Shot Through Velvet (19 page)

Lacey had had quite enough of Kelly. “Do not forget, Ms. Kavanaugh, I am the senior fashion reporter. You must pay your dues to be a reporter. Look through my archives for writing style. Look through the press releases for an idea. Someone is bound to be flogging some new frock. Make fun of it or play it straight, but just do it.”

Trujillo settled into Felicity’s chair. He was having too much fun eavesdropping to leave.

Kavanaugh’s face was fixed in an unattractive pout. “Anything else?”

“Yes. If you go to Capitol Hill, you must wear a jacket in the press galleries. Or they’ll throw you out.”

Kavanaugh slumped in utter despair. Lacey pointed to a couple of jackets that she always left hanging on the coat rack, dry cleaned and ready for the next wearing, in case of emergency. One was a classic blue-black blazer, appropriate for almost any D.C. occasion and a lifesaver in a pinch. She had lent it to other reporters who were surprised by an assignment more formal than they had dressed for.

The other jacket was a dark teal with a nipped-in waist and ruffled collar and cuffs. It could be described as
girly
, something Kavanaugh was guaranteed to hate.

“Here, try this one.” Lacey offered her the girly teal jacket. “If you’re not going to wear something fashion-forward, you have to appear professional. For a reporter. As we know, standards of professional dress are lower for the Fourth Estate.”

Kavanaugh shrank from the pretty jacket as if it were kryptonite. She whined, “I’ll check the press releases for something on fashion.” She fled back to her desk.

“ ‘Jejune’? That was a little mean, Lois Lane.” Tony watched Kelly Kavanaugh streak back to her comfort zone. “I liked it.”

Lacey smirked at Tony. “Yeah, it felt pretty good.” She spun around. “Who else can I torture with my fashion beat? Step right up.” She noticed something in his hand and leaned forward. It was a black extra-large coffee mug. In big red letters it said: FASHION
BITES!

“What? What are you looking at?” Trujillo realized too late he was holding Lacey’s purloined cup and tried to hide it behind his back.

“That’s mine! My missing coffee mug! You dirty mugnapper!” Lacey snatched it out of his hands and headed for the kitchen.

Chapter 17

“Don’t tease me! What do you know?” Lacey eyed Vic across the table. “Tell me!”

“What? You want me to feed you more than lunch? I have to feed you information too?” He grinned at her and hid behind the menu.

“You know something. Please, Vic.”

“As long as you said
please
.” He reached for the bread basket, broke his bread, and buttered it
slowly
, letting Lacey’s anticipation mount. “Okay. Someone may have told me the preliminary autopsy results. It might have been determined that the recently departed Rod Gibbs had some kind of nasty head wound.”

“Aha! The killer knocked him out? It makes sense,” Lacey said. “Gibbs didn’t volunteer to be tied to that big spool of velvet. Tell me more.”

Vic’s information was good, but not as satisfying to Lacey as their impromptu lunch date. Lunch with Vic was the perfect antidote to her awful morning. He called and suggested lunch at a posh restaurant on K Street, and she jumped at the chance to get out of the office. In his leather jacket and cowboy boots, he stood out like an unsore thumb among the wonky Washington masses of bespectacled bureaucrats in their gray suits. He was fit and confident; they looked pale and pudgy and tentative. Vic’s dark green sweater deepened his jade-colored eyes, and when he smiled at Lacey and said, “Hey, beautiful,” her heart clenched.

The waitress took their orders, the meatloaf special for him, a steak salad for her.

“Ah, but the head wound didn’t kill him,” Vic added.

“No? He drowned in the dye?”

Vic shook his head. “Nope. Funny thing is—and this is the best part—it looks like Rod Gibbs died of a gunshot wound. In the chest.”

“Shot? You’re kidding!” Lacey remembered someone said the devil poked a hole in Rod with a pitchfork. Maybe that was what they were referring to. Who was it who said that? She couldn’t remember.

“I never kid about autopsies. By the way, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“You don’t have to worry.” She opened her napkin and spread it on her lap. “Who did you hear it from?”

“Someone close to the investigation.”

“I’m guessing the Black Martin cop, Armstrong. Special Agent Mordecai Caine is too fond of bogarting information.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Really?” She touched his lips lightly with her fingertips. “I’ll just contact the medical examiner’s office for a comment when I get back to the office.”

“They probably won’t comment. You want the scenario?” She nodded. “Looks like he was hit in the head. Then someone decided to string him up and make the Blue Devil really blue. And then he was shot, to boot.”

“That works. But we didn’t see any blood in the factory. Of course, there was dye everywhere, and by then, it was blue blood. Maybe he bled out in the tub of dye? So someone knocked him out, tied him to the spool,
then
shot him, and then dunked him in the dye? Wow. I don’t know what to think. Why shoot him
and
dye him? And who did what first? And why? And how many were there? What do you make of it, Vic?’

“Lacey, darling, it’s pretty darn strange. Someone wanted to make a point. Make a spectacle of him. Or else there’s no reason for all the drama. You hate him, you shoot him, you leave.”

“What kind of gun was it?”

“Looks like a nine millimeter. A slug was dug out of the velvet.”

“The slug was in the velvet?” Lacey drew a breath. “Honey Gibbs has a nine millimeter, a Christmas gift from Rod. She was pissed about it. She wanted diamond earrings. Motive for murder right there. See, smarty-pants, I have sources too.”

He smiled at her. “Lots of people own nine millimeters.” Vic paused. “Doesn’t narrow it down much, unless they can match the bullet to the weapon.”

“Can anyone join this party, or are you two exclusive?” They turned to the inquiring voice. Tall, dark, and handsome, the man grinned at Lacey and smacked Vic on the back.

“Turtledove! It’s been a while.” Lacey leaned in for a hug.

Turtledove commanded as much attention as Vic did. Lacey could see the surreptitious stares from nearby tables, and she was glad to be at the center of attention. Who cared if there was some low-level congressman in the corner and a deputy secretary of some agency or other hogging the center of the room? The good-looking guys were all with her. Turtledove was not the kind of operative who would fade into the background. He wore a tight short-sleeved polo shirt that strained over his biceps, and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. An exotic mix of ethnicities, including black and Cajun and who knew what else, Forrest Thunderbird was a rare combination of spectacular good looks and a restrained and elegant demeanor. He took a seat.

“Forrest, nice to see you,” Vic said. “I made it over to Velvet’s Blues after your set last night, but I missed you.”

Turtledove smiled. “Sorry about that. I got a little busy after the gig.”

“Getting busy with the singer, or someone new?” Lacey asked.

The big man cleared his throat. “Remind me never to try and fool a woman. Especially this woman.”

“So it
was
the singer,” she said with a smile. He laughed and turned toward Vic.

“Now, I understand we have a situation down in Black Martin, Virginia,” he said. “I can be down there this afternoon if you need me.”

“That would suit me,” Vic said.

“You don’t expect any more trouble down there, do you?” Lacey wondered if they were leaving something out.