by Camel Press
“You’re like forty pounds skinnier than your brother.”
“So?”
“So I’m surprised you wear the same ring size.”
She studied the ring on her left hand. A month after Benji proposed with a size four solitaire, she gained five pounds and had to have it resized to a five. Then spring training came and with all the hectic work, she’d lost the five—both in pounds and ring size. When the season had started, all the eating out and traveling had packed on an extra ten and the ring had to take another trip back to the jeweler’s. Then swimsuit season came and she’d gotten back to her optimum weight. Then she’d had the ring resized to a four again.
“Well, maybe he had to jam it on there with butter. All I know is, he’s my brother so I broke the rules for him. I think you can relate.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Don’t you have enough to do? Why are you stuck on this anyway?”
“That poker game is when this all started. If people thought you were there or had anything to do with this—”
“Why would you make things worse for everybody? I’m this team’s last resort, okay? If you throw my name in the mud, even just as a suggestion, this franchise will be frozen by the commissioner and you’ll be out of a job, too.”
There was nothing she could say to that.
“Anyway, I don’t gamble. Check it out if you want but it so happens I have alibi for that evening. I’d rather it not come out into the open because it would just cause my brother more pain.”
Kiki.
Cat met his eyes knowingly. They shared the same look they had when she’d walked in on the coat closet canoodling.
“But I do want that ring back; otherwise, I’m reporting it stolen and giving the police your brother’s name, you got it?”
“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
He nodded, turned on his heel and sauntered back to the makeshift studio.
Chapter 27
Benji tended to avoid her workplace and she, his. She’d done college and didn’t care for the reminders, which today included dodging Frisbees in the quad and navigating her way to the psychology building using obscure campus maps. Three “You Are Here” stops later and she’d found room 205. The door was open and she poked her head inside. The top of a bald head was visible above an issue of Psychology Today.
“Excuse me, Dr. Martinez?”
He lowered the magazine just enough for his hazel eyes to peek over briefly before again disappearing behind his magazine shield. “Office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from three to six.”
“I’m not a student.” She might have been flattered to be mistaken for a co-ed … had Benji not remarked at the start of the semester that a quarter of his students were older than his parents. “My name is Catriona McDaniel. I’m the team reporter for the Buffalo Soldiers.”
“I have nothing to say to the press about George Hudson.”
“I didn’t say ‘George Hudson.’ How do you know I wasn’t going to ask you about the game?”
He brought the magazine down again, this time low enough that she could see his gaunt cheekbones and a thin, black mustache decorating his upper lip. “Did George mention my name? Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I’m not looking for a story. I saw you at Damien Staats’ memorial. My boyfr- uh, fiancé, teaches here and he told me who you were.” She cocked her head. “Although George did say that the foremost authority on addiction therapy had cured him, so it wouldn’t have been hard to figure out who that was.”
Nine times out of ten, flattery would get a tight-lipped interviewee to sing like a bird.
“You can’t cure addiction, you can only manage it.” He brought the magazine back up to his face.
And one time out of ten, that bird would instead fly into the window with a thud.
Cat decided to forgo waiting for an invitation and entered, shutting the door behind her. She sat down in front of his desk.
“Miss, you can’t just barge in here.”
“I’m sorry, but this is important.”
He picked up his telephone. “I don’t care, I’m calling security.”
“Please don’t.” She held her hands up. “I just need to know if you really believe George Hudson was cured … er, is managing his problem.”
Dr. Martinez hesitated for a second and then put the phone back on the receiver. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
He pointed at her. “This is off the record.”
“Of course.”
“He had a close call a couple of years ago. There was some mixed martial arts match in town that really had him jonesing. He called me before he did anything and I was able to talk him out of it before he relapsed. After that, he doubled the frequency of his counseling and he’s been clean since. Or so I thought.”
“What did you think when you heard about the Soldiers’ scandal?”
“I was stunned. I had just visited with George, like you mentioned, at that player’s service. I stopped in to share my condolences, but George was upset at my presence. He doesn’t like to be seen with me … for obvious reasons.”
“Why were you shocked? You deal with addictive personalities all day long. If an alcoholic falls off the wagon, it sucks, sure, but it’s not exactly a surprise.”
“I was actually surprised by what he was betting on.” He smiled fondly. “Even in his darkest of days, George never bet on baseball. I think he loved it too much, or thought it was too pure. He always said that the beauty of this game was its uncertainty. On any given day, the worst team can beat the best.” The smile morphed into a tight frown. “Of course, that’s moot if you’ve fixed the outcome.”
“What would you say if I told you I think he might’ve been set up?”
“I’d say good luck proving that. I’ve heard the police have pretty solid evidence against him.”
“I know. I gave it to them.” Upon seeing his furrowed brow, she sighed. “I was the one who unearthed his payout statement from the casino.”
“Then why do you think he was set up?”
