Into the Fury (BOSS, Inc. #1)(69)

“Jason said he thought Delilah was killed by someone who knew her. He said she might have made someone angry, that she could be a bitch at times—well, unpleasant was the word he used. He said someone might have wanted payback for something she’d done.”

She set her unfinished bagel back down on her plate. “So maybe he was the one who was angry. Do you think he could have killed her?”

“It wasn’t Stern. The guy who killed her was a pro.”

“Because he didn’t leave any evidence, right?”

“Among other things.”

“So Stern hired someone to do it.”

Ethan had been mulling over the possibility ever since Val had repeated the conversation he’d been too far away last night to hear. “Could be. Doesn’t explain the notes.”

“He could have sent all ten of them as a cover for the murder.”

He shoved his empty plate aside and took another drink of his coffee. “It’s an interesting theory. If he wanted her dead, the notes would send the cops in a different direction.”

“So it’s not a crazy idea.”

He’d considered it before. After Hoover had checked out Delilah’s acquaintances, including her past and current lovers, Ethan had dismissed the possibility. He trusted Hoover. Now he wondered if the detective could have been wrong.

Considering Stern’s words, he was going to take another look.

Val grinned. “Admit it: I’m not just a pretty face.”

Ethan laughed. “I already knew that, honey.”

Her smile slowly faded. “You did?”

“Yeah, baby, I did. Not at first, but it didn’t take me long to figure it out.”

The smile returned, softer this time. He could really get used to that smile. The thought sobered him. He didn’t need more female trouble. Allison and Hannah were all he could handle at the moment.

Ethan shoved back his chair. “We better get moving if we’re going to get you down to the TV station on time.”

Val just nodded. Rising from the table, she preceded him into the living room. Dressed for the show in a pale blue silk blouse, short cream skirt, and gold-heeled sandals, she walked over and picked up her purse. Val had morning TV show interviews, but they had things to do as well.

He needed to find out if there was something Delilah Larsen could have done to Jason Stern or someone else—something bad enough to get her killed.





Tuesday’s dress rehearsal was over, but backstage at the theater was still chaotic. The media had finished their interviews and were packing up to leave. Set designers and costume people were putting things back in order. Most of the models were still changing into their street clothes.

Val was back in the black leggings and long silky blue top, belted at the waist, she had worn in the pre-show interviews. For the dress rehearsal, David Klein had provided her with a gorgeous diamond pendant and diamond tennis bracelet that must have been worth a small fortune. But the jewelry was now in the safe.

Feeling restless and bored, she wandered out of her dressing room in search of female companionship. She didn’t see Ethan or Dirk. She figured they were working somewhere close by, making sure the theater was secure as the press cleared out.

Ethan had mentioned the stage crew could also be a security problem. A number of La Belle people traveled with the tour: experts in sound and lighting; wardrobe and makeup personnel; set designers; people who did anything and everything to make the show successful.

But a number were locals, men and women who worked at the Fox, people who knew the ins and outs of the specialized equipment in the huge old theater. They’d all been vetted, according to Ethan, but still they were strangers.

Val wandered down the corridor. Izzy and Meg were probably dressed by now. Val continued along the hall and stopped at Izzy’s dressing room. Shoving the curtain aside, she froze.

There was a man inside, big and brawny, young, mid-twenties, with greasy black hair. The tattoo of a spiderweb crawled over the side of his neck. He was standing in front of Isabel, pressing the point of a knife against her throat.

Val couldn’t breathe. Izzy looked over the man’s shoulder and saw her, and her friend’s big brown eyes filled with tears.

Val shook her head, warning Isabel to keep silent, while her stomach knotted with fear. So far the man hadn’t seen her. She could slip back outside and get help, but Izzy might be dead by the time she returned. As close as he was holding the blade to Izzy’s throat, a scream would be a disaster.

Trying not to tremble, her heart pounding so hard the sound filled her ears, she stood unmoving, her gaze searching frantically for a weapon. Her breath caught when she spotted a curling iron on top of the mirrored dressing table a few feet away. More than a foot long, the instrument had a thick barrel to form soft curls and an easy-to-grip handle. If she could get to it, the curling iron would make the perfect weapon.

“What . . . what do you want?” Izzy asked, trying to keep the man distracted, her voice shaking, the blade pressing into the soft flesh at the side of her neck.

The man lewdly rubbed his crotch. “What do I want? I want you to suck me, sweetheart. You do that, you get me off real good, and I’ll leave.”

Fear rolled down Val’s spine as she inched toward the dressing table. Izzy looked as if she might faint.

“If you don’t leave now . . . I’ll . . . I’ll scream.”