Living with the Dead

ROBYN



Robyn stood across the road from Bane. She looked down at her cell phone for the umpteenth time, as if the image she wanted was just slow in materializing, like one of those old Polaroid cameras. It was a great shot . . . of the blurred top of a light-haired head.

She looked at the club—at the growing crowd, at the reporters, the TV vans, the police cars, the ambulance . . . and she realized that every step she’d taken since finding Portia’s body, as right as it had seemed at the time, had only made her situation worse.

She’d left her prints on the murder weapon. She’d been spotted fleeing the scene. She’d maybe even been spotted running down the alley. And now, to turn herself in, she’d have to pass the gauntlet of reporters and news cameras.

A primitive voice in her head screamed for her to run, but she silenced it. That would be the worst thing she could do.

She imagined a client calling her with this situation. She’d tell him to prepare for a trip to the station . . . just as soon as she’d made a few calls and gotten professional advice on how to proceed.

That’s what she needed now: professional advice.



SHE DIDN’T CALL AHEAD, just showed up on Judd’s doorstep and prayed he was home. Judd Archer was a contract bodyguard Portia hired when she needed extra security, or wanted to look as if she did. He was much in demand in Portia’s circles, not so much for his security abilities—which were top-notch—but for the extra services he provided.

Judd was an ex-cop. Robyn wasn’t completely sure what his story was, only that he’d been screwed over by the department. And he was mad as hell about it, which meant he was happy to exact some revenge by advising his clients on ways to deal with the law.

Judd answered the door on the second ring. Dressed in sweatpants, he rubbed his fist over his bleary eyes.

“Rob?” He blinked hard. “What’s wrong? Portia in trouble?”

“Not her. Me.”

He frowned, as if he must have misheard.

“Portia’s dead,” Robyn said. “And they think I killed her.” He backed up and waved her inside.



THEY WERE IN THE KITCHEN, Robyn on a stool at the island, Judd behind it making coffee.

Judd had loaned Robyn a sweatsuit. She’d changed into it and carefully folded her dress into a bag, so the police could test it for gunshot residue. Then she told Judd everything.

“Did you get a look at the detectives?” he asked. “I knew most of the homicide guys in that division.”

“One guy in a suit came out to talk to the officers guarding the scene. Big guy with a craggy face. Dark blond hair in need of a trim. Early thirties, maybe?”

“Did he have an accent? Texan, I think. Or Oklahoma . . . No, I guess you wouldn’t have been close enough to hear. But it sounds like John Findlay. Hopefully it is. He’s a good cop. Might look like a cowboy, but he isn’t, not when it comes to police work. Slow, steady and thorough. He won’t jump to conclusions or railroad you into a confession.”

Robyn stirred her coffee as she took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“It’s not like you have a lot of choice, Rob.”

“I know. I just feel like an idiot. I ran from a crime scene.”

“Trying to get a look at a fleeing killer. After you called 911. And when that girl saw you, you tried going back to explain. Even banged on the door. You’ve got scrapes and bumps to support your story, ones that wouldn’t come from a run-in with Portia. And you have a photo.”

“Oh, yes. The amazing photo.” She took the cell phone from the table, looked at the blurry picture again and put the phone into her pocket as she shook her head. “I’m not even sure that is the killer. For all I know, I accidentally ambushed a street kid.”

“But it still supports your story.”

Robyn wasn’t so sure. She knew Judd was trying to make her feel better. Like he’d said, she didn’t have much choice. She had to turn herself in.

“Can you call the detective now?” she asked. “Get this over with.”



JUDD HAD PHONED A CONTACT at the station and discovered that Detective Findlay was indeed assigned to the case. He left a message with the dispatcher. Findlay would call him back.

“So,” he said as he sat again. “Do you have any idea who this woman might have been?”

“If it was a woman. I didn’t get a good look. But I still wouldn’t know. Portia didn’t make enemies. People loved to hate her, but no one really hated her.”

“Maybe someone wanted something?”

Robyn shook her head. “If they did, she gave it to them—she was so desperate to be liked.”

“What about tonight? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”

“I spent most of the evening talking to my girlfriend. And Portia was too busy flirting with my friend’s boyfriend.”

Judd’s brows shot up. “Your friend couldn’t have liked that.”

“Honestly, she wasn’t the least concerned. He stayed right beside us and didn’t flirt back. Portia asked me for his number afterward. I said I didn’t have it. She wanted me to get it. Not exactly a fight—she just snapped at me and—” Robyn looked up sharply. “Could they use that against me? Proof of a fight?”

“Just explain it to Findlay before he brings it up.”

Judd prodded for recent incidents, but Robyn couldn’t remember anything. Portia would have mentioned it—she told Robyn more about her personal life than she ever cared to know.

Eventually Judd said, “We’ll leave the speculating to Findlay. He should be here in a few minutes. I’ll start another pot of coffee.”