She nodded. “She was nothing like I expected. I got a very peculiar vibe off of her. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got to wonder if the police even looked into her as a suspect. They may have had their hands too full with the others to have even asked where Susan’s supposed best friend was.”
“Sometimes I really do think you inherited my cop brain.”
“This is more my reporter brain. Under Suspicion may be reality TV, but I haven’t forgotten my journalistic roots. Just as we don’t want to skew the facts to make people look guilty if they are not, I don’t want to present Nicole as the angelic best friend if there’s another side to the story.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out the truth about who Nicole Melling really was back at UCLA-back when she was known as Nicole Hunter.”
Steve Roman’s thoughts were halted by the appearance of the bartender, his dark hair slicked back into a ponytail, his tight black T-shirt accentuating his biceps.
“Another club soda, sir?”
Steve snuck a glance at the woman, older gentleman, and child. The woman was signaling for the check. “I’m good,” he said. “Thanks.”
Steve tried to avoid any temptation to imbibe alcohol, but tonight, his presence at the bar in Mama Torini’s was unavoidable. This stool, just fifteen feet from the television woman’s table, allowed him to overhear her conversation with ease.
From what he could gather, Nicole Melling, née Hunter, was keeping her mouth shut about whatever beef she had with Advocates for God. If that were the only news to report, Martin would be relieved. Maybe he would even cut Steve loose from this assignment, and Steve could return to his former routine.
But now Steve had learned they had a new problem. From this bar stool, he had Googled “production of Under Suspicion.” He had immediately found a photograph of the woman he’d identified as the boss of the production team. Her name was Laurie Moran. She was the show’s creator and producer. He had also learned that Laurie was a crime victim herself, and the daughter of a cop. One more search had confirmed that the older man at the dinner table was her father.
And now the woman had announced that her curiosity about Nicole was piqued and that she’d be taking a close look at her background. I’m going to find out the truth about who Nicole Melling really was.
Martin would not be happy.
37
Alex Buckley looked down at the suitcase and garment bag, packed up and still open on his bed. He had traveled long distances before for cases, and he was accustomed to appearing on television, but this was the first time he had combined the two. He had managed to accommodate six suits and a variety of more casual options in his luggage.
When Brett Young had called him this afternoon to ask him to move up his plans to fly to Los Angeles, Alex had wanted to check with Laurie. He had seen the way Young had surprised Laurie by calling without telling her. So he bought himself time by telling Brett he needed to check his trial schedule. In reality, he had used the borrowed moments to call Laurie, but she hadn’t answered. He had phoned Leo instead, who assured Alex that Laurie would value his early input. But now that his bags were packed, he had to wonder whether Leo might have his own reasons for wanting to bring Alex to California. When he got there, would he cramp Laurie’s rhythm with her production team? This would be the first time they’d worked together since developing a friendship outside of the show.
When he was invited to host Under Suspicion’s inaugural episode about the Graduation Gala Murder, he couldn’t resist. He had followed the case closely when he was a sophomore at Fordham and had always been convinced that one of the guests celebrating at the gala was the killer. As it turned out, his suspicions were incorrect. The lasting mark of his participation in the show wasn’t the discovery of the true killer’s identity but his devotion to Laurie Moran.
“Do you need a car service for tomorrow, Mr. Alex?”
“How many times do I need to tell you to drop the ‘Mr.,’ Ramon? Alex is fine. Heck, you can even call me Al, as the song says.”
“That is not how Ramon rolls, sir.”
Alex shook his head and laughed. Occasionally he looked at his own life and could not believe it. Ramon was sixty years old, born in the Philippines. Divorced, with one adult daughter in Syracuse, he was Alex’s “assistant.” Alex preferred that term to “butler,” which had been Ramon’s title in his previous employment for a family that had relocated to the West Coast. The decorator who had ensured that Alex’s apartment was finished tastefully had recommended hiring Ramon when she saw that Alex was so busy at work that he frequently bought new undershirts because the laundry was backed up.
Alex’s apartment on Beekman Place, with views of the East River, had six rooms, plus servant’s quarters, much too large for a bachelor. But it had enough space for a dining room to entertain friends, a home office, Ramon, and Alex’s younger brother, Andrew, a corporate lawyer who visited frequently from Washington, D.C. In Alex’s mind, his home reflected his commitment to friends, family, and loyalty. And yet, he understood how it all probably looked to someone who didn’t truly know him.
What he really meant was how it probably looked to Laurie.
Last December, he thought it was all going to be easy. The man Timmy called Blue Eyes had tried to kill the boy and his mother. On instinct, Alex ran in and swept both Laurie and Timmy into his arms. For that brief moment, they almost felt like a family.
But, just as quickly, Leo had appeared, and Laurie and Timmy had pulled away from Alex’s embrace. Leo, Laurie, and Timmy were the family. Alex was a friend. A coworker. A buddy. Not family. Not, most important, Greg.
At first, Alex reasoned that Laurie simply wasn’t ready for another relationship. Certainly he could understand the possible reasons. She had a demanding career and a child to juggle. She had lost her husband. She wasn’t over Greg yet. Maybe she never would be.
But now, the night before he was supposed to fly to Los Angeles to work with Laurie again, he wondered if her reluctance was specific to him personally. In addition to an apartment that might have seemed too large and a butlerlike assistant who called him “Mr. Alex,” he had somehow been saddled with a public persona fit for the tabloids.
How many times had he seen his own photograph in the society pages with a woman on his arm, the caption hinting at a growing romance? But because his part-time job as a trial commentator had made him something of a pseudocelebrity, these pairings always seemed to be blown out of proportion. Andrew had even told him about a website that purported to list every single person Alex had ever supposedly dated. Most were names Alex didn’t recognize.
Why would a woman as smart and confident as Laurie trust someone like him? She had a career and child to worry about. There was no room for some six-foot-four, airbrushed, blow-dried lothario. Could she allow Timmy to become attached to another man who, as she perceived it, might fall out of his life?
Alex looked down once again at his bags and then replaced a flashy purple paisley tie with conservative navy stripes, knowing the swap wouldn’t make one bit of difference.
38
“Wow, Mom. This is almost like that big breakfast they had at the hotel when we went to Aruba.”
The Aruba vacation last winter had celebrated the success of the first episode of Under Suspicion. Laurie felt like she’d been working nonstop ever since.
Laurie placed a hand on Timmy’s shoulder as she took in the breakfast options spread across the gigantic island in the middle of the kitchen. Laurie had been skeptical about the idea of their all camping out under one roof in Los Angeles, but with Brett already complaining about the show’s budget, she’d been in no position to challenge Jerry’s logic about using one house for both lodging and the summit-session filming.