Undone by Moonlight (15 page)

Calla tapped Devin’s leg to get his attention, and he shrugged,
having no idea whether Reid’s enthusiasm was a good or a bad thing for him.
Oddly enough, his thoughts turned to the statement Howard had forced Reid to
sign. Though Devin wasn’t big on trust, he understood blackmail.

Reid wouldn’t betray him at this stage of the game.

After flagging down their waitress, Reid signed off and dropped
his phone in his jacket pocket. “Let’s go. We’ve got a witness who thinks she
saw our suspect.”

* * *

C
ALLA
AND
D
EVIN
WERE
shuttled behind the two-way window of interrogation
room one, while Reid and Anderson questioned the witness.

“I still don’t understand why we can’t be part of the
interview,” she said, annoyed.

“I’m not supposed to be working on this case.” Devin guided her
to the metal folding chair beside him. “Relax. We’re finally getting a
break.”

After all the wrong turns, fruitless searches and unconfirmed
theories, were they actually on the verge of identifying the killer?

Calla sat.

“I’m sorry for the austerity, ma’am,” Reid said, leading a
dark-haired woman into the interrogation room. “We need to record and videotape
your interview for the record.”

The woman was a surprise. She was very attractive and
fashionable. Her dark brown hair was expertly highlighted, she wore a trendy
black-and-white outfit with a rust-colored scarf flung around her neck, and
Calla could swear she’d seen her designer wedged heels in a magazine with an
accompanying six-hundred-dollar price tag.

Clearly nervous, the witness’s gaze flicked to the two-way
window. “Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Reid said.

“Monica Galloway. I’m a journalist.”

Calla gasped. “I absolutely don’t believe it. That’s Peeps
Galloway.”

“Who?” Devin asked.

“That crazy chick who writes gossip articles for
The Tattler
. Journalist, my ass.”

“You’re a reporter?” Anderson asked in surprise.

Nerves apparently overcome, Monica aka Peeps smiled widely.
“The best, sweetie.”

Reid and Anderson exchanged a skeptical glance.

“We need to get a message to them,” Calla said frantically to
Devin as she paced in front of the window. “That woman doesn’t have information,
she’s trying to get a scoop.”

“She’ll be disappointed,” Devin assured her. “Reid and Anderson
are pros. They won’t tell her anything they don’t have to.”

Like that would stop the woman. Recalling all the details Peeps
had gotten on the Robin Hood adventures over the past few months, Calla’s heart
threatened to jump out of her chest. If she somehow hurt Devin’s case to serve
her trashy, unethical, ridiculous column...well, she’d be hiring Howard for her
own trial. “But—”

“And if she prints anything after the interview that
compromises an open case, she’ll find herself on the wrong side of jailhouse
bars.”

“Does she
know
she can’t publish
anything?” Calla asked.

“No idea.” Devin’s eyes sparkled. “I imagine Reid will make
that clear before he lets her go but after he gets all the information he
needs.”

“What publication do you work for?” Anderson asked Peeps, his
tone less comforting than Reid’s.

“I have a column in
The
Tattler.
”

The disappointed expression on Reid’s face was almost comical.
“You’re Peeps? The gossipmonger?”

Peeps winked. “And proud of it, darling.”

Like Calla, Anderson and Reid no doubt now considered this
once-promising interview as a giant waste of time. “You have information for
us?” Reid asked, sitting across from Peeps, while Anderson wandered around the
room.

Calla turned to Devin. “Please tell me they’re going to do good
cop/bad cop and that Anderson can be really,
really mean when he plays his
role.”

“Anderson interrogates way more scary people than a gossip
columnist. If he needs to, he’ll have her trembling so badly, she won’t type a
coherent word for a month.”

Satisfied, Calla faced the window, eager to see the show.

“Last night,” Peeps began, leaning forward in apparent
excitement, “I went out to Swizzle and—”

“What’s Swizzle?” Anderson asked.

Peeps stared at him in astonishment. “You’re kidding,
right?”

Anderson simply crossed his arms over his chest.

“I really need to sponsor a Cop’s Night Out,” Peeps mumbled.
“It’s a bar. They specialize in exotic martinis. I had a—”

Anderson glanced at his watch. “It’s three o’clock on Friday.
You’re just now coming to us. Why?”

