“Roger-roger,” Dawn said, sending her partner a subtle let’s-get-on-with-this-already look.
Clipping out an agreeable nod, Breisi turned to the Tomlinson family. She was wearing a slim beige suit and a long, curly brown wig gathered in a ponytail, plus much more makeup than usual. She could be a bitchin’ local newscaster if this whole vampire-hunting thing fell through one day.
With well-prepared charm, she said, “The cactus sounds like a lovely spot for pictures, Mrs. Tomlinson. Anything you need. We’re just happy to be able to talk with you.”
“That’s right,” Dawn chimed in, watching through her viewer. She was also wearing a disguise: a long boho skirt with fringed boots, an untucked white blouse, enough thick makeup to cover her facial scars, and a wig: long, black, and straight. Since she’d decided to play a journalist from, say, Austin, Texas—hell, if actors could do their own stunts, she could sure as shit turn the tables and act—she was using an accent. “At first, we were afraid we’d have to go through a team of lawyers to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Coral waved her hand dismissively. “They might be tellin’ Lee to keep his trap shut, but the rest of us Tomlinsons don’t take orders from anyone but ourselves.”
Damn. Maybe Milton Crockett, Esquire, didn’t think the Tomlinsons could offer much information about the Underground if he wasn’t keeping a tight rein on them. Did that mean the team was wasting its time?
One of the Tomlinson siblings spoke up, the older sister, Marg. “The lawyers came to Lee,” she drawled. “We didn’t search them out, so we don’t take orders from ’em, especially since they ain’t doing much good in making it clear that Lee couldn’t have killed that lady anyway. It’s more like they’re…well, encouraging an image. Understand? It’s like all they want to do is make him the most famous murderer ever.”
Dawn had focused the camera on Marg, a woman who looked to be as old as swamp water but was really in her midthirties. She was wearing a long-sleeved Universal Studios shirt. Since an unseasonable film of clouds was covering the sky today, everyone in the room had buttoned up more than usual for August.
Marg, with her short, dark near-mullet, had a chain smoker’s complexion. Her skin and clothing reeked almost as much as Dawn’s own garlic essence, but that didn’t seem to faze Marg’s hubby, Herb, who sat next to his wife on the jungle-leaf bedspread. He was a man who existed in his own sphere, almost literally; his wiry body seemed ready to ball up, his hunched shoulders getting a head start as he stared at the floor. Light from the nearby vanity played over his bald head, and he kept fidgeting with the seam of his faded jeans instead of adding to the conversation.
Breisi was scribbling everything down in shorthand. “Marg, why do you think Lee wouldn’t have been capable of this murder?”
Another sister cleared her throat, as if to take attention off Marg, who seemed like the loudmouth of the bunch.
Cassie. She was younger, a little more hip than most of the other Tomlinsons, with her dark cornrowed hair worn under a kerchief, hippielike. She and the other remaining sibling, older brother Lane, were the only two who didn’t appear totally at home in this tacky L.A. motel hell room. How they both managed to avoid turning out like Marg, Dawn would love to know.
She steadied the camera on Lane because he was, to put it mildly, worth staring at. He had his brother Lee’s firm jaw, chisled cheekbones, slightly tilted blue eyes, and longish black hair. But he wasn’t as pretty as Lee. Nope, he had more of an edge, a kind of car mechanic–poet vibe that could also go over really well on film, if he chose to stay in Hollywood.
Yup, he’d be a great target on any day except for the ones she’d been having lately.
At the randy thought, Dawn ignored a niggle of conscience. Matt wouldn’t be so open to her Lane lusting. And who the hell knew what The Voice would think, if he cared at all.
“I guess you would’ve had to know Lee while he was growing up,” Lane said, mouth tilting in a sad smile as he avoided looking at the camera. Dawn didn’t know if that was because of modesty or because he didn’t need to be assured that the lens was eating him up. “After our dad died, Lee got…”
“Into his own badass world,” Cassie supplied from her seat next to her brother. Hippie girl looked a little sickened at what Lee had done.
“Badass world.” Lane shook his head, obviously agreeing with his sister. “We all shared rooms, and he’d lock us out and listen to music that got angrier and angrier with each album. It seemed to encourage him to isolate himself. And he drew a lot. I can still see him sitting with his back to the wall in a corner, penciling away.”