Page 10

9

JOANNA

I snuck out of the apartment before West woke up. Shame churned in my gut as I packed my gear, quietly closed the apartment door and took the stairs down to the parking garage. But I’d rather live with the shame than face my not-husband after chickening out of watching a movie with him last night.

I drove to the police station, parked, and made myself a cup of black coffee in the break room. I gulped it down en route to the in-house gym, where I discarded the cup just inside the entrance and made a mental note to pick it up later.

I ran three miles as a warm-up, then went through the familiar routine of setting up a squat bar and taking its weight onto my shoulders.

As I counted out my first set of reps, I scanned the other cops making use of the gym. A couple of older men were on the cycles. A female beat cop was doing pull-ups on a bar. Two guys from the narcotics division were sparring on the mats. How many of them were crooked? One? Two? All of them ?

My legs burned as I straightened from the final squat of the set and positioned the bar back on the rack. When I joined the police, I never thought I’d have to question the loyalty of my fellow officers. I’d been terribly naive.

Determined not to dwell on such a dark subject, I turned my mind to the investigation of Sasha Sloane’s murder as I completed another two sets of squats, followed by three sets of dead lifts and another three sets of calf raises. I stretched my leg muscles to loosen any tightness, showered, and changed into slacks and a blazer.

I took my empty coffee cup back to the break room, then headed for the Homicide Department. When I reached my desk, I found Hanson engaged in a heated conversation with Detective Neal, whose darkly good-looking face was twisted with frustration.

“What’s going on?” I asked, dropping my bag and kicking it beneath the desk.

Neal scowled at me. “I want my case back.”

I arched a brow, no idea what he was talking about. “Your case?”

He rolled his eyes. “The murder at the lakefront. Female vic. Twenties. Cut throat.”

“Ah.” Now it made sense. This was more of his territorial bullshit. Too bad I wasn’t in the mood for it. “You weren’t here. We’ve done too much work at this point to hand it over without a good reason.”

A sneer curled his mouth. “Here’s your reason: It’s my area. You were only covering for me. I’m ready to take it back.”

“Uh-huh.” I sat back against my chair and crossed my arms. “What does the Captain say?”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “You’re so far up management’s ass that—”

“Shut it, Clancy,” Hanson snapped. “All I’m hearing is that you already tried to pull this crap with Thackery, and he told you the Sloane investigation is ours.”

Neal grimaced. “He wouldn’t have if Deputy Chief Dominguez hadn’t been there. But you girls all look out for each other, don’t you?”

My nostrils flared, irritation flashing through me. Sometimes, I wished I could smack Neal across his smarmy face. He’d been disrespectful toward Dominguez ever since she’d been promoted to Deputy Chief.

In his mind, a woman of color couldn’t possibly have earned the role. It must be a token gesture to prove the police department isn’t sexist or racist.

Dominguez was a damn good cop. Better than he’d ever be.

“Neal, we have a fatal stabbing to attend.”

We all turned at the voice. Detective Sewell, Neal’s beleaguered partner, smiled at us wearily. The bags below his eyes were shadowed, and he obviously hadn’t shaved in a while.

“But the Sloane investigation—”

“Isn’t ours,” Sewell interrupted. He stepped toward Neal, the contrast between them becoming more obvious as he moved closer. Where Neal was tall and good-looking, Sewell was almost petite for a man, and had the kind of face that people forgot as soon as he left a room. “This stabbing happened only minutes ago. Get a move on.”

Neal grumbled but shot us a final glare and stalked away. Sewell mouthed an apology behind his back.

“Asshole,” Hanson muttered as they exited the room. Thankfully, they must have been out of earshot, because I had no doubt Neal would have called him out on the insult if he’d overheard it.

I sat, suddenly wishing I’d made myself a second coffee. I’d hardly slept last night, and more caffeine would help get my brain firing on all cylinders. Especially since it was warm and stuffy in here, making it difficult to concentrate.

“So…” Hanson let the word drag out. “How are things with the husband?”

I forced myself not to react. “It turns out that I misunderstood what I saw. We’re sorting things out, but I think we’ll be fine.”

He nodded, obviously relieved. “Good, good. I’m happy for you.”

And for himself, probably. My being married gave him a way to connect with me. If I was single again, we’d have nothing in common, and he’d have to return to being completely awkward around me instead of just a little awkward.

