HostileMakeover







Chapter 11

Detective Broadway Lamont was as big and broad as a bull, but he didn’t look like he would take any from Lacey. She could imagine him locking horns with Babe the Blue Ox—and winning. A middle-aged African-American with cocoa-colored skin and salt-and-pepper hair, he wore khaki slacks, a pink knit shirt, and a brown tweed jacket that hugged his broad shoulders like a wet suit.
The detective looked like he would just as soon throw her up against the wall as talk to her. Lacey checked the wall for any recent body imprints. It was too dirty to tell. Lacey never actually had a burning desire to know what the D.C. Violent Crimes Branch looked like, and yet here she was, among the witnesses to Amanda Manville’s shooting who had been taken to this police facility in Southeast D.C. for questioning.
Broadway Lamont was not in charge of Amanda’s shooting; he was just assisting the lead detective. Lacey figured that meant she was among the second tier of witnesses. She didn’t know exactly where Vic was; they had been separated for individual interviews. Stella, who was closest to Amanda when she was shot, and Forrest Thunderbird, otherwise known as Turtledove, the bodyguard, were presumably in line to talk to the head guy, one Detective Steve Rogers. Stella would no doubt keep him on his toes. As for John Henry Tyler, who knew where he was? And had he really shot Amanda? And what on earth was Lacey’s missing car doing at the scene of the shooting? And who was the driver?
Detective Lamont fixed his skeptical dark brown eyes on Lacey. One eyebrow went up and the other went down. Based on years of reading her editor Mac’s expressive eyebrows, Lacey took this to be a don’t-mess-with-me look. He had a face that was fierce even at rest, achieved presumably from years of staring down bad guys, but his voice was a rich, creamy baritone. He started with an insult. “So you work for that rag, The Eye Street Observer? ”
“Yes, I cover fashion. For that rag.” It came out as a squeak. But as intimidated as she was, she was also curious to see a real, live D.C. homicide detective in action.
He snorted. So she and her paper didn’t impress him. That was apparent. Lacey assumed his manner was meant to be intimidating. At least, that was what she told herself in order not to be intimidated. He began the interview standing and paced the floor while she sat. His badge was attached to his belt, along with a cell phone. He removed his jacket to reveal his bulging biceps, and if they weren’t enough to make someone think twice, there was the shoulder holster with the black nine millimeter.
“I am Detective Broadway Lamont,” he introduced himself. “And I don’t sing and I don’t dance. I don’t tell jokes. I’m not here to entertain you. We are here to dialogue. We start with introductions. I have just told you who I am. And you are . . . ?”
“Lacey Smithsonian.” He knows who I am. Is this a test?
“That’s quite a name. And in my family we know all about having fancy names,” his deep voice rumbled. He didn’t look convinced. “You putting me on?”
“Nope.” She cleared her throat. “That is my name. My legal name, and the family name is a long story. No relation to the museum.” She fumbled in her pocket and produced her congressional press pass, the one with the really awful photograph, to prove both her identity and her profession.
“Lacey Smithsonian.” He squinted at the picture, then at her. “I guess that’s you. You look better in person. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, let’s make this simple. Tell me what you saw, what you heard, and what may have occurred to you at the time Ms. Manville was shot.”
“Is she still alive?” The vivid picture kept playing in her head; Amanda looking puzzled, trying to continue walking with three bullets in her chest, then falling.
“You know what I know. She was breathing when they put her in the ambulance.” He shrugged. “Three shots to the chest. Course, miracles do happen.”
Lacey repeated what she heard and saw, though she thought she couldn’t possibly have seen anything that would help the police. She also tried to follow Vic’s advice not to volunteer confusing information. But the accusatory voice of Amanda rang in Lacey’s head: “You promised!”
She sighed and looked up at Detective Broadway Lamont. She didn’t know if she could trust him or not. Probably not.
“I interviewed her yesterday for The Eye. She told me someone was trying to kill her,” Lacey said in a small voice. “I didn’t believe her.” Would it have changed anything if I had? she asked herself. She knew the answer was no. And now she was stuck with a promise to find out what she could. Lacey consoled herself with the thought that she had never actually agreed to find the killer. After all, Amanda told her whom she suspected. And besides, Amanda was still alive.
Lamont stopped pacing and paid close attention to her for the first time. “Say what?”
“She asked me to help her.” Lacey put her face in her hands, willing herself not to be emotional. I’m not going to cry. Reporters don’t cry. “I couldn’t.”
The big man grabbed a chair, turned it backward, and sat down slowly, hoisting one leg over the seat and resting his elbows on the back of it, facing her. “Say all that again.” Lacey repeated it all while Lamont stared intently at her.
“She told you that out of the blue? Yesterday? To a complete stranger? Why?” he asked when she finished.

