by Marcia Clark
Armand leaned back against the register and thought for a moment. “You know, there was a guy who only seemed to come on the nights Alicia was dancing.”
I felt a little spark of hope. “Did she have a regular schedule?”
He raised his hand palm down and tilted it from side to side. “More or less. She usually danced on Tuesdays. But the girls like to trade nights with one another, and I have no problem with it.”
That would definitely make someone who showed up only on Alicia’s nights stand out. “Was the guy there when she danced on other nights?”
Armand stared off for a moment. “That I can’t say for sure.”
Damn. It would’ve been nice to know. If he showed up only on Alicia’s nights, that would mean he knew her schedule—and, more importantly, knew her. “Did he ever approach her? Talk to her?”
Armand shook his head. “This is why I noticed him. He would stand over there.” He pointed to the wall next to the entrance. “Never came closer, always left after Alicia was done.”
Very weird. “And she never told you that anyone came up to her when she left for the night?”
His headshake was vehement. “Never. I would have told her to point him out and gotten rid of him immediately. I don’t want trouble for my girls.”
It sounded like the mystery fan was a stalker, and yet . . . “Has he been back since she died?”
Armand made the sign of the cross. “Rest her soul. No. He has not.”
That gave me a whole different idea. I pulled out my cell phone and showed him a photo of Roan. “Is that him?”
He took a good long look. “No. The guy had long hair, down to here.” He pointed to his shoulder. “Black or brown. And a mustache. Also, I believe he wore glasses.” Armand paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Glasses with a black frame.”
I asked for his height and weight, though I knew those kinds of estimates were notoriously unreliable. But it might give us a general idea. Armand asked Alex to stand. “He was your height, maybe a little taller. But he was bigger than you.” Armand gestured to his chest and spread his hands to indicate more width.
Alex was five feet ten, so this guy was between that and six feet tall. And Alex was slender, so the guy was medium build. That definitely ruled out Roan. I didn’t have a photo of Professor Barth, but he was shorter than Alex and had short hair and didn’t wear glasses. So that ruled him out, too.
Armand’s description had really narrowed it down.
To about three million men in just the Los Angeles area alone.
We were on fire.
THIRTY
When we got back to the car, Alex asked, “We hit up Diana?”
I nodded as I snapped in my seat belt. “And we’ll have to make sure we do it alone.” Diana’s—and Alicia’s—side gig as a pole dancer appeared to be a secret, and I didn’t see any reason why that should change. Yet. Of course, if this stalker theory panned out, I’d make sure it was headline news.
Since it was past six o’clock, and Armand had said she wasn’t working tonight, I was hopeful Diana would be at home. But it was dinnertime, so I doubted we’d find her alone. “How about I text her and invite her to grab a bite with us?”
Alex took out his cell phone. “Good idea.” He tapped a few keys, then scrolled. “I think Ebaes will fit our budget. It’s an Asian fusion pub, and it’s close, on Union.”
“Sold.” I texted Diana and hoped she hadn’t made plans for the night. It was a Wednesday, so I was betting our chances were good. A minute later, my bet paid off. She agreed to meet us there in half an hour. I told Alex.
He smiled as he pulled into traffic. “Never underestimate a student’s appetite for a free meal.”
We got there early and grabbed a table next to the wall that offered the most privacy. It was a casual, cheery place, with white Christmas lights strung around the room and a blackboard that announced events, happy hours, and specialty menu items.
Diana arrived ten minutes later, and I watched the male heads turn as she walked by. Her tight burgundy turtleneck sweater and skinny jeans left no mysteries to be explored, and her shiny black hair made a sultry dip over one eye. It was a markedly sexier look than I’d seen in most of the other girls on campus, who largely eschewed makeup and dressed in slouchy sweats and hoodies. I wondered whether this had always been Diana’s style or whether it’d morphed since she’d gotten into pole dancing.