I withdrew my notebook from my front pocket, grabbed a pen off the desk and wheeled my chair around to join him. “So, what did you find after I left on Friday?”

He opened a tab on his screen, bringing up what appeared to be a series of text messages. “The tech team discovered a string of deleted messages to Sloane’s second phone, all from the same number. It’s set to private and was never added to her contacts, so unfortunately, we can’t trace it.”

I rolled my chair closer so I could read the messages. “Was there any identifying information within the chat itself?”

“Nothing obvious. No names or addresses. Mostly, the messages were times and places to meet.”

“Hmm.” I scanned the messages. They were all brief and to the point. From what I could tell, Sloane never replied, or if she did, she’d deleted her responses more effectively than the person she was messaging. “Do you think it could be the baby’s father? ”

Hanson sighed. “I don’t know. None of these scream romance to me. What do you think?”

I pursed my lips and cocked my head, considering carefully before I answered. “Not blatantly, but if she were seeing someone who didn’t want anyone to know about it, then perhaps. Could be an affair with a married man.”

“Or she could be a drug dealer and the meetups are to exchange drugs and cash,” Hanson mused.

“Could be. It’s too soon to know.” I straightened and turned to him. “What else do we have?”

He looked uncomfortable. “I have a lead on what she did for work.”

“Oh?” Why would he be squirrely about that?

A blush stole across his cheeks. “She was an exotic dancer at a high-end strip club. Ever heard of the Red Letter?”

I shook my head.

“It’s one of the classier strip joints in town. And”—he leaned closer and lowered his voice—“it’s been suspected for quite some time that the Ortez family runs a prostitution ring out of it.”

I blinked, stunned. “Do you think she might have been one of their girls?”

He rested his hands on his paunch. “She was certainly pretty enough.”

I stayed quiet, processing. West was investigating the Ortez family. A woman who may have been a working girl under Ortez’s protection had been murdered. Could the two be related? The Ortez syndicate was heavily involved in drugs and prostitution. It could be a coincidence that one of their dancers had turned up dead.

“We’ll need to ask around,” I said, considering the ramifications. “Is the club owned by a member of the Ortez family? ”

Hanson pulled a face. “Nah. It’s owned by a shell corporation. Tech are still trying to find where it traces back to.”

“It could be the Ortez’s or one of their allies. That would make sense if they allegedly run a prostitution ring out of the place.”

“There’s nothing we can do on that front at the moment.” Hanson reached for a take-out cup of coffee and sipped, then licked foam off his lips. “Want to talk to some dancers?”

I glanced at my watch. “Surely it’s too early for them to be there yet.” It was my understanding that strip clubs were open until early in the morning. “Let’s give it another couple of hours.”

“All right.”

I returned to my desk and worked methodically through the most urgent emails in my inbox before checking the file we’d been sent with background information on Sasha Sloane’s family. According to our research, both of her parents were still alive, and she had an older sister who was a dental technician not far from here.

I opened another file, entitled Red Letter. Inside was a copy of Sloane’s employment contract, a headshot, and several photographs of her scantily clad, spinning on a pole. My eyes nearly bugged out when one of the images showed her holding herself upside down using only her legs. She must have been a strong woman.

Yet she hadn’t fought back against her attacker. Had she been caught by surprise? Or had it been someone she trusted?

I hated it when people betrayed their loved ones’ trust. And no, that wasn’t only because it was too close for comfort after my recent discovery of who West really was.

Forcing myself to focus on the final sheet in the file, I skimmed the relevant information. Over twenty women danced at the Red Letter, but Sasha Sloane was a regular. She performed under the stage name Diamond and usually worked Friday and Saturday nights.

“Lee, you reckon there’ll be staff at the strip club by now?” Hanson called over the divider.

I glanced at my watch. It was late morning. “Worth a shot.”

I closed the files, returned my notepad to my pocket, and packed everything I might need into my jacket. There was no point in lugging my duffel bag across town.

“I’ll drive,” Hanson said, coming around the end of my desk, a set of keys already in his grasp.

“Let’s go then.”

We took a squad vehicle to the strip club and parked outside. The club had a surprisingly low-key exterior, with only a small, red neon sign above the door. Hanson tried the handle and the door swung inward, revealing a set of stairs that climbed into darkness. Dance music played from somewhere beyond.

