Meanwhile, Rocky Friar was already starting in on his old girlfriend. “Oh, man...” He grabbed his head. “My freakin’ migraine headache just got a whole lot worse.”
Sue Ellen flipped her sleek black ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m not the cause of your headache, barrel neck. It’s those muscles of yours. They constrict and squeeze the blood outta your pea-size brain.”
I realized there was something different about Sue Ellen today: makeup and earrings, delicate pearl studs. She’d applied fresh lipstick and gloss, too.
Friar glared at the smoldering Amazon. “What do you know about biceps and triceps? From your reputation, your interest lies in another muscle on the male anatomy.”
“What? Yours?” Sue Ellen rolled her eyes. “Speaking of pea-size.”
“Listen up, Bass. You’re not only banned from my apartment building, you’re banned from my crime scene.” Rocky jerked his thumb in the direction of the exit. “Hit the road.”
“Banning me from the building is a load of crap, and you know it.”
“Listen, honey, it’s for your own good,” Friar said, his voice theatrically softening. “The building’s full of guys on the job. All single. All virile. All teeming with testosterone. I wouldn’t take an alkie out drinking, or a junkie to a crack house—”
“You son of a—” Sue Ellen lunged forward.
Lori snared her waist. “Whoa, partner! Hold up, there!”
Friar laughed. “That’s right, Annie Oakley. Simmer that filly down!”
“You’re not helping, Rocky,” Lori shot back. “And you can’t ban us from this crime scene. We’re here at the behest of one of the witnesses to investigate possible links to another crime.”
“Which witness?”
“Right here!” I said, waving my hand like Roman Brio signaling a waiter.
“Oh, jeez,” Rocky groaned, his hands mashing down his toasted-walnut hair. “Victor!”
“Yeah, Rock.”
“Liaise with these—”
“Watch it,” Sue Ellen warned.
“—detectives from the Sixth. And look out for the big brunette. She’s a freakin’ man-eater.”
“Hey, shutterbug!” Friar shouted at Ben Tower, who was trying to slip away. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“I’m not breaking any laws.”
“No?” Friar said. “Let’s see how the management of this chic eatery feels about paparazzi hanging around and bothering their celebrity customers. Then let’s see how Ms. Summour feels about having her party photographed on private property. Maybe she has a restraining order out on you. Or maybe she’ll want to take one out. Either way, I’ll have to check downtown. That may take a long time.”
“Okay, okay!” Tower held up his hand.
I stifled a smile. Friar was a long way from winning me over, but I couldn’t help being impressed with his turn-the-perp dance step. He was almost as good as Mike Quinn.
“I do work for the Journal,” Tower admitted. “The lady cop was right, okay. But I was just having a few drinks and a bite at the bar. Then you guys showed, and I figured there was a story—”
“A story? It’s a lousy mugging. Big deal. Why should you and Randall Knox care about something so small-time?” Friar leaned close to the man, his face inches from Tower’s. “Unless you had another reason to be here besides the gourmet tacos.”
Tower dropped his voice. “Knox sent me here to watch Ms. Summour, okay? Maybe shoot some interesting pictures.”
Friar folded his arms. “And did you get anything interesting?”
“Some dame waving a wedding announcement. The groom storming out. A lover’s spat, I guess. Not exactly JFK, Jr.”
“I hope not. The man’s been dead quite a few years now.”
“But those photographs of him fighting in public with his fiancée were worth a fortune.”
Friar shook his head. “Breanne Summour’s not nearly that famous. Why bother?”
I stepped up to the men. “Excuse me, Detective, but I have a few questions for Mr. Tower.”
Friar rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me.
“Mr. Tower, were you at your boss’s birthday party a few months ago?” I asked pointedly. “The one that featured a stripper dressed up like Breanne Summour? Did you shoot any interesting photos there?”
Tower frowned down at me. “I must have missed that bash.”
“What about Monica Purcell?” I asked. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Who?” Friar asked.
“Monica Purcell overdosed on prescription medication,” I said, “presumably from the painkillers and uppers I found in her desk. There was a business card hidden with those drugs, Mr. Tower, your card.”
“I had nothing to do with Monica overdosing,” Tower said, his bald head vehemently shaking now. “I had nothing to do with any of that!”
“Why did she have your card then?” I asked. “And why did you write that you enjoyed your lunch with her and were looking forward to working with her?”
Tower held up his hand again. “I didn’t set up that lunch. Randy Knox did. If you want to know about Monica’s deal with Randy, you ask him.”
“All right, that’s enough questions from you, Ms. Cosi,” Friar said. “I have my own questions for this guy.” The muscle-bound detective grabbed the collar of the photographer’s vest and pulled him away.
I approached Lori Soles. “You’re going to interview Randall Knox, right? He’s obviously fixated on Breanne Summour.”
“We already interviewed Knox,” Lori said. “We came up empty.”
“What if it wasn’t a coincidence that Tower was here?” I said. “What if Knox knew Breanne would be attacked, maybe killed, and he wanted his photographer on hand to capture images of the crime scene?”
“Look, I know Tower is a shark. I caught him sneaking into the apartment of that TV actress who OD’d last year, so he could shoot pictures of her body. But I can’t see Tower as a party to murder.”
“But you can question Knox again, right?”
Lori frowned. “I don’t see the point. There’s nothing suspicious about paparazzi hanging around celebrities.”
“But there’s a connection to Monica Purcell. You know about that case, right?”
“Drug distro and conspiracy to commit robbery of Ms. Summour’s rings. Yeah, Quinn talked to Sue Ellen and me about it already. But I don’t see how Tower is involved.”
“I found Tower’s card hidden in Monica’s desk.”
“That’s pretty thin, Cosi. Even for you.”
Suddenly Sue Ellen Bass took off, chasing after Detective Friar—presumably for another round of verbal sparring.
Lori blanched. “Sorry, got to go!” she said, hurrying after her partner.
“But somebody’s got to talk to Randall Knox,” I called. Then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Madame standing there. “How long have you been listening?”
“Long enough,” Madame said. “I learned a thing or two watching you, my dear.” She threw me a wink. “And I already have a solution to your problem.”
“Which is?”
“You and I will talk to Randall Knox together.”
I nodded. “You’re on.”
“You know,” Madame said, as we headed for the street, “after surviving the Indonesian tsunami, drug violence and terrorism in Colombia, and the post election chaos in Kenya’s Rift Valley, our guests probably didn’t blink an eye at this disaster of a luncheon, but I’m certainly relieved to be walking away from it.”