put the basket on the table. Walking toward the back of the motor home, she touched the marble countertops. They didn’t seem like a veneer. One thing she hadn’t seen in the empty trailer was the bathroom.
She went back and opened the first door, but that was just a closet. Then she opened the second door.
And screamed.
Danny Austen, naked as the day he was born, was in a very tiny shower with another very naked man. They were both all soapy and foamy, which made sense because there was no water running to wash them off.
She jumped back and slammed the door shut.
The stupid thing bounced and flew open again, giving her an even more unfortunate view.
One more time, she shut the door, catching it this time with both hands.
She was out of that trailer almost as quickly as Piper was going to fire her.
THERE WAS NO GOOD time to read a tabloid. Bax realized that profound truth immediately, but there was also no turning back.
The cover in his hand had all the bold printed scandals that would fit, but he was only interested in the central picture. Bobbi Tamony, dressed in something gold and slinky, was sitting at a banquette, her head bent over a large mirror. There was a rolled-up bill at her nose through which she was snorting what looked like several hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine.
The photograph wasn’t credited and the date given was the unhelpful sometime last week. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if this picture was worthy of murder. How had the paper gotten the photo? From which paparazzo?
The last thing he wanted to do was talk to those cretins. One was worst than the next, yanking out their First Amendment rights at the drop of a hat, despite the fact it was clear they had no idea what the First Amendment said.
But what choice did he have? The paparazzi were Geiger’s people. This afternoon Bax had three of them lined up, the most interesting of whom was Henry Toth. According to his compatriots, Toth and Geiger were rivals, not just with work, but on a personal level.
That wasn’t for another half hour, though, so Bax went back to the magazines. He really hated that he’d spent perfectly good money on this crap. That, in fact, he had a whole stack of tabloids staring at him. He cared nothing about which stars’ diets were now disasters. Which plastic surgeries had gone horribly wrong. Or what starlet was the latest to be dumped.
He also hated that he’d been read the riot act last night by the captain. Not that he was doing anything wrong, just that he wasn’t doing the right things faster. Much faster.
Seemed Oscar Weinberg had friends. Lots of them. In very high places. Who didn’t seem terribly concerned that a paparazzo had been killed. In fact, the subtext had been that the killer had done a public service.
On the other side of the coin were the tabloids themselves, rallied to a cause that had more to do with sensational headlines than actual concern, but a cause nonetheless that made the NYPD look bad.
Why, then, was it taking him so long to find the murderer?
He hadn’t bothered to answer the captain’s questions. The captain hadn’t become the captain because he was a stupid man. He understood exactly why things were moving at a snail’s pace. He also understood that by giving Bax grief, he was absolving himself of any guilt associated with the case. He could happily move on to the next crisis, leaving Bax to take whatever blame might come. Would come.
Bax sighed as he picked up the next tabloid on the pile. It too had a picture of interest on the cover. Not of Bobby Tamony, but of Danny Austen. Nothing about his sexual preferences unless you counted partying with a barely eighteen-year-old starlet.
Something about the picture… He went back to the front page featuring Bobbi Tamony, then put the two magazines side by side. There, in the background in both pictures, was the same woman. Nan Collins, the glorified extra. There was no mistaking her, despite the blurriness of the photos.
She wore a cut-down-to-there blouse, the same blouse in both shots. In one picture, she looked directly at the camera. In the other, she looked to the right. A man might surmise the picture had been taken on the same night.
Perhaps Bobbi and Danny had been at the same club? It didn’t look like the Hush hotel bar. The décor was all wrong. Mia would know. She might just know something about the woman, too. He’d better go—
He put the brakes on. He needed to be careful about her. Yes, she was an excellent resource, but to depend on her and her gossip too much could lead him to unwarranted conclusions. It was so easy to believe everything she said, even after her own admissions that she was repeating rumors. He liked her. He wanted her to be right. It was a recipe for mistakes the case couldn’t afford.
So was this an instance when going to Mia was justified? Or was he making excuses to be near her?
The answer was both. She was an excellent source, and so far the information she’d given him was all worthy of being checked out. He also wanted to see her.
He wasn’t the type to feel lonely. Not when there was a book to be read. But last night? His apartment had felt empty, and he’d picked up three different books, none of which had held his attention.
He closed the office door behind him and went to the lobby.
SHE KNEW BAX WAS THERE even before she looked up. Something in the air had shifted, or maybe it was a new kind of personal radar attuned to his scent, his molecules.
His smile made her blush and she finished up her call as quickly as she could.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.
“What for?”
“I wanted to meet you out there, but—”
“It’s okay. I appreciate the thought.”
He touched the edge of her cuff briefly, then pulled back. “I’ve got some pictures, some tabloid shots I’d like you to look at when you have a break.”
“I can come now.”
“No, you’re working. And I have some paps to talk to as soon as I finish with Bobbi Tamony. Has Weinberg come back?”
She shook her head. “He should be back sometime this evening. We’re getting his suite ready for him.”
“Okay. I just…”
“What?”
“Nothing. If I’m not in the office, give me a call. You have my cell number, right?”
“Yep. And you have mine.”
“That I do. I should call you just to hear that ring of yours.”
“It’s distinctive.”
“It’s Wagner.”
“And what’s wrong with Wagner?”
“Not a thing.” He slapped the top of the desk lightly. “See you later,
