Alllison Janda - Marian Moyer 03 - Scandal, Temptation & a Taste of Flan

by Allison Janda

  Rory nodded. Straining for one final look at Addison, he turned and walked towards the elevator. “Let’s go, James. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I don’t-”

  “Let’s. Go.” Rory cut him off firmly.

  James growled low and deep in his throat, but strode quickly towards the elevator. As the doors opened and they stepped in, I couldn’t help but worry that this was the last time we’d be on each other’s team for a long, long time.

  The police kept me on a tight leash. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the Master Suite, which is where I assumed Carmen had been injured. Or killed — Addison had told me she was dead. Then again, Addison was in quite a state. Surely she could have missed a pulse — a fluttery breath.

  I wasn’t allowed anywhere near Addison, even as she begged and hiccuped and sobbed for a friend. I sat, a nearly invisible bystander, in an incredibly uncomfortable paisley armchair, watching as people came in and out of the hotel room. There was the hotel manager, who was asked to provide a list of everyone who had access to the Presidential Suite. Your usual cops, detectives, crime scene investigators, and photographer, along with all of their questions and supplies. Through it all, I was mostly left alone. Occasionally someone would ask me if I’d been witness to the crime. I’d shake my head and they’d scribble something on a notepad before walking away.

  I tried to catch all of the details that I could. I knew I’d need them for later. After Addison and Carmen had left the studio, Carmen had made several angry phone calls to her manager, her assistant and, of course, the limousine service they’d been using in Milwaukee. Someone had called them all off and, as Carmen had apparently said, that someone wasn’t her. Addison noted that Carmen seemed slightly unnerved by this but it was hard to tell, as she didn’t know Ms. Suarez all that well.

  Addison said that when they’d arrived back at the hotel, Carmen had asked Addison to come upstairs. She’d wanted to give Addison a list of media contacts who should be leaked the Food Porn photos prior to the issue printing. While Addison tried to explain that, that wasn’t the way things worked in our office, Carmen had been insistent and Addison said she’d finally gone upstairs, just to shut her up. They continued to fight about it all the way to the room — and everyone who had been present in the lobby at the time said that the argument was incredibly heated, though they weren’t totally sure what the argument had been about.

  Once upstairs, Addison had asked to use the bathroom. While indisposed, she’d heard a loud scream, what sounded like a scuffle, and then nothing. Pulling herself together as quickly as possible, Addison raced from room to room, searching for Carmen. She’d finally found her on the floor of her bedroom, throat slit and barely clinging to life. Addison claimed that she’d tried to staunch the bleeding but was unsuccessful. All she could do was hold and soothe Carmen in her last moments while calling the police for help. Once Addison was over the initial shock of the situation, she’d called us. She had no idea who else could have been in the hotel room. She couldn’t remember seeing anyone or hearing Carmen speak to anyone when they’d walked in. The knife that had been used was a large steak knife from the previous day’s room service, which hadn’t yet been cleared. Carmen was paranoid about having her things go missing — she was famous and they’d catch a good price on eBay — so she refused to let anyone into her hotel room for cleaning until after she’d checked out. The knife had been wiped of prints, save for Addison’s, and was found barely an arm’s length from where Addison had claimed she’d been sitting, holding Carmen. The blood patterns seemed to confirm this, though obviously nothing could yet be on the record.

  Worst of all, when the manager returned with a list of those having access to the Presidential Suite, the only people that were on it were Carmen; her assistant, who it was confirmed had flown out, on her way back to LA, a few hours earlier; the hotel manager, whose whereabouts were vouched for by numerous patrons and staff; and James, who had been in a meeting, his whereabouts also vouched for. Addison swore vehemently that she hadn’t killed Carmen but, unfortunately, the evidence was piling up against her. Her breathing exercises had been no match for Carmen’s attitude — she was the prime suspect.

  Addison’s terror slowly trickled into anger, eventually turning into exhaustion. After what felt like hours, an officer came in holding an awful-looking lime green velour jumpsuit. Addison eyed it warily and then turned to me. “I’m not wearing that,” she vowed. The officer who had entered carrying the velour, leaned down and whispered something to Kip. “You’re positive?” Kip asked.

