The Dead Girl's Stilettos

by Quinn Avery

  “I only frequent this place when I’m working. I rent a place in Irvine.” Cue sexy smirk. “And you keep changing the subject.”

  “You’re right.” She flattened her hands against the wooden table top and sat a little taller. “We’re here to talk about the Jane Doe you accused Dean Halliwell of murdering.”

  Playful banter gone, Grayson shook his head. “Despite what your colleagues are saying, we didn’t accuse him of anything. We merely brought him in for questioning.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t ever put me in the same category as those bottom-feeding type journalists who rehash bad Tweets using poor grammar and questionable morals. In return I won’t assume you’re anything like Channing Tatum in that bad remake of Twenty-one Jump Street.”

  He appeared to fight off a grin when he worked his square jaw while running a hand over his closely cropped hair and down his face, flexing the muscles in his bicep. Bexley bit down on her bottom lip before a traitorous sigh could escape. Between Richard Warren and Cineste, it had been far too long since she’d allowed herself to indulge in the luxury of sexual escapades.

  “Come on, Gray.” Bexley wasn’t too proud to beg, and she also wasn’t ready to give up without a fight. She opened the microphone app on her phone before flashing him a genuine grin. “Consider it a huge favor for an old friend.”

  “I guess you’re in the big leagues now. The payout for an inside scoop on this murder could be colossal, huh?”

  “Pretty significant.” She chewed on the tip of her tongue for a moment, contemplating telling him that she was actually there to clear Dean’s name. She hated to lie to her old friend, but he might change his mind about helping her if he learned she was assisting the only suspect they’d had. “And I need the money—more than you can imagine.”

  Scratching at the short stubble on his jawline, he leaned in a little closer. “What I’m about to say stays between you and me. Off the record. Can you do that?”

  Bexley’s breath caught in her throat. The solemn tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. Nodding once, she tapped her phone to pause the recording.

  He leaned in, voice lowered. “My lieutenant announced we’re wasting time on this case. He ordered us to focus our efforts elsewhere. I have a hunch that he’s being heavily influenced to give up the search by someone outside of the department. All this new money coming into Papaya Springs has corrupted everyone in a position of power. Since the victim’s family would’ve come forward by now if she’d been someone of importance, her murder doesn’t take priority over break-ins and fender benders. I’m willing to help you out when I can, but my involvement will have to remain discreet.”

  Bexley was thrilled to learn her old crush hadn’t given in to the captains of industry. It was comforting to know that good guys still existed. By the way Papaya Springs operated around the almighty dollar, it didn’t surprise her to hear it had lost its moral compass. She held the palms of her hands up, smiling. “Say no more. I’m grateful you’re willing to work with me. When this piece goes to print, you’re guaranteed anonymity.”

  “Glad to hear it, because I’m not convinced that I would trust anyone else in this situation.”

  3

  Grayson’s expression became sullen as he spoke. “Nine-one-one received an anonymous tip late in the evening on November twenty-sixth, claiming there was a dead woman on the beach just south of Papaya Springs’ busiest bay. Beach patrol confirmed it less than twenty minutes later, and CSI arrived on the scene within the hour. The victim died from a gunshot wound to the head, then was dumped into the water postmortem. There was some faded bruising around her throat, as if it was an old injury that had started to heal, but no other marks on her body. The amount of cocaine in her system would’ve killed her if the bullet hadn’t done the trick. She wasn’t submerged for long before her body washed to shore, it’s presumed she was killed while on a boat—possibly one moored in the same bay.”

  Bexley lifted her chin. “And you still don’t have any leads on her identity?”

  “No one has come forward. She was completely naked. No jewelry, no tattoos, no identifying marks. The coroner noted she’d recently undergone a breast augmentation, so we contacted all the plastic surgeons in SoCal. Nothing.”

  “No hits on her fingerprints?”

  “No. And no hits on DNA from the sexual assault examination, either. The corner found trace evidence from a total of five different men. The murderer could’ve been any one of them, all five, or none.”

  Knots formed in Bexley’s stomach, and she felt the color drain from her face. “Yet no bruising other than around her neck? Have you considered she may be a prostitute?”

  In a flash, Grayson’s expression hardened. “You think this is my first rodeo? That was the first thing that came to my mind too—it’s one of the reasons my lieutenant claimed she wasn’t worth our efforts.”

  Bexley’s face warmed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t know how to do your job. It’s just…I’d rather believe that to be true than to imagine the horrors that poor woman may have gone through.” She could barely breathe once she thought of Cineste. A violent shiver ran through Bexley, turning her blood cold. For all she knew, her sister was dead. That could’ve been her on the beach. What had made her sister run off? Was she merely starting a new life, far from their father’s reach? But why wouldn’t she reach out to Bexley? “What did the, um…victim look like?”

  “Caucasian, approximately twenty-two to twenty-four years of age, blond hair, brown eyes, five-foot-three, in excellent health and shape…seems to have spent a lot of time at the gym.”

  Bexley let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding, relieved that nothing about the woman matched Cineste’s description. As she watched her thumb chase the beads of condensation dripping off her mug, hot tears burned behind her eyes. She knew she couldn’t walk away from this. Surely someone out there was searching for the victim the same way she was looking for Cineste. And they deserved answers. They deserved justice.

