The Dead Girl's Stilettos

by Quinn Avery

“You must be exhausted,” Bexley told her. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, Temperance. It was lovely to meet you.”

  Temperance took one of Bexley’s hands in between both of hers and squeezed. “I watch for your article, Miss Bexley. You clear my Dean’s name, no?”

  Painfully conscious of the information she'd gathered at that point, it wasn’t a promise Bexley could make anytime soon. “I’ll try my best.”

  On the drive back to Dean’s, Bexley psyched herself up, fearful that she’d lose her nerve the second she looked into the actor’s beautiful eyes. That kiss had completely tilted her grip on reality. She vowed she wouldn’t let it happen again, no matter how thick he laid on the charisma. So she was grateful for the surge of anger that surfaced when Dean opened his front door.

  From the disheveled state of his hair and lack of clothing, she assumed he had stayed up all hours of the night, and she'd roused him from sleep. Bexley hadn't seen him without a shirt up close and personal, but she was determined not to let the beautifully defined ridges and smooth valleys affect her annoyance.

  “Is there anyone you may have omitted from that list you gave me?” she snarled, shoving her way inside.

  Dean blinked several times. “What are you talking about? Did you meet with Temperance?”

  “I’m asking if you forgot someone…like maybe your best friend.”

  “Yeah, Shane knows all my security codes, but what does it matter? He would never need to steal anything. He has more money than God. If he wanted those shoes, he could’ve paid Iman triple their value.”

  “Maybe there was a girl he wanted to impress, and didn’t think he had time to negotiate prices with Iman.”

  “Then he’d whisk her away on a private jet to Bora Bora.” He laughed at a decibel that grated against her teeth. “Shane doesn’t do anything half-assed. That kind of thing would be beneath him.”

  Hands anchored on her hips, she refused to give up. The harder Dean resisted the idea, the more she wanted to prove him wrong. “Do you know if he’s still home? I want to ask him about the stilettos face-to-face. You’d be surprised what a person reveals in their facial expressions.”

  Dean’s lips twisted with an antagonistic grin. “Is that how you busted Richard Warren? With a look?”

  The wise-crack made her angrier. “I don’t expect you to hand your best friend over on a platter, but you said it yourself. The guy’s a jackass. Would it be so hard to believe that he killed someone?”

  “He left early this morning for some remote island near Indonesia. One of his surfing buddies said the waves were killer. I can give you his number, but he mentioned he wouldn’t have the best service.”

  “How convenient.” With a determined stride, she closed the distance between them. “If your friendship is the only thing preventing me from clearing your name, I would hope you’d step forward and do the right thing. Whoever murdered that girl needs to pay.”

  Blinking several times, Dean flexed his jaw. In her mind, his silence and sudden uncomfortable reaction to the confrontation were as telling as an admission of Shane’s guilt. He still didn’t say a word as she stormed back outside.

  She aimlessly drove around the city’s well-manicured streets, fuming over everything that had happened in a span of 12 hours. She felt as if she'd been duped by Dean’s allure. Was that his reason for kissing her? Was he hoping to distract her before she got too close to the truth? But why would he take her to the party if he knew of Shane’s guilt? Why would he have hired her? Had he just discovered the truth?

  Her energy spiked through the roof. She had to do something. That’s when she remembered the private investigator Grayson recommended. With Dean’s payment funding her search efforts, it was time to take action. She found the number in Grayson’s text, hesitating. It seemed since returning home, she’d become tangled in a web of deceit and lies. How did she know this PI could be trusted with her sister’s fate? Truth was she didn’t. But she couldn’t sit around any longer, worrying about Cineste.

  “Stronghold Investigations,” a deep, raspy voice bellowed. Bexley pictured a graying man with a cigarette in hand, cowboy hat perched on his head.

  “I’m looking for someone to help me find my sister. I’m told you have a knack for that kind of thing.”

  “By who?” The question sounded like an accusation.

  “Grayson Rivers.”

