D
ark, chillingly empty streets of San Jose rolled by the window of Detective Furlow’s car as we rode to the police station. The salad with chicken I’d ordered sat in a Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I played with the plastic fork.
“Eat.” Mom tapped the side of the container.
I forced a bite into my mouth.
We’d left Brittany in the hotel room. I hoped she was sleeping.
Ross sat in the passenger seat up front, unusually quiet.
Detective Furlow had been the one to suggest we watch him question Cat after I told him what I remembered. Things might go faster, he’d said, if we were there to prod him with information that came to mind during the interview.
Under any other circumstances, none of us would have chosen to stay up. We all needed sleep too badly, and tomorrow was a travel and concert day. Mom especially needed rest. Singing lead for Rayne was a
lot
of work — her voice had to be in tip-top shape, and the dancing required energy. Lack of sleep wreaked havoc on a voice. But the show had to go on — and go on it would. Mom would just have to rest as much as possible the following day.
Since Detective Furlow was with us — and he carried a gun — Mom hadn’t pulled one of the bodyguards from bed. “Let them sleep,” she’d said. “They’ll need to be alert tomorrow, when the rest of us are dead on our feet.”
I knew what she meant. All the same, I shivered at her use of the word
dead.
“Here we are.” The detective turned into a lit parking lot and stopped the car.
He led us into the station, passing the front desk and a few officers coming and going. “It’s quiet here for a Saturday night,” he remarked.
I followed mindlessly. If we went up or down stairs, turned right or left down halls — I have no memory. No way could I have retraced our steps on my own.
We ended up in front of a glass window in a small room. Along our side of the glass ran a rectangular table with three chairs. On the other side Cat sat in a second room of about the same size. That room looked grim and bare — except for its own battered square table and a couple of chairs. No pictures on the walls, nothing to make the place look comfortable or safe. I couldn’t imagine being questioned in there by a policeman. It looked intimidating and frightening.
Although we couldn’t see it, we were told a camera was mounted in the upper corner of the wall nearest us, pointed at the square table. At that table Cat slumped back in his chair, looking not one bit intimidated. More like annoyed enough to strangle somebody.
He was dressed in jeans and a blue, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up. His white-blond hair looked ratty, and he had bags under his eyes. Cat was probably in his forties, but right now he looked more like sixty. He bounced a forefinger against the table, his other hand plastered to his hip.
His head turned, green eyes focusing on the window. Cat sneered right at me.
My head jerked back.
“It’s okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the glass. “Remember, this is a one-way mirror. Looks like he can see you, but he can’t.”
My shoulders drew in. This man had hounded me today — at least once. And he may have done more than that. I didn’t like standing mere feet from him, separated only by a window.
The detective gave us an encouraging smile. “Once I get in
there, if at any time you think of something important I should ask, tap on the door to the other room and then stand back in here. I’ll come out, and we’ll talk. All right?”
“Yes, thanks.” Mom pulled in a deep breath and shook back her hair. Ross and I nodded.
“Okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the chairs. “Sit down if you like. We may be in there awhile.”
He disappeared out our open door. A few seconds later we saw him enter the other room.
Mom, Ross, and I sank into the chairs.
Mom squeezed my leg. “Let’s hope this gets us somewhere,” she whispered. “And if Cat knows anything about the murder — I hope Detective Furlow gets him to spill his guts.”
Me too.
I thought of Tom. Then remembered the black, bloody hole that had once been his eye.
Me too.
T
he anger had flamed into a crackling fire in his gut. Sleep would not come.
He gave up trying. He just lay there, staring up in the darkness at nothing. Shutting out all sound. The blackness above reminded him of another night, in a place far from this one, when he’d first talked to the person who’d sent him.
“Watch her on tour,” the sender said.
“Why?”
The sender told him the reason. “And I’ll pay you.”
“You have the money for that? ‘Cause if I do that, I’m not free to get a regular job.”
“I have the money.”
The memory ran vivid. He shifted positions on the bed. Laid an arm across his face.
That night had started it all. But at the time he’d never guessed where it would lead him. Where it would take his heart.
