Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  “How do we manage that?”

  “Easy.” He took another big bite, stopped to chew for a moment. “This wasn’t a cheap tab.” He looked around the room. “And the digs, they set you back a few bills.”

  She didn’t look up. “It’s okay. I can afford it.” Her voice was tight, angry. It made his hackles rise again. “And I can afford to do what we need to do to find her.” He always knew she and Chris came from money. It shouldn’t be a big surprise now. “I can pay your fees.”

  He took in a deep breath. He was letting her send his emotions all over the place. That had to stop. He went to his go-to feeling. Anger. “Don’t you worry, sweet cheeks, you’ll get a bill. But I meant that if I was going to find you, find out what you were up to, the easiest place to start is your money.” He scooped up a pile of the potatoes and swallowed without chewing. “Always follow the money.”

  He stood. Carried his plate and napkin over to the table. Without a word he opened the second bottle and poured himself a hefty glass. “She had plenty of cash on hand. No abnormal deposits.”

  “You can hack her accounts? Really?”

  “No. I saw her bank statement this morning, at her apartment. Called a connection at that bank. Asked a couple general questions. He just sent me an email. He didn’t say anything that would put her identity in jeopardy. Just general info that would help us to know.” He turned to look out the window. “But he said no red flags. Nothing but normal payroll deposits and no significant withdrawals in the last two months. If she was moonlighting, where did the money go? Stripping is fairly lucrative.”

  “I never thought it was about money for her. Must have been doing some of her own investigative work? Checking out the clubs for something?”

  “Likely something to do with Coyote Springs.”

  “Why would Chris care about that? Big-money real estate wouldn’t begin to be on her radar. All she cares about is abandoned children and battered women. I’d be surprised if she knew much about the finances of Coyote Springs at all.”

  She took the last swig from her glass and stood next to Jim. They stared in silence over the dancing waters of the fountains across the way. The colors changed along with the spray to music they couldn’t hear.

  He changed position slightly. He looked over at her. He was trapped between her and the couch. She started to back away, to give him some room, but his eyes found a scar on her neck. Erica was holding her breath.

  He needed to get away. “You should move.”

  14

  She was so close he could smell her skin. His gaze fixed on the scar on her collarbone. He hadn’t noticed it before. He knew the imperfection wasn’t there eight years ago. It wasn’t a minor scrape either. The mark was short but rather thick and ragged. Probably a deep cut.

  Irrational anger bubbled through his body. He was furious not so much over the wound but the thought that someone might have hurt her. He hadn’t been there to prevent it. Ridiculous.

  All kinds of protective instincts stirred his blood. Had they been in a public place, instead of cooped up in that suite, someone might possibly be getting beat to a pulp right this instant. For no good reason other than he needed to release the baseless emotion pounding at his temples. He was still pissed as hell at her.

  She nodded at his instruction to move and placed one foot back and eased her weight onto it as if she was frightened to go too fast. Maybe she was sensing his anxiety, his arousal. Most likely it was his desire. He didn’t care which, and she was too fucking slow.

  Jim reached out and took her by the shoulders. Her eyes got big, like a squirrel in the road, unsure as to whether to make a go for the far side or to retreat.

  He turned her just a hair to the left and pulled her heated body tight to his chest. His lips took hers as if they had a will of their own. She felt stiff, shocked. Well, too bad. So was he. His brain was screaming to him he that should take that stiffness as a statement of refusal and stop the madness that was about to ensue.

  There was no pulling away from Erica’s sweet mouth. Hot. Sensual. She tasted of wine.

  Her body softened, molded against his. In the middle of his back, her fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, almost digging into his skin. She was pulling him closer. He was lost in her scent. Clean, lightly feminine, it was nothing he recognized.

  He pulled away. Looked down past the soft fabric of that blouse, to the scar. He pressed his lips to that, hoping it would make up for something he couldn’t name. Her head fell back, her grip on his back loosened. He kissed the top of her breast as he heard her breaths become ragged.

  There was no turning back. He felt like a buck in rut. He scooped her up and took her to the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed a little rougher than he’d intended. She giggled as she recovered her balance and propped herself up on her elbows, kicked off her high-dollar black dress shoes.

  “Clothes,” she whispered. She wanted skin on skin. He stopped and nodded. They worked together. Then she was naked, laid before him like a buffet of sexual perfection.

  She whimpered. “Jim.”

  His phone rang.

  Jim froze. His eyes closed tight.

  “Oh. God, no,” she cursed.

  What the fuck was he doing? It was like someone whacked him on the head and he suddenly remembered who and where he was. Like being awakened from a dream. He backed slowly down her body. He sat on the edge of the bed as the ringer went off again. He pulled the phone out of his jeans and tucked his feet back into them. He didn’t look back at her. It blared again, a loud annoying sound like an antique car horn.

  Dammit. All it took was one kiss and here he was crawling all over her like a cheap prom date.

  He answered by the fourth annoying ring. A muddled deep voice was on the other end. Jim stood and tried to pull his pants over his not quite flaccid self as he did so. He had to bounce to get it in a position to get the zipper over it, and in the process the phone slipped from where it had been balanced between his ear and his shoulder.

