He laughed, mostly because he couldn’t smell anything except her—a sweet, tropical, positively edible scent. Whatever she’d slathered on her skin begged to be licked off, and his mouth watered to do the job.
You already have a job. Keep your mind on it.
“Tell me right away if you feel like you need to lie back down. See the paramedic over there?” He pointed and waited until she followed his gesture. “She thinks you’re gonna faint on me, but I’m betting no.”
“I’m not going to faint.” To prove it, she straightened and squared her shoulders. Her movements were as steady as her voice, which made him think she might be right.
“Good girl.” He pulled a bottle of water out of a cooler tucked against the wall of the ambulance, cracked the lid, and handed it to her. “Think you can handle a few more questions?”
She looked less sure about that, but took a sip of water and nodded.
“We’re almost done. I promise. Getting back to the victim’s identity, I know you said you didn’t recognize him. Not surprising, under the circumstances. What’s surprising is we found his ID in his wallet. His name was Carlton Long. Ring any bells?”
She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, then sighed and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Deuces employee. I’m really not on a first-name basis with many people at the club. It’s not what you’d call a social workplace.”
“I’ll bet.” He glanced up and caught Detective Ian Ford’s deceptively lazy green stare. Ian whipped his slightly overgrown blond bangs off his forehead with a quick jerk of his head, and sent Trevor a questioning look. We done here?
Trevor nodded and shifted his attention to Stacy. “The officers have your contact information?”
“Yes,” she answered, staring at her feet.
“And you’re not planning any out-of-town trips in the near future, right?”
That brought her head up. “Am I a suspect?”
“You found the body. From an investigative standpoint, that makes you a person of interest. But, no, I wouldn’t call you a suspect.”
Wary eyes turned curious, so he explained. “Mr. Long was five-eleven, almost two hundred pounds, and, in my educated opinion, beaten to death. Limited defensive wounds suggest he didn’t put up an epic struggle, but he fought some. Unfortunately for him, his attacker was bigger, stronger, and overpowered him quickly. You’re what, five-six, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, soaking wet?” Without waiting for her confirmation, he went on. “Other than a bump on the head, you don’t have a mark on you. So, yeah, my remarkable powers of deduction tell me you didn’t do this to him.”
“I see.”
“We appreciate your cooperation with our investigation. I don’t have any more questions right now. Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement? Additional details? Corrections or clarifications?”
She paused, but then shook her head, and he got the feeling she was hiding something. Although he doubted pressing his hunch would yield any results, he pulled a business card from his pocket and held it out to her. “If you think of anything you want to add—no matter how minor—contact me.”
For a long moment she simply stared at the card, and he could almost hear her inner debate. There was something else. To his frustration, if not surprise, she took the card and said, “Am I free to go?”
Shit. Sometimes it sucked to be right. “Yep. You’re free to go. Would you like us to call someone to pick you up, or have an officer drive you home?”
“No, no. That’s not necessary.” She hopped out of the ambulance. “I can drive myself. I don’t have far to go.”
“Uh-uh. Bad idea. A few minutes ago you nearly passed out. Fainting and driving don’t mix.”
“I’m good now. Honestly. Check my pulse, pupils, whatever. I can’t leave my car here. I need to be somewhere first thing tom…today.”
He assessed her. Admittedly, she seemed steady. Wired and stressed, but not about to conk out. “Okay, fine. Far be it from me to stand between a woman and her wheels. Go wait in your car. I’ll have a black-and-white follow you home. You can take off as soon as you see it in your rearview mirror.”
She exhaled a pent-up breath and started walking toward her car. Then, like a schoolgirl remembering her manners, she turned back to him. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by driving home safely and contacting me if you decide to add anything to your statement.”
She slipped into her car and saluted. “Will do.”
Yeah, right. Maybe she’d drive home safely, but he knew with a bone-deep certainty she’d never contact him again of her own accord. Why not? He stared after her, frowning. Because something about the entrancing Stacy Roberts didn’t quite add up.
