“No boyfriends?” Trevor raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Plenty of boys, but no friends. Vern implied she likes variety in her personal life and rarely goes back for second helpings of anything she’s already sampled. Claims he tries to stay out of his peoples’ business, but in his experience, she doesn’t stick with the same guy long enough for anybody to develop an attachment. Also, as far as he knows, she doesn’t hook up with the customers.”
“Has she ever hooked up with anybody on staff at Deuces?”
“Vern says no. Frankly, I got the impression she’s not real popular with her coworkers.”
Trevor turned back to the monitor. “Doesn’t look like she’s losing any sleep over it.”
Ian handed him two bottled waters. “I’d say it’s time for her wake-up call.”
Trevor took his folder and the waters, and with his back to the door, lifted his chin in a salute. “Join in if the mood strikes.” With that, he pushed out the door and, bracing himself for…he couldn’t say exactly what, walked toward the interview room.
She didn’t stir when he entered, not even when the door swung shut behind him. He sat across from her, placed the water bottles and evidence folder on the table, and cocked an eyebrow at the camera in the corner of the room. A muffled moan pulled his attention back to the sleeping woman.
“Stacy?”
She shifted in her sleep, evading some phantom pursuer, and cried, “Don’t…oh, my God!”
Concerned, he touched her arm, and kept his voice calm. “Shh. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
She jerked upright, completely disoriented. Her cheekbone bore a red imprint from her arm. Wide, jumpy eyes flew around the room and finally settled on him.
He fought an impulse to smooth his hand over her cheek and tell her everything was okay. Everything wasn’t okay. Instead, he cracked open a bottle of water and pushed it toward her. “Bad dream, huh?”
Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands in a way he found strangely endearing, she released a breath and nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”
“No apologies necessary. I understand. You had an ugly shock this morning.” When she offered a small, pained smile, he cracked the cap on his own bottle of water and got down to business. “I know you’re anxious to find justice for Mr. Long and I appreciate you coming in this afternoon. I have a few additional questions for you, based on information gathered earlier today.” Picking up the remote control for the camera and recorder he added, “Do you mind if we record this?”
She licked her lips and shook her head. “Obviously, I want to do what I can, but I warn you, I don’t have anything new to add to what I told you last night.”
Trevor forced his mind away from speculation about whether her lips tasted as lush and sweet as they looked. “Why don’t I tell you what we’ve learned first, and then we’ll see if you can shed any light?” He took her silence as agreement. “Ian spoke to Vernon Firth this morning.”
No discernible reaction to that piece of news.
“Interestingly, Mr. Firth recognized the victim. He characterized Carlton Long as an extremely loyal customer. In fact, according to him, Mr. Long frequented Deuces for a very specific reason. Can you guess why?”
Guileless blue eyes met his. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a clue.”
“Really? That’s strange, because Mr. Firth indicated that you were the reason Mr. Long came to Deuces on a regular basis.”
“Me?”
Her surprise struck him as completely genuine. She either didn’t see his answer coming or she was a very good actress.
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“I think maybe Vern’s mistaken, or drew some kind of wrong impression.”
“We’re not ones to take people’s impressions at face value either, so we looked into it. Mr. Long’s credit card receipts confirm Mr. Firth’s belief.” He opened the evidence folder and pulled one out. “Over a three-month period, Mr. Long purchased several private dances. Mr. Firth walked us through the service codes Deuces uses and we noted that the vast majority of those purchases involved dancer 1469.” Tapping the line item on the receipt copy, he flicked his eyes to hers. “That’s you.”
She squinted at the receipt. “Yes.”
“So, Carlton Long has been one of your regular clients for at least three months, and yet, last night you told me you didn’t recognize his name. I find that curious.”
Stacy took a long drink, while her eyes strayed down and to the right—a classic indication of someone formulating a story. “I’m not good with names. If I’d seen his face, without the…trauma, I might have recognized him. The name by itself?” She executed a jerky shrug. “It just didn’t click.”
“I hear what you’re saying. Business is business.” He tucked the receipt back in the folder, and then scratched his chin. “The thing is, Stacy, I’m not quite buying it, because I noticed something about you last night.”
She took another sip of water, sloshing a little due to her shaking hand.
“When you work,” he continued, “you’re very aware of your audience. You take in details and retain them.”
There went those eyes again—down and right.
“That’s, um, kind of an illusion, Detective. Customers want to feel special, like they’re getting personal attention. I hate to burst your bubble, but for the dancers, the clients’ names and faces all blend together.”
Trevor rubbed his jaw and made a show of considering her explanation. “Maybe for some dancers they do, but I sense not for you. You’re an active observer, strategic even.”
She used the nail of her ring finger to worry the cuticle of her thumb and shook her head. “No, not really. Like I said—”
“Last night, during your stage dance, you sized up everyone in the front row before choosing your dance partner. You correctly assessed your mark as a little drunk and available for some audience participation, but not so drunk as to risk getting out of hand. To make those kinds of decisions, you have to be observant and smart.”
