Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1) Page 7

  “Thank you for squeezing us in,” Derek said.

  Max snorted. “It's hard to say no when people show up and there's only one way out of your office.” He grabbed a mitt full of napkins and mopped his mouth and forehead. Either Max was nervous about us coming to see him, or he had very spicy seasoning in his burrito.

  I took a seat in the visitor's chair across from his desk, moving slowly so I could lean forward and get a good whiff of his half-eaten burrito. I picked up the tang of hot sauce. I didn't have as many scent receptors as the beagle member of our team, but my nose had a little talent for cheap and dirty detective work.

  Derek took a seat next to me and instructed Chewie to lie down at his feet. She smacked her lips again. Derek gave her a stern look, and she settled down with her chin on her paws.

  Max said, “My secretary told me you're some sort of detectives. I don't know why Mitzi and Megan have gone to so much trouble. I told them I was on the case.”

  Mitzi and Megan? Did Max Harris think they were the ones who hired Derek? I turned to my boss to watch for a reaction. His brown eyes and steely expression revealed nothing.

  Derek only nodded and said to the man, “Speaking of which, what do you have so far?”

  Clever. He was fishing for information, pretending to know more than he did.

  Max replied, “Just scraps of papers. I gathered up all the Post-it notes Brock had around the office. I'm sure the new combination's written on one of them.”

  “For the antique safe,” Derek said, nodding. So, Mitzi and Megan were actively seeking the combination for Brock's home office safe for some reason.

  Max grabbed the burrito and took a huge bite, his jowls wagging.

  Derek said, “That's good news about the combination, but we're actually here today about a different matter.” He leaned back, looking casual. “I need to get a hold of that girl.”

  “Girl?” Max rubbed his mouth with the napkins. “What girl?” A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his forehead.

  “The one you told Brock Kensington to stop seeing.”

  Max bit into the burrito again and mumbled around the food, “What makes you think there was a girl?”

  Derek rubbed his chin and turned to me. “Abby, remember those parking tickets Max acquired recently? Did you notice any sort of pattern to them?”

  I swallowed hard. On the drive here, he'd coached me on what to say. I had easily memorized the words: Why, yes, Derek. All the parking tickets were within three blocks of the city's most notorious escort establishment. It's almost as though Mr. Harris discovered what Mr. Kensington was up to because he was doing the same thing himself.

  Instead of saying the prepared lines, I stammered, “Pa-pattern?”

  Without missing a beat, Derek turned to Max and said, “She can't tell me what she said in the car because she's disgusted. Absolutely disgusted.”

  My cheeks burned. I nodded down, my eyes on the taupe carpet.

  “Look at her,” Derek said, picking up steam. “Max, she can't even look you in the eyes. You disgust her with your womanizing ways.”

  “Sorry,” Max said, sounding like a small child being scolded. “I'm a bad boy.”

  “That's between you and your deity,” Derek said. “Now, give me the name of the girl your friend Brock was involved with. One name. And then I'm gone. You'll never see me again.”

  Max wiped his forehead with the napkins. “I can't remember her name,” he said.

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  Max took in a deep breath and wheezed it out noisily. “You won't tell anyone?”

  “I won't tell your wife or son,” Derek said. “You can still be a big hero in your son Chad's eyes.”

  “Too late for that,” Max said glumly. “My son hasn't looked up to me since he was five. He latches on to anyone but me. I swear he only started dating that sickly gerbil Megan so he could get himself into a new family. Chad loves the Kensingtons. He says they're everything our family isn't.”

  “Did Chad have a close relationship with Brock?”

  “He loved both Mitzi and Brock. Idolized them. They were the family his mother and I could never be.” He shook his head. “It's not his mother's fault. She never was strong, mentally. She couldn't handle life, and, unfortunately, not a troubled boy like Chad.”

  “Troubled?” Derek tipped his head to the side. “Is there a problem with Chad? Maybe some sealed juvenile records?”