…
Kylie gripped the wheel and drove home with the care of a teenager taking her driver’s exam. Through the rearview mirror, she watched the patrol car follow close behind. Like a shark stalking a guppy, she thought uneasily.
Dear God, what have you gotten yourself into?
Well, she’d lied to the police, for one. She hadn’t planned to, exactly. In fact, when the first officers had questioned her, she’d been in such a daze, she was pretty sure she’d given her name. When they’d asked to see some ID, she’d opened her wallet and handed them her driver’s license, completely forgetting she had Stacy’s. By the time she’d tuned in to the proceedings enough to realize the mistake, one disturbingly observant Detective Trevor McCade stood in front of her, clearly recognizing her as Stacy Roberts, low-flying lap dancer.
Certain she could do her pathetically small part to help them investigate poor Mr. Long’s death and be on her way, she’d rolled the dice and let the mistake stand. Confessing she’d posed as Stacy would only have raised a bunch of questions and possibly gotten them in trouble with Deuces…and maybe the authorities too? Impersonating someone sounded shady—possibly illegal.
Little did she know finding the body made her a “person of interest.” Now here she was, involved in a murder investigation, trapped in a lie, facing a detective whose piercing brown eyes told her he knew she wasn’t telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Sweating like a fugitive, she pulled into the narrow, stacked parking spot in front of the apartment she and Stacy shared. Their dark apartment, she noted with a scowl. The place would be lit up like the Sunset Strip if Stacy were home. Even at…she glanced at the clock on the dash and groaned…four in the morning. Guilt immediately washed over her. Yes, she’d be sleep-deprived the rest of the day, but at least she’d have a day. Carlton Long couldn’t say the same.
The patrol car pulled to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Kylie stepped out of the car, forced a smile of thanks to her lips, and waved to the officer behind the wheel. He waved back, but stayed put while she climbed the stairs to their second-floor unit. After opening the door, she waved again and exhaled a long, relieved breath when the black-and-white slowly pulled away.
She trudged inside, kicked the door shut, and hit the wall switch. Harsh yellow light from the living room’s ugly overhead fixture bounced off cracked, tobacco-stained plaster walls.
Home sweet home. Stacy and she had done what they could to make the place livable. Cheaply framed but colorful prints of dancers graced the dingy walls. A faded rug they’d found in a thrift store covered scuffed hardwood floors. More secondhand furniture and flea-market finds filled out the rooms.
She dropped onto their slipcovered sofa, which leaned more toward shabby than chic, and set Stacy’s heavy hot-pink bag on the floor. Every muscle wept with relief. An aggrieved little voice in the back of her mind warned that in less than an hour and a half she had to be showered, changed, and on her way to her 6:00 a.m. yoga class.
Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she closed her eyes, inhaled for a count of ten, and tried to enter a sitting savasana.
Where the hell was Stacy?
Her eyes snapped open as she release
d the breath in a single, undisciplined burst. Wherever her twin was tonight, she obviously wasn’t coming home, despite—or maybe even because of—Kylie’s demand. Typical. Stacy did exactly as she pleased, whenever she pleased, and left Kylie to deal with the fallout.
Growing up, Stacy had borne the brunt of the disapproving glares and cruel comments from Two Trout’s vicious gossips, ensuring for the most part they left Kylie alone. In return, she’d assumed the role of Stacy’s behind-the-scenes rescuer, good for everything from completing homework to a 2:00 a.m. pickup from a party three counties away.
The dynamic didn’t work so well as adults. She loved her sister, and knew Stacy loved her, but they enabled each other’s worst habits. So why had she let Stacy talk her into this ridiculous switch?
Her mind replayed their conversation from five days earlier.
Kylie, Deuces is a top-tier club. It’s very exclusive, and competition for featured dancer slots is intense. If you don’t dance my shifts, I’m out of a job.
