Living with the Dead
Page 38
"But she was at the diner – "
"Well, she must have followed me, then. It's just another pathetic groupie, studying what I wear, what I eat, how I walk, hoping to copy it and be like me. As if."
It still bothered Robyn. But no photo by Adele Morrissey appeared after the movie premiere, and even if Robyn found Portia's argument about Adele's name facetious, she had to admit that this girl, barely out of her teens, was too young to be a top-notch paparazzo.
And Portia was right about one other thing – the girl was mousy, with dark blond hair cut in no particular style, clothing that didn't really suit her coloring or her figure, and eyes that dipped away whenever they were in danger of meeting someone else's. Now, seeing this photo and thinking the same thing, Robyn realized her mistake. She had seen Adele Morrissey. And now she was seeing her again.
Adele had obviously been following Portia, probably dining in the same restaurant, camera hidden, waiting for Portia to do something or meet someone inappropriate. And the man with her? Maybe a tabloid bigwig, hoping for an exclusive contract with the talented Ms. Morrissey. That was ballsy, having lunch while "on the job" tailing Portia. Or maybe it was brilliant – what better way to prove to a prospective client or investor that she could get so close to her target and not be made as a paparazzo?
So Adele and this guy had been leaving the restaurant shortly after Portia. They'd been passing Jasmine Wills –
maybe accidentally, maybe intentionally – and Portia, in the car, snapped a picture.
And then...
That's the case-breaking question, isn't it, Bobby? What happened next?
Robyn closed her eyes and pictured that dark hall at Bane. She heard a moan. Then footsteps. Light footfalls. A slender figure with light hair... one that could pass for Adele Morrissey.
Did Adele see Portia snap the photo and freak out because she was supposed to be the one behind the camera? That was crazy. No one would kill for that.
Robyn thought of her scrapbook, filled with stories of senseless death, ones that made you shake your head and say:
"That's crazy. No one would kill for that." But they had.
Still, there had to be more to it, a motivation she was missing.
Motive is secondary, Bobby. Follow the clues. Find the who and the how, then worry about the why.
She stood and moved to the window, looking outside for a pay phone. This time, she was out of luck. She walked to the counter instead and asked to use their phone. She called information first, and got the office number for True News.
Being a Saturday, there was only one person in the small office. Fortunately, it was an editor.
"Hello," Robyn said. "This is Monica Douglas. I represent Jasmine Wills."
The editor obviously recognized the name, and asked how Jasmine was doing, in light of the recent tragedy. Robyn could picture him, pen poised, straining for a juicy sound bite on Jasmine's reaction to Portia's murder. Robyn gave the standard line about what a tragedy it was and how devastated her client was.
"I'm calling about Adele Morrissey," she said. "I believe she sells photos to you."
"Adele, yes. Of course. Excellent photographer. And another person who will feel Portia's death, no doubt. She was Adele's favorite subject."
"That's actually why I'm calling. Jasmine is something of a fan of Ms. Morrissey."
"Oh?"
Robyn laughed. "Well, she did get Portia a lot of page space, if not exactly the sort I'd endorse..."
"Yes, of course."
"With poor Portia gone, Jasmine thought Ms. Morrissey might be interested in a new subject, particularly a more willing subject."
"Ah, I see."
"Jasmine insists I set up a meeting with Ms. Morrissey as soon as possible, but I'm having a horrible time tracking down contact information."
The editor chuckled. "Yes, she's elusive, our Adele."
"I was hoping you could help." She paused. "Jasmine would be very grateful."
In other words, they'd owe him a hot exclusive.
A moment's silence, then the editor cleared his throat. "I'd love to, but when I say 'elusive,' I'm not exaggerating. We don't have contact information for Ms. Morrissey. She calls us when she has a photo and we wire the payment. I've never even met her."
"Oh, that is unfortunate. I'd really hoped – "
"But I'm sure she'll call in soon. I could relay a message then, asking her to contact you."
"Would you? That would be wonderful. Have her call my office." She gave the number on the café phone.
She signed off and hung up. It had been worth a shot. And if the editor wasn't being entirely honest, Robyn was sure his weird-tales reporter could dig up the information. Once Hope knew she was looking for a paparazzo who sold to True News –
Robyn's finger froze on the keys. She flashed back to that office complex, Hope shaking with fear, Karl covered with blood.
It didn't matter that Robyn knew who the girl in the photo was. Their investigation was over, and she sure as hell wasn't tossing Hope another lead, then traipsing off to the safety of a police station.
She stuffed two dollars into the tip mug, and thanked the server for letting her use the phone before heading back to her table.
This Adele Morrissey lead wasn't going to anyone except Detective Findlay. She'd show him the photo and say she recognized the young woman as Portia's paparazzo stalker. If this detective was as good as Judd had claimed, he'd run with it. No one ever needed to know that Hope and Karl had been involved.
Robyn took one last mouthful of cheesecake, washed it down with a swig of latte, then strode to the door.
ADELE
Adele closed her eyes as she fingered the silk shirt folded inside her jacket pocket. She caught a vision of Robyn Peltier sitting in a café across the road, as she had been the last two times Adele checked. The first time, Adele had been in a cab, racing toward the nearest police station when she'd seen Robyn at the table. She'd spotted the café name on a napkin, and had realized Robyn was miles away, near a different station.
Now pretending to read, she sat on a bench between the café and the police station where she presumed Robyn would head when she got around to it.
Adele had no idea why Robyn would pick this particular station. She must have known someone there and hoped for special treatment. As for why she'd stopped in a café first, maybe she was waiting for advice from that cop friend. And in the meantime, she might as well kick back and enjoy a coffee and some cheesecake –
"Well, she must have followed me, then. It's just another pathetic groupie, studying what I wear, what I eat, how I walk, hoping to copy it and be like me. As if."
