Free Stripped by Brian Freeman Page B

conference room, which sported large windows looking out on the rabbit’s den of cubicles that made up the detective squad.
    “Why’d they put her in the fishbowl?” Stride asked.
    Amanda just grinned, and Stride understood when he reached the windows and saw that Karyn wore a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, with its flaps tied in a loose bow beneath her breasts, which were in serious danger of spilling out each time she leaned forward. Stride also noticed that most of the detectives had found reasons to take the long way to the kitchen to buy soda, a route that steered them past the windows of the conference room.
    He went in and told Amanda to close the blinds.
    “Sure, make me the bad guy,” Amanda muttered under her breath.
    Karyn stood up and reached across the desk to shake his hand, offering another expansive view of her cleavage. Stride didn’t dare let his eyes drift south, and he saw a faint amusement in Karyn’s face, as if she were enjoying his struggle.
    “I’m Karyn,” she said, pronouncing her name as if it were spelled Corinne.
    Stride wasn’t familiar with her as an actress, but Amanda had already prepped him.
Us
magazine, Amanda told him again. Karyn was an up-and-coming soap star, trying to make the leap to the big leagues. She was L.A. stunning, with straight blond hair that reached well below her shoulders and glowed like a summer wheat field. She had a model’s long face and cool blue eyes, which reflected the sharp intelligence of someone who knew exactly how much power she had simply because of how she looked. Through the glass tabletop, he saw a red skirt that ended at the middle of her thighs, and then a long, silky expanse of bare legs.
    “Thanks for coming in to talk to us, Ms. Westermark,” Stride said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
    “A skinny no-foam latte would be great,” Karyn replied.
    “I’m afraid we have black coffee, and we have white powder with little plastic spoons,” Stride replied. He added, “The powder goes in the coffee.”
    Karyn smiled at him, but there was ice in her eyes and the barest nod of appreciation. “No coffee.”
    “I’m very sorry about MJ. It sounds like the two of you were close.”
    “I don’t think I’d go that far,” Karyn replied.
    “No? We heard you spent a lot of time together. Including last night at the Oasis.”
    “We were fuck buddies,” she said with a shrug. “We’d hook up when we were both in Vegas. Party. Gamble. Screw. That’s all.”
    “Were you shocked to hear he’d been murdered? Right after you left him?”
    “Sure.”
    Stride didn’t think she was likely to break down crying.
    “Do you have any idea who killed MJ? Or why?”
    Karyn shook her head. “None at all.”
    “When the two of you got together, was it usually at the Oasis?”
    “Most of the time, but we’d go other places, too. The Hard Rock. Mandalay. If there was a fight or a concert, we’d be there.”
    “How long had you known him?” Stride asked.
    “A couple of years. I met him at a party at the Oasis. You know, he was young, cute, threw money at everyone. What’s not to like? He had a limo with him that first night, and we went for a ride, and I guess that’s how it all got started.”
    “You had sex with him?” Stride asked.
    Karyn leaned forward. Her breasts grazed the tabletop. Through her smile, he saw a glint of her cherry-red tongue. “I made a bet with him at the party that I could make him come using nothing but my right nipple.”
    Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask
, Stride told himself.
    “Who won the bet?” he asked.
    Shit
    Karyn’s eyes danced. He could see gold flecks in a sea of blue. “We had a bottle of Krug at Spago that night. MJ’s treat.”
    Stride cleared his throat and tried to stay on track. “Was this a serious relationship?”
    “What, like marriage? No way. I didn’t want to sign an eighty-page prenup.”
    “Did MJ see other women?”
    “I’m sure he did.”
    “Like who?” Stride