Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

Wait until morning by Edward D. Hoch[7]

It was a man named Matt Milton who telephoned the Libby Knowles Protection Service on a hot Monday morning in August. Libby’s secretary Janice said he sounded like a client and Libby took the call.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Milton?”

“Am I speaking to Libby Knowles?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’m calling about an extremely confidential matter involving one of my clients.”

“Are you a private investigator, Mr. Milton?”

“I’m a personal manager. An agent. You must have heard of my client, Krista Steele, the rock singer?”

“I don’t follow the contemporary music scene as closely as I should,” Libby admitted. “Is your client in need of protection?”

“She is.”

“From fans, or from some specific person?”

“From herself. She’s been using cocaine and other drugs lately, and she’s finally agreed to my suggestion she hire a bodyguard to keep her off the stuff. Is it the sort of thing you could do?”

“It’s not what I’m in business to do,” Libby said, “but if your client is willing to cooperate, I could give it a try.”

“Good. Could you meet with Krista and me this afternoon at my office? We’ll discuss your duties and your fees.”

Matt Milton was a fatherly looking man in his fifties who wore a string tie of the sort Libby remembered from movies of the Old South. He was a bit chubby around the middle and smoked expensive-looking cigars. He was the last person in the world one might expect to be promoting the career of Krista Steele.

Krista was slender and tall — close to Libby’s own five-foot-eight. She wore a dangling earring in her right ear. Her hair was all on the left, hiding that ear, and her pale-blue eyes were almost lost in a maze of harsh black eyeliner. Her silk dress looked expensive. She pouted at Libby from her chair. “You’re going to be my nursemaid?” she asked in a cold voice.

“If you need one. But what you’ll be hiring is a bodyguard, and I don’t come cheap.”

“I thought bodyguards were male,” Krista said, fidgeting with the clasp of her little purse.

Matt Milton cleared his throat. “I thought Miss Knowles could do the job better, without distractions. She’s highly recommended.”

Krista studied Libby for another moment and then asked, “You know what you’re supposed to do?”

“Tell me.”

“Keep me off drugs — cocaine, speed, grass, LSD. If you see me buying anything or taking something from a stash someplace, take it away from me.”

“All right. Will you be cooperative?”

When Krista didn’t answer, Matt Milton did. “Yes, she’ll cooperate. But if she resists you, be as firm as necessary. That’s what you’re being paid for. We’ll pay you a thousand dollars a week. Is that satisfactory?”

It was more money than Libby had ever made before. “Plus expenses?”

“Plus expenses.”

“For how long?”

“Week to week, till we see how it goes.”

“How much travel is involved?”

Krista Steele shifted in her chair. She stopped playing with the clasp on her purse and said, “I have a concert tour next month, but for the next few weeks there are only recording dates here in town, and rehearsals.”

“Will I be living with you?”

“We’d expect full-time service,” Milton said. “Is that a problem?”

“No, I’m used to it.”

“How soon can you start?”

“As soon as I phone my office.”

Matt Milton smiled. “I believe tomorrow morning will be satisfactory. Krista has a recording date then. This is her address.”

As he wrote it on a card, Krista stood up. “You’d better be worth the money,” she told Libby and walked out of the office.

Libby turned to the agent. “One thing I don’t quite understand, Mr. Milton. Do I get fired for doing a poor job, or for doing a good job?”

Krista Steele lived in a fourteenth-floor condominium near the center of the city. The doorman looked like an ex-wrestler and there was a television camera in the elevator. It was obviously a place for people who worried about security. Her apartment was large and well furnished, with a fine view of the river, but Libby’s first impression when she entered was the sweetish odor of marijuana smoke that accompanied the leather-jacketed young man who was just leaving.

He passed her without speaking and Libby asked, “Who was that?”

“Sonny Ritz, an old pal from before I hit the big time. I figured I needed one last night of kicks before I went on the wagon.”

“Did he supply the pot?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he your pusher?”

“I told you, he’s an old friend.” She hadn’t yet gotten around to making up her eyes and the rest of her face, and Libby saw something sweet and almost innocent about her face.

“Is there any more pot around?” Libby asked her.

