Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

“He isn’t still mad?” The chief had had a hard-on for Cam’s extinction for the past six months.

“Numbnuts.” Reggie pinched the bridge of his wide nose and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “help me baby Jesus” before taking a deep breath and nailing Cam with the dead-eyed, no-shit glare of a detective with fifteen years under his belt. “It was his daughter.”

“His full-grown daughter.” Shayna Harrison. Tall, lean, and a little bit mean—just the way Cam liked them. They’d spent a weekend naked and happy until the chief found them playing Adam and Eve at the Harrison family cabin. How was he supposed to know she’d blown off a cousin’s wedding for wild monkey sex in the woods? Not that the chief gave a flying fuck about that little detail. “She had fun.” More times than Cam had fingers and toes.

Reggie maintained his deadpan stare. “Then go crash one of her crime scenes.”

“Point taken.” Another flash went off in the front room. “How’s Drea?”

“Silent.” The other man pivoted and strode down the hall. Cam followed, but the man had taken only a few steps before his phone rang and he held up a hand for Cam to stop walking. He grumbled and answered the call. “Hello, chief. Good to hear from you again.” He strolled a few feet away.

Cam hung out near the wide staircase, which gave him the perfect vantage point to check out the brownstone’s interior. Cops and crime scene technicians covered the place, but all the real work was being done in the front room. A detective whose name Cam couldn’t remember sat in an alcove the size of a normal Harbor City apartment’s bedroom with a man dressed up like he was playing the butler on some BBC America show. There were lots of hand gestures and rapid-fire lip movements. Cam wasn’t close enough to make out what was being said, but the detective was taking copious notes.

Reggie clipped his phone on his belt and looked at Cam. “Let’s go. You’re on.”

He followed the detective into a room that was so white it was like walking into a cloud, but instead of soft and fuzzy, everything had sharp edges and that don’t-touch-a-thing vibe that rich people’s houses always seemed to give off.

Drea stood at the window, her bright yellow shirt and orange skirt like a rebellious fuck you to the room. Or maybe that was because of the way she narrowed her eyes and cut a go-take-a-hike glare for him and Reggie.

“I told you everything I have to say already,” Drea said. “If you think he’s going to soften me up, you’re seriously confused.”

“I thought you two were friends,” Reggie snarled under h

is breath.

“We are—”

“We’re not,” Drea said at the same moment. “Now, am I walking out of here, or do I have to call my lawyer?”

Everything about her screamed “I’m in control,” but he couldn’t help but notice the cracks in the illusion. The drumbeat she tapped out on her thigh. The way her gaze shifted from side to side. The thread of worry that snuck through the thick weave of hardass in her voice.

If he didn’t know her better, he’d think she was guilty of something…and Reggie didn’t know her at all.

She may not want him here, but he wasn’t going anywhere without her.

“Drea, I’m here to help.” Cam crossed the room to her side. “If you want to get out of here anytime soon without going to the station, you need to tell Reggie everything you know. I don’t like cops any more than you do, but you can trust him.”

If he’d just said the Easter Bunny was hidden somewhere in the snowy white room, she couldn’t have looked less skeptical than she did standing there with her hand on one jutted out hip. “I already gave my statement. You want more? Make an appointment with my lawyer. I know what this looks like, and I’m not taking the fall for it.”

“What does it look like?” Reggie asked.

Drea didn’t hesitate. “Murder.”

The word punched Cam square in the gut. She was right. And with her piss-poor attitude, she made an easy target for the police to focus on. Not that Reggie was a lazy cop, but in this kind of high profile case, he may not have much of a choice. The brass would want it tied up with a bow before the evening news if at all possible. Even if they couldn’t convict her, she’d be labeled the prime suspect. In the eyes of the public, she’d be guilty.

“What makes you think it’s murder?” Reggie asked as he pulled out his little black notebook.

“Because Mrs. Orton was a freak about germs and being healthy. She wasn’t sick.” The steel melted from her spine. “There wasn’t any reason for her to die like that.”

Reggie shrugged noncommittally as only a cop could. “The medical examiner will determine cause of death. I’m just here to figure out what happened. I need your cooperation. Now we can wait for a lawyer down at the station, or you can tell me what you know here and then go home.”

Drea locked her gaze on Cam. Her crossed arms practically screamed “don’t mess with me or I’ll tear your head off,” but he couldn’t help noticing the glimmer of fear in her dark eyes.

Cam nodded. “You can trust Reggie. We grew up together, he’s good people.”

She weighed his words with a long silence before relaxing her stance. “I got here at 3:45. Fergus showed me into the salon. I set up my stuff and a couple of minutes later Mrs. Orton came in.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been here?” Reggie asked.