Killing Kelly

by Heather Graham

  Uneasily, he looked around the street. It was quiet, dead quiet. Lance rolled up his windows, turned on the CD, listened and imagined. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts take him where they would. He gave in to the deepest desires of imagination, listening to the music, seeing in his mind’s eye. Feeling. The music came to a crescendo. So did he.

  He swallowed, looked around and remembered that, quiet as it might be, he was on a public street. He’d been an idiot. What if a cop had come by? But he lingered still, just another moment. Kelly… There would be time for them. Plenty of time. He just had to wait. The right moment would come.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kelly was pleased to discover Doug already at the restaurant when she arrived. He was wearing a polo shirt and casual jacket, and had a large knapsack at his side. He rose as she walked to the table, and waited for her to sit.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. She noticed his glass.

  “Iced tea?”

  “The drink of the South,” he murmured.

  “Sounds good.”

  She wondered why she felt a little awkward. It wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake. But she still found herself looking at the menu with the determination that she wasn’t going to order anything messy. It wasn’t a date, but she was ordering date food—something that came in bite-size pieces, that didn’t dribble down the chin. No pasta.

  He didn’t seem to have the same problem. He was having the shrimp linguini. She opted for the fruit plate.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Surrounded by white. I dreamed I was in the clouds.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I had a peaceful, dreamless sleep.”

  She smiled, toying with the condensation on her glass.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  “Well, I definitely went out like a light—with Sam sleeping at my feet. So, did you do anything this morning?”

  He shrugged. “Walked. Went to the record store. Looked up whatever they might have on Kill Me Quick.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve released one album. I bought it. They are good, more than a garage band. Lance Morton apparently went to Juilliard.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Well, I can’t swear it’s true, but it’s in his résumé.”

  “He’s given you a résumé?”

  “I looked him up on the Web.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “He seems okay.”

  “Yeah. So far. He hasn’t been arrested for anything, anyway.”

  “You looked that up, too? On the Web?”

  He hesitated. “I did some research on him and the group.”

  “And what else did you learn?”

  “They were all music majors at some kind of an accredited school. Hal Winter, the guitarist, was with a gospel group for a while.”

  “From gospel to Kill Me Quick, interesting,” Kelly mused, smiling.

  “Aaron Kiley has played backup for a number of important groups. He’s keyboard.”

  “Aha!”

  “And the drummer, Ron Peterson, was considered to be something of a genius. Graduated head of his class at seventeen, chose to take off and tour Europe, came back and worked with a stomp group, then met up with the rest of the fellows. They played coffeehouses, school gigs and weddings. Then they were picked up by a label for their first album. After that, apparently, they were seen by Marc Logan, who decided to make an investment in the guys.”

  “And what do you really think of them?” Kelly asked.

  “I think they’ve definitely got talent. I like what I’ve heard.”

  She hesitated. “Do you honestly think this is going to be a good career move for me?”

  “Yes, I honestly do—if my opinion means anything.”

  “I asked you for it,” she reminded him.

  Their entrées arrived. She carefully skewered a strawberry. “Are you always so thorough?”

  He had a talent for winding linguini. If she’d chosen the entrée, she’d be trailing long strands with every bite.

  “So thorough?”

  “Yes, you looked up the entire band.”

  “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  She laughed. “Did you look up my résumé as well?”

  She was startled when he appeared to flush slightly. “Actually, I looked you up last night. An Emmy, huh?”

  “One.”

  “One is more than a lot of actresses ever acquire.”

  “True. I’m grateful.” She played with her glass. “What would happen if I were to look you up?”

  “I don’t have a Web page.”

  “But you’re a professional dancer.”

  “I don’t have a Web page.”

  “Maybe mine has a lot of lies on it,” she murmured.

  “I don’t know why, but I’m doubting that.”

  “A Web page can be all hype.”

  “Yours is too modest.”

  “Not enough hype?”

  He didn’t answer. He was looking past her shoulder, and she realized they were being approached by a man. For a moment she tensed. Then she saw who was coming and eased, smiling.

  “A friend?” Doug queried lightly.

  She nodded. By then, Liam Murphy had reached the table. He bent to kiss her cheek. “Hey, kid.” He nodded to Doug. “Sorry, excuse me.”

  “Liam, sit, please!” Kelly said. “Doug, this is Liam Murphy. Serena’s husband. Liam, this is Doug O’Casey, my dance instructor for the video.”

  The two men nodded to each other in acknowledgment.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just saw you here, kid,” Liam said.

  Kelly groaned softly. “I’m inching toward the thirty mark and you’re still calling me kid.”

  “You’re not interrupting. Can you join us?” O’Casey said.

  “I’m meeting a friend in a few minutes, but sure, if you don’t mind.” Liam pulled up a chair while sizing up O’Casey. “I hear we’re having a dinner party tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Glad to have you,” he said, then turned to Kelly. “I heard about the video.”

  “And the ‘vacation’ I’ve been put on?” Kelly said.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Liam told her.

  “Liam is a private investigator,” Kelly explained.

