The Dead Girl's Stilettos

by Quinn Avery

  “That’s exactly why I’ve asked you to meet with me.” Dean motioned to the booth. “Have a seat. And please, call me Dean. Can I get you anything?”

  Bexley shook her head as she sat on the plush cushion, briefly wondering what her sister would say if she could see her now. Cineste was infatuated with the rich and famous when she was younger, and was always on the lookout for celebrities wandering around town. She would’ve fallen over herself for a chance to be alone with Dean Halliwell. Bexley, on the other hand, was unimpressed by anyone who lived a charmed life simply by engaging in the adult version of make-believe.

  “The article you wrote on Richard Warren caught my attention,” Dean began, holding Bexley’s curious gaze. There was a steadying calm about him that made her heart race. “Hell—it caught everyone’s attention. And it made a big impression on me. You aren’t afraid to go after the truth, no matter the cost. You brought down one of the most powerful men in the world.”

  “I’m going to assume you didn’t fly me across the country merely to stroke my ego. Why am I really here?”

  Jaw clenched, he bobbed his head. “They didn’t actually arrest me for killing that woman.”

  “Considering we’re not divided by a sheet of Plexiglas, I had already suspected that.”

  He chuckled before releasing a slow breath and running his fingers through his coiffed hair. A small section broke away and dangled over his eye in an appealing manner. Had he done that on purpose, or did being endearing come naturally after all the years he had spent in front of a camera?

  “I was only brought in for questioning. The police received a tip claiming they’d seen me outside my property in Papaya Springs with the victim the day before she was found. But my security and staff in Papaya Springs all signed affidavits stating that I was not at that property at any point during that weekend. My agent also signed one stating she was with me at my condo in Malibu, and there wasn’t a lapse in time where I could’ve made the trip, nor would I have any reason to do so. I willingly volunteered my DNA—without being asked. They released me without being charged, despite the media’s claims that I spent a night in jail. This entire incident was handled carelessly from the beginning.”

  Beyond what she’d heard in the news, that a naked woman had washed ashore in Bexley’s home town, she had been unaware of the details surrounding Dean’s involvement. Although it sounded like a solid alibi, it wouldn’t surprise her to learn his staff had covered for him. “What exactly are you asking of me, Mr. Halliwell?”

  “It’s Dean,” he corrected her in a stern tone. “I’ve become a pariah in the industry since my arrest. I’ve been blackballed from parties and award shows. Producers and other actors refuse to work with me, ad agencies have terminated my contracts. I was fired from my current film even though I’ve already spent two weeks on set. The Papaya Springs PD apparently isn’t competent enough to find the killer, so it’s clearly up to me to find someone to finish the job.” With another long, drawn-out pause, he leaned closer to Bexley with a haunted look. “I’m asking that you uncover the truth behind what happened to that poor woman…expose her killer. I’ll pay you fifty thousand plus your expenses to start digging into the truth. If you’re able to reveal the real killer to the public, I’ll add another five hundred thousand.”

  Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Bexley’s throat constricted. The room suddenly became half its size as his offer repeated in her head.

  Five hundred and fifty thousand.

  It was more than she could hope to make in a decade of freelancing. More than enough to save Cineste from whatever mess she’d gotten herself into. “Could I please…get a water?”

  She was vaguely aware when the actor motioned to the hostess lurking nearby. The amount he was proposing was outlandish. She was a journalist, not a cop. She had been able to expose the truth behind Richard Warren’s sex-trafficking ring through determination and dumb luck. Asking her to catch a murderer when the police couldn’t was like asking lightning to strike twice in the same spot.

  Once the hostess set a glass of ice cold water on the table in front of her, Bexley threw it back like a shot of whiskey. Only then was she able to find her voice. “You must have me confused with Olivia Benson. I’m not a cop.”

  Thick arms crossed over his chest, he peered at her down the bridge of his sharply angled nose. “From what I’d heard about you, I thought you’d have more confidence.”

