“I’m thinking maybe you see this as an entree to get inside this squad you’re so needled about.”
“I’ll admit that’s part of the story. But the victim herself is interesting. A beautiful young dancer, can’t make it with the New York Ballet Company, ends up a hoofer in the chorus line of a couple a Broadway shows, starts hanging out in rave clubs, singing at cabarets, and teaching in the daytime and anything else she can do to hold it together and then bingo, she gets murdered in what was obviously planned to look like a suicide. Who could possibly have wanted her dead?”
Sallinger had to admit it was an interesting yarn. He thought about it over his second cup of coffee.
“It’s not bad, Lee. But it sounds like a lot of back story with no payoff.”
“That’s what makes cold cases interesting. The back story is the story and sometimes it shakes up the pot and they land a killer. Which is very good publicity for us.”
“What’s your back-up on this if it fizzles?”
“I’ve got a dozen of them. Let’s not talk about ‘what if’. Let’s talk about ‘what about.’”
Sallinger thought about a minute or two more.
“What’s the hurdle?” He finally asked Hamilton.
“I need a look at the file. I don’t know Lou Stinelli but he’s a friend of yours. Just a phone call. Tell him you’re doing a piece on cold cases and the writer can’t find the Cramer file. It’s a fact check thing.”
Sallinger thought about it. The story did have meat, it wasn’t just bones. And Metro was known for its demanding standard of accuracy. It wasn’t an unreasonable request.
“Okay, Lee, I’ll give it a try. But remember, I’ve got this piece scheduled for the February cover with the attendant publicity. You blow your deadline and I’ll end up with pie all over my face. Halloween is just around the corner.” His threat was implicit.
“Why, I wouldn’t dare blow it,” Hamilton said, nastily, and leaned back with a grin. “I was fated to write this one. It’s a matter of life and death.”
6
She was shorter than Cody expected. Five-four or so. A trim young woman, twenty-six or seven, her body well-toned but not muscular, her dark hair cut to mold a face that was exotically beautiful even without makeup, green eyes with Asian folds that looked straight into his and held the stare, naturally full lips unenhanced by Botox. She was wearing black sweats, a black tank top and black walking sneakers.
“Amelie Cluett?” he asked and his surprise was evident.
“Yes. And it’s pronounced Clu-way. As in away.”
She read him instantly and knew what he was expecting. Masseuse: An alluring Amazon with Schwarzenegger muscles dressed in an outfit straight out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
And he knew what she thought he was thinking now. His gaze never wavered.
“Sorry if I seem surprised,” he said. “I was expecting someone a little taller.”
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he answered and held up his gold badge. “I’m here on my business, not yours. My name’s Cody. Got a minute?”
She, too, was surprised. He was gut-handsome, five-ten, a deep, natural tan, jet black hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, and startling aqua blue eyes that seemed to see right through her and tickle the back of her neck. And he seemed awfully young to be carrying a badge with “Captain” engraved on it. And that ponytail!
“Come on in,” she said, stepping back and holding the door open.
“Thanks.”
The living room was bright and cheerful with two sofas and two easy chairs covered in a variety of colors and fabrics that gave the white-walled room a gem-like brilliance. They were arranged in a quadrangle that invited conversation and were interspersed with wooden pedestal tables.
The wall facing the door was dominated by an enormous contemporary print with splashes of color that balanced the colors of the furniture. The room was lit by four,
“I’ll admit that’s part of the story. But the victim herself is interesting. A beautiful young dancer, can’t make it with the New York Ballet Company, ends up a hoofer in the chorus line of a couple a Broadway shows, starts hanging out in rave clubs, singing at cabarets, and teaching in the daytime and anything else she can do to hold it together and then bingo, she gets murdered in what was obviously planned to look like a suicide. Who could possibly have wanted her dead?”
Sallinger had to admit it was an interesting yarn. He thought about it over his second cup of coffee.
“It’s not bad, Lee. But it sounds like a lot of back story with no payoff.”
“That’s what makes cold cases interesting. The back story is the story and sometimes it shakes up the pot and they land a killer. Which is very good publicity for us.”
“What’s your back-up on this if it fizzles?”
“I’ve got a dozen of them. Let’s not talk about ‘what if’. Let’s talk about ‘what about.’”
Sallinger thought about a minute or two more.
“What’s the hurdle?” He finally asked Hamilton.
“I need a look at the file. I don’t know Lou Stinelli but he’s a friend of yours. Just a phone call. Tell him you’re doing a piece on cold cases and the writer can’t find the Cramer file. It’s a fact check thing.”
Sallinger thought about it. The story did have meat, it wasn’t just bones. And Metro was known for its demanding standard of accuracy. It wasn’t an unreasonable request.
“Okay, Lee, I’ll give it a try. But remember, I’ve got this piece scheduled for the February cover with the attendant publicity. You blow your deadline and I’ll end up with pie all over my face. Halloween is just around the corner.” His threat was implicit.
“Why, I wouldn’t dare blow it,” Hamilton said, nastily, and leaned back with a grin. “I was fated to write this one. It’s a matter of life and death.”
6
She was shorter than Cody expected. Five-four or so. A trim young woman, twenty-six or seven, her body well-toned but not muscular, her dark hair cut to mold a face that was exotically beautiful even without makeup, green eyes with Asian folds that looked straight into his and held the stare, naturally full lips unenhanced by Botox. She was wearing black sweats, a black tank top and black walking sneakers.
“Amelie Cluett?” he asked and his surprise was evident.
“Yes. And it’s pronounced Clu-way. As in away.”
She read him instantly and knew what he was expecting. Masseuse: An alluring Amazon with Schwarzenegger muscles dressed in an outfit straight out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
And he knew what she thought he was thinking now. His gaze never wavered.
“Sorry if I seem surprised,” he said. “I was expecting someone a little taller.”
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he answered and held up his gold badge. “I’m here on my business, not yours. My name’s Cody. Got a minute?”
She, too, was surprised. He was gut-handsome, five-ten, a deep, natural tan, jet black hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, and startling aqua blue eyes that seemed to see right through her and tickle the back of her neck. And he seemed awfully young to be carrying a badge with “Captain” engraved on it. And that ponytail!
“Come on in,” she said, stepping back and holding the door open.
“Thanks.”
The living room was bright and cheerful with two sofas and two easy chairs covered in a variety of colors and fabrics that gave the white-walled room a gem-like brilliance. They were arranged in a quadrangle that invited conversation and were interspersed with wooden pedestal tables.
The wall facing the door was dominated by an enormous contemporary print with splashes of color that balanced the colors of the furniture. The room was lit by four,
Similar Books
