Free Lethal Vintage by Nadia Gordon Page B

Stevens, looking even paler and more disheveled than yesterday, slumped in the corner of a built-in seat in his black T-shirt and jeans, staring out the window. In the other corner, Jordan cried quietly but profusely. Every few minutes she took a wet ball of tissue from the pocket of a terry-cloth tracksuit and blew her nose. Sunny, Franco, and Jared sat at one end of the kitchen table. Molly stood outside the sliding glass door in her black skirt and heels, smoking, and Jared watched her. Cynthia sat at the other end of the table staring at her hands. Andre and Marissa occupied two of three barstools at the island, leaving one empty between them. Andre kicked back and forth on the stool, checking his watch. Sunny had heard Marissa tell Franco that Keith had returned to San Francisco late last night. Oliver had been in the guest room with the police giving his statement for more than an hour. Sunny’s stomach growled. On cue, a cop arrived with a pink box full of doughnuts and a jug of reconstituted orange juice. The stuff confessions are made of.
    ----
    “She was murdered, obviously,” said Franco, squeezing sunscreen into his palm and rubbing it over his face and neck.
    They were out by the pool, waiting. It was almost two o’clock. Sunny, like the others, had described her experiences of the day and night before to the police in detail, though one could argue that she’d left out the juicy bits. She had skipped Keith Lachlan’s offer of a pick-me-up. She left out the late-night hot-tub session and interrupting Molly and Jared in flagrante delicto, as well as her surprise upon discovering that Andre Morales had joined the party after she went to bed. The manic energy she’d felt earlier had worn off and now she was in a daze. She stared at the water of the barely rippling pool as if she was watching television. Her hangover had probably, she now reflected, clouded her judgment. The events she had skipped over would come out eventually. Even if she didn’t mention getting into the hot tub, someone else would. The police were going to come back to her and she would have to explain. At least by then her stomach wouldn’t be lurching and sloshing like hide tide at the boardwalk. At the time of the interview, none of it had seemed terribly relevant. She thought describing the seedier aspects of the night would only embarrass her and shock Sergeant Harvey, who had seemed to grow sterner and angrier with every question. It was hard to say how much such stories offended him. Where did drugs, sex, and rampant affluence fall in his moral universe? Well outside, she assumed. Sergeant Harvey liked rules, and not just because he was a cop. He was order and regulation and discipline from his neatly trimmed nails to his gleaming black boots.
    Franco moved on to his chest and shoulders, rubbing the lotion in with brisk, glancing blows to his deeply tanned skin.
    “You must learn to face it,” he said, “because this is not going to end today. We are all in for a bit of trouble over this poor girl’s death.”
    Sunny was silent.
    “Do you think I’m wrong?” he continued. “They interrogate us, keep us here like we are under house arrest. I am not to leave the country or even this town until otherwise informed or else they will find some way to make my life difficult.”
    The police couldn’t keep them from leaving, but they had firmly suggested it would be better if everyone stayed until they were done gathering as much preliminary information and evidence as possible. It was a polite and hospitable prison, but a prison nonetheless. Out front, it looked like a major operation. The police had moved their headquarters to the “command van” parked in the driveway, and a truck had arrived in addition to several police cars. Officers were busy removing items from the house and loading them into the truck.
    “It is quite clear the police have decided little Anna’s death was no accident,” said Franco. He settled into his