“I went to Swizzle last night,” Peeps said, more slowly this
time, as if she were unsure of Anderson’s level of intelligence.

“Let her finish,” Reid commanded, pretending irritation at his
colleague.

“They’re throwing her off her pace,” Calla realized. “If her
story is rehearsed, she’ll have a hard time recovering and making her account
sound plausible.”

“It works” was Devin’s comment.

“So, anyway...” Peeps began, her tone brisker. “I was at
Swizzle. It is
the
hot spot for October, so the
place was packed as usual, though Cameo didn’t show up as rumored.”

Anderson and Reid were either fascinated or hip hop music fans,
since neither asked who Cameo was.

“Naturally, I had a pomegranate martini,” Peeps continued.
“They extract nutrients from the actual seeds, so you can apparently get trashed
and still feel healthy. Since I was in work-mode, I, naturally, had only one.”
Her gaze swung to Reid’s. “People do all sorts of scandalous and wonderful
things when they’re tipsy. I once sent a case of Hypnotic to a pop star’s hotel
room and was first on the scene when she appeared at a CD signing naked. So,
anyway, this blond chick strides up to the bar. She was striking even though
that hair was very last summer. Oh, and there had to be extensions because there
was simply too much volume for
au naturel.
The
bartender snapped to attention immediately, and she ordered a bottle of
champagne.” Peeps frowned. “I mean people drink champagne cocktails in the
summer and over the holidays. Otherwise, they’re strictly passé.”

Calla didn’t have to turn to imagine Devin’s eyes glazing over
the same way Anderson’s and Reid’s were.

Calla, however, was at full attention. In between the frivolous
notes were vivid details. If she’d concocted this story, she was a much better
writer than Calla had given her credit for.

Peeps tapped her dark green painted fingernail against the
table. “That iron-stomached chick drank every drop of champagne herself in less
than two hours, then started on a second bottle. She didn’t eat anything, and
she expertly deflected all attempts to be picked up—by men, women and anybody in
between. Well, since Cameo was MIA and there were no exhibitionist pop stars
around, I gradually moved closer until I was sitting on the bar stool next to
her. She toasted me and said she was celebrating. She was secretive about why at
first, but I ask questions for a living, so it wasn’t too difficult to get her
to spill, considering her seriously altered state.”

Calla could tell Reid was losing his patience with all the
unnecessary details and the general silliness. “And this is connected to
Detective Antonio’s assault case how, exactly?”

“She mentioned him by name,” Peeps said, as if this were
obvious. “She said he’d finally gotten what he deserved, and she couldn’t wait
to see him led off in chains.”

Devin must have realized the cautious excitement building in
Calla, since he commented, “Quite a coincidence.”

Naturally, he was right. How did they know this incident had
even happened? Peeps could be making it all up. In fact, she had to be.

Thankfully, Reid also wasn’t so easily swayed, though he kept
his delivery calm and even. “Antonio has arrested a number of people during his
career. Maybe even this woman you saw. She probably heard about the case in the
media and is simply happy he’s unable to do his job.”

As if genuinely mulling over the idea, Peeps cocked her head.
“I don’t think so. She’s got these scary, hard eyes—even when she’s toasted. I
think she’s directly involved in this case. I always thought it was strange
Detective Antonio had been accused in the first place. I’ve covered him
extensively, you know,” she added in a low, confident voice. “What if he’s been
framed, and this woman is responsible?”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Calla muttered. She and Peeps were on
the same page.

“Anything else?” Reid asked neutrally.

Peeps pursed her brightly painted pink lips as she considered.
“She rambled on about chess a few times. Something about the best use of pawns.
But I don’t play the game. Seriously? Who does?”

Pawns like Jimmie?

Calla’s excitement shifted from a distant tingle to an outright
buzz. Crazy Peeps Galloway had dropped their best lead right into their
laps.

“You didn’t document the conversation?” Reid asked, leaning
back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less, though he most certainly did.
“Reporters often carry recorders.”