She greeted us as she slung her purse over the back of her chair and sat down. “Thanks for inviting me out. I was thinking I’d be stuck with a two-day-old pizza night.”
I told her it was our pleasure. The waiter—who’d already tried to get us to order before she got there—appeared at our table as though he’d been shot out of a cannon. We ordered chashu pork and spicy garlic edamame as appetizers and an assortment of rolls—shrimp, tuna, and, for Alex, a USC Trojan roll. I had a feeling he did that to annoy me, the only UCLA Bruin at the table.
We caught up on innocuous topics like classes and grades and the world in general until we were halfway through our meal. I hadn’t been able to think of a delicate way to bring up her employment at The Pink Palace, so I finally decided to just go for it. After all, it wasn’t as though she could deny it. I told her we’d learned that she worked there and that Alicia had been dancing there, too.
Diana put down her chopsticks, her expression cold. “And now I guess that means everyone will know.”
It might. But for now, I could assure her, the secret was safe with us. “We have no interest in causing you any grief, and I’ll bet it’s good money. I’m only asking because we heard Alicia might’ve had a stalker.”
Diana blew out a breath and sat back in her chair. Her tone was dismissive. “Oh, that. Yeah, she did tell me she felt like someone was following her at one point.” She gave a sarcastic half laugh. “I figured it was probably just some PI her parents had hired to check up on her. Anyway, she let it go, said she was just tripping.”
The note of envy in her voice when she mentioned Alicia’s parents was impossible to miss. “Did you guys ever dance on the same night?”
Diana took a bite of edamame. Her tone was a little derisive. “Always. She never wanted to go alone.”
That’s what I’d figured. “Did you go in on nights when Alicia didn’t?”
Diana’s expression turned slightly bitter. “Of course. I couldn’t afford to only do one night a week.”
How far did this animus take her? I didn’t know what to make of it, but I intended to find out. “Did you ever notice a guy with long hair and glasses at the club on the nights she danced? Always stood near the door?”
She frowned and shook her head. “But I wouldn’t have had the chance. I was always backstage when she was dancing.” I asked her whether she’d ever seen a guy like that when she was dancing. She paused. “Long hair and glasses?” She stared out the window for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing anyone like that. Did Armand tell you about this guy?”
I nodded. “Said he only seemed to show up when Alicia was dancing. But from what he knew, the guy never made contact with her. Did Alicia mention anyone like that to you?”
Diana slowly shook her head. “Then it’s true? Someone really was stalking her?”
There was concern in her voice, and it felt genuine. Interesting. So the animosity toward Alicia’s privileged life didn’t go that far. “We think it’s possible.”
I poked around for a little while longer in the hope of sparking a memory that might give us a new lead, but Diana didn’t seem to know anything else. We got the check, and she said she had to get back to study for her psych midterm.
After she’d left, I asked Alex what he thought of her attitude toward Alicia. He folded his napkin and put it on the table, his expression contemplative. “I’m not sure. She obviously resented Alicia to some extent. But she did confide in Alicia about the pole dancing. Doesn’t seem like Diana told anyone else about that.”
A great point. “But
maybe Alicia figured it out on her own? Stumbled on it by accident—like Phil.”
Alex had a little smile. “Probably not exactly the way Phil did, but sure, it’s possible she saw or heard something that tipped her off to it.”
And then confronted Diana about it. “In which case, when she asked Diana to get her a gig there, Diana might not have felt like she could refuse.”
Alex looked pained. “Because if she did, Alicia might not keep her secret?”
I shrugged. “Just throwing it out there. And I’m not even saying Alicia threatened to do that—at all. I’m just saying Diana might’ve been afraid of that.”
He still looked pained. “I hope we’re wrong about all this.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I do, too.”
Unless the potentially fraught relationship between the girls led to something good for us. That seemed unlikely, though, at this point.
I paid the check, and we headed back. Alex dropped me at home at a little after eight. I slogged up the steps to my apartment, more dispirited than tired, and very ready for a drink and some mindless TV.
