out my pad and paper and headed back toward the building.
It was surprising how much information you could pick up just by being on the scene, watching what happened and talking to witnesses, neighbors, whomever. Good producers were like good investigators in that both believed in leaving no stone unturned. You never knew where you were going to stumble upon a detail that flipped a case upside down or ignited the public interest. Something as small as the color of the victim’s shoelaces could do it, and when you’re in the middle of a media feeding frenzy you guard those little nuggets like first-born babies.
I was about ten feet away from the blue police barricade when I spotted Andrew Kaminski, the doorman, coming out of the building. He was heading straight for me.
“You doin’ OK?” he asked.
I looked him over. He looked like hell. Ashen face, bloodshot eyes. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I asked.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m not the one who puked on the street.”
Already it seemed like days since I’d lost it behind our van. “Not my finest hour,” I admitted. “But I’m OK now. Can we talk?”
Kaminski pulled out a cigarette. I lit it for him. “You don’t smoke but you carry a fancy lighter?” He blew a plume of gray smoke out the corner of his mouth.
“It has sentimental value.” I dropped the engraved memento in my bag, and touched the strand of gum ball-size pearls I had around my neck. They were both my mother’s.
“You want to talk here?” he asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Penny Harlich approaching us, her long blond hair blowing in the autumn wind. A few fallen leaves swirled at her feet. I grabbed Kaminski by the elbow, leading him away. If Horsedick thought she could steal my No. 1 source out from under me, she had another thing coming. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked Kaminski.
He held his hand out so I could see it was shaking. “Too much caffeine already. Cops just loaded me up,” he said, hitching his hand back toward the Haverford. No doubt, they’d just spent the last hour grilling him.
I glanced backward. Penny was still on our tails. I quickened my pace. “Juice?”
“I’m headed home.”
“I’ll give you a lift then.”
He shrugged. “I take the train.”
“Great, I’ll walk you to the subway.” Penny had no chance of keeping up with us in that super-tight pencil skirt. I was wearing one too, but I’d had my tailor cut an extra few inches into the back slit. It made it easier to speed walk—or run—if need be.
Once we’d rounded the corner on to Lexington, I dove into my first question. “What did the cops say?”
“They wanted to know the last time I saw Olivia.”
“And when was that?”
“Friday night. Around ten.”
I stopped in my tracks. “Wait a second, were you the last person to see her alive?”
He took a drag of his cigarette. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Olivia was my best friend. I need to know what you know. I need to know who did this to her.” I looked him squarely in the eye until he shifted his gaze to the cracked sidewalk at his toes.
“Are you asking me as her friend or as one of those news people,” he said.
“Her friend.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“If you want, we can do this on background,” I said.
“What’s that?”
I explained to him that background meant I could use whatever information he gave me, but I couldn’t attribute it to him. We stepped to the side to make way for one of those massive double strollers. “Please, Andrew. You know me. You’ve seen me with Olivia. You can trust me.”
Kaminski shrugged. “You won’t use my name?”
I nodded, fishing my pen and a spiral notebook out of my carryall as we started walking again. “So you were just coming off your shift when I saw you?”
“I’d already gone home. I was just about to hit the sack when I got a call from
Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)