“The evidence is too solid. If George was so paranoid that he didn’t even want to be seen with you the other night, then don’t you think he would’ve been more careful about how he placed his bets? The guy’s a billionaire, with all sorts of bank accounts and houses that would’ve been a lot harder to trace. For that matter, he could’ve placed this bet in Monte Carlo, but instead he does it in his own backyard?” She cocked her head. “It’s like he was trying to get caught.”
“Ms. McDaniel, I’ve known George for a long time now and believe me, I’d love nothing more than to find out this was a mistake.”
“But?”
“But … he has an impulse control disorder. When that impulse hits, his mind stops working rationally. Whereas you or I might stop and consider the consequences, his only desire is to satisfy that impulse.”
“It’s weird, though. He was able to stop himself and call you for help during that spur-of-the-moment fight. This betting scheme took days of planning and execution.”
Dr. Martinez stroked his bare chin as he considered her points. “Well, impulses don’t always have timeframes. However, still off the record, his attorney has contacted me to do an assessment. There’s a chance I could agree with you and become a witness for the defense.”
“I look forward to your findings.” She stuck out her hand. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“Ms. McDaniel, if I may ask, who do you think set him up?”
Cat smiled. “I don’t know. I’m gonna do an assessment of my own.”
“Good luck.”
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! If it isn’t Buffalo’s town crier. Come to give me a scoop?” Webbs spun around on the slot machine stool and hopped off, intercepting her path. “Been meaning to thank you for that little raid the BPD conducted on my computer.”
Cat bit her lip. “Sorry. I know what it feels like to get caught in the crossfire.”
&
nbsp; “No worries; I knew what I was getting into.” She grabbed a newspaper from the top of the machine and pointed at the second paragraph. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to front page news.”
“Have you heard anything from my brother?”
“Nope.” She raised an eyebrow as she reached for the pack of menthols in the waistband of her high-waisted red leather pants. “Although, given the amount of money he pocketed, I’m wondering if he didn’t have a little insider’s knowledge, too. It might be best if he stays away. I don’t appreciate being taken, no matter how gorgeous the taker is.”
“I understand, but promise me if you see him, you’ll call me first?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Webbs lit the cigarette and took a long draw. “You know what doesn’t make sense to me? G-Hud ain’t a genius, but he knew enough to keep his gambling past a secret.”
Cat pulled her off to the side to let a giggling bachelorette party pass. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Yeah, it’s been bugging me. Why would he place the bets under his own name? He’s got a full set of staff, not to mention that a rich guy like that surely has an alias or two for when he buys hookers and pleasure treasure.”
“He doesn’t need hookers. He’s got Kiki, who, by the way, he put in charge as head chairman. He’s rich, not smart.”
Webbs burst out laughing, so loud that the slot zombies actually took their eyes off the machines to stare at them. “Kiki? You’re serious? That ditz can’t even count to three strikes.”
“You know Kiki?”
“Everyone here knows Kiki.” She smirked. “I have the unfortunate history of not only knowing Kiki Hudson, but also knowing Kiki LeBow. Where do you think G-Hud made his Love Connection?”
“Here?”
“I told you this was the place to be. You sure you don’t want to take another look at the chapel?”
“Wait a minute. I spoke with George’s gambling counselor, who told me he’d been clean as a whistle for the last seven years.”
She giggled. “I don’t know if I’d say clean, but he didn’t come here to gamble.” Webbs pointed to a neon set of legs just beyond the game tables. “Knotty Buoys Gentlemen’s Club.”
“A strip club? There’s got to be a dozen in the area. Why would he go to one located inside a casino?”
“Girl, do I know?” Webbs rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you go ask them?”
“Oh … uh, I don’t … I mean, I’m not—”
“Aren’t you in locker rooms every day with guys’ junk swinging around?” Webbs challenged her with an ornery smile.
“It’s not exactly like that.” She turned and hesitated. The neon legs mocked her with their blinking fishnet stockings. “Can you take me in there?”
“You don’t need an escort, sweet cheeks.” She winked at her and mockingly whispered, “It’s not really a gentlemen’s club.”
Cat rolled her eyes. “Come on, I don’t want to go in there alone.” She spied the empty martini glass sitting next to the slot machine. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Webbs groaned and unglued herself from the shimmering wallpaper. “What is this power you McDaniels have over me?”
Chapter 28
Underneath the neon legs was a solid black door with a sign that stated OVER 21 ONLY.
Cat stopped in her tracks, but while she was hesitating, Webbs wiggled past her and opened the door.
“After you.”
Cat followed Webbs into a small foyer, where a muscled bouncer stood in front of a second door. He wore a Knotty Buoys t-shirt, tight and black, with a logo of the neon legs hanging off the back of a boat.
Cat surveyed the tiny room.
“Hmm … an airlock. That bodes well for what must be awaiting us on the other side.”
“It’s just so the casino patrons don’t get a sneak peek and decide to spend their money on lap dances instead of the craps tables.”
A sign that said, COVER CHARGE: $10 was posted behind the bouncer. Cat pulled her wallet out of her purse. Webbs grabbed her hand to stop her. “Save your money, Sweetness, ladies get in free.”
