“Good, because I’m ready to play your wing-girl if that’s what you need. Long as I’m driving.”
I didn’t fight Sheri on her choice of transportation. It wasn’t much of a contest between my aging red Jeep and Sheri’s new convertible sports coupe. Experience had taught me if we arrived in her Mercedes, the valets would not only help us out of the car, but past the bouncers and all to the way to front door. One look at my Jeep with its dented fenders and balding tires and they would wave us on to self-parking. No wonder Southern California is the luxury import capital of the world. The cache of driving a car that cost nearly as much as my daughter’s college education ensured respect in L.A.’s car-obsessed culture.
Sheri and I arrived at Stilettos just after nine p.m. as a crowd of upscale urbanites was beginning to gather outside the door. Stilettos, like any number of trending nightclubs, was housed on the ground floor of a mixed-use building in a popular area east of Little Tokyo that had recently undergone a renaissance of modernization. Now known for an artistic community who bought into newly reconverted lofts and nine-to-fivers, who worked downtown to avoid the freeway commute, it offered affordable housing in glass towers with views of the city’s ever-changing skyline.
Inside, Stilettos was another world. Once through the door, it was like being transported back in time to a nineteenth-century cabaret with neon crimson lighting and champagne that flowed freely from a fountain beneath a crystal chandelier. The servers, all scantily clad young women with heavy eye makeup and rhinestone lashes, were dressed in bustiers with fishnet hose and garters. They all looked as though they might at any moment drop their silver serving trays and join the bevy of beautiful girls on stage in G-strings and six-inch heels.
A hostess showed Sheri and me to a high-top table in front of the bar where we had a good view of the stage. Sheri ordered a martini while I stuck with the complimentary champagne and scanned the crowd and the tables up close to the stage. If Sam was here, I wanted to make sure Scarface hadn’t followed her from the Sky High Club to her new digs. Judging from the crowd, Stilettos attracted a much more cosmopolitan group than those who frequented the Sky High Club. I doubted someone like Scarface would have made it past the bouncers.
On stage, a racy Cancan number entertained the crowd with a line of exotic dancers. All Vegas-like showgirls, their bodies bare-breasted and dusted with glitter, glistened beneath the lights. Dressed in nothing but short little tutus, they did a line of high kicks and bare-bottomed dips, followed by hand blown kisses to the audience. Near as I could tell, Sam wasn’t one of the dancers. Next up was a striptease. A number that could have been choreographed by Bob Fosse and left nothing to the imagination. Finally, when the stage lights went dark for intermission, I asked a hostess if she knew of a dancer named Jewels. She said the name meant nothing to her, but that the girls frequently danced under different names. It was almost midnight, I suggested to Sheri we leave. I stood up and felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Buy you ladies a drink?”
I glanced down at a hand on my shoulder and recognized Chase’s Army Ranger ring.
“Are you following me?” I asked.
“Should I be?” Chase let go of my shoulder and squeezed between Sheri and me. “How about you, Sheri? You like another?”
Sheri took an olive from her martini, popped it in her mouth, and holding a near-empty glass by the stem, wiggled it under Chase’s nose. “Shaken not stirred, please.”
Chase raised a finger, caught the attention of one of the servers, pointed to Sheri’s drink and ordered another, shaken not stirred, and then asked, “So, what are you ladies doing here tonight?”
Sheri answered before I had a chance. “She’s working on a story.”
Chase winked at me and looked at Sheri. “Isn’t she always.”
“It’s about college girls working in strip clubs to help pay their college loans,” Sheri said. “Who knew, right?”
A server with glittered nails as long as toothpicks and heavy eyelashes to match leaned in between us and put another drink down on the table for Sheri. “And what about you, handsome?” The server batted her lashes at Chase. “Something special you might like?”
“Club soda,” Chase answered.
“Straight up?” She smiled.
“With a twist of lemon, if you can.”
