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“Now I feel sick,” Ana said, growing pale. “Jaime talked about tasteful art photography. Lamoreaux had the audacity to ask me if I’d take over the project, but I refused.”
“You were wise to avoid it,” the lieutenant replied. “He’s hired a well-known attorney and quickly posted bail. Even if he did use René for muscle, I doubt he’ll come after you on his own.”
“But you’re not sure,” Alejandro stated. He reached for Ana’s hand and gave her fingers a loving squeeze.
“No one can be sure of anything, Mr. Vasquez. Lamoreaux presents himself as a responsible businessman who occasionally employed René Charles, and René’s the one who confessed to murder. Lamoreaux does admit to being overly fond of you, Ana, and he believes you simply misunderstood what he describes as a gracious invitation to visit his Paris home.”
Ana gasped. “You don’t mean it?”
“I do,” Montoya insisted. “He says you accepted gifts from him. Flowers, candy and kittens would be seen as romantic. You willingly posed in ads for his shoes and left his apartment on your last visit wearing a new diamond bangle bracelet. You invited him to meet you, reacted badly to his so-called invitation to visit Paris, overturned the table and broke his foot. Surely you can imagine how a skilled defense attorney could twist your testimony into a flirtation you’d encouraged until it ended badly. He appreciates your passionate nature, and while a broken foot is a great inconvenience, he asked me to assure you he’ll not press charges.”
“How generous of him. Does he still have his gun?” Alejandro asked.
“No, and he should behave well to ensure his chances of avoiding prosecution.”
“Should?”
“I can’t read minds, but his attorney has a high success rate with his clients. If we consider how your testimony would be twisted, Miss Santillan, all we can charge him with is lacking a permit for a handgun. That won’t require a trial.”
Alejandro nearly snorted. “So he’ll continue designing women’s shoes?”
“Probably. Scandal is always good for business. Now if you’ll write your interpretation of your conversation with Lamoreaux yesterday, we’ll be finished.”
Ana took the clipboard, but she was so angry she could barely hold a pen. “I remember it word for word.” She printed to make certain it was legible, then signed and dated the form. She laid the clipboard on his desk. “I should have worn a wire.”
Montoya laughed. “He would never have admitted to having anything to do with Jaime’s murder.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ana argued. “Is that all for today?”
“Yes.” The lieutenant rose and escorted them through the station. “If we meet again, I hope it will be under better circumstances.”
A fake smile flitted across Ana’s lips. “So do I.” She moved as quickly as she could on crutches and didn’t draw a deep breath until they were seated in Alejandro’s SUV.
“The paparazzi in Paris are even more rabid than they are here,” she mused aloud. “If one were to learn Lamoreaux published porn, or however his magazines can be described, the clientele for his elegant heels might shrink dramatically.”
“That’s almost too good, Ana.” Alejandro kept his eyes on the road, but his smile grew wide. “You wouldn’t want anyone to tie you to the information, so a phone call is out. An unsigned letter to a tabloid editor couldn’t be traced.”
“True, and I can’t think of any reason not to do it.”
“We did pose for his ads,” he reminded her.
“So what? If he’s out of business, he’ll have no reason to use them.”
“Montoya is probably right and scandal would boost his business rather than destroy it, so let’s think about it. I need to stop by my loft. Come in with me.”
He hugged her close as the elevator rose. “I want to show you something new.”
“More little houses?”
He unlocked his door and escorted her in. The worktable was a messy pile of scraps, but a beautiful model of a two-story Mediterranean-style home sat on his display table. Painted white with a red-tile roof, arched windows, balconies and a courtyard, it was as pretty a house as she’d ever seen. Behind the house, he’
d made a sturdy tree out of gathered sticks, and placed a tree house in the branches.
“I love the tree house!” she exclaimed. “I’m surprised, though. I thought you were concentrating on the Ortiz Lines. When did you have time to do this?”
“I made the time. I want to build a home for us where we’ll have plenty of room, and can even avoid each other if we need to. If you don’t like this one, I’ll design something else.”
Touched, she braced herself against the table. “It’s a lovely house, Alejandro. It’s poetry in three dimensions, don’t you think?”
