“You know, if I got overtime pay,” DJ said, spinning the scanner on the tabletop between them, “I’d be loaded.”
“Same,” she said, barely looking up.
“Unpaid work…” he mused. “Isn’t there a word for that? When you’re forced to work without money. What is that word?”
“It’s called modern life. Eat your burger,” Harper said shortly. “Anyway, you’re lucky you have a job.”
The edge to her voice was unmistakable. He gave her a puzzled look but, when she didn’t say more, let it go, demolishing the remains of his meal with quick efficiency. Harper, her thoughts veering between Martin Dowell and layoffs, hadn’t made much of a dent in hers. After he pushed his plate away, DJ watched her not eat for a while in silence before saying, “Hey. Is something going on with you?”
Harper folded a napkin, primly. “Not really.”
“Come on. You look terrible. Are you sick? Addicted to meth?” He gestured at her plate. “Giving up food for Lent?”
Harper cut him off. “Too much work. Not enough sleep.”
But he wasn’t about to take that as an answer. “Why aren’t you sleeping? Is it this case?”
Harper hesitated. She liked DJ. And she knew he’d want to know what was going on. But she couldn’t bring herself to go into it again. Not today. Luckily, before she had to summon an excuse, the scanner crackled to life.
DJ, one foot propped up on the chair next to him, looked at it with only mild interest.
Harper shot him a glare and, remembering it was his job for the night, he jumped, grabbed it, and held it to his ear.
Harper reached for the bill. The least she could do was buy him dinner.
“What’s a code four?” he asked.
Harper’s hand stopped in midair, hovering over the slip of paper. “It’s a dead body. Are you sure they said code four?”
He nodded, listening. “They’re sending more officers.”
Harper motioned impatiently for the scanner.
When he handed it over, a patrol officer was talking. “This is unit three-nine-eight, out at the code four on Veterans. I’m going to need some extra units out here for crowd control. Also, alert forensics for me.”
It sounded like a juicy story, but it was nearly time for Allegra’s show. Reluctantly, she handed the scanner back to him.
“You better get out there,” she said. “It’s probably natural causes but it’s hard to tell from what they’re saying. I’ll drive you to your car.” She pulled cash from her wallet and set it down on the table and got up, grabbing her bag, feeling the reassuring weight of the Glock inside.
He followed her out to the Camaro and climbed into the low-slung passenger seat. “You don’t want to come along?”
“I’ve seen enough dead bodies, thanks,” she said, although really she did want to go. “There’s someplace I need to be tonight.”
“Come on. What’s going on that’s so important?” he cajoled, as she backed out. “Normally you’d never let me handle something like this on my own.”
“The Xavier Rayne case.” She merged into Drayton Street traffic. “One of the housemates is playing a gig. I’m going to see if anyone will confess to murder.”
As she turned left and headed back to Bay Street, he stared at her. “You get the best stories every single time.”
28
Just before nine o’clock, Harper walked into the Library Bar to find an empty stage. The crowd—good-sized for a Wednesday—talked loudly at tables that had been arranged in front of the performance space. A gloomy acoustic song whispered unhappily from the jukebox.
Bonnie waved from behind the bar as she walked up.
“This is cheerful,” Harper said, sitting on an empty barstool.
“We tried to choose appropriate music for the event.” Bonnie made a face. “I think we went too far.” She gestured at the beer fridge, but Harper shook her head.
“I’m working.” She glanced around the room. “Is she here?”
“She’s in the back. Came in with a guitarist. Said she needed a minute. That was over an hour ago.”
Harper’s eyes swept the room falling on a familiar figure. Cara had her back to her, but her honey-blond hair and slim profile were unmistakable. She was alone.
A few rows behind her, she noticed the unpleasantly familiar profile of Jon Graff. He was staring at his phone, but had positioned himself near enough Cara to watch her openly.
It made Harper’s skin crawl. She knew how it felt to be stalked. The suffocating, creeping threat of it.
Leaving Bonnie at the bar, she weaved through the crowd to Cara and sat down in the empty chair at her table.
The actress gave her a startled look. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to Allegra,” Harper told her. “I’m surprised to see you. After our conversation, I didn’t think you’d come.”
Cara’s hands fluttered nervously. The drink in front of her was untouched. “I didn’t have a huge amount of choice,” she said, her gaze skittering around the room. “They wouldn’t give up until I agreed.”
Harper wondered what that meant, but Cara was as nervous as a frog in a kitchen. She didn’t want to push her too hard.
“Don’t look now,” she said, “but Jon Graff is sitting a few rows back.”
Cara shuddered. “That man is disgusting.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Harper glanced behind them. Graff was staring at her with open dislike. His presence made her plans for the evening much more difficult. But now that she was here, she had to try.
“I was going to call you,” she told Cara, quietly. “I talked to the detective overseeing the investigation today.”
Cara leaned toward her, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What did he say?”
“He thinks you’re right—someone in that house killed Xavier.” Harper searched her face. “Has anything changed? Are you still suspicious of Hunter and Allegra?”
At that moment, though, the lights in the room went dark, save for a few spotlights pointed at the stage. The audience gave a smattering of applause.
“About time!” someone shouted.
Cara looked at Harper, her eyes unreadable and gleaming in the shadows, but turned away without answering. She held her head stiffly, staring at the stage, unblinking as Allegra walked out with Hunter at her side, holding a guitar. She waved at the crowd briefly before flitting straight to the microphone and adjusting it down to her low height with quick, practiced moves.
“Sorry to make y’all wait,” she said in that rich, husky voice. “They say some things are worth waiting for. I hope you think this is one of them.”
She was dressed in a short black skirt and a fitted dark top. With heavy eyeliner and her hair back-combed, she looked older. Professional. She was confident on stage in a way that diverged completely from her soft-spoken off-stage persona. It was as if she was another person.
As the crowd shifted, settling down for the show, Hunter strapped the guitar across his chest. His glasses sparkled in the spotlight’s glow as he counted off the first song. “One, two, three…”