by Tripp Ellis
"Sort of. I mean, he did threaten to kill her if he couldn't have her."
"I'd say that counts," JD said.
"He was banned from the club, but he tried to come back in a few times,” Sapphire said. “The bouncer stopped him. There were a few times he waited around in the parking lot for her, but I think he got the message pretty quick that he shouldn't do that."
"How so?" I asked.
"Ivan, the bouncer. Let's just say he wasn't gentle in his warnings to Carl."
"He hit Carl?” I asked.
"Broke his nose, I think. One punch laid Carl out on the ground. He didn't come around after that."
JD and I exchanged a look.
"You know Carl's last name?" I asked.
Sapphire shrugged. "I don't."
I asked her a few more questions, got her real name, address, and phone number, and said I'd be in touch.
JD and I moved through the club, looking for Dita Von Bosch.
"Let's run through the credit card transactions of the club. Maybe we can find Carl's name. The waitresses and the bouncer might remember him as well.”
"I'm on it," JD said.
He strolled toward the bar, getting distracted along the way—his head on a swivel taking in all the sights.
It didn't take long to find the brunette vixen. Dita had dark hair, creamy skin, green eyes, and several elegant tattoos that coordinated well with her black lace lingerie. Her deep red lips could inspire many fantasies. If I didn't know better, I would say that she was part vampire, part demonic succubus.
She was definitely doing a good job of bleeding her client dry of $20s.
Her body undulated in sublime ways as she gave a man the lap dance of a lifetime.
When I flashed my badge, I was greeted with a scowl by both Dita and her client.
"I'm busy," Dita said.
"I don't care,” I replied.
"Hey, buddy. You're ruining my show!”
"She’ll give you a rain check," I said. "Beat it."
"Don't worry, baby. I'll take care of you,” Dita assured.
The man glared at me, then relented. Dita climbed out of his lap, and he scurried away, adjusting his pants.
The sultry vixen put her bra back on and plopped into the chair. "What do you want?"
"I want to talk about Thunder."
"I don't have to talk to you,” she snapped.
"And I don't have to arrest you for possession."
Her face crinkled. "What?"
I gestured to my nose. Dita had a little residual white powder underneath one of her nostrils. Her face flushed, and she quickly wiped away the evidence.
"You cooperate, and I'll pretend like you're not hiding an 8-ball in your shoe."
Dita squirmed uncomfortably.
It was just a guess, but apparently she had a few ounces of cocaine hidden somewhere on her. An 8-ball was street slang for 3 grams.
"What do you want to know?"
"I'm sure you've heard that Thunder has been murdered."
"Couldn't happen to a nicer girl."
"Word is you two were not on good terms."
"I'm not on good terms with a lot of people. Doesn't mean I'm going to kill them. Besides, I've been in the club, dancing all night. I've got hundreds of witnesses. You're barking up the wrong tree."
"Maybe you paid someone to do it?" I postulated.
"That's a stretch." A desperate laugh escaped her plump lips.
"Stranger things have happened."
"Prove it.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She sneered at me.
"Okay, for the sake of argument… let's just say you're not a suspect. Who should I be looking at?"
She thought about it for a moment. "How about Thunder’s ex-boyfriend? How about Sapphire’s ex-boyfriend? How about an angry client?"
"That certainly narrows things down," I said, dryly.
Her eyes narrowed at me. "Are we done. You’re killing my business."
I paused for a long moment. "I guess we're done, for now."
I got her contact information and found JD. He had a sparkle in his eyes and was holding a piece of paper in his hand.
"What's that?"
"Carl's full name and address."
I grinned. “Let’s go pay him a visit?”
4
Sheriff Daniels and the rest of the team were finishing up in the alley. Thunder’s body was loaded into the medical examiner's van and hauled away. The forensics team had documented all the evidence.
“What did you find out?" Daniels asked.
"We've got a few leads,” I said. “Not much."
"Don't make this more complicated than it is,” Daniels cautioned. “She got mugged. Not everything is a conspiracy."
"Just leaving no stone unturned," I said with a smile.
"I have no doubt you two will uncover anything and everything that has to do with this club. And please don't turn in receipts from happy hour as part of your expense account."
"Those were all legitimate expenses incurred during the investigation of a crime,” JD said. “Which we saw through to conclusion, I might add."
“A $752 happy hour?" Daniels said, his stern eyes blazing into JD.
Jack shrugged, innocently. "No expense shall be spared in pursuit of truth and justice.”
Sheriff Daniels rolled his eyes. "Ask around. See if there have been any muggings or shady characters in this area that have gone unreported."
"That sounds like grunt work," JD said.
Daniels forced a smile. "The job isn't always glamorous."
He strolled away down the alley. "Call me if you find anything interesting."
We hovered in the alleyway a moment, the concrete still stained with Thunder’s blood.
“What are you thinking?” JD asked.
“No way this was a robbery. One in the chest. One in the head. That’s an assassination.”
“Standard double tap. The second shot rises because of the recoil.”
“Maybe. But why fire twice if the killer was just after her money? It’s not like she posed a threat.”
