Page 42 of Accidental Murder
Peering at her yellow pad, she wondered again whether Darius Ventano was the right suspect. He hadn’t changed his story in two days. Each night she’d visited him to go over his account. He’d repeated it as if he had rehearsed it. Every aspect, down to setting the fire behind the building, corroborated his participation. He even knew Sterno had been used to ignite the blaze. Sterno, the fuel of choice for the homeless. Megan questioned whether he had made a good guess or whether a seasoned killer had set him up. He was a thief. He had a nonviolent rap sheet. Why leave everything of value other than a datebook in the condo? When questioned about that, Ventano said he heard sirens and pinched the first thing in sight. Excepthe hadn’t kept the danged thing. He’d tossed it in a Dumpster, and no, he couldn’t remember which.
Megan’s guess? He didn’t know word one about the datebook. The lie nagged at her so much she decided another chat with him was in order. She marched to the reception area for the holding cells and signed a log.
The grim clerk swiveled the log around, initialed Megan’s signature, and lifted her ring of keys. “Follow me.”
She opened the door and allowed Megan to pass through. A lean, pockmarked guard opened the next set of doors. The icy temperature cut through Megan. She secured the buttons of her jacket and continued along the hallway.
A pair of inmates in the first cell were sitting on the bench waiting to be transported to the county jail.
From the next cell, a sex offender who’d been booked the same day as Ventano said, “Hey, Inspector, the kid’s awful quiet, if you ask me.”
Usually when Megan approached Ventano’s cubicle, he was standing at the bars, his face pressed against them. Not this time. She drew alongside and gasped. Ventano lay on the floor, a dirty plastic spoon in one hand, his wrists drenched with blood.
“Guard!” she roared. How had Ventano acquired a plastic spoon? Megan knew for a fact the precinct only stocked wooden spoons, the kinds used for single-serving ice cream containers. “Guard!” she screamed again. She caught sight of the door beyond the cells leading to another corridor. It was ajar. She dashed to it. Stepped through. The dim light in the hall played havoc with her ability to determine shapes. A support column resembled a man. A garbage can looked like someone crouching. She heard no footfalls.
Ventano dead?Crap!
At least witnesses had heard his confession. Otherwise, Captain Wald or the press would tear her to shreds. Her newmantra droned in her mind:Leave the job.But she knew she wouldn’t. Not until she figured out who had killed Kayla Macintyre, and now, if her intuition was correct, had also murdered Darius Ventano.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Four hours into the shoot,Kayla was so tired she couldn’t see straight. Every muscle in her face, neck, and back ached.
Pose and hold. Look natural. Smile.
The entire event reminded her of a lyric in a song from the musicalA Chorus Line. “Turn-turn, pivot-kick. Again.”
The wordkickmade her think of Cindy Norton. In seconds she came up with a plan for how to locate her.
“Take ten, everyone.” Mikhail patted her arm. “You’re doing great, Ash.” He strolled on.
He has to know I’m not her, Kayla thought.
However, even if he did, he needed to keep his troop’s spirits up in order to capture the one photo he could use. He wouldn’t blow her cover and spoil his shoot. Yet.
“Ashley!” The efficient pony-tailed assistant rushed up. “Catering has set out a fabulous spread.”
Food sounded revolting, but Kayla nodded. “Before I get a snack, is there a computer with Internet access anywhere? I ordered something on E-bay, and I want to cancel it before it ships.”
“Buyer’s remorse. Do I ever get it.” The assistant pointed at an oversized Winnebago by the wardrobe trailer. “Go into Mik’s office. The password iseyeshadow, one word, as if that’s real clever.”
Kayla climbed the stairs of the Winnebago and tapped on the door. Nobody responded. She peeked inside. Empty. She sat in the chair at Mikhail’s desk and connected to the Internet. Icons lined the left side of the computer monitor. Another row materialized at the bottom. She accessed the network connections page, ran the virtual private network setup, and entered her user name, password, and router location. Then she entered the encryption code for Cindy Norton’s home computer. Thanks to the beauty of the Internet and Cindy’s search history, in a matter of minutes she was able to deduce her new location. Sausalito.
At noon,when the assistant announced the shoot was awrap, Kayla hobbled off her Venusian pedestal.
“Darling.” Mikhail tramped to her.
Here it comes,she thought.He’s going to expose me.
“Darling”—he curled an arm around her waist—“tell that hardhearted agent of yours not to put you through another shoot for the time being.”
Kayla breathed easier. He didn’t know? “I stank big time. I’m sorry.”
“Take some time off. Rest those eyes. Margaret didn’t mention a thing about your sister’s murder until you were on the set. Good thing we had a short shoot.”
Short?
Kayla hustled to her trailer and threw on the designer slacks, silk shirt, and flats she’d worn in the morning. She refused to comb her shellacked hair until she was able to rinse out the seven layers of hairspray. She didn’t dare glance in the mirror, too terrified that grief . . . or failure . . . might stare back at her.
