Courting Trouble

by Lisa Scottoline

  “I’m looking for someone who came in here about five or ten minutes ago.” She liked the manager so much she decided to level with him, almost. “He’s dangerous, a killer. His name is Kevin Satorno and he’s escaped from a prison in California. I know it sounds kind of crazy.”

  “Not at all, unfortunately.” The manager didn’t blink. “We do get men released from prison. Parolees, ex-cons. Gay bars are magnets for all kinds of transients. It’s a problem for us, and the community.”

  “Even if the man isn’t gay? I mean, I don’t think this man is gay.”

  “I love it. Nobody’s gay but we somehow stay in business.” The manager chuckled. “The cons that come in, not all of them are gay, they don’t have to be. They come for the hustle, not the sex. If they’re just out of the joint, they won’t have any money. They hustle for drinks, cigarettes, a warm bed to sleep in. Or sometimes they pick up the customer, go home with him, and roll ‘im.”

  “For real?” Anne asked, like a true Philadelphian.

  “Sure. It’s dark in here, and the cops don’t exactly drop in for doughnuts. And my staff knows not to pry, all of us do. Too many people in the closet, you know. Each to his own, as long as he spends money.” The manager’s cell phone began ringing from a belt holster, but he ignored it. On separate black holsters hung a beeper and a walkie-talkie. “You’re sure he’s here, at the tea dance?”

  Tea dance? Anne hadn’t seen any tea at the tea dance, unless Stoli qualified. “Yes, I’m pretty sure. A woman outside saw him go in.”

  “What does he look like, this man you’re looking for?”

  Anne wished she’d kept one of her red flyers, but she hadn’t known she’d spot Kevin. She rattled off a description, and the manager’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Light blond hair, almost platinum? Cut close, almost shaved?”

  “Yes,” Anne answered, excited. “You saw him?”

  “No, but I heard about him. A friend of mine manages The Eagle, and he told me that some asshole took a swing at one of his customers last night. Broke his nose.”

  Anne’s heart stopped. Last night. The night Willa was killed. “What time? What happened?”

  “After midnight, this good-lookin’ blond guy came in the bar. Everybody noticed because he was new. A queen sent him a few drinks, because he’s into blonds, but when he went over to pick him up, the blond freaked out on him. Called him a faggot and hit him across the face.”

  “My God.” Anne felt her chest tighten. Had it been Kevin? At only an hour after the murder, he’d still be jiggered up. Violent. “Did they call the police? Is there a report?”

  “No. They threw the guy out, they took care of the queen, and it was over.”

  “No! Why didn’t they call 911? A customer was assaulted.”

  “I don’t know any bar that would. We sure wouldn’t. We keep the cops out of here, we police ourselves. Especially this weekend. Holidays are pure gold in this business. We’ll pay our rent on this tea dance, then we close up, clean up, and reopen again tonight. Hold on.” The manager crossed to a shelf that held electronics equipment Anne hadn’t noticed before; a VCR, another black box, and a small TV monitor, in black and white. It was a security system!

  Her hopes soared. “You have security cameras here?”

  “Sure do, for times like this. This is a multiplexer. We have three cameras in the bar and one on the door.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Anne stepped over to the monitor. The TV screen was divided into four windows, with a time and date stamp on the upper right. The quartet of images was gray and shadowy, but she could see now that the lower right box was trained on the front door. The front door was opening and closing, and men were piling into the bar. It was hard to tell the true colors of hair and clothes, but the men’s features were discernible, if grainy. “And you have a tape?”

  “This is it. You say it was about five, ten minutes ago that this guy came in?” The manager hit the rewind button on the VCR, and the men on the monitor screen started flying out the front door of the bar. The time stamp in the top right corner ran backward. “Here we go.”

  Anne watched in nervous silence as the tape stopped rewinding and began to play. The front door kept opening and closing as men piled in on mute, obviously laughing and talking, in large and small groups. “He was wearing a white T-shirt.”

  “Honey, that’s half the men in here. Watch the screen and tell me if you see him.”

  Anne bit her lip as a group of men dressed in T-shirts and tank tops boogied in. Suddenly a foursome burst in together, and the fifth, a man hanging in the back, had hair that made a white blotch on the grainy tape. Anne felt her heart seize. It was Kevin! “There! That’s him!”