  That ruffled her feathers. Bexley sat taller, throwing him a hard look. “Before agreeing to this, I would need to speak with the detectives on the case…hear all the facts first-hand.”

  He smiled. “I could arrange for that to happen right away.”

  She fought the urge to drop her head on the table. Papaya Springs was the last place on earth she wanted to visit. From what she’d heard, it had evolved into the place to be for spoiled rich kids looking for creative ways to blow their daddy’s money.

  “Do you have any siblings?” he asked.

  “A sister.”

  “Younger or older?”

  “Younger.” Bexley tensed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “My little brother has always looked up to me. When we were little, he’d follow me around like a puppy. He’s always the first one to congratulate me when I’ve done something. Robby means everything to me. This thing…it’s put a strain on our relationship. My old man said Robby’s been skipping school and even got caught stealing. Neither one believes I’m innocent. No one does. Everyone who once had my back has turned away. I have no one in my corner.” The faint lines etched around his eyes deepened. “Help me make my brother believe in me again. You’re my only hope.”

  2

  The search for Cineste would have to wait until Bexley decided whether or not she would take Dean up on his insane offer. With fifty thousand dollars, she could afford a top-of-the-line investigator to assist her in locating her sister. With five hundred…the options would be limitless. She’d be able to hire an ex-military team to extract Cineste if it came down to such an extreme.

  Armed with Dean’s advance of a thousand dollars to cover her expenses, Bexley slipped into the backseat of his town car with far too many conflicting feelings to sort through each and every one. Still exhausted from the long flight in addition to the three hour time difference, the ride to Papaya Springs was excruciating.

  The outskirts of the elite city finally appeared through the open window in a blur of twinkling Christmas lights and extravagant holiday decorations. The sounds of music and the raised voices of partygoers stirred a strong sense of déjà vu in the pit of Bexley’s stomach. She’d been down this road more times than she could count, but the scene had changed since her last visit. The dive bars she’d tried to sneak into during her senior year with her friends had transformed into ostentatious nightclubs, and every last fast food joint had been leveled to make way for over-priced restaurants with lines winding around the buildings. Every other vehicle they passed was a Bentley or Tesla, or some outrageously expensive vehicle Bexley wouldn’t know the first thing about. There was an upscale vibe that made SoHo and Beverly Hills seem ghetto in comparison. Sadness pulled at her insides when she realized any familiarity associated with her childhood was long gone.

  Once the driver turned off the main road, Bexley got her first up-close look at the residential upgrades to the southern California community. Mansion after mansion took up entire city blocks, some hidden behind brick gates and bushes, others towering high into the sky with intricate turrets and complex architecture. She even caught a fleeting glimpse of a helipad. After a time, the houses and yards eventually become smaller, though they were still more elaborate than anything she’d seen in her youth.

  Soon they were gliding along two-lane roads in a quieter neighborhood of quaint businesses and well-manicured parks. Dean had arranged for her to meet with the detective in charge of the murdered woman’s case and the car pulled up to the curb outside a newly constructed 3-story
building clearly marked PAPAYA SPRINGS POLICE DEPARTMENT. The residents of the ocean-side city were undoubtedly eager to shell out generous donations in order to keep their investments well protected.

  Her deeply tanned driver opened Bexley’s door with a pleasant smile, and let her know he would wait there until she was ready to head to Dean’s beach house for the night. It was one of the conditions of her employ that Bexley was hesitant to accept, but Dean refused to budge. He was staying in Malibu for a few more days, and promised she’d have the place all to herself. The idea of staying in a multi-million dollar property that belonged to someone famous made her stomach flip around like a washing machine. She couldn’t get behind the concept of flaunting wealth, even if it wasn’t hers. She would’ve been more content staying at a cheap motel.

  Inside the station, a strikingly clean tan decor and tall windows paired with the latest technology. She was buzzed in through the security door by a prickly old woman sitting behind a desk, then she was unceremoniously told to sit down until she was called. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome once they learned she was there to inquire about Dean’s involvement, but she was sure it had more to do with the fact that the woman was still working after dark on a Friday night. From the eerie stillness to the building, it seemed everyone had already checked out.

