Elizabeth Drake was in charge of Griffin’s scheduling, someone had written on the blog.Think about all the appointments she made with young actresses who thought Griffin wanted to interview them for a role. She knowingly sent those girls to be assaulted. And she never showed remorse—she even testified in his defense during trial. Can you imagine?
“If there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help otherwomen,” Grey read aloud, “then Drake’s reserved herself a VIP box suite.”
Grey’s inbox pinged, and she dashed back to her desk to find Drake’s background report. “Hang on. We just got the official write-up.”
“The moment of truth.”
Grey printed two copies, one for her and one for Ellis, and they eagerly skimmed. There it was in black and white, courtesy of the IRS: Their victim’s last employer was the Griffin Company.
“Wellshit.” Ellis managed to pack a world of weight into the word. “No wonder our vic didn’t have social media. She’d be run off with pitchforks.”
“Her job title was assistant to the president. So it’s definitely the same woman.”
“Get a load of that salary,” Ellis said. “Two hundred thou a year for an assistant? That can’t be the going rate.”
“Maybe it is if you expect your assistant to schedule your assaults and then help cover them up,” Grey said.
The two detectives sat in silence for a moment, until a deep voice boomed: “Yo, Holloway!” Detectives Mogren and Connolly, two beefy guys with buzz cuts who looked like they’d been stuffed into their suits, ambled by. “That body you caught in Bel Air—she strip at the Serpent Room with you? Is that why you two look so much alike? Same brand of body glitter?”
“I don’t strip, Mogren.” Grey kept her tone neutral. “I serve overpriced drinks to dopes who tip me for my company. Most of them look a lot like you, actually.”
Mogren flipped her off, but the guys were laughing as they strode off. Grey turned back to find Ellis staring.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Grey assured her. “I’m taking way less shit on this case than I expected, given the way Drake and I look. Guys must not be on their A game.”
“Whydoyou strip at that club?” Ellis sounded like she was asking against her better judgment. “You got a celebrity fetish? I know that place is big with the Hollywood types.”
Grey bit back the correction that—once again—she didn’t strip, and instead trotted out her familiar lines. “Student loans are a bitch,and the city isn’t exactly paying us top dollar. Working at the Serpent Room is easy money. Besides, I get some of my best thinking done in dark rooms full of synth.”
It was bullshit, but Ellis nodded thoughtfully. With a glance at the other woman’s manicure, the one part of her appearance that was unabashedly feminine, Grey couldn’t help adding: “Hell, in this economy, a girl needs a second job just to stay in gels.”
“I know that’s right,” Ellis murmured, and the two of them exchanged quick smiles.
Grey cleared her throat. “Anyway, will you send me the link to that gossip blog? Sounds like there were a lot of people out there who hated our victim.”
“I don’t blame them,” Ellis said. “She betrayed her own kind.”
“I guess we figured out why Drake’s killer called her a traitor,” Grey ventured, “like the message said.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that means our suspect pool just got blown wide open. There are twenty thousand members of this gossip forum alone—”
“Message?” Ellis interrupted. “What message?”
“Page nine of the crime report,” Grey said. “The killer left a message in blood on Drake’s bedroom wall. Turned out to be a lyric from a pop song.”
Ellis whipped through the pages. Either Grey was imagining it, or her face suddenly paled. “You know, I actually have to go,” she said, standing. “I promised a friend I’d meet her for lunch.” And just like that, the other detective took off, the report still clutched in her hand.
Grey blinked at Ellis’s empty desk. She’d packed a sad salad, assuming they’d work through lunch, but good for Ellis for having a life outside the job, she guessed. Grey couldn’t relate.
Hours later, nearquitting time, paperwork on Drake’s Bel Air bungalow finally came back. The owner was Reese Griffin himself, and he’d purchased it right before the start of his trial.
“I wonder if Griffin gifted Drake the house in exchange for her testimony,” Grey mused. “Let’s track down everyone who used to work at the Griffin Company. If this murder is connected to her job,I bet the other employees can tell us if anyone stood out as a threat. Hell, maybe some of them are receiving threats, too.”
“Sounds good,” Ellis said, rising so quickly she knocked a pile of papers off her desk. “I’ll get on that first thing tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got to get home to feed my dog.”
To Grey’s surprise, Ellis dumped the papers back on her desk, grabbed her messenger bag, and hightailed it to the elevators. That made two abrupt exits in one day. Grey might’ve been the homicide department’s black sheep, but even she knew it was standard practice to stay late the first few days after the start of a case, when you had the best shot at catching the perp.
She sniffed under her arms and, finding no reason why she might’ve scared Ellis off, rose to make herself another pot of coffee. Apparently, even with a partner, she was doing this alone.
Two days later,Ellis was still evasive. Since she couldn’t depend on her, Grey had put together a list of former Griffin employees and called them all herself. Unfortunately, everyone she’d tracked down—most of whom had been reluctant to even admit they’d once worked for the Griffin Company—reported they’d witnessed widespread flogging of Griffin employees online, but no threats in real life. They were shocked to hear about Drake’s murder and couldn’t think of anyone who might make the leap from online harassment to real-world violence. “Except for all those women Elizabeth sent to get raped by Reese,” a former VP had joked. “Theymight have a motive.” He’d immediately backpedaled. “Sorry. That was in poor taste.”