  The officer nodded. “Hospital just confirmed.”

  Kip sighed in a way that suggested he really hated what he was about to do. “Ms. Dawes, you are under arrest for the murder of Carmen Suarez.”

  “What?” Addison screeched, flying off of the couch. Kip continued to read her, her Miranda Rights, even as he spun and cuffed her. “No way!” Addison was crying as he walked her towards the elevator. “Kip, you can’t do this to me. You know me. You know that I couldn’t have done something like this. You don’t even have enough evidence to-”

  “Addison, shut up!” I said, cutting her off. “He’s not your buddy Kip right now; he’s your arresting officer. Go with him. Do what he says.”

  “I’m not changing into a track suit,” she spat as she was hustled into the entryway.

  “Not here,” Kip assured her. “But you’ll need to over at the hospital. We need to have your clothing sent to forensics for testing.”

  “And you couldn’t find me anything better than that?” she howled.

  “Are you seriously worried about your outfit right now?” I cried, following them into the marble lobby by the elevators.

  “There will be photographs,” Addison warned me. “Mug shots. These pictures will be available to the public forever. Do you understand that? Do you know what that means? I’d rather be photographed naked!”

  “They can probably arrange that,” offered the young, spritely officer that was carrying the jumpsuit, as he hurried after Addison.

  Kip gave him a warning look and then gently pushed Addison into the waiting elevator.

  “Wait!” I cried as the doors began to close behind them. “What about me?”

  “You can come down on the next one. Sorry, Moyer. We’ll see you at the station in a bit,” Kip called, his last words cut off by the slamming of the metal doors. It all sounded incredibly final.

  I hit the down button and waited. “Will you need a key to get downstairs?” someone asked behind me. I turned and came face-to-face with Carly Ipson. Carly had been Barry’s partner back when Barry had tried to kill me. She hadn’t really liked Barry but didn’t know much about him, other than he’d given her the creeps. Suffice it to say that her creeps were warranted. She and I had worked together for the first time just before the holidays, when my niece had gone missing from her home up north. If my good friend Janet couldn’t be by my side, Carly was definitely my next choice. She was a bit shorter than me, with fiery red hair, a smattering of freckles just about everywhere, and piercing eyes. “Hey,” she said quietly. “I came as soon as I heard.” She pulled a room key out of the front pocket of her blouse. She was dressed in plain clothes, with her hair flowing freely, rather than pinned into place. She had a sharp nose and sharp cheekbones, but somehow her face still looked soft and kind. “Care to bring me up to speed?”

  I took a deep breath and told her everything that I knew. The story carried us down the elevator shaft and into the lobby, where Carly immediately handed her room key to an officer sitting at a folding table. He had several sheets of paper in front of him and took a moment to place a checkmark by her name. “Oh sure, now they beef up security,” I grumbled as we walked towards the entrance.

  “Marian!” I heard someone cry from behind. I turned and saw Rory racing towards us, waving my phone in the air. “Thank goodness you’re still here. I saw them dragging Addison out but I couldn’t find you anywhere. I was worried that you
’d already left and I’d missed you.”

  “You’ve been waiting the whole time?” I asked incredulously. I wasn’t sure what time he and James had left the hotel room, but it had been several hours at least.

  He shrugged and handed me my phone. “Where else would I be?”

  “Which way did they take her?” Carly asked.

  Rory thumbed towards the entrance that clearly read: Employees Only. “Out the back,” he told us. “Less of a media storm back there, I think.” Turning to me, he added, “what happened?”

  Our small group was beginning to garner some attention. I noticed people in the lobby staring at us slightly longer than they needed to be. We may as well have been sporting signs on our foreheads that linked us to Addison and the sensational headlines that were bound to be following her for the next few days. “Let’s chat somewhere more private. We need to get to the police station but, first, we need to get our heads on straight. Addison won’t be available to us for a few hours anyway. DNA testing. Carly, do you know how to get to my studio?” She nodded emphatically. “Great. We’ll meet you there. Try to lose anyone who follows you.”

