Free Vampyres of Hollywood by Adrienne & Scott Barbeau Page B

You can’t spend fifteen years on the force and not read between the lines. Maral McKenzie had a personal stake in protecting Ovsanna Moore. And something to be afraid of. At that moment, it seemed like it was me. As we stepped into her boss’s trailer, I watched her insinuate herself between the movie star and me. She almost bristled as I deliberately moved farther into the room. Then she turned away from me, stared into Ovsanna’s eyes for a beat too long, and without a word went to the fridge and pulled out a White Ginkgo Tea. Another look passed between them when she handed it to Ovsanna. And a touch, fleeting and if you blinked you missed it, but it was there, nonetheless. I wasn’t sure what the deal was between this pair, but with “personal assistant” as Maral McKenzie’s job title it was pretty obvious the accent was on “personal.” I’ll bet the job covered a lot of ground.
    I had three dead movie stars, all of whom had worked for Ovsanna Moore; a dead special effects supervisor, also working for Ovsanna Moore; and a personal assistant with an agenda—maybe she didn’t like anyone coming between her and her sweetheart, or maybe she had something bigger to hide. Whatever was going on, Maral McKenzie was involved.
    My dad told me four things when I joined the force: never go out without your vest, make sure your underwear is clean, buy comfortable shoes (preferably with steel toe caps), and never get involved with another officer (but if you do, wear protection). So far I’m good on all four counts. He also said that there are lots of reasons for crime—social deprivation, rage, anger, fear, societal factors—but at the end of the day it usually comes down to sex and money. People who haven’t got either, want one or the other, or both. I used to think it was a simplistic, even anachronistic, point of view. Then I started clocking up the years. Now I think he was right.
    It comes down to sex and money.
    Money hadn’t raised its head in this case yet, but sex just made an entrance. Ovsanna Moore and Maral McKenzie reeked of it. I added Ms. McKenzie to my short list of suspects. I only had two names on it—McKenzie and Moore—but it was a start.
    And hell hath no fury and all that….
    Moore sipped at the iced tea. “Detective King is investigating Eva’s death. Although why you’re involved, Detective, and not the local police, is a question I’d like answered,” Ovsanna added, without missing a beat. She’d taken a seat in one of those tall director’s chairs with the name Marilyn Monroe printed on the canvas back. It looked like Marilyn had signed it in black ink under her name. I’d seen enough copies of her distinctive signature in my mom’s collection to believe it was real. My mom would love it.
    The only other places to sit were the sofa and the two banquettes on either side of a built-in table. I stayed standing because I didn’t want Ovsanna Moore towering over me while I tried to interrogate her without her realizing that’s what I was doing.
    “Actually,” I said, “I found the body.”
    It took the girlfriend a moment or two to process what I’d just said, but Ms. Moore realized the implications immediately. She sat back in the chair and crossed her legs at the ankle, Citizen of Humanity jeans riding up to reveal python Tony Lamas. SuzieQ would shit. “So you came to talk to Eva,” Ovsanna said.
    “That’s an interesting assumption. Any reason you’d say that?” Give people enough rope and they’ll talk themselves into the noose.
    “Why else would you be in the FX hut, Detective King? It’s not on the beaten path. Something brought you here; what was it?”
    “I’m an investigator, Ms. Moore. I investigate. It’s my job to ask the questions, not answer them.”
    “And it’s my job to run this studio and to know what’s going on here every minute of every day. I’m not a fool, Detective, don’t treat me like one.” There was a fast shift to ice in her