by K. J. Emrick
That absolutely blindsides me. There’s no movie? Amelia said she was here to do a film. She said that was why she came to Detroit.
She lied to me. I warned her what would happen if she lied to me and she went and did it anyway.
I’m so angry I can hardly think.
Chris picks up the questioning when he sees how put out I am. “Miss Thorne, let’s get back to talking about you. Did you have a key of your own to Amelia Falconi’s room, in case you needed to get inside for some reason? I mean, that would be part of your job as her agent, wouldn’t it?”
Thorne is about to answer, and I can just barely hear a faint echo of her answer—yes—before she changes her mind and keeps that to herself. “You’re looking for a suspect in this… this murder. I’ve already told you her sister had every reason to kill her lover. You’ve already charged Amelia with this crime. Are you honestly trying to pin it on me now?”
“Well. Can you tell us where you were the night that Donnie died?”
She sniggers harshly. “That sounds like a Country song. The Night that Donnie Died.”
“I don’t much care for Country music,” Chris tells her.
“Me either, detective.”
“So where were you that night?”
With a sigh, Thorne picks her pen back up again and fiddles with it between her fingers. “I suppose I could tell you where I was, but I’m not going to. Not without a lawyer present. You guys have already arrested Amelia and I’d rather not go through that myself. In fact, I think I’m going to call this interview done. I’m going to write out two numbers for you. One is my lawyer’s.” She pulled a pad of paper over and wrote a name, and then a phone number. “The second is Amelia’s sister.” She wrote down another name, and another number. “Maybe you can go and harass one of these two for a while.”
I looked over Chris’s shoulder as Melissa pushed the paper over to our side of the table. I was right. The sister’s name was Barbara. “You’re just giving us Barbara’s contact information? You aren’t worried about us ‘harassing’ her?”
“Frankly I couldn’t care less what you do with Barbara. You can arrest her for all I care. She’s not my client, and she’s not me. In fact, arresting Amelia’s sister for this crime would give her a lot of sympathy in the media. Poor Amelia, look how she’s standing up for her sister even after what happened, blah, blah.” She smiled to herself, apparently happy with that visual. “Yes, I can work with that.”
Chris looked up at me again before saying to Melissa, “So let me get this straight. You’re okay with Amelia being the murderer. You’re okay with her sister being the murderer. You just don’t want us arresting you?”
“That’s exactly right. I can certainly see why they made you a detective.”
“Lady,” he says to her, “you are one cold-hearted woman.”
I can see that she takes that as a compliment. “Thank you, detective. Now please get out.”
That was all we were going to get from Melissa Thorne, Agent to the Stars. I’m not sure if this interview was helpful or not, but it was definitely over.
Outside of her offices, out in the hallway again, I breathe a heavy sigh. “That didn’t really cross her off our list of suspects, did it?”
“No,” he agrees. “No, it did not. Did you see that office? Melissa Thorne isn’t exactly getting rich off Amelia’s movie career. Maybe she wanted a way to get her client a little more exposure. Like a murder. You heard her say how she’s spinning it the best she knows how.”
“True. Or maybe, she wanted a reason to get rid of her client altogether.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He stops at the elevators and pushes the button. I take his hand and pull him further down the hall. “How about we take the stairs?” I suggest. “If I have to listen to that awful elevator music one more time, I’ll want to kill someone myself.”
“I think any jury in the world would call that justifiable homicide. I agree. Let’s take the stairs. You want to tell me what you found in Melissa Thorne’s appointment book?”
“That’s what I meant about her coming up with a reason to drop Amelia completely.” I remember the pages I saw looking through the book on the secretary’s desk. Something very interesting. “All of the future appointments she had scheduled with Amelia Falconi have been cancelled. They were all crossed off with a red pen. It’s like Melissa knew she wouldn’t need to keep those appointments.”
“Like she knew her client was going to get sent to jail?”
“That’s what I was thinking. The whole idea of her trying to drop Amelia for good is really starting to make sense to me.” I reach past him and hold the door to the stairway open for him this time. So there. “It’s like she had some knowledge ahead of time that Amelia wouldn’t be her concern anymore.”
“Which could mean that she’s the one who killed the bodyguard and set Amelia up.”
“Yup. I’d say Melissa Thorne is still very much a suspect.”
“Her, and maybe Amelia’s sister.”
“Maybe.” I’m not so sure about that. The whole idea of Barbara getting even for Amelia having a better life just doesn’t track with me. I remember her from high school, a little, and she wasn’t that kind of person. Amelia was, but not Barbara. “Sure, I mean, we have to at least consider Barbara Falconi, I guess. So, two suspects.”
“Three,” he says. When he sees me lift an eyebrow in a question, he stops halfway down the stairs to the first floor. “I’m not ready to write off Amelia as a suspect yet. You heard what Melissa Thorne said. Amelia isn’t here to do a movie. She lied to you. It’s entirely possible that she only ‘bumped’ into you in the Shake Shack because she knew she was going to need the help of her old high school classmate to get out of a murder charge after she killed her lover.”