  She was on the verge of snoozing in the uncomfortable plastic chair by the time the deep, rumbling voice called out, “Bexley Ferguson?”

  Bexley startled with the sound of her maiden name before rising on her sensible ballet flats. It was expected that she would eventually run into someone familiar once she returned, but she didn’t think it would happen right away. Not at the police station. Her stomach dipped with the dumbfounded expression of the man who had called her out. It wasn’t his impressively broad shoulders, dark hair with a razor part, kind eyes beneath thick brows, or sweet smile that stopped her dead in her tracks. It was because she’d never thought she’d be reunited with her high school crush.

  After being assigned as lab partners in Chemistry their junior year, Bexley and Grayson had become fast friends. In addition to being the level of handsome that made a pubescent girl forget her own name, he was a real stand-up kind of guy with a wicked sense of humor. He’d rescued Bexley and her best friend on more than one occasion when they’d had too much to drink. He was the real deal…honors student and natural jock rolled into one sinfully decadent package, but he’d been out of Bexley’s league. His girlfriend at the time—Amanda Classon, AKA the queen of evil, would’ve beheaded Bexley if she had even considered making a move.

  Bexley believed the rumors that Grayson only proposed to Amanda in college because she claimed to be carrying his baby—one that she later allegedly miscarried. He was too much of a catch for a spoiled trust-fund baby with daddy issues who had been gifted with breast implants on her eighteenth birthday.

  “Grayson Rivers?” She couldn’t decide if time had simply served him well, or if the gun and badge strapped to his waist added to his attractiveness. She mockingly raised the pitch of her voice, and asked, “As in the same Grayson Rivers who married the Papaya Springs High homecoming queen?”

  “It’s Detective Rivers now.” His lips pulled back in a playful smile, giving him a boyish charm. She awkwardly moved in closer and they exchanged a brief hug. Grayson was all man, rigid everywhere with muscle. His earthy, clean scent was a sharp contrast to Dean’s rich cologne, and it rearranged something in her lower belly. When she stepped back, he said, “You haven’t changed one bit.”

  “Actually, I have changed—I mean, at least my name. I was married for a hot minute. It was like one of those Vegas things, only it happened without actually going to Vegas.” She chided herself for rambling. “Anyway, it’s Bexley Squires now.”

  He hesitated. “Please don’t tell me you’re the reporter who wanted to discuss Dean Halliwell.”

  With a stiff laugh, she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her wrinkled dress slacks. “Would you rather I told you a corny joke instead?”

  He rolled his eyes, thick lips still bent with a smirk. “You haven’t lost your wit, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time by coming here. There’s not much I can tell you beyond what we already released to the press.”

  “I’m not asking for a backstage pass. I wanted to hear the facts straight from the source…maybe even get the contact info for the witnesses who found the body.”

  Grayson shook his head, friendly expression unwavering. Bexley wasn’t sure if he was openly flirting, or if he was simply relieved to learn the nosy reporter had turned out to be an old friend. “Are the rumors true? Are you responsible for sending Richard Warren and half the judicial system in New York to prison?”

  There was no hiding the heat rising in her cheeks. It was flattering that he was aware of her biggest career achievement. “That sounds a bit ambitious, don’t you think? I’m merely the lucky soul approached by a disgruntled employee.”

  The florescent lights behind the receptionist flickered off, causing Grayson to grumble, “Guess they’re in a hurry to close the place down.” He met Bexley’s hopeful expression, and wet his lips. “You hungry? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but this city has gotten out of control since you left. Friday nights can be a nightmare if you aren’t someone special with a fat wallet. But I know someone who could hook us up with wings and cold brews without having to wait.”

  “Does this mean your wife works at Hooters now?” Bexley lifted one eyebrow. “And they said millennials don’t like boobs.”

  He released a deliciously deep laugh. “Amanda and I are no longer married. She split from me years ago.”