  We started to stride towards the main entrance when we noticed several people from various news stations standing around outside. Their microphones were poised and ready. I cast a wary glance at the front desk. The woman I’d been frantically trying to get a room key from earlier was still there. This time, however, she was more sympathetic. Now she knew what was happening. She gave me a slight nod, having read my mind, then turned back to her computer business as usual. “Come on,” I told my friends. “We’re busting out the back entrance.”

  What normally should have been a quick drive took us nearly 30 minutes. Even as we tried to sneak out of the back entrance, the news outlets were on us, asking who we were, why we were sneaking away and could we comment on the situation. A few police officers stationed at the back of the hotel helped us to shove through the fray. Thankfully, Rory’s car had been parked by valet, rather than towed away. A young man with greasy hair and pimples on his forehead went to fetch it, recognizing Rory immediately. He also let us hide in the key closet as he did so, a gallant gesture for such a young man. Carly had parked in the garage across the street and had a far easier time untangling herself from the media storm.

  Once we were seated inside Rory’s car, I ducked down as low as possible. I was feeling like a celebrity who had just been nailed doing lines of coke in the bathroom stall, with all the attention we were receiving. I couldn’t imagine what poor Addison was going through. Rory slowly, painstakingly made his way out of the lot and onto the main road. He was nice enough to not run anyone over. I wasn’t feeling quite as nice, so it was better that I hadn’t driven myself.

  Once back at my studio, we parked on the street, just down from the entrance in the alley. Glancing around, we opened our doors and dashed around the building to the rear entrance. My keys were at the ready and I quickly let us both inside. Thankfully, it appeared that we hadn’t been spotted by news crew gathering on the main road, clogging Water Street. I hurried through the studio, Rory just behind me. We flipped on lights as we went along, rudely awakening our sleepy little studio as quickly as it allowed us to. I was just about to ask Rory about Carly when we heard a loud pounding on the front door, followed by cries of, “Please, someone, let me in!” Opening the main doors just a hair, I let Carly slide inside as she spat out a loud, “no comment,” to the barrage of questions that were chasing her.

  Locking the door behind me, I walked back towards the studio, awash in harsh fluorescent lighting. Rory was sitting on a stool to the right of where Carmen had been photographed earlier in the afternoon. Had she really been alive just a few short hours ago? It seemed impossible. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” Rory asked wearily.

  “Long enough to order some takeout and walk ourselves through this nightmare,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Chinese or pizza?”

  Thirty minutes later, we were seated in a circle on the floor, hungrily devouring egg rolls, chicken lo mein and orange beef. “When should we go down to the station?” asked Carly between chews. “I kind of feel like we’re neglecting Addison but I’m not really sure what we’re capable of doing for her at this point, other than securing a lawyer.”

  “We’re heading to the station after we’ve had a minute to eat and clear our heads no matter what,” I assured her. “But I have to be honest, I really have no idea what’s going on. This is crazy. Right? It’s totally insane that this is happening?”

  Carly nodded while Rory stabbed at his lo mein with a chopstick. “We should have gone to the station first,” Rory grumbled, ignoring me. “We’re terrible friends.”

  “Rory,” I implored. “She’s probably not even there yet. We likely won’t even have an opportunity to see her tonight. Plus, we need to all be on the same page before we go in there. A united front. Addison has been accused of murder. Murder! She needs a lawyer. And she needs an alibi that’s a hell of a lot better than what she told Kip earlier today. Did you ever get in touch with Janet?”

  Rory shook his head. “Left her a bunch of messages. She hasn’t called back.”

  “Janet?” Carly asked. “She’s in Mexico for her and Rob’s anniversary.”

  I smacked my forehead. “Crap! I completely forgot about that. She’s out of touch for at least another week.”

  “Must be rough,” Rory muttered. “Sipping tequila and floating in a pool at some all-inclusive resort.” We all sighed in that moment and closed our eyes, wishing we were with Janet instead of stuck here in hell. “So what do we do?” Rory finally asked, interrupting our daydreams. “None of us has ever needed a criminal lawyer before. How do we find someone good? No offense to the internet but I don’t want to Google ‘crime lawyer Milwaukee’ and take the first name that pops up. I want the best damn lawyer money can buy in this town. I want-”

  “Hush,” I said, crawling to my knees and giving his shoulders a light shake. “Be quiet and let me think for a few minutes.”