  The man huffed loudly into the phone, making Bexley wonder if the men were on solid terms. “How old?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “My father dropped her off for a new job on November second. I couldn’t afford an investigator until now.”

  There was a sound of paper being shuffled around before he let out a reluctant sigh. “I require a thousand dollar deposit, non-refundable. My rate’s a hundred an hour. If you’re still interested, call my secretary in the morning to set up an appointment, and we’ll talk details then.”

  “Mr. Stronghold?” She paused to lick her lips. “Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve known Grayson?”

  “I’d say it’s been around eight years…give or take.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “With my life.”

  Although Bexley wasn’t sure whether or not that made them both questionable, she was somehow pleased with his answer. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

  Almost immediately after ending the conversation, her phone buzzed with an incoming call from Grayson. Maybe his ears had been burning with their conversation. “Bex? Where are you?”

  “In an altered state, contemplating the choices that brought me here. Where are you?”

  He waited a moment before answering, possibly trying to decide whether she was either drunk or high. Bexley wished she'd been one or the other, anything to numb the sense of failure snaking through her belly.

  “You’re gonna want to come down to the station right away. The victim’s roommate just came forward.” He waited again. “Bex, did you hear me? We have a positive ID on Jane Doe.”

  10

  Grayson met Bexley in the parking lot of the police station with a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His handsome features were strained, and he paced as if on a mission. The things Dean had said the night before about the “jerk detective” quickly infected her thoughts, canceling out the hope that came from her conversation with the investigator. Was it possible she was too close to Grayson to see the truth?

  Tiny chills swept up her spine when a thought occurred to her: What if he truly had been following her all this time, and watched her with Dean on the beach? What if that was the real reason for his anger? She shook her head, positive Dean’s suspicions had gotten the best of her. They’d roped the beach off to outsiders, and the party had been heavily guarded. Unless Grayson had an invite to the party, there’s no way he would’ve been around to see their interaction. And it was absurd for her to think he might be that infatuated with her.

  She quickly killed the engine on her rental before walking over to him. “Where’s the roommate? Why did it take over a month for them to come forward? Didn’t they know their roommate was missing?”

  He held the palms of his hands out. “She left about an hour before I called you. I told her I’d stop by to look through the victim’s things. Get in my car—I’ll fill you in on the details along the way. We don’t have a lot of time before I’m scheduled to meet with the press.”

  Bexley’s breath caught when he nudged her toward the sedan. The license plate wasn’t the same style as that of the one parked outside her apartment. It felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders when she sunk into the passenger’s seat.

  It made sense that she wouldn’t be given a chance to interview the girl at the police station. Her alliance with Grayson on the case needed to remain quiet. Still, as he backed out of the parking stall, she wondered why he couldn’t have just told her the details over the phone and provided her with the girl�
�s address so she could investigate on her own.

  “Can’t you afford a bigger car?” Grayson grumbled, eyeing her rental as they left the busy lot. “If someone hits you in that thing, it’ll crumple like a goddamn soda can.”

  Bexley watched him struggle with his seatbelt. “You seem awfully tense. I thought maybe you'd be excited for catching a break in the case.”

  “My lieutenant decided this case should take precedence again since the victim turned out to be a wholesome girl from North Dakota. My guess is the chamber of commerce doesn’t want word to spread that it’s not safe in Papaya Springs. I’m gonna feel the pressure from all different directions until this case is solved.”

  “Tell me what you know about this roommate.”

  “Her name’s Faith Kemp…twenty-three, moved here from Ohio after high school, hoping to catch a break in modeling. She confirmed from the autopsy photos that the victim was Willow Hallsrud…twenty-two-year-old graduate from the University of North Dakota. Relocated to Tustin about a year ago. Found Willow through an ad online. When I called to inform the victim’s parents, they claimed she was a good girl in high school, never got into trouble. She was smart—graduated with honors. Middle of three children, raised on a dairy farm.” His gaze drew up to Bexley. “Then she moved out here and they lost touch with her after they’d had a big blow-out. They suspected she’d started partying hard, using drugs.”