Hanson and I exchanged a glance.

“Ladies first,” he said.

I smirked. “Age before beauty.”

He scowled, and I relented, and strode up the stairs ahead of him. Whatever we were about to walk into, I doubted it would be dangerous.

At the top of the stairs, the space opened out into a large, shadowed room. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so dark, but I supposed the black paper across the windows kept the sun out. The only light came from directly above the stage, where a pair of women were practicing their routine while a chubby white man and several other women watched from the floor.

Hanson puffed up the stairs behind me and stopped with his hands on his hips, probably hoping I wouldn’t notice his need to catch his breath.

I approached the people clustered around the stage and drew my badge from my pocket, holding it up for them to see as they turned to face me. “Detective Lee, CPD. My partner and I have a few questions.”

The chubby guy frowned and gestured for the dancers to continue.

“What’s the problem here, detective?” he asked in an oily tone that sent a creeping sense of unease down my spine. The way his eyes roved over me left me in no doubt that he was imagining me with my clothes off.

Rat.

“We’re here about Sasha Sloane,” I said, refusing to allow my disgust with him to creep into my voice. “I understand she worked here.”

“Ah, yes.” He adopted a hangdog expression that didn’t have an ounce of sincerity to it. “I’m Ed Keenan. We were all so sorry to hear about what happened to poor Sasha.”

“So, she was one of your dancers?” Hanson clarified, still wheezing.

I couldn’t help but wonder how he continued to pass the department’s fitness tests. Perhaps they cut him some slack for being a well-respected veteran officer.

“Of course.” Keenan’s lips curved slyly. “She danced every Friday and Saturday, and occasionally for special events.”

“Such as?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Stag parties, usually. Often, they’d have specific ideas about the type of dancers they wanted. Some like blondes, others prefer brunettes. Sasha had this Snow White thing going on that men loved.”

“Did she ever do any private performances?” Hanson asked, having finally got his breathing under control. “For particular customers?”

“No.” Keenan’s lips pinched together. “Sasha didn’t do that. She danced in public, or for small groups, but nothing more. If she saw any customers outside of the Red Letter, I don’t know about it.”

Hmm. He seemed awfully defensive. But then, we could hardly expect him to admit to facilitating anything too hands on, could we?

“Can we speak to the other dancers?” I’d trust their take on things more than this weasel’s.

Keenan frowned and tilted his head, as if considering whether to refuse, but then relented. “Not for long. They have to get ready for a private show tonight.”

“We’ll be as fast as we can.” Hanson was more placating than me. I’d have preferred to point out that this was a murder investigation, and we’d take as long as we needed.

I stopped Keenan with one hand. “I’m sure you’re busy, but before you go, when was the last time you saw Sasha?”

“Tuesday evening.” He’d clearly given this some thought, since he had the answer ready. “She wasn’t scheduled that night, but she came to talk to one of the other girls. I’d guess she left around eight or nine.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

So, Sasha had left here at, say, 8:30 p.m. Dr. Kelly estimated the time of death to be between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. What had happened in the two-and-a-half to four-and-a-half hours after she’d left the Red Letter?

“Which girl did she talk to?” Hanson asked, just as Keenan was turning away.

A flicker of calculation passed through his eyes, as if he was once again debating how much to say. “Portia. But she’s not here today. If you want to speak to her, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. ”

He presented us with his back, summarily dismissing us.

“Let me take the lead on these interviews,” I murmured to Hanson. The last thing I needed was him putting his foot in it and either saying something inappropriate or showing any kind of disdain for women who stripped for a living. I might not be warm and fuzzy, but I did my best to be respectful.

He agreed without protest, which surprised me, but perhaps he was simply glad for the opportunity to sit back and relax.

I circled around to the nearest dancer, a stunning Black woman in a hot pink tracksuit. “Excuse me, do you have a moment to answer a few questions about Sasha Sloane?”

Her gaze flicked over me, and I got the feeling I’d been assessed by someone far more astute than I might have expected. But then she put her hand on her hip and grinned.

“Sure thing, honey. What do you need to know?”

An hour later, we’d spoken to all the dancers present—although many of them hadn’t wanted to give us the time of day. Perhaps they’d had bad experiences with the police in the past, in which case, I understood their need to be wary.