After a while he no longer cared about the money. He’d moved from just watching and reporting the actions of the Special One to protecting her. Because he loved her. Because she
needed
him.
Now she wasn’t even grateful.
Such injustice. Such
denigration.
After all he’d done.
He would not stand back and take it.
Grunting, he turned over in his bed.
Tomorrow.
He opened his mouth, pulled in a deep, cleansing breath.
Tomorrow.
H
ello, Mr. Torret. I’m Detective Furlow.”
The detective’s voice sounded pleasant and friendly. A tone, I thought, that was designed to make Cat trust him.
He held out his hand. Cat refused to shake it.
The detective dropped his arm and sat down on the opposite side of the table.
Cat reared back in his chair with a loud sigh, head flopping to one side. “About time you showed up. You got no right keeping me in here; I haven’t done anything.”
They regarded each other. Cat’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
The detective inhaled. “Before we start, I need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand these rights?”
“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it. I want to get outta here.”
The detective shifted his legs. “I hear you were speeding tonight when the officer stopped you.”
Cat stuck his tongue under his upper lip and glared.
Detective Furlow drew the sides of his mouth down. “Almost seventy in a forty-five zone. That’s pretty fast.”
“No reason to take a person to jail.”
“No, but interfering with the performance of a policeman’s duty is. California Penal Code 69, in case you’re interested. It’s punishable
by a fine of up to ten thousand dollars, up to a year’s imprisonment, or both.
“I
didn’t
‘interfere.’”
“That’s not the way the officer saw it.”
Cat shrugged.
“Why were you going so fast anyway?” Detective Furlow asked.
“I had places to go and people to meet.”
“Man,” Ross muttered. “We’re not going to get a thing out of this guy.”
“Which places, what people?” the detective asked.
“What difference does it make?” Cat’s voice sharpened.
The detective let the nonanswer hang in the air. I wanted to slap Cat.
“I see you’re from the L.A. area,” Detective Furlow said. “What brought you to San Jose?”
“The Rayne concert.”
“The concert? So you were there Friday night?”
“Yeah.”
Mom and I gaped at each other. Cat was at the
concert.
I thought back to our limo ride away from the arena. With all the flashes going off in the night, we hadn’t been able to see the faces of any reporters or photographers.
Here was a member of the paparazzi who may have been at the mall, had been caught near our hotel tonight,
and
had been around when Tom was killed.
Cat had to be involved somehow. He
had
to.
But how could he have gotten backstage?
“Do you follow this group wherever the band goes?” the detective asked.
“No.”
“What brought you to this particular concert then?”
Yeah, Cat — what?
He lifted a hand. “Rayne’s been on the road three months.
They went east through Texas and finally got back to the West Coast. Since they were so near,
Cashing In
— the magazine I work for — sent me up. It’s only an hour’s flight.”
Magazine, right. It was a tabloid.
Detective Furlow processed the answer. “Is that the only reason you came to the concert?”
“Yup.”
I thought about the camera in their room. It would be recording everything Cat said.
Every lying word.
Detective Furlow leaned back casually and laced his fingers on his lap. “Okay. Let’s move on for now and talk about where you were coming
from
when the officer stopped you. I think it was the hotel where Rayne is staying tonight.”
“Really.”
“In fact, I think you were in the parking lot when the band’s members spilled out the door due to a false fire alarm. You took pictures of Shaley O’Connor.”
Cat crossed his arms, chin tilting upward. He surveyed the ceiling as if it were a piece of art.
The detective bounced his clasped hands against the table. “We have your camera. Not a hard thing to review the photos on your memory card.”
Cat’s chin came down. His eyes shot daggers. “So
what
if I was at the hotel. It’s my
job
to take pictures of celebrities.”
“How did you know to be there when a fire alarm sounded?”
“I didn’t. I just got lucky.”
“After one o’clock in the morning — you just happened to be hanging out in the hotel parking lot?”
The hotel had security in its lot — I knew that. Cat couldn’t have wandered around there long without being spotted.
He shrugged. “I’d been following them all day. That’s nothing new for me. It’s what I do for a living, and there’s
no law against it.”