  “Right, so I remember Serena saying,” Doug said. His attention was on Liam. “So, you do think it’s a good idea that Kelly is off the set.”

  Kelly groaned.

  “Yes,” Liam said. “Being safe is always better than being sorry.”

  “I take it you have a lot of friends on the police force?” O’Casey said to Liam.

  “Yes.”

  “What was the final report after Kelly’s accident?” O’Casey asked.

  “Hey! I am here, you might have asked me,” Kelly reminded him.

  “I’d have gotten a different answer,” O’Casey said.

  Liam shrugged, grinning as he glanced at Kelly. “Accident—as far as the official report went. But I know some of the guys who were there. They were baffled, so, unofficially, there was no concrete decision. There was an investigation. No one saw anyone tampering with the mound. It was raw earth at a building site, supposedly in solid shape. The area hasn’t really been opened yet—the houses up there that are completed are on the market.” He lifted his hands. “There weren’t any clues to follow. People had been over the place all day. No one saw anything. Everyone was stunned and appalled. So it appears that it was an accident.”

  “Because it was just an accident,” Kelly said.

  “Right,” Liam agreed. “So she’s better off away.”

  “I understand there was trouble on the show before,” O’Casey said.

  “Oh, please! None of this can be associated with that,” Kelly protested.

  “No one is suggesting that it is,” O’Casey said. “But, Kelly, you’ve got to understand why people are feel
ing nervous for you.” He turned back to Liam. “What do you know about the Dana Sumter case? According to the news, the ex-husband is under arrest but adamantly denying the charge.”

  Kelly let out an impatient sigh. “Did anyone really think that he’d rush in with a confession?”

  Neither of the men seemed to hear her. “I’d be interested in talking with the fellow,” Liam said. “Sure, he could be acting. But I’ve seen him in front of some news cameras, and he is passionately denying any part in the murder.”

  “What about the Ohio case?” O’Casey asked.

  “It was in Ohio!” Kelly snapped.

  “Could be related, could be an accident,” Liam said. He looked up, then excused himself, offering O’Casey a hand. “My friend just showed up. It’s good to meet you. I look forward to seeing you at the house tomorrow night.”

  “Thanks for the invitation.”

  “I’m glad you’re with Kelly.”

  “He’s not actually with me,” Kelly said, flushing with dismay. O’Casey was going to think she was a clinging vine if she wasn’t careful.

  “I agree, she probably shouldn’t be alone,” O’Casey said.

  “Bye, kid,” Liam said.

  Kelly shook her head as he walked away. Wincing, she brought her gaze up to meet O’Casey’s. “Please, I know I…um…”

  “You used me yesterday?” he said lightly.

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry. But you don’t have to feel responsible for me in any way.”

  He lifted his hands, staring back at her. “Hey, my only reason for being these days—and being here in L.A.—is to teach you the tango.” He was looking past her head. “He’s meeting a cop,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  O’Casey took a sip of his tea. “Your friend, Liam. The fellow he’s meeting is a cop.”

  Kelly twisted around. The man was in plainclothes, but she happened to know him. It was Detective Olsen, the officer they had worked with years ago on the set. He looked like a kindly St. Nick, but was as sharp as a tack when the need arose.

  Frowning, she stared at O’Casey. “How did you know?”

  “You know him, too?”

  She nodded.

  “And he is a cop, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  O’Casey shrugged. “He just has the look. Want coffee? Dessert?”

  “No, no, thank you.”

  “I’ll get the check, then?”

  “I asked you here.”

  “I’ll get the check.”

  “You got the pizza last night.”

  “And I’ll get this now,” he said firmly.

  She frowned. “But—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t consider it a date,” he said, and rose, signaling to the waitress before she could protest again. Having handed over his credit card, he turned back to her. “Want to walk a little, then head to the studio?”

  “Um, sure.”

  As he walked to the hostess’s station to sign his bill, Kelly sipped the last of her tea. When she looked up again, she noted O’Casey leaning against the podium. His dark blue eyes seemed fierce in study. She turned slightly. He was watching Liam and Detective Olsen.

  She frowned. But when his gaze turned to her, his expression changed in the blink of an eye. He smiled, lifting a hand. She rose to join him and they exited the restaurant.

  “Who’s the guy with Kelly?” Olsen asked. He was a big man and suspicious by nature.

  But then, Liam realized, he tended to be a suspicious fellow himself. He turned and looked toward the retreating couple. “Dance coach for the video thing she’s doing. His name is O’Casey. Doug O’Casey.”

  “You know him?”

  “Just met him today.”

  “Looks like a cop to me.”

  “I think he’s legitimately a dance coach,” Liam told him.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing. I never knew he existed until yesterday. Serena mentioned that she’d met him last night. I intend to check him out.”

  “I’ll do it from the station,” Olsen said.

  “Good.”

  “Well, it’s good to know the background of anyone she’s got an association with now. Who are the people involved in this project?”

  “No one involved with the soap,” Liam assured him.

  “Well, that’s probably good.”

  “You were on site at the location where they were filming before it was cleared,” Liam reminded him. “I can’t figure out how someone could have tampered with a mound of earth without anyone seeing him. Or her.”