Krista shook her head. “Search the place if you don’t believe me. Want some breakfast?”

“I already ate, but I’ll take another cup of coffee.”

Krista was wearing a lounging robe that had started to come open, and she seemed to have nothing on beneath it. “So tell me about yourself,” she said in the kitchen. “If we’re going to be together all the time I guess I should know what I hired.”

“I used to be a policewoman,” Libby said. “Now I run this protection business.”

“Are you married?” Krista opened a can of food for a large aggressive white cat that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Libby shook her head. “My boyfriend was killed. He was a cop, too. He was involved in a cocaine scandal and smashed up his car.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Krista asked, pouring some coffee.

“Because you asked me. Because I thought maybe you’d be interested in knowing that cocaine almost ruined my life, too.”

“I get all the lectures I need from Matt.” Krista went into the bedroom and started to dress.

Libby followed her. “How old are you, Krista?”

“Twenty-four. I started out in a Greenwich Village club and hit it big with the theme from August Heat. They did a neat video of me dancing around a fireman while he squirted his hose at me. The kids went wild with it and the album sold a couple of million copies. Now I’m doing more albums and I’ve got the concerts coming up. Maybe you saw me on that late-night show last Friday.”

“No, I’ve never seen you. But I’m sure you’re good.”

“Fox wants me to star in a movie after my tour. I’m thinking about it. That’s one reason why Matt wants me off the stuff. He says it’s ruining my career. God. he’s worse than my father!”

“Where are your folks?”

“They live outside Chicago. I haven’t seen them in a year, but I send money home once in a while. You grow away from them in this business, you know?”

She had pulled on tight jeans and a blouse, which Libby supposed must be her recording costume. “What time are you due at the studio?”

“Whenever I get there.” She started combing her hair. The earring had apparently stayed in her right ear all night. “Do you carry a gun?”

“Sure,” Libby said.

“Where?”

“In my purse. Sometimes under my clothes.”

“Where under your clothes?”

“Strapped to my thigh.”

“That must be a real kick.”

“It’s damned uncomfortable, if you want to know,” Libby said.

They rode down in the elevator to the basement and walked directly to an underground parking garage for tenants. Libby saw no sign of a parking attendant and decided the security wasn’t that great after all.

Krista insisted on driving and took the wheel of the little white sportscar as if she’d been born with it in her hands. Weaving in and out of the morning traffic, they arrived at the suburban recording studio in fifteen minutes. ”Matt keeps telling me I should record in Nashville, and I’m going to after this record,” she said as they entered the building. “But Shawn Gibbs has been good to me. His setup’s the best in town. Here are a couple of full-sized-studios and behind this blank wall is another one he rarely uses.”

Gibbs, a tense, balding man with hornrimmed glasses, was pacing the corridor awaiting Krista’s arrival. “The musicians have been tuning up for an hour,” he told her. “We have to pay them, you know.”

Krista kissed him lightly on the cheek. “This is Libby Knowles. She’s my bodyguard.”

He shook Libby’s hand limply, not giving her a second look. Inside the studio, Matt Milton seemed relieved to see Libby. “You’re late. I was worried,” he said.

Krista dropped her purse and sunglasses on a chair and accepted some sheet music from a bearded young man with an electric guitar. “Fill me in on some of these people,” Libby said to Matt.

“The beard with the guitar is Zap Richards. He’s Krista’s arranger and composes some of her songs, too. He did the August Heat theme. They’ve been friends for years. The rest are local musicians Shawn hires for the sessions.”

Libby glanced around at the expensive equipment. “He seems to be really big time.”

“He is now, since Krista hit the top. He’d be lost without her.”

“Do you know someone named Sonny Ritz?”

The agent frowned. “That crud! Has he been around?”

“He was at her apartment when I arrived this morning.”

“Don’t let him near her again.” Milton said firmly, “or sure as hell he’ll slip her something she shouldn’t have.”

They started recording the first number and Libby settled back to enjoy it. Krista Steele’s voice was a surprise, deep and mellow and assured. She needed very few tricks to put across the song. She built to a climax that brought enthusiastic applause from Matt and Shawn outside the recording booth, and Zap Richards put aside his guitar to give her a hug. But she wasn’t satisfied and insisted that they run through it once more before it sounded right to her.