Mom made a disgusted sound in her throat. “There is if it turns into stalking.”
The detective conveyed no reaction to Cat’s attitude. “So tell me why you were there at one a.m.”
“I already did.”
He frowned. “I spoke to the two outside security guards at the hotel after the alarm. Neither of them remembered seeing anyone loitering in the parking lot. And they patrol on a regular basis.”
“So I’m sneaky.”
“Yes, I believe you are. Sneaky enough to stage that alarm to force everyone out of the hotel — so you could take pictures of Miss O’Connor.”
Cat smirked. “You have a very vivid imagination.”
“I wonder how vivid. You’re telling me you just
happened
to be there at the perfect moment tonight, right? You got your exclusive pictures. You ran out of the parking lot and raced away—twenty-five miles over the speed limit. But you didn’t have anything to do with the alarm.”
He raised both hands, palms up. “You got it.”
“And you also just
happened
to be at the very concert where a member of the Rayne tour was murdered.”
“Guess I’m lucky that way.”
My fingers curled around the arms of my chair.
Lucky
to have Tom murdered? I wanted to
strangle
Len Torret.
If Detective Furlow thought Cat’s answer was despicable, he didn’t show it. He rested his left elbow on the table, fingers digging into his cheek. “Just for the sake of argument, without that fire alarm, how would you have gotten your pictures of Shaley tonight?”
No answer.
He scratched his head. “Tell me, why are pictures of Miss O’Connor so important?”
Cat looked at him like he was an imbecile. “They’re worth lots of money, that’s why. Especially after the hair dresser got himself
killed — and
she
found him. Every magazine in the country wants pictures of that band right now, and especially Shaley.”
“So the murder, because it’s a big news story, makes your photos of the band more valuable.”
“Yeah.”
The detective nodded thoughtfully. “And you say it was sheer ‘luck’ that you were at the concert when Tom was killed. None of your competitors were there — only you. When the band members drove away from the arena that night — once again, you got pictures.”
Cat pressed back his thin shoulders, his head turning to one side. He gave the detective a look to kill out of the corner of his eye. “What you’re insinuating is
insane.
You keep up that kind of talk, this friendly little conversation is over.”
Ross shook his head. I knew what he was thinking —
this man knows far more than he’s telling.
Detective Furlow drummed his fingers on the table. “You were also at the mall this afternoon when Miss O’Connor was there.”
“I was there because I’d had my feelers out about town, including the mall. Knowing the band had a day off, I figured one of them would show up somewhere. My diligence paid off. Apparently, my competitors had flocked into town after hearing about the murder. They all ended up at the mall too. So don’t pin that one on me.”
Cat ran his tongue between his lips and shifted in the chair. The detective said nothing, as if waiting for him to fill the silence.
“Besides, I’ve been doing some investigating of my own.” A self-satisfied expression etched Cat’s face. “Sounds like Shaley O’Connor was pretty close to this Tom guy.”
Mom hissed. My hands flew to my mouth. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. The media was hearing how Tom felt about me? What would they be saying on TV tomorrow? Would some reporter even manage to get into Tom’s apartment and film his wall?
Sickness rolled around my stomach.
“Really?” The detective looked puzzled. “Where’d you hear that?”
Cat made a face. “I don’t have to tell you.”
I swallowed hard. Could he just be faking it?
But then how’d he
know?
Ross ran a hand across his forehead. “Leaks,” he said quietly. “It happens in police investigations all the time. Maybe he paid somebody on the force to talk.”
Only then did I remember that Ross didn’t know the full story. He hadn’t heard about Tom’s wall.
Detective Furlow cleared his throat. “Seems to me, Mr. Torret, if you wanted pictures of Shaley so badly, you’d go to some extra means to get them — like pulling a fire alarm.”
Cat rolled his eyes. “Are we back to
that
again?”
The detective looked at him straight on.
“Did
you?”
“No.”
“He’s
lying,”
Mom said.
The detective let the answer hang in the air for a moment. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“How about the weather?” Cat smirked. “It was a lovely day yesterday, don’t you think? And no rain predicted for today. But then, it rarely rains in northern California in the summer.”