Her suggestion that Stacy find another job, preferably one that didn’t involve sliding around a pole half-naked, had fallen on deaf ears.
Name another gig where I can rake in enough to cover our expenses and still have my days free for auditions. Without a high school diploma, my options are limited.
Kylie had held her tongue instead of pointing out that her twin chose to drop out of high school their senior year. The decision still boggled Kylie’s mind.
Then again, school hadn’t exactly been a picnic. Growing up as the result of a reckless night of passion between their town tramp of a mom and some pretty-faced drifter she could never quite pin down invited comment, to say the least. The fine citizens of Two Trout had zero compassion for such irresponsibility. They considered Debbie Roberts a bed-hopping bimbo and assumed her daughters were cut from the same cheap cloth.
Stacy had rebelled by meeting quite a few of their low expectations—though not as many as the busybodies liked to think. Between fact and rumor, she’d gained her “wild twin” reputation, and a bone-deep aversion to authority in any form. Kylie, the “quiet twin,” had done her best not to give anybody anything to talk about. She’d dressed conservatively, spent her spare hours working at the library, and never, ever dated or partied.
Sadly, none of her restraint made the slightest difference. The cynics of Two Trout assumed blood would tell and it was only a matter of time before she fell off her straight and narrow path.
Yeah, well, what did they know? Just because tonight she’d made her debut as a pole-dancing stripper, found a dead body, lied to the cops—that didn’t prove anything.
Actually, it proved things had to change.
Kylie dragged her tired bones off the sofa and made her way to her closet-sized bedroom. She turned on the light and dropped her bag on the floor inside the door. Her phone tumbled out, and she saw she had a missed call. Three guesses as to the mystery caller, she thought as she picked up the phone, plopped down onto her bed, and listened to the voice mail message. Sure enough, Stacy’s voice came over the line.
“Sorry, can’t make it home tonight. My ride fell asleep, and I don’t have enough cash for a cab. I hope you made it back to Deuces in time to grab the boots, but I’m not holding my breath ’cause I couldn’t reach anyone at the club when I called. Oh well. You can get them tomorrow after your morning classes. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
Kylie hit delete. Tonight, while she’d been risking her dignity—and, oh yeah, her neck—to keep them from hurtling off their own fiscal cliff, Stacy had only managed to break away from her latest bar-hound long enough to worry about overpriced boots?
Enough was enough. Kylie had worked hard to build a following for her yoga classes, and recently accepted a teaching slot at one of the biggest, most respected studios in West Los Angeles. Professionally, things were starting to come together. If she continued to fill her classroom, she’d earn real money for a change, which in turn meant she could start planning the next step—her own studio. But she couldn’t very well plan her future if she constantly allowed Stacy and her habit of getting into trouble distract her. And working at a strip club for the next six to eight weeks qualified as one big, messed-up distraction.
Anger fueled her through her shower, her commute, and her morning classes. Not a terribly enlightened motivator, but surprisingly effective. She was driving back to her apartment for a much-anticipated nap—without a stop at Deuces for the stupid boots—when her cell phone rang. She grabbed the earpiece from the dash, inserted it, and said, “Hello?”
“Hello,” a deep, familiar voice replied. “This is Trevor McCade.”
His cool, sexy smile swam before her eyes as her heart stalled and then nose-dived straight to the pit of her stomach. “Detective,” she replied on a rushed breath. “What can I do for you?”
“We have some follow-up questions. Can you come down to the station?”
Her blood chilled. Down to the station? That sounded bad. “Today?”
“Yeah. I know your shift doesn’t start until ten tonight. I’m betting you can work us in sometime before then. If not, I’m sure if my partner and I come down to Deuces, management will let you take a break to speak with us.”
The traffic light up ahead turned from yellow to red, and Kylie hit the brake just in time to avoid slamming into the car in front of her. Concentrate!
She took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. Nothing good would come out of making the police question her at Deuces. Better to meet with them this afternoon. How long could it take, given that she didn’t know anything?
