Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (11 page)

Maybe to tell me I have a little medical condition they overlooked. Could the lab have answers for me? “What's the name of the lab?” I ask Kane. I'm thinking I can do a little research on my own without getting him involved.

He frowns at me. “When someone hires me for a job, they usually let me do my job and stay out of it.”

I'm about to argue that I think my money entitles me to any information I ask for when someone knocks on the door.

“Morgan, you in there?” some guy shouts from the other side.

Kane walks to the door. “Yeah!” he shouts back. “I'm in a meeting!”

“Well, put your pants on. The cops are here asking about you. Those two ladies I saw following you up here are both over eighteen, aren't they?”

Cindy and I glance at one another. I curl my lip to let her know I'm disgusted by Kane, and disgusted that anyone would believe she and I are in here engaging in sexual activity with him. Kane swears and my attention swings back toward him.

“One of my band members got busted for coke last week. The fucking cops have been riding my ass about him. Trying to figure out if he was dealing. Like I know what all the guys do in their spare time.” He takes a calming breath. “You want to wait around, ladies?”

I'm off the couch in a split second. I want no part of Kane's seedy world of rock and roll. “No, we don't. Since I'm the one forking out the cash, just do what I say. Forget the lab for now and concentrate on getting the adoption file unsealed.”

Running a hand through his long hair, he says, “It's your money. I guess you make enough to throw it around. I'm not used to my clients telling me how to do my job.”

In my case, he'd better get used to it. Cindy and I walk to the door. “Call me when you have more information.”

Kane opens the door and Cindy and I walk out. I don't see whoever was shouting for Kane on the other side. At the end of the railing, I do catch the silhouettes of three men.

As I get closer to the men, one of them looks hauntingly familiar. The strobe hits his face and I freeze. It's Terry. What's he doing here? Following me? I'd believe that if his expression weren't every bit as surprised at seeing me as I am at seeing him. He moves toward me.

“Lou? What the hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” I shout back.

He glances past me. “You weren't just with Morgan Kane, were you?”

Not that it's really any of his business, but I say, “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“You know him?”

“Yes,” I answer impatiently. “Did you follow me here?”

Instead of answering, he shakes his head. “I don't like this, Lou.”

Should I be flattered by his remark? Isn't it a little early in our nonrelationship for him to be jealous? Terry pulls a gun from his shoulder holster. Now I do freak out. Is he crazy?

“What are you doing?”

“You'll have to come down to the precinct, Lou. Don't go anywhere.” He starts past me and I grab his arm.

“What are you doing?” I repeat frantically.

His buddies come up behind him, guns drawn. “We're arresting Morgan Kane for the murders of Sally Preston and Lisa Keller,” he answers.

CONFESSION NO. 9

Most women find a man in uniform irresistible. They do something for me, too. Like make me nauseous.

When I was a kid, I wanted to ride in a cop car. Funny, you never hear adults say they want to ride in one. Cindy has been hauled in along with Kane and me. Morgan rode in a different car. He had two cops with him. Cindy and I only rated the one superfine, even though he has basically arrested me.

“I need to pee.”

Cindy and I now sit in a little room where we've been told to stay. We've checked it out and don't see any two-way mirrors, so I'm not sweating bullets … yet.

“Did you see what we walked past coming in?” I ask her. “I'm sure they have public restrooms they make people use here. And I mean all people.”

Crossing her legs, Cindy indicates she can wait. “You're the reason we're here, Lou. You and your murdering private investigator.”

Whatever bad opinions I hold of Morgan Kane, I can't see him in the role of lady killer. He likes women too much. Whoever chewed up Sally Preston and Lisa Keller hates women. Besides, I would sense if Morgan was a killer, or a werewolf. Wouldn't I?

“Morgan Kane isn't the man in my nightmares,” I tell Cindy, keeping my voice to a whisper in case the room is bugged.

“He's not exactly the man of your dreams, either,” Cindy whispers back. “But he is sexy.”

