Free The Homicide Hustle by Ella Barrick Page B

mean—” How did I get myself out of this
     one? Footage of me trying to ID a murderer was a) going to royally piss off Detective
     Lissy and b) totally link Graysin Motion and murder in the minds of the viewing public,
     exactly what Maurice and I had been trying to avoid.
    “We don’t even know that she was murdered,” I said desperately. “It was probably an
     accident or . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the S-word. “I was just curious
     about Tessa. She seemed so competent and ambitious. Forget I said anything. It’s none
     of my business.” I backed up as I spoke, trying to reach my Beetle and escape. Sweat
     poured down my sides and I didn’t know if it was all due to the heat rising off the
     asphalt or from anxiety about the way my plan was backfiring.
    Nigel furrowed his forehead, thinking. “She was murdered. That police detective called
     and told me so not five minutes before you walked in. We’ll offer a reward,” he said
     slowly, “maybe fifty thou for information leading to the arrest of Tessa’s killer.
     We’ll make a big announcement, lots of hoopla, get more publicity for the show. It’s
     a brilliant idea, Stace—brilliant.” Sliding into the low-slung Mercedes two-seater,
     he gunned the motor and was gone with his last “brilliant” still hanging in the air.
    I climbed into the Beetle feeling anything but brilliant. Moronic, doltish, idiotic,
     stupid . . . those words better summed me up.

Chapter 9
    A message from Kevin McDill waited on my answering machine when I got home and I returned
     his call. His voice, with its former smoker’s rasp, held an undertone of excitement.
    “You’ve got a nose for news, I’ll give you that,” he greeted me.
    I winced, sure I knew what was coming since Nigel had already told me.
    “She drowned,” McDill said, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Her BAC was 1.3, well
     over the legal limit.”
    “It was an accident,” I breathed. Nigel misunderstood! “She got drunk, fell into the
     river somehow, and drowned.”
    “Not so fast,” McDill said with an edge of “gotcha” in his voice. “Both her legs were
     broken. Miscellaneous abrasions and contusions.”
    “What?”
    “The coroner thinks she might have been struck by a car and either knocked into the
     water by the impact, or someone tossed her into the drink after hitting her. With
     two broken legs—hell, she never had a chance.”
    I gasped. “That’s horrible.” Poor Tessa. “What was she doing near the river, anyway?
     From what I’ve heard, she was last seen at Club Nitro. That’s on Pennsylvania, nowhere
     near the river.”
    “Not in the autopsy report.” McDill chuckled.
    Trying to push the grimness of Tessa’s death aside, I asked, “Do they know where she
     went into the water?”
    “Not yet,” McDill said. “But that’s the right question to ask. I’ll make a reporter
     of you yet.”
    “I don’t think so.” I told him I owed him one, thanked him, and hung up.
    Although I didn’t want it to, my mind insisted on flashing pictures of a hurt, drunk
     Tessa flailing in the river, trying to keep her head above water. I only hoped she’d
     been unconscious when she went in. In an attempt to get the images of her last moments
     out of my mind, I backed the reel up a bit, trying to focus on Tessa in the nightclub.
     I imagined her dancing, silvery tank top glittering under the strobe lights, laughing
     and flirting with some man. J. Lo’s “On the Floor” reverberated in my head as the
     scene played out.
    Tessa and the mystery man have a couple more drinks, maybe kiss, and he invites her
     home with him. They stagger from the club, tipsy and laughing. They get in his car—something
     upscale, I’m sure, because Tessa wasn’t the type to go home with someone driving a
     Corolla—and they drive off. Somewhere along the way, he says or does something that
     makes Tessa mad . . . or scares her. She demands that he let her out. He