The second number was just as good, but on the third one she started having trouble. Twice she stopped in the middle, and the third time she still wasn’t satisfied. Finally, she called for a break and picked up her purse, heading for the ladies’ room.

“Go with her,” Milton told Libby. “Make sure she doesn’t take anything.”

Libby was following Krista when Zap Richards emerged from the studio to block her path. “She just needs to freshen up,” he said. “She won’t be a minute.” His long slender fingers caught Libby’s arm but she brushed them away.

“Neither will I,” she said.

Krista was standing on one of the toilet seats, reaching up through a ceiling panel. Her hand reappeared with a plastic envelope full of white powder. Libby quickly crossed the tiled floor and grabbed it from her. “I’ll take that.”

“No! I need it to get me started for this next number!” Krista tried to claw the envelope out of Libby’s hand, but Libby ripped it open and poured the cocaine into the toilet.

“I’m just doing what you hired me for, Krista. Is there any more hidden up there?”

“No!”

Libby climbed up beside her to take a look. She pulled two more plastic envelopes from where Krista was reaching for them and emptied the contents down the toilet. “I’m not kidding, Krista, and it’s time you realized it. You can have your agent fire me, but you can’t con me into not doing my job. You hired a bodyguard and that’s what you’ve got.”

Krista returned to the recording studio, pouting and unhappy. Her first attempt at the song was again off-key, but she took a few minutes’ break and did better the second time. Shawn Gibbs applauded on the third try and told her they’d use that one. She nodded nervously and said, “That’s it. We’ll have to do the rest tomorrow.”

Zap Richards unplugged his guitar and came over to her. “You all right, Krista?”

“I’ll make it.” She gave him a half hearted smile.

He dug around in his pocket and produced a hand-rolled cigarette. “This is all I’ve got on me.”

Libby stepped between them and Krista said, “Put it away, Zap. I don’t want it.”

“This is some watchdog you hired for yourself.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Libby said.

They had a late lunch with Shawn Gibbs and Matt Milton. Gibbs was either pleased at the way the session had gone or he was putting a good face on it for Krista’s benefit. He talked about his plans for the album and Matt tried to sell him on merchandising ideas connected with the upcoming concert tour. By the time they left the restaurant, the afternoon had pretty much ended and Krista had to go to her dressmaker s for a fitting.

Afterward, they headed back to the apartment. “We’ll eat in tonight,” Krista said. “Something light.”

“Is this a fairly typical day?”

“Sometimes it’s a little more exciting. There are a couple of parties this weekend. But I’m afraid next week you’re going to have to sit through five days of dance class. I’m adding some dance numbers to my show.”

“How long do you think you’ll need me?”

“Maybe through the concert tour. If I can stay clean that long I should be okay.” She hesitated and then added, “You did good work today, Libby. On that third number I was sure I needed a snort, but when you wouldn’t let me have it I managed without it, didn’t I?”

“You sure did.”

Libby played with the cat for a while before they ate, but Krista’s habit of allowing it to roam at will over chairs and tabletops turned her off. She had to race to finish her coffee before Tabby licked up his share. But the real challenge of the evening began with the return of Sonny Ritz, still wearing his leather jacket, shortly after ten o’clock. It seemed obvious to Libby that he intended to spend the night with Krista, and she didn’t know how she could prevent a drug exchange from taking place without sharing the bed with them.

“This is your nursemaid, eh?” Sonny asked, looking Libby up and down with a smirk. “Do I have to wrestle her for you?”

“You’re welcome to if you think you can,” Libby said.

He made a grab for her and Libby sidestepped, catching his arm and twisting it behind him until he dropped to his knees. When she let him up, the color had drained from his face.

Krista loved it. “Sonny,” she said, “you’ve finally met your match.”

Sonny seemed not about to quit that easily, but the intercom buzzed and the doorman announced that Shawn Gibbs was on his way up to see Krista.

“What does he want this time of the night?” she complained. She turned to Sonny. “You’d better go. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“What is this, the brushoff?”

“Just go, Sonny. I’ll call you, I promise.”

