Luke started leafing through Jana′s file. ″Strip! Check with Inventory to see if a brown purse was found in the Miller car. Had cows on it or some kind of shit like that.″
Strip′s voice said, ″There wasn′t a purse in the car. We assumed it was jacked during the attack on the women.″
″You assumed?″ Luke rolled his eyes. ″Well, right now it′s apparently sitting at some lady′s house. Not jacked. And you call yourself a detective? Cripes almighty.″
While Luke continued making notes, I said, ″Here′s something else interesting, Luke-the woman who founded the Newbodies group was killed last spring in a home-invasion robbery. Her name was Anaïs Loring. Evidently the detectives in that case talked to some of the members of the Newbodies group at the time. That′s an odd coincidence, huh? I heard her murder is unsolved, by the way.″
″And of course you were thinking I should pull up that other woman′s murder file,″ Luke said without looking up from his notes. ″You know, most pains in the ass aren′t as cute and charming as you, Kate. That′s your secret weapon.″
He tossed the pen on top of the notepad, then leaned back in his chair. ″But I can tell you right now that a cold-case murder in a ladies′ social club probably won′t pan out into anything,″ he said, cracking his knuckles. ″I′ll pull the Anaïs Loring file, but these two deaths have got coincidence written all over them. Besides. We have our prime suspect in jail. Antoine Hurley.″
That was fine by me. Even if Anaïs Loring′s death wound up as nothing more than an investigator′s footnote in Jana′s file, at least I′d have the satisfaction of knowing that I′d kicked over every stone.
Including the ones that the ″real″ investigators were ready to ignore.
Chapter 21
Lashes to Die For
Are you lusting for long, thick eyelashes? Just follow these simple rules when applying your mascara:
• Keep your wand fresh-be sure to replace your mascara every few months. Nothing flakes and cakes like old, past-its-prime mascara.
• Curl your lashes with a good lash curler (I recommend Shimura′s). Start by curling them at the base of the lashes, and then gently move the curling wand toward the end of the lashes, curling gently as you go.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
Saturday morning I came groggily awake to the pile-driving beat of the alarm clock. I tried to escape by burying my head under a pillow, but then something began dragging a strip of sandpaper along the back of my hand. It was Elfie. Evidently she′d decided that I was in need of a cat bath, or maybe she was simply trying to see whether I was still alive.
″Hey there, kitty,″ I croaked.
What I really needed was a hot shower. Surrounding me was the detritus of a blowout binge from the night before-Snickers wrappers, an empty pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream, foil crumpoids of chocolate kisses-I′d spent the previous night in the sweet embrace of one of my worst sugar benders so far of the autumn. And it wasn′t even Halloween yet.
I struggled to open my eyes and found them glued together by sleep crystals that had formed overnight. That always happened in the wake of a massive intake of chocolate and high-fructose corn syrup. Let the Hollywood celebrities risk their lives with prescription drugs and worse. I preferred to take the edge off pain with pure, unadulterated sugar. If only I didn′t pay for my sins in poundage the next day. That was the killer.
I pried open my eyes with my fingers, then checked the messages on my cell phone. Four of the messages were from Jonathan.
″Oh, sure. Now you want to talk.″ A surge of anger flowed through my fingers. I autodeleted Jonathan′s messages without listening to them. Let him worry about what I was thinking for once.
In the wake of that feeble act of payback, the silence felt hollow. What had Jonathan wanted to say to me? What was there to say? He was married. Or at the very least, he had slept with his ex-wife. End of story.
After checking on Shaina-the head nurse informed me that she was going to be released later that day-I made a pot of coffee and toasted a bagel. I wound up ignoring the bagel. The eating frenzy of the night before had left me feeling stuffed. Sick, even.
I stepped on the bathroom scale. Despite my binge of the night before, I′d lost two pounds since the previous weekend, but even that news didn′t lift my spirits.
The Broken Heart Diet-boffo idea for a best-selling diet book, I thought with grim satisfaction. The cover will display a red heart, and your lover′s ex-wife will be driving a fork through it. And the ex-wife′s name will be Gi.
The only thing that could make the moment worse would be to get a call I′d been avoiding all week.
Right on schedule, the phone rang.
″Have you been watching CNN?″ My father′s voice came booming over the line.
″Not today, Dad.″
″I don′t want to tell you your business, Kate,″ Dad said. ″But CNN just ran a story about the possibility of earthquakes on the East Coast. Very close to where you are, in fact. Did you know that all the original homes in Charleston were built with earthquake bolts?″
″I didn′t know that,″ I said. ″But actually, Charleston′s not all that close to Durham. Different state. That′s South Carolina.″
″Still, it′s next door to you. And they had a huge shaker in 1866. I′m thinking that the entire Southeast needs to prepare for a major eight-point shaker. Your viewers should know about it. Do you have your earthquake kit prepared?″
″Uh, no.″
″That′s what I thought. I′m sending you one in the mail. It includes a windup solar radio. This way you′ll never be without a radio if the electricity goes out.″
Ever since he′d retired from his job as police captain, Dad had found a new career keeping me posted on every twist and turn of the national-and even international-news. He seemed to think that if there was any news breaking anywhere in the world, I needed to know about it instantly. He never seemed to quite distinguish-or care-about the lines that divide local, national, and international news. Every few months he asked me why he couldn′t see me on cable in Boston. It drove me batty.
″Well, thanks, Dad. I′ll-″
″Before I let you go, I want to know-have you had your blood pressure checked recently?″
″Yes. I had it checked at the pharmacy.″
″You know, you can′t rely on those pharmacy cuffs. You need to have your pressure taken by a qualified physician. Preferably by a cardiologist. ″
″A cardiologist? Dad, I′m only twenty-seven years old.″
″It′s never too soon to start tracking your health baselines. High blood pressure and stroke run in our family, you know.″
″I know. Okay, Dad, thanks.″
My dad had always been a worrywart about me, but recently his concern had gone off the Richter scale. A week didn′t go by when he didn′t mail me a copy of an article warning about some kind of potential disaster.
I was beginning to think it was time to try to get my dad set up with a lady friend, just for the distraction factor. In fact, I′d e-mailed him some links to articles about how to troll the romantic waters on the Internet. With his silver haired good looks and ″command presence,″ as they called it in the police world, my dad would be a surefire hit on Internet matchmak ing services like eHarmony.com. But my dad claimed to have no interest in dating-no one could ever rival my mother in his eyes, he always said.