Cause of Death Laura Dembowski (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

“I’ll turn you in. You’ll be fired. And then probably indicted with obstruction, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, hanging my head. “That sounds about right.”

She downs the rest of her cup of coffee, grabs her bag, and heads for the door.

“See you later, honey. Oh, and could you pick up some milk on the way home? We’re all out.”

She’s out the door before I even have time to answer. Clearly she wasn’t interested in my response. I am her bitch. I am being blackmailed by my fiancée.

Never mind. Can’t think about that now.

I’m going to solve the death of Lana Moore if it’s the last thing I do.

“How was last night?” Kate asks the moment I sit down at my desk.

I wish I would have gotten here before her. I just wanted a moment to myself. My mind was racing on the way here, trying to make sense of the forced engagement, Tracy’s blackmail . . . I don’t think one coherent one passed between my ears.

“It was interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“We are possibly engaged.”

“How are you possibly engaged?” she asks, swatting my arm.

If only she knew.

“That sounds moronic.”

“What happened last night was pretty moronic,” I say, sadly nodding my head.

“Okay, I need details.”

“Well, we were having a decent time at dinner, and then she pulled a giant diamond ring out of her bag and pretended I had just proposed. So, yeah, interesting.”

I leave out the parts about Tracy knowing I’m cheating on her, cheating on her with Beth, being blackmailed. Kate can get the gist without knowing all the dirty particulars.

She’s about to pile more questions on me, I can tell, so I say, “Do you think it’s possible Dave Moore gave us the tip?”

“You can’t change the subject like that right after dropping this bomb on me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Look,” I growl, “I had a long night, and I don’t know what I’m going to do, so can we drop it for now?”

She sighs. She wanted gossip, but she’s not getting it at my expense.

“I’ll ask Sarge if we can listen to the tape again,” she says, a bit dejected.

“You talk to anyone at McKellan yet?” I ask.

“I did,” she says, not into the conversation at all.

“And?”

“And we have a meeting there.”

“Do they want a warrant?”

“Got one,” she says, waving it in the air.

My eyes glaze over for a few seconds.

Kate throws a wadded-up piece of paper at me.

“What?” I say.

“I was just telling you that we need to get going to McKellan, and you, I don’t know, zoned out or something.”

“Sorry. Long night,” I say, unsure of where my brain just traveled. That happens to me sometimes. I chalk it up to having too much going on and being easily distracted.

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I peek at it. A text from Beth. This will only further distract me. “Can you come over later?” it says.

I put my phone back in my pocket, knowing the answer is clearly no, but not wanting to tell her right now. I actually want to see Beth. I want to see someone who wants me for me, and not the things she knows she can get from me. I don’t want to disappoint Beth. The last thing I need is two women against me.

Kate is standing next to her desk, snapping her fingers, waiting for me to get with it and follow her to our car. I’ve zoned out again. It probably won’t be the last time today, either.

“We were very excited to have Ms. Moore as a part of our team. She was actually supposed to start Monday. When she didn’t show up, we called her a few times and sent an e-mail, but then we had no choice but to move on,” the owner of McKellan is telling us. He’s nice, a typical businessman type. It’s hard not to like him, but I find a way; all these businessmen are up to something, especially the ones who work in advertising.

“It didn’t ring any alarm bells when she didn’t show up?” I ask. Isn’t it common courtesy to investigate a little when someone doesn’t show up for work? We’re not sitting in the middle of a fucking McDonald’s, talking about some teenager who flaked. We’re talking about a young woman who worked at one of the top firms in New York and was now going to be employed here. They should have been jumping for joy, to acquire such an employee—and should have been concerned when she didn’t show.

“Listen,” he says.

I hate when people start a sentence with Listen. It’s like he thinks he’s going to teach me something, like I couldn’t possibly understand where he’s coming from, but he’ll do his best to explain it to me.

“People don’t show up sometimes. It happens. I’m not a private detective, and I’m not about to hire one to track someone who hasn’t even started working for me yet, as promising as she seemed.”

“Did she mention any friends, or a boyfriend?”

“I try not to pry too much into the personal lives of my employees. You show up drunk, that’s my problem. You spend the weekend getting trashed, that’s not; you know what I mean?” he asks with a chuckle.

We don’t laugh. Maybe we do know, maybe we don’t; maybe we know all too well.

We finish the conversation and walk out with proof of her employment and a copy of her résumé. Kate’s flipping through her notebook and looking at Lana’s résumé as we walk back to our car. I’m distracted again—this time by the beautiful flowers surrounding the building, the birds singing, the cool breeze. I’m wondering if my world is going to come crashing down sometime soon, and choosing to enjoy nature before that time comes.

I get in and start the car. Kate is still standing outside, looking at the papers. I roll down the window.

“Now who’s zoned out?” I shout over the motor.

“This is a different cell-phone number,” Kate says, wagging the résumé at me. “It’s different than the