Chapter 6
Police milled through the suite as two detectives sat across from Angela, their notebooks in hand as they asked questions. “You say you weren’t in the suite,” one of them began. “And yet, the body was found right outside your bedroom door with the sharp end of your comb stuck in his chest. Can you explain how that happened?”
Angela blinked, her arms crossed protectively over her chest as she tried to focus on the increasingly ridiculous questions.
“I…uh…was…!” She trailed off in distraction as two strangers wheeled the body, wrapped in a thick, plastic bag, out of the room. There was a long moment of silence from everyone as “the deceased” was taken away.
When the two men and the gurney were gone, everyone left seemed to breathe a sigh. Not one of relief. Someone had been murdered in the suite and none of the bodyguards had noticed. Which made sense to her, Angela thought. But probably not to the detectives.
With an inward sigh, she turned back to the detectives, who were waiting patiently for her explanation.
“I suffer from insomnia, Detectives,” she started off. “My guards know this. I’ve struggled to sleep since I was about seventeen.”
“Did something happen to you at that time?” one of them asked.
She hugged her arms more closely around herself as she shook her head. “No. Nothing of significance .” Angela smiled weakly. “I just…stopped sleeping through the night for some reason .” She ignored the knowing glance between the two detectives. Yeah, a lot of people had the impression that being a royal meant that one’s life had no problems. It wasn’t true, but there was no point in trying to convince these two that life could be difficult no matter what one’s socioeconomic status. “So last night, I couldn’t sleep and I decided to work downstairs.”
“Why didn’t you just work here in the suite?” the second detective probed, looking around. “There’s a lot of space here. How many bedrooms are there?”
She shrugged. “I think there are four bedrooms, plus a primary suite, which is where I sleep.”
“What’s wrong with working right here, on this couch?”
Angela rubbed her forehead, trying to alleviate the pressure that was building into a headache. “The couch is very nice. But I worked in here all day yesterday.”
One of the men wrote down that tidbit of information while the other continued questioning her. “What do you do?”
She eyed the second detective, trying to hide her growing irritation since she’d already explained her role within the Lativa government. “I am acting as Ambassador to France from my country while the current ambassador recovers from surgery. My role isn’t a secret, Detectives. I travel all over the world, acting as a temporary ambassador to various countries for Lativa. You can look up my role in the government to get a better understanding.” Why were they asking her this? It’s public information! Good grief, she’d been in the new s repeatedly as she’d explained the new trade agreements or to hype up a country’s assets in exchange for some type of diplomatic plug. She’d even been on the cover of a leading fashion magazine, touting the new role women were playing in the Lativa diplomatic corps.
Did these men live in caves?
Fighting to calming her temper, she dug deep to find that well of diplomatic expertise that helped her deal with men who didn’t think that women had any place in diplomacy. Straightening her shoulders, she looked at each in turn, feeling the calm wash over her.
“Detectives, I didn’t kill that man. In fact, I don’t even know who he is. You haven’t told me his identity.”
“But the pointed end of your comb is sticking out of his chest.”
She clasped her hands together, trying not to smack her forehead. “Valid point,” she replied, tilting her head in acknowledgement. “However, I don’t–”
“Why do you have a comb that can be used as a weapon anyway?”
Angela blinked, startled by his question. But after a moment, she nodded her understanding. “The comb has a pointed end so that I can ensure that my part is straight.” She paused for a moment, but at their blank expressions, continued to explain. “A few years ago, I was working with the Ambassador to Great Britain. I was standing off to the side during a press conference where a very important treaty had just been signed, and the ambassador was trying to hype up the value. Unfortunately, the press were snapping pictures of me and there was a slight squiggle in the part on the back of my head. The headlines after that event weren’t about the treaty. The headlines were all about the squiggle in my hair that day.”
There was a stunned silence for a long moment, both of them staring at her with their pens poised half an inch above their notebooks. “You’re kidding!” one finally blurted out.
“Not kidding,” she replied, lifting her hand, palm out as if to offer a vow of truth. “The press went on and on about how someone as wealthy as I am should have a personal hair dresser with me at all times so that a squiggly, and untidy, hair part wouldn’t ever happen again .” She sighed heavily, remembering how hurt she’d been at the wild attention that she’d received because of a less than perfect part in her hair.