My head swings toward her. “Did you just say you find a man sexy?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don't mean that I find him sexy. I just mean I can see where the normal straight woman would be attracted to him.”

Have I missed something? “Sexy? He's rude and conceited. He's too old to wear his pants that tight or his hair that long. He has a pierced nipple.” I shudder to think how much that had to hurt.

Cindy shrugs. “He plays in a band. That voids out all the other stuff. Look at Mick Jagger. He still has women chasing him at his age.”

Enough about Kane's appeal to women, or in my case, the lack thereof. What led the cops to believe he's a killer and that I am guilty by association?

“I know what they're doing,” Cindy says. “They're wearing us down. Waiting until we're so tired and need to pee so bad we'll confess to anything to get out of this room.”

“You watch too many cop shows. What should I tell Shay about my association with Morgan Kane?”

Obviously tired of squirming, Cindy rises and begins to pace. “Tell him the truth. There's nothing wrong with hiring a private investigator to find your birth parents. Normal people do it every day.”

I'm so busy trying to cover up things lately I forget some things are normal and don't have to be lied about. The door opens and Shay steps into the room. He's wearing a five o'clock shadow that's sexy as hell. I rub my chin to make sure I'm not wearing one, too.

“Lou, Ms. Emerson, you're both free to go now.”

I was geared up for serious questioning. I blink at him. “What about Morgan? Is he free to go, too?”

Shay strolls over and takes Cindy's empty seat. “We just released him,” he answers.

“Why did you arrest him in the first place?” I ask.

Terry rubs his eyes. Poor baby is tired. He needs a woman at home waiting for him. I try to picture myself as that woman, but under the circumstances, I fail miserably.

“He has a connection to the case. A little too much of a coincidence.”

“What kind of connection?” Cindy asks.

Terry glances at her and frowns. “This is information I'm not at liberty to share.”

I feel differently. “Don't you think you owe us an explanation for hauling us down here in the middle of the night simply because we were speaking to Morgan Kane?”

“I'm sorry about that,” Terry admits. “But Lou, you have all this information about the case, and then I catch you with a suspect. It didn't look good.”

“What is the connection?” I repeat.

“Erotica,” he answers.

“What does that mean?” Cindy asks.

“It was the name on the front of Lisa Keller's shirt the night she was murdered,” I answer.

“It's also the name of Morgan Kane's band,” Terry supplies.

I hadn't cared enough about Kane's musical career to ask him the name of his band. “I take it she was a fan?”

“More like a groupie from what we've heard,” Shay answers. “Turns out she's slept with everyone in the band except Kane. He says he doesn't know her, might have seen her in the crowd, but wasn't aware that she's dead. I guess he doesn't have time to read the papers.”

Although I see why Kane would be a suspect, I can't figure out why Shay would storm the beaches like he did unless there was more than an association between the PI and Lisa Keller. Not unless …

“He knew Sally Preston, too, didn't he?”

Shay glances toward Cindy. I know he doesn't feel as if she should be included, but he answers, “She was a client of his a few years back. Wanted him to finger her ex-husband for cheating on her so she could take him to the bank during the divorce proceedings. Kane got the information she wanted. During our interview with the ex, Kane's name came up. We figured there was bad blood between the guy and Kane and didn't find any reason to be suspicious of Kane at the time, at least not until we had another connection between him and both cases.”

“What about the ex?” Cindy now sits on the edge of a table corner. She looks at home in her surroundings. “Statistics prove that in most murders, the victim knew the murderer. It's usually an ex something.”

Terry gives Cindy an “it's not your business” glance and turns to me. “Kane said you're a client of his. He said you hired him to find your birth parents. Is that right? And you approached him, he didn't approach you?”

Watching too much
Court TV
with Cindy pays off. I see where Terry's going with his line of questioning. He wants to make certain Morgan didn't contact me as part of his killer sex games. “I contacted him,” I assure him. “A friend of mine recommended him.”

