the hell are you talking about? What murder?”
“Actually, there’s a slim possibility that it might be suicide,” she said demurely. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Molly, who exactly is dead and precisely why do you think they’ve been murdered?”
The determinedly patient note in Vince’s voice suggested that he’d finally recognized just how close she was to hysterics. Even her unobservant boss could tell that she was really not happy about being one of the two people to find Gregory Kinsey with a bullet through his head.
“Molly? Are you there? Molly!”
She sighed. “I’m here. Gregory Kinsey’s been shot. He’s dead. The police are on the way. That’s all I know.”
“Shit!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Who did it?”
“Vince, I’ve already told you the sum total of everything I know. The murderer’s name was not included. Don’t you ever listen?”
They both knew the answer to that. Vince’s attention span was only slightly lengthier than a toddler’s in a toy store. Countless spurned women could attest to that.
“Stay there,” he said. “Whatever you do, do not leave until you know exactly what’s going on. If anyone from the media asks, issue some sort of statement. We regret, et cetera, et cetera. You know what to say.”
She noticed that Vince did not offer to leave his comfortable bed to join her.
“I’ll think of something,” she said bleakly. She couldn’t imagine what. The movie’s publicist would probably have more than enough to say for all ofthem, and none of it was likely to improve the Miami area’s image among production companies.
How did you put a positive PR spin on the murder of one of the nation’s rising Hollywood talents while he was filming in your own backyard, so to speak? Miami Vice had left the country with a slightly skewed impression of murder and mayhem in Dade County, but at least those deaths had been fictional. This one was distressingly real and likely to be splashed across the front page of every newspaper and tabloid around the globe. It would be a helluva blow to local tourism, and the Miami area film industry alike, unless the police could prove that the murderer was someone close to Greg, an import rather than one of the area’s own criminals.
Once she’d listened to more advice and warnings from her boss, Molly dropped another quarter into the phone and dialed her neighbor, praying that Liza was home from whatever Third World country she was currently championing. She responded on the first ring with a breezy, cheerful greeting.
“Liza, it’s Molly. I need a huge favor. You aren’t going out tonight, are you?” The question wasn’t absurd despite the lateness of the hour. Liza Hastings marched to her own particular social drummer. She thought nothing of joining friends at midnight to plan strategy for one of her causes or at dawn to tote a picket sign in front of some business they found offensive.
“Are you kidding?” Liza said. “I still have another five thousand save-the-rain-forest flyers to label and stamp. I’m surprised my tongue hasn’t driedout. I wonder if all that glue has calories. I need to drop three pounds by next weekend, if I’m going to wear that slinky silver dress to that world hunger benefit performance.”
“Liza!” If Molly didn’t stop her now, Liza was likely to go off on some convoluted dissertation on world hunger. Her sharp tone apparently registered.
“Sorry,” Liza said, immediately contrite. “What’s the favor?”
“Brian is due home from his soccer game any minute and I can’t get away from the film location. Can he stay at your place?”
“If he can lick stamps, he can stay. How’s he getting home from soccer? Do I need to pick him up?”
“No. Michael or one of the parents is supposed to drop him off after they all go out for pizza.”
“Michael, hmm?” Liza had taken an inordinate interest in Molly’s relationship with the tall, dark, and handsome
“Actually, there’s a slim possibility that it might be suicide,” she said demurely. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Molly, who exactly is dead and precisely why do you think they’ve been murdered?”
The determinedly patient note in Vince’s voice suggested that he’d finally recognized just how close she was to hysterics. Even her unobservant boss could tell that she was really not happy about being one of the two people to find Gregory Kinsey with a bullet through his head.
“Molly? Are you there? Molly!”
She sighed. “I’m here. Gregory Kinsey’s been shot. He’s dead. The police are on the way. That’s all I know.”
“Shit!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Who did it?”
“Vince, I’ve already told you the sum total of everything I know. The murderer’s name was not included. Don’t you ever listen?”
They both knew the answer to that. Vince’s attention span was only slightly lengthier than a toddler’s in a toy store. Countless spurned women could attest to that.
“Stay there,” he said. “Whatever you do, do not leave until you know exactly what’s going on. If anyone from the media asks, issue some sort of statement. We regret, et cetera, et cetera. You know what to say.”
She noticed that Vince did not offer to leave his comfortable bed to join her.
“I’ll think of something,” she said bleakly. She couldn’t imagine what. The movie’s publicist would probably have more than enough to say for all ofthem, and none of it was likely to improve the Miami area’s image among production companies.
How did you put a positive PR spin on the murder of one of the nation’s rising Hollywood talents while he was filming in your own backyard, so to speak? Miami Vice had left the country with a slightly skewed impression of murder and mayhem in Dade County, but at least those deaths had been fictional. This one was distressingly real and likely to be splashed across the front page of every newspaper and tabloid around the globe. It would be a helluva blow to local tourism, and the Miami area film industry alike, unless the police could prove that the murderer was someone close to Greg, an import rather than one of the area’s own criminals.
Once she’d listened to more advice and warnings from her boss, Molly dropped another quarter into the phone and dialed her neighbor, praying that Liza was home from whatever Third World country she was currently championing. She responded on the first ring with a breezy, cheerful greeting.
“Liza, it’s Molly. I need a huge favor. You aren’t going out tonight, are you?” The question wasn’t absurd despite the lateness of the hour. Liza Hastings marched to her own particular social drummer. She thought nothing of joining friends at midnight to plan strategy for one of her causes or at dawn to tote a picket sign in front of some business they found offensive.
“Are you kidding?” Liza said. “I still have another five thousand save-the-rain-forest flyers to label and stamp. I’m surprised my tongue hasn’t driedout. I wonder if all that glue has calories. I need to drop three pounds by next weekend, if I’m going to wear that slinky silver dress to that world hunger benefit performance.”
“Liza!” If Molly didn’t stop her now, Liza was likely to go off on some convoluted dissertation on world hunger. Her sharp tone apparently registered.
“Sorry,” Liza said, immediately contrite. “What’s the favor?”
“Brian is due home from his soccer game any minute and I can’t get away from the film location. Can he stay at your place?”
“If he can lick stamps, he can stay. How’s he getting home from soccer? Do I need to pick him up?”
“No. Michael or one of the parents is supposed to drop him off after they all go out for pizza.”
“Michael, hmm?” Liza had taken an inordinate interest in Molly’s relationship with the tall, dark, and handsome
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