"It’s a compliment," Crash said. "But don't worry. I think you could still be dangerous." Crash had no idea what he was getting himself into.
"Oh, I'm dangerous, alright," she replied. "I'm just not a murderer, as the good deputies have come to realize. At least, I think they realize that.”
"Fortunately, we have more promising leads," I said.
Tiffany looked intrigued. "I'd love to hear more about it, if that's something you can tell me.”
"Let's just say we found someone with a strong motive and the means to carry it out.”
Hope filled her eyes. "That's wonderful news.”
Pinky and Floyd hauled out the gear and loaded it into the Wild Fury van. They took it all back to the practice studio and set up for the next practice session. I paid those guys well, and they loved what they did. Just two old-school rockers living the dream. Or as close to the dream as they were going to get. When they were done, they made it back to theAvventurafor the after-party.
The Wild Fury phenomenon was something to behold. Even the road crew got treated like somebody special by the girls. Rock star adjacent.
The boat was packed, and music pumped through speakers at a reasonable volume, given the late hour. A few neighbors joined the party as usual. Jack slung drinks from behind the bar on the sundeck, and a good time was had by all.
I'm sure the media would have a field day if they found out Tiffany was aboard the boat, but so far, we had managed to avoid the paparazzi.
"Are you back in the house yet?" I asked her.
"No. I'm still at the Seven Seas. I need to get somebody into the house and clean it up. All the carpet in the master bedroom needs to go. Basically, all the carpet upstairs. I just don't want to see any trace of that when I go back. Too painful.” She paused and took a sip of her red wine. Her lipstick stained the rim of the glass.
Tiffany had a magnetic quality—there was no doubt about it. It was easy to see why Coach Madison had fallen for her.
"I hope you don't think this is too soon."
"What do you mean?”
“Me being at a party, having a drink.”
"Everybody processes grief in a different way," I replied.
"I just can't sit in that cabana by myself. My mind goes to bad places. I keep seeing Brock when I close my eyes, covered in blood, my hands red. I keep having these recurrent nightmares. It's horrible."
I wasn't going to judge her for trying to cope with the situation.
"If I get out and keep my mind occupied, it keeps those thoughts and images away. I don't care if anyone else understands. I need to preserve my sanity at a time like this.”
"First and foremost, you need to take care of yourself. It's a challenging time for people. Stressful, poor sleep. They let themselves get run down. That's the last thing you need right now.”
She smiled. "Thank you for understanding.”
My phone buzzed with a call from Flynn. In that exuberant voice, he howled, “I have arrived! I'm on my way now. I expect you have plenty of whiskey to help us make it through the night.”
I laughed. "I think there's enough to go around.”
Less than 15 minutes later, a black limousine pulled into the parking lot and drove around by the dock. The driver hopped out, hustled around, and grabbed Flynn’s door. The movie star stepped into the night air like he had reached the promised land. With that brilliant smile, he surveyed his surroundings.
The driver grabbed his bags from the trunk.
The movie star was here. And wherever Flynn went, it was the place to be.
22
Paparazzi pulled into the lot, chasing after Flynn. The vultures hopped out of their cars and rushed to grab photos and cellphone footage. They swarmed around, camera flashes flickering, shouting questions.
“What brings you into town?”
