Page 19 of 2045 Clementine Lane: Catherine

“We’re required to record all of our interviews,” Aiden Flint replies. “We can conduct a written interview if you’d prefer?”

I look at Joan. “You’re fine with audio-visual,” she replies without hesitation.

“The date is June twelfth, two thousand eight. Time: Twelve-twenty p.m.” Without hesitation, Aiden Flint continues, “Could you please state your name and address for the record?”

“Catherine Beauchamp. Two-zero-four-five Clementine Lane, Los Feliz.” My fingers begin a restless tap on my thigh.

“Miss Beauchamp, do you understand that this interview is being recorded?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” He meets my eyes again and smiles kindly. “Miss Beauchamp, what was your relationship with Elizabeth York?”

“We were roommates.”

“At two-zero-four-five Clementine Lane?”

“Yes.”

“Could you state who else lives with you at that address?”

“Ah, Toni-…Antoinette Rupetta, Lyla Kaspar, and Juliette Dorn.”

“Do you own the property?”

“No.”

Seeing my obvious hesitation, he clarifies, “Who does own the property?”

“Antoinette.”

“Okay.” He nods over to Detective Sanchez, who is jotting down notes. “Miss Beauchamp, what is it that you do for employment?”

I do not reply.

It is Joan who says, “Ms. Beauchamp is employed as an escort by the Antoinette Rupetta Escort Agency. The Agency is licensed and operated as an Escort Bureau pursuant to the City of Los Angeles Municipal Code section one zero three, subsection one zero seven, effective nineteen-fifty-eight.”

The detective does not visibly react. He is calm, friendly even. I feel no judgment when he looks at me. “Do you have your Board-issued identification card on you?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?” When I hesitate, he adds, “To take down your license number.”

“Of course.” Opening my purse, I sift through the mess of bric-a-brac, keeping the top open just enough for my view so that nobody else can see the condoms, cash, and even my lipstick-sized vibrator.

I pull my ID out with an awkward jerk on my wrist, and when I hand it to Aiden Flint, he smiles. Too disarmed by the contents of my purse to act normal, I blush and try my best to pull my lips into something that looks equal parts calm and polite. But the smile feels too tight, too forced.

Aiden Flint does not look at the small card; his eyes remain focused on my face. He passes it to Detective Sanchez, who quickly jots down the identification number before handing it back to me.

Lieutenant Flint clears his throat and yanks at his tie. “Miss Beauchamp, w-”

“Catherine.” I blurt, suddenly nervous. “Please call me Catherine.” My voice comes out breathless and unsure. My hands tremble, and I clasp them in my lap beneath the table. A cold trickle of sweat licks down my spine.

“Catherine.” The lieutenant says my name softly as if he can sense that I’m seconds away from bolting, and when he asks his next question, his tone is calm and kind. “For the record, could you state where you were last night? Between the hours of ten p.m. and three a.m.?”

“I was home alone,” I say, thinking back. “It was my turn to stay in-”

Joan clears her voice, cutting me off. “I don’t see the relevance. My client is not a suspect.”

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