(2) Mandy Breslin absolutely did not deserve Marc—or any Moretti.
Granted, the woman was beautiful. Exceptionally so. Jill remembered her as being a blonde, but her hair was currently a gorgeous dark chocolate shade that fell in long, shiny layers down to rather perfect boobs. Her waist was tiny, her butt toned and tight, her legs long. She was also one of those women who managed to look perfectly made up, yet not at all. The type that probably spent an hour putting on her makeup in such a way that made it look like she was wearing none.
Everything about her screamed effortlessly gorgeous.
“So, Mandy, how are things with you?” Jill asked, once it became abundantly clear that Marc’s girlfriend was wildly bored with Marc and Vin’s nonstop “cop-talk.”
She glanced up from where she’d been nibbling at the bruschetta on her plate—no bread, mind you, just the tomatoes.
It was as though she came alive right before Jill’s eyes. The bored, vaguely sulky look disappeared.
“Really good!” Mandy said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she let her eyes go all animated and sparkling. “My agent thinks I’m on the verge of a big break, but I’m trying not to get cocky, you know?”
Jill had to give the other woman credit; she may not have hit her big break yet, but she was a better actress than the Morettis gave her credit for. She was currently nailing the role of girlish and modest.
Jill felt Vincent shift in his chair beside her, and she sent him a silent message to bite his tongue.
“That’s great,” Jill asked. “So how does that work, you just tell him or her the types of roles you’re interested in?”
“Yup! My agent’s one of the big names, so she’s the first to know about all the prime roles.”
“Does your next role require you to be a brunette?” Vincent asked, taking a sip of his beer before gesturing to her newly dark hair.
“Oh, no, I don’t have anything specific lined up. I just got so sick of everyone trying to cast me as the clueless bimbo. Brunettes get taken more seriously. No offense,” she said with a glance at Jill.
“None taken,” Jill said with a thin smile. She was totally willing to bet that Mandy’s previous platinum shade of blond hadn’t been any more natural than the dark chocolate tresses she was rocking now.
Mandy leaned forward. “So, have you talked to, like, a ton of famous people on your trip?”
“Sweetie,” Marc said, resting a hand on the back of Mandy’s chair. “You know they can’t talk about the case.”
She pouted prettily. “But the case is all over the news. And they wouldn’t have flown all the way to LA if they weren’t interviewing somebody famous.”
Jill and Vincent were saved from having to evade her question by the server who came to take their dinner order. Truth be told, they sometimes fudged the rules when they were within the Moretti circle of trust. Vincent’s father all but demanded to be kept apprised of updates, as though he were still the police commissioner. And Luc and Anth were part of the force, which meant they were privy to more information than most.
And Jill was pretty sure that had it not been for the presence of Mandy, they’d probably be filling Marc in. He wasn’t NYPD, but he was a cop. They could trust him.
But every instinct told Jill that they absolutely, in no way, could trust Mandy Breslin to keep her glossy mouth shut.
Not that there was anything to report.
She and Vincent had spent the entire day going from gorgeous mansion to gorgeous mansion. She’d been offered more iced tea and flavored cucumber water than she could stand.
Every meeting had been a virtual repeat of yesterday’s meeting with James Killroy.
Yes, I was in New York the night Lenora Birch was killed. No, I didn’t see her. No, didn’t want to see her. No, why would I?
It was sad, almost. As famous as Lenora Birch had been, she seemed to have virtually no friends. No enemies either.
The woman seemed to inspire virtually no emotion in the people around her, which was as strange as it was frustrating.
Vin touched her arm and she glanced up, startled to realize that it was her turn to order and she’d completely zoned out.
“Oh, sorry!” She glanced down at the menu, completely forgetting what she’d planned to order.
The restaurant was one of the New American–cuisine dining places, which offered everything from fancy house-made pasta, to elaborate salads, to squab—whatever that was.
“I’ll try the butternut squash lasagna,” she said. “And another glass of wine.”
Mandy was staring at Jill in wonder as the server took their menus. “Oh my gosh, I love that about you!”
“What?” Jill asked.
“You didn’t even flinch when ordering carbs!”
“She’s a homicide detective,” Vincent said irritably. “If she doesn’t flinch at the sight of a decapitated drug dealer, I don’t think pasta’s going to do her in.”
“Vin,” Marc said mildly.
“What?”