The cops knew Tiffany’s murder was tied to the salon. Hell, it was obvious to anyone now. Her death had not been a random slaying inspired by the riot she’d incited. Her murderer was someone she knew. Someone Jules knew. Someone Jules, sweet, darling fool, could have pointed a finger at.
Of course, Max had not been the only one they questioned. Scagliomotti, the dark one with the bad haircut, had taken the Three Stooges and Ariel. Berkowsky, the sandy one, had handled Pippa, Miles, and Max herself. Questioning each separately, they’d then switched interviewees, starting all over again with question after question until Max’s tongue felt numb and her throat hurt. She pictured the two detectives, heads burrowed together, now sitting in the bowels of the station comparing notes.
In a daze, Max had told them nothing useful.
She couldn’t tell them about the DVD; she’d boxed herself into a corner. She couldn’t reveal Traynor without revealing her own criminal act. Of course, what did she really know?
Had Jules played Wolfman in Tiffany’s final drama? Who were the two women? And had they killed him, throwing him up and over the dumpster wall just as they had Tiffany?
Who were they?
Nadine had hated Tiffany, felt threatened by her. And she wanted Tiffany’s husband. The ex didn’t apply to Jake, because Tiffany had never really let him go.
Ariel had lost her husband to Tiffany. Had she plotted her death for three years?
The Three Stooges? Max wasn’t sure they were capable of planning anything, let alone murder, either singly or collectively. And yet ... no one, absolutely no one could be ruled out. She’d underestimated the danger before, she wouldn’t do it again.
Pippa Louise Lamont? Max had no doubt the woman was capable of many things. The problem with her was motive. The only one Max could pinpoint was jealousy over her darling Miles. But Pippa oozed control. She didn’t strike Max as the type to let go long enough to kill for such a rampant emotion as jealousy.
Then again, maybe Witt was wrong in his assumption that the two masked figures were women. The costumes obscured their features, and the camera angle was low so that their height and breadth was distorted.
The killer could be Miles Lamont. A man who was possibly—quite likely—The Watcher.
And there was always Jake Lloyd. His masculine beauty didn’t fool her; his obsession for his wife made him an excellent suspect. Why had she ever considered wiping him off her list? No one was worthy of being expunged from her mental roll call.
Seeing sweet, innocent Jules had opened her eyes. No one was safe, and everyone was a suspect.
The last name on that list beat against her temples like a drum. Afraid even to voice it in her thoughts, Max bit her lip. Her eyes stung.
Bud Traynor was her prime suspect in Tiffany’s death. He was therefore also a suspect in Jules’s murder. The inevitable conclusion was that her visit to Traynor’s house last night had triggered the gentle man’s death. Oh God.
She needed Witt. She needed him to find out what time Jules had died. To tell her it was before Traynor had cornered her like a rat in his den. She needed to salve her conscience.
God, she was pathetic.
Home at last, she parked. After she unlocked her door, closed and bolted it behind her, then checked it twice, she climbed the stairs to her dark room. It was almost eight. The light on the answering machine was blinking. She ignored it. She needed a bath to wash away the smells. If she ever could wash them away.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Cameron. He’d been silent throughout the day, but she’d caught an occasional waft of his peppermint scent. It hadn’t soothed her.
“You were right, Cameron. I don’t forgive you.” Blaming him, though, was just a way of rubbing salve on her own wounds.
“I couldn’t do it for you. You had to do it yourself.”
She kicked her high heels off, threw her blazer over the chair, and sat down on the bed to rub her feet. She needed three minutes to collect herself, so that she wouldn’t scream at him across the quiet room. When she spoke, she was proud of her cool tone. “I was prepared for Nadine. I wasn’t prepared for Jules. You knew before I opened the lid. You should have warned me.”
“You should have known when you saw the trash wasn’t emptied.”
“I’ve worked there a matter of days. How the hell would I know he never forgets—” Pain surged in her chest. “Never forgot to empty the trash.” Her lip trembled, her composure slipping rapidly. She had known. In her gut.
He was silent a moment, then his phosphorescence caressed her. “Take your bath,” he said gently enough for tears to prick behind her lids. “You’ll feel better.”
“I won’t feel better.” Her voice rose with her anger. She couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. “They bashed in his goddamn head. It was probably the same bat they used on Tiffany. And what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t tell the cops about the DVD. I can’t tell them anything because you had me steal it.”