  “Hold on.” The manager hit the pause button, and the image froze on the screen. “Which is he?”

  My God. He’s here. Anne found herself pointing. A grainy face on the screen was clearly Kevin’s. She’d found him. She couldn’t speak for a minute, as the manager replayed the tape again in slow motion and stopped it at the best shot of Kevin.

  “That him, in the Joe Camel T-shirt?”

  “Yes!” Anne squinted at the screen. She hadn’t noticed it because she hadn’t seen Kevin’s chest, but his T-shirt bore a small cartoon of Joe Camel over the breast pocket. “That’s him!”

  “I guess he’s making the rounds, lookin’ for a place to hide. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him hurt my people.” The manager was already reaching for his walkie-talkie and withdrawing it from his holster. He pressed the Talk button on the walkie-talkie and rattled off a perfect description of Kevin in the Joe Camel T-shirt. “You read me, Mike? Julio? Barry? Call me as soon as you grab him. Good. Over.”

  “Let’s go get him.” Anne was already heading for the door, but the manager frowned.

  “No, we stay here. My security guards will get him.”

  “I didn’t see any security out there.”

  “They’re there, and they know what they’re doing. They’re trained to deal with situations like this.”

  “Of course they are, and what do I know? I’ll just stay here and wait.” Yeah, right. Anne held on to her stovepipe, opened the door, and bolted out, leaving the startled manager behind.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” he shouted after her. “I can’t have you running around my bar, fucking up my tea dance!”

  Anne found herself plunged into darkness again, but this time the manager caught up with her and grabbed her hand, less friendly than before. The two Uncle Sams tugged at each other until he gave up, evidently not wanting to make a scene. He began searching with her, moving them both quickly and expertly through the crowd, looking at everyone and talking into his Madonna headset, looped over the brim of his stovepipe.

  Anne didn’t see Kevin yet, but the scene in the bar had changed. Men stuffed the dance floor, but they weren’t dancing, they were clapping at a show on the elevated stage. She looked up. best buns contest, read a placard on an easel, and a row of semidressed men stood on the stage with their backs turned to the audience. They were dressed in only their underwear, a crazy-quilt of tiger print, stars-and-stripes, and zebra stripes, and a drag queen in red sequins was emceeing. She bumped her microphone against a tush in leopard print. “Give it up for Couple Number 1!” she shouted, and the crowd went nuts.

  The manager and Anne searched for Kevin, eyeing each face, most of them turned to the stage. Security guards in black T-shirts with white staff lettering on the front prowled through the crowd, and the manager was talking into his headset.

  “Let’s hear it for Couple Number 2!” the drag queen shouted, and the clapping intensified. Stars-and-stripes trumped tiger print. It was a patriotic crowd. Too bad they couldn’t serve in the military. But where was Kevin?

  Suddenly the manager stopped, holding his earpiece, then turned to Anne. “Head for the front door.”

  “Did we get him?” Anne asked, her heart leaping up, but the manager held fas
t to her hand and pulled her through the crowd to the front door. The doorman she had talked to before was there, and the manager gestured him over.

  “Did you see him?” he shouted to the doorman.

  “Joe Camel? I think I did. I told Julio, I think I remember him leaving about five minutes ago.”

  “You think? Did you or didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I saw him.”

  “Never let that guy in again, and if he ever comes to the door, call me immediately and don’t let him in.” The manager turned to Anne. “Well, he’s outta here. Sorry,” he said, but she was already shaking her head.

  “But, the doorman’s not sure. Maybe he’s wrong. I talked to him before, and he said he hadn’t seen a blond man come in, and we know that’s wrong.”

  “That was before I heard about the Joe Camel T-shirt,” the doorman shouted defensively, but the manager placed a heavy hand on Anne’s shoulder.

  “Honey, he’s my doorman, and he knows what he’s doing.”

  No! “Why don’t we go back to your office and check the tape? It would show for sure if Kevin left.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. It sounds like he got out while we were playing it, and it doesn’t record while it’s playing. Now it’s time for you to go.” The manager escorted Anne to the door and opened it, just as the dance music started playing a campy version of “The Party’s Over.”

