Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,20

bright optimism.

Hope cracked open a water bottle. “I can’t promise we will solve it. But we’re going to try, and if we’re no closer tomorrow than we are right now, we’ll get our friend’s help, let you turn yourself in and keep on working. We have some leads already.”

“You do? How?”

“Like I said, there’s an advantage to having a tabloid reporter on your case. I have the perfect excuse for snooping, and people aren’t nearly as reluctant to talk to the tabs as they let on.” She took a long gulp of water. “There’s a rumor that someone heard Portia arguing in that back hall. She was talking about a cell phone. And maybe something about a picture.”

“Cell . . . ? Wait. Before she died, Portia mentioned her cell. I thought she wanted me to use it to call 911, but that didn’t seem to be it.”

“Her cell phone wasn’t with her body. She had it earlier, didn’t she?”

“She must have. I always swore it was surgically attached.”

“What about pictures or photos? Does that ring a bell?”

“People were always taking Portia’s picture. The only time she snapped shots was when she wanted to show something—a purse or an outfit she liked. She did send me one yesterday—from her cell actually—but it was just of Jasmine Wills.”

“Jasmine?”

“In an ugly dress. Portia’s been having this passive-aggressive feud with her, and she wanted me to send this picture to the tabloids.”

“How big a deal would that be? I mean, I can’t see anyone shooting Portia to stop her from getting a photo published, but maybe Jasmine tried to get it back, waved a gun and it went off. Sounds farfetched, but you did think the killer might have been a woman.”

“At first. But Judd’s killer was a young man, so maybe I was mistaken.”

“That could have been a friend or someone Jasmine hired, after she realized you’d seen her.” Hope shook her head. “Okay, that really does sound far-fetched.”

Maybe, but people killed for less every day. Robyn had a scrapbook to prove it.

“We should look for more likely explanations,” Karl said. “Was there anything else about the photograph? Was this girl holding something—drugs? Kissing someone’s husband? Was there anything else in the frame? Something or someone Portia may have accidentally photographed?”

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t take a good look. It was just . . . Portia being silly. I filed it away, waiting to see whether she’d insist I send it.”

“We’re going to need to see that picture,” Hope said. “Do you—? Shit. You tossed your cell, didn’t you?”

“Lost it,” Robyn said. “But I downloaded the photo to my laptop. I do that at the end of the workday to keep all my messages in one place.”

Hope smiled. “As organized as ever. Now we just need to get your laptop.”

FINN

* * *

FINN HAD NEVER BEEN TO A SPA.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d once had a crime scene at a spa. The ghost claimed to have been bludgeoned to death by her romantic rival as they awaited some hot new treatment guaranteed to make them irresistible to the D-list actor they were both pursuing. As it turned out, the young woman had been pawing through a shelf of discounted hair products when a massive bottle of conditioner had fallen and hit her in the head.

Finn doubted the ghost had intentionally lied. She’d been bending over, felt a blow and made up her own explanation. If her version made her death feel less pointless, she was welcome to it.

Today he was tracking down witnesses. The death of Portia Kane was a high-profile case. The death of Judd Archer was just as big—at least for the cops involved. Whether the two were connected remained to be proven. A team had been hastily assembled, pulling in resources from everywhere. Other detectives would work the Archer angle, in case his death was related to his undercover work. Finn would lead the team working on Portia Kane, which included finding Robyn Peltier. Another team member was handling the press side—that really wasn’t Finn’s thing.

He’d also assigned a pair of detectives to look into Robyn Peltier’s life—conducting interviews, checking her apartment, gathering background. Her husband had been killed six months ago in Philadelphia. Shot to death. Finn doubted there was a connection, but he had people working on it.

As for him, he’d spent most of the day tracking down people who’d been at the club with Portia Kane. He’d started with Marla Jansen, gotten three names from her, found