Wrinkling his forehead, he asks, “Can't you find them on your own? I mean, you're psychic, right?”

Cindy comes to my rescue on this one. “Most psychics don't seem to have an ability where their own lives are concerned, just others'. Lou's tried to get a fix on her birth parents. Nothing. She draws a blank.”

I'm not sure what Cindy said is true, but I know for a fact that Terry Shay wouldn't know if it is or isn't. I doubt he's done much research on the subject.

He rises without commenting. “Morgan Kane had alibis for both nights the murders took place. We checked them out before we let him go. Can I give you ladies a ride to your car?”

No wonder we've been sitting here so long. Damn Kane. I'll have bags under my eyes for tomorrow's shoot. I've had enough of the boys in blue for one night. I start to tell Shay we'll call a cab but Cindy pipes up.

“We don't have a car. You can drive us home, though.”

“Sure,” Terry says and walks toward the door. “Let's go.”

A few minutes later I climb into Terry's restored El Camino. I've never been able to figure the love connection between men and El Caminos. They're ugly. Not really a car, not really a truck. The car is black with dark-tinted windows. It also only has one bench seat so I'm squeezed between Cindy and Terry.

At three in the morning, traffic is fairly light. Conversation is nil. Cindy's nodded off, her head resting against the window.

“So, you're adopted.”

I immediately start to panic over the question but remember there is no crime in being adopted. “Yes.”

“I've always been curious why people who are adopted feel compelled to find their birth parents. Most of them have been raised in a good home with loving adoptive parents. It seems sort of disrespectful of the people who raised them.”

The Billingtons weren't exactly loving. They were more indifferent, which was worse than if they'd flat-out disliked me. I'm not sure if under different circumstances, I would feel so moved to find my biological parents … but then again, I probably would still be looking for them. I need a deeper connection with “family.”

“Most people who aren't adopted wouldn't understand the need to connect,” I comment. “And I'm sure there are many adopted people who aren't compelled to find their actual birth parents. People who, like you said, feel it would be disrespectful to their loving adoptive parents.”

“Your parents must have been lookers,” he says, and in the flimsy glow from a traffic light, I see him smile.

I've never really thought about what my biological parents might have looked like. I've been too focused on their DNA. His folks must be lookers, too. But sometimes that is not the case. I've seen two relatively plain people produce a beautiful child.

“Do you resemble your father?”

He laughs. “No, thank God. I look more like my uncle Ned. Dad teases Mom about it all the time. Says she got a little too friendly with the family while he was working the night beat.”

I love these personal glimpses into Shay's life. A life so different from the one I had, or have. I'd love to be normal like he is. But I'm not, so I jab Cindy a little to wake her up.

“Are we home?” she mumbles.

“Almost,” Shay answers. “You seem to know a lot about police procedure, Ms. Emerson.”

“She watches too many police shows,” I inform him.

“I've thought about joining the force,” Cindy admits, stifling a yawn.

This is news to me. I thought Cindy had her heart set on construction. I turn to her. “You have?”

“Yeah. Backup plan if I never get hired on for construction work. I've tried, you know, three times and everyone just looks at my scrawny body and laughs me out of the place. Maybe you don't have to be as strong to be a cop.”

“The job does require physical qualifications,” Terry tells her. “Rookie training is grueling. You'd have to work out to get through the academy.”

I offer what I know about the subject. “You'd have to build up your arm muscles so you can lift doughnuts all day.”

Shay turns his head toward me. “Do I look like I eat doughnuts all day?”

I'm tempted to ask if I can feel his abs before I answer. He has a point. I'm sure I have just as many preconceived notions about policemen as he does about models.

“Lou could probably be a cop,” Cindy grumbles. “She likes doughnuts and she's freakishly strong.”

Terry laughs. “Lou doesn't look like she eats many doughnuts, and what are you?” He glances at me again. “A hundred pounds soaking wet?”