LITMIR.BIZ

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I didn’t have a constitutional right to tell the officer she was totally wrong about Jane.

      When she finished, I said, “I already told Detective Graves everything I know.”

      She gave a dismissive little nod. “Miss Spencer arrived at your apartment at approximately five thirty this morning?”

      “Five twenty,” I correctly smugly. The air conditioner kicked on, sending a low hum and rush of musty, cool air into the room. Tightening the belt on my demi-robe, I spent the better part of twenty-five minutes recounting the wee hours of the morning. That should have been it, but it wasn’t.

      “How well did Miss Spencer know the victim?”

      “If this is going to take a while, may I have some coffee?” I knew by the smell that the coffee here would be thick and disgusting. I wanted it anyway. Caffeine was caffeine and because of the air conditioner, I was nipple-poking freezing.

      The detective rose, pressed a button on a grimy intercom before barking a request for coffee, then retook her seat at the table. I was absently tracing the gouges in the laminated Formica tabletop that spelled out A-S-S-H-O-L-E, silently agreeing with the sentiment as Steadman’s black eyes narrowed in my direction.

      She was a daunting-looking woman. Tall, lean, and athletic. She had man hands and she bit her nails. I’d bet my Christmas bonus—the same one I’ve spent three times already and it’s only July—that she’s never had a manicure.

      Then the door opened and some mousy underling brought in a Styrofoam cup. I’d been given the nectar of the gods. The fact that it was bitter, stale, and eating away at the cup was immaterial. It was coffee and it was mine.

      “How well did Miss Spencer know Mr. Martinez?”

      I met the woman’s level gaze, wondering where she was going with that question since I’d already told Graves and anyone else who’d listen that Jane and Paolo were virtual strangers. Didn’t they talk to one another? “I told you, she didn’t know him at all.”

      “But she took him home with her?”

      “Yes.” Was the detective judging Jane? “The last I heard, depending on your religion, that’s a sin but hardly illegal.”

      “Is she in the habit of taking men home on the first date?”

      I swallowed a healthy amount of coffee. I didn’t feel comfortable answering questions. I knew with every fiber of my being that Jane could not have killed anyone, so I didn’t want to risk saying anything that might get her in more trouble. Like there’s more trouble than being arrested for murder? “Jane isn’t in the habit of dating. Period.”

      “Why is that?”

      An image of my boyfriend, Patrick Lachey, popped into my head. He was kind, sweet, dependable, completely nonneedy, thoughtful, and, on paper at least, the perfect man for me. He’s a pilot. Blond, blue-eyed, and genetically perfect. His salary is good, with decent growth potential. In the two years we’ve been dating, he’s never been anything other than an ideal boyfriend. He’s everything I should want in a man.

      His image slowly morphed into Liam McGarrity. He was a P.I. who sometimes did work for my firm and had helped me out on the Hall investigation. And he was trouble. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Liam. A—I have Patrick. B—I hardly know the guy. C—He’s still got something going on with his ex-wife, Ashley. D—Did I mention he’s over six muscular feet of trouble? He’s the kind of guy who makes you crazy. He has the most incredible blue-gray eyes that make you think you can fix him by falling in love with him. Well, I’m not that stupid.

      At least not since I met Patrick. Yeah, yeah, my pre-Patrick dating history kinda sucks—I’m usually the first to fall for a loser and the last one to find out that the said loser is a real jerk. But Liam, I saw him coming. That crooked smile, dark hair, and those piercing eyes weren’t going to reel me in. My date-a-lost-cause days are over. Probably.

      The detective cleared her throat. “Tough question? I asked why your friend isn’t ‘in the habit of dating.’”

      I felt my shoulders tighten in response to her sarcastic tone and the annoying air quotes, so it took extra effort to answer calmly, “The pool of decent guys out there is pretty shallow.”

      “What can you tell me about…” She paused, flipping through her memo pad. “Fantasy Dates?”

      “It’s an introduction service.”

      “Is that a euphemism for escort service?”

      “Do Jane and I look like hookers to you?”

      Slowly, Detective Steadman glanced down at my attire. I felt my cheeks burn, partly from embarrassment but mainly from annoyance. “You’re the one who dragged me out of my home in my pj’s.”

      “You were being…uncooperative.”

      “Handcuffs bring out my temper.” I finished my coffee and held out the empty cup in a silent request for more. It was summarily ignored. Since she had me by the thong, I figured the sooner I answered Steadman’s questions, the sooner I could leave. “Fantasy Dates is an exclusive introduction service. Apparently clients fill out applications, go through rigorous background checks, including financials, pay a membership fee, and then they’re paired up with other eligible singles of means.”

      “What’s the membership fee?”

      “Five thousand.”

      “Dollars?” she asked, one badly-in-need-of-waxing eyebrow arched.

      No, rupees. “Yes. I told you it was exclusive.”

      “Miss Spencer is an accountant?”

      “And an investment broker,” I added, sounding ridiculously defensive despite my best efforts to play nice.

      “How did she swing the membership fee?”

      “Olivia Garrett is a mutual friend of ours. She owns Concierge Plus. Liv plans parties and events. Fantasy Dates is one of her clients.”

      “What does she do for them?”

      “When you fill out the application to join Fantasy Dates, you list your interests, favorite vacation spot, favorite wines, favorite restaurants, plays, that sort of thing.”

      “And Olivia Garrett does what, exactly?”

      “She looks at the people’s lists and then makes all the arrangements. You should probably ask her, but last week she told me one of the couples had both listed French cooking classes as an interest. Money was no object, so Liv booked them into the Ritz Escoffier Cooking School in Paris for a week.”

      “That sounds pricey.”

      I shrugged. “I’m sure it was. But that’s the point. These people are accustomed to luxury and they can afford it.”

      “And Miss Spencer can afford it?”

      I shook my head. “Liv asked the owners to comp Jane and Rebecca Jameson memberships.”

      “Miss Spencer’s attorney is also a member of this service?”

      “No. Becky declined. And last night was Jane’s first date.”

      “So she was looking for a rich man?”

      “No, she’s holding out for a poor, smelly homeless guy with no ambition and a big heart.”

      Steadman almost smiled. Almost. “Did Miss Spencer tell you anything about her evening with the victim?”

      The woman was getting on my nerves. “Jane, my friend, was bloody and babbling and scared.”

      “So what did she say?”

      “That she and Paolo went to a charity thing, had some champagne, went back to her place, possibly had sex, then she fell asleep.”

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