He left just as Shawn Gibbs reached the door. Libby noticed they didn’t speak.

“Is he still hanging around?” Gibbs asked Krista. “I thought you got rid of him.”

Libby was checking out the area of the room Sonny had occupied, making certain he hadn’t left any little envelopes for Krista.

“Sorry to come by so late,” Gibbs said, “but something’s come up at the studio.”

“What’s that?”

“Somebody stole the master tape of the three songs we recorded this morning.”

“What?”

“At least I think it’s been stolen. It could have been misfiled — I’m going to tear the place apart in the morning. But I wanted you to know we may have to do the whole thing over again.”

Krista took the news in good humor. “It’s not even in the stores yet and my public is clamoring for it. You’ll make a mint on this one, Shawn.”

“I’m glad you can take it so lightly. How about a drink to settle my nerves?”

“Be my guest,” Krista said.

He poured three shots of bourbon and passed one to Libby without asking if she wanted it. After a sip, she left the rest on the table unfinished. She was a Scotch drinker, when she drank at all. “So was the studio broken into?” Krista wanted to know.

“No sign of it.” Shawn Gibbs was nervous, sitting at the kitchen table with them for a time and then pacing back and forth. “I suspect an inside job, but I can’t figure out who would have done it. If they wanted to steal the tape, why not wait until tomorrow when we were planning to finish it?”

“Maybe Libby here can find it for you.”

Libby held up her hands. “Protection, not detection, that’s my business. Just because I was with the police people always think I can solve crimes. Have you reported the theft to the police?”

“Not yet,” Shawn said. “I thought I’d wait until morning when I can make a more careful search.”

He finished his drink and declined a second, saying he had to go. Krista saw him out and he promised to phone in the morning if the tape reappeared before her recording session at ten.

When they went to bed around midnight. Libby insisted on leaving the door between her room and Krista’s open. She had trained herself to be a light sleeper when she was on a case and she knew any unusual movements by Krista would awaken her.

The telephone in Krista’s bedroom rang somewhere toward dawn. The first bits of daylight were beginning to show through the closed blinds as Libby opened her eyes and listened. She heard Krista’s voice, briefly, and then silence. She hadn’t been able to make out her words, and decided it wasn’t important until some minutes later, almost asleep again, she heard the apartment door close. The clock read 6:55.

She jumped out of bed and hurried barefoot into Krista’s room. The bed was rumpled and empty. With a growing sense of panic, Libby checked the rest of the apartment and then the outer hall. Krista was gone and Libby had no idea where. She saw little point in phoning Matt Milton to report it. She was sitting on her bed, thinking about what to do, when Krista’s telephone rang again. She glanced instinctively at the clock and saw that it was 7:22. Running to answer the phone, she prayed it was Krista.

It wasn’t

“Is this the residence of Krista Steele?” a male voice asked. He was reading the name off something and Libby knew at once it was a police officer.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Are you a relative, ma’am?”

“No. I work for Miss Steele,” Libby replied.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, ma’am. There’s been an automobile accident. Could you tell me how to reach the next of kin?”

“Next of—?”

“I’m awfully sorry, ma’am. Miss Steele was killed instantly.”

Libby found her old friend, Sergeant O’Bannion, in his office when she reached police headquarters less than an hour later. He glanced up and gave her a grin. “A bit early for you, isn’t it?” He was a large man with a big face that was more often gloomy than smiling.

“There was a fatal car accident an hour or so ago, O’Bannion. Krista Steele, the singer, was killed. Do you have a report on it yet?”

“An hour ago? I doubt it. The investigating officers are probably still at the scene.”

He got up to check a pile of forms on one of the other squadroom desks and she followed him.

“The officer said it happened on Dakota Street, near Windsor. The car hit a tree.”

“Nothing here yet,” he started to say, and then stopped. “What time did you say?”

“A little after seven.”

“There’s a report here of a fatal on Dakota Street, one car, driver killed, time about six-forty-five.”

“That would have been too early,” Libby said. “I was at her apartment and she didn’t leave until at least ten minutes after that. It would have taken her another ten minutes to get her car and drive to Dakota Street.”

“What’s your connection with this, Libby?”

