Marjorie Littleton

Marjorie Littleton
Sam's POV

Going to Rebecca, Lucy, and Cecilia's family to get information would get me nearer to a suspension. They could easily notify Alex or Captain James that I came, and then I would have trouble on my lap.
I decided to do most of my investigation online. Lucy and Cecilia looked to be very popular people individually. Only Rebecca was a bit of an introvert. While she lived her life in secrecy, the others lived for the public.
I sat in the driver's seat in the parking lot. My fingers flicked on the screen as I searched through Lucy and Cecilia's Facebook timelines online for whatever information I could find to lead me to Warden Karo's new target.
I scrolled through the multitudes of charity photos, photos with business associates, friends, and families, and some personal photos, as well as other information about what they did, who they visited, what their family was doing recently, and so many other things.
I continued to scroll lower and lower patiently, and soon I began to come across promising information. Thankfully, they had both been using their Facebook profiles for longer, so I began to hit on information about them from seven and eight years ago, when they were just daughters of upcoming politicians.
While Lucy seemed to have deleted most of the pictures and information from years ago, Cecilia kept it. I found pictures and posts of them being cheerleaders during their college days, wearing, just like the message from Warden Karo had said, red cheerleading skirts and tops.
I looked through the pictures of their cheerleading days, and I stumbled upon something. In a couple of pictures, Cecilia Rosewood, Lucy Callaghan, and Rebecca Griswold were with two other girls, and they called themselves BFFs. I scrolled through the pictures, trying to pinpoint the girl's identity from them. But they were all young then and a little different, so it was hard to place the faces.
I hit on one of the posts, having it open fully, and I tapped again on the names of those tags, and eight names popped out. It was Cecilia’s post, so those tagged were Lucy, Rebecca, a couple of boys’ names, and then the names of two other girls—Marjorie Littleton and Brenda Atwood.
Since it was unlikely the boys were involved in whatever was happening, the girls were my sure bet to uncovering who the last lady was. I googled the names one after another. Marjorie surprisingly was the daughter of the state’s chief of police, and when I looked up Brenda, she happened to be dead. She had died mysteriously in a swimming pool eight years ago, the same eight years Warden Karo talked about, and the same pool he referenced.
The puzzle pieces didn't need much thought to fit together now in my head. Lucy Callaghan, Cecilia Rosewood, Rebecca Griswold, and Marjorie Littleton had together murdered their friend Brenda Atwood, and Warden Karo had found out about it somehow after eight years, and then he decided to make their lives miserable because of it.
Since Brenda was dead, that made Marjorie Warden Karo’s next target. I looked more and discovered she was a CEO of a large beauty spa cum salon somewhere in the city. I started the engine then, steering the car out of the parking lot and into the road.
I drove around for a while until Google Maps eventually dropped me off just before the beauty spa and salon after thirty minutes of driving. I parked across the street from the opulent glass-fronted building. The name glowed in cursive gold letters across the façade, announcing it as Elysian Glow.
Considering this was no longer my case anymore, and that if Alex and Captain James found out I had gone out investigating the case, I could get suspended, going after Marjorie Littleton, daughter of the chief of police, was like diving headfirst into a lion’s den. But I had no choice. I had to go in. I was probably Marjorie's last hope of escaping death like her friends did. I sighed to get my nerves and mind all in order, and I pushed the glass double door, taking the first step into the Elysian Glow.
The place was like walking into another world. The air smelled of lavender and eucalyptus, and the marble floors reflected back the glow of the soft chandeliers above. Clients in silk robes drifted past, their hair bound and wrapped with white silk towels too. In such a setting and luxury that dripped around the place, I was as conspicuous as a fully dressed priest in a brothel. 
The clients' eyes darted to me, and so did the attendants', who were whispering to themselves, their interested gazes following me as I approached the reception desk. I showed my badge to the ginger-haired lady behind the desk. “Detective Sam, I need to speak with Miss Marjorie Littleton. It’s urgent.”
The receptionist faltered for a moment, then exchanged a nervous glance with a woman who walked from somewhere in the large hall, appearing at her side. She was sharp-featured, dressed immaculately in a navy blazer, and had the kind of eyes that calculated everything in a second flat, the same eyes that scrutinized me, taking me apart slowly.
“Detective,” she said smoothly, offering a polite but firm smile, the kind that said she doesn't have the time to entertain someone as unimportant as me. “I’m Clara Jennings, Miss Littleton’s personal assistant. I’m afraid she’s not available. You’ll need to schedule through her office.”
“I don’t have time for her office,” I returned, keeping my tone clipped but not confrontational. The last thing I wanted to do was piss anyone off, though I wished I could knock some manners into the proud P.A. “This concerns her safety.”
Clara's smile thinned. “Miss Littleton values her privacy above all else. If you insist, contact her lawyer. Good day.” she said, her tone final, like a judge's gavel. 
Before I could press further, she turned and vanished behind frosted glass doors, leaving me standing there like an uninvited guest at a country club. A very exclusive country club at that.
I knew better than to make a scene here. A long suspension was waiting for me if I did. Captain James wouldn’t fail to make it longer if he got more angry, and worse, I would have to deal with hours of continuous yelling from him.
I spun around on the spot, sweeping the place for somewhere to sit. I found a seat in the lounge, half-hidden behind a glossy stack of fashion magazines, and went for passing the time with the bitter patience of a hunter in the dark. My eyes drifted over every exit, every movement of the staff, though I didn't need to. For some reason they were also staring at me, much too much. I began to wonder if I truly did reek of poverty so much that even the attendants would turn me into a freak show or if they were just so shocked to see a police officer sitting around in their luxurious space.
Not long passed, and the doors to the inner areas of the salon eventually opened.
Marjorie Littleton stumbled out, but she looked nothing like her profile on the internet. No! There was no question about her beauty. In fact, that fits perfectly. It was something more. Something that defeated the high-class, proud, and cocky socialites the internet said she was. 
Her hair was tousled, her silk wrap crooked. Like her clients, she seemed to have been in the middle of getting a beauty massage or whatever the hell goes on with these walls before she was led out after being completely wasted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with a drunken glaze. A clumsy laugh escaped her lips, echoing far too loudly in the hushed spa atmosphere. 
Heads turned sharply to her, her staff, and her client, and hushed whispers sizzled through the spa like a curse. But there was something in their darting eyes and whispers that hinted that this wouldn't be the first time Marjorie would get this drunk.
I wasn't sympathetic to criminals, but I could understand what drove her to the bottle, having to give her body to a strange man and his pot-bellied friends just because she made a damning mistake eight years ago. But that was one thing about karma: it catches up. It has no fixed date, but it never fails to catch up.
Clara was at her side, her polished composure gone, replaced by the frantic concern of someone trying to prevent a public scandal—though one already past the stage of prevention. She kept an arm hooked tightly under Marjorie’s, practically dragging her across the marble floor for the door.
“Come on, Miss Littleton,” Clara whispered, the strain audible in her voice. “Let’s get you into the car.”
Marjorie mumbled something unintelligible, her head lolling to one side as if her body might give out at any moment. The scent of expensive perfume barely masked the sharp tang of alcohol clinging to her.
And just as Clara was dragging her out of the spa, I went after them.