“Detectives? More than one?”
“Yes, two.”
“I’ll come right down.” She turned to Fatima. “If they’re looking for witnesses, I haven’t seen a damn thing.” She pulled her hair back in a ponytail and hurried on downstairs.
The men were waiting at the security desk. The taller was dark and heavy set, the shorter red-haired and wiry. Their expressions were impossible to read, instantly making her uneasy. “May I see your credentials, please?”
“Sergeant Robles,” the taller man said, and both showed their badges. “This is my partner, Guillermo Mesa. We have a few questions for you. It won’t take much of your time.”
Ana would rather not i
nvite them into her home. “We have a conference room. Let’s use it. I’m curious as to why you’d want to see me, but we needn’t involve anyone else who lives here. Is the room free, Henry?”
“Yes, it is. Do you want coffee?”
The detectives shook their heads. “No, thank you, Henry.” She led them down the hallway, past the elevators to the conference room. It was furnished with the requisite long table and ten comfortably padded chairs. A wall of windows lit the room. She waited for the men to enter and then propped open the door. She took the chair at the end of the table, and they pulled up chairs on either side. Uneasy, she folded her hands in her lap. “Well?”
Robles leaned toward her. “Do you have any idea why we’re here, Miss Santillan?”
She looked between them, but there were no clues in their solemn expressions. “Absolutely none. I’ve not forgotten to pay any traffic fines, have I?”
Mesa’s voice was high and sharp. “There’s no humor in this situation.”
“What situation?” she asked again. “I’ve no idea why you’re here.”
Mesa’s pale blue eyes narrowed in an accusing stare. “Jaime Campos has been murdered. It’s in today’s papers.”
Shocked, Ana sat up straight. “I haven’t read the paper yet. Jaime Campos, the photographer?”
Robles nodded. “I believe you worked with him often.”
Sickened by their news, she leaned away from them and sank deeper into her chair. “Sometimes, not often. We worked together with Galen Salazar on Mallorca week before last. He was a terrific fashion photographer with some war experience.”
Mesa tapped his nails on the table. “You knew he was working on an exhibit of his art photography?”
With no reason to deny it, she answered truthfully. “He told me about it, but I wasn’t interested. Do you think it had something to do with his death?”
“You’ve complimented his work. Why didn’t the project interest you?” Mesa continued.
With a near constant frown, his sharp features gave him a ratlike appearance. She could almost see his nose twitch. She took a deep breath to dispel the image. “I model haute couture, gentlemen. I don’t do nudes.”
Robles opened a folder and laid an 8x10 photo in front of her. “How do you explain this?”
Ana picked it up and studied it closely. It was a frontal nude of a slender woman in a brazen pose with legs spread wide and hands on hips. “He’s Photoshopped my head onto someone else’s body. This isn’t me.”
Mesa glanced at his partner. “So you wouldn’t have wanted to see it included in his exhibit?”
She wondered if they were being deliberately dense. “He may have played around with his photos, but he wouldn’t have used something as obviously inauthentic as this.”
“Why not? Would you have sued him?” Robles asked.
She handed the photo back to them. “He wouldn’t have used it because it would have harmed his professional reputation immeasurably,” she stressed. “This is something a paparazzo would fabricate and sell to the tabloids. I’ve no idea who might want Jaime dead, and if you’ve no other questions, I’d like to go.”
“We have a few more,” Mesa answered, his faint smile sliding into a smirk. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Here. I usually don’t work on the weekends, and I enjoy relaxing at home.”
“Did you have any guests?” Robles inquired.