  Grayson set his hand over hers. “Hey. You okay?”

  Bexley withdrew her hand into her lap while forcing a convincing nod. “I’m just tired of there being more and more violence toward women. It seems like the problem keeps getting worse instead of better.”

  “Do you own a gun?” When she shook her head, Grayson scowled. “You should if you’re living in New York. And especially if you insist on covering high-profile assholes like Warren and Halliwell.”

  Heart skipping a beat, she narrowed her eyes. “You think Dean Halliwell’s an asshole?”

  “Have you met the guy yet? He’s like every other rich prick in this community. Thinks he’s above the law, and the rest of us are here to serve them like we’re their lowly staff. And he travels with an entourage that he insisted be part of the questioning. The second I sat down across from them, one of his idiot friends demanded lattes and vegan sandwiches because they’d missed lunch to meet with me. The prick smirked his way through half the conversation, like he was amused that his buddy would ever be considered a suspect. Then Halliwell lawyered up, putting an end to any more questioning, and we didn’t have any other reason to hold him. If I had found one shred of evidence to tie him to this murder, I would’ve arrested him in a heartbeat. I didn’t get a good vibe from the guy or his friends. It felt like they were hiding something.”

  Beyond what she read online, Dean’s life was a mystery, and she trusted Grayson’s instincts more than her own. She hadn’t seen that smug side of Dean, but as an actor, he was a skilled chameleon, able to take on whatever personality was appropriate for the situation. Squirming in her seat, she guzzled a little more beer, worried that Grayson might be right.

  Setting the mug down on the table, she cleared her throat. “What do you know about the witness who claimed to see Dean Halliwell in Papaya Springs with the victim?”

  “The tip was anonymous—call wasn’t long enough for a trace. Th
e woman’s speech was garbled and slow, like she was on something. She said she’d seen Halliwell with the victim the night before she was found. We almost dismissed it as a prank call until she gave Halliwell’s address. The general public doesn’t know where he lives. We interviewed all his neighbors in that area, but no one claimed to see him around the weekend of the murder.”

  Including Dean’s staff. “What about the call reporting the body?”

  “A gas station attendant on the South Side called in after she saw the murder in the news, claimed she’d waited on a couple of doped up college kids who asked to use a public phone. She said they were especially keyed up about something, and told her they needed to report a dead person. We were able to uncover the identity of the male via security footage. He’s PSC’s new star basketball player—had a past minor consumption that was later expunged. He denied having any involvement in the call, which we can’t dispute as it was made by a young woman. He claims he was at the gas station with a hook-up, and didn’t catch her name. We didn’t have a clear enough visual of her face to make a positive ID on his companion. The only details we have is that she was around five-seven with an athletic build and long blond hair.”

  “If the baller’s record was expunged, would his fingerprints still be in the system?”

  “Most likely yes, but there weren’t any latent prints found at the scene of the crime.”

  Bexley tapped her chin thoughtfully with an index finger. It was unlikely this kid was the murderer if he was somehow involved with the woman who called it in, but if he was high like the gas attendant suspected, he could know more than he’d been willing to share with the police for fear of ending his career. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to disclose the name of this witness?”

  “He wasn’t exactly thrilled about meeting with the police. I guarantee he won’t be open to an interview.”

  “See this?” she asked, pointing at her rather petite face. “I wasn’t blessed with this pathetically young appearance for nothing. They still sometimes offer me a booster seat and kids’ menu. I guarantee you I can easily pass as a college student—you watch.”

  “You may be skilled as an investigative journalist, but you aren’t trained to deal with hostile witnesses.” Grayson scrubbed at his dark brows, releasing a growling noise. “This is serious business, Bex. This kid has a lot to lose. You could get hurt.”

  “You think exposing one of the wealthiest men in the world for sex trafficking was a stroll in the park?” He was unaware of the danger she’d faced the second she got too close to Richard Warren’s operation. It started with a brick being tossed through her car window, and escalated to an attempted drive-by. They’d even tried burning her apartment to the ground before her firefighter neighbor was able to contain the blaze to the kitchen. If Grayson knew she was singlehandedly hoping to track down someone who threatened his own father at gunpoint before taking Cineste, he’d probably handcuff her to his office chair.

  His hands raked through his hair. “If this kid finds out you’re writing an article—”

  “He won’t. I promise. Grayson, I’m no longer the hot mess you had to drive home from parties. I can handle myself better than you think.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Finally defeated, he dropped his hands and let out a slow breath. “Don’t suppose you’ll at least let me send you off with a can of pepper spray?”

  Patting her handbag, she grinned. “I never leave home without my stun gun.”

  Eyes traveling down to her modest navy blouse, he smirked. “If you’re going to pass as a co-ed, you’re gonna need a change of wardrobe.”

  A hot flush rose in Bexley’s chest. She wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t using the situation as a chance to check her out.