We’d managed to ascertain a few facts. According to a particularly chatty dancer named Ruby, Sasha didn’t do any “touchy stuff,” which supported what Keenan had said. Sasha was—as far as anyone knew—strictly a performer.

When I’d asked if Sasha had ever been tempted to break that rule, perhaps for any rich clients, we’d been told her boyfriend wouldn’t let her do that. He was protective. Maybe even dangerously so. They all spoke about him in hushed tones, but when pressed, none of them had met the man. They didn’t even know his name.

Sasha Sloane’s boyfriend was a ghost.

As we trudged back down the stairs, dispirited by the lack of leads for us to follow, a pair of heels clacked on the vinyl behind us.

“Detectives,” a female voice hissed. “Wait up.”

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. It was Sapphire, the first dancer I’d spoken to. She hunched down and looked around, as if to make sure no one could see her talking to us.

“What is it?” I asked, closing the distance between us.

“I remembered something. I don’t know if it’s helpful or not, but I thought it was worth mentioning.”

“What is it?” If she’d chased after us in order to share the details, I was willing to bet it had been playing on her mind more than she might want to admit.

Sapphire bit her lower lip. “I’ve seen Sasha with a man a couple of times. She never danced for him. At least, not as far as I could tell, but they talked.”

I perked up. “Her boyfriend?”

But she shook her head. “I asked and she said no. He was just some guy who liked to talk to her. Some customers are like that. They just want us to listen to them.”

Interesting. I guess exotic dancers might be like bartenders, in a sense.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” I asked.

“He had dark hair and light eyes. I couldn’t tell what color they were, but either blue or green, I think. Maybe gray. He was nicely built.” Her expression grew salacious. “Muscular. And he had one of those strong, square jaws like you expect to see in guys from the military or the police.”

“How old?”

Her face scrunched in thought. “Maybe in his thirties. I didn’t pay a heap of attention. I only noticed him because it was unusual that Sasha wasn’t dancing, and also… I wouldn’t have minded taking a bite out of him. ”

Hanson made a sound of disapproval.

Sapphire rolled her eyes. “Anyway, hope that helps. I’d better get back.”

“It does,” I assured her. “Thanks for telling us.”

She bobbed her head and jogged back up the stairs. Hanson and I took the stairs to the bottom and exited onto the streetside.

“At least we know she had a boyfriend now,” Hanson said as we headed for the squad car.

“Someone who was the jealous type,” I added. “We can assume the baby was probably his, although whether he knew about it is another matter entirely. What do you make of the other guy Sapphire mentioned?”

Hanson shrugged. “It’s something to go off. I doubt it’s enough for us to get a warrant for the club’s cameras so we can identify him though, and there’s no way Keenan is letting us see the recordings without a warrant. Not if the rumors are true.”

“Mm.”

“Maybe she was dating a mobster.” Hanson pushed a button on the key fob to unlock the car. “Since they supposedly run this club and all.”

Mobster.

I gasped as an image flashed into my mind.

A handsome dark haired, green eyed, square jawed man in his thirties. One who fit Sapphire’s description perfectly.

My not-husband.

Hanson was staring at me, concern scrawled across his brow. “You okay?”

“I need to check something,” I breathed. “Wait here.”

I rushed back into the club, up the stairs, and over to Sapphire. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t run. I stopped in front of her, opened my phone and sifted through photographs until I found what I was looking for.

I showed it to her. “Is this the guy you saw talking to Sasha?”

She leaned over to get a better look. “I couldn’t say for sure, but I think so. Who is he?”

I ignored her question. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

I walked away, my mind reeling. Our dead woman had been chatting with West.

Why?

I stumbled down the stairs on autopilot, searching through a mental Rolodex of reasons why they might have any cause to know each other. If he’d been investigating the mob and she worked at a mob business, then perhaps he thought she could help him.

I wasn’t even going to think about the fact my so-called husband had been at a strip club frequently enough that one of the dancers was able to describe him well enough for me to identify him.

“What’s wrong?” Hanson asked as I opened the passenger door and slumped inside. “You’re white as a sheet.”

I grimaced. “I needed to use the bathroom. Must have eaten something off.”

He cringed but didn’t ask anything further. Just as well. I wasn’t sure how to explain the fact that my husband had just become a person of interest in our homicide investigation.