“That’s nuts,” the detective muttered.
She nodded, accepting his acknowledgment, before she continued, “Women in the public eye are required to adhere to a higher standard of perfection than men. So, the press were obsessed with the squiggly line in my hair instead of the enormous economic benefits of the trade agreement that had just been signed.” She smoothed her hands down her jeans clad thighs, then continued. “That agreement brought in an additional five billion in taxable revenue for the country, created more than two thousand high paying jobs, and generated new side industries that employed an additional three thousand people. But all the press could focus on was the imperfect part in my hair. So yes, Detectives, I have a comb with a pointed end that allows me to ensure that I never, ever, have a less than perfect part again. I don’t want to pull the focus from the important work of my government.” She paused a moment, before continuing. “And this murder, as tragic as it is, will definitely draw attention away from last night’s gala. It was an important event announcing a massive shift in international politics. ” She frowned . “Now this whole event is going to be sensationalized and the poor man who was killed last night-”
“By your comb,” the detective emphasized again.
She paused, frowning at him. “Yes, the man was murdered by my comb and…”
Before she could finish, there was a commotion outside. Loud voices announced, “You can’t go in there !”
But Tiro burst through Angela’s bodyguards. He quickly surveyed the large room, then his eyes landed on Angela. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Angela stood and nodded, warmed by his obvious concern.
The detectives, even Angela, had stood up at the disruption. She stood there, her hands clenched together as she took in his magnificent presence. It was obvious he was furious and Angela knew that his anger was for her.
“She was with me all night,” Tiro announced.
Angela gasped, shaking her head. “No!”
The man glared at her, but Angela couldn’t back down. He tossed something to the detectives. “Security videos from both the lobby and the elevators,” he explained, seeing their baffled expressions. The detective caught the flash drive and stared at it. “It shows that Princess Al-Sintra was with me when the murder took place. She couldn’t have done it. There’s also video of her bodyguards walking through the area, pretending that they didn’t know she’d left the suite, so we know they weren’t involved either.”
The detectives looked at each other, then gestured silently toward her computer. Angela sighed and shoved her laptop toward them. “Go ahead,” she grumbled, resigned to her privacy being invaded. Again. Her life was never private. Why did she think a quiet conversation with a handsome man would be any different?
While the detectives watched the video, Angela remained standing, glaring at Tiro. He didn’t flinch at her anger. In fact, he seemed to be arrogantly pleased with himself, although she had no idea why.
When the detectives chuckled and leaned away from the laptop, Angela glanced downward. That’s when she saw what had amused them. The screen was paused on the image of her and Tiro in a hot and heavy embrace.
“Got it,” the men replied and stood up, shoving their notebooks into one of the numerous mysterious interior pockets every man had in their jackets.
Angela barely noticed their movements as she glared at Tiro. In the bright light of the morning, he was…amazing.
“If we have more questions, who should we contact?” one of them asked.
Immediately, one of her bodyguards stepped forward, handing him a business card. “Contact me and we’ll answer any further questions,” her guard offered. “We’ll also send over any other surveillance videos that we have, so that we can conclude this business quickly and quietly.”
The detectives nodded, then turned to leave. They paused at the door, and the first detective spoke. “The forensics team is finished, but we are hoping that you could move into a different suite for the time being.”
“She’s leaving for home today,” Tiro announced, his tone grim and determined.
Both detectives looked at him, obviously intimidated by his presence. Angela wished that she could convey that kind of authority, but she was more of a diplomat than a ruler. She knew how to smile and cajole while Tiro understood how to terrify anyone who got in his way with a simple glance.
Angela was unaware of the way the guards and detectives glanced between herself and Tiro, an assessing and understanding what was happening between them.
Silently, the detectives left and the bodyguards seemed to melt away. Within moments, she and Tiro were alone.
He didn’t waste any time. He reached out for her and she held her breath, bracing for the impact of his touch. When it happened, she couldn’t stop the quiver that went down her spine as she looked up at him.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
“I’m fine,” she replied, unconsciously pressing her hands against his chest. “I’m much better than the poor man who ended up murdered last night.”