Chapter Thirteen
Val folded her umbrella and slid into the backseat of the big black Cadillac Escalade Dirk Reynolds was driving. Ethan followed her in. Megan sat in the front seat next to Dirk.
“Thanks for the ride,” Ethan said as the vehicle shot on down the alley, and Val hurriedly buckled her seat belt. The windshield wipers slopped back and forth as the SUV pulled into the street. The weatherman had nailed it. Dark and overcast, perfect day for a funeral.
Meg turned around in her seat. She was also dressed in black: black leggings, black boots, a black wool skirt, and a black V-necked sweater. “You okay?” she asked Val.
“I can’t believe someone leaked those notes. Now we have to contend with an even bigger batch of reporters.”
“I know. I was really glad Dirk was there when I saw the news. The Hellfire Preacher. Can you believe that? We were lucky to get out of there before they showed up at my place.”
Val was thankful Ethan had been there, too.
She sent him a glance, tried not to think how good he looked, how he seemed to fill up the entire backseat.
Though she’d been glad for the exercise yesterday, the hours at the gym had been torture.
No one looked better in a T-shirt and gym shorts than Ethan Brodie.
She had never been in lust before—had sex, yes, had boyfriends, but this was different. At least she was smart enough to recognize the feeling for what it was, nothing but a normal female reaction to a male who looked as good as Ethan. She just needed to keep that reaction under control.
“I’ve got to call my folks,” she told Meg. “I didn’t tell them about the notes. They’ll be worried sick when they see this on the news. Good thing you sent Charlie off to his grandparents’ house.”
“Who’s Charlie?” Dirk asked, his head swiveling toward Megan.
“He’s . . . umm . . . my son.”
Val shared a glance with Ethan, who apparently knew about the boy. But then, he’d been digging around, finding out everyone’s secrets. Not that Meg was ashamed of her son; just the opposite. She only wanted to keep him out of the media blitz that went with the show.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had a kid?” Dirk asked, clearly annoyed.
“Because you don’t strike me as a kid kind of guy,” Megan replied.
A muscle tightened in Dirk’s jaw. “You got a husband hidden out there somewhere you haven’t mentioned either?”
The atmosphere in the car went heated. “No. I’m divorced. And Charlie’s staying with my parents till I get back, so I didn’t think it was any of your business.”
“You’re right,” Dirk said darkly. “It isn’t.”
Silence fell inside the vehicle. When Dirk just kept driving, Ethan started talking. “I saw the boy in your file, Megan. Charlie O’Brien. Two years old.”
Dirk glared at Ethan in the mirror. “What, you knew about him, too?”
“Ethan’s been checking into our pasts,” Val explained, trying not to feel a sense of betrayal.
She didn’t like him digging around, even if it was his job.
She didn’t like that she had let him see how vulnerable she was when it came to her past. “He’s trying to find something that might connect one of us to the killer. ”
“A couple of the models have kids,” Ethan said.
“And while we’re on the subject, if the killer’s the fanatic he seems, he might not approve of a mother modeling sexy lingerie.
Delilah might have just been a convenient target.
Can you think of anyone who might be outraged at you or Caralee?
Someone who strongly disapproves of what you do because you’ve got kids? ”
Megan fell silent, taking time to consider. “There’s no one I can think of.”
“What about Charlie’s dad?” Ethan pressed. “He the kind of guy who’d be pissed you’re up onstage without your clothes?”
“She wears clothes,” Dirk defended her. “Just not that many.”
Val caught Ethan’s look of amusement. Clearly the two men were close friends.
“I stand corrected,” Ethan said with a wink at Val that made her grin.
“My ex-husband wouldn’t have the least objection to anything I did,” Meg said.
“Jonathan started cheating on me a few days after we were married. I was just too stupid to realize the kind of man he was. He’s long gone and good riddance.
And he doesn’t give a damn about Charlie or me—for which I’m immensely grateful. ”
Silence fell again and Ethan let the subject drop. Val made a quick call to her parents, telling them she was safe and in good hands and that she’d call them when she had time to talk.
Then she phoned Mrs. Oakley and explained about the news cameras in front of the duplex. The older woman assured her it wasn’t a problem. Typical Mrs. O.; she was enjoying the excitement.
At the end of the call, Val took off her sneakers and put on her high heels, then settled in for the ride to the Evergreen Memorial Cemetery, south of Seattle.
With each passing mile, her mood grew more somber.