But as I unlocked the door, I smelled smoke. Without thinking, I stepped inside to find out what was burning—and recognized the smell of cherry tobacco.
Javier Cabazon sat in the chair next to the sliding-glass door. The apartment was dark, the only illumination the city lights in the night sky that spread out behind him. “Good evening, Ms. Brinkman. Have a seat.”
Anger overrode my fear. “No, thanks. I’m good.” For the hundredth time, I regretted not carrying my .38 in my purse.
He dusted off a pants leg and nodded. “As you wish. I would like a progress report.”
I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. Had Diego told him about our meeting at the party? I’d worried he might do that. I knew it’d take Cabazon about two seconds to realize that I’d deliberately engineered the meeting and that it had nothing to do with merging my law practice with Diego’s. I had my story ready, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to use it unless I had to. I told Cabazon that we’d been talking to members of Tracy’s family. “But they don’t seem to have been in contact with her for some time.”
He made a face. “I am not surprised the family does not wish to have contact with a daughter who has become a puta.”
Again with the whore accusation. But that told me Cabazon knew a little more about Tracy than he’d let on. “What makes you so sure she’s a prostitute?”
Cabazon looked at me with disdain. “I have my sources. Unlike you, I choose to believe them. If you spoke to her family, you must already have heard this.”
I felt my whole body break out in a sweat. For a brief moment, I wondered if he was having me followed. But Dale knew how to shake a tail. No, Cabazon was merely telling me that we had to have heard it because it was common knowledge. “Maybe I just don’t like to assume anything.”
He raised an eyebrow and stood up. “You will need to move more quickly. I expect to hear back from you within the next seven days.”
“I’m doing all I can. But I’m a lawyer not a magician—and neither is Dale. And we can’t afford to raise any suspicion.” My words were brave, and I’d managed to keep my voice steady, but I moved off to the side as he drew near. I quickly scanned his jacket for a pistol-size bulge as he approached the door, but it was too dark to see.
He noticed the direction of my gaze and smiled as he reached for the doorknob. “I do not need to carry a gun. Go check your balcony.”
Cabazon walked out. I locked the door behind him with shaking hands even as I acknowledged how useless that was. I went to the sliding-glass door and saw that a slender man had just lowered himself to the balcony below mine. I watched as he swung a leg over the rail and dropped down to the driveway below. He ran over to a blacked-out Range Rover that was idling there and opened the door for Cabazon, who emerged from the stairway and got inside. After the Range Rover backed out, I turned to go inside and noticed a stray bullet on the floor of my balcony, just outside the spot where Cabazon had been sitting.
If I’d tried anything, that guy would’ve dropped me where I stood.
I used my landline to call Dale and unblocked my number so he’d know it was me. When he picked up, I heard smooth jazz playing in the background and a woman’s voice asking where he kept the vodka. Dear Old Dad was on a date. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. I told him about my visit from our buddy Cabazon.
Dale kept his voice low. “Hang on—I’m taking this into the bedroom.” He called out to his date that he’d be right back. He swore under his breath as he moved and asked when I was finally going to get a police lock put on my door.
I’d nixed the idea before, and I nixed it again now. “He’d just catch me somewhere else. At least here, there are people around. Do you have anything else?”
A few seconds later, his voice still low, he said, “We can hit up the older sister, see what she has to say. I called her this morning, and she seemed cooperative.”
Dale didn’t sound particularly amped for this interview. “Then she didn’t have any info on where Tracy might be?”
He sighed. “No. But she might know more than she thinks she does. You meet with that prosecutor yet?”
I knew he’d ask that. “No, but I’m still working on some ideas.” I needed to figure out how to persuade the prosecutor to put me in touch with Tracy. So far, I hadn’t come up with anything viable. “I’ll reach out to him on Friday.” Most courts don’t hold trials on Fridays, which means it’s the best day to find prosecutors in their offices.
