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“How do you know it’s a typewriter ribbon?”
“I’m a writer. Many of us are in love with old typewriters. I have several, all of which have spool-to-spool ribbons like the one wrapped around his neck. It looked like one of those to me. When I realized Mr. Cobain was dead, I hailed some passersby, and they called the cops.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Because,” she said, pulling out her mobile phone and sliding it across the table, “I’m an idiot and forgot to bring my charger and didn’t think to buy one earlier in the day, so the thing is dead as a doornail.”
“I’ll ask you not to take that attitude with me.”
“What attitude?” She could hear her tone of voice; he might have a point. “I’m sorry you feel I have an attitude. What I have is a headache that’s getting worse by the minute. Either I’m the most stupid murderer in the history of murderers in small, coastal villages in Maine, or I am a witness who tried to help and is now being interrogated, if not harassed, by a local cop who can’t be bothered to read the report I gave and then had to read and sign.”
“I’m just confirming a few facts.”
“And I’m done.” Lori stood up, snatching her phone back. “As you haven’t read me my Miranda Rights, I’m assuming that I’m not under arrest, in which case I am free to go.” Lori looked down at the detective. He seemed to be searching for words. “Just as I thought. Detective Middleton, I’m going back to the hotel. If you need anything further, please feel free to contact me at the hotel and make an appointment to see me.”
When he still said nothing, Lori spun on her heel and left the interrogation room.
“You’re involved in this case, Ms. Sykes. You are not to leave the jurisdiction without getting permission,” he called after her.
She turned at the door that led outside. “Actually, detective, unless you arrest me or are able to obtain a warrant for my arrest, I’m under no legal obligation to remain here or do anything else for you. You have my home address and my phone number. I will be here for the next several days attending the conference. After that, I will be headed home to Chicago. And with that, detective, I bid you a very good night.”
Lori marched back to the hotel, refusing the offer from the officer who’d taken her statement to give her a lift. The hotel was just a few short blocks away, and she was pissed. How dare that bumbling idiot try to intimidate her! She entered the hotel and was met by the concierge.
“Ms. Sykes? I just got off the phone with the police.”
Oh swell; that’s all I need. “I did nothing wrong,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Of course not. Who said you did?” The woman sounded genuinely appalled at the notion that Lori had acted in an incorrect manner. “My brother is the one who took your statement. He said Middleton was a jerk to you. He wanted to make sure you got back to the hotel safely.”
“I’m so sorry I snapped at you. As you might guess, it’s been one hell of a night.” The big grandfather clock chimed. She glanced at the time. “Shit. Room service is closed, isn’t it?”
“Normally, yes, but I happen to know the kitchen still has staff. What would you like?”
“If I could get a cheeseburger, onion rings, and fries, I’ll name a character after you.”
The concierge laughed. “No need. I know what a toad Middleton can be. Anything else?”
“Any chance I can buy a phone charger somewhere?”
“No need to buy one. The hotel keeps several on hand. I’ll have one brought up to you with your food. Anything else?”
“The Ark of the Lost Covenant?” Lori quipped. “The location of the tombs of Antony and Cleopatra? I mean, at this point, I’m of the belief you can get me anything I want.”
The woman laughed. “We do aim to please. You head on upstairs. I’ll have the food and charger up to you as soon as possible.”
“Seriously, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Lori rode up in the elevator and let herself into her room. By the time she took off her makeup and grabbed a quick shower, her food and charger were being delivered. She tipped the waiter heavily even though he had assured her there was no bill, and arranged to have flowers delivered to the concierge in the morning.
Plugging in her phone, she sat down and began to eat her dinner. The burger was amazing, the rings out of this world, and the ranch dipping sauce hadn’t been poured from a bottle. Once she was finished and had set her tray outside her door, Lori sat down at the desk, picking up her phone to call Jessica. She thought about calling Christie, as she’d been a cop. While trying to decide, she saw a business card on the carpet beside her. Picking it up, she saw it was Ryker McKay’s.
Maybe what she needed was to shed a little light not only on what had happened but on how Detective Middleton had treated her. She was going to meet Ryker for breakfast, but by then news of Cobain’s death might already be public knowledge. If she made every single part of her involvement painfully detailed and public, as well as that idiot detective’s ham-handed treatment of her, perhaps Middleton’s boss would put the jerk on a leash. After all, Cobain wasn’t the only successful author.
She dialed Ryker’s number—his card listed the office and his cell phone.
A sexy, sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”
