Chapter 39
DEL RIO AND CRUZ left the fleet Mercedes with the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed through the lobby to the Polo Lounge. The ma?tre d’ said that Ms. Rollins was on the patio. Cruz rolled up his jacket sleeves and followed Del Rio out into the bright sunshine.
Cruz thought that Sherry Rollins looked about thirty, although it was getting harder to tell women’s ages in this town. She was wearing a floppy hat and a skinny black dress with white detailing; she looked like a young executive at one of the studios.
Both men shook hands with her, said their names, and the blond-haired woman moved her dog from a chair and invited them to sit down.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “The lobster salad is quite good.”
“Something to drink, maybe,” Del Rio said.
The waitress trotted over and took an order of beer for Del Rio, tea for Cruz. Then Cruz took the lead.
“Ms. Rollins.”
“Sherry,” she said.
“Sherry. We’re investigating the death of Shelby Cushman. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“A break-in, wasn’t it? A burglar broke into the house and shot her.”
“Actually, that’s not right,” Del Rio said. “All the indications are that Shelby Cushman was murdered with premeditation. Nothing was taken. Not a thing.”
“That’s insane,” said the woman. “I’m sure I heard it was a robbery. Why else would someone kill Shelby?”
“How well did you know her?” Cruz asked.
“I’ve known her a few years,” she said. “I wouldn’t say I was a close friend.”
“But she used to work for you, didn’t she? She was one of your escorts.”
Sherry Rollins didn’t miss a beat. “Not since she got married. Last few months, she was working for someone else. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’m sorry—this is very upsetting.”
“It would really help if you’d tell us all about it,” said Cruz. “And don’t leave anything out. Try to hold in your grief.”
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”
“You do, Sherry,” said Del Rio, his voice all business, no kidding around now. “You know a lot more. And I’ll tell you what. Help us out here, and we won’t go to the police. We won’t tell them why we think you’re a suspect in Shelby Cushman’s murder.”
“Suspect? That is absurd. Why would I want to kill Shelby?”
“I don’t know why, but the police might like to question you about that—and any number of other things.”
The woman in the hat gave him an icy look, but he had her, and he knew it.
Sometimes Del Rio really liked his job.
So far, he was giving this day five stars.