“Do you know what’s going on?” a womanasked.
He lowered the camera and found himself looking up into a pair of big, angry blue eyes set in a strikingly beautiful face—high cheekbones, a little, upturned nose, a full mouth. “I’m with the DenverIndepend—”
“Did something happen to Andy?” Red hair ruffled in thewind.
Joaquin got to his feet. “You know the guy who lives in thatapartment?”
“Please answer myquestion.”
Her abruptness surprised Joaquin, but he could see the fear in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time someone had given him shit while he’d been on the job. People hated the media—until the moment they neededsomething.
“There’s nothing official yet. A neighbor heard gunshots and found the door open but no one at home. He thinks he saw bullet holes and shell casings in the shower stall. They’re calling it a possible homicide. I’msorry.”
The anger on her face melted into worry. “Thanks.”
She turned away from him, walked up to the barricade tape, and stood there watching, delicate fingers from one hand raised to her lips, distress obvious on her face. Beyond her, a member of the crime-scene investigation team stepped out onto the porch and began to dust forprints.
Joaquin saw hisshot.
He dropped to his knee once more, focused on the woman, letting the CSI guy blur in the background, blue and red light from the police overheads bouncing off the apartment’s windows, yellow tape cutting through the center. He took a dozen shots, checked them, then shot a few more to be confident he’d gotten it. He stood, scrolled through the images, and found a few that wouldwork.
Now all he needed was the woman’sname.
He walked up to her, reluctant to intrude into her personal space when she was clearly upset. “Hey, I’m really sorry. I hope this is all a big misunderstanding and they find your friend safe andsound.”
Stranger things hadhappened.
She didn’t bother to look at him. “Thanks.”
“Can I get yourname?”
Her head snapped around, surprise and fury on her face. “Did you photograph me? I didn’t give you permission to dothat.”
“I don’t need permission. You’re on a public street,so—”
“God, I hate photojournalists. You show up at the scene of other people’s misery looking for the shot that will land your name on the front page. You don’t really care what’s happening topeople.”
“Whoa! You don’t know how I feel or what I’m thinking.” Joaquin knew she was upset, but that didn’t mean he had to take this. “It’s my job to report news. You can give me your name or not, but the photo will stillrun.”
She looked as if she were about to tell him to go to hell. Then the anger seemed to drain from her. “Mia Starr. S-T-A-R-R.”
Joaquin jotted that down in his notebook. “Thanks, Ms. Starr. Despite what you think, I am sorrythat—”
“It was her! I saw her walk up to Andy’s door just a few hoursago.”
A shout interrupted Joaquin, and he looked over to see a man in jeans and a T-shirt—the upstairs neighbor?—standing next to a cop, his finger pointed at Ms.Starr.
* * *
“She’s the one!I heard him shouting ather!”
Every head on the street turned Mia’sway.
She raised her chin. “Yes, I washere.”
The police officer walked toward her and raised the barricade tape. “Ma’am, could we ask you a fewquestions?”
Mia had nothing to hide. “Sure.”