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“Why?”
“Because then I won’t know which one you’re talking about.”
Mani’s hyena cackle rings through the quiet office.
“Well, we can take Juliette Dorn off the list of suspects.” I sit up in my chair, trying to release the tension in my lower back.
“Catherine Beauchamp got that right. I feltbadthe entire time we were interviewing her. Like I was kicking a goddamn puppy.”
“When she told us what had happened-”
“Yeah. That shit sucks.” He spins in the office chair so that we’re facing each other directly. “Can you imagine losing your family that way?”
“No, I can’t.” I might not be married, but I have two sisters, both of whom have kids under five, and the thought of them being killed in a car accident has a cold tendril of fear clenching my heart.
“I wonder if that’s why she started escorting.”
“Probably. Her employment history takes a nosedive after the accident.”
“Yeah.” He sits up and twists back to his desk to grab the form Juliette Dorn filled out. “Worked in accounting for a few businesses from the day after she graduated college to a couple of months after the accident. Her last employer before the Antoinette Rupetta Escort Agency was a real estate acquisitions firm,Duke and Filer. After that, she disappeared for a few months and popped back up working for Antoinette. Been there ever since.”
“How long does that put her at Duke and Filer?”
“Almost two years.”
“Duke and Filer.” Something tugs at my memory. “Dukeand Filer.”
“No way.” Mani starts hammering away at his keyboard.
Pushing to my feet, I walk over to his desk and watch as he types ‘Duke and Filer’ into his web browser. The first result is a hit, and when Mani clicks on the link, the home page pops up. The website’s aesthetic is sleek, the color scheme no-nonsense blues and grays offset by orange accents.
“Go to ABOUT US.”
Mani clicks through again. This time, the page opens with an album of professional headshots and accompanying bios. The first photographs are of two men, one an older man with thinning hair, a portly face, and a big smile. His name above his bio reads: Kevin Filer. The second man is younger, maybe in his early forties. He has black hair and blue eyes and is dressed in a slate-gray suit with his arms crossed over his chest. He is also smiling, his wide grin softening his features. “Dylan Duke,” I read the name above the bio.
“No way. She was with her ex-boss on the night of the murder?”
“Interesting that she never mentioned the connection. In fact, I’m pretty sure she said she was with anewclient.”
Mani begins reading the bio aloud. “Prior to founding Duke and Filer, Dylan Duke was the Southwest Area President for Hearthstone Development Group. His co-leadership at Duke and Filer has led to the establishment of a full-service portfolio totaling more than forty-five million square feet of office, retail, and industrial real estate and approximately eight hundred and forty-five million dollars under development. Mr. Duke is acting President of the Development Institute and Chairman on the board of the Southern California Real Estate Representatives.” He whistles long and low. “Dylan Duke has clout.”
“Well, at least we know where to find him. Chances are we’ll be able to move Juliette Dorn to the back of the file tomorrow.” I think back to the quiet woman we interviewed. “She was helpful though—she gave us a lot.”
“Did you notice the tick?”
“I did.” At first, I thought I might have been imagining it, but after a twenty-minute interview, it became apparent that Juliette Dorn has some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She seemed calm—until a particular question about her background triggered her. Then, even though her tone never changed, her fingers started tapping. Always in threes. Three taps on the table. Three taps on her arm. Over and over. Every time her hand found something to rest on, she’d do it again. Tap, tap, tap. I don’t even think she realized it because she never strayed from the conversation. She was present the entire time.
“She took time to think things through.”
“Graduated from USC. The little one graduated from Amherst College. Suma.” He hands me the information form Lyla filled out.
“No shit?” I look down at her handwriting. It’s surprisingly neat. “An artist too,” I say, noting the squiggled picture of a fisted hand with just the middle finger extended on the top left corner of the page.
“What about Antoinette?” Mani slouches in his chair. He taps his pen on his booted foot as he talks. “She’s an operator.”
“She is.” I wave to his desk. “Where did she go to school?”
“She didn’t. Out of the five of them, only Antoinette and Elizabeth aren’t college educated.”