I knew where he was going with that, and it certainly sounded possible. It’s the same sort of thing Baker had implied in his office. Maybe she came out here specifically to kill her boyfriend, and as part of her act she ‘bumps’ into me and acts all friendly, like she wants to make up for being a jerk in the past, setting me up to feel sorry for her and take her case. Maybe I was wrong about her acting skills. I mean, she didn’t get nominated for a People’s Choice Award on her good looks alone.
And maybe I’m a little jealous of Amelia Falconi, and I’ve just never wanted to admit it.
Everything I do to prove Amelia is innocent only makes her look more guilty. Even the lab report on the champagne bottle that Harry wished up for me. Like Chris had pointed out already, we could prove there was a sedative in the wine, but we couldn’t prove that Amelia had drank any of it. All we had was her word.
“I know she lied to me, but…” I’m still so angry I can’t even complete the thought.
“That lie also takes away Melissa Thorne’s motive.” Chris finishes the thought for me. “As her agent, there’s no reason to get publicity for her client, because there’s no movie to get publicity for.”
That was very true. “Unless she just wanted Amelia out of her life. Remember all those red X’s in her appointment book.”
“Yup. Lots of motives. Three suspects, no concrete proof one way or the other.”
“You’re right,” I tell him, taking the last few stairs down. “I think we need to talk to Amelia, straighten a few things out, and start putting some of these pieces together.”
“Yeah, I agree… hold on.” His cellphone is buzzing in his pocket. He looks at the text message he just received, and then turns it to show it to me. “I think you’re going to get your chance. Amelia Falconi just made bail.”
Chapter Nine
Sitting at my kitchen table is a lot more fun when Harry’s cooked a meal for me.
My friend could easily make a living as a chef, if he didn’t have this whole genie-of-the-rug thing going on. This Chicken marsala is the best I’ve ever had. What’s funny is I only mentioned it to him once, like weeks ago. I said something along the lines of, you know that c
hicken dish that’s got the funny name with the wine sauce and the mushrooms? I haven’t had any of that in years. Boy, I sure would like to have that again.
And now here it is, fresh and ready on my plate as soon as I walk through my apartment door. I swear sometimes I could kiss him. Once I give him his freedom at the end of our deal, he’s going to make some lucky woman a great husband. That, or a live-in chef. Either way that’s going to be one satisfied woman.
Cutting off another piece of the chicken, twirling it up with some of the al dente linguine noodles, I pop it all in my mouth and then talk around it while I chew. “You always know when I’m just about to walk in the door because of our bond, you being my genie and all. I get that…” I swallowed and reached over for my beer. “But how do you know when to have everything ready? I mean, this is pretty amazing, but you had to start it an hour or two ago, right?”
At the stove, Harry checks the bread he has baking in the oven and then wipes his hands on his apron. The one that says Kiss the Cook. “I have had centuries to practice, I suppose, but I feel your presence most strongly when you are near. It lets me know when to put things on simmer.”
“Seriously?” A guy that in tune with a woman. Huh. Only magic could make that happen. “That kind of gives me goosebumps.”
He turns around with a sly gaze. “Hmm. Well. I suppose I could always massage your shoulders later. To help you relax.”
“Not what I meant,” I tell him, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to that. I just meant, you sense I’m coming but how do you know I’m alone? Chris could have been coming back with me.”
“I know the feel of Christian Caine when he’s coming down the hall. I know his intentions toward the world, and toward you.”
That… was an odd thing to say. “Okay. I guess that’s a magic thing?” I don’t know what he meant by Chris’s ‘intentions,’ but I can kind of follow the rest of it. “But you only had the table set for two. One’s for me, and the other’s for you. What if someone had been with me?”
Plates, cloth napkins, silverware, all of it set for two.
“Actually,” he says as he opens the stove, “the one plate is for you, and the other for your client. You’re waiting for her to arrive, are you not?”
Without oven mitts, he reaches in and takes out the bread pan from the oven. The loaf of brown bread is steaming, and I can only imagine how hot that metal pan is. He doesn’t seem to care. One hand wafts the aroma towards his face, and he sighs with delight, obviously satisfied with his baking. His hand is fine. No blisters. It’s not even red. Wow. Must be nice sometimes, to be a genie.
Pulling my eyes away from his strong, unburnt hands, I answer his question. “I am waiting for Amelia to show up here, actually, but how did you know that?”
“Perhaps,” he says, “in some ways, I am just as smart as you are. Remember, in my own day I was a protector of my people, and the investigator of crimes. We’re not so far different, my lady.”
True enough. Except that he’s seven feet tall and can grant wishes and, oh yeah, he lives in a rug. Other than that, me and him could be twins. “Okay, smart guy. I figure now that Amelia’s been bailed out of jail, she’ll need somewhere to lay low for a while. Somewhere the press won’t find her. Plus, she’ll want to know what I’ve found out in the investigation so far.”
“Which is…?” he prompts, waving the edge of his apron at the bread to cool it down.
“Nothing she’s going to be happy to hear, and I can tell you that. So, then how’d you know Chris wasn’t with me? You never did say.”
He makes sure to turn his back to me. To get the bread out of the pan, maybe. Or… so I couldn’t see his face? No. That’s silly.
