Swingin' in the Rain Read Online Free PDF Page A

this day was going to be tough earlier, I had no idea what lay ahead.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
     
      I taped my scenes for the day, and since there was a little time to kill before I had to go downtown, I wandered back upstairs to the make-up room to sniff around. Patti was still MIA. In fact the whole room looked deserted.
      “You looking for Patti?” I jumped. It was Ralph, another make-up artist stationed in the corner. Before I could answer, he volunteered, “Everyone’s at a production meeting because of that snafu at the remote. We have to re-shoot, you know.”
      “Yeah, I heard. That’s a drag, huh?” I went over to Patti’s station and pretended to be fixing my make-up. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, if anything. My instincts told me the LAPD thing was not a coincidence. I opened a drawer and something caught my eye. It was a napkin with a logo on it. Where had I seen that before? Then I remembered. It was the same one I’d seen on Patti’s wrist at the remote. “Trois ou Plus” it read. And an address. A club I’d never heard of. Not unusual since I didn’t go out much. My cell rang and it was Jakes.
      “You done?” he asked me.
      “Yeah, in fact I’m leaving now. I’ll see you in twenty.” I disconnected the call. “Bye Ralph, have a nice day!”
      “See ya, Alex!” And he got back to his magazine.
     
     
      The new Headquarters was at 100 W. First Street, which had replaced the old Parker Center. I hadn’t been to the new Headquarters yet, but Jakes was waiting just inside the door, in the lobby, to accompany me to the proper floor.
      “How are you liking the new building?” I asked in the elevator. I was nervous and just wanted to make conversation.
      “The cafeteria still needs work,” he said. “Aside from that, it’s an architectural nightmare.”
      We got off on the Robbery Homicide floor and he walked me to the Homicide Section. It reminded me of the old building, just cleaner floors, walls and desks. Even the holding cages were clean.
      Jakes walked me to his desk and said, “Wait here. I’ll let the detective in charge know you’re here.”
      “I wish you were the detective in charge.” I must have looked a little scared because he put his arm around me.
      “You’ll do fine, baby,” he said. “I can’t be, because of our relationship.”
      As he walked away I thought how silly it was for me to be nervous. I knew I was innocent, so what was the big deal? Maybe because when I had been in this situation before, so many people had believed I could be a killer. It made me nervous realizing how easily people rush to judgment.
      Jakes came back with a man I had never seen before. He was tall—not as tall as Jakes, though—slender, in his late thirties. And he was clean. I mean, he seemed fastidious about it. Hair short and perfect, suit impeccable, tie just right, shoes shined.
      “Alex Peterson, this is Detective Sam Rockland.”
      “Miss Peterson,” Detective Rockland said, shaking my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
      He called me “Miss” which meant he knew Randy was my ex, but it was still polite to show me some sympathy.
      “Thank you.”
      “And thank you for coming in,” he said. “I just have a few questions.”
      I stood up.
      “Should we go to an interview room?” I asked.
      “That won’t be necessary. We can talk at my desk.”
      He stepped aside and gestured with a folder for me to precede him. I looked at Jakes, who nodded and said, “I’ll wait here.”
      “Okay.”
      I went ahead and he stopped me when we’d gone about three desks up.
      “Right here,” he said. The chair simply sat by his desk, but he held the back of it for me, anyway. His manners were as impeccable as the rest of him. His scent lingered while he sat behind his desk. He put the folder down in front of him. On it was written in Sharpie: Randall Moore.
      He opened the folder and pulled out a small