  “I guess that explains why her family didn’t wonder where she’d been all this time, but what about the roommate? She must not have been too upset when she didn’t hear a word from Willow all that time.” Bexley found it odd that a girl that age wouldn’t have seen the sketches on social media in the past several weeks. Cineste was addicted to her phone, and always forwarded stories or jokes she came across.

  “She claims Willow was gone all the time for odd jobs, or whenever she found a guy she liked. Said she never watches the news, and hadn’t come across the sketch of her roommate until she was waiting for an Uber at the grocery story, saw it on a bulletin board. She seemed shaken when I took her statement.”

  “Did she mention whether or not Willow had been seeing anyone when she disappeared?”

  “She said there’d been one guy coming around a lot lately, but she didn’t know his name. I’m hoping we’ll find more information after looking through Willow’s possessions.”

  It was at that inopportune moment her phone rang from its spot in the cup holder between them. When Dean’s name flashed across the screen, Grayson said, “How’d your date go with Mr. Hollywood? Find anything that’ll help nail him to the wall? The guy’s no different from a con-artist, Bex. He makes a living pretending to be someone else. Make sure you don’t fall for his act. Whatever story he feeds you about his involvement with the victim is likely to be bullshit.”

  Bexley’s insides twisted.

  The girls lived in a neighborhood where slimy strip clubs and greasy fast food joints with bars on their windows lined cracked roads. Broken toddlers’ tricycles and angry dogs loomed behind chain link fences. The homeless had set up shelters everywhere imaginable in parks and alleyways. In sharp contrast to Papaya Springs’ well-manicured lawns, the grass was yellowed and covered in weeds. Grayson had commented when they pulled into the driveway that there’s no way he would’ve allowed her to come there alone. Even the disrepair of the girls’ little green house felt threatening.

  It seemed logical the victim’s roommate wanted to become a model. Between piercing green eyes, a scattering of dark freckles across her pale skin, and perfect ringlets in her scarlet red hair, Faith Kemp was a natural beauty. Multiple piercings, including a silver hoop in her nose, along with ripped jeans and a shredded T-shirt gave her an edgy, rock and roll vibe. Arms folded tightly beneath her modestly-sized chest, she stood in the corner of Willow’s room, scowling whenever Grayson took pictures or bagged any items.

  The bedroom was small, cramped with too much furniture, and stank with something unidentifiable. Its contents were in total disarray. Clothes and shoes were strewn about. Empty water bottles, fast food wrappers, and crumbs of different types littered the floor. Piles of 4x6 pictures stretched across the wrinkled sheets on the double mattress. On one of the dressers, a credit card rested beside a mirror containing white residue. Nearby, a vape pen rested on a baggy with what appeared to be weed.

  Bexley’s heart sank as she studied the only framed picture in the room. Two nearly identical women around the same age with the same honey-blond locks beamed into the camera for a selfie. The picture zoomed in too closely to give a clue of the women’s whereabouts, or give a hint of what they were wearing. They were both exceptionally beautiful, and undoubtedly shared the same genes. It reminded Bexley of the last picture she’d taken with Cineste.

  In the middle of collecting the drugs, Grayson stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Was her room always this disorderly?”

  The roommate wiped at one of her eyes in a way that suggested she was tired rather than sad. “Not at first. She was a neat freak when she moved in. Always had everything in its place. Once she started doing coke, she became a hot mess. I would’ve kicked her out a long time ago if I wasn’t desperate for someone to pick up half the rent. At least she always paid on time. Now I have to find someone else fast before I get evicted again.”

  “What do you know about these odd jobs she was working?” Bexley asked. Since Grayson hadn’t been clear on any boundaries that might be set, she wanted to take advantage of every second spent with this girl. “Would you be able to name any of the businesses?”