“She was a client.”

“You were protecting her from a death threat?”

Libby shook her head. “She was on drugs and her agent convinced her to hire a bodyguard to keep her away from them.”

“Odd sort of assignment. Okay, come along and we’ll look into this.”

They went first to check out the death car, which had been towed to a city lot nearby. There was no doubt it was the white sportscar Libby had ridden in the previous day, though now the interior was scorched and blackened by flames.

“According to the report, the body was burned beyond recognition,” Libby heard O’Bannion say. “They identified her from the license number and the contents of her purse, which was thrown clear.”

“Convenient.”

“What?”

“If the accident happened at 6:45, it was someone else,” Libby insisted. Quickly she went over the events of the previous day and that morning.

“You might have been wrong about the time,” O’Bannion said.

“I was fully awake when I looked at that clock.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t Krista Steele you heard leaving at 6:55. Maybe this guy Ritz came back and spent the night, after all.”

“I’d have heard him. It was Krista who answered the phone and it was Krista who left at 6:55.”

They went back to O’Bannion’s office and read the report of the investigating officers. Both swore the accident happened no later than 6:45. They came upon the burning car while on routine patrol. Some nearby neighbors were already on the scene, awakened by the crash a few minutes earlier.

“Then it wasn’t Krista,” Libby said again.

They had to wait an hour for the preliminary report of the medical examiner. The body was that of a female in her early twenties, about the same height and weight as Krista Steele. Fingerprints were of no use since Krista’s were not on file and the impact of the crash had caused such extensive damage in the area of the mouth that a comparison with Krista’s dental records would be difficult if not impossible.

“I’ll still lay you odds it’s her,” the sergeant said.

“Then how do you explain the time discrepancy?”

“Simple,” he said with, a shrug. “The clock you looked at was running fast.”

Returning to Krista’s condominium, Libby used her key to let them in. The white cat, Tabby, had awakened and was purring near the door as if expecting his mistress. Libby ignored him and went immediately to the bedroom she’d been using. “Here it is. Check it for yourself.”

The clock was actually a couple of minutes slow.

“Somebody might have changed it,” O’Bannion said rather lamely.

“If someone were going to change it, wouldn’t they have changed it the other way, to discredit my story?”

O’Bannion sat down on the unmade bed. The cat jumped up beside him and the policeman stroked him absently under the chin. “You’ve got a point there,” he admitted. “Let’s check the downstairs garage.”

The attendant didn’t come on duty until eight o’clock and, as Libby had observed the previous day, even then security was not very tight. No one had been there to see Krista or her car leave. Though the garage door opened only from the inside, it wasn’t impossible to suppose that someone had entered the garage through a fire door and stolen the car sometime before six-thirty.

“Why?” O’Bannion asked. “You think she’s trying to pull an insurance fraud?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” Libby said. “Whoever’s behind this, they had to arrange for that crash. And somebody died in that car. Somebody was murdered in that car.”

Matt Milton took the news of Krista’s apparent death very hard. Even after Libby told him she had reason to believe the body was not Krista’s the agent remained close to tears. “It’s her all right,” he said. “I always figured she’d end up this way. The drugs and—” He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “God knows I did my best to help her.”

“Mr. Milton, I have to ask you this and I hope you’ll forgive me. Could this whole thing be some sort of publicity stunt on Krista’s part, to promote her new album?”

He stared at Libby as if she was out of her mind. “Publicity stunt! Why would she have allowed me to hire you if she was planning something like that?”

“To have a witness on the scene. After the funeral she could reappear, claiming it was a hitchhiker who died in the car and she wandered off after the crash with temporary amnesia.”

“You’re saying she’d cause someone’s death for a publicity stunt,” Milton said. “Krista would never do anything like that.”

“Did you know the master tape from yesterday’s session was stolen from Shawn Gibbs’ studio last night?”

“Really? Who would do a thing like that?”

“Perhaps someone who knew it would be her last recording. I suppose that would give it some extra value.”

“Now you’re saying she’s dead. Make up your mind, Miss Knowles.”

