Crash Into Me - L.A. Fiore Page 0,2

said, then called to one of the crime techs. “Her cell. I want a list of numbers she called in the last week, and I want her calendar.” He looked back at me. “We’ll stop for coffee on the way to the station.”

“My apartment first. I need to change.”

“Right.” He grinned. “The big date with Blake.”

Sometimes, I just wanted to punch him. “The only thing big about the date was that it was a failure.” I stopped walking and poked him in the chest. “Where the hell did you meet Blake?”

“Fantasy football.”

Figures. “Don’t fix me up again,” I said, and started for Zac’s car.

“That bad?” There was concern under the teasing.

“Worse,” I said, yanking open the door. “I’m hungry.”

“Didn’t you go to dinner?”

I was climbing into the car, but stopped and glared at him from over the roof. “I…” No point in retelling the tale, so instead I said, “My apartment to change, food, coffee and no mention of Blake again.”

He put his hands up. “Okay.” Then muttered, “Someone’s grumpy.”

An hour later, my feet were up on my desk, and I had three cups of coffee and four slices of pizza in my stomach. “She was at the Rothschild reception earlier. That’s pretty fancy for a publicist based out of Chadds Ford. What did you learn about Milton Teller PR?”

Zac folded his pizza and ate half in one bite, while tapping the keys on his keyboard. “Milton Teller was a big shot back in the eighties and nineties. Had quite the client list from actors to politicians. Established his business with headquarters in LA and New York, downsized about a decade ago and moved the operation to Chadds Ford and opened a winery.”

“Still has clout, though, if his publicists are representing people attending the Rothschild reception.” Sinclair Rothschild was a philanthropist. Made most of his money illegally, and then, allegedly, had a morality shift and had been pursuing philanthropic pursuits ever since. Every year, he hosted several receptions, inviting the who’s who to raise money for whatever the cause du jour was. And our victim had been at one of these receptions.

“Guess who Samantha’s client was?” Zac asked.

“Who?”

“Desiree McKenzie.”

My brows rose at that. An A-list movie star who couldn’t act, but she was beautiful, and her dad was wealthy. “Definitely still has clout.”

“Yep. We’re going to need the list of attendees from last night, but that shouldn’t be hard to get,” Zac said, reaching for his phone. “Every newspaper likely has the list.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. Sinclair’s receptions were like the Academy Awards for the Hollywood set, a big deal. “We need to call her family.” I hated that part of the job. Looking down at death was difficult, but having to share that death with the loved ones was brutal.

Zac sounded as solemn as I felt, when he said, “We’ll wait until the morning.”

My head didn’t hit my bed until three and at exactly six, Salem was purring in my ear. I reached for my pillow and pressed it over my head. I wanted another twelve hours of sleep, but Samantha needed us. Climbing from bed, I went to the bathroom and took care of business, before heading to the kitchen; I hit the Keurig first, and while that brewed, I fed Salem. Reaching for a slice of pizza in the fridge, I took my coffee to my bedroom and got dressed.

“I’ll be home…” I started to say to Salem, as I yanked open my door, then remembered I had another date tonight. I should cancel it, didn’t know why I’d scheduled one so close to the last one. I needed time in between the staggering disappointments that were my dates these days. “I’ll be home to change. Going to dinner again; hopefully, I eat this time. I’ll bring you something back.” He turned, his tail going in the air, as he walked away. I knew he was going back to bed. Fucker. It’s where I wanted to be. My neighbor, Ethan, was just leaving as I was locking up. He was in his twenties, was still working the Goth look, all black, even his hair was black and spiky around a face that couldn’t be called beautiful but definitely had you looking twice. He was a stoner, but he was good about not smoking in the building. He knew I was a cop. I knew I should be writing him up, but he was a good neighbor and growing into a friend, so the rare times he