  “No,” Max said a little too quickly. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. No.”

  Yes, yes, yes, I thought. Exactly like that.

  Derek pressed on. “How about Megan? What was that thing you call her?” He turned to me. “What did he call her? A mouse?”

  “A sickly gerbil,” I said.

  Derek turned back to Max. “Why'd you call Megan a sickly gerbil?”

  Max shrugged. “You've seen her face. She's got those beady little eyes.” He shuddered. “I hope my future grandchildren don't get the gerbil genes. If they took after Brock, it wouldn't be so bad. He had good genes.”

  “How are you dealing with the loss of your old friend?”

  Max used his thick thumb to wipe up the dribbles of sauce on his burrito plate. “Life goes on,” he said.

  “Is that mole poblano sauce?” Derek asked. “The kind with chocolate?”

  “Chocolate,” Max said slowly. “You know, I think I just remembered the girl's name.”

  He reached for a notepad and tore off a sheet of paper. He sniffed as he began writing.

  “My life is a mess,” he said glumly.

  “It's not too late,” Derek said. “People are bad umpires when it comes to their own lives, calling things finished long before it's truly all over. If you've got breath left in your body, it's not too late.”

  Max finished writing down the name of the girl and pushed the paper across the table toward us.

  “You don't know me,” Max said indignantly, a sudden flash of anger showing on his face. “You can pull up my tax records, my credit cards, even my internet search history, and you still won't know me. A man is not his record.”

  Derek took the paper, folded it without looking, and tucked it into his pocket. He stood and tugged on Chewie's leash.

  Max called after us, “A man is not his record!”

  We left the office.

  * * *

  We were waiting for the elevator to leave Avamar when Derek handed me Chewie's leash.

  “Back in a flash,” he said. He ducked his head back into the reception for Avamar and spoke to the receptionist for a moment. He returned at the same time the elevator arrived, and stepped in with a big smile on his face.

  We were alone in the elevator, which had mirrored walls reflecting his sunny grin to infinity.

  “Sending another thank-you gift?” I asked.

  “No, but I figured out where we're going for lunch,” he said. “Do you like Mexican food?”

  “Sure. Are we visiting Max's favorite takeout place to get more information about him?”

  “Abby, sometimes a burrito is just a burrito.” He pulled the paper Max had given him from his pocket and showed it to me. “Do you see how talking about the mole sauce triggered his memory?”

  The girl's first name was Coco. “You said chocolate, which made him think cocoa, and then Coco. I guess we meet with her next?” I rubbed my hands together. “This is getting exciting. A hooker named Coco definitely wears stiletto heels. She could have killed Brock and made it look like a burglary.”

  “She's also the first associate of the victim's that the police haven't gotten to first. We might be onto something. This could be our big break... or a dead end. Big breaks and dead ends feel exactly the same going in.”

  And that's why I'm so indecisive, I thought. Big breaks and dead ends look so similar. You don't know something's a trap until you wander into it.

  The elevator opened on the lobby floor. Derek took out his phone and started making a call as soon as we stepped outs
ide, onto the sunny sidewalk in downtown Norfolk. He pulled the receiver away from his mouth and said to me, “Be our sherpa. Take us to the nearest Mexican place. I already forgot the name the receptionist told me.”

  I guessed it was the burrito place a block away, so I led the way while he talked on the phone. He didn't say much, but I gathered he was trying to get the full version of a medical report that had been referenced but not included in our copy of the police homicide files.

  We arrived at the restaurant, which was packed with a lunch crowd. He stayed on the phone outside and sent me in to get takeout using the same corporate credit card I'd taken shopping. I got him the same burrito Max had been eating, and a taco salad for myself.

  Rather than eat in the car, we sat on a bench in a tiny park across the street. Chewie ate her lunch at the same time—a paper plate of dog food purchased from a nearby pet store.

  “It's good for the whole pack to eat at the same time,” Derek said. “A shared meal creates a bond.”

