the whitewashed dining table. At the table sat a woman with short, blonde-from-a-box hair and dark eyebrows a week past a good threading. Her hands were wrapped protectively around a coffee mug, as if it was the one thing anchoring her to the room at the moment. I inhaled deeply the scents of fresh brewed French roast, unable to keep the wistful sigh from escaping me.
“Phoebe?” the man said softly, as we entered the room. “We have some visitors.”
The woman looked up, and it was clear she’d been crying recently. Red rimmed her eyes, along with dark circles beneath.
“Yes?” she asked, looking from her husband to us.
“They’re here to ask a few questions about Alexa,” he told her. He sank into the chair beside her, gesturing for us to sit down as well.
“I’m Dana, and this is Maddie and Marco,” Dana said. “We represent the investors in the nightclub where your sister was killed.”
At the use of the word “killed”, the woman cringed, her lips drawing into a tight line. The man put a hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I quickly jumped in.
She nodded, trying hard, I could tell, not to cry. “Thank you.”
“And we’re determined to see your sister’s killer brought to justice,” Marco added. “Which is why we were hoping we could ask you a few questions about Alexa?”
“Like we told the police, we haven’t seen Alexa in months. I’m not sure what we can tell you about her,” the husband repeated.
“When exactly was the last time you saw her?” Dana asked.
The woman frowned. “Summer, maybe? She drove down with a friend.”
“Becca?” Dana asked.
Phoebe bit her lip, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I really don’t remember the friend’s name.”
“Can you describe her?”
“About Alexa’s age, slim.” She shook her head again. “They were only here for a few minutes. I don’t think I even spoke to the women, to be honest.”
“That’s a short visit,” I observed.
“They were always short,” her husband broke in. “Alexa only drove down here for one reason: money.”
Again, Phoebe’s face took on a pinched look. “Alexa had some misfortune in her life. She needed help from time to time.”
“More like all the time,” her husband countered.
“Bill-”
“You know it’s true,” he said, his tone softer.
Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, but she didn’t argue this time.
Her husband turned to us and continued. “Alexa had been chasing the Hollywood dream for years. Once in while she’d land a small part and could pay her own rent. Between those, she’d show up here with her hand out.”
“But she was doing better lately,” Phoebe cut in, defending her sister.
“How so?” I asked.
“A couple of weeks ago I called to see if she needed help with the rent,” she said. “But she said she didn’t. She said she was doing fine for money.”
“Because she had a job?” I asked, thinking of her vampire gig.
Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t the impression that I got. She said she’d hit a windfall. That she expected to come into some real money soon.”
Honestly? Phoebe was right. That didn’t sound like the language someone would use to describe steady employment. But I still made a mental note to ask Sebastian just how well he paid his vampire hostesses.
“Did she say what sort of windfall?” I probed.
“Probably illegal,” the husband piped up.
“Bill,” his wife shushed him.
But I jumped on it, coming to the point of our being here. “Had Alexa been involved in illegal activities in the past?”
Phoebe bit her lip, her eyes shooting to the dregs left in her coffee cup.
But her husband bobbed his head up and down, vigorously. “You name it, Alexa got mixed up in it. When she was younger it was vandalism and loitering. Then it was drinking, shoplifting. No matter how many times we bailed her out of something, she’d fall right back in with the wrong kind of people, doing all the wrong things.”
I suddenly wondered if one of those wrong people had killed her.
“But Alexa didn’t have a record,” I argued, remembering the clean slate Ramirez had told me about.
He nodded. “And we worked hard to make sure of that. In most cases, we paid restitution, and no one pressed charges.” He glanced at Phoebe, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Look, for my wife’s sake, I’m sorry that Alexa is gone. But honestly, I’m not surprised. It was only a matter of time before one of those people she hung out with turned on her.”
But the question was, which one?
Chapter Nine
“I think it was Becca,” Dana said as we munched on sandwiches at a shop two blocks from the sister’s place. Mine a BLT with extra mayo and extra bacon on the softest sourdough I’d ever tasted. Marco’s a lean turkey breast wrap with lettuce. And Dana’s sprouts and egg white salad on a whole wheat roll that looked hard enough to make my nausea come back.
“Why Becca?” I asked, sipping at my soda.
“Well, it’s a little suspicious that she’s gone, no?” Marco added.
I nodded. “Yes.” I paused. “Okay, what about this? Let’s say that this windfall that Alexa came into was from something shady. You think Becca knew about it?”
Dana shrugged. “They were friends. I know I’d tell you about any windfall I got.”
“Awe. Ditto, bestie,” I said, doing a warm-fuzzy moment. “Okay, so let’s say Alexa tells Becca about it.”
“Or, better yet, let’s say they were in on it together,” Marco said, nodding as he munched.
“But maybe Becca gets greedy and wants it all for herself,” I added.
“So she kills Alexa, grabs the cash, and takes off!” Dana finished.
I nodded. “We really need to find Becca. She’s the key to all of this.”
Dana paused, taking another bite of her health on a bun. “You know, I remember when I was just starting out in the acting business. No matter where I went or what I did, I always made sure that my agent could always get hold of me in case a role came up.”
I raised an eyebrow her way. “You think Becca’s agent knows where she is?”
“It’s worth a try.”
“And you can find out who that agent is?”
Dana grinned, showing off a sprout stuck between her molars. “Piece of cake. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll have all her deets.” She pulled her cell from her purse and began furiously texting.
Only
One hour and two pee stops (I knew I shouldn’t have ordered the large soda.) later, we pulled up to The Bowman Agency’s offices located just off Ventura. It was a small storefront in a strip mall, sandwiched between a Mexican bakery and a nail salon advertising $20 acrylics. Not the most prestigious of addresses by a long shot.
And the inside wasn’t much better, I noted as we pushed through a pair of glass doors. The furnishings were pure Craigslist – mismatched chairs, a coffee table in eighties black laminate, and a magazine rack that tilted slightly to the left. As the door shut behind us, a bell on a piece of orange yarn jangled above us, and a moment