You are a complete stranger and I’m talking to you, Lacey thought rebelliously. “People tell reporters surprising things sometimes. Like cops, I imagine.”
“Just like that.” He glared at her. “ ‘Hello, Lacey Smithsonian, someone is trying to kill me’?”
“Pretty much.”
“I don’t want pretty much; I want exactly.”
Lacey walked through it several more times, growing increasingly testy. “I told her to call the police.”
“What did she say?”
“That she had bodyguards.”
“Did she happen to say who was going to do the deed?”
“Dr. Gregory Spaulding. He’s the one who performed the plastic surgery on Amanda. And they were engaged for a while. But it ended recently. Not well.” Lacey’s throat was suddenly very dry. She needed something to drink.
“The surgeon giveth and the surgeon taketh away? Interesting.”
“But that’s just crazy. He’s a famous guy, and he’s doing charity work now.”
“Many things seem crazy, Smithsonian, and yet they happen. Every damn day of the week. And you know what? Even though it’s supposed to look like just a random drive-by shooting, it’s most likely someone close to her. Nobody ever wants to kill you more than your nearest and dearest; I guarantee it. So, Lacey Smithsonian, in your professional journalistic opinion, leaving aside motive, would this famous doctor have an opportunity to do it?”
Lacey shrugged and wrapped her jacket around her in the cold room. “He’s in town for a conference of plastic surgeons. At the Mayflower Hotel.”
“At the Mayflower. Nice place. You ever notice how doctors and lawyers always get to go to the finest places? The rest of us? Some wretched Holiday Inn off the Beltway.” He snorted again. “The Mayflower.” He didn’t say anything for a while. “Do you think it’s possible Spaulding shot her?”
“I talked to him this morning.” She rubbed her eyes. “He seemed convincingly appalled by her accusation, but I don’t know. You’re the detective; what do you think?”
“I don’t think nothing at this point. And I’m not the lead detective on this one. I’m just gathering information,” Lamont said. He shrugged his giant shoulders wearily. “But anything is possible.”
“What about Caleb Collingwood?” Lacey asked. “The old boyfriend that she humiliated on national television. The one they say she murdered? She says he killed himself, but his body’s never been found.”
“And you think he’s alive, just like Elvis, and orchestrating this whole thing? Yeah, I’d expect that kind of story from a reporter,” he snorted. “Leave the investigating to the police. Anything else?”
“What happened to the little guy the police took away?”
“I do believe he was arrested for resisting an officer. And no doubt is being questioned at this very moment. Maybe not so friendly, like you and me.”
Lacey didn’t want to know what “not so friendly” was. “And do you know where my friend Stella Lake went?”
“Smithsonian, if you’re gonna ask me pointless questions, we’ll be here all night. The questions are my job, got it?”
“No singing or dancing?”
“That’s right. I ain’t no Broadway song-and-dance man, no matter what my mama named me, so don’t give me no song and dance. Now, is there anything else you saw, heard, smelled, or even imagined at any time before, during, or after the shooting?”
Lacey sighed deeply. “Oh, there is one little thing.” She put her head down on the table. “This may not mean anything.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. And look at me.” She straightened up and stared back at him. He looked like a judge to her. A hanging judge. She said nothing. “I’m waiting,” Detective Lamont said.
“My car was stolen yesterday in the District while I was at work. I reported it to the police. But I think I saw it tonight. When Amanda was shot.”
Showing some mercy, Lamont didn’t ask her to repeat that. “What kind of car? You could be mistaken. Dull-gray Hondas you womenfolk drive, they all look alike. And exactly when, in relation to the shooting?”

Dull-gray Honda! What does he take me for? “It’s a Nissan 280ZX. Last model year they made them, 1983. It’s silver and burgundy. Not as much rust as you’d expect. And I think I saw it speeding around Dupont Circle just as the shots were fired. But I couldn’t see the driver.”
“Hell, Smithsonian! That almost sounds like a clue to me. And you said you were clueless. See how much better this works when I ask the questions and you just tell me everything you know?” But Lamont didn’t look happy about it. His big neck was bulging against the collar of his tight pink knit shirt. Uh-oh, she thought, the bull is back, and he’s snorting and pawing the ground. “Let me get this straight, Lacey Smithsonian. This woman you don’t even know tells you someone’s trying to kill her. She wants you to find out who it is, although in the next breath she tells you it’s her former fiancé. You don’t believe her, you tell her to go to the police, but you question the accused would-be killer anyway. Then someone steals your car and may have used it in the drive-by shooting of the woman who told you she was a murder target. And you say you don’t know anything useful to assist the police in our little investigation.”
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one damn bit. I just hate it when a witness, and a reporter to boot, plays dumb and then turns out to be all wrapped up in the damn thing.”
She refrained from telling him she didn’t like it much either. But she kept quiet.
“Reporters. Lord have mercy. You’d think they’d want to tell you the damn story, but it’s always like pullin’ teeth.” Lamont snorted several times. He went over it again to confirm all the details, and he made her write out a statement and sign it. He noted every phone number and address she could ever be reached at, muttering darkly about “reporters.” Finally, he let her go. It felt like the middle of the night. She felt like she’d gone ten rounds with the Spanish Inquisition.