Full, unadorned lips parted, as if to offer an automatic denial, and then closed. She took a breath and relaxed her shoulders. “The man happened to be sitting in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. I’m a dancer, not a trained observer.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Of course, you’ve made some bad calls too, like your choice last week.”
“My choice last week?”
Again, he noted her genuine confusion. “Yes. Last Saturday you selected Mr. Long as your dance partner, but instead of playing nice, he got overexcited and pulled you offstage. Mr. Firth said you sprained your ankle as a result of the spill and took this past Thursday off in order to give yourself an extra day to heal. I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good.” He gave himself a moment to simply look at her, into her, beyond the line of bull she persisted in feeding him, but she kept her expression locked tight. “Forgive me, Stacy, but I need to run through these facts one more time. Last night, when I told you the victim was Carlton Long, no bells of recognition rang in your head. Correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s hard to keep track of every Tom, Dick, and Carl.”
“Despite him being a long-standing customer? Despite him spending over five thousand dollars for private dances before the night of your accident?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Handling the charge cards and payments is someone else’s job. The dancers don’t deal with it, so names don’t necessarily come up.”
“You’d given him at least one private dance a week for the last three months. Are you telling me his name never came up during all that time? Wouldn’t you want to address such a devoted client by name?”
“Maybe he called himself Carl once or twice, Detective. I meet a lot of men. You stop retaining names after a while. I don’t really remember.”
“A regular client who pulls you o
ffstage and injures you so badly you need a full week to recover doesn’t stand out?”
“Of course I remember the incident, but…” She shrugged.
He leaned forward until he could look her in the eye. Hers were wide and unhappy. “Sorry, but I’m still having a tough time with this. You pick up details and you have a good memory. Last night when I showed up at the crime scene, you recognized me and remembered my name. I’m not even a regular customer, let alone one who’s spent thousands on your private dances. How do you explain your remarkable recall with me?
Eyes down and right, like clockwork. “You’re a cop. Cops don’t blend in,” she replied, a little desperately. But he had to hand it to her. She had a marginally plausible answer for everything.
“So, you’re not good with names, or faces?”
“Even if I was good with faces, how would I have recognized Mr. Long? His face was… ruined.”
“True enough.” He sighed and shook his head. “The medical examiner’s preliminary report sheds some light on his last few hours. Someone hit him on the back of his head with a blunt object—likely a liquor bottle—and fractured his skull. That blow pretty much punched his ticket. He couldn’t put up much fight when his assailant slipped on the brass knuckles and went to work on his face. Needless to say, it wasn’t quick or painless.”
Her uneven breaths and shimmering eyes made him pause.
“Poor man,” she whispered.
Everything inside him believed she meant it. Her horror, her compassion, both struck him as genuine.
“I agree. Being beaten to death is a harsh end. It’s also a fairly unusual death, statistically speaking. There were two hundred reported homicides in Los Angeles County last year, but only a handful of the male victims were beaten to death. If I look for similar crimes locally, within the last three years, I get a real short list.” He rolled his shoulders and lifted his water bottle to his lips. “Sometimes the similar crimes angle is a dead end.”
“You have a difficult job, Detective.”
“Trevor,” he corrected and took a long drink. Lowering the bottle, he shifted topics. “So, you think if Mr. Long had sustained less blunt force trauma, you might have recognized him as a Deuces patron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try another face and see what you recognize.” With that, he opened the evidence envelope again, pulled out a photograph from his cold-case file and tossed it on the table between them. “Recognize this man?”
She picked up the photo and stared at the well-groomed, swarthy man, as if memorizing for a test. Finally, she dropped it and shook her head. “No.”
“His name is Alex Montenegro. Sound familiar?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Is that a no?”
“Yes, that’s a no.” Her irritation came through loud and clear.
“Vern indicates he was also one of your regulars, until about eight months ago. At that time, the LAPD discovered his body in an alley a block from Deuces. He’d been beaten to death, just like Mr. Long.” Trevor tossed out another picture of Mr. Montenegro, this one a lot less flattering.
Her eyes darted to his. “I thought you said the similar crimes angle was a dead end?”
“I said sometimes it’s a dead end.” Relaxing in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head and smiled. “Not this time, as it turns out. Speaking of similarities, Vern says Mr. Montenegro behaved improperly during one of your private dances and security escorted him out against his will. Do you remember the incident?”
“I don’t know…vaguely?”
“A disappointing answer from such an observant woman. Vern couldn’t remember exactly what went down, but he thinks the incident occurred during what ended up being Mr. Montenegro’s last visit to Deuces. Tell me, Stacy, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“A jealous ex? An overprotective man in your life who isn’t real happy with your career choice?”
“No. No,” she insisted when he continued to stare at her. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m getting at two men, beaten to death in a manner so similar it’s practically a signature, whose only other connection appears to be their enthusiasm for Deuces…and you. That’s either an incredible coincidence—and I don’t believe in coincidence—or you’re involved. For several reasons, not the least of which is all the heat you walked into by finding and reporting Mr. Long’s body, I doubt you’re knowingly involved.”
