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  "Really?" I asked, trying not to squeak. "You think Chucky could have been murdered?"

  "I think it's worth delving further into," she said again, her voice even and steady like she didn't want to raise my hopes, or have me beating her door down, my voice recorder in hand. "I'm not saying anything, one way or another."

  "What made you want to take a further look?" I pressed, hoping she spotted something juicy in the file, a file I was still trying to peek at when she shut it and placed her hand on top.

  "Don't know," she admitted, "but there's something about it that makes me want to look a little closer."

  "That's called a hunch."

  "Or just good detective skills."

  "What will you do next?"

  "Take your phone number and show you out," she said, which wasn't the answer I hoped for. She rose and crossed the small room, opening the door and leaving me no other choice but to scrawl my number on a scrap of notepaper and follow her. When we reached the lobby, she opened the door for me to step through, saying, "I'll call you" before closing the door.

  ~

  "I'll call you," I told my reflection in the compact mirror. "I'll call you. Hmmph." Even Allen didn't bother to say that when we both knew he wouldn't. What a relief! If I never saw Allen again, I'd be happy. Truthfully, he was so far up himself, he could probably wear his own ass as a hat. He was not the kind of hot, California boyfriend I envisaged when I turned my world upside-down to move here. I wanted someone attractive and interesting with that clichéd good sense of humor. I wanted someone who was confident and knew not only his own worth, but felt secure enough to recognize mine too. My fantasy boyfriend, unlike my previous one, had to not only be a great conversationalist, but a terrific listener too. Realistically though, if I wanted all that, I would probably have to wait for Apple to invent the iBoyfriend.

  At least, Detective Smith said she'd call and I had to hope she would. I snapped my compact shut, after checking my mascara hadn't melted down my cheeks with all the humidity, and entered the traffic, heading towards The Chronicle office. If Smith didn't call, I intended to bug her relentlessly until I got the answers I needed for my story. So far, however, she hadn't said a single quotable thing.

  The office was quiet when I entered, carrying one large bag from the stationery store and my laptop in my purse. No one looked over at me, so I took the few steps to my desk, now mercifully absent of the fire hazard computer, and dropped into the chair. I realized, but only at the last moment, that the previous time I did that, I ended up sprawled out a few inches from the floor. Happily, that didn't happen this time. Instead, it remained rock solid so I swung my legs under the desk and reached into the bag. A few minutes later, my desk was neatly decorated with several new notepads, a pen pot and pens, a stapler, a tape dispenser and a pack of card files. Finally, I added my laptop in front of me and opened the lid. Hitting the power button, I waited for it to whir into life.

  "Where've you been?" asked a voice. I looked up, hoping for anyone else but Ben Kosina.

  Naturally, it was Ben Kosina.

  "Working a story," I told him as I entered my password.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Must be a good obituary."

  "It is."

  "Need some help?"

  "No."

  "You know we have a stationery closet here?" he asked next. "None of our stuff comes in purple and yellow though. Is that embossed?" He leaned in, craning his head. I tried not to feel stupid at the “S” embossed notepad on top of the pile. Stationery was my weakness.

  "Just making myself at home," I told him. I clicked the keys and hoped he couldn't see that nothing appeared on my screen but a random jumble of letters.

  "Good. Do you need any help with the story?"

  I glanced up and smiled. "No, thank you!"

  "I thought you might need..."

  I sighed and closed the laptop. "Listen, Mr. Bigshot Reporter, I don't need your help. I've been a reporter for years. I was the chief reporter back home and expected to have a reporter job here. Just because I'm stuck with the obituary column doesn't mean I'm an airheaded, little newbie who needs your help."

  His smile dropped a little. "You're writing the entertainment column too," he pointed out.

  "That's another column I don't need your help with," I told him smartly. "I have it all under control."

  "If you do need any contacts, let me know. I have a few celebrity informants," he said, giving the top of my cubicle frame a pat before walking away. He glanced back once, looking puzzled. I pretended not to notice how well his butt looked in his well-fitted jeans, and the way he walked as if he were on a runway.

