Kathryn Lilley - Makeovers Can Be Murder

″No problem, Roe. What′ve you got?″ I was already turning over to click on the bedside lamp. The sudden burst of activity disturbed Elfie, who′d been curled up in a warm, sleeping lump at my feet. She lifted her head and gave me an offended glare.

″There′s been a carjacking-the second one this week. This time it was on the good side of town, near the Hilton,″ Roe said in her usual rat-a-tat delivery style. ″The victim is still at the scene. Cops are already there; ambulance is on the way.″

″Where should I meet the crew?″ I asked her.

″You don′t have to; I′ve already sent another reporter to cover it. Here′s why I′m calling you…″ Roe downshifted long enough to take a breath. ″The victim just called here on the studio line. She was asking for you by name. It was a girl; she sounded really young. Her name′s Shaina Miller? She claims to know you but didn′t have your number.″

″Shaina Miller?″ For a moment, the name drew a blank in my sleep-fogged brain. Then it clicked. ″You mean Jana Miller′s daughter? I′ve never met Shaina, but I know who she is. Where′s her mother? Where′s Jana?″

″I didn′t hear anything about a Jana. This girl, Shaina, was hysterical, and then we got cut off. I think the cops took the phone,″ Roe said. ″This whole thing′s a little off script for me. Are you going down there?″

″On my way.″ With my free hand, I stripped off my sleep shirt, then glanced around the bedroom for something to throw on. My eyes fell on a pair of ancient navy sweats that were draped over my stationary bicycle as a kind of permanent exercise bunting. They were seriously shlum padinka, as Oprah would say, but I didn′t have time to worry about it.

″Who′s covering the carjacking story?″ I asked Roe.

″Your favorite show horse.″

″Oh, no. You mean Lainey?″

″Yeah, she′s on call. And here′s some more good news-it′s raining like hell outside.″

This time, I didn′t bother to stifle my groan.

The predawn scene that morning looked like many I′d covered in the past: police units stopped at crazy angles at the four points of an intersection, strobe lights throbbing through the mizzle; a luxury sedan-a Mercedes SL-that had its nose wrapped around a light pole; and under a dripping rain hood, peering through the cracked-open window of my Z4, a traffic cop who looked like he′d rather be walking the day beat.

″Lady, why didn′t you pay attention to my signal?″ Spittle blended with the rain runoff from the patrolman′s hood. ″It meant ′turn this damned car around and head the other way!′″

Lowering the window some more, I said, ″I′m a friend of Shaina Miller. She asked for me. I′m Kate Gallagher, and I′m also a reporter for Channel Twelve. But I′m here as a personal friend for her, not professionally.″

The cop blinked. Then grunted. ″Stand by right here.″

As my message got passed up a daisy chain of uniforms, I looked around for Jana or any young girl who might be her daughter, Shaina. But other than the emergency workers, there was no one in sight.

The message finally reached a cluster of emergency workers who stood huddled at the far side of the intersection. They were standing in a semicircle around a blue tarp that three patrolmen had spread out and were holding aloft with their hands several feet above the pavement, as if trying to protect the ground from the rain. A man in a dark rain poncho was half kneeling and shining a torchlight down at something on the asphalt. I couldn′t see what he was looking at.

Another man in rain gear leaned away from the others and gave me a come on over wave. It was Detective Luke Petronella, a colleague of Jonathan′s.

In Homicide.

Ignoring the traffic cop, I abandoned the car. Below my reporter′s trench coat, my feet hit a puddle and instantly got drenched. The bottoms of my sweatpants sagged around my ankles as I jogged toward Luke.

The detective hurried forward to intercept me before I could reach the nucleus of the activity.

″ Luke? Why are you here? What′s going on?″ I could feel the pressure of the next horrible question in my eyes.

That′s when I caught my first glimpse of a still white form on the pavement, underneath the tent of blue plastic that the patrol cops were holding up. It was a woman′s tiny form. I couldn′t see her head, which was covered in a sheet. Her arms and legs were crumpled and spread akimbo across the pavement, bent at weird angles like a doll that had been flung from a speeding car. A pair of tanned legs protruded from below the covering. She was wearing familiar-looking white slides-one of them hanging askew off a twisted ankle-and matching Bermuda shorts. They looked like my friend Jana′s shoes and shorts.

Confusion set in. I took a lurching step back. At the same time my mind scrambled for a way to reject what I was seeing.

″ No , Luke.″ My hand flew up to cover my mouth. ″That can′t be Jana Miller. Please tell me that′s not my friend.″

Through the slit in his rain gear, Luke reached for my hand. ″I′m sorry, Kate,″ he said. ″A car jacker jumped her car when she was driving with her daughter. She managed to push her daughter out about a quarter mile from here, then apparently she fought with the guy until he plowed into that light pole over there. Then he must′ve gotten mad and pumped two bullets into the side of her head. She had no chance.″

It′s Jana. She′s dead. Jana. Is. Dead.

Each awful word drove a furrow from one side of my brain to the other, until it crashed against the confines of my skull. For a moment I couldn′t suck in any air-the pressure inside my chest cavity had escaped with a sudden release of breath. Bending over at the waist, I hung my head low and tried to recoup some precious oxygen. It felt as if a chunk of cement was blocking my throat, preventing airflow.

Luke placed his arm under my elbow. Like an iron T beam, for a moment his support was all that held me steady.

With my head still hanging near my knees, I craned my neck up to look at Jana again. The sight of her body lying on the pavement-soaked through despite the protective tarp that the patrolmen were holding above her-practically drove me into a frenzy.

″Why don′t they put her into an ambulance now, Luke?″ I pleaded with him, uncomfortably aware that my tone sounded nearly hysterical. ″She′s getting all soaked and cold down there on the ground. She shouldn′t be put through this.″

″Kate, there′s nothing we can do for her anymore, ″ Luke said. ″My job now is to find who did this and put him in jail. Please let me call in a grief counselor for you.″ His normally brash, sarcastic voice was unusually gentle. I knew I was seeing his homicide-cop bedside manner.

″I know, Luke.″

Hold on, Kate; the words flooded through my ear canal. It sounded like Jana′s voice, as if she′d just stood up and shouted at me. Hold on, dammit. My daughter needs you right now.

It took a huge effort to straighten up. ″Where′s Jana′s daughter, Shaina? My studio told me she called from here.″ My voice sounded strange and flat in my ears. But at least I′d stopped groping for air.