With her fantasy of a long nap evaporating before her gritty eyes, she watched the signal change, hit the gas, and replied, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Three
Trevor tapped an evidence folder against his leg and watched from the monitoring room as Ian escorted Stacy into an interview suite. The days of the stark white sweatbox with a two-way mirror were gone, replaced by superior technology and psychology. With its integrated audio and video components and blue-toned corporate conference room decor, interview subjects enjoyed the illusion of privacy, and might forget they were participating in a police interview long enough to let their guard down and give up information.
All smiley, friendly good-cop, Ian pulled out a chair for their guest. Once she was seated, he perched on the conference table and attempted some small talk. With his rolled shirtsleeves, loose tie, and easy charm, he exuded relaxed calm. More like a desk jockey at happy hour than a homicide detective conducting an investigation.
Stacy’s replies, on the other hand, were stiff and cautious, and her body language matched. She kept her arms folded protectively across her chest. Although dressed in a casual white workout tank and stretchy cropped pants the exact color of her eyes, she somehow managed to look uncomfortable.
After wearing her guard down infinitesimally with his relentless pleasantness, Ian left to fetch her a bottle of water. Her stiffness gave way to fatigue almost as soon as he left. She straightened her long legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned back in her chair. A moment passed. She shielded her mouth with her hand and surrendered to a jaw-dropping yawn. The gesture coaxed a smile from him. Who covered their mouth when yawning in an empty room?
Finally, she leaned forward, rested her arms on the table, and pillowed her head on her biceps. Within minutes her slow, regular breaths told him she’d fallen asleep. Poor baby. She probably hadn’t gotten much last night. Stumbling over a homicide victim tended to have that effect on people.
Ian sauntered in and nodded to Trevor. “How’s our girl? Aw, look at that…a sleeping angel.” He palpated a hand over his chest and grinned.
“Yeah, she’s a heart-stopper.”
“That she is,” Ian agreed. “But while she looks like a slice of heaven, she lies like hell. Nothing Vernon Firth told me this morning jibes too well with her ‘never heard of him, don’t know him’ line on Carlton Long. She’s eit
her a liar or an idiot.”
“She’s no idiot. What’d you find when you ran her?”
“Not much. Drives like a maniac and parks wherever she wants, but other than the parking violations and speeding tickets, her record is clean. I found a sealed juvie, but it’s nothing.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke to the local deputy and he remembered her well enough. They picked her up for partying a few times—underage drinking, a little weed. She’s trouble with a lower-case t.”
“Local deputy, meaning not here in LA?”
Ian nodded. “She’s a transplant. Born and raised on the wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout, Tennessee.”
“Sounds rustic.”
“It’s a speck on the map. The municipal website puts the population at just under two thousand. Father unknown, but according to the deputy I spoke to, the mom is alive and well and living in Two Trout. No brothers, one sister, so not a lot to look at in terms of family.”
Trevor watched Stacy on the monitor and wondered what convinced her to trade the wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout for a Hollywood strip club. Another small-town hopeful trying to make it big in Tinseltown, discovering that the shot comes at a very steep price?
“Basically, nothing I uncovered in her past or her family tree sets my Spidey sense tingling,” Ian concluded. “I’ll leave the data on your desk if you want to take a look?”
Trevor shook his head. Ian was thorough and his instincts reliable, even if his detective’s badge wasn’t yet six months old. “No need. Nothing’s tingling for me either. What about her job, or personal life?”
“Vern confirmed she’s been at Deuces for almost two years, like she told you, and he says she’s one of his most popular dancers. Not the warmest, friendliest gal with the rest of the staff, but she always shows up on time and ready to work, and doesn’t bring a lot of personal drama with her like some of the girls. Consistent with that observation, he’s never caught so much as a hint of a jealous boyfriend, obsessive ex, overprotective buddy, or strange stalker-type hanging around.”
Lover Undercover Page 3