  It bounced on the bed and landed high between her legs. Erica hadn’t moved. She was still lying there with her shirt off and her panties tugged down. Jim blushed as he picked it up. “Sorry.”

  This had to be the most awkward moment of his life. Well, maybe not. It was a woman he loved. Once loved.

  He nodded to the phone, and then looked at her. “You know Chris’s blood type?”

  “A positive.”

  Jim repeated the information. Listened a little longer. The question brought the harsh reality of the day back to the forefront of his worries. Work. That was what he was all about.

  He pulled his shirt over his head.

  Erica was dressed and pouring the last of the wine into her glass when Jim hung up.

  “Miller.” He grunted and looked at the carpet.

  “And?”

  He looked her in the eye. Serious. Straight. “I’m sorry. I lost control there for a minute. My fault. It won’t happen again.” A totally weak apology, but it was all he had.

  She gave him a slight nod and closed her eyes. Like she’d rather he just dropped it. That worked for him.

  “I—it’s been a strange couple of days.” He fumbled for words.

  “Yeah.” She looked back at him with tears forming in her eyes. “Strange.”

  He nodded.

  “What did Miller say?” Back on track. She recovered quick. No more tears. No complications.

  “Three different blood types in Chris’s apartment.” He sat back down in front of his computer. “First one, O positive. Very common, but he had a hunch and ran it against Edmond Carver’s.” He looked at her. “Match.”

  “What?”

  “The second, A positive. No sample to compare it to for Chris, but he assumes it’s hers since it’s her apartment. Good assumption, I believe.”

  Erica s
lid into the chair across the glass table from him. “Two blood types so far and one belongs to a dead guy?”

  “The last was AB negative. Very rare. Tripped a memory for Miller. Another missing person, an older one that was his own case. Turns out the AB belongs to a twenty-year-old girl from Arizona. She’s been missing for a few weeks. Reported by her roommate, who said this girl worked at yet another strip club.”

  15

  The logical conclusion was to head to Coyote Springs. Jim had made a short but valiant argument for Erica to stay at the Paris, get some rest. Not a chance. She said she was scared to be alone. How could he argue with that? He was a chump. A protective chump. And the stakes kept getting bigger. He just had to keep a professional distance.

  There’d been no conversation since they got in the car. The road was straight and dark. Not much to see since leaving Las Vegas. The terrain did a steady rise and fall. The rock formations that were a hearty display of red and gold in the daytime were merely looming dark shadows against a gray, cloudless night. He had his window down, needed the fresh air. Erica’s hair was dancing in the breeze. She hadn’t complained so he’d kept it open. The dashboard said it was fifty-six degrees out. It felt fresh, cool. Mind-clearing kind of weather. November in Nevada. He loved it.

  They passed a closed gas station. Not one light burning. Not even a streetlight. No one cared to prevent an overnight robbery. Deserted, out of business.

  She looked at her watch, then glanced up at the rearview mirror in time to catch him looking back. He turned his attention to the road. This was stupid. He was feeling like a schoolboy who got caught peeking in the girl’s locker room. He should say something about it. Cut off this awkward feeling.

  “So.” She did it for him. Left the awkward moment in the hotel behind. “All this seems so random. We have a dead drug dealer who Chris helped out at some point in his miserable life.” She held up a finger for each point. “A missing twenty-year-old stripper we know nothing about. Chris working as a stripper. A cop deleting case files. The Thin Man. The man in the yellow shoes. A searched apartment. Blood. Blood. Blood.”

  He glanced back up. Ten fingers. Back to work. Good. She’d failed to mention Banks cracking her head open. The bruise was a blackish purple around her eye, but the pain must be lessening since she didn’t react to it or acknowledge it in her list. But he would leave that little detail out until he figured if Banks and Zant fit into this puzzle or not.

  “Dirty cops, missing strippers, and dead drug dealers are all common in Vegas, sadly. It’s likely the Thin Man and Yellow Shoes are the same guy. Different clothes and he doesn’t look so thin anymore.” She nodded when he looked up at the mirror to meet her eyes. “We just need to figure out what’s tying that all together.”

  “Could this place be the connection? The development, not the club.”

  “Either. Both. That’s why we’re out here.”

  The first building to rise in the distance was a hotel on the west side of the road. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl as they passed. No other traffic at the moment to be disturbed.

  “The anonymous type. Just as you described it.” And it was. White stucco, stained orange several feet up from the foundation, one story, and spread out into two wings that mirrored each other off to either side of the small office. There was no lobby, no restaurant. A few lights were burning in small rooms. Two cars parked where they could see them. Could be more around back. Cheaters parked in the back. Dealers parked in the back. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, so no need to check. Yet.

  They went another mile and came upon the restaurant and the strip club. One on either side of the highway. The restaurant, on the west, was more diner than restaurant. It was small, built right on the road, glass front, maybe sixty feet long. Probably not more than fifteen tables and a long counter inside. It was well lit, and even at the late hour of ten p.m. on a weeknight, it had two cars parked in front, a few people he could see sitting at the counter.

