Living with the Dead (14 page)

ROBYN

Robyn's resolve took her within a hundred yards of the police station, then sputtered out. She'd spent the last twenty minutes in a coffee shop, steeling herself for the next step while savoring a vanilla latte like it was her last meal. Maybe, if she was feeling particularly adventurous, she'd follow it with that monstrous slice of Irish cream cheesecake taunting her from the display.

You're a wild woman, Bobby.

She smiled, felt the first prickle of tears and blinked them back. Damon wouldn't want her feeling sorry for herself. He'd expect her to have that cheesecake, fortify herself with sugar and caffeine, and march over to that police station. Well, minus the cheesecake part, but he'd get a kick out of that.

The bell over the café door tinkled and she glanced over. She had looked every time it rang, expecting to see Karl, mysteriously tracking her down again.

By now Hope would have listened to her message and, while Robyn hoped she'd accepted her decision, she knew better. Hope would try to find Robyn to change her mind. She'd expect her to go to the nearest police precinct, so Robyn had made sure not to choose that one or the one where Detective Findlay worked.

The two new arrivals walked in and her heart thudded as she saw their police uniforms. The fear only lasted a moment. Earlier a couple of officers had come in and looked right at her. They hadn't pulled their guns. Hadn't phoned for backup. Hadn't even given her a second glance. Just ordered their coffees and left.

When these two had their coffees, the younger one noticed her, then looked again, his pale brows knitting. His partner bumped into him, jostling his arm, coffee bubbling over the lid. The young officer cursed and grabbed a napkin, and they continued on their way, exchanging jibes.

The younger officer didn't look back, her face already forgotten. It would probably resurface later, when he saw her picture somewhere and the lightbulb went off. By then, she'd already be in custody.

She went up and ordered her cheesecake. While the server was getting it, Robyn pulled out what she thought was money, and it turned out to be the printout of the photo.

The cheesecake arrived and Robyn returned to her table, photo still between her fingers. She smoothed it, then stared at it as she ate.

The young woman behind Jasmine looked familiar. She hadn't noticed it when Hope first showed her the picture. In truth, she hadn't really looked at the girl at all. Hope thought the man was the important one, and the girl was just a poor kid seduced by some bigwig. Another victim in this ugly mess.

It didn't help that the girl wasn't exactly memorable. Average height. Thin, even skinny. Plain-faced. Straight, dishwater-blond hair. Robyn hated that term –
dishwater blond
. Even worse than dirty blond. She preferred dark blond. But for this girl, Robyn hated to admit, dishwater blond was most accurate. A dull, common color on a dull, common-looking girl.

And it was that description that jolted her memory so fast her fork fell, clattering against the plate, a chunk of cheesecake bouncing off. Robyn
had
seen this girl before.

When Robyn had started working for Portia, her first self-assigned task had been repairing her client's image problem with the media. She would start by identifying those members of the paparazzi who took the most damaging photos of Portia. Then she'd train Portia how to be on the lookout for them. Presumably, once they realized they weren't going to get a juicy photo, they'd go in search of less media-savvy targets, leaving only those paparazzi who didn't mind selling photos of Portia helping in soup kitchens or attending charity events.

A lofty goal. And it proved how little Robyn had understood her new job. While there were tabloid photos Portia would rather not see, soup kitchen photos didn't make tongues wag. As Oscar Wilde once said, the only thing worse than being talked about is
not
being talked about. For the celebutante on the rise, rumor and innuendo were the helium that kept her fragile balloon afloat.

Understanding none of this, Robyn had doggedly pursued her course. She'd scoured back issues of the tabloids, digging up the worst pictures and noting the photographer. One name topped the list. Adele Morrissey.

Adele seemed to be able to find Portia anywhere, in any disguise, snapping pictures of her cuddling with a male stripper while all the other paparazzi waited at the charity function Portia was scheduled to attend. Unable to find identifying information on Adele, Robyn had asked Portia to point out the woman. Portia had laughed. She could barely remember the names of her house staff. She certainly wasn't going to learn those of the paparazzi.

Undaunted, Robyn soon discovered why Adele Morrissey was able to snap photos, anywhere, anytime, undetected. Apparently the woman was a ghost. She didn't exist in any records, and no one in the business seemed to know who she was.

Everyone presumed it was a pseudonym. Some speculated it was one of the more notorious paparazzi, using the fake name to shelter income from a bookie or third wife. Others were convinced it was a plant on Portia Kane's own staff.

Eventually, Robyn gave up her hunt for Adele Morrissey. Even if she did manage to force Adele to cease and desist, she might actually be fired for ending Portia's best source of exposure.

Still, Robyn would find herself scanning the crowds around Portia, ticking off the names of the photographers she knew, hoping to narrow it down and identify Adele, if only to satisfy her own curiosity.

