The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart Page B

good.”
    â€œWe owe it to each other to give it another try.”
    Melanie glanced over at the door as a man came in. “That’s him,” she whispered, moving instantly into reporter mode. “He said he’d be wearing an Oakland Raider’s cap.” Rising from her chair, she slipped a tape recorder out of her briefcase and said, “I won’t be long. Wait for me, okay?”
    As she walked over to him, Cordelia tried to get a look at his face, but with so little light in the bar, it was impossible. They disappeared outside, leaving Cordelia alone with nothing but Melanie’s beer and her briefcase. She pulled the glass in front of her and inspected the room.
    Five minutes went by. Then ten. Fifteen minutes later she was still waiting and the beer was gone. She was about to go outside and see if she could hurry things along when she heard the sound of an approaching siren. Then another. Several of the customers raced to the windows to look outside. With a bunch of squirming bodies blocking her line of sight, Cordelia couldn’t see very much, except for the reflected flashing lights from the cruisers as they sped past.
    A moment later, a woman stumbled in through the glut of curiosity seekers about to head out the door. “There’s a woman in the parking lot who’s down on the ground,” she gasped. “I think she’s hurt.”
    Cordelia grabbed the briefcase and flew off her chair, shoving her way through the crowd. Once outside, she rushed around to the back lot, but halfway there a cop blocked her way.
    â€œBack up, lady. Let us do our job.”
    â€œI think that might be a friend of mine. Is it a woman?” She described Melanie, what she was wearing, what she looked like.
    Right then, a fight broke out between two of the bar patrons.
    â€œStay here. I’ll be back,” said the cop, racing over to break up the scuffle.
    â€œForget that,” said Cordelia, skirting around one of the parked squad cars. Just as she broke through a gawker jam, she was stopped again, this time by a cop with a baton. “This is a crime scene. Nobody allowed in.” Another cop was winding yellow tape around the perimeter. People were shouting. Cordelia stood on her tiptoes and searched the crowd, but Melanie was nowhere to be found.
    â€œI know the victim!” she shouted. “She’s my girlfriend!”
    A couple of the biker types turned to stare at her, but the cops were busy with crowd control. “You’ve got to listen to me,” she yelled.
    The longer she stood there, helpless in the growing mass of onlookers, the more frantic she became. “I am Cordelia M. Thorn!” she shouted. It was her trump card. She assumed the very mention of her name could stop a roaring locomotive.
    But nobody seemed interested.
    A man oozed up to her and stuck out his hand. “You’re that theater director, right?” He eyed her for a second, then said, “Am I wrong, or do you look different than you used to?”
    â€œI am a
work
in
progress.”
    â€œWhat?” He couldn’t hear her over all the shouting.
    â€œI cut my hair!”
    â€œI liked it the old way better.”
    â€œEveryone’s a critic,” she snarled. Backing her way through the great honking gaggle, she reached the street. “Melanie?” she hollered, stomping her foot. “If you’re out here, you better let me know right now, because if you don’t, I’m gonna have a heart attack right here in the friggin’ street!”
    Nothing.
    â€œMelanie!”
    As she surveyed the scene, her eyes locked on the glowingneon pyramid high atop the Xanadu Club less than a block away. That was it. Jane would know what to do. Jane always knew what to do. Picking up the hem of her evening gown, she rushed down the sidewalk toward the building.
    Â 
    Jane was working at her desk in her upstairs office when Cordelia burst in.
    â€œYou