  Bexley felt a little thrill of victory. “But does she work at Hooters?” She raised her folded hands to her chin. “Please tell me she works at Hooters.”

  “Doubtful.” A flash of anger pinched his expression before he looked away. “Shortly after we moved back here, she ran off with a real estate tycoon. She’ll probably never work another day in her life. I think it was her plan all along—she hated being middle class.”

  Placing a hand on his forearm, Bexley waited until he met her soft expression. “You do realize that you were always too good for her, right?”

  Grayson’s friendly smile returned as he walked backwards. “Wait here. It’ll just take me a second to shut down and grab my things.” Back turned on her, he mused to himself, “Bexley Squires.”

  As Bexley watched him trail off, her eyes focused on the tight butt inside his trousers. Some things never changed. It was just her luck to be reunited with Grayson. She only hoped he wouldn’t get in her way.

  Not wanting him to take her to Dean’s place, Bexley insisted on meeting Grayson at the diner. She caught his slight look of surprise when he watched her slip into the town car, and worried what he’d say if he discovered she was there on Dean’s behalf.

  Once settled across from each other at Sandy’s, a quaint diner with 50’s themed decor, the booth and overall atmosphere felt far too intimate to be conducting an official interview. With Grayson’s black tie gone and button-down oxford open to a sliver of his tanned chest, every female in the joint craned their necks for a better view. Bexley repeatedly reminded herself that she was strictly there for the story.

  After a young and maddeningly perky waitress came by to drop off two of “his favorite” beers along with a suggestive wink, Bexley held up her smart phone. “Do you have any objection to this conversation being recorded?”

  “You’re not wasting any time getting down to business.” He lifted his frosty mug, pausing to study her over its rim. “What if I invited you here for the sole purpose of catching up?”

  She heaved a deep, frustrated sigh as he took a drink. “Don’t bust my lady balls, Grayson. I didn’t fly all the way here from New York to hear the sordid details of how you realized Malibu Barbie was totally wrong for you.”

  “You never were one to hold back.” Setting his beer down, he leaned over the table. “Where were you
when the minister asked if there were any reasons why we shouldn’t marry?”

  She raised her mug, laughing. “My invite must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Besides—isn’t that a rhetorical question? Does anyone actually speak out and singlehandedly ruin the couple’s shot at a happily ever after?”

  “Are you saying no one stood up and voiced their opinion at your wedding?” With a deep smirk, Grayson chuckled. “Can we talk more about this marriage of yours? Who was this guy, and how did he persuade the one and only Bexley Ferguson into tying the knot, even if it was short-lived? If memory serves me right, you were totally against the institution of marriage because of your father.”

  That adorable smirk of his got under Bexley’s skin. She didn't want to rehash the biggest mistake of her life with the only guy who had made her teenage heart giddy. Her relationship with Jack had been passionate and wild from the start—not anything meant to last. When Jack proposed, she decided she’d at least get a new last name out of the deal, since moving to the other side of the country hadn’t been enough to escape her father’s reputation. It wasn’t long before she realized that marriage would never be her thing. A mere week after they eloped at City Hall, she’d persuaded Jack to claim he couldn’t sexually perform so the marriage could be annulled. His ego was deflated, but she swore she’d never tell another soul.

  Cheeks flushing, she wagged a finger in Grayson’s direction. “At least my lapse in judgment was short lived. Exactly how long were you married?”

  “You got me there.” Raising his mug, he laughed. “How long are you planning to stay in town? Does your old man still live around here? He was a Captain in the Navy when we were seniors, right? What about your sister?”

  If there was one thing Bexley hated rehashing more than her joke of a marriage, it was discussing her dysfunctional family. And she wasn’t anywhere near ready to explain Cineste’s situation—especially to a police detective. “When the cost of real estate in the area surpassed the national debt, my father packed up and took Cineste with him to Newport Beach.” She took a long sip of her beer. “Wow, this hoppy flavor isn't normally something I enjoy, but the fruity kick at the end is smooth. If the waitress knew this was your favorite beer, I’m guessing you’re a local.”