Lethally Blond Read Online Free PDF

“Locket.”
    “Obviously a woman who doesn’t beat around the bush,” I said.
    “It’s Locket Ford,” Chris said soberly. “The star of
Morgue
.”
    “Oh,
really
. Locket? Is that some kind of nickname?”
    “No. And it’s not a stage name, either. She came from Appalachia or some other dirt-poor place, and apparently her mother gave her that name because she wanted her to grow up to be special. She was on soaps for twelve years, and this show is her big break into prime time.”
    “Could it be bad politically for her to be involved with Tom?” I wasn’t sure how it worked on sets, but surely it wasn’t the coolest thing for the star of the show to be bonking the actor whose part involved handing the morgue staff their paperwork.
    “
Bad?
Well, her live-in boyfriend—Alex Ottoson—is the producer of the show, and he’s the one who got her the part.
I’d
say that’s pretty bad, wouldn’t you?”
    “Wow. Maybe this guy caught wind of it and that’s why Tom split. He may be hiding out.”
    We took another few minutes to glance through the correspondence. At the very bottom were letters from Tom’s mother in shaky handwriting, probably shortly before her death, but we didn’t look through those. When we finally put the box back in the hamper, I felt ashamed for having been such a snoop—yet I was glad we had found the stash. The note from Locket could be significant. But now it was time to go.
    The minute we stepped out onto the street, I felt a rush of pure relief. Mercer Street was crowded with people headed off to bars and parties and Starbucks, and we were jostled several times as we stood there decompressing from our foray into Tom’s apartment.
    “Why don’t I walk you back to your place,” Chris said.
    I sensed by his tone that there was nothing loaded in his comment. There wouldn’t be any expectation on his part to come up and wrestle with me on my couch for old times’ sake. I suspected he was mentally fatigued from our search—just as I was—yet I felt a twinge of disappointment.
    On the way over to 9th and Broadway, I told him my game plan for the next day. I would start making calls stat, but there were phone numbers I needed first—Tom’s Hamptons friend, the cop, Harper, Blythe. He tugged the cop’s business card out of his wallet and also scrawled down the name of Tom’s friend, John Curry, as well as the number at the bank where he worked. He didn’t think he could locate a number for Blythe but thought I might find it through 411. As for Harper, he’d arrange for me to talk to her.
    “Do you think Locket has any idea where Tom is?” I asked.
    “I haven’t a clue,” Chris said, “and there’s no way for me to come right out and ask her. I want to find Tom, but I also don’t want to shoot myself in the foot.”
    When we reached my building, Chris gave me a hug the way he had earlier in the evening, though this time the gesture felt more abrupt and awkward. He seemed distracted suddenly, as if thoughts were racing behind those beautiful green eyes. He might have once had the hots for me, but his blood seemed to be running lukewarm tonight. I wondered if a second search of the apartment had left him even more agitated about Tom than he had been before. Or maybe he was discombobulated by the fact that Tom had secretly bedded the star of the show.
    I watched him as he hurried the short distance to the corner and then sprinted across Broadway. He may have been just catching the light, but it seemed almost as if he were in a hurry. I turned and entered my apartment. The doorman Bob was on duty tonight, and he gave me a pleasant, almost approving nod, as if he were happy to see that I was heading in alone again tonight. Bob never made me feel skanky, but I also sensed he kept tabs on the traffic coming in and out of 14B.
    I popped open a beer as soon as I got in and carried it out to my terrace along with a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl of leftover, slightly