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I swallowed hard. “I understand, but there’s also the fact that the autopsy on Tatianna showed there was no substance abuse, alcohol abuse, or dependency of any sort. Nothing was found on the tox screen at all.”
He paused. “So?”
I wiggled in my seat. “Don’t you find it suspicious that if she was struggling so hard she wanted to kill herself, she had no substances in her body at all? Nothing but apple and water in her stomach contents, right?”
I heard his chair squeak. “Right.”
So, I pressed on. “And why would a model who did nothing but starve herself for years, trying to be good enough to make it in the world of fashion kill herself when she finally got her big break? Why would she give up just as all her struggles are paying off?”
Keys clicked in the background. “I hear you, but the door was locked from the inside. No footprints, no surveillance, nothing to show there was a visitor that night.”
I scoffed. “She lived in a crap apartment. There was probably a window unlocked in the stairwell he climbed through and gained access to the apartment building avoiding the lobby surveillance cameras. There were no other cameras in the building, right?”
“Well, no.” He paused. “But how did he lock it as he left?”
I leaned forward eagerly. “I don’t know, Lieutenant Trattoria, but it seems worth pursuing, doesn’t it? Especially when you consider all the others.”
He grumbled. “What others?”
Didn’t he know? “Other models who fell out of their windows in other parts of the city. Manhattan, Brooklyn, and some of the other boroughs too. At least ten in all.”
He blew out a sigh. “Look, I get it. You want to stir the pot. But it’s thin. Even you must realize it’s thin.”
I lifted a shoulder shakily. “Women are dying. Someone should be stirring the pot, lieutenant.”
His chair squeaked again with his shifting pressure. “I appreciate your tenacity, but I have hundreds of cases in my department that have been classified as murders. I can’t go reclassify a suicide as a murder and start investigating that instead when so many others are waiting for their turn for justice. You understand, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Oh, yes, I understand. Models are just as disposable to you as they are to the fashion industry. You see a pattern, but instead of going after it, instead of saying that those women deserve justice, you choose to look away. These women rely on you to protect them. To believe that living in your city is safe. To believe that marching through the ranks, eating cotton balls, and doing what they’re told would get them enough income to pay their rent this month. If you won’t alert these women to the dangers, sir, then I will.”
When I disconnected, I was shaking with anger. Adding Police Lieutenant Anthony Trattoria’s quote to my article was just what I needed. Confirmation that the city was overburdened with murders, unable to protect its citizens from an unknown threat. I wouldn’t stand by and watch those women be used and abused in the industry only to then be thrown from their windows. Or something. I still didn’t know the logistics, but with Regina’s help, I was going to bring it into the light. And maybe then the police would have to look for the killer. Maybe it would disrupt the killer and make him sloppy enough on the next one that he would leave a clue.
Finishing up the edits, perfecting the way I used the quotes, and reading it a thousand times, I scanned in all the papers pointing me in the direction of murder and not suicide. Then I sent Regina all of it: my spreadsheet, all the documents, and the story.
Once I hit the send button, I wanted to text Ransom so much. I was going out of my mind not talking to him for so long. But I promised myself I’d hold off. I’d wait until he got back to speak in person. In the meantime, Dominic said Ransom wanted me to do some research on microplastics and see what Jamarion was up to, so I threw myself into the world of ocean plastic and then into the corporate world of Piercing Tides.
32
RANSOM
It had been the longest fucking week of my life! I needed to get back home. To hold Phoebe. To try to make things right with her. I was tired of being without her quippy texts, her strange emoji battles, and not hearing her voice. Her low husky voice. I needed that in my ear, her fingers in my hair, my hands around her waist. Nothing would feel right until I was with her again.
While it seemed like a Minnesota winter might shut down a food truck, At Your Bacon Call was active with business by the time I arrived. I thought I might find her there or at least talk to Harmony. Standing in line nervously, I shifted back and forth, looking around to see how many were in front of me.
Harmony waved me to the front.
I saw my breath as I panted the question I needed answered. “Harmony, where is she?”
She smiled. “She’s at the library. Said you could find her in the same study room, that you’d know what that meant.”
I was about to jog back to my truck when I heard her call my name again.
I turned. “Yeah?”
Harmony gave a patient grin. “She said to check your computer first. She sent you some things about your company and wanted to show you her article. Take a look at that stuff first, then go see her at the library.”
I nodded and raced home. I wondered what she’d sent me. I hadn’t asked her for anything for my company. Had someone else?
Punching the speakerphone button on my phone as I drove, I called Dominic.
