When Kylie dresses for work, she wears pants, a shirt, a jacket, sensible shoes, and minimal makeup. It’s the unofficial uniform of the hardworking female detective. It does a fairly adequate job of making her look more like a no-nonsense cop than an incredibly desirable woman. But her outfit today—a sleeveless V-neck blue number that hugged her in all the right places—would jump-start any man’s imagination.
“Zach Jordan,” she said, introducing me to the man next to her, “this is the head of Erin Easton’s security, Declan McMaster. We worked together back when I was assigned to the UN General Assembly.”
I knew the name. And the pedigree. McMaster had put in thirty-five years with the department, retiring as a full bird out of Intel. He was a solid block of a man with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, a square jaw, and a troubled look in his dark eyes. He extended a hand.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Inspector,” I said.
“I’m a card-carrying civilian, Zach, so please call me Declan. I wish it were under better circumstances. I’ve been running security for Erin for three years. Sorry you caught me on the day my post-retirement career officially went in the toilet.”
He wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was simply stating a cold, hard fact. Only lost one asset in three years does not look good on a bodyguard’s résumé.
“I know the protocol,” McMaster said. “I can’t be part of the investigation, but I also don’t want to fade into the woodwork. I know Erin Easton’s world better than anyone. I know her personal life, her business ventures, her friends, her fans, her wild side, and her dark side. I know everyone who loves her, and everyone she’s pissed off. I can help … if you let me.”
I could tell by the way he zeroed in on me that Kylie had already heard his pitch. I turned to her, and she gave me a look that captured what I was thinking: You can’t turn this kind of talent and experience down.
“It’d be an honor to work with you, sir,” I said. “Break it down for me.”
“This way,” he said. We followed him down the corridor to a nondescript wooden door. “This is the back door to Erin’s dressing room.” It was cracked open, and using his pocket square to avoid contaminating any evidence, he opened it wide enough for me to see our crime scene unit inside. Then he closed it.
“This is a service door,” he said. “It’s only used to move wardrobe in and out of the dressing room. It was blocked on the inside by a rack of clothes—I don’t even know if Erin knew the damn door was here. It was locked from the outside.”
“There’s not a mark on it,” I said. “How many people had a key?”
“Too many to count,” Kylie said. “The venue manager told us that most of the doors have universal locks. Master keys are signed out for every event, but not everyone remembers to return them, and nobody in management seems to care. Whoever unlocked this door could have had the key for years.”
“I wanted to post a guard out here,” McMaster said, “but these cable networks are notoriously cheap. They only paid for five men. I had four watching the crowd. One was assigned to the front of the dressing room.”
“Which means whoever took her went out the same way they came in,” Kylie said. “This service hallway leads to the loading dock. The good news is there’s a surveillance camera out there.”
We walked down the corridor to a pair of large metal doors, then stepped outside onto the loading platform. Kylie pointed to a camera mounted two stories above us. “If we’ve got anything on video, this is our best bet. Benny Diaz arrived about ten minutes ago,” she said to me. “Could you ask him to make this area a priority?”
Diaz is with TARU, our Technical Assistance Response Unit. I pulled out my phone and called him.
“Zach,” he said. “I’m already at the CCTV terminal pulling video. This place is geek heaven—forty-two cameras.”
“You got one that says ‘loading dock’?”
“Camera six. I’m looking at you guys on the live feed right now.”
“Put a rush on the footage from that camera. This is likely to be where they exited.”
“Will do,” Diaz said. “And, Zach, can you just confirm one thing for me?”
“What’s that?”
“I just zoomed in on your partner, Detective MacDonald. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is she one smoking-hot cop or what?”
I hung up, looked at the camera, and flipped him the bird.
CHAPTER 4
MCMASTER TOOK US to a cordoned-off area in front of Erin’s dressing room. Lenny Ringel, the last person to see her, was waiting for us.
“Ringel, tell these detectives what you know,” McMaster ordered.
“What I know? ” Ringel said. “What do you mean, what I know? I don’t know anything.”
Kylie held up a hand, and McMaster backed off. “I’m Kylie MacDonald,” she said. “That’s my partner, Zach Jordan. What’s your name?”
“Lenny—Detective Lenny Ringel. I retired from the job about five—”
“Lenny, when did you last see Erin Easton?”
“About an hour or so ago. She came from the reception area and said she was making a wardrobe change. She had on a wedding gown, but she was going to put on something different for the show.”
“What show?”
Ringel shrugged and looked at his boss for an answer.
“She was planning to perform a couple of musical numbers for the crowd,” McMaster said. “It was the network’s idea. They wanted to jazz up the special.”
Kylie turned back to Ringel. “When you spoke to her, what kind of mood was she in?”
“Great. Happy. I mean, she just got married, and she looked like a million bucks.”
“And once she went inside, did anyone try to get in?”
“You mean in the front door, right? Because I wasn’t in charge of the back door.”
Kylie nodded. “Front door.”
“No. I was here the whole time. Nobody tried to get in until that Brockway guy from the network showed up. Erin had told me to keep him out, so I did. Then he left and came back with Inspector McMaster, who had the key. He’s the one who unlocked the door.”
“Do you remember the exact time Erin went into her dressing room?” Kylie asked.
“The exact time?” He looked at Kylie like she had just asked him a trick question and he wasn’t falling for it. “No. I wasn’t keeping a log. I’m thinking it was probably around seven, maybe seven fifteen—whoa, wait a minute. I can tell you the exact time.”
He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, hit a few buttons, and flashed us a photo of him and Erin in her wedding gown. “We took selfies,” he said. “They’re time-stamped. She went into the dressing room at seven oh eight p.m.”
McMaster exploded. “You took pictures? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Sir,” Kylie said, treading the fine line between I-respect-who-you-are and This-is-my-rodeo. “I just have a few more questions, and then he’s all yours.”
McMaster deferred to her.