“Habit? Nervous twitch? Maybe the perp didn’t want a witness? Who knows?” JD shrugged. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. Thunder leaves the club, heading toward her car. Mugger jumps out from behind the dumpster, demands her purse, money, and jewelry. She’s got a couple grand in her pocket that she worked hard for and she doesn’t want to let it go. Chaos ensues.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t satisfied.
We left the alley and made our way a few blocks over to where JD had parked his red Porsche convertible. I climbed into the passenger seat, pulled the door shut, and JD twisted the ignition.
The flat six roared to life.
He revved the throttle, let out the clutch, and the tires barked as we launched from the curb. Music pumped through the speakers, and the wind rustled my hair. Within a few minutes, we pulled up to Carl Kershaw’s house. It was past midnight, and the sleepy little neighborhood was quiet.
JD parked the car and killed the engine, then we strolled toward Carl's door. We climbed the steps to the porch. It was an average neighborhood, a few blocks from the beach.
JD pounded his fist against the door and shouted, “Coconut County Sheriff!"
He liked being obnoxious.
A few moments later, a sleepy man pulled open the door and squinted at us.
JD held his badge in the man's face.
"What do you want?"
"We’d like to talk to you about Thunder Rain," JD said.
The man's sleepy eyes widened, and he looked like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Carl stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind him. In a whispered tone, he asked, “What's this about?"
"I think you know what this is about," JD said.
The man looked at him blankly. "I have no idea what this is about."
"Where have you been this evening?"
; "I've been here."
"All night?" JD pressed.
"All night."
"Can anyone verify this?"
"My wife. What is this about?"
JD and I exchanged a glance.
"Thunder Rain has been murdered," I said.
"Oh God," the man gasped, mortified. His jaw dropped, and his skin went pale. His eyes misted. "What happened?"
"We were hoping you could tell us?"
A confused look twisted on Carl's face. "Why would… You don't think I had something to do with it?"
"You did threaten her about a week ago, didn't you?" I asked.
He stammered a moment. "No. I don't know. Maybe. I might have said something… I don't know. I was angry. I felt rejected."
"Angry enough to kill her?"
"No!" he hissed.
"We’d like to talk to your wife, verify your whereabouts," JD said.
A panic looked washed over Carl’s face. "No. I mean, you're not going to say anything to her about Thunder, are you?"
JD and I exchanged another glance.
"We'll be discreet," I said.
JD frowned at me.
"Can you think of anybody who might want to hurt Thunder?" I asked.
"Her ex-boyfriend was a real dick."
"That's what everybody says," I muttered.
“He was sponging off her, you know? She paid for everything. He didn’t deserve a girl like Thunder.” Then he added, “His band sucks, too!”
“Rancid Desecration?” I asked.
“Yeah. They play up and down the strip, but mostly at Spit.“
Spit was a punk bar on Oyster Avenue.
"You own a gun?” I asked.
Carl shook his head. "No."
"Would you mind getting your wife?" JD asked.
Carl grimaced. "Promise you won’t say anything about Thunder?”
JD was reluctant to agree, but I nudged him with an elbow.
JD sighed. "Fine. We'll be discreet."
Carl opened the door and leaned inside. "Honey? Can you come here for moment?"
A few moments later, a not unattractive woman shuffled to the door. She was way, WAY, out of Carl's league. She had a simple, plain beauty about her. Soft face, short blonde hair, blue eyes. Confusion crinkled her face. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, honey," Carl said. "Can you tell these gentlemen that I was here with you all evening?"
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No. Routine procedure," Carl said.
"We just need to rule him out as a suspect," I said.
“A suspect?"
"A coworker was killed tonight," Carl said, trying to steer the conversation.
"Oh, dear! Who?" his wife asked.
"A new hire. You don't know her."
"Her?" That piqued her attention. Her demeanor changed. “Are you a suspect?"
"No. Of course not," Carl said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Then why would they be here asking you questions? Were you spending time with this new hire?"
The devil was in her eyes.
Carl laughed it off uncomfortably. “No. Of course not."
"This is just routine, ma'am," I said, trying to diffuse the situation.
She eyed all of us suspiciously. "Yes, he was with me all evening."
"And you'll testify to this in a court of law?" JD asked.
"Do I have to?"
"It may become necessary at some point, but it's doubtful,” I added.
"He was with me,” she stated. Then she fixed her gaze on her husband. "And if I find out you did anything with this new hire—“
"Honey, relax," Carl said, gently. He forced a smile. "They're just here asking questions."
Her face twisted, and the devil incarnate appeared. "Get back inside. Now!”
Carl complied.
He flashed us a nervous glance and disappeared into the home.
His wife turned her demonic gaze toward us. "I'm done speaking with you. If you have any more questions, talk to our attorney.”
She slammed the door in our faces.
JD chuckled. “Damn. She's tough. No wonder he spent all his time at Forbidden Fruit. She’d probably cut his nuts off if she found out. We might have two homicides on our hands tonight.”
5
It was just after 1 AM, and Oyster Avenue was in full swing. Base drums boomed. Guitars buzzed like chainsaws. The crowd bounced in rhythm to the beat as Rancid Desecration stomped about the stage, banging heads.