  "Hey," said another voice, ten minutes after I started typing my real notes.

  I glanced up, relaxing slightly when I saw Martha. She may have screwed up my apartment, but at least, she hadn't stolen my job. Plus, she was the boss's assistant. Anyway, I didn't have anymore energy to focus on my personal disappointments. "Hi, Martha!"

  "We have a staff meeting in five minutes," she said, tapping her wristwatch.

  "Okay."

  "You're supposed to be there."

  "I guessed. I got your email. And the reminder, and the calendar invite. Thank you."

  Martha giggled. "Sorry. Calvin didn't turn up very often, so I thought I should remind you."

  "I'll be there," I promised.

  "Did you get all the directions for the entertainment column? I emailed them to you."

  "I didn't get a chance to look at it yet; sorry. I was following a story."

  Martha frowned, apparently confused at what I thought was a valid excuse. "Outside the office?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

  "Yes, outside."

  She sucked in a breath. "Calvin never did that."

  "I had to. Listen, Martha, how do I find out which stories to write for my entertainment column?" I hoped she wouldn't read too much into my question, or instantly assume that I had nothing to work from, even though it was true. I never expected to have the entertainment column, and had zero experience in that field. Still, I dutifully embraced the fact I was stuck with it.

  "Well, um, let's see, you could have one of your sources tip you off, or send you a photo, or you might just see something. That's what Gabi did. She was very social."

  I deflated, my shoulders sagging. I didn't have a single entertainment source in LA. I didn't have any sources, period. In the past twenty-four hours, all I had was a bad date with a Hollywood producer and a vague connection to an LAPD cop. I didn't think either of them could come up with a story for me.

  "When's my column due?"

  "Let's see." Martha produced an actual clipboard and ran her finger down it. "The entertainment column for this week is already filed, and so is the obituary. You'll need to supply the next column by noon next Wednesday for entertainment; and you've got two weeks before the obituary is due, since Calvin had the foresight to write his own."

  I wanted to thank Calvin, but had to make do with a silent, mental note of gratitude to the universe. One week to produce some newsworthy entertainment. Two weeks to produce a dull goodbye to Chucky Barnard, or ace it to the front page. I could do that, I decided as I internally pep talked. I could show that smug Ben Kosina who the real reporter was around here!

  "Great! No problem!" I flashed Martha a winning smile.

  "Let's go to the boardroom. I bet you can't wait to share your tip-offs with the team."

  "Hardly," I winced through gritted teeth. I grabbed my shiny and embossed, but empty notepad, adding, "I can hardly wait."

  Chapter Six

  Detective Smith called me as soon as I arrived home. I grabbed the phone, balancing the grocery bag in the same hand, and clamping my purse under my arm, trying to answer as I fumbled for my keys to the complex door.

  "Shayne?"

  "Yes, it's me," I said, recognizing her voice instantly. My hopes rose in anticipation.

  "Detective Smith. It's about Chucky Barnard."

>   I paused putting the key in the door. "Did you find something?"

  "I've read the case file and nothing sticks out as of yet, but..."

  "But?" I prompted.

  "But there's something off about the suicide angle. I don't think his death was deliberately self-inflicted."

  My heart thumped. That was what I'd been waiting for. "Homicide?"

  "Maybe. Or accidental overdose. Don't get your hopes up, but I asked the Chief ME to take another look. He'll review Chucky’s autopsy sometime tomorrow."

  "That's great!"

  "It's not my idea of a good time," said Detective Smith. I could imagine her pulling a face as I turned the key, shouldered the door open and entered the lobby. Mercifully, Mike and his sarcastic comments were nowhere to be seen, so I crossed the lobby quickly and jogged up the stairs, turning onto my landing. Someone had deposited a large, potted palm in the corner where the walkway ended, and next to my front door. There was a note stuck to my front door. Thought you might like this. Mike. I scowled at the note, but smiled at the plant.