The fact Chase didn’t drink and was hanging out at Stilettos should have been my first clue this wasn’t an accidental meeting. My second was the smell of cologne and the Ranger Ring on his right hand. Chase seldom wore jewelry, particularly when he was working. And cologne was a big no-no. It left a trace and was easily identifiable.
“So why don’t tell me, if you’re not following me, why are you here?” I asked.
“I could tell you I was spying on you. Checking out my competition. That I thought maybe you might be out with your ex, but–”
“Eric?” I snapped. “That’d be none of your business.”
“Hey,” Chase scoffed. “I wouldn’t blame you. Guy’s pretty enough I’d go for him too.”
“Very funny.” I knew better than to think Chase was the jealous type. If he wanted to spy on me, I’d never know it. “What is it? You here for the dancers or because you just can’t resist the urge to follow me?”
“Misty was worried about you. She called and suggested I keep an eye on you. Make sure you weren’t getting into any trouble.” Chase put his hand back on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
I looked at Sheri and shrugged. What was I going to do?
Sheri stood up and whispered in my ear. “I think the two of you might like a little time together.” Then handing me her keys, she said, “It’s getting late, and I can see this might be a private conversation. I’ll Uber home. You two have fun. Ciao.”
I palmed Sheri’s keys, hugged her goodbye then turned back to Chase.
“So how did you know I was here?”
“I’m a detective, Carol. Trade secrets.” Chase put his elbows on the table and bumped my shoulder with his and smiled. “Can’t tell you everything. But I will tell you Misty wasn’t alone in her concern.”
“Oh yeah? Who else?”
“Mr. King.”
“The station’s attorney?” I asked.
“After the police questioned your daughter, King suggested I keep an eye on you.”
“Me?”
“He seemed to think you might be in a lot more trouble than Cate. I thought he was worried you were overprotective of her. Then King called me back yesterday. He said Soto had gone to the DA with a request for a subpoena and that you’d been served.”
I picked up the glass of champagne I’d been nursing and took a drink. “Soto wants to talk to me about Stacy Minor. He wants to know how I knew the van parked behind Pete’s place at the beach was hers and what I knew about her. And I can’t tell him. Not without revealing what she told me off the record.”
“And you’re willing to go to jail for that?” Chase leaned closer to me. Our shoulders touching.
“If it means protecting my source and what she told me, yes. I’m a reporter, Chase. This isn’t about me. Reporters depend upon their sources for information. Sometimes, the only way to get that information is off the record. And if it means not revealing who gave it to me, then so be it. Without reliable sources, and the anonymity the press provides for them, we don’t have a story or a free press.” I picked my glass up and tossed back the last of my drink.
“Don’t give me some institutional line, Carol. I’m talking about you. Spending time alone in a six-by-eight cell until some judge decides to let you out. You prepared for that?” Chase put his hand on top of my wrist.
I pulled my arm away from Chase. “Don’t even think about trying to change my mind. I know what I’m doing and why. And if you don’t like it, you can get out of my way.
Chase sat up straight, both hands
on his drink. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, Carol. And if you’ll let me, I’m willing to help. You don’t have to tell me everything, just let me know what I can do.”
I took a breath. Despite the fact I wanted to keep Chase at a distance, I could use his help.
“Alright, but you have to understand I can’t and won’t tell you everything. What I can tell you, is that Xstacy called the station after Pete was arrested. Among the things she told me was that she didn’t believe Pete was guilty because she knew the Model Slayer was dead. The man’s name was Ely Wade, and Xstacy believed she had accidentally run him down when she was leaving the Sky High Club one night.” I left out the part about Xstacy confessing to me how she had planned to run Ely down and that the accident, while she had reported it to the cops as such, was definitely premeditated. “The thing is, Xstacy thought Ely had a partner, and I think Xstacy was afraid he’d come after her.”
“You think Ely’s partner killed her?”