  She would have protested, but she heard her cell phone ringing and she found herself outside the bar, blinking on the sunny sidewalk. She reached in her pocket for her cell phone and opened it up. She couldn’t read the blue numbers in the sunlight. “Hello?” she said into the phone.

  “Anne, Anne!” It was Judy. “Where are you?”

  Uh. “I’m out!” Of the closet?

  “Anne, hold on.” There was silence on the phone, then a new voice came on.

  “Murphy! Murphy! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

  Bennie Rosato, their own Muscle Queen. What to do? Anne didn’t reply, but Bennie didn’t seem to notice.

  “Murphy! I don’t want you out there! I can’t believe you and Carrier made these flyers! Are you nuts? Come to the office, right now! Come in through the back! NOW!”

  Damn! Anne couldn’t bring herself to give up on Kevin, and she couldn’t say no to Bennie.

  Then she got an idea.

  11

  Fifteen minutes later, a cherry-red Mustang idled in an illegal parking space, pointing toward an unsuspecting gay bar. The car contained four women on their maiden stakeout: Bennie at the steering wheel, Judy riding shotgun, and Mary in the backseat with Anne. Bennie had driven over, but was delayed because the Mustang had been out of gas and they had to stop to fill up. The bar was closing its doors, and the tea dance had ended with no sign of Kevin. Anne had told Bennie and the others everything, but she couldn’t leave without making sure he really hadn’t been inside.

  “I think I won’t fire you yet, Murphy,” Bennie was saying, in the front seat. A red flyer lay crumpled on the dashboard, presumably where she’d thrown it. “You either, Carrier. Because that would be too easy. It would be capital punishment instead of life in prison, and I’m philosophically opposed. You get my drift, girls?”

  “You want us to suffer?” Anne ventured.

  “Exactly. You, in particular.”

  Anne kept her eyes trained on the bar. Judy’s and Mary’s were, too. The black door of the entrance had been propped open, and men were leaving in droves. Some dispersed down the street or hailed cabs, but most lingered, laughing, chatting, and smoking in small groups on the sidewalk, enjoying the shade cast by the buildings. There had to be two hundred men that they’d seen leave, and Anne never would have guessed that they had all fit inside. The bar was a clown car for gay men.

  Bennie continued, “There’s only one rule at Rosato & Associates, and it’s this—I’m the boss. I’m Bennie Rosato. I own Rosato & Associates. See? It rhymes.”

  Anne nodded again. No Kevin. Damn!

  “Murphy, I tried to explain to you that I am chargeable with your actions, and it follows from this that nothing happens in my law firm without my approval. No employee of mine does anything insane without clearing it with me first. This is because I pay the salaries and bills, including but not limited to rent, light, water, casebooks, Pilot pens, and fresh coffee beans.”

  Anne’s hopes were sinking. The sidewalks were full of naked chests, tank tops, and short shorts, but Kevin’s Joe Camel shirt wasn’t anywhere in evidence.

  “I was trying to reach Detective Rafferty when I heard that my newest associate was in a gay bar dressed in an Uncle Sam outfit, trying to catch a psychotic killer. Imagine my surprise at the news.” Bennie paused. “Not only were you supposed to be researching Willa Hansen, you were supposed to be dead. This leads me to believe that you missed the point of my earlier lecture. As I told you once already, Murphy, I was the one who identified your body.” Bennie’s voice caught abruptly, and the sudden silence got everyone’s attention.

  Anne checked Bennie in the rearview, and her eyes flickered with pain. Judy looked over, and Mary hung her head.

  Bennie was clearing her throat. “The physical details aren’t the point. Mostly what I saw, what all of us saw, lying in a very cold, stainless-steel drawer, is what Kevin Satorno is capable of, if it was him. He didn’t just want to kill you, Murphy. He wanted to destroy you. He aimed right for your beautiful face and he blasted it to kingdom come. Given the opportunity, he will do it again.”

  Anne swallowed hard. It sounded as if Bennie had been worried about her. Cared about her. It was a new thing. “I’m sorry, I really am,” she said, meaning it.

