The Porn Identity

Chapter 16

David Howell was a very private man. I ran a full background Sunday morning at Taste Teas. I left the laptop in my office doing its magic while I worked up front. Would have put it on a nearby counter but people have a thing about people handling their food and a filthy laptop at the same time, I guess. When I got my first break, I went to check the results.

David Howell was born right here in the River City to some rich man who built fancy apartment complexes. After getting his million-dollar inheritance at the ripe old age of twenty-five he invested it in his own real estate endeavors and blahdy-blahdy—he was a rich man with an outstanding reputation. Everything I found on him was like a fantasy of the American Dream. He was rich, Christian, married to a beautiful woman with three beautiful kids, a successful businessman, etcetera. Yawn. There wasn't even so much as a parking ticket in this dude's bio.

There's no way in hell you can go forty something years of life without getting a little dirty—unless you're a hermit or a saint. And he was neither.

If I was going to get anywhere with David, I needed an assist. It killed me but I called Emily Shields.

"Do you know David Howell?" I asked when she picked up the phone.

"Yeah, I know of him. Why?"

"He's my other suspect."

"Seriously?" Her voice pitched up a couple octaves. "That's funny cause they're friends."

Of course, they are. "Makes sense. They run in the same circles."

"You know, he was supposed to be at the Leukemia Ball that night, but he and his wife didn't show up."

That was the night Noah was killed... "David might be my murderer."

"What about Kelli?"

"She's still my number one suspect but David's looking more suspicious the more I learn about him." Or rather, don't learn about him.

"You know, they're having another fundraising gala tonight."

I sighed. "They don't have enough money yet?"

"There's never enough money for this crowd." She cleared her throat and her voice dropped to an adult tone again. "Anyway, they have a campaign fundraiser thing tonight and I've been assigned to cover it."

"And you can get me in?"

"Maybe...I need to make a couple of calls but be on standby." I kept myself busy for about forty-five minutes before she called back. "You're in." She gave me the time, place, and dress code.

Back at home I went straight for the closet. I had just the dress for the occasion: a little-worn black number that came down to the knees and up to the clavicle. It wasn't one of my favorites to be honest. It was a sheath dress with no flare or embellishments. So, when I wore it, I looked like a plain black twig. Without a defined cinch at the waist it appeared as though I had no...waist, hips, ass...abysmal, but this wasn't a matchmaking event or a beauty pageant so I could just get over myself.

I threw it on—it was snugger than I remembered—then wrestled my hair into a tasteful high bun and put on an acceptable amount of makeup. With my last ten minute's I grabbed the nail polish remover and cleaned the chipped polish completely from my nails.

I gave myself a quick once over in the mirror, satisfied that I looked perfectly underwhelming and thus able to blend in with the media, then threw on a pair of black pumps.

On the way out I grabbed my little black shoulder bag and threw in my wallet, keys, audio recorder, pepper spray, and pocketknife, of course. Then, I was on my way.