By the time Dirk pulled up in front of the chapel, her chest felt tight, her heartbeat sluggish.
“Just stay close to me,” Ethan said, and some of her anxiety slipped away.
A sea of reporters surrounded the funeral home, but the media was roped off, kept at a respectful distance, none of them close enough to ask questions or inject themselves into the mourners’ grief.
As the SUV pulled up in front of the gray-carpeted walkway leading into the chapel, Dirk stepped out from behind the wheel and a valet slid in to take his place.
Ethan came around and opened Val’s door. She pulled her black veil down over her face and stepped out on the carpeted walkway. Ethan moved in behind her, silently protecting her as she made her way inside the chapel.
Though it wasn’t nearly large enough to accommodate the hundreds of mourners who had come to pay their respects, a block of seats had been reserved.
All of the La Belle models, Paul Boudreau, Matthew Carlyle, a few other La Belle executives, and a number of Delilah’s closest friends sat in that section.
Val recognized David Klein, the wealthy jewelry merchant who supplied the extravagant necklaces for the show, sitting next to Jason Stern, the president of the company. Undoubtedly Klein, who lived in San Francisco, had arrived in La Belle’s private jet.
Val seated herself in one of the pews and Megan slid in beside her. At the front of the chapel, a cherrywood casket inlaid with mother of pearl rested on the dais, covered by a thick blanket of dark red roses. Behind a thin curtain off to one side, Delilah’s family sat grieving.
From the corner of her eye, Val spotted Ethan standing near the wall at the end of the row, long legs splayed, hands crossed in front of him, in full bodyguard mode. His dark eyes moved restlessly over the crowd, scanning the room for any sort of threat. She felt better just knowing he was there.
The thought stirred a trickle of uneasiness inside her.
She was beginning to depend on Ethan, and that was dangerous.
She’d learned a long time ago, the only person she could truly depend on was herself.
Even Mom and Pops wouldn’t always be there for her.
They were already in their late sixties, and Pops was frail.
She sat up a little straighter in the hard wooden pew. She’d always stood on her own two feet. No matter what happened, that wasn’t going to change.
Still, until Delilah’s killer was found, her life could be in danger. She wasn’t stupid enough to deny she needed a man with Ethan’s skills to ensure her safety.
She tried not to remember the lonely young girl who had depended on her boyfriend, Bobby. The sixteen-year-old who had foolishly believed Bobby Rodriquez would keep her safe.
Bobby had tried, but instead he’d wound up dead.
She’d been left to face the cops, her terrible guilt, and her awful grief.
There’d been no one to turn to, no one who gave a damn what happened to her.
If it hadn’t been for Thomas and Ellie Hartman, she might have ended up as dead as Bobby. Or worse.
The organ music began to play, jolting her back to the present. It wouldn’t be for long, she told herself, but for now she’d allow herself the luxury of depending on Ethan Brodie.
If she wanted to stay alive, she really had no other choice.
With the funeral under way and Val surrounded by the protection of a church full of people and a couple of dozen uniformed police, Ethan made his way outside. He’d seen Lieutenant Hoover head out the door for a smoke and figured it might be a chance for an update.
Hoover bent his head into the breeze and cupped a hand around a match to light a cigarette, then tossed the dead match into a trash bin a few feet away. He took a long drag, then let the smoke drift away in the breeze.
“You know those things’ll kill you,” Ethan said.
Hoover looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. “My wife makes sure I know that every damn day. Now I gotta hear it from you?”
Ethan fought not to smile. “Hey, we’ve all got to go sometime. I say pick your own poison.”
Hoover just grunted.
“You come up with anything?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah. The vic had insurance on the jewelry. ’Bout a half million dollars’ worth of diamonds.”
“Plenty of motive for murder.”
“Yeah, except for the note.”
“True enough. Maybe the whole thing was a setup to steal the jewelry.”
Hoover squinted up at him through the smoke. “You think so?”
“No. I don’t think it was about the jewelry. Guy who sent the notes . . . it’s personal for him.”
“Be my guess, too.”
“Any chance he’s done it before?”
Hoover flicked an ash off his cigarette. “A serial? Nothing came up in the search. He may be planning to kill again, but if he’s a serial, I’m betting Delilah was his first.”
“Damn professional job if it was.”
“Those guys are smart. They make plans months in advance. Years. I’m thinking Delilah was La Belle’s number-one girl. He hit her to make his point.”
“Who’s number two?”
“Isabel Rafaeli. We’ve got her covered nice and tight.”