“I don’t know. But Xstacy had a friend, a dancer at the club she was protecting named Jewels. If I were to tell the police Xstacy believed the man she ran over was the Model Slayer I doubt they’d believe me. Not with Cate dating their leading suspect. Soto would think I was throwing a wild card in their direction to get them to look at someone other than Pete Pompidou for the murders. And, if I told them everything I know about Xstacy and her girlfriend, I could very well end up jeopardizing the safety of someone Xstacy was trying to protect, and who might well end up the Model Slayer’s next victim.”
Chase paused and took a sip of his drink. “So this girl you’re protecting, is she the college girl you told Sheri you’re doing a story on?”
“Her real name’s Samantha Miller. She goes by Sam for short, and that’s about all Sheri knows. Other than she’s a student at UCLA and teaches dance on the side. Sheri hired her for a few pole dancing lessons.”
“Pole dancing lessons?” Chase furrowed his brow
“It’s Sheri’s latest new exercise routine,” I explained how Sheri had gone with me to check out Sam at the Sky High Club and afterward Sheri wanted her number so she could take private lessons. “Beyond that, Sheri hasn’t a clue what I’m really investigating, and I want to keep it that way. The problem is Sheri hasn’t been able to make contact with Sam since Xstacy was murdered and neither have I.”
“So you’re here then to find Sam?” Chase said.
“If I don’t talk to Sam before Monday and learn who she thinks killed Xstacy, I go to jail. And I won’t be much good to anyone if I’m sitting in a jail cell.”
Chase leaned closer to me. I could smell the faint scent of his cologne as his shoulder touched my own. For a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the room.
“What can I do?” Chase put his hand on my forearm and squeezed it.
“For one, don’t ask me anything more about what Xstacy told me. And no matter what happens, don’t try to convince me to give up what I know to the cops.”
“You want me to trust you then?” Chase asked.
I looked down at my drink. Chase was right to question whether or not he could trust me. In the past, I hadn’t been a hundred percent forthcoming with him concerning a case we were working on. Ultimately, it had been for his own good, and when I explained it to him, he had forgiven me. Although my confession had led to our falling into bed together. It was a delicate situation we had been dancing around ever since.
“I’m afraid trust is all I’ve got.”
“Actually, I could think of a few other things, but if that’s what you want, I’m in.” Chase picked up his drink and swirled the club soda around like it was a vodka tonic. “Besides, Misty would kill me if I didn’t say yes.”
“Okay, then,” I clicked my champagne glass to his. “If I can’t find Sam before Monday, I’ve got one other option, and maybe you can help me with that.”
“Fire away. What do you need?” Chase asked.
“I need to prove that the girl the firefighters found in the desert this weekend was Marilynn Brewer and that her murder is related to Xstacy’s and the models.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I’m sure of it,” I said.
I explained Brian Evans and his surprise visit to the radio station and how he said the cops had been talking to him about Marilynn’s disappearance. “He wanted to know what I had seen in the desert and if I thought there were any similarities to the model murders. Strange, don’t you think? I got the idea he was trying to find out what the cops knew.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Not much. In fact, after I listened to him, all I could think about was how you told me the cops had expanded their search after they released Pete. I thought for sure it was because they suspected Brian. Then this morning, I saw Detective Soto on Channel Nine, and everything went up in smoke.”
“Why?” Chase said.”
“Soto said the cops believe the Model Slayer hasn’t been acting alone. That he has a partner. And when Soto was asked about Marilynn Brewer’s murder, he never brought up anything about Brian. Add in the fact that the cops found Xstacy’s body at the beach along with her van just down from Pete’s bungalow, and I’m certain Soto’s thinking Pete’s good for it.” I explained how I had found Xstacy’s van behind Pete’s house and gone to Soto and identified it. “By now I’m certain Soto must have learned about Xstacy’s accident and Ely Wade and checked into his background.”
“Probably so,” Chase said. “Soto’s a very thorough investigator.”
