The Homicide Hustle by Ella Barrick Read Free Book Online Page B

any of the union employees
     who wanted her to arbitrate a grievance today.
    Upstairs, the filming chaos matched my mood. Nigel Whiteman, the camera guy, and both
     our celebrities had arrived while I was changing and they were all gathered in the
     ballroom, along with Vitaly.
    “Nigel, you’ve got to go to the police,” Zane was saying as I slipped into the room
     and began stretching at the barre. “Phoebe, tell him.”
    Phoebe shrugged muscular shoulders. “Tessa’s a big girl.”
    Zane almost growled with frustration. “It’s not like her to disappear like this.”
    “You would know,” Phoebe shot at him.
    I pursed my lips. What did that mean? I was getting the distinct impression that there
     was something between Zane and Tessa besides star and producer.
    Nigel made a calming motion. “Zane. You’re concerned. I get it. Me, too. But the coppers
     aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about an adult woman who’s been missing—what?—about
     thirty-six hours. If she hasn’t shown up by—”
    “If you won’t go to the police, I will.” Zane’s mouth was set in a grim line.
    “Excuse me.” The voice came from the threshold.
    I recognized it and whipped around, snagging my heel on the barre and almost falling
     on my face. Catching myself with my palms on the floor, I stared up with dismay at
     the man entering the ballroom. At first glance, he didn’t look like much, in his mid-fifties
     with thinning dishwater-colored hair, too-red lips, and freckles spattering his face
     and even his ear lobes. Black, Clark Kent–type glasses made him look like an escapee
     from the 1960s. His suit said Penney’s or Men’s Wearhouse rather than Hugo Boss or
     Calvin Klein, but his shoes were polished to a mirrorlike shine. It was the badge
     hooked over his belt, though, that brought conversation to a halt.
    “Detective Lissy,” I blurted, getting a bad feeling. I straightened, face red, and
     unhooked my foot from the barre. “What are you—?”
    His gray gaze swept me, moved from Zane to the camera guy, and finally settled on
     Nigel. “I’m looking for a Nigel Whiteman.”
    “I’m Whiteman.” Nigel stepped forward, shorter than Lissy, but overshadowing the detective
     with his smile and personality. “How can I help you, constable?”
    “It’s detective. Detective Lissy of the Alexandria Police Department.” He seemed completely
     unfazed by Nigel’s attitude. “I understand you work with Tessa King.”
    “Oh, my God,” Zane breathed. He took a hasty step forward, coming to a halt between
     Nigel and Lissy. “What about Tessa? Have you found her?”
    Detective Lissy gave him a considering look. “And you are?”
    “Zane Savage,” he said impatiently. “Where’s Tessa? Is she hurt, in the hospital?”
    Lissy pursed his lips and I think we all knew what he was going to say before the
     words left his mouth. “She’s dead.”
    “Impossible,” Nigel huffed.
    “Is badly,” Vitaly said.
    “Oh, my God,” Zane said again.
    “Tessa. Poor Tessa,” Phoebe said. “I can’t believe it. Was it a car accident?”
    I strode forward, hands on my hips. I knew a homicide detective wouldn’t be standing
     in my ballroom if Tessa had died in a garden-variety car accident. “What happened?”
    Lissy’s eyes cut toward me. “Ah, Ms. Graysin. I saw your photo in the paper this morning.”
     His gaze flicked from me to Zane. “Not very flattering.” He didn’t answer my question,
     merely announcing, “I will need to interview each of you individually. The officer”—he
     gestured toward the hall where I could see a uniformed sleeve—“will take your details.
     Your office will work best, Ms. Graysin.” Taking my agreement for granted, he crossed
     the hall to my office door and stopped in the opening. “I’ll start with you, Mr. Whiteman.”
    Nigel sputtered, but then joined Detective Lissy, leaving the rest of us looking at
     each other with varying degrees of confusion, grief, and