  "Shayne? Are you there?"

  "Yes, sorry. I missed what you just said."

  "I said I'm going to talk to the sister tomorrow, but if you have any other thoughts, please give me a call."

  "Okay. Will you let me know what happens?"

  Detective Smith sighed. "This could turn out to be a homicide investigation."

  "All the more reason to give me a call."

  "What's your angle on this anyway? You looking for a story?" she inquired.

  I figured honesty was the best policy, especially if I wanted Smith to share whatever she found. "I'm aiming for the front page," I told her.

  "At least, you're honest. Most reporters pretend they actually care about the victim."

  "I might care a little bit, especially since someone is currently getting away with a crime." We paused and there was a brief silence before something clicked in my brain and I asked, "What's your angle on this?"

  "I need a murder."

  "I felt like that ever since I got to LA." Which numbered in hours, not years, but I omitted that fact. Another pause, then, "I probably shouldn't say that to a homicide cop."

  Detective Smith surprised me by laughing. "When did you get to LA?"

  Another moment of truth. "Less than forty-eight hours ago."

  She laughed again.

  "When did you become a cop?"

  "Ten years ago. I've been in the homicide division four years."

  "Have you solved a lot of crimes?"

  "Yes."

  "Recently?"

  "No."

  "How come?"

  "What is this, an inquisition?" she asked. I wondered if she still felt that friendly edge that sprang up between us or if it left as fast as it appeared.

  "Only if you're answering."

  "I'll call you," she said, hanging up before I could ask her exactly why she needed a murder. Instead, I complimented the palm plant by saying it looked pretty before entering my apartment.

  The smell of bleach was a lot fainter than the previous day and it looked bright and clean, now that the threadbare curtains were gone and the full sunlight could stream in. If only I had some furniture and a fat bank account with which to buy it. As I mentally assessed the basic things I had to have, I started decreasing my account balance accordingly. Just before it got too depressing, I kicked the door shut with my heel and went to the kitchen. The contents of several boxes still waited to be unloaded and placed into the newly de-greased cabinets. After unpacking my microwave — carried by Mike — coffee pot and toaster, I left the rest of the boxes overnight. Now, I began unpacking my glassware, cutlery and inexpensive dinner service. The bag of groceries went into the refrigerator before I poured myself a large glass of apple juice.

  As I drank it, I wondered about Detective Smith. She said she had ten years on the force, but seemed young for a detective and very pretty. From her concise, don't-give-anything-away words, I wondered if she were happy in her job. She “needed” a murder and hadn't solved any cases for a while. That suggested she might have been getting passed over for the good cases. If that were the situation, and her case-solving record dropped significantly, she might lose her stature on the squad. Like me, she was also personally invested in Chucky Barnard's suspicious death.

  "Supposition," I said out loud, turning around and rinsing out the glass before placing it upside down on the sparkling clean drainer. "I don't know a thing about the woman." I wanted to though. Detective Smith didn't have to call, or tell me she was taking a closer look at Chucky's death. She could have taken the tip-off and ignored me entirely. She could also have made her own judgments from the file, which she already had on her desk. There was no reason to call me, unless she thought his death was suspicious, or that I might be of subsequent use to her. I'd be even more useful, I decided, if I knew a lot more about Chucky and the events leading up to his death. Then, I might be able to trade my information with Smith.

  With the apartment walls in their yucky color, I had no problem taping several sheets of paper to one and assembling a small group of tacks and colored thread. On the middle sheet, I wrote in thick pen: Who killed Chucky Barnard?

  Standing back, I assessed the space I created. I had a lot of paper to fill with my suspicions, but mostly, all I had were questions.

  Who wanted to kill him? I wrote next, redirecting a line of thread to connect the two. Then, Who stood to gain from his death?

  I added How was he killed? and stood back again to reassess the wall.

  Instead of narrowing it down and simplifying it, I merely added some enormous questions to which I had no clue.

