Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  I eyed him skeptically. "No consequences?"

  "No consequences."

  I sat back and drank my coffee as I weighed his offer. On the one hand, it'd be nice for the APD's Homicide Department to have my back. On the other, would telling him about finding—and losing—Mickey's pocketknife further incriminate my ex? Maybe not, considering he had a pretty air-tight alibi for the night that it disappeared from its hiding place—he was already in jail. I decided I had nothing to lose.

  "All right," I agreed, straightening in my chair. I launched into my account of accidentally discovering Mickey's bloody pocketknife and the cup from Royal Flush's tour bus. Dixon's jaw muscle flexed, tightening in a frown of disapproval at my failure to call and report my findings. I ignored his sour expression and continued the story, telling him about the bum who claimed to have seen a woman in the bushes that might have been Ginger. I ended with my encounter with the tour manager in the strip club's restroom just minutes before I was attacked. "I know it's not much to go on," I said. "But I have her tube of pink lipstick. I'm almost positive it matches the gloss stains on the cup I found with Mickey's knife. I've got pictures." I pulled up the images of the knife and cup on my phone and passed it over to Dixon, along with Ginger's lip gloss.

  Dixon studied the pictures intently, his gaze flicking back and forth from my phone screen to the lipstick. "I'm going to forward these images to my own phone," he said. The detective held up the tube of gloss. "And I'm going to hold on to this."

  "Of course," I said. "Go right ahead."

  Dixon pocketed the lipstick and tapped at my phone for a few moments. When he'd sent the pictures to his own cell, he slid mine back to me across the table. "You said you confronted Ginger about your suspicions tonight?"

  "Kind of." My cheeks colored. "If by confronting her, you mean got her drunk and asked if she'd been secretly sleeping with Sid before he was killed."

  An amused smile flickered across the detective's face. "I admire your methods," he said. "What was her reaction when you brought up Malone?"

  "A meltdown," I replied. "Complete with ugly crying. She spewed some vitriol about Sid's character and then broke down into sobs. I was starting to feel bad for her until I found the lipstick that had fallen out of her purse. I swear it's a match." I finished my coffee and set the empty cup onto the table. "Ginger's been Royal Flush's manager for years, and she easily could've stolen Mickey's knife. Plus, she was the last person from their entourage to see Sid alive—she followed after him when he stormed out of Castle Rock Saturday night. Ginger claimed he was already rolling away in a cab by the time she reached him, but who knows? Maybe she caught up to him, and they had an argument."

  Dixon considered this for a few moments, his expression thoughtful. "So you think that Miss Robbins realized you were onto her, and that's what provoked her to attack you tonight?" I nodded. The detective drained the coffee cup and crumpled the Styrofoam in his fist. "Thank you for cooperating, Amelia. All of this will help when I question her." His jaw clenched again, and I could tell he was fighting the urge to scold me. "Just do me a favor," he said, offering up a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The next time you find a murder weapon, call me. Okay?"

  * * *

  Kat was waiting for me in the lobby when Dixon and I returned from the cafeteria. The detective offered to drive us home, but Kat had already called a cab. "I let Chad and the guys know that I'd be crashing at your place," she said as we walked out to the curb where our ride was waiting. "I figure things must be pretty chaotic at my house right now, and the cops will probably be dropping by to go through Ginger's things. Considering the doc's orders for you to avoid stress, it's probably best that we just put off dealing with all this until tomorrow."

  "Thanks," I said. I glanced down at my Jimmy Eat World T-shirt. Some of the glass shards from the broken candleholder had torn little holes in the collar, and the front was stained with dried blood. "I could really stand to get out of these clothes." I frowned. "Damn. I loved this shirt."

  "I'll order you a new one," Kat said. "Think of it as an early birthday present."

  "How about giving me my pill instead?" I asked, wincing. My head was throbbing again. I gave her a pleading look through the pain. "I'm definitely sober enough now."

  Kat shook her head. "Not yet." Her tone was full of apology. "As soon as we get to your apartment, though," she promised. "I don't know how strong these things are. If the painkiller knocks you out, I'm too beat to carry your butt all the way to the thirteenth floor of your complex."

