From the moment she uploaded that video, hers had become the go-to blog for celebrity junkies. The Madison-Ryan-Aster-Tommy scandal was like catnip to them. They couldn’t get enough. Then again, the scandal had also ensured that Ira’s clubs remained a permanent fixture in the twenty-four-hour news cycle, with Night for Night and the Vesper becoming makeshift shrines to Madison as people traveled from far away to pay homage to the last known whereabouts of their favorite teen star.
Tommy returned his focus to Larsen. It was never a good idea to let the mind drift for too long. “I don’t believe she’s dead.” He tried another sip of coffee. It was cold, brutally bitter, but the initial shock to the taste buds had faded, so he chased it with another. “And if she’s not dead, then I couldn’t possibly be the last person to have seen her.”
“Huh. You make an interesting point.” Detective Larsen gazed into the distance as though he was actually considering it, but Tommy recognized a con job when he saw one. “Still, in this modern age of Instagram, selfies, YouTube, cable news, and bloggers so hopped up on caffeine they no longer sleep, you’d think that if someone had seen Madison since you, we’d have some sort of photographic proof, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you think that?”
Tommy shrugged and swirled his coffee, watching the light-brown sludge run up and down the sides of his mug. “I told you what I think. My position stands.”
“Well, then.” Detective Larsen tipped back in his seat, his chair rocking precariously. If he was trying to set Tommy off balance, he’d already failed. Tommy couldn’t care less if he crashed and cracked his head. Tommy would make sure to finish his coffee; then maybe he’d consider calling for help. “You seem pretty confident about your position. Makes me think you might know more than you let on. What gives, Tommy? Is there something you haven’t told us? Because if it’s time you’re worried about, I got all night. You keeping Madison alive somewhere?”
Tommy squinted in confusion. Did they honestly believe he was capable of kidnapping Madison Brooks and holding her hostage?
“Did you kiss her?” Larsen slammed the seat forward and leaned so far across the table his face was just inches from Tommy’s. Close enough to take in a constellation of clogged pores and renegade eyebrow hairs.
Tommy winced and edged back in his seat. Larsen’s breath stank of whatever foul thing he’d eaten for lunch, and he hated the way the detective’s eyes went all beady on his. Like he wanted the details not just for the investigation but so he could store the mental image in his personal spank bank. Tommy shook his head, swiped a hand over his face. His body language was all wrong. Too fidgety. Made him look guilty. But he wasn’t guilty. Why couldn’t they see that? Why the hell was he still in this room?
“Did you kiss her? Did you take her to a back room and try to have your way with her?”
“What the fu—” Tommy frowned. “What kind of perverted bullshit is this?” He finally pulled the brakes on his tongue when he saw the way Larsen leered at him with his crinkly eyes and puffed-out cheeks, looking as though Tommy had just given him a beautiful gift, which he had. He’d shown anger—enough to hint at a possible dark side. Cops lived for those moments, and Tommy had walked right into the trap.
“It’s not bullshit,” Larsen said. “So maybe you should get serious and try answering the questions I ask you.”
Tommy took a deep breath and focused on the large rectangular mirror before him, which, according to every cop show he’d ever seen, allowed whoever stood on its other side to study him without being seen. Speaking to that person, whoever they might be, he raised his voice, and said. “Yeah, I kissed her.”
“And . . .”
Larsen’s brows wiggled in a way that made Tommy sick, but determined not to show it, he said, “And . . . nothing.” He’d tried to keep it neutral, but his voice gave him away. He was completely annoyed, and it was starting to show. Still, what he’d experienced with Madison was far more meaningful than some sloppy adolescent grope session. It was . . .
“So tell me about the black wristbands.”
Tommy snapped to attention. How the hell had he known about that?
“You know, I gotta admit, I was a late adapter when it came to the social networks. I mean, who wants to keep up with all the people you couldn’t stand in high school, right?” He looked at Tommy as though waiting for him to agree, and when he didn’t, he went on to say, “And yet, now that I’ve joined the modern world, I find them incredibly useful.” He stared hard at Tommy, purposely pausing for a few awkward beats. “According to Instagram, you have a reputation for looking the other way when it comes to underage drinking.”
Tommy relaxed. Luckily, he’d been smart enough to halt that particular practice just after Layla’s story broke and the cops started snooping around. It was old news. Couldn’t be proved. He had nothing to worry about.
“I’m hardly responsible for the crap people post on the net.” He shrugged like he meant it.
“Maybe so . . . but those black wristbands are specific to the Vesper. Most of those kids taking selfies—is that what you’re calling them—selfies?”
Tommy closed his eyes to keep from rolling them in plain sight. Larsen acted like he was a computer-illiterate octogenarian when he was probably somewhere in his mid-to late thirties. The whole thing was ridiculous.
“Anyway, most of these kids taking selfies with these black wristbands are under twenty-one. And I’m telling you, there are hundreds of these pics, maybe even a thousand. I lost count. What I’m wondering is—were you aware of that?”
Tommy gulped. Surely he hadn’t given away that many—had he? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He struggled to keep his voice steady, even. He’d revealed too much already.
Larsen shrugged as though the topic was dead, but Tommy knew it was anything but. “Still, it’s interesting how you’ve taken this terrible tragedy involving a girl you claim to care for and made it work for you. I like to keep up on celebrity culture by reading the blogs and the tabloids. Helps me do my job, seeing as most of those folks live in this town. From what I’ve gathered, you’ve managed to give a sizable number of interviews in a short time. You’ve spoken to People, TMZ, and US Weekly, to name a few. You moved to LA to break in as a musician, right?”
Tommy stared at him stone-faced, refusing to confirm or deny.
“Must’ve been disappointing to uproot yourself all the way from Oklahoma only to end up working at Farrington’s Vintage Guitar, and even then you got fired. Luckily, you managed to rebound with this gig for Ira Redman, but really, how long do you expect that to last?”
“Yeah, I get it.” Tommy met his gaze. “You did your homework. You know all about me.”
“Clearly I don’t know all about you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you? Still, it’s impressive how quickly you’ve managed to position yourself.”
Tommy was seething but kept it under wraps.
“I can tell you’ve done an ace job using your connection to Madison Brooks to lure in big crowds and get a leg up on your competitors. According to your interviews, you knew Madison far better than you let on. You spoke of her in almost lyrical terms, but when asked if you kissed her—what was it you said?” He leaned so close Tommy could feel Larsen’s breath hit his cheek like a slap. “Real men don’t tell.” He pushed away, let out a loud, guttural laugh. “Real men don’t tell.” He slammed the desk, shook his head. “And they say chivalry is dead. I especially liked the way you shot the camera a look that hinted otherwise. Hit it outta the park. The fans, the haters, they can’t get enough. Executed in true Hollywood fashion, wouldn’t you agree?”