“I don’t. At least not last night.” Peeps looked disappointed
by her mistake. “I was carrying an original Samoian cocktail bag. I could barely
squeeze a lipstick in there, and my assistant had my phone. She was waiting to
video—hopefully—Kerry Castle cheating on her new husband with her old flame,
Drake Mastrano. Hey, do you guys have a video and microphone that could be
contained in a lip gloss container? I’ve appealed to the FBI, but they’re
reluctant to share.”

“Did you identify yourself?” Anderson asked, aggressively
bracing his hand on the table beside her. “Maybe she recognized you and was
attempting to get her name in the paper.”

Peeps glared up at him. “She didn’t know who I was. The secret
to getting people to tell me everything is to, you know, be secretive. Very few
people know what I look like.” She paused. “And I’d like to keep it that way.
You guys aren’t going to blab my identity all over the city, are you?”

“Blab her...” Calla started, then shook her head, wondering if
she’d actually heard the wildly arrogant and ironic question Peeps had asked or
if the stress of the investigation was affecting her senses.

While she tried to gather herself, Anderson and Reid argued
with Peeps over her statement for another couple of minutes, questioning her
conclusions and observations, trying to find inconsistencies.

Peeps never wavered.

Much as Calla doubted in the beginning, she was fully on board
by the end.

Devin had said little during the interview, and though she was
still trying to work out her own hope and worry, Calla sat beside him and
grasped his hand. It was his freedom, future and career they were fighting for,
after all. “Peeps knows the killer.”

Since she’d expected him to argue over her bold conclusion, she
was surprised when he squeezed her hand. “Too bad she doesn’t have a picture,
name or address stowed in her tiny cocktail bag.”

Calla had gotten so excited by the break in the case, she
hadn’t jumped forward far enough to realize that while their theory had been
basically confirmed, they were actually no closer to getting their hands on the
suspect than before.

“We’d like you to look at a sketch,” Reid said, easily avoiding
any guarantee about exposing Peeps’s identity. He slid a piece of paper across
the table toward his witness. “Does this look like the woman you saw last
night?”

Peeps slapped her hand on the paper without so much as a glance
at its wording. “I don’t want my name and image released to the media. I can’t
do my job if every potential scandal-maker in the city knows what I look
like.”

Reid, obviously giving up on his good-cop persona, narrowed his
eyes. “I can’t do my job unless you cooperate fully with an investigation that
could ruin a good cop’s life and career. Look at the sketch, Ms. Galloway.”

Leaning back in her chair, Peeps shook her head. Calla winced,
reminded of her own stubbornness, though she admired the other woman’s instinct
for self-protection.

“When did everybody become so damn distrusting?” Reid wondered
in obvious frustration.

Anderson dragged over another chair and sat next to Reid. “We
guarantee not to reveal your identity to anyone outside the investigative
team.”

“Thanks.” Peeps glanced at the sketch. “Usually cops don’t
warrant a mention in my column.” She smiled, though her lips trembled. “No
offense. I didn’t like exposing Detective Antonio’s troubles, but he’s been
featured in the past as a hero, so I did my job and reported the bad with the
good. It happens that way sometimes. But if the woman I talked to is trying to
hurt him or the NYPD, I’m on board. If I ever have to call 9-1-1, I’d rather not
be hung up on.”

“The system doesn’t work like that,” Reid said gently.

“Maybe it should.” Blinking back tears, Peeps cleared her
throat and picked up the sketch. “This could be her. Hard to tell with the
glasses covering her eyes. The hair’s almost big enough. Is the sketch artist
and/or witness male and fellow cops, by any chance?”

Reid recovered quickly from the off-topic question. “Both are
male. One’s a cop.”

“Well, that accounts for the fact that this woman looks more
like something you’d see on a post office bulletin board rather than a gallery
on Sixth.” Peeps ran her finger over the drawing. “The jawline is right, the
narrow cheekbones, the body. With more hair and laser-beam eyes, yeah, this
could be her.”

“It was reported she wore a wig,” Reid prompted.

Peeps shook her head. “Not last night. She was strictly an
extension girl.” When Reid looked doubtful, she added, “She spends a great deal
of time on her appearance, Lieutenant. She wouldn’t wear a wig. I’ve worked with
several cancer organizations to provide pieces to cope with hair loss. Thank
goodness, there’ve been many advances. But a trained eye can still tell the
difference.” She slid the sketch across the table toward him. “I’m a trained
eye.”