  "Fine." I sighed. The pain made the next ten minutes feel like ten hours, but we finally made it through my front door. I didn't even stop to turn on the lights as I dragged myself through the dark apartment. I heard Kat flip on the lamp in the living room and stoop to greet one of my curious kitties. A few minutes later, she padded into the bathroom to check on me.

  I'd filled the tub and squirted nearly half a bottle of bubble bath into the hot water. I couldn't shower because of my stitches, and though the scrapes on my palms had begun to scab over, the soap still made them smart with pain. Kat graciously perched on the tub's edge and helped me wash my hair, careful to avoid my wounds. She ventured into my closet to find some pajamas to borrow as I dried off and threw on a tank top and pair of yoga pants. I tossed the wet towel into my laundry hamper and shuffled into the living room.

  Kat was curled up on the couch watching a rerun of Thirty Rock. Two glasses of water sat on the coffee table in front of her. Her long hair was piled into a messy bun atop her head, and she was wearing my old Bobby Glitter T-shirt from high school and a pair of bleach-stained gray sweatpants. Even dressed in my rattiest pj's, she looked like a supermodel. "These pants are super comfy," Kat said, stretching one leg out in front her.

  "Keep 'em." I sat down beside her and let Uno jump up onto my lap. "They look better on you anyway." I closed my eyes and absently stroked the cat's orange fur.

  "Whatever," Kat said. "Sweatpants aren't flattering on anyone. These things make my ass look huge."

  I cracked one eye open and grinned at her. "Maybe Chad likes a little junk in the trunk," I teased.

  Kat's cheeks glowed. "Oh, hush." She leaned down to grab her purse from the floor. Kat pulled out the prescription bottle and dumped the lone pill into her hand. Then she offered me one of the glasses of water. "Maybe this'll shut you up," she said, though a little smile played at her lips.

  I eagerly took the hydrocodone and popped it into my mouth, chasing it with a few gulps of the water. "You're a goddess," I said, my tone weary but grateful. I shooed Uno off my lap and curled my legs underneath me, settling back into the couch cushions. "You really do like Chad, huh?"

  Kat grabbed her own glass of water and took a sip. When she met my gaze, her eyes gleamed with moisture. "Yeah. I do," she said. She blew out a breath, lifting several stray strands of her light hair from her forehead. "I'm just trying to take it slow. As soon as this mess blows over, Chad will be back on the road. We'll see what happens in a few months when Royal Flush wraps up the tour." Her expression turned thoughtful. "I wonder what they'll do now that they may not have a tour manager," she said. "If Ginger really attacked you, I mean." She met my gaze. "Do you really think she killed Sid?"

  "Yes," I said after a few moments. "My guess is maybe he hooked up with her somewhere along the tour, and she felt scorned when he moved on to the next groupie that came along. Ginger probably didn't appreciate being just another check mark off his to-do list. She likes to be in charge of situations, and Sid wasn't the type to let someone else control him."

  Kat nodded. "There's one thing I don't understand, though," she said, her face clouding. "Ginger could've just jumped you in the bathroom, but you went outside. What made you go to the parking lot?"

  "Ginger wouldn't have attacked me in the restroom," I said, shaking my head. "There were too many witnesses. When I went outside to hear you better, she saw an opportunity."

  "Huh?" Kat looked puzzled. "H
ear me better?"

  I yawned, beginning to feel the first effects of the medication. With any luck, the pain would dull to a tolerable degree within the next ten minutes or so. "When you called me," I reminded her. "It was too loud to hear you in the ladies' room, so I stepped outside to escape all the background noise." Kat stared at me as if I'd sprouted a horn. "What?" I asked, blinking sleepily at her.

  "Honey, that painkiller must be messing with your memory," she said slowly. "I never called you."

  It was my turn to stare. "Yes, you did."

  "No, I didn't."

  My face wrinkled. "Where's my purse?" I retraced my steps to the kitchen where I'd dropped it on the dining table when we walked through the door. I plucked my phone out from between my wallet and hairbrush and brought it back into the living room. Pulling up my recent call history, I held it up to show Kat. "See? You called me at 10:57 p.m."