  As I sat back down, we chewed in silence, the fluorescent lights above us buzzing and flickering, trying to stay on. Suddenly Carly snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it!” she cried. “Tom Corbin.”

  “Who?” Rory asked, at the same time as I declared, “genius!”

  “Corbin,” said Carly proudly, rocking to her feet, “was just named one of America’s hottest lawyers under 40.”

  “I don’t care how attractive he is-” Rory began.

  “Not hot as in attractive, hot as in good,” cried Carly. “Amazing, in fact. The best in Wisconsin, if there is such a title.”

  “He is attractive, though,” I admitted.

  “I fully agree,” Carly giggled.

  “Guys! Are you being serious right now?” Rory shouted.

  I got back to the point. “He’s one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Wisconsin. Probably in the United States. He’s the one who was involved in that huge civil rights case up north last year. How’s that for the best that money can buy?”

  “The case with the same sex couple?” Rory asked incredulously. “That was one of the most monumental same-sex cases nationwide. Then or now.”

  “I know,” Carly said nodding, her red hair taking on coppery tones as her entire body bubbled and contorted with excitement beneath the studio lighting. “And I happen to have a way of calling in a favor to him.”

  I felt my eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You do? How?”

  “And how do you figure he’ll even take this?” Rory asked uneasily. He was trying not to get his hopes up and I couldn’t blame him. “This case is peanuts compared to what he’s used to being handed. A murder case? Please. Why would he want to smut his name up with something so beneath him? This is a man that fought for equal rights, for crying out loud.”

  “Oh, please,” Carly said, brushing off his doubt with a flip of her wrist. “A chance to defend Addison Dawes, perhaps among the most sensational fe
male journalists in the nation? She’s won awards. She was nominated for a Pulitzer. And she’s accused of murdering one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. You don’t think he wants in on that action? Ten bucks says he already smells it and is trying to get in touch with US.”

  Just then, my phone began to ring. We all paused as I pulled the device out of my purse. The caller ID told me it was an unknown caller. Could it be Corbin already? I flashed the ID at Rory and Carly, swallowed deeply and picked up on speaker with a hesitant, “hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Addison spat. “I get one phone call, they’re limiting it to two minutes, and I want to know why you’re not here with me and why I’m wasting my precious call on you! You twit!”

  “We’re regrouping,” I admitted, feeling the tiniest bit guilty. “We didn’t even think you’d be at the station yet.”

  “Can’t you regroup down here?” she whined. “It’s lonely.”

  “We’ll come see you,” I promised. “But we’re in the process of wrangling a lawyer for you. Without one, we’ll be coming down empty-handed and I don’t think we’ll get very far.”

  “Did you find me someone? Someone good?”

  I cast a wary glance at Rory and Carly, who shrugged. “I think so, Addie,” I whispered.

  “Who? Don’t tell me it’s Brandon Fritz. That man is a snake. I hear he pays off judges and the last thing that I need as a household name in this city is THAT following me around for the remainder of my career.” She sniffed haughtily.

  “It isn’t Brandon,” I assured her quickly.

  “Good.” There was a long pause. “Marian,” she whispered, “you’ve got to get me out of here. They’re transferring me to a hospital so that the police can collect DNA samples. Scrape my nails for cells. Shine a black light over every inch of my naked body, looking for who knows what.” She paused and drew a shaky breath. “It’s humiliating. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Carmen. They’re treating me like I’m a killer in here and I- Marian- I don’t belong with these people. There’s a drunk man in the cell next to mine who keeps repeating the chorus from some country song about a dead dog and an ex-wife. And when the guards were walking me back to a cell earlier, the man in cuffs in front of me peed. He just started peeing out of nowhere. No warning. He soaked his pants and it started dripping onto the floor and my guard made me walk through it. Marian, do you hear what I’m saying to you? I was forced to walk through piss in my $400 designer open-toed shoes.”