Living with the Dead

ROBYN



There had been a moment, after waking on the park bench, when Robyn had reflected back on the events of the night and decided the answer was simple. She’d cracked.

After one too many glasses of champagne, she’d gone into that dark hall at Bane, and like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, she’d emerged in some hellish alternate reality of her mind’s own making, where Portia had died, then Judd, and she was the primary suspect.

A shrink would claim the whole scenario was a subconscious manifestation of illogical guilt over Damon’s death. Whether it was indeed a complete mental collapse or simply a drunken nightmare, she was relieved. A mental hospital she could deal with. Not like she hadn’t expected to end up in one anyway.

Her relief lasted until she passed a newsstand outside the park and saw the newspaper headlines. It was like someone cut her power cord again, and she meandered for an hour, shocked, confused, lost . . . and thoroughly disgusted with herself for it.

A few years ago, when she and Damon had passed a poster for a book called The Purpose Driven Life, Damon joked it must have been written by Robyn’s long-lost twin. She always had a purpose, a goal, a plan. Even on vacation, she never left without researching the locale and drawing up an itinerary. That didn’t mean she scheduled every moment, but she’d hate to later hear someone talking about some hidden gem she’d missed.

In high school, she’d taken a test to identify where her strengths lay, and the answer came as a surprise to no one. Logical reasoning, organization and planning. Public relations might not have seemed the ideal fit for her, but it was. No matter what scrape a client got herself into, Robyn could say, “Give me a minute,” and come up with a solution, usually two or three.

Now there was a citywide alert out for her, and here she was, wandering aimlessly, as if hoping someone would catch her and save her the trouble of taking action herself. When she heard a man call “Robyn,” she turned to embrace her fate.

It was a testament to her mental state that it wasn’t until the dark-haired man stopped three feet away from her that she recognized him.

“Karl?”

“It’s all right.” He moved forward slowly, hands outstretched, as if approaching a timid deer. “Hope sent me.”

She nodded.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and held it out. “I’m going to take you to her. Do you want to call her? Check first?”

Robyn shook her head and let him lead her away.



THEY DROVE IN SILENCE to a motel. Karl parked right in front, checking to make sure no one was watching, then hustled her to the door.

Hope was inside. She closed and relocked the door as Karl strode past, scanning the dark, cool room, shades drawn.

You’d almost think they were harboring a murder suspect.

Robyn tried to laugh, but couldn’t. Hope led her to the bed, where icy bottles of water, sandwiches and brownie bites waited. Robyn eyed the food, as if she could mentally will it into her hand. Hope handed her a bottle and told her to drink slowly. She did and it seemed to unstick her brain.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“We found out where that undercover officer lived,” Hope said. “Was he a friend of yours?”

Undercover officer? Judd? So now she was the main suspect in a cop killing?

When Robyn didn’t answer, Hope went on. Something about knowing Robyn wouldn’t have taken a taxi when she might be wanted for murder, so she couldn’t be more than a few miles from Judd’s place.

It was plausible, she supposed. But that was still a lot of area to cover. And why leave Hope behind when two sets of eyes and legs could have searched twice as fast?

“We need to talk about what happened,” Hope said.

“I didn’t kill them.”

“I know. But you need to tell us exactly what happened so we can figure out what to do.”

Well, at least someone was taking charge and making plans.

Robyn told them everything. As she talked and drank and nibbled on a sandwich, the deadening layer of shock lifted enough for her to look around and realize the situation was real, and she couldn’t take refuge in fantasies of madness.

“I should turn myself in,” she said finally.

“You will . . . just not right now. Karl talked to a friend. He’s a lawyer who specializes in this sort of problem.”

There was a specialty in this?

“He advised us,” Hope continued, “and, if we need him, he’ll come down. He’s in Oregon, but he’s licensed to practice in California. Anyway, the main thing now is to keep you in L.A., just away from your apartment or anyplace you could be recognized. That way, we can say you weren’t on the run, just in shock. But that excuse will only work for a day or two, so we have to work fast. We need to give the police another suspect—preferably the real killer.”

“You’re . . .” She looked from Hope to Karl. “You’re going to solve this yourselves?”

Hope smiled. “Hey, I’m True News’s weird tales girl, remember? Solving mysteries is my thing. Karl’s helped me before. He used to be in security.”

“I’m not sure . . .”

Karl spoke from across the room, his first words since they’d arrived. “You don’t have a lot of options right now, Robyn.”

Hope shushed him with a glare, but he was right, and his cold realism felt somehow more reassuring than Hope’s 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.”