But Libby couldn’t make up her mind. She felt certain Krista hadn’t died in the fiery crash, but that conclusion only opened a whole new barrel of questions. O’Bannion had promised to keep her informed of the police investigation, but when she left Milton’s office and tried phoning him he was out.

She drove to the recording studio, where the gloom was even thicker than at Milton’s office. Zap Richards met her just inside the door, looking naked and alone without his guitar. “One of the cops says you don’t think she’s dead. Is that true?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Libby admitted. “But I’m certainly not convinced she’s dead.”

She went on down the hall to Shawn Gibbs’ office. The door was open. “I was hoping you’d come by,” he said, looking up from his desk.

“How’s it going?”

“The place has been a madhouse. We’ve had two television crews and I don’t know how many reporters here.”

“Anything new on the missing tape?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. We found it. Zap was helping me search this morning, before we heard about Krista, and he found it in among some blank tapes.”

“Could it have gotten there by accident?”

“I suppose so,” he admitted, “but it’s unlikely.”

“What do you think happened to Krista?” Libby asked.

“I can’t imagine.”

She met O’Bannion for a drink at a bar across from headquarters. She occasionally liked to go there because it had been a hangout while she was on the force, but tonight it brought back unexpectedly painful memories of the man she’d loved — who’d died in a single-car accident. She’d always wondered if it was suicide, and now she found herself asking the same question about Krista. Maybe she had decided she couldn’t go on living without drugs.

But there had been the phone call that had lured her out before seven. Someone had made that call.

“Case got you down?” O’Bannion asked, reading her silence.

“I can’t get a grip on it,” she admitted. “A tape is stolen and then reappears. Krista might be dead but maybe she isn’t.”

“The papers sure think she’s dead. There are bigger headlines than she ever got alive.”

“Anything more from the autopsy?”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to like it. The body showed traces of heroin.”

“Krista Steele wasn’t on heroin!”

“Who knows what she was on, Libby?”

She played with her glass in silence for a moment, then asked, “Could the accident have been faked?”

“Sure. She could have been beaten to death and her teeth messed up earlier, then the killer could have spilled gasoline around the inside of the car, tied down the accelerator and the steering wheel, and aimed it at the tree. The fire would have burned any string or rope that was used.”

“And if the body isn’t Krista’s, whose is it?”

“From the approximate age and traces of heroin, along with the fact that we have no new missing-person report, it could be some prostitute or drifter, chosen because she was about the same size and age.”

“Then you’re willing to accept that as a possibility?”

O’Bannion thought about it. “I’ve been a cop long enough to know that the most likely explanation is usually the true one, Libby. Your idea is pretty far-fetched. Bring me some more evidence and I’ll listen.”

“If the body is that of some prostitute or even a runaway, maybe her fingerprints are on file even if Krista’s aren’t.”

“That’s an idea,” he admitted. “I’ll see how badly the fingers were burned.”

After leaving O’Bannion at the bar, Libby went back to Krista’s apartment to gather up her things. The place still looked the same, even to the empty glasses on the table from the previous night, but Libby didn’t stop to wash them. She was on her way out the door when the whole thing came to her in a flash.

She went back inside, unpacked her other gun, and changed from slacks to a full skirt.

Libby parked across the street from the recording studio and slipped out of the car, moving silently around the side of the building. The figure by the back door heard her just as he popped the lock. He whirled, but she had him covered with the revolver from her purse. “A little breaking and entering, Sonny?”

Sonny Ritz dropped the crowbar and took a step backward.

“Are you after Krista’s tape, too?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Then what are you doing breaking in here?”

“She kept a stash hidden in the ceiling of the ladies’ john. I figure it won’t do her any good now — I might as well have it.”

“I beat you to it, Sonny. Now get lost.”

“What?”

“Get lost before I call the cops.”

He didn’t need to be told again. He hurried down the alley, disappearing from view.

Libby waited another few seconds and then stepped inside through the jimmied door. A pen light from her purse helped guide her along the corridor. She avoided the recording studio Krista had used the previous day and went instead to the smaller, windowless studio that was rarely used. It was locked, of course. Libby fired a single shot into the lock area. The wood splintered but held, and she had to give it a sharp tug before the door finally came open.

