“You discovered the body?” she asked without preamble, fingers flying over the touch screen. Light glinted off her nametag and badge. It was dark, but it looked like her innocuous last name was “Smith.”
I glanced at Natasha’s body still lying in the cabana, her blond hair swaying in the slight breeze, the bloodstain locked in my mind forever. Creepy. Something niggled at the corner of my mind. Something about the crime scene. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite grasp it. Shock, maybe.
“Yes. I found the body.” What else was there to say?
“Your name and address, please.”
“Viola Roberts,” I said and then rattled off my home address in Astoria, Oregon. All standard procedure. I knew this from watching true-crime shows on television. The Investigation Discovery Channel was my guilty pleasure. I was particularly enamored of Lt. Joe Kenda, Homicide Hunter. I’d even gone so far as to buy one of his mugs.
“Walk me through what happened leading to the discovery.” Her expression was deadpan. She’d make a great poker player. All business, this one.
I cleared my throat and swiped a thin layer of sweat off my upper lip. It was humid as all get out. I would have liked to take this into the air-conditioned hotel, but I got that she couldn’t leave the body unattended.
“I was trying to work, but I couldn’t focus, so I decided to take a walk along the beach.”
“What do you do for a living?” Officer Smith asked, sounding almost bored. I knew she wasn’t. I could see the glint in her eyes that told me she was taking in absolutely everything.
“I’m a writer. I’m here for the conference.” I wasn’t sure she knew there was a conference at the hotel, but she likely would before the end of the night.
She nodded sharply. “You took a walk.”
“Yes. I was headed to the water when I caught sight of Natasha, er, the body out of the corner of my eye. I thought maybe she was passed out or something, so I figured I’d better wake her and get her inside.”
“You knew the victim?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Great. Not only was I probably a suspect since I’d found the body, but the fact I knew her could really get me in hot water.
“I know of her,” I corrected. “We run in the same circles. Go to the same conferences. We’ve met, but nothing more than that. We don’t hang out or anything.”
“Why? You have a problem with her?” She tapped one blunt finger against her phone screen.
Well, darn. My mother raised me not to lie, but if I admitted what I thought of Natasha, they’d probably throw me in the slammer and toss away the key. Did Florida have the death penalty? I shuddered.
“Not a problem, really. Natasha is, was, just never my sort of person. We’re civil, but not BFFs or anything.” Which was true. Natasha and I had never gotten into an argument. Her disagreement had been with Cheryl, which I figured Officer Smith didn’t need to know since Cheryl wasn’t the killer. Of that I was certain. “These conferences attract all sorts of people. You can’t be tight with all of them.”
“All right,” Officer Smith said as the paramedics arrived, followed by two more uniformed officers, some CSIs, and a plainclothes policeman. “Stay here. The detective in charge will likely have some questions for you.”
I nodded and sank down onto one of the nearby lounge chairs. Might as well make myself comfortable.
What looked like the head of hotel security and probably the night manager swarmed over the sand to join the plainclothes policeman. Bet he was the detective in charge, if the gold shield was anything to go by. I’d never met a real homicide detective. I couldn’t help but feel a little thrill, even as I told myself not to be so macabre, what with Natasha lying dead just a few feet away.
One of the CSIs set up a flood lamp. As he switched it on, I got a good look at the body for the first time. The whole scene looked unreal, the dark stain like something from a movie. And the knife... I froze for a split second. That was what had been niggling at me. The knife was identical to the one the bartender had been using to cut up lemons. Should I mention that to Officer Smith? Surely that would be important. It meant the killer was the bartender. Or one of them, anyway. Didn’t it?
I turned to glance at the detective, and my breath caught in my throat. He was young, or at least younger than I was—probably in his mid-thirties— taller than the other men around him and leanly muscled. Or at least he looked that way under the rumpled, cheap suit. His brown hair needed a trim, and he was clutching a large cup of coffee in one nicely shaped hand. The man could have been a movie star, he was that good looking.
And here I sat looking like the victim of a reverse makeover with my makeup washed off and my hair a disaster, thanks to the humidity. My usual glossy waves had turned into a frizzy hot mess. Figured. First really good-looking man I’d come across, and he probably not only thought I was a homeless person, but a murderer to boot.
Of course Lucas Salvatore was a darn fine-looking man, too. Although he didn’t have that wonderfully dangerous edge that the detective had. Detective Hottie was one interesting man. I couldn’t wait for the interrogation to begin.
THIRTY SECONDS IN AND I’d changed my mind. Interrogation wasn’t fun, and it had ceased to be interesting fifteen minutes ago. Detective Hottie was a jerk. I tried really hard not to glare at him. I doubted I was successful.
“Giving me dirty looks isn’t going to help you, Ms. Roberts,” he said sternly.