  “Hiding in plain sight,” Olsen said.

  “What?”

  Olsen shrugged. “There are dozens of people walking around on a set all day. Lighting, gofers, cameramen, makeup guys—who the hell knows exactly who else? If someone was walking around looking like a production assistant, prop boy, whatever—someone who acted like they had a right to be there—who would notice?”

  “So you don’t believe it was an accident?” Liam persisted.

  “Hell, I don’t know. But I do think that show is cursed. I’m glad that Kelly is off it. I think she should watch herself real good.”

  Liam shook his head. “Okay, what if there is a psycho out there? Someone out to rid the world of advice therapists. Would such a psycho be organized enough to manage an accident like the one that happened on the set?”

  “You can profile people all you want,” Olsen said. “Doesn’t mean you’ll always have the answers. Hell, we’ve still got lots of crime going on, right?”

  “What about Dr. Sumter’s husband?” Liam said. As Olsen mulled the matter, he added, “Any chance I can talk to the guy?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Olsen told him.

  The tango. Close, hot…friggin’ downright sizzling, when you got to it.

  Kelly was talented, far more talented than she wanted to believe. She had grasped the steps almost immediately. What she hadn’t remembered exactly from the day before, she picked up as soon as he refreshed her on their work. Yesterday, they’d worked apart or in practice holds. But today she was ready for timing. And shaping. And close body contact.

  The woman held herself slightly to her left. Hips met. Legs moved in tandem. He had never been so distracted. Not as a student when coached by a woman who was actually his lover, and never, certainly, as an instructor. But distracted he was. There was the scent of her hair and the color of it. He knew the full firmness and softness of her breasts against his chest. The taut touch of her pelvis, thighs, limbs. There was no way in hell that a healthy male with any kind of kicking libido could avoid the swell of internal excitement she elicited. He could only pray to control the external. And she was so damned deep in concentration!

  A misstep. She looked up at him, frustrated. “God, I’m sorry, but when I watched you and Jane…your legs seemed to move at exactly the same time. Almost as one.”

  “You just have to let me lead. We’re doing the same timing, yet you’re a fraction of a second behind. Let me lead before you move.”

  “But I’ll trip you.”

  “No, because you move as soon as I lead.”

  He realized that they were having the conversation while locked together. She didn’t seem to notice. He was amazed that he could talk.

  “I’m snapping my head at the wrong time, too.”

  “You’ll get that. Right now, let’s zero in on the footwork. Heel leads.”

  “Heel leads…” she murmured, looking down.

  “Don’t look at your feet.”

  “Right.”

  “Head up, back slightly curved. You don’t stick your butt out, you tuck it in.”

  “I’m not sticking my butt out!”

  “Beginners have a tendency to lean forward with their chests. The chest is back. It’s the pelvis that remains forward.”

  Her brow remained knit in serious concentration. Her pelvis inclined against him. A tremor shot through him and he prayed she
hadn’t felt it. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He released her, stepping away.

  “I’m sorry! What did I do?”

  “Nothing. We’ll just talk about…the head snap and the timing,” he murmured. He directed her next to him, walking through the moves, showing her head position, foot position, contra body movement. She listened and imitated, an excellent pupil.

  They worked apart until he was certain he had regained his composure.

  “Ready?” he asked, putting on the track to “Tango to Terror.”

  She nodded, a bit grimly, and slid into his arms. He helped her adjust her position, wishing that they were doing a do-wop or swing. He moved with her, through all the basic steps. She erred, but for someone who had been working only two days, she was amazing. The softness of her hair tickled his nose. The scent she wore…it was all that he breathed. Her body…He made it through once, twice, then was relieved to note the time. Outside the studio, it had grown dark.

  “That’s it for today,” he said, tossing her a towel. “There’s some bottled water in the little refrigerator.”

  “Thanks,” she said, but she didn’t move. He’d sat in one of the few wood chairs surrounding the walls to change his shoes. She was still standing in the center of the room, looking at him.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  He frowned, looking at her. “No. In fact, you’re doing everything amazingly right. Why?”

  She shook her head, looking a little lost. “Obviously I’m not going to dance like Jane. But it’s as if…as if you can’t wait to stop dancing with me.”

  He flung his towel around his neck. “You’ve worked hard. For hours. You’ve done excellently. They’re not just going to get a soap star, they’re going to get a dancer. There’s nothing wrong with your work.”

  “Is it me?”

  “Pardon?”

  She lifted her shoulders, offering a little grimace. “Is my deodorant not working or something?”

  He inhaled on a deep breath, staring at her.

  “I mean,” she continued a little nervously, “I’ve always thought that I was fairly attractive, and I know that I’m supposed to look somewhat sensual….”

  Doug stood and walked over to her. Close, he circled around her, then met her eyes again. “Miss Trent. You are achieving your goals. Trust me. Most men would crawl on their knees through broken glass to be near you. To touch you. In fact, if you were any hotter, they’d be sensing you through the walls. They’d be rushing the stairs to this place, ready, just like moths to the flame, to burn to cinders just for a chance to have sex with you.”