  The young waitress returned with their burgers and fries, and carried on a hushed conversation with Grayson. Bexley squirmed when Grayson openly flirted, making the girl giggle and bump her tanned legs against his arm. She was probably Cineste’s age, and wore her shirt cropped at her bellybutton, shorts barely long enough to not be considered obscene. Golden-blond hair piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun, handful of gold bangle bracelets on one arm jingled whenever she made a move, she was a perfect representation of the generation whose sole goal in life was to achieve the perfect Instagram post.

  Once the girl left them with their food, Bexley popped a fry in her mouth and threw Grayson a wink. “I think I have an idea of the exact look I need.”

  Grayson persuaded her to indulge in one more beer after they finished eating. By then she was sure she’d fall over from exhaustion. In the parking lot, standing beside his work sedan, there was an awkward moment in which she wasn’t sure if another hug was appropriate. Their eyes met, and he leaned in with a hand pressed against the small of her back. His soft lips brushed over her cheek. She gave him a bashful smile, and promised to call once safely tucked in for the night. Part of her was paranoid that he’d follow her, but there wasn’t any sight of his black car near the private street as Dean’s town car rolled up to the luxurious house massive enough to accommodate dozens of overnight guests.

  If Bexley had to guess, she’d value the real estate at a minimum of ten million. The prime beachfront location alone was easily worth three, and the lazy river that ran around an infinity pool undoubtedly escalated its market price. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how much he paid the attentive staff that materialized in greeting, especially if they were housed there full-time as she was beginning to suspect by the time a butler showed her to a bedroom four times the size of her apartment.

  She gave herself a quick tour of the place, wanting a better feel for Dean’s personal life. The high ceilings, polished marble floors, overabundance of windows, and a combination of steel and cedar gave it a cold, museum-like vibe. She guessed Dean was particular as it was clutter-free with a classic minimalistic decor. Curiously, there was only one door in the entire house that was locked while Dean’s room and office were left open. She’d decided it must’ve been a servant’s quarters, and didn’t give it another thought.

  Settled back into the guest room, she called Dean to officially accept his offer before filling him in on her plan. She didn’t give away too many details, or tell him of her agreement with Grayson. She wanted to keep him in the dark just in case his innocence came back into question. He was equally as concerned as Grayson had been over her safety if the witness discovered she was a reporter. Strangely enough, she wasn’t nearly as irritated when it came from the actor rather than her old friend. Maybe it was because she was paranoid that Grayson still saw her as the immature 18-year-old who often painted the interior of his classic Bronco with cheap Mexican cuisine.

  Once the arrangements were made for the $50,000 deposit into her bank account, she hung up the phone and cried.

  Hang in there, little sis, I’m coming for you.

  The next several hours, she researched the internet for anything she could find on the actor. He was raised in a small town in Iowa in a large family, and was working toward an engineering degree until junior year when a friend used him in a film project. The YouTube video caught the attention of a talent agent in Hollywood, and he became an overnight success with his first film. In the beginning, he only accepted projects rated PG-13 to appease his strict Catholic mom. Then she died in a car accident, and he became involved in a highly sexualized motorcycle series on one of the premium channels, and was launched into super-stardom among middle-aged women.

  Despite gaining a bad-boy image, he was known for being generous with children’s hospitals, and making regular appearances for sick children all over the country. It was rumored his younger brother Robby had Type I diabetes, and had endured several transplants before Dean became famous. As far as Bexley could tell, his only lasting relationship had been with Temperance Rose, a woman with her own reality show in which she squandered her grandfather’s fortune. Bexley wasn’t much into television, but she recalled seeing the raven-haired beauty a time
or two on commercials as well as the covers of various magazines.

  Once she fell down the rabbit-hole of Dean’s history, she was up later than intended, and slept past her usual routine. The property’s on-site chef served her Eggs Benedict and freshly squeezed orange juice on the patio. She felt insignificant seated at the monstrous driftwood table alongside 29 empty chairs while given a view of the ocean meant for someone filthy rich. But she took full advantage of her situation, striking up a conversation with the chef and everyone else she encountered, asking how long they’d been under Dean’s employ, and how long since they’d seen him last. Some had been around since the property was purchased; others had just been hired in recent months. But the other question was uniformly answered the same—Dean had left in late October to begin filming on a new project, and hadn’t been back since.

  Before starting the hour drive in a compact rental that looked more the part of a college student, Bexley headed to a middle class mall in Tustin to procure everything needed to play the convincing role of a co-ed. The way the young cashier at H&M rattled on about how well the top, shoes, and accessories Bexley chose would go together, she figured she'd nailed the look.

  Returning to a college campus was both exhilarating and as terrifying as anything she'd ever done. The atmosphere wasn’t anywhere near what she experienced at NYU. Papaya Spring College was a private school with a hefty tuition that only the most elite could afford without a full scholarship. Of the twenty thousand students enrolled, most preferred to live with their wealthy parents nearby rather than slumming it in the dormitories. With palm trees swaying overhead, and the salty aroma clinging to the humid air, the campus lacked a sense of urgency or studiousness. Over half the students shuffling past wore flip-flops and bikini tops or swim trunks. She saw no less than a dozen lit joints since parking the rental in the visitor’s lot, and assumed the stainless steel tumblers they openly carried weren’t filled with water.