Killer Deal Read Online Free PDF Page A

calmer, convinced there had to be a way to make this work without fouling up our relationship.
Not that balance and perspective are my strong suits, but with a little work, I was sure I could scrape some together.
    I searched out all the information I could about Gwen Lincoln and Garth Henderson. Quite a few of the articles I found were about their behemoth wedding six years ago, with its bank-busting decorations, platoons of attendants, and full week of related social events. Then there was their equally sensational separation five months ago, with its high-spirited accusations of infidelity and emotional cruelty on both sides.
    There were also a fair number of articles dealing with their business acumen and market savvy, but they weren’t nearly as revealing—or entertaining. And, of course, there were those from the past few weeks about Garth’s murder, highlighting the key facts: he’d been shot (the locations of the wounds had come out in the gossip columns rather than the regular reportage), security records indicated he was the only one who had unlocked the door that night so he had opened the door to admit the killer, room service had delivered dinner for two at 9:15 and found Garth alone and alive, and Gwen Lincoln had come to the hotel at 10:30 and demanded to be let into his room because Garth was expecting her and she was concerned that he didn’t answer the door. She and the assistant manager discovered the body.
    These were followed by articles about the police questioning Gwen extensively, talking to Garth’s partner-to-be Ronnie briefly, and the pressure being brought to bear by friends of all involved to solve the case quickly. Emile Trebask wasn’t prominent in any of the articles, but he was quoted in one as “supporting my dear partner in this difficult time.” I wondered how deep their partnership ran.
    A flash of inspiration hit me. I grabbed my phone and called upstairs to our sister publication, BizBuzz, and asked for Owen Crandall. Owen had been on staff at Zeitgeist, writing for our fashion editor Caitlin, but in a shift that benefited his resume, wallet, and mental health, had recently
moved upstairs to report on the business end of the fashion industry for The Publisher’s newest venture.
    “Would a caramel macchiato buy me fifteen minutes of your time, Owen?” I asked him.
    “Molly, the pleasure of your company is reward in itself. But throw in an espresso shot and I’m yours.”
    A quick trip down to street level and around the corner for two coffees to go and I was back up at Owen’s desk in short order. The bull pen for BizBuzz was almost identical to ours, but they’d been cursed with florid red and orange carpeting that Owen described as “the lava flow,” while we trod on a blue and gray weave that tried to pass itself off as faux marble. No corner could be cut too sharply when The Publisher budgeted overhead items.
    “I’d love to think you came to say you miss me, but you have that glint in your eye. You’re on the hunt.” Owen smiled and he had a great smile. Pretty great everything, actually. He was twenty-five, chiseled, with heavy-lidded eyes and a cleft in his chin to make Kirk Douglas weep with envy. More than one photographer had come in for a meeting and wound up courting him, but Owen wasn’t interested. In fact, no one was sure what interested Owen. When he was downstairs with us, he’d been the object of much sighing from both genders but stayed maddeningly aloof about his personal life, tricky to do in our forced communal existence. Rumor proclaimed Caitlin had propositioned him more than once, which had spurred his desire to move up and out.
    “I don’t mean to be transparent,” I said.
    “Think of it as honesty between friends.”
    “Like the sound of that. So, speaking of between friends, what can you tell me about Gwen Lincoln and Emile Trebask?”
    Owen shrugged. “Gwen’s the major backer for his fragrance line. He leveraged everything he had