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I bit on my pen cap. “Yeesh, no wonder she chose a stage name.”
She sniggered. “Yeah, that and she’s nervous. She doesn’t want anyone to know her real name or where she lives. Real jumpy. Hard to know if she thinks her past is chasing her or if she doesn’t really want the future she’s after.”
I bit on my pen cap. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on. You’re chasing the story. Bunch of us are getting worried this thing is more than just a mental health crisis on steroids. The agent throwing this party had two jumpers in the last two months. You know, Dickie’s girls.”
I gasped. “Who other than Manel?”
More pounding, but she wasn’t speaking.
“Jez? Who else?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but only because I think you really care. This isn’t up for public consumption.”
I nodded and had my pen poised. “Got it. Now who?”
“JJ Klinta.”
I gasped. “What?”
She sighed. “Dickie kept it out of the news.”
I scrawled her name down. “When?”
“September. She was between Manel and Justine. Dickie wanted it kept out of the press because he had two in a row. Spooked him. Word is he got all his girls mandatory counseling for a month.”
I threw my pen down. “How good of him. Probably docks their pay to provide it too. Asshole.”
She snorted. “It’s the way the world works. Okay, well, I have to run.”
And she disconnected.
I blew out a breath and took a few deep ones trying to get my heart to stop trying to beat its way out of my chest. Just as I thought. There were more victims. Probably more that were covered up or never noticed because they were new to the industry. Nameless beauties in the background of a scene on page three hundred of a magazine. The whole thing made me nauseous.
Finding a killer was more important than appearances. To think that agents were covering up the deaths of their girls just so they didn’t look bad was repugnant. Why wasn’t saving the young, beautiful women of New York a priority for people? Surely, someone should care that those with the perfect bone structure, perfectly toned thighs, and the perfect flat abs were being targeted for some reason, right?
Padding to the bathroom, I paced on the cold tile. It helped me think. And got my sweaty palms under control. I went over everything I knew and realized there were still so many people I needed to go back and interview to get the full story. I needed lists of catering staff at each event that the girls went to before their deaths. I needed lists of photographers and DJs too. I needed the agencies to tell me what models were hired to attend the parties and talk to them, find out what they saw. Was there enough time to do that between December first and just before Christmas? Would I have to go back to Manhattan early?
The barking of my phone alarm told me it was time to get ready for Ransom’s practice. After I washed up, I dotted on some lip gloss and concealer under my eyes to look more alive. In a daze of thinking about my next steps, I tossed on a few layers of clothes, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and grabbed my hiking boots that would hopefully keep me from falling and breaking my ass.
Backing up all my research to the cloud and tossing my laptop back on the desk, I raced out to the freezer to collect the ice balls for the day’s fun. At least, I hoped it would be fun. I hadn’t pulled all-nighters in a while and the only thing keeping me going was the thought that I got to pelt Ransom with ice. He was acting weird. Or maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.
In the kitchen, I started some strong coffee. Then I pulled out a container of ice and some new ice I didn’t remember making. Did Ransom really freeze more ice for me to throw at him? So weird.
Popping them from their forms, I made quick work of it, then stuck them back in the freezer until we were ready to go. I texted Molly while I waited for coffee.
Me: You up?
Molly: Hell, yeah
Me: I’m so excited to throw ice at him!
Molly: Me too!
Me: Ransom’s not out yet, but I’m making coffee. Be there in maybe 20 minutes.
Molly: I’ll be watching for you.
