Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [56]
After a few minutes, the office door opened and my sister and Ahmad came out. “U”, as I liked to call her to remind her that someone hadn’t forgotten where she came from, motioned to a uniformed officer further up the hallway. He looked all of twenty years old and scrambled to do my sister’s bidding.
“We are going to transport the witness to the station to take a formal statement,” she told the cadet. “Until then, make sure no one talks to her.”
She looked right at me when she said that, then added: “Jordan, where can we chat?”
We walked down the corridor into another meeting space, this one small, and probably more importantly to my sister, unoccupied. U motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs, but I chose to lean against the meeting table instead. No way was she going to make me feel like a suspect by towering over me during questioning.
“So,” my sister said, “what do you know?”
“I know that Miles is laying dead in a box full of hair. Other than that, you probably know more than I do.”
“I doubt that, Jordan. You looked like you were deep in conversation with the witness when we arrived.”
“Said witness has a name,” I replied, crossing my arms. “All Diana said was that she was going to get some hair for her boss and that’s when she found Miles. If I knew more, I’d tell you more.”
“Look, Jordy,” my sister said, reverting to my childhood nickname, “we may need your help with this one. You know all the players here and I suspect that this thing with Miles was personal. The uniforms say he still has his wallet on him so we can rule out robbery. And besides, it would be more likely that we would be dealing with a pickpocket with a crowd this size than a robber who would take the chance on knifing someone in a convention center filled with people. Plus, he was stabbed with a pair of scissors that had some type of ivory inlay on the handles. Very high-end. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Miles?”
“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the man could be a jerk,” I said. “He was a massive womanizer to start. And seeing as how he had poached clientele from just about every stylist in B-more, anyone here could have had a motive.”
“That’s why we need you to help us narrow down the field,” my sister said. “You are always up in everybody’s business so I’m sure you know if he’s been having problems with anyone lately.”
“First of all, I dislike the implication that I am nosy,” I sniffed. “It’s not my fault that people confide in me. I just have an air of trustworthiness that I exude.”
Ahmad stifled a laugh. I tried to give him my best dirty look, but was distracted by his gorgeousness.
“It might help if I could see the body,” I said, tapping my cheek as if I was speculating about something.
“Jordan,” my sister practically yelled, “this is not an episode of Murder, She Wrote. I am not going to have you traipsing all over a murder scene!”
“Look,” I huffed, “do you want my help or not? I promise I won’t go running through the blood and mess up your precious forensics. Maybe I’ll recognize the murder weapon or see something that might be out of the ordinary. I helped plan this whole event, in case you have forgotten!”
“Jordan might have a point,” Ahmad piped in. “She can’t do much damage if we are right there with her.”
I looked at him with a combination of gratitude for recognizing the value of my insight and irritation for his insinuation that I needed to be baby-sat.
“Let’s go,” my sister said, turning quickly and practically barreling out of the room.
Downstairs had turned into a bit of a madhouse with police swarming the area and everyone craning to see what was happening. Some young women I recognized