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“Do you know where he lives?” Trent asked.
“Unfortunately, no. I realize that probably doesn’t help you much. I should have been more proactive, but he’d never struck me as violent. I guess that’s why I’d just shake my head and roll my eyes about him.”
“Did he ever email her?” Amanda asked.
“I will look.”
“If you find any, forward them to me.” This Sheldon certainly sounded like someone worth speaking with.
“I did overhear him talking to Felicity sometimes,” Kristopher started. “She’d be signing, and he’d be going on about a book he wanted to write, looking for her advice. Felicity was always polite but guarded.”
“All right, good to know.” The theory of a jealous writer just moved up the list again. Combine wannabe writer with deranged fan, and that was one lethal combo. But one step at a time.
“Glad I could help, and I will get you what I can dig up. I just hope that you find whoever did this to her.”
“You have our word that we are doing all within our power to that end,” Amanda said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Mr. Moss.” Kristopher sat up straighter and was looking past them to the doorway.
Amanda and Trent stood and turned around.
Presumably, Ian Moss, publisher, was standing there in a tailored suit. He was exceptionally good-looking with a Roman nose and blue eyes. He wore a gold pinkie ring on the right hand. No wedding band and any other jewelry she could see. She’d expect a person in his position to be in his late forties or fifties, but if he was, he’d cheated time. He looked closer to Amanda’s age of thirty-eight.
He stepped toward them with an extended hand, and a smile that showed off bleached-white teeth. “Ian Moss, Publisher.”
Trent shook first. “Detective Stenson.”
“Detective Steele.” She removed her hand from the man’s clammy palm. Had he run to the seventh floor? Though he wasn’t winded, and his physique testified to hours in the gym each week.
“I finished my previous meeting a few minutes early and heard you were here with Kristopher. What here in Washington has captured the interest of the Prince William County Police Department?” He clasped his hands in front of himself, and his eyes dipped briefly to the hardcovers of The Romeo Killer in their hands. He pointed at the book and said, “That’s great reading right there.”
He obviously had no idea that Felicity had been murdered. It was surprising that word hadn’t reached him from Melody Schmitt already. Such news at Central would hit everyone’s ears in a hot second—inherent of wagging tongues from small-town living and being a cop. Amanda picked up on something else that Ian had said, not so subtly. He sought to remind them they held no jurisdiction here. The question was why he’d felt the need to point that out. Then again, he was the top dog in a highly successful publishing house and was probably used to covering its ass.
“We were just finishing up with Mr. Black,” she said. “How about we join you in your office, Mr. Moss?”
He fiddled with a button on his suit jacket, but left it in place. “Let’s talk in the conference room down the hall. That’s if it’s all the same to you.”
How many meeting rooms did they have in this building? “That would be fine.” She offered him a pleasant smile and excused herself and Trent from Kristopher. His mind appeared a million miles away, his eyes glazed over and distant. It wasn’t until she took a step to walk away that he spoke.
“I’ll work on getting those emails right now.”
“Thank you.”
Amanda and Trent followed Ian down the hallway, and he showed them to a room that was a near replicate of where they’d spoken to Melody.
Ian got the door behind them and tugged down on his jacket. He undid its buttons when he took the chair at the head of the table. He exuded confidence and authority, but he would have earned both. Amanda couldn’t imagine the journey to the top of the publishing ladder would be an easy one to navigate—and he’d reached it before the age of forty, by the look of him.
She and Trent sat next to each other across from Ian. That way they’d both be able to read his facial expressions and body language. And those two things always had something to say. Like now. Ian was sitting with his shoulders squared and he appeared stiff, as if he were holding his next breath. The package told Amanda he was guarded.
Amanda set her book on the table and said, “I’m assuming you don’t know why we’re interested in speaking with you?”
“I do not.” Ian looked back and forth between them, quirked an eyebrow.
Trent put his hardcover on the table and turned on his tablet.
“Your author, Felicity Kelley, was found murdered yesterday,” Amanda said matter-of-factly.
Ian didn’t say anything but leaned back in his chair, rocked slightly. His eyes became glassy. “Well, that’s a tragedy, if ever I heard one. Wow… I can’t believe…”