“Oh. How chivalrous.”
The bouncer nodded and opened the door for them.
Webbs chuckled and pushed her through the door and into the dimly lit club, illuminated mostly by strobe lights.
Cheap perfume hung in the air. Girls gyrated on three different stages, dancing toward each front row spectator until he slid a folded bill into their lacy garters. The act was as mechanical as the casino automatons shoving quarter after quarter into slot machines. Embarrassed by the spectacle, Cat studied the dazed faces of the patrons. Webbs caught her shocked expression.
“Something wrong?”
“They’re as naked as newborns.”
Webbs laughed. “Well, what’d you expect?”
“I don’t know, a naughty schoolgirl outfit? A teddy? At least pasties and a g-string? If this a strip club, shouldn’t they be stripping?”
“I guess you got to get here earlier.”
“Hmm.” She looked down at her own pinstriped pantsuit and frowned. Since she’d stopped by the campus, she’d had no time to change after work. “I suddenly feel a little overdressed.”
Webbs gave her a critical onceover. “A little bit. You might want to lose the jacket at least. You kind of have a female detective look going on.”
“You think people will conclude I’m investigating this place?”
“I was actually thinking they’re going to put the spotlight on Officer Pouty while the DJ cues up ‘Breaking the Law.’ ”
Cat widened her eyes in horror. “Point taken.” She slipped out of the jacket and folded it over her forearm. “So do any of these ladies know Kiki?”
“Girl, do I look like I’ve got a punch card here? I’m a bookie, not a hookie. Ask them.”
Cat snuck another look at the stages, where the girls were spindling themselves around shiny dance poles, much to the delight of their attentive customers. “They look um … busy.” She surveyed the rest of the room.
“Maybe a waitress instead?”
The waitresses were much easier to focus on in their navy blue strapless rompers, red neck ties, and white platform heels—chaste by comparison. They completed the sailor chic look with sea captain’s hats and drink trays designed to resemble life preservers. The outfits were risqué, but cute. They could work for Halloween costumes—that is, if she could manage to talk Benji out of their Mario and Princess Toadstool duo. He’d already put a costume deposit down at Nintendo Nation for the VBU faculty party on the Maid of the Mist. They were going to be the biggest nerds on the Niagara River. Considering that they would be mingling with a boatful of college professors, that was no small feat.
A petite blonde waitress stopped in front of them and smiled. “Can I get you two a table? We have a great booth open in the corner by the Starboard Stage.”
“No, we don’t need a table.” Cat pulled out her cellphone and flipped through her images. “I was actually hoping you could give me some information. Do you know a Kiki who used to work here?” Cat showed her a wedding picture of George and Kiki grinning next to the Soldiers scoreboard.
The waitress took a fleeting glance at the screen and her smile disappeared. “Bitch, if you ain’t gonna order a drink or wings, don’t waste my time.”
“S-sorry. I just—”
The waitress turned on her platforms and stomped off.
Cat frowned at Webbs.
“You should’ve ordered a drink. Everybody knows that’s how you get information. Besides, all this spy work has me in the mood for a Vesper.”
“Did you say ‘Kiki’?”
-The voice came from behind them. They both turned to where a topless brunette was straddling a man twice her size. She dipped her head back so that she was looking at them upside down.
Cat took a step toward her. “Uh, yeah. Kiki Hudson.”
“LeBow,” Webbs corrected.
The stripper sat up and
kicked a leg in the air, swinging it in front of the man’s face. She came to her feet and bent forward, shaking her hips from side to side for the benefit of her customer while smiling at Webbs and Cat.
“That’s what I thought. I knew Kiki.”
“Can you give me a little information … I mean, I don’t want to interrupt your, uh, work.”
She blew a kiss at the large man and stood up. “All done. So what do you want to know about Kiki?”
“Can you tell us anything about her and her husband, George Hudson? I hear he used to come in here a lot.”
“Sure.” She smiled sweetly, and took in Cat with one long appraisal. “Of course, it’ll cost you.”
“Oh uh ….” Cat whipped out her wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. She looked at the woman’s garter, snaked around her tan thighs. “Umm … am I supposed to put it …?”
The stripper chuckled and took it out of her hand. “That’s not necessary.”
Cat smiled gratefully. “This my first time in a strip club.”
“No kidding.” She snuggled the twenty in her lacy garter. “I know George, too. Actually I’ll never forget the first time he came in here. He was all upset, crying and everything. That’s when he met Kiki.”
“A couple of years ago? It wouldn’t have happened to be the night of the Evans/Csongor fight, was it?”
She nodded. “As a matter of fact, it was. I only remember because afterwards, we had all these buff wannabes packing the place. They were good tippers, but you had to work for it.”
“So George was upset?” Cat turned to Webbs. “His gambling counselor told me he almost fell off the wagon with that fight.”
“Oh no, George didn’t gamble,” the dancer said.
Webbs blew a raspberry.
Cat shushed her. “How do you know that?”