Impatience flicked across the detective’s face, then was gone. He straightened his back. “You said you were at the concert Friday. Where were you exactly from ten to eleven o’clock?”
Cat’s lips parted, and he stared, playing up his shock. “You’re really
serious?
You think I killed that guy? I wasn’t anywhere
near
him!”
“Look, we’re asking everyone who was anywhere in the vicinity. If you had nothing to do with it, better to help us rule you out now.”
“Fine. I was outside in the parking lot, as close as media was allowed to get. If you don’t believe me, ask the local reporters and photographers who were there. Someone’s bound to remember me.”
Detective Furlow nodded. “I’ll do that. But the question is—who
was
backstage that you were working with?” “Huh?”
The detective rubbed a hand across the table. “You might not have killed Tom Hutchens yourself. But I think you paid someone else to do it.”
“What?
You’re out of your mind!”
“Am I?” The detective leaned forward. “I know about your history with Tom. How you followed Rayne and Shaley O’Connor too closely one night last year. When Shaley got upset, Tom stepped in your face and shoved your camera away. You said — and I quote — ‘You’ll pay for this.’”
I frowned. Why was the detective pushing so hard all of a sudden? Wouldn’t that make Cat just quit talking?
The photographer gave him a look. “So you think I had the guy killed. Just for that?”
“Not
just
for that. I think you also had him killed because you knew a murder on the Rayne tour would shoot the price of photos of the band sky high. And you figured after the way he defended Shaley, maybe he had a thing for her. All the more reason for pictures of her to rocket in price after his death.”
Cat shoved to his feet. “You’re
crazy.
I’m not —” He waved his hands in the air. “This conversation is over.”
Detective Furlow remained seated. “Fine. It can be over anytime you want. Just know that I’m going to keep investigating you.”
“You won’t
find
anything!” Cat’s eyes flashed.
“I wonder. Because I think it all ties in to the photo of Shaley you took in the hotel parking lot on Friday night. You know, the one with ‘Always Watching’ on the back that you dropped in her shopping bag at the mall?”
Cat stilled. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to pull himself together, then forced a smile. Slowly, with precise movements, he sat down. He leaned over the table as if talking to a stupid child. “Look. Mr. Detective. I don’t know what your game is here, but
you’re wasting your time with me. Why don’t you go find the
real
killer?”
Detective Furlow held Cat’s gaze — for such a long time that Cat lost his cool. He leaned back, fingers fidgeting.
The detective cupped his jaw. “Do you know that a picture erased from a camera’s memory card can be recovered by an experienced tech? Those cards are like computer hard drives. What’s ‘erased’ isn’t really erased.”
Oh.
Oh.
Like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of Detective Furlow’s cunning game plan fell into place in my mind. He’d
purposely
pushed Cat too hard.
Cat gave a fake smile. “How fascinating.”
“You know …” The detective rubbed two knuckles beneath his chin. “When a person lies to me about one thing, it makes everything else he says suspect. Get what I mean?”
No response.
“So. If I have our lab tech look at your camera’s erased pictures … and he finds that ‘Always Watching’ photo you’re acting like you know nothing about …” He lifted both hands.
Perspiration shone on Cat’s upper lip. He shifted in his chair, eyes lowering. One hand traced a forefinger along the table’s edge.
A long, tense moment ticked by.
Cat sighed, then rearranged his expression into one of smug defiance. He raised his eyes to the detective and shrugged. “Photography’s my
job.
So
what
if I took that picture?” My breath hitched.
“And you put it in Miss O’Connor’s bag?” the detective pressed.
“Yeah. So what? No law against it.”
“Not so sure about that. Why did you write the ‘Always Watching’ message on the back?”
“No reason.”
Detective Furlow gave him a hard look. “No reason.”
“Nope.”
“And the reason you put the photo in her shopping bag?”
“Just for kicks.”
The detective scratched his cheek. “You do some strange things for kicks, Mr. Torret. I thought you were all about making money. Why go to this trouble getting this message to Shaley O’Connor?”