A muffled groan reached her ears at once and she knew she’d guessed right. Her searching fingers found the light switch and in the sudden glare of brightness she saw Krista Steele bound and gagged on the leather couch.

Libby put down her pistol and quickly untied her, pulling the gag from her mouth.

“Thank God!” Krista gasped. “How did you find me?”

“I’d have been a hell of a bodyguard if I hadn’t. Your cat—”

There was a sudden gasp from Krista, and Libby turned to see Shawn Gibbs standing in the doorway. He had a .45 automatic aimed at them. “Don’t touch your gun,” he warned Libby, “or I’ll kill you both!”

“I’m not moving,” Libby assured him.

“Raise your hands above your head!” he commanded. “Krista, you stay on that couch.”

“Shawn, this is—”

“Shut up!” He motioned toward Libby.

“How did you find her here? When I heard the shot I thought it was the police.”

“They’re on the way,” Libby bluffed.

“Not likely. You’d have waited for them. But tell me what I did wrong.”

Libby saw the madness in his eyes now and knew she had to keep talking. “I was convinced Krista didn’t die in that crash. Once I knew that, there were two things to implicate you — her purse and her cat. Krista didn’t leave the apartment until 6:55, ten minutes or more after the accident. It couldn’t have been her body in the car, yet the police identified her from the purse near the wreckage. If Krista couldn’t have been there, how could her purse be there? Only if someone took it from the apartment earlier. She’d had it with her yesterday while she was recording. Two people visited us last night — you and Sonny Ritz. Sonny stayed only briefly and I watched him every second. You stayed longer, and you walked around nervously. You had plenty of opportunity to pick up that small purse and hide it under your shirt.”

“You’re a smart girl,” Gibbs admitted.

“You know someone or found someone who resembled Krista in a general way and killed her this morning. You wanted to make sure the crash and the fire worked as planned before you kidnaped Krista, so you waited until after the crash to phone her—”

“He said it was something important about the stolen tape,” Krista told Libby. “He said he’d pick me up in ten minutes.”

“But of course the whole scheme wouldn’t work if I was awake and heard the phone. I might have insisted on coming along. At the very least I’d know who called. How could you be sure I wouldn’t wake up, Shawn? Only if you drugged my drink while you were stealing the purse. You were the one who suggested we have a drink. I only took a sip of mine and left the rest on the table, but tonight the glasses were all empty. If I didn’t finish it, who did? Then I remembered how Tabby likes to climb up on tables and how he licked up my coffee. This morning he slept through two phone calls and Krista’s departure — highly unusual behavior for a cat, unless he was drugged instead of me.”

“You figured it all, didn’t you?”

“Only you could have stolen the purse, only you could have drugged the drink. Stealing the car itself was no problem. You probably took the elevator straight to the garage after you left Krista’s with the purse and used her own key to drive it away. You’d arranged the early-morning appointment with your victim and after killing her you phoned Krista from the crash scene. You picked her up by seven o’clock, drugged her, and brought her here before Zap and the others arrived.

“Figuring she was still alive, I asked myself where you could hide her. Then I remembered this windowless recording studio. These places are all soundproof — where better to hide her? She was going to leave you after this album and record in Nashville — she told me that — and you couldn’t bear to lose her.”

Krista spoke again from the couch. “He said they’d think I was dead and nobody would be looking for me. He’d keep me a prisoner and I’d record just for him. After six months or a year he’d pretend to find the recordings and say they were made before my death. He said they’d be worth a fortune.”

“You can’t keep her here,” Libby told Gibbs, starting to lower her hands.

“Keep them up!” he barked, waving the gun.

Libby stepped back until her legs touched the couch. “No one stole that tape. It was an excuse to visit Krista last night and lure her from the apartment this morning.”

“Time for you to shut up,” Gibbs said.

He was aiming the .45 when Krista’s hand crept beneath Libby’s skirt and found the second gun. She fired once and the bullet struck Shawn Gibbs in the right shoulder, spinning him around.

Libby crossed the room quickly and knocked the gun from his hand.

“Good work!” she told Krista.

“I remembered what you told me about your other gun.”

“I should hire you for my bodyguard,” Libby said. “Now get out to a phone and call the police.”