Chapter Forty-Six
Forty-six
It was the laptop. Connecticut State Police had obtained a warrant to search Charles’s Town Car, and in the trunk they’d found Leila Donnelly’s missing laptop, which contained drafts of her most recent manuscripts, her signed contract with Scepter Books—and the hundreds of reviews she’d written as Book Babe.
Someone had leaked that information to the press, which I found ironic.
After all this time, Leila Donnelly had been outed for having a sock puppet that she’d weaponized against Melanie Joan.
But it had happened posthumously, and instead of destroying Leila’s career the way I’d assumed it would, it had given romance fans even more reason to hate my old friend.
“Police sources allege that Melanie Joan Hall had discovered that her rival had been behind the one-star review,” the syrupy-voiced announcer was saying.
“They see that as a potential motive for the shooting. An overreaction? Certainly. But for the Queen of Romance, melodrama has been known to reign supreme.”
I groaned. This guy should have retired about forty years ago.
My phone rang. It was Spike. “Where are you?” he said.
“Connecticut border,” I said.
“Did you hear?” Spike said.
“Just,” I said. “It was on the radio.”
“I just heard, too. Tony told me. He’s here with me now, at the restaurant.” Spike told me they were in his office and that I was on speakerphone.
“Did Melanie Joan call you, Tony?” I asked.
“No, Rita did,” Tony said. “MJ had one phone call, so of course she chose her attorney.”
“Of course,” I said.
“She’s getting booked right now. She’ll most likely be held overnight at the Hartford Correctional Center.”
“I’ll turn around,” I said.
“No,” Tony said. “She specifically said she didn’t want any visitors there except Rita.”
“Why not?”
“Rita didn’t say.”
“I’m sure she wants as few people as possible to see her in institutional attire,” Spike said. “They also confiscate makeup, so…”
“Right.”
Spike could have taught a Ph.D.-level course in Melanie Joan.
I tried to picture her getting cuffed and fingerprinted, her makeup and jewelry thrown into plastic bags, along with her sunglasses, her red-bottoms. It felt like psychological torture.
I hoped Rita could calm her down. “What about Charles?” I said.
“Both of their bail hearings are tomorrow morning. Rita thinks he has a much better chance than she does of getting released.”
I had to agree. The charges against him weren’t as serious. Plus, he wasn’t famous enough to be made an example of.
“Rita said she wasn’t sure she should be representing both of them, because Charles might want to turn on Melanie Joan and cop a plea.”
“She obviously doesn’t know Charles,” I said. “I think he’d sooner do a fifty-year sentence than turn on Melanie Joan.”
“Agreed,” Spike said.
“Yeah, what is it about her?” Tony said.
“What is it about us?” Spike said.
I suggested we all meet at my apartment later tonight to share information. We set a time—nine p.m. This was turning out to be the longest workday of my life. Or at least the most eventful. I swallowed hard, remembering the convenience store parking lot again, Edward Piro’s gun jammed into my neck.
“By the way, Sunny,” Tony said. “I was able to get hold of Detective Gleason, and I let him know about that name you gave me.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that he’d look into it,” he said. “But I think he was bullshitting me.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, he started talking about his screenplay,” he said. “And for another, Melanie Joan was arrested an hour after we talked.”
I exhaled. “So it’s not just that he doesn’t trust me.”
“Nope. He’s also a dick.”
“It’s just as well,” I said, Piro’s words in my head. I’m watching. We’re watching.
“Why?” Tony asked.
“I feel like there are already too many dicks involved in this thing.”
“Am I supposed to take that personally?” Tony said.
I laughed a little. “I didn’t mean you.”
After the call ended, I found myself thinking of that car again.
Of Piro showing up at Mimi’s house. And then at the convenience store.
Both times, it had been between ten and twenty minutes after I’d arrived.
And what had his purpose been, parking outside Mimi’s so obviously, peeling away from the curb as soon as I ran out?
Holding a gun to the back of my neck and releasing the safety, just so he could remove it?
And then there was that repeated use of the word we.
We’re everywhere…We know everything about you…We’re watching.
Piro wanted to scare me off. He wanted to stop me from investigating Leila Donnelly’s murder by making me feel hunted, surrounded.
It was a campaign. And it had started after I told Gleason about the Porsche convertible.
Not that Gleason was involved. Not necessarily.
He was probably just someone who couldn’t fathom being wrong about something.
Not a great trait in a cop, but it didn’t make him part of a criminal conspiracy. Did it?
I shook my head. Already, Piro was accomplishing what he’d set out to do, which was to make me paranoid and confused. I wasn’t going to let him.
To my mind, the first thing that needed to be addressed was how Piro kept finding me.
And as far as that went, I had a pretty good idea.
I was on the turnpike now, the next service plaza three miles away, according to the sign I’d just passed.
I glanced into the rearview mirror. Checked the whole area behind me for headlights that appeared to be driving a little too close.
I didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean anything.
I’d never seen him. Not until he wanted me to.
I saw the exit for the service plaza. I pulled off at the last possible minute, without using my blinker.
There were a few cars in the lot, but no Porsche.
I drove up to the pumps and filled up my tank.
After I was done, I scanned the area one more time.
Then I grabbed my phone and gun from my purse.
I clicked the phone’s flashlight on and then I crouched down and checked the undercarriage of my car, the gun clasped in my right hand in case someone came up behind me.
I saw nothing unusual, and so I checked the front and rear bumpers.
Nothing. I tried the wheel wells next, one by one, running my fingertips around their circumference.
It was nerve-racking. I had to act thoroughly, but I had to be fast. Finally, I found it, affixed to the left rear wheel well. A small, round tracker. Knew it.
I removed it quickly and dropped it in the trash can between the pumps. Then I slipped back into my car and got back on the turnpike. “Fuck you, Edward Piro,” I said.