  Kat's blue eyes grew wide. "That's impossible." She fished her own phone out of her purse. Besides the call to the cab company about an hour ago, she hadn't dialed anyone since early Tuesday afternoon. "Your phone must be screwed up," she said.

  "No." I shook my head again, a puzzled expression winding its way across my face as I tried to think through my medicated fog. I glanced back and forth from my cell to Kat's. Her name and number were on my caller ID, plain as day—but there was no outgoing call on her end. Why does this feel strangely familiar?

  A light bulb went off in my brain. "Mickey!" I exclaimed.

  Kat gave me an odd look. "What about him?"

  I pointed to my phone again. "The same thing happened to Mickey on the night Sid was murdered. He said that Sid texted him and asked to meet him on the tour bus. Thing is, the cops looked through Sid's phone and couldn't find the text. They thought Mickey made it up."

  "So what you think happened here is—"

  "That Ginger set us both up," I said, cutting her off. "Other than you and Bron, she's the only person at the club tonight that knew both my number and yours. She somehow masked her number as Sid's when she texted Mickey Saturday night, and she did the same tonight when she wanted to get me alone outside to attack me." I pumped my fist in the air triumphantly. "We've done it, Kat—we've solved Sid's murder."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Not even mild head trauma could keep me away from Castle Rock on Wednesday. Sergeant Sinclair had finally given us clearance to reopen, and a local band called Jealousy Fetish was scheduled to play that evening. I pushed aside my mind-numbing exhaustion (Kat woke me up nearly every half hour the night before to be sure that I hadn't slipped into some kind of coma) and got dressed to head into the office. Despite the doctor's orders to take it easy, I desperately needed to catch up on paperwork and get the venue ready before the band showed up for their sound check.

  Kat insisted on driving my car since it wasn't safe for me to drive on my medication. "You're constantly going out of your way to take care of your friends," she said, holding my car keys out of reach. "Let us take care of you for a change." With the little bit of sleep she'd had, I wasn't convinced she should be playing chauffeur either. I was too tired to argue though, so I poured myself into the passenger side and let Kat navigate, thankful when she took a detour to the nearest pharmacy to get my prescription filled.

  My spirits were instantly lifted as I stepped through the employee entrance to Castle Rock around ten. There was something about the gray stone building and its velour red carpet that felt more like home than my apartment did. I hadn't realized just how much I'd missed the place in the few short days since Royal Flush's performance. Even the sour aroma of stale beer wafting down the hall from the Dungeon brought a smile to my lips.

  My good mood lasted for approximately ten minutes—long enough for me to boot my computer and place a call to Detective Dixon. His voice mailbox was full, so I made a mental note to try him again later. I was just about to check my email when the sound of knocking brought my attention to my office door. "Heya, boss lady." Bronwyn poked her head through the threshold, her expression sheepish. She stepped into the room and held up a to-go cup and white bag with the Java Joy logo printed across the front. "Nothing says, 'Sorry I bailed' like a dozen chocolate raspberry scones and a fresh coffee, right?" She set the drink and apology pastries on the desk and draped herself across my couch. "How are you feeling?"

  My lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Well, let's see—Ginger tried to choke me with a feather boa and then smashed a glass over my head. I've had practically no sleep, a migraine the size of Piedmont Park is pounding through my brain, and I've got a two-inch bald spot where staples are keeping my scalp from peeling open like a banana. So, I'm doing just peachy." I took a sip of the coffee. "Ooh, mocha!"

  Bronwyn cringed. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but…" The words died in her throat when she caught my warning expression. "Er, nevermind."

  I set the coffee down and peeked into the bag of chocolate raspberry scones before promptly pushing them across the desk. They would forever remind me of the morning I'd found Sid's corpse. I sighed. "Whatever it is, you might as well go ahead and tell me."

  "It's something I'll have to show you, actually." She rose from the couch and came to stand beside me. "Pull up ATL Night Beat's latest photo gallery."

  I did as she instructed and felt my stomach drop through the floor. "Oh, no," I breathed. The first picture featured yours truly. Someone had snapped a photo of Mickey and me standing outside Taco Heaven the night before, right at the moment where he'd leaned in to try to kiss me. The caption above the image said:

  Sparks fly between Royal Flush drummer Mickey Ward and his former flame over dinner at Taco Heaven on Tuesday.

