The Virgin Mistress. Linda Turner

have to check with them.” Pulling out the list Joe had given him his first day in town, Austin quickly checked to make sure he had the rest of the band members’ names and addresses, then offered his hand. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

      “No problem,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t do anything.”

      He had to get back to work or Austin would have told him that every person he eliminated from the list of possible suspects led him that much closer to the shooter. It was part of the job, and, unfortunately, the most tedious part. Still, it had to be done. Resigned, he checked the list again and headed for the opposite side of town.

      The address was classy. There was no other way to describe the gated condominium on the beach where Chester Phillips lived. Conservative and sophisticated, in an area of town that appealed to old money, it wasn’t the kind of place Austin had expected the bass player of a rock band to be living.

      “I’m looking for Chester Phillips,” he told the security guard at the gate. “I need to talk to him about a party he worked last weekend.”

      “He’s not home.”

      “I could wait.”

      When the guard just looked at him, Austin sighed. He should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. “Never mind. I’ll come back later.”

      Disgusted, he went looking for Luke and Greg, the two other band members, but he didn’t get very far there, either. It took most of the afternoon to track down Luke on the golf course at a nearby country club. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to offer about the night of the shooting. He was inside at the buffet line when the shot rang out. By the time he made his way outside, all he saw was most of the crowd on the ground with their heads covered.