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“The culprit killed himself,” Elle said. “What is there to investigate?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
Just then a phone rang, and Glenda said, “That’s yours. Want me to get it?”
“Please.”
She answered Elle’s cell phone, which was sitting beside hers on the coffee table. After identifying herself, she listened, then said, “She’s unavailable, especially to the media, and how did you get her number, anyway?”
More listening, then she covered the mouthpiece. “Shauna Calloway. Channel seven. She said to tell you that she’s a close personal friend of Calder Hudson.”
“Who’s that?”
“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Elle shook her head.
“Me, either.” Glenda went back to the phone, through which Elle could hear a woman still talking in clipped, imperative tones. “I don’t care who you’re friends with. Ms. Portman is unavailable for comment. Don’t call again.” Glenda clicked off and huffed, “Honestly. Pushy bitch.”
“It will be all over the news, won’t it?”
“It already is, Elle.” She motioned toward the television. “Do you want to—”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so, which is why I haven’t watched, either.”
The doorbell rang. Swearing under her breath, Glenda said, “It’s Grand Damn Central Station in here.” She went to the front window and peered out.
“A man and a woman who I would bet are the expected detectives. They’re right on time.” She turned back to Elle. “Are you up to this? Say the word and I’ll barricade the door.”
“It won’t be any easier later.”
“Talking to cops is never easy. I have a lot of high-profile celebrity clients, remember. Occasionally one gets into a scrape. Police provide a much-needed public service, but keep in mind that they have their own agenda.”
Elle looked down at her ragged jeans and one of her T-shirts that needed an upgrade. “Am I at least presentable?”
“Who gives a shit?”
Elle blurted a humorless laugh. “Let them in.”
Glenda left her, went into the foyer, and answered the door. Introductions were murmured. Glenda said, “I’m Elle’s friend Glenda Foster. Is this absolutely necessary right now?”
More murmuring, then the shuffle of feet as the two detectives came inside. They preceded Glenda into the living room. She introduced them as Detectives Perkins and Compton. “This is Elle Portman.” She motioned them into a pair of armchairs.
Compton dragged hers several inches closer to the easy chair in which Elle sat. She tipped her head toward the compression sleeve on Elle’s arm. “How is it?”
“Nothing bad. I landed hard on my elbow and caused temporary numbness. Like when you hit your funny bone, except about a hundred times worse. It’ll be all right.”
She’d been told all that by the intern in the ER after her arm was x-rayed. Her elbow hadn’t been dislocated. No bones were broken. Her arm had been wrapped in the cold pack and put in a sling. She’d been given prescription-strength ibuprofen to take for inflammation and then released… to reunite with Charlie in the morgue.
Her attention was brought back to Compton, who was speaking softly. “On behalf of everyone in the sheriff’s department, I want to extend our deepest sympathy, Ms. Portman.”
“Thank you.”
“Detective Perkins and I realize what an intrusion our visit is and apologize for the necessity of it.”
“Why is it a necessity? Word filtered down while I was still in the emergency room that the shooter had taken his own life at the scene.”
