The Homicide Hustle

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Authors: Ella Barrick
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options after Maurice
     went into the ballroom to teach a Standard class. Tango music thrummed through the
     studio. Detective Lissy was not going to tell me anything about how Tessa died. Who
     else—? The answer came to me: Kevin McDill. A longtime reporter for the
Washington Post
I’d met investigating Rafe’s death
,
he had to have contacts in the coroner’s office, someone who could tell him what
     the autopsy report said. And he owed me. I had the phone in my hand, preparing to
     dial, when someone knocked on the outside door. I got up to answer it, Hoover padding
     curiously at my heels.
    An attractive woman I didn’t recognize stood on the landing. Her suit, hair, and makeup
     said “high maintenance.”
    “Can I help you?”
    “This
is
Graysin Motion, where
Blisters
is filming, right?” Her voice suggested she didn’t really think she might be wrong.
    “Yes, but—”
    “Good. I need to see Zane right away.” Her designer-shod foot tapped and she slid
     her large sunglasses onto her head, revealing hard eyes and unlined skin.
    I eyed her, wondering if she really knew Zane or if she was some kind of stalker.
     “Zane’s not here.”
    “Oh, please. I heard about what happened to Tessa. I’ve got to assure myself he’s
     all right.” She made as if to push past me, but I blocked her. She was about my height—five
     foot six—and her sleeveless sheath revealed toned arms, but I figured I could take
     her.
    She gave me a frosty look. “If you don’t let me in to see Zane right this minute,
     I’ll get your ass fired from this show. Zane will say he’d rather dance with a rabid
     baboon than you, and your tight little dancer’s fanny will be out the door.”
    Who was this witch? Zane’s agent, maybe. I didn’t care who she was: no one talked
     to me like that. “You’re trespassing,” I said flatly. Hoover stuck his head past my
     thigh and growled deep in his throat. I patted him.
Good dog.
    The woman gave Hoover a wary look. “I’m allergic to dogs.”
    I didn’t respond. I was tempted to let Hoover chase her down the stairs, but I wasn’t
     sure if the studio’s insurance would pay up if she took a tumble, so I kept a hand
     on his collar.
    “Look,” she said in a more conciliatory voice, “we got off on the wrong foot. I was
     just worried. You can’t blame a mother for getting a little uptight when her son might
     be in peril.” She tried a thin, closed-lip smile.
    It took me a split second to process what she’d said. “You’re Zane’s
mother
?” I mentally upped her age a good ten years. I didn’t see much resemblance to Zane.
     She had dark hair where his was blond, and brown eyes to his hazel. Her nose was too
     straight, lacking the slight bump that gave his character.
    “Kim Savage.” She extended a slim hand and I reluctantly shook hands with her.
    “Come on in, I guess.” I pulled the door wider. “Zane’s really not here, though. After
     the police questioned him, he left. I don’t know where he went.”
    “The police interrogated him? That’s just great! After all I’ve been doing to rejuvenate
     his career, he gets tangled up in a murder.” She huffed a sigh and strode past me
     into the studio, looking around curiously. “I’ve been lobbying for eighteen months
     to get him on
Ballroom with the B-Listers
, calling in favors and—” She shot me a look. “Well, never mind. His career’s been
     in the doldrums ever since
Hollywood High
got canceled, and this is his best shot at a comeback. I’ve been in talks with James
     Cameron about his new movie, and I can’t believe it might all fall apart because of
     that—” She folded her lips together. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she
     was never good for Zane, never.”
    Without a knock or a by-your-leave, she opened the ballroom door and peered in at
     the class. Music swirled into the hall. They’d moved on to a foxtrot and Kim Savage
     watched the dancers for a moment. Maurice

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