to appear in films, but she hasn’t taken anything for two years. Not even ones that would make her stupid rich.”