  “I have no clue where she worked. All I know is one of those jobs brought in a shitload of cash—most of which probably went up her nose. She’d be gone for several days in a row. Sometimes she’d come home crying, sometimes she’d be high. There were times she’d even be in need of medical attention, but she refused to see a doctor whenever I suggested it.”

  Grayson turned around. “What kind of medical attention?”

  “Most of the time it was minor stuff—things that could’ve used a cast or stitches. Broken fingers, a few cuts and bruises, whatever. But one time I know her arm was busted because she was cradling it non-stop, and it looked like it was bent the wrong way. One of her friends came by a few hours later and reset it while Willow was high.”

  Removing one of the latex gloves he’d used as he’d bagged the evidence, Grayson typed something into his phone with his index finger. “Know a way we can get in touch with this friend?”

  “I never got an introduction. Willow had a few random friends, but that one came around all the time in the weeks leading up to Willow’s disappearance. She’d sneak in and out of here like she was on the run from something. Underneath her excessive use of makeup and bad green dye job, I get the feeling she had the potential to be as beautiful as she was sketchy. But I began noticing they both had needle marks on their arms. I wouldn't be surprised if they started shooting up to stay skinny. Sometimes I wondered if they were maybe even selling because they were in debt to their dealers or something. One time I overheard the friend freaking out, saying they would come after Willow if she quit.”

  Grayson and Bexley exchanged an interested look before he addressed the girl again. “Any other friends that may have stood out from the others?”

  She shrugged. “I mean there was this one guy…crazy good looking…clean cut…wore expensive things. The guy even smelled like money. He started coming around a lot before Willow went missing.”

  Grayson continued tapping on his phone. “Do you think he could’ve been her dealer, or maybe even a pimp?”

  The girl’s thick red eyebrows shot up. “You think Willow was a prostitute?”

  “Does that seem like something she’d do?” he countered.

  “Yeah…I mean…possibly,” Faith stammered. “She was so far into drugs that not much would’ve surprised me. Is there big money in that kind of thing?”

  “There is if you have wealthy clientele.” Grayson dra
gged his un-gloved hand over his short hair. “Do you know if she kept a diary?”

  The girl’s eyes skipped around the disastrous room. “Your guess is as good as mine. If she did, it would probably just be filled with a bunch of nonsense. Usually if she was home, she’d be wasted.”

  The two women watched Grayson finish sticking the cataloged items into the bag before he stood and addressed Faith. “I think I have everything I need for now. If you think of anything else, give the station a call.” He nodded in Bexley’s direction. “I need to head back for the press release. Meet you at the car.”

  “Intense guy,” Faith said.

  Bexley slipped a business card into the girl’s hand. “If you remember anything that stood out about any of her friends, please, give me a call…no matter the time.”

  The girl raised a pierced eyebrow. “You’re a reporter?” Eyes twinkling, she grinned. “Are you going to write something about me?”

  As much as she wanted to call the girl out for being self-centered, Bexley smiled back. “Maybe.”

  Grayson dropped Bexley at her car in the station’s parking lot, and she headed back to her apartment. As she stood in the hallway, digging around in her bag for the keys, she noticed the door was already ajar. She snatched her stun gun from the depths of her bag and nudged the door open farther until it hit the wall. “Is there someone in here?” she shouted. “You should know I have a stun gun, and I’m not afraid to use it on trespassing assholes!” When no one hollered back with an answer, she stepped inside.

  The place was trashed. Furniture was turned upside down, curtains were ripped off the rods and shredded into pieces, and the few contents from the kitchen cabinets were scattered across the floor.

  “Rude,” she muttered to herself. It wasn’t like she had much to search. Why did they have to destroy the pots and pans? “There goes my deposit.”

  She collected a chair off the floor and headed into the hallway, relieved to find the pictures she’d stashed in the ceiling tile hadn’t been disturbed. But there was no sign of her laptop. At least she’d drafted her notes on the case using an online processor.