“I can usually sense him, too,” he tells me, “but in a different way.”
Before I can ask what that means there’s a knock on the door. A very hesitant, very faint knock. I’m sure that’s going to be Amelia. It takes my attention away from Harry for a split second and when I turn back to say he should wait for me in his rug, he’s already gone, and the bread is sliced up, and there’s another helping of Chicken Marsala on the second plate at the table. The one for Amelia.
“Clever genie,” I whisper. I might have gotten used to having Harry in my life, and in my apartment, but some of the things he can do will always amaze me.
I think maybe I like that he can surprise me.
Just before I open the door I hesitate, because in three seconds I’m going to be looking at a petite woman with long black hair and oversized sunglasses wearing a floppy hat straight out of the early Nineties and… oh.
Of course.
I open the door and pull her inside before anyone else can see her. “Glad you stopped by, Amelia. Nice wig.”
She smiles proudly at her little subterfuge. “It’s something my agent’s courier dropped off when he bailed me out. The hat and the pantsuit as well.” She purses her lips as she takes off the sunglasses to look down at the blue striped power suit. “Not my usual wardrobe choice, if you know what I mean. Oh well. It did the job, I suppose. I’m just lucky the police let me put it on before letting me go. There was a mob of reporters out there. An absolute swarm of people with cameras and microphones and—oh my. What is that amazing smell?”
Following her nose, she winds around the half-wall and into the kitchen area. Her face lights up when she sees the food on the table. “Did you cook for me, Sid? That’s so sweet. I didn’t know you can cook.”
I can’t, actually, outside of mac and cheese and maybe a decent burger fried in a pan, but I’m not going to tell her a genie whipped this up for us. At the same time, it isn’t like we’ve been trading recipes back and forth over the years. She has no idea what I can and can’t do.
“Why don’t you sit down and have something to eat?” I tell her, letting it go at that. “I know the jail doesn’t exactly order takeout for the people they have in custody. You want a beer?”
She looks at me like I just offered her a kiss from a snake, but then she smiles to cover it up, like I wouldn’t notice. “I don’t suppose you have any wine?”
The champagne bottle is in Chris’s possession now, along with the lab report I wished up, and a chain of custody slip that says he got it from Amelia’s hotel room today. That was close enough to the truth that it didn’t bother Mister Straight Arrow to leave my name out of it. As far as anyone is concerned at this point, Chris is just a smart police officer doing his job. No help from me.
The orange rind is in my garbage disposal. I made sure to grind it into pulp.
“I don’t have any wine,” I tell her. “I can make some coffee. Or I’ve got water, I guess.”
“Bottled?” she asks hopefully.
“No, city water. Straight from the tap.”
“I’ll pass. Beer will be fine.”
“Good choice.”
Besides, I remember Amelia having a reputation as a party girl back in high school. I doubt she’s actually forgotten the taste of beer no matter how many bottles of champagne she’s drank in the meantime.
I get two Budweiser bottles with twist tops from the fridge and pass her one, and then sit down to continue eating my meal. Amelia doesn’t hesitate to join in.
Perfect.
Believe it or not, this was part of my plan. If Harry hadn’t had all this ready, I would have asked him to cook something up for us or ordered takeout if I had to. See, interviewing someone is an art. A good investigator sets the scene before throwing out questions. I had plenty of them to throw at Amelia, sure enough, but there’s more to a successful ask-and-answer session than just having your questions in a row. You need to put the other person at ease. You need to get them in a state of mind where they’ll actually want to talk to you.
So how do you do that, you ask? There’s lots of methods but one of the simplest is… food.
This is a little secret that every law enforcement officer in the country knows. People are more likely to talk to you on a full stomach. Putting food
in your system releases certain chemicals that relax your brain. Or something like that. I’m fuzzy on the science but the important thing is, giving someone a meal makes them more talkative. Try it yourself sometime. If you’re on a long road trip, stop for a drive-thru meal, and see how quickly everyone becomes more chatty while they eat.
As she eats, Amelia pulls off the wig and shakes her real hair loose as she drops the disguise on my floor along with her oversized glasses. After a couple of bites, she taps her fork against the edge of her plate. “This is really, really good. Wow. The last time I ate something like this was in a five-star restaurant.”
“Thank you,” I say on Harry’s behalf. “The sauce isn’t too sweet for you?”
“No, just perfect. I had a personal chef once, at this villa in Luxemburg where I was staying. He made a wine sauce you would die for. It’s a white wine reduction with onions and, well, I can’t remember what all else. Simply amazing. This is just as good as that.” She takes another bite and smiles as she chews. “It feels so good just to sit and relax for a minute. Just be myself. I don’t get much time to be me, instead of the actress everyone sees me as.”
See? Food equals talk. It’s part of human nature. Which means now is a good time to start asking those questions of mine.
“So Amelia. Tell me about this movie you’re in Detroit to film.”
There’s just the slightest hesitation as her fork goes from the plate to her mouth. Just that. “The movie is supposed to be a romance,” she tells me, “but you know how these Hollywood types are. By the time we’re done it will probably be a comedy action buddy cop adventure flick. I hate those. Don’t you?”