  “Good.” Bennie checked her watch, and Anne and Judy returned their attention to the bar. But after a minute, Anne became aware that Mary hadn’t lifted her head and she did something she had never done with another woman; she reached over and held Mary’s hand. Just then a familiar stovepipe appeared at the front door of the bar, schmoozing with a crowd of partiers.

  “That’s the manager,” Anne said, watching. The manager was withdrawing a large key-ring from his blue satin pants and shooing everybody out of the way. Closing time, at least until they reopened. Then he went back inside the bar, presumably to lock the front door from the inside.

  Goddamnit! “Maybe Kevin’s hiding inside,” Anne said, but even she didn’t believe it. She met Judy’s eye, and she looked almost equally bummed. Anne was feeling better about her since the red flyer. Almost.

  “I’m sure they get everybody out before they close,” Judy said. “So if he was still there, he’s not anymore. I think we lost him, Anne. At least for now.”

  Mary raised a small, manicured fist. “Don’t give up! We’ll get him yet. He will feel the wrath of girls!”

  Bennie waved the associates into silence. She opened her cell phone and made a call. “Is Detective Rafferty in yet?” she asked.

  But Anne was already thinking ahead. Mary had given her an idea, when they had all met, earlier in the office. Anne would start working on it as soon as she got back to the office.

  She could hardly wait.

  Bennie and Judy were meeting with the detectives in a conference room, giving them the reconstructed details of the sighting of Kevin at the gay bar. Mary had left for Anne’s neighborhood, to find any witnesses to what happened the previous night. Anne was sitting at her desk with Mel, making the last of her phone calls to set up Plan B. It had taken some doing, but she was pretty sure she could catch Kevin this time, especially now that she knew he was in the vicinity. She would have to tell the others about it, even Bennie, because she’d need their help. And she was trying to play well with others.

  The office fell quiet except for the shh-chunk of the printer outside Anne’s office, spitting out copies to further Plan B. Anne’s gaze strayed to her office window, and the smoked glass reflected her latest incarnation. She couldn’t run around forever as Uncle Sam, so she’d chopped her hair into a short cut and dyed it Rich Sable,
#67 from Herbal Essences. The box promised a “rich, dark brown” but Anne didn’t like being a brunette. It made her worry about her credit balances. Eek.

  Mel sat upright on a stack of depositions, and Anne smoothed his whiskered cheeks. His green eyes elongated with each stroke, transforming him into the politically incorrect Chinese Cat. It was one of Anne’s favorites. She felt mildly fresher, having showered at the office and changed into clean clothes from the firm’s closet of spares; a khaki skirt from Banana Republic and a white T-shirt that read i make boys cry. She kept her Blahniks but wore no lipstick, caving in to peer pressure now that she had peers. Mental note: Progress brings its own downside.

  Now that Plan B was almost in place, Anne wanted to find Willa’s family, to notify them. But where to begin? She took a last sip of cold coffee and logged onto whitepages.com, an online phone directory. She typed in “Willa Hansen” and “Philadelphia” for the city, but the answer came back: Sorry, no people match the phone search criteria you entered.

  Hmm. It meant Willa was unlisted. Anne felt her energy returning. It wouldn’t make sense to search under Hansen, because she didn’t know where Willa’s family lived. Then she got another idea. She picked up the phone and called her and Willa’s gym. A young man answered, and Anne tried the ditzy voice she’d heard on their solicitations: “Hi, I’m Jenny, the new massage therapist, in the spa? I’m the one who does the in-homes?”

  “Jenny? I heard about you. It’s Marc. Wanna do my in-home?”

  “Ha!” Anne forced a giggle. “Hi, Marc. I’m calling because I’m on my way over to one of the member’s houses, but I Iost the sheet with her phone number and address. Her name is Willa Hansen. Do you have her info?”

  “Sure.” Keystrokes clicked on the other end of the line. “Willa Hansen lives at 2689 Keeley Street. The phone is unlisted, but she put it on her ap. You want it?”

  “Please.” He read it off, and Anne took it down. The address was across town around Fitler Square. She knew only because she got her hair cut near there, when she wasn’t cutting it herself. “Do you have any other information about her in the computer? Anything in her member profile that would help me? I need to build up my client base.”