  I reached down and patted Chewie on her black saddle. “I'm honored to be part of Chewie's pack this week.”

  * * *

  When we'd finished eating, Derek said, “That's it for fieldwork today. Do you mind doing some work from home? I'm going on a personal call this afternoon, but if you've got access to a computer, you could type up a summary of today's two interviews. I don't expect it to be verbatim, but as long as you get something started, I can fill in the rest.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “I have a clunky old laptop at home. Do you want me to type up the visit to the hair salon and our tour of the Kensington home as well?”

  He looked surprised by my industriousness. “If you don't mind,” he said.

  * * *

  By four thirty, I'd finished the reports and proofread them. Since I was still on the payroll until five o'clock, I pulled up a search engine and started some research into gyroscopic exercise equipment. From what I saw, it looked like a great diet and fitness invention—you could get a workout and lose your stomach contents at the same time.

  Derek phoned at 4:45 p.m.

  “I got the full medical examiner's report,” he said excitedly.

  “What about Coco? Did you track her down?”

  “Yes, but listen to this: the victim's corpse had dried blood in his hair and on the back of his neck, but not a single fresh drop on the clothing he was found in.”

  “He changed clothes after he was hit, before he was strangled with his belt?”

  “That's a distinct possibility. Also, he had a waxy, peach-colored substance inside his nostrils.”

  “Drugs?”

  Derek chuckled on the other end of the call. “I don't think so. Not unless people are snorting makeup. The M.E. suggested it was lipstick.”

  “Mitzi Kensington wears peach-colored lipstick, or at least she was wearing it the first time we showed up at her house.”

  “Have you ever kissed a boy so hard your lipstick went up inside his nose?”

  The memory of the night I met Owen flashed into my brain so vividly, it took my breath away.

  Derek said, “I take it from your silence that either you have, or you think it's possible.”

  “It's possible, but Mitzi and her daughter had been out of town for two days.” I tapped my fingers on my new table, thinking. “Then again, her lipstick might have gotten up in there if she attempted to resuscitate him that night.”

  I heard papers rustle. “The homicide report doesn't say she did, but it doesn't say she didn't.”

  “Hang on. I've got an idea.” I quickly pulled up Megan Kensington's Instagram account and looked for the photos they'd posted from the plane. I described the photos to Derek, ending with, “Mitzi's lipstick that day was a rosy pink, but Megan was wearing a peach shade. They have the same coloring, so they probably share makeup.”

  “Does a woman change her lipstick shade during the day?”

  “Only if she changes her clothes, or if she's switching from day to night.” I quoted something I'd read in a woman's magazine. “A woman's lipstick should get darker and brighter after the sun goes down, because there's less light around.”

  “So, Megan was wearing peach lipstick, but the report states she didn't even touch her father's body, let alone attempt resuscitation.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Derek agreed.

  “That is puzzling,” I said. “Between that and the Kensington women trying to find the combination for the old safe, it kinda makes you wonder what they're hiding.”

  “They're hiding something, all right.” There was the sound of papers rustling again. “It's nearly five o'clock. I should let you go. Get a good night's sleep, because tomorrow's another full day.”

  “Are we meeting the call girl?”

  “You sound excited,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, we are.”

  Chapter 9

  THURSDAY

  11:22 a.m.

  Shonda's Nail Shop

  “So what if I was hooking up with Megan's dad?”

  The bored-looking escort known as Coco Labelle barely glanced up at us before she turned her attention back to the petite woman kneeling at her feet. “I want the toenails rounded, not square,” she said. “I want my feet to look pretty, like hands.”

  “Pretty,” the manicurist said. “Pretty feet, yes. Blue?”

  Derek glanced around the nail shop with obvious discomfort. Chewie seemed overwhelmed by the chemicals in the air and had her nose tucked tightly against Derek's pants leg.

  Derek said, “Coco, if you're busy, we'd be happy to meet with you some other time.” He wrinkled his nose. “Or some other place.”