  Comparatively, the Showgirl seemed huge, like an edifice paying homage to the glory that was the stripping industry in Nevada. That building was well off the road and the metal structure rose three stories high. It had been strategically placed at an angle for perfect roadfront advertising to those driving north from Vegas to the golf course and the planned community. Fresh clean paint said it was well kept. Black wrought iron held up a red canopy walkway that greeted guests for loading and unloading. A valet stood at the ready in khakis and black polo. On the roof, fifteen-foot-tall neon signs blinked to create the illusion of a dancing girl high-kicking to music Jim could not hear from the road. A nod to classic Vegas.

  The joint was doing a good business too. Damned good for the remote location. There were probably twenty cars in the lot plus a few limos. Jim cruised by.

  “Aren’t we going in?”

  “I looked over the layout of the community online. Full of computer-generated photos with happy families, schoolyards, and shopping centers. Sales video for pushing the dream. I want to see what’s really out here.” He drove on. “It’ll be open till four a.m., at least. Best to let the girls make some money first. Then they’re more likely to take some time to chat.”

  Past the club, there was little else to see. The golf club was less than three miles north, just off the main road. He’d read good things about it. Nicklaus designed it himself. It too was still well-

  maintained, popular, and tee times hard to get. It was the only reason this city was on the map at all. At this hour, though, the unimpressive clubhouse, which was a double-wide trailer rather than a country club, was dark. “It looks temporary. Part of the unfinished idea of the community.”

  “Seems sad,” she said more to herself than to him. Her face matched the comment as it reflected off the glass of the window.

  The rest of the town tour was short. Past the course there was a service road off to the east just before a sign reading Thank You for Visiting Modern Coyote Springs. A half mile or more down that road stood two more large metal buildings. Dark. Empty lots. Overgrown with scrub weeds. Several more streets had been cut in, but all were dead ends that led to nowhere and nothing. Six buildings were all that was left of the dream that was Coyote Springs.

  He made a legal U-turn at the far end of what would have been a bustling community had it not been for investment scams and embezzlement.

  “Two times in as many days I’m going into a strip club.” She shook her head as they started for the door. “Any particular reason we parked all the way out here?”

  “Parking out here we walk by the row of hired cars.”

  And they soon did. Seven of them. All black or dark blue with heavily tinted windows. He studied each one as he went by. His brows rose at the third one from the end.

  “What’s with that one?”

  “Private plates.” He kept walking. “You still good with numbers?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  “Can you memorize that plate number?”

  “Sure.” She pulled out her phone and typed the license number into a notes app. “Done.”

  He laughed. “I sometimes forget to use my technology.”

  “Too much of a hard-ass. Always liked to do things the hard way. When you were in that criminology class, you used to say it was better working like the old guys. That you’d catch more details that way. Experience the case instead of recording it.”

  The fact she’d remembered what he’d said years ago momentarily stopped his progress. He remembered saying it. He didn’t want to have that memory now. He looked past her to the door. A bouncer was off to the side smoking a cigarette, chatting on the phone. “Try not to piss off the locals this time.”

  Her hand drifted to her bruised brow. He returned to his path to the door.

  A sharp-looking young man opened the door for them as they approached. “Have a nice evening, folks,” he said with a s
mile as Erica stepped past him. Jim nodded and handed the kid a bill.

  They stepped into the lobby area. It was much bigger and cleaner than the Peppermint Pony.

  “You tipped him for opening the door?”

  “Almost everyone in Vegas lives on tips.” A very pretty girl stood inside a little coatroom. Not that it was often cold enough for coats in Vegas, but several suit jackets and a fur hung behind her.

  “Welcome to the Showgirl.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “Ladies’ night tonight, so your lovely companion has no cover.” She pushed her locks from her face with a slight flip of her head. She probably didn’t even realize the flirty nature of the move. “For you, twenty-five.”

  Again, Jim reached in his wallet. He pulled out thirty dollars and handed the girl the cash. “Thanks,” he said and turned to Erica, not waiting for his change. Another tip. He’d add it to her bill.

  “Have a good evening,” the girl chirped and she hit a button. A small click indicated a lock on the door leading to the main room had been released. Jim pushed it open and held it for Erica to enter first.

  Locked for those coming in. Probably not for those going out. Jim noted the security cameras as well.

  Erica’s eyes got big when they entered the club. “This place is nothing like the Peppermint Pony.”

  Nope. There were two floors. The upper had a long open atrium with black iron railing wrapped around the dance floors. Two men were perched there watching the activities from above.

  From behind a grand set of stairs, as if between floors, girls were dancing their way along a catwalk that curved down to the lower level, split, and led to various-sized stages. They were all dressed in the same type of elaborate costumes with large headdresses of flowers, feathers, and glitter. The bottoms were skimpy and there was no top at all. Just like the costumes they had found in Chris’s apartment.

  Jim took a moment to assess the room.

  “What are you scanning for?”

  “Exits. Bouncers that might be a threat. Cameras. Anything that might inhibit a speedy retreat.”