It still bothered Robyn. But no photo by Adele Morrissey appeared after the movie premiere, and even if Robyn found Portia's argument about Adele's name facetious, she had to admit that this girl, barely out of her teens, was too young to be a top-notch paparazzo.
And Portia was right about one other thing – the girl was mousy, with dark blond hair cut in no particular style, clothing that didn't really suit her coloring or her figure, and eyes that dipped away whenever they were in danger of meeting someone else's. Now, seeing this photo and thinking the same thing, Robyn realized her mistake. She had seen Adele Morrissey. And now she was seeing her again.
Adele had obviously been following Portia, probably dining in the same restaurant, camera hidden, waiting for Portia to do something or meet someone inappropriate. And the man with her? Maybe a tabloid bigwig, hoping for an exclusive contract with the talented Ms. Morrissey. That was ballsy, having lunch while "on the job" tailing Portia. Or maybe it was brilliant – what better way to prove to a prospective client or investor that she could get so close to her target and not be made as a paparazzo?
So Adele and this guy had been leaving the restaurant shortly after Portia. They'd been passing Jasmine Wills –
maybe accidentally, maybe intentionally – and Portia, in the car, snapped a picture.
And then...
That's the case-breaking question, isn't it, Bobby? What happened next?
Robyn closed her eyes and pictured that dark hall at Bane. She heard a moan. Then footsteps. Light footfalls. A slender figure with light hair... one that could pass for Adele Morrissey.
Did Adele see Portia snap the photo and freak out because she was supposed to be the one behind the camera? That was crazy. No one would kill for that.
Robyn thought of her scrapbook, filled with stories of senseless death, ones that made you shake your head and say:
"That's crazy. No one would kill for that." But they had.
Still, there had to be more to it, a motivation she was missing.
Motive is secondary, Bobby. Follow the clues. Find the who and the how, then worry about the why.
She stood and moved to the window, looking outside for a pay phone. This time, she was out of luck. She walked to the counter instead and asked to use their phone. She called information first, and got the office number for True News.
Being a Saturday, there was only one person in the small office. Fortunately, it was an editor.
"Hello," Robyn said. "This is Monica Douglas. I represent Jasmine Wills."
The editor obviously recognized the name, and asked how Jasmine was doing, in light of the recent tragedy. Robyn could picture him, pen poised, straining for a juicy sound bite on Jasmine's reaction to Portia's murder. Robyn gave the standard line about what a tragedy it was and how devastated her client was.
"I'm calling about Adele Morrissey," she said. "I believe she sells photos to you."
"Adele, yes. Of course. Excellent photographer. And another person who will feel Portia's death, no doubt. She was Adele's favorite subject."
"That's actually why I'm calling. Jasmine is something of a fan of Ms. Morrissey."
"Oh?"
Robyn laughed. "Well, she did get Portia a lot of page space, if not exactly the sort I'd endorse..."
"Yes, of course."
"With poor Portia gone, Jasmine thought Ms. Morrissey might be interested in a new subject, particularly a more willing subject."
"Ah, I see."
"Jasmine insists I set up a meeting with Ms. Morrissey as soon as possible, but I'm having a horrible time tracking down contact information."
The editor chuckled. "Yes, she's elusive, our Adele."
"I was hoping you could help." She paused. "Jasmine would be very grateful."
In other words, they'd owe him a hot exclusive.
A moment's silence, then the editor cleared his throat. "I'd love to, but when I say 'elusive,' I'm not exaggerating. We don't have contact information for Ms. Morrissey. She calls us when she has a photo and we wire the payment. I've never even met her."
"Oh, that is unfortunate. I'd really hoped – "
"But I'm sure she'll call in soon. I could relay a message then, asking her to contact you."
"Would you? That would be wonderful. Have her call my office." She gave the number on the café phone.
She signed off and hung up. It had been worth a shot. And if the editor wasn't being entirely honest, Robyn was sure his weird-tales reporter could dig up the information. Once Hope knew she was looking for a paparazzo who sold to True News –
Robyn's finger froze on the keys. She flashed back to that office complex, Hope shaking with fear, Karl covered with blood.
It didn't matter that Robyn knew who the girl in the photo was. Their investigation was over, and she sure as hell wasn't tossing Hope another lead, then traipsing off to the safety of a police station.
She stuffed two dollars into the tip mug, and thanked the server for letting her use the phone before heading back to her table.
This Adele Morrissey lead wasn't going to anyone except Detective Findlay. She'd show him the photo and say she recognized the young woman as Portia's paparazzo stalker. If this detective was as good as Judd had claimed, he'd run with it. No one ever needed to know that Hope and Karl had been involved.
Robyn took one last mouthful of cheesecake, washed it down with a swig of latte, then strode to the door.
ADELE
Adele closed her eyes as she fingered the silk shirt folded inside her jacket pocket. She caught a vision of Robyn Peltier sitting in a café across the road, as she had been the last two times Adele checked. The first time, Adele had been in a cab, racing toward the nearest police station when she'd seen Robyn at the table. She'd spotted the café name on a napkin, and had realized Robyn was miles away, near a different station.
Now pretending to read, she sat on a bench between the café and the police station where she presumed Robyn would head when she got around to it.
Adele had no idea why Robyn would pick this particular station. She must have known someone there and hoped for special treatment. As for why she'd stopped in a café first, maybe she was waiting for advice from that cop friend. And in the meantime, she might as well kick back and enjoy a coffee and some cheesecake –