Finally, Robyn thought she'd solved this particular mystery. Portia had been still dating Brock Masters, who'd wanted her to stop seeing other guys. When an old flame returned from a year in Paris, Portia wanted to see him. Purely platonic – she really had been crazy about Brock. So she'd had Robyn arrange a secret lunch at an obscure diner near San Clemente.

Portia had insisted Robyn accompany her. She'd said she wanted to go over her schedule, but Robyn knew she just wanted company on the hour-long drive. Once there, Robyn sat across the restaurant, eating alone. Then she'd seen another, younger woman also eating alone.

It'd been a total fluke that Robyn noticed her at all. The girl had been reading a medical thriller by an author Robyn's brother liked. Robyn always made a point of grabbing the author's latest hardcover for the cash-strapped med student, so she'd noted it in her PDA and continued eating.

Later, when a photo of Portia eating with her ex appeared in
True News
, credited to Adele Morrissey, Robyn made no connection to the girl reading in the diner. But then, at a movie premiere, she'd seen the same young woman in the crowd.

Robyn had pointed her out to Portia, suggesting that might be Adele. Portia had laughed so hard she'd nearly choked.

"Does that
look
like an Adele to you?" she'd said as the girl bounced on her tiptoes, watching the limos arrive. "Anyone named Adele has got to be, what, fifty? That's more of a Beth. No, Bethany. Mousy little Bethany."

"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 –

Adele stopped. By the gods where had that cheesecake come from? How long did Robyn plan to camp out there? Adele slumped, the book nearly sliding from her fingers.

She closed her eyes and found the vision again. Robyn was digging into the cheesecake as she folded a piece of paper. Adele bet it was a surrender speech. Someone as perfect as Robyn Peltier couldn't even turn herself in without rehearsing.

Adele released the vision and turned the book page.

The situation wasn't ideal – a busy street on a weekend afternoon, cop shop within shouting distance – but she had a plan. She'd intercept Robyn and ask to use her cell phone. It hadn't worked with Portia, but Robyn wouldn't want to raise a fuss so close to the station because if she brought a cop running, she'd lose any brownie points to be gained by turning herself in.

If anything went wrong, well... Adele patted the bulge under her jacket.

Adele glanced at her watch. How much longer was she going to stay in there? Adele touched the shirt again, focused and found Robyn. She was on her feet, finally, at the counter, shoving bills into a mug labeled Tips.

Okay, Robyn, you've done your duty. Now move your ass...

Robyn returned to the table and, still standing, sliced off a chunk of cheesecake, then lifted it to her mouth.

By the gods! Was she thinking of all those starving kids in Africa who didn't get enough cheesecake? Pack it up and send it to them!

The vision clouded, and for a moment, Adele saw one of Robyn Peltier in an alley, sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around her. She smiled. Too bad clairvoyance didn't grant the gift of prophecy, because she'd love to see that image in person – a fitting payback for the crap Robyn had put Adele through.

The café door opened. Out stepped Robyn Peltier. Good. If only she didn't decide she needed a damned pedicure on the way.

Robyn didn't seem inclined to stop for anything. She came out that door and strode, purposefully... in the opposite direction.

Robyn stopped at the light and waited for the signal, even as jaywalkers jostled past her, taking advantage of the gaps in traffic. When the light changed, she crossed, chin lifted, posture perfect, walking like she was on her way to an important business meeting, elegant and poised even in ill-fitting sweats and a baseball cap.

Adele stopped grating her teeth and pictured Robyn in prison garb instead. Cheered, she got into position behind a trio of teenage boys who looked like they weren't going anywhere for a while. Robyn drew closer, closer...

Adele stepped into her path. Robyn pulled up short, her eyes going to Adele and widening, as if shocked to see someone there.

"Can I borrow your phone, ma'am?" Adele gave a sheepish smile and waved her cell. "Mine's dead and I really need to tell my dad where to pick me up."

Robyn kept staring.

"Ma'am?"

Robyn's lips parted and she said a single word swallowed by a laugh from the teen boys. It sounded like "cell."

"Right, I need to borrow a cell phone. Can I use yours? I swear it's not a long-distance call."

Robyn stared at Adele as if she was a beggar asking for her last buck. Adele glanced down at Robyn's side. No purse to snatch. Damn, the phone must be in her pocket.

Adele stepped closer. "Please. I
really
need to call my dad."

She reached down and pulled her jacket open. Robyn inhaled sharply as she spotted the gun.

"Your cell phone?" Adele met her gaze.

Robyn's hand slammed into Adele's chest, knocking her into the boys. She smacked into one and he shoved her back. She stumbled, recovered and wheeled to see Robyn disappearing down the alley.

In that moment, as she tore after her, she saw Robyn's lips move again, heard that single word and knew what it had been.

Adele.