  “I'm busy later,” the girl said. “Unless you pay my premium rates, you don't get access to me at my premium time.” She flashed him a hustler smile, equal parts devil and angel. “Maybe you'd be interested in that level of quality time?”

  Coco was light-skinned black and had the same large, doe-like eyes as Roxanne Hartley. If Brock Kensington had a type, I was looking at her—and she was the opposite of his pale, beady-eyed wife. Coco wore minimal makeup and a brown shade of lipstick. If she ever wore pale, peach-hued lipstick, it would be a dramatic look, but not in a good way.

  Derek coughed and cleared his throat. “Right now is the best time for us. May I ask you what size your feet are?”

  The escort giggled and pulled one foot away from the manicurist. She waved her foot at Derek playfully. “You've got a foot fetish! Just like Tarantino!”

  “What size?” he repeated.

  “Five and a half,” she said.

  Size five and a half? Yeah right. If I'd been sipping a drink, I would have spat it out. Coco Labelle's feet hadn't been a size five and a half since she'd been five and a half.

  Derek heard my mild snort and shot a look my way. “Yes, Abby? Did you have something to contribute?”

  I took off my shoe and gave Coco Labelle a hustler smile of my own. “May I?”

  Coco held out her hand, palm up, requesting payment. Derek dropped more bills into her hand, doubling the amount we were paying for her not-so-premium, mid-afternoon time.

  “Go ahead with the shoe,” Coco said to me nonchalantly. “I can play Cinderella if that's what you two lovebirds are into.”

  I slipped my own shoe onto her foot. It was a perfect fit. I pulled the shoe off again and showed the inner stamp with the size to Derek.

  He let out a low whistle that elicited a single bark from Chewie. “That's nowhere near a seven, let alone five,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Derek's eyes unfocused. “This young woman wasn't the one who left the shoe prints at the house, not unless she squeezed into too-small shoes.”

  “I don't know about her, but I couldn't wear a size seven if my life depended on it.” I turned to Coco. “Tall girl problems, right?”

  Coco sighed and said, “I didn't mean to lie about something as silly as my shoe size. I used to do phone sex. Selling
fantasies gets you out of the habit of telling the truth.” She put her hand on the manicurist's shoulder. “Honey, would you mind giving us a moment of privacy?”

  The manicurist stood and put the cap on the bottle of sparkly blue nail polish before leaving us. The only other people in the nail salon were another worker and an elderly woman near the front window. The two of them were carrying on their own conversation about a TV show.

  Coco gave us a more serious look and said, “Let's start over. I'm not really a brainless bimbo. I just play one for student loan money.”

  I gave her a friendly smile. “We have two things in common.”

  Her posture in the salon's reclining chair relaxed significantly.

  I quickly added, “Not playing a brainless bimbo. I meant the student loan thing.”

  Derek's gaze focused again on Coco, and he asked, “Why did you refer to Brock as Megan's father? Are you friends with Megan Kensington? Part of her social group?”

  Coco's lips scrunched up like she'd eaten something bitter. “Megan and I were never what you'd call friends. We went to the same school for a while when we were younger. Back when my parents could pay the private school tuition, before everything went bust for my family.”

  Derek gave her a sympathetic head shake. “It's a crying shame what's happening to this once-great country.”

  “The land of opportunity,” she said with irony. “But I suppose it could be worse. At least I've got a few regulars who aren't so bad.”

  “Brock Kensington was one of those regulars?”

  “He was pretty new, but I was winning him over with my many charms. Such a shame what happened to him. Did you hear? Someone broke into his house and killed him.”

  Derek turned to make eye contact with me and blinked once, slowly. It seemed to be his manly version of an eyeroll. Either Coco was on drugs or she actually was the bimbo she played. Derek had told her we were investigating some discrepancies with the homicide case when we first introduced ourselves.

  “What happened to Brock was such a shame,” I said to Coco, speaking slowly. “Have you got any ideas about who might have killed him?”