Dale’s date asked if he wanted pimento or blue-cheese-stuffed olives. Dale opted for regular. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning that I can’t get out of. I’ll try and set us up with Tiffany for tomorrow afternoon.”
The adrenaline that’d flooded my body during Cabazon’s visit had finally ebbed, and I was feeling a little queasy. “Sounds good. And by the way, I prefer pimento olives, too.”
Dale’s voice relaxed. “Seriously, it’s not even close. I only keep the blue cheese around for those who don’t know better.”
He promised to call me as soon as he heard from Tiffany, and we ended the call.
As I headed to the kitchen and poured myself a shot of Patrón Silver, I thought, At least one of us is having a fun night.
THIRTY-ONE
I woke up Thursday morning with a slight hangover. I’d needed a little more—well, actually a lot more—than a single shot of tequila to take the edge off after my encounter with Cabazon. But at least I slept through the night. The triumph of that was worth the buzzing in my head.
Beulah had made a full recovery—or as full as any car with more than 200,000 miles could make—so I Ubered to the station and picked her up. The mechanic and I had become like family. We even exchanged Christmas cards. That’s how often I’d had to take her in.
Gavril Derderyan, a short, slender man in his fifties with a thick head of hair and startlingly pale-blue eyes, wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag and shook his head. His Armenian accent sounded almost Russian to me. “When you are going to let this old lady retire, Sam?”
“Depends on how much she’s going to cost me this time,” I said as I braced myself for his answer.
He looked over at Beulah and sighed. “Anyone else, it costs seven hundred and fifty. For you—good customer, like family—I make it five hundred and fifty.”
Ouch. “Make it five hundred even, and I’ll pay cash.” We did this dance every time, so I’d stopped at the ATM on the way over.
Gavril squinted at me. “You always have to squeeze my balls?”
I squinted back. “Yes.”
He gave another sigh. “Fine. Five hundred.” He wagged a finger. “But next time, I don’t let you squeeze.”
The fact that he said “next time” without even a second’s hesitation told me I really should let the old lady retire. I gave him the stack of twenties and tried to breathe my way through the pain.
I
headed to the office, and when I parked and got out, I patted Beulah’s roof. “Get ready, old girl. I think we’ve reached the end of the road.”
I almost felt sad as I headed upstairs. Until I remembered all those twenties.
I found Alex sitting on the extra secretary’s chair we’d found abandoned in the hallway. He’d rolled over to Michy’s desk, where they were having coffee and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
My stomach rumbled at the sight. My hangover had made the idea of food unappealing, so I hadn’t had any breakfast, but now, the smell of those little circles of delight made my stomach rumble. “Got enough for one more?”
Michy held up the box. I saw two glazed doughnuts—my favorite. She smiled. “Always. Dig in.”
I was surprised to see that Alex had finally emerged from his cave. He’d been locking himself in his office every spare waking moment for the past week. As I dropped my purse and briefcase next to Michy’s desk, I asked him, “What brings you out into the world? Are we due for another month of winter?”
Alex licked some stray jelly off his thumb. “I found the jerkoff who owns the website where Laurie’s photos were posted.”
I took a glazed doughnut out of the box and started to take a bite, then realized that my stomach still felt a little funny. I set it down on one of the paper towels Michy had put out. “How come it took so much longer to find him than the other guy?”
“It didn’t. I just had to figure out what to do with him.”
I couldn’t resist the siren song of the doughnut. I took a bite and willed my stomach to be okay with it. “No more takedowns WWE-style, then?” I was relieved.
He shook his head. “Not that I’d have minded, but I wanted to do something a little more painful.”
Uh-oh. “Such as?”
“Take his money.” Alex smirked. “I hacked into his website account and diverted all the money he makes on clicks to a battered women’s shelter and Covenant House.”
Covenant House. “That place for runaway teens?” He nodded. “Nice.” So smart.
He grinned. In an infomercial hawker’s voice, he said, “But wait, there’s more!”