He waited a beat, to gauge her reaction to his statement, and caught the faintest flicker of relief cross her face. “Don’t take too much comfort from staying off the suspect list, because if I’m right, you’re in an even more precarious situation. You’ve caught a killer’s eye. So far he’s going after your poorly behaved clients, but I can’t help wondering what happens if he decides you’re the one behaving poorly.”
His words rounded her huge, blue eyes, but she didn’t crack. Instead, she dropped her gaze to her watch. “I’ve answered your questions as best I can. Am I free to go?”
“What’s your hurry? Somebody extremely dangerous is watching you closely, if my theory is correct. Maybe you’d like to consider the implications for a moment?”
She didn’t respond, but her expression conveyed such apprehension, uncertainty, and plain old misery, he couldn’t stop himself from trying again.
“Hey.” He softened his voice. “You’re in a risky situation. I need your help to get you out.”
She glanced his way, but said nothing.
“Is there anyone hanging around Deuces who makes you nervous—a client or a coworker you dated, or who wanted a date and didn’t get one? A guy who’s controlling, possessive, or just not quite right? Now’s not the time to protect someone you feel sorry for. Protect yourself.” He let concern lace his voice. Not hard. He was extremely concerned. Duty compelled him to keep her safe, but his desire to do so went well beyond a professional aim to protect and serve. He’d developed a soft spot for this resourceful little stripper with a core of old-fashioned decency.
“There’s something you’re not saying. I can tell.” Knuckle under her chin, he tipped her face up and held her wary, frightened gaze. “Please, talk to me.”
The signs of her indecision played across her face for several moments. Ultimately, though, she shook her head. “I can’t—”
“God, you’re a tough one.” For the second time now he’d convinced himself she was about to trust him.
“I’m not,” she shot back, voice quavering. “I’m so far from tough it’s frightening.”
“Stacy, we can keep you safe—”
“You don’t understand. I can’t tell you anything more because I don’t know anything. I don’t know who killed Carlton Long or the other one…Alex Montenegro—”
“Impressive memory for someone who claims to be terrible with names,” he pointed out softly.
Her expression froze, then shuttered. She pulled away and stood. “I’m leaving now.”
“Fine. We’ll continue this discussion tonight at Deuces.”
That stopped her at the door. She swung around and stared at him. “Detective, I’ve answered your questions. The whole point of coming here this afternoon was so you wouldn’t come to the club tonight.”
“I know.” He smiled as he said it, showing her he wasn’t particularly concerned with her lack of enthusiasm for his company. “I also know you’re our only link between two unsolved murders. So unless and until something else breaks, I’m your new best customer. Better get used to me.”
…
“You’re stoned if you think I’m going to the cops,” Stacy declared with a humorless laugh. “I might as well lock myself up and throw away the key.”
Kylie stopped pacing a threadbare path over the worn rug covering the scarred hardwood of their living room floor and stared at her sister, who sat on the sofa with her cast-encased leg propped on their dinged Ikea coffee table. Having just recapped a high-volume account of
the last twelve hours of her life, her twin’s flat-out refusal to come clean to the police about their switcheroo threw her for a loop.
“Stacy, this is not like me taking your place for one of Mrs. Higgins’s algebra exams. It’s a murder investigation, and I don’t know the right answers. I told them I didn’t recognize Carlton Long’s name, but it looks like a big, fat lie, given he was one of your best clients. The good news is, despite all the holes in my statement, they don’t think you’re knowingly involved in the murders.”
“Good. We’re home free, Ky. Why mess things up now?”
So Trevor doesn’t come to Deuces every night and watch me dance, she wanted to scream, but bit the words back and offered up a more rational explanation. “Because it’s illegal to lie to the police? Because you might know something important you don’t even realize, or maybe have some detail tucked away in your memory that will unlock the case for them? Do you want me to keep going? This is nonnegotiable, Stacy. We’ve got to call Detective McCade, explain what we did, and talk to him. Don’t be afraid. You’re not a suspect.”
Stacy’s face lost every bit of color. Even her lips went pale at Kylie’s words. “No, Kylie, you’re not a suspect. You come across as innocent and trustworthy. They could have found you standing over both dead guys, bloody brass knuckles in hand, and somehow, they’d still believe you had nothing to do with it. I’m different. My whole life, all I had to do was breathe and I’d be accused of doing something wrong. If we come forward now and tell these detectives about our little fraud, I’m screwed.”
And there it was, the crux of her sister’s refusal. “This isn’t Two Trout. These detectives don’t operate on preconceived notions. They look for the truth and back it up with facts. And the fact is, you didn’t commit these murders. But they happened, and you can’t afford to hide your head and pretend otherwise.”
“Please, Ky, keep being me,” Stacy begged. “I’m no good with police. I don’t trust them. Remember how it was in Two Trout? The second anything bad happened, the cops always showed up at our door, wanting to question me. And I always said something wrong, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.”
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