Thrash screeched into the microphone. He had a green mohawk shaved close on the sides. It spiked toward the ceiling, and he wore a studded leather jacket. His sleeveless T-shirt had a spray-painted design and several studded bracelets lined his wrists. Tight leather pants hugged his skinny form.
Girls near the stage screamed and pawed at him.
The music was ear-piercing. I liked all types of music, but this wasn't my thing. Carl wasn’t wrong. Thrash’s band sucked.
Don't get me wrong, there were some punk acts that I liked. Rancid Desecration wasn't one of them.
I had asked the bouncer when we entered how long the band had been on stage. He said they went on about 11 PM—enough time for Thrash to do the deed and get back here to take the stage.
"I'm going to need a drink for this,” JD muttered. “You want anything?"
I nodded.
He disappeared into the crowd and weaved his way to the bar.
I glanced around the club, taking in the crowd. It was mostly early twenty-somethings. There were a couple of diehard punk rockers that had been following the movement since the 70s. Somehow, despite all the drugs and booze, they were still partying as hard as ever.
JD returned a few moments later with a whiskey on the rocks. I thanked him and took a sip of the fine beverage.
We suffered through the set, and when the noise was over, we approached the stage.
Several groupies followed the band backstage. Cuties with short skirts and hair dyed in multiple colors. They wore heavy eyeliner, fishnet stockings, and band T-shirts cut into stylish shapes.
The greenroom of the club wasn't anything to speak about. It was a far cry from the luxurious backstage accommodations of stadium rockers. It was a small area with a couch, a water dispenser, a mirror with lights surrounding it, and a small stereo.
A band member yelled at us as we entered the green room. "Hey. This is a private party. Get the fuck out of here."
I flashed my badge.
Everyone froze, and the girls’ eyes went wide.
"I'm here to talk with Thrash,” I said.
"That's me," the rocker with the green mohawk said. "What do you want?"
"I need to talk to you about Thunder Rain."
"Fuck that Bitch."
"Tell me how you really feel,” JD muttered.
"I hope she gets hit by truck and chokes on her own blood," Thrash said.
"Well, it didn't quite go down that way, but I'm pretty sure she got a mouthful of her own blood,” I said.
His eyes narrowed at me. "What are you talking about?"
"Haven’t you heard? Your ex-girlfriend is dead."
His jaw dropped. "How?"
“Mugged in a back alley. Where were you around 10 o'clock?"
"I was here."
“Are you sure about that?"
"I'm positive. I've got three witnesses," he said, pointing to his band.
The drummer chimed in. "Yeah, man. He's been here the whole time, dude."
I got the impression that the band would say anything.
"I can totally verify his whereabouts," a groupie said. "I was sucking him off before the show."
A naughty smirk tugged her pink lips, and her slick tongue licked them.
Thrash shrugged. "It relaxes me. I get stage fright."
"I'm sure you do," I said, dryly.
"I didn't kill her," he said.
"From what I understand, you two weren’t on the best of terms."
"The bitch screwed around on m
e. More than once!”
"That's enough to make you want to kill her, isn't it?" JD suggested.
"You’re goddamn right! But that doesn't mean I did it,” Thrash snarled. "Haven't you ever gotten mad at someone before? Have you ever loved someone so much you just want to hurt them?"
I exchanged a glance with JD.
“When somebody can make you that mad you know you love them. If you didn't love them, you wouldn't care."
"So, you were still in love with Thunder?”
"Do you ever really stop loving someone?"
This discussion was getting a little too philosophical for me.
"Is there anybody else besides the band, or the groupies, that can verify your whereabouts?"
The girls scowled at me.
"Hey! We're not groupies,” a blonde shouted.
"Oh, what are you?" JD asked?
"You're a bunch of fucking hoes,” the drummer said with a laugh.
The girl he was with smacked his arm.
"What? I'm kidding."
"We like to think of ourselves as creative muses," another girl said with a bright smile. "We provide inspiration."
"I'm sure you do," JD said.
"Talk to the manager. The bouncer,” Thrash said. “There were plenty of people here that saw us load in and do our sound check. We hung out at the bar and in the green room, drinking free drinks. It's one of the perks of being a rockstar."
"Rockstar is stretching it, don't you think?" JD said.
Thrash scowled at him.
"Don't I have a right to an attorney, or something?"
"You're not under arrest,” I said.
"So, if you're not gonna arrest me, you need to get the fuck out of here!”
I forced a smile. "If you can think of anything that might be helpful, contact the Sheriff's Department."
"Sure thing, pig," Thrash said.
I sneered at him.
JD and I left the green room. We found the manager and confirmed Thrash’s story.
"I'm not a babysitter," the manager said. “I can’t say where they were at all times, but they showed up as scheduled. They didn't cause any trouble. They didn't drink too much. They played their set without puking on themselves, and they brought in a hell of a crowd. As far as I'm concerned, they’re okay in my book."
We thanked him for his time and lingered at the bar for a moment. It was nearing 2 AM, and the bar had already stopped serving.