photographs Nevin had provided for me. Again.
I nodded, confirming something to myself. “Good work, kiddo,” I told myself, just like Stan would have if he were there. In fact, he would have been proud of me. I’d refused to let myself jump to conclusions, checking and rechecking all the references and all the facts before I made up my mind, even though I’d been tempted to do just that the moment I saw the button.
All along, I suspected it was what we in the button biz call a studio button, that is, a button made in limited quantities and not by a factory or a manufacturer, but by an artist. Studio buttons aren’t really even intended to go on clothing. Most of them are snapped up by collectors.
Trouble is, the style and craftsmanship of this studio button didn’t ring any bells.
I rifled through the photographs the police had taken, including the one I’d insisted on that showed the back side of the button. “No artist’s signature, no marking, nothing to indicate who made it or where it came from.”
I propped my elbows on the table and cradled my chin in my hands. If I was going to figure out where the button came from and—more importantly—why it was on the floor right where Kate’s body had been found, I was going to need more to go on. It was late, and unlike a certain button dealer who pretty much lived and breathed her business, most of the other dealers and collectors I knew had actual lives. It was too late to call them, and I promised myself I’d do it in the morning. For now, all I could do was wonder. About the button and its maker. About whoever had brought it to the shop.
About those suspects Stan had mentioned.
Mike Homolka.
Brina, my first and now my former employee.
Dr. Levine.
Why any of them would have the button was as much of a mystery as why it had ended up being left with Kate’s body.
“And none of it’s getting me anywhere,” I mumbled to myself. Right before my cell phone rang.
I would have kept on mumbling and let the call go to voice mail, but as far as I knew, nobody but friends had the number. Whispering a silent prayer that I hadn’t, in a moment of weakness, given it to Brina, I answered.
“Josie, is that you?” I barely recognized Hugh’s voice. But then, he was sobbing. “Josie, baby girl, I need to talk to you. Now. Josie . . .” He gulped. “You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate, see, and . . .” He let go a shaky breath. “I think I did something really, really stupid.”
Chapter Seven
I WAS CARDED AT THE FRONT DESK OF HUGH’S LUXURY hotel and again outside the elevator that was for the sole use of those staying in its priciest suites. Up on the thirty-first floor, my ID was checked once more, this time by a strapping guy in a dark suit who walked me to a set of double doors and handed me off to a trim and efficient-looking woman in black who introduced herself as Lucia. She told me to have a seat and that Hugh would be with me in a moment. Even though it was after ten o’clock, Lucia didn’t seem fazed by my visit, and I imagined I knew why; I pictured Hugh’s opinion of me in neon lights, flashing over my head.
Good ol’ Josie—reliable, dependable, predictable.
No wonder Lucia wasn’t surprised. If she knew that much, I figured she also knew that things had always been this way between Hugh and me, even back in college. He needed help—with anything from homework to laundry—and I pitched in. At first, it was because I had an aching crush on Hugh and I was hoping to get him to notice me. But even a button nerd is not completely dense. It didn’t take longer than the first semester for me to realize I was out of his league. Hugh liked his women tall, busty, and gorgeous. I was none of those things, but he liked me, anyway. As a friend. A friend who could get things done.
Good ol’ Josie always pitched in, and always without a complaint.
Only this time . . .
Lucia excused herself, and waiting for
I nodded, confirming something to myself. “Good work, kiddo,” I told myself, just like Stan would have if he were there. In fact, he would have been proud of me. I’d refused to let myself jump to conclusions, checking and rechecking all the references and all the facts before I made up my mind, even though I’d been tempted to do just that the moment I saw the button.
All along, I suspected it was what we in the button biz call a studio button, that is, a button made in limited quantities and not by a factory or a manufacturer, but by an artist. Studio buttons aren’t really even intended to go on clothing. Most of them are snapped up by collectors.
Trouble is, the style and craftsmanship of this studio button didn’t ring any bells.
I rifled through the photographs the police had taken, including the one I’d insisted on that showed the back side of the button. “No artist’s signature, no marking, nothing to indicate who made it or where it came from.”
I propped my elbows on the table and cradled my chin in my hands. If I was going to figure out where the button came from and—more importantly—why it was on the floor right where Kate’s body had been found, I was going to need more to go on. It was late, and unlike a certain button dealer who pretty much lived and breathed her business, most of the other dealers and collectors I knew had actual lives. It was too late to call them, and I promised myself I’d do it in the morning. For now, all I could do was wonder. About the button and its maker. About whoever had brought it to the shop.
About those suspects Stan had mentioned.
Mike Homolka.
Brina, my first and now my former employee.
Dr. Levine.
Why any of them would have the button was as much of a mystery as why it had ended up being left with Kate’s body.
“And none of it’s getting me anywhere,” I mumbled to myself. Right before my cell phone rang.
I would have kept on mumbling and let the call go to voice mail, but as far as I knew, nobody but friends had the number. Whispering a silent prayer that I hadn’t, in a moment of weakness, given it to Brina, I answered.
“Josie, is that you?” I barely recognized Hugh’s voice. But then, he was sobbing. “Josie, baby girl, I need to talk to you. Now. Josie . . .” He gulped. “You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate, see, and . . .” He let go a shaky breath. “I think I did something really, really stupid.”
Chapter Seven
I WAS CARDED AT THE FRONT DESK OF HUGH’S LUXURY hotel and again outside the elevator that was for the sole use of those staying in its priciest suites. Up on the thirty-first floor, my ID was checked once more, this time by a strapping guy in a dark suit who walked me to a set of double doors and handed me off to a trim and efficient-looking woman in black who introduced herself as Lucia. She told me to have a seat and that Hugh would be with me in a moment. Even though it was after ten o’clock, Lucia didn’t seem fazed by my visit, and I imagined I knew why; I pictured Hugh’s opinion of me in neon lights, flashing over my head.
Good ol’ Josie—reliable, dependable, predictable.
No wonder Lucia wasn’t surprised. If she knew that much, I figured she also knew that things had always been this way between Hugh and me, even back in college. He needed help—with anything from homework to laundry—and I pitched in. At first, it was because I had an aching crush on Hugh and I was hoping to get him to notice me. But even a button nerd is not completely dense. It didn’t take longer than the first semester for me to realize I was out of his league. Hugh liked his women tall, busty, and gorgeous. I was none of those things, but he liked me, anyway. As a friend. A friend who could get things done.
Good ol’ Josie always pitched in, and always without a complaint.
Only this time . . .
Lucia excused herself, and waiting for
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