“The problem is after I started digging around into Ely’s background, I found a connection between Ely and Pete. They both worked for Lenny Marx photography. I don’t know if they worked there at the same time or not. But if I found it, I know Soto’s found it too, and he’s going to want to talk to Pete again.”
“Let me get this straight. You think Brian Evans is the Model Slayer or his partner anyway, and the cops have been talking to him, or were up until they may have learned that Pete and Ely Wade knew each other. And now you’re hoping that Sam may know something to help you convince Soto that Pete’s not his guy and Brian is.”
“I’ve one other possibility,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Xstacy thought Ely’s partner was a regular at the Sky High Club. She said there was a man who always sat up front by the stage. She didn’t know his name, only that he was a big tipper and always paid cash. When Sheri and I went to the club last week to meet Sam, she pointed him out to me. I tried to talk to him, but I couldn’t.”
“You think you could identify him if you saw him again?” Chase asked.
“I can’t get his face out of my head. He had a scar the size of Texas running down the side of his cheek from the inside of his eye to his jaw.”
“Tomorrow night then. You and me, the Sky High Club.” Chase swigged down the last of his club soda. “Unless, of course,” Chase gently traced my chin with his finger. “I can convince you to come home with me tonight?”
From behind us, the lights on the stage dimmed, and a huge spotlight swung wildly around the room and came to focus on a dancer, standing alone in the center of the stage. With her siren-red hair piled high upon her head and wearing nothing but a pair of rhinestone heels, she covered herself with large white feathered fans reminiscent of the famed burlesque dancer Sally Rand.
I nodded to the stage, grabbed Chase’s finger and held it in my hand. “I think it might be better if I left you here with the fan dancer. Less complicated, and Sheri’s expecting me home with her car.”
CHAPTER 25
Friday morning, I woke to the soft, soulful sounds of Amy Winehouse singing “Love is a Losing Game.” For the moment I forgot where I was and wondered if I had given in to Chase’s tempting offer and gone home with him. I curled the sheets up around me like a cocoon and allowed the thought
to play out in my fantasy. Then stopped myself. This was ridiculous. I didn’t need to be going down that path. Not again, and certainly not now. I sat up in bed. The low hum of the air conditioner filled the room. It had been cranked down to a cool, sleepable temperate, and blackout drapes cloaked the room in darkness. Definitely not Chase’s house. I squinted at a bedside clock. Next to it a photo of Sheri with her son, Clint, stared back at me. The time read 8:35. I had slept late for a workday.
Which wasn’t a surprise. After leaving Chase at the club, I returned Sheri’s car, fully intent on taking my Jeep and returning home. But when I arrived, Sheri was still awake, and we ended up splitting a bottle of red wine and chatting. Or more correctly, I listened as Sheri talked about Max, who she described as a tall, smooth-talking Brit with an appreciation for the finer things in life. “Of which,” she giggled, “I think I’m quickly becoming one.”
Finally, about two o’clock, concerned I shouldn’t drive home, Sheri fixed the guestroom. Not that it took much fixing, the room was always ready and like a five-star hotel, complete with luxury linens and complimentary toiletries. Sheri even placed a plush terry robe on the foot of the bed and told me to make myself at home.
I put the robe on and followed the music barefoot down the hallway to Sheri’s big master suite. Her bed, a kingly-looking Victorian with a hand-carved headboard that had once been part of a movie set like everything else in the house, was unmade. Across the room, in front of a large bay window, overlooking the canyons with a view of the city and the ocean beyond, was Sheri, hanging upside down from a dance pole.
“You’re here.” Sheri dismounted from the pole, legs over her head somersault-style, like a gymnast. She was dressed in a pair of short black exercise shorts and a sports bra. “I thought you would have gotten up early and left for work already.”
“Tyler gave me the day off,” I said. It wasn’t a lie, but I wasn’t ready to explain the subpoena or get into what I intended to do with my time off. “I had it coming with the overtime from the fire.”
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