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No answer.
I knocked hard, the door rattling. Maybe he couldn’t hear from the studio? I leaned over the railing and looked around for another entrance into the yard. Trespassing wasn’t high on my to-do list, but if it needed to be done, then so be it. I had to do whatever it took to get answers.
Thankfully, before I jumped a fence or broke a window, the lock on the door clicked open.
Billie Delano stood there, in a pair of paint-stained jeans cut at the knees and a V-neck shirt with a smiley face airbrushed on the front. Red paint had gotten onto the face, making it appear as if an eye had been blown out. Gold earrings dangled close to his shoulder, a pair of designer glasses sitting on a hooked nose. He offered a crooked smile and a cocked head, eyes looking me up and down before settling on my lips.
“Ryan Diaz. You’re Elijah’s guy, right?”
“Hi, Billie.” I held a hand out to shake. It made my skin crawl merely having to breathe this same air as this fucker, but a brief physical touch could help lower his guard. “I’m a detective with Stonewall Investigations. I’m here because I wanted to chat. It’s about Elijah.”
“Oh, really?” Billie put a hand to his chest, his red nails chipped all over. “Is everything okay?”
“It is. I’m just working on a case for him. With you being one of his best friends, I knew I had to talk to you.”
He seemed to buy it. He took a step back and flared his arms open, welcoming me in. Good, getting into a suspect’s home was usually the hardest part of my job. Billie was inviting me to come in, making things that much easier.
Except he must have changed his mind. His arm came flying forward as he gripped the doorframe, blocking me.
“On second thought, my house is such a mess right now. Let me just walk you around to my studio. We can talk there. Wait here while I go out the back.”
Before I could say anything, the door slammed shut in my face. I sucked my teeth. Not ideal, but not terrible either. All I needed was a confession, and if I got it in his studio as opposed to his house, then fine.
The side gate opened, and out came Billie in a pair of fluffy pink sandals. He waved me over. We followed a path made of cracked brick around the side of the house, leading into a fenced-in yard with a covered pool and a pool house converted into Billie’s studio.
He removed a ring of keys from his pocket and shoved one into the lock. “This is also a mess, but it’s a creative mess, at least.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside first. I followed, getting hit by the scent of a dozen different oil diffusers set throughout the space.
That was what I noticed first. The next thing I noticed was the explosion of colors and fabrics and garments, all carefully arranged on hangers and racks that made it feel like a high-end store for drag queens located in the center of Rodeo Drive. In the center of the room was a ball gown appearing to be made of glittering golden dragon scales, a fiery red cowl hanging from the back, a piece that could have easily been named couture and no one would have second-guessed it. A crystal chandelier played with the sunlight that filtered in through the windows, held up by a cable that came down behind his sewing station. Around the room were shelves on the walls that were stacked end to end with shoes, and there were plants everywhere—birds-of-paradise growing tall next to the windows, trailing ivies hanging in pots from the ceiling, a pair of fig trees that almost reached the ceiling.
“You call this a mess?” I asked, looking around as if I were admiring the place when I was actually absorbing every tiny detail I got my eyes on. There weren’t any weapons lying around out in the open, so that was good. No knives or daggers or knitting needles.
“It’s been cleaner.” Billie leaned against his sewing table, his hands going into his pockets. “So what can I help with?”
It was game time. I had to play this smart. “Elijah’s been having a problem. I’m sure he’s told you about it.”
“His IBS? Yes, he’s told me alllll about that. I’m like, I don’t need to—oh, it’s not about that, huh? His stalker, is that what you mean?”
I gave him a nod, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought. The more Billie talked, the more chances there were of him tripping up. All the signs pointed to him being the stalker; I just needed to work it out of him.
“He’s talked to me about that, too. Scary, scary shit. I hate that he’s going through that.”