  Under "gains" I wrote Inheritance? Work? Personal? Revenge? Jealousy?

  Next, on the sheet marked "How" I added, How did the killer get in? Did Chucky know his killer? The responding police reported there were no obvious signs of a struggle, neither on his person, nor at his home. Did that mean Chucky must have trusted his killer and let him or her in? Could he have possibly known his murderer?

  "Who would I trust to come into my home?" I asked the wall as I tapped the pen against my lip. "Gran. So family means, he probably trusted his sister. Friends. Did he have any? Work colleagues? Maybe someone from his production company! Oh, and a tradesman!" I added my thoughts to the notes, wondering if I narrowed the suspect pool to only a few people, or widened my funnel to several dozen.

  A knock at the door stopped me from scanning my eyes over the makeshift murder board again. I turned away, crossing the few steps to open the door.

  "Oh, it's you," I said upon seeing Mike.

  "You've obviously had a great day," he replied, attempting to look over my shoulder. I shifted the door a little more closed, and changed my body position so he couldn't see the murder board. The last thing I wanted now was Mike mocking it; and I felt sure he would do just that. No one ever saw a murder board and immediately lost interest.

  "Terrific!" I chirped. To be fair, today turned out to be a big improvement on yesterday. There were no huge shocks occurring one after the other, and the meeting with Detective Smith was productive. Even The Chronicle staff meeting was okay and I managed to avoid saying anything about my forthcoming columns.

  "I was helping Grandpa clean out the tenant storage lockers and found some abandoned furniture from previous tenants in there. Nice stuff. If you don't have anything yet, you could take a look."

  I blinked. "What kind of stuff?" I couldn't help asking. My apartment was bare, and if I had to sleep on that inflatable bed another night...

  "There's a sofa, a couple of bed frames, a few chairs, two dining tables, a bunch of kitchen things. It all looks okay too."

  "What style?"

  "Free," said Mike. "Do you want to take a look or not?"

  "I do," I replied, pulling the key out of the door and shutting the door behind me as I stepped onto the balcony. "I think free is the new modern. Thanks for the plant too," I added, noticing the palm again.r />
  "The tenant from 3C left it behind. It was too nice to trash, and the balcony was looking a little bare; plus, now you can't see the paint chipping off on that corner."

  "Is that what you do all day? Help Jacob prettify the complex?" I asked, realizing only when it came out how sarcastic it sounded. I didn't mean for it to. Mike was being nice and I was downright rude. Gran would have been disappointed in me.

  "No, I go to my job. Then I help Grandpa with the heavy lifting in return for a place to stay. Today, I’m in 3C."

  "When's the new tenant arriving?"

  "It hasn't rented yet, so hopefully, never," Mike laughed as we took the stairs down. I followed him past the lobby, circumventing the stagnant pool and turning around the corner. He pushed open a heavy fire door and stepped inside. "C'mon in," he called as a light flickered on. I stepped in, wrinkling my nose at the dust motes floating in the air. "Over here."

  “Over here” was an open set of wire doors and Mike waved me inside.

  "I'm fine here," I told him, just in case he had any crazy ideas of locking the wire doors behind me and holding me prisoner as his personal sex slave for the next decade.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

  "Like what?"

  "Like I'm dinner."

  My mouth dropped open. "I! Am! Not!" Was I?

  "Whatever." Mike didn't look perturbed at all. "Take a look around. This one has the abandoned stuff, and that one in the corner, the empty one, is yours."

  I scanned the open locker. There was a nice enough couch with a wooden frame standing vertically on end. The cream cushions were faded and well used, but clean. If I tossed a throw over it, no one would notice. There was also a sturdy, wooden coffee table and a couple of side tables. The side tables needed painting, but looked very useful.

  "So? You want anything, or not?"

  I stopped browsing and fixed him with a firm look. "It's really free?"

  "Sure. Grandpa told me to haul it all to Goodwill, or some other charity, but if you want any of it, it saves me a trip in his old jalopy of a truck."