  "I've got to call Emmett," I said, feeling sick. Of course the photographer hadn't posted a picture of what happened after the almost kiss—the moment when I'd pushed away from Mickey and hurried into the restaurant. I scrambled for my phone and dialed Emmett's cell. It went straight to voice mail. My heart felt as if someone had reached in my chest and squeezed it to the brink of popping.

  "It's going to be fine," Bronwyn assured me, giving my shoulder an awkward pat. "I mean, what are the chances that Emmett reads Atlanta's tabloids? Probably not very high."

  I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, not caring that I was smearing my makeup. "I hope you're right," I said. "The doctor told me to avoid stress, but at this rate I'll keel over by lunchtime."

  "Anything I can do to help take the load off?" Bronwyn asked. "Contracts to file? Will call tickets to sort? Let me at 'em."

  "Actually, I've got another project for you. Something not work-related."

  "Ooh, more detective work?" she asked, eyes flickering with interest. She took a step closer, holding out her hands and wiggling her fingers. "Gimme!"

  "Easy there, Veronica Mars." I wasn't keen on dragging her even further into this, but I needed her help. It was just some online investigating after all, and with Ginger already in police custody it wasn't likely that Bron would be in danger. I explained my conversation with Kat the night before about the call that had lured me out of the strip club, as well as the text Mickey received from Sid that mysteriously vanished from Sid's phone records. "I think Ginger found some way to mask her phone number as someone else's—maybe there's some sort of mobile app that does the trick," I said, showing Bron the fake call from Kat that I'd received the night before. "I haven't been able to get in touch with Detective Dixon to report it yet. Before I try calling him again, maybe we can do a little digging and find out how Ginger could've pulled it off. If we can verify that the call I received and the text to Mickey both came from the same number, we might be able to prove that Ginger set Mickey up."

  Bronwyn grinned. "Done. My buddy Milo from school is a genius hacker. Get me Mickey's phone number and your billing password. Milo can decode the number-masking app, cross-reference your phone records to verify the real number that contacted you both, and then he can look up the name registered to that account. I heard t
he Sarge say Dixon was questioning Ginger this morning—but with Milo's help, we can have the case closed by the time doors open for tonight's show."

  My lips quirked. "That's what I like to hear." I gave Bron the information she needed and waited for her to leave, but she just stood there. "Don't you have a call to make?" I asked.

  Bronwyn shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "Kat told me not to let you out of my sight," she admitted. "According to her, you're supposed to have constant supervision through Friday to make sure you don't die, or something like that."

  I pursed my lips. "Fine. You can work over there." I pointed to my couch.

  Bronwyn nodded. "I'll just run and grab my laptop from the break room really quick—and I'll call Milo on the way." She disappeared down the hall and returned a few minutes later with her computer in tow. "Milo's on the case," she reported. "He said he'd hit me up as soon as he's got some answers for us."

  "Great." I began flipping through the stack of performance contracts that needed reviewing. By noon I had barely made it through half the pile. My mind kept going back to the photo of Mickey and me, making it hard to concentrate on work. Every task was taking twice as long as it should. After updating our online concert calendar with several new shows, I caved and visited the gossip blog's image gallery again. The photo was taken from several yards away—some paparazzo must have been ballsy enough to creep within a few car lengths from where we stood. We'd been too focused on each other to notice.

  Mickey's back was to the camera, his arms around my waist and his head bent low as he went in for a kiss. What bothered me the most had nothing to do with his body language. It was the look on my face. I was fully visible to the camera, and there was no mistaking the gleam of desire in my eyes.

  I closed the website and looked away, guilt and longing swirling through me in a confused tangle. Mickey and I had an undeniable chemistry, but Emmett and I had a deep connection too. At least, we used to. The fact that he hadn't called even once since he left on Monday hadn't gone unnoticed. It was possible that he could be in the thick of an assignment—maybe he'd even caught Shawn Stone and would be calling soon to tell me the good news. But the more time passed without hearing from him, the more uneasy I felt.