Trace of Innocence (9 page)

I nodded. “Found them on the Internet pretty easy.”

“So what do we do?” C.C. asked.

“We go and ask some questions. Could be a total dead end. Could be something.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” C.C. asked.

Lewis and I stared at her.

“You can’t go there,” I said.

“Why not?”

“A nun going to a strip club? I think maybe you’d better stay home on this one, C.C.” I said.

“Look,” she replied. “I have all the parts those girls have. It’s not like I’ll see anything I haven’t seen before. I mean they might be bigger and more silicone packed, but they’re the same parts. I’m going.”

“Well, it’s not as simple as that, either. We’re not cops or private eyes. So it won’t be easy to get people to talk to us. And if there is some kind of connection, then it could be dangerous.”

“So what do you suggest?” C.C. asked. “I’m in. You guys aren’t cutting me out of this now.”

I admired her spunk. “Well, I was thinking…what if Lewis acted like a big spender from New Orleans? He goes in separate. And me…I’ll pretend I want to apply for a job.”

“A job?” Lewis said, his voice rising. “You’re how close to your Ph.D. and you want to apply for a job?”

“Give it a rest, Lewis. Don’t worry. I’m not actually going to take my clothes off. Just going to inquire about a job there. So…tonight. Separate cars.”

“And me?” C.C. asked.

“You go with me. Pretend like you’re my friend, trying to give me moral support while I look for a job. Women always do things like that together. You’ll have to borrow some of my clothes, though. We both have to look…” I searched for the right way to put it.

“Slutty,” Lewis said, filling in the blank.

“Yeah, Sister Catherine Christine. Slutty.”

W
e checked in with Joe, who told us the questioning had been grueling but the police hadn’t arrested David, just warned him to stick around.

“David’s crashing here tonight,” he told me. “He’s spent.”

“Okay…we’re working on a few angles.”

“What kind of angles?”

“Oh, you know, solving the suicide king murders.”

“What?” His voice rose at least an octave.

“It’s the only way he’ll ever be free of this. We got him out of prison, but now we have to
free him from this following him around for the rest of his life.”

“You have any leads?”

“Not really. A hunch I want to check out.”

“Is C.C. in on this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to do anything dangerous or crazy are you?”

“Me? Never. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone and surveyed myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I was in full Slut Regalia, as Lewis termed it. I was wearing skintight black leather pants—a gift from an old boyfriend. I had to lie down on my bed and suck in my breath to even get them zipped. On top, I wore a camisole in black lace. Ordinarily, I would have worn a shirt over it—not tonight.

I stepped out of my room and looked at C.C.

“If anyone from the convent could see me now,” she said.

She looked stunning—if slutty. I had loaned her a pair of stilettos—not my usual shoe choice, either, but I had them left over from a wedding outfit. She wore a black micromini, black tights and a black sheer blouse—without the camisole under it, because I was wearing it. Between us, we had a whole unslutty
ensemble—but split up in two, we were tramps.

“I’m going to freeze.”

“Yup. We’ll wear our coats and blast the heat in the car. Come on.”

Lewis was bemused. “I wish I had a camera, Billie. I’d love to post your photo on the bulletin board in the lab.”

“Shut up.”

“If only your old organic chemistry professors could see you now. Or perhaps your pals from Phi Beta Kappa.”

Both C.C. and I had teased our hair big and Playboy-model-like, and we had on heavy makeup.

“Let’s go get this over with.” C.C. looked at me. “You’re sure
this
may help us find the killer?”

“No. Just a hunch, but it’ll be okay, C.C.”

She made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Forgive me,” as we left my apartment with Lewis and went to our respective cars—Lewis in his, she and I in mine.

We drove the twenty minutes or so to Stud’s. Neon blared it was a Gentleman’s Club with Live Entertainment. The windows were painted over to prevent anyone from seeing inside—each window was a different face card. And
front and center was an elaborate suicide king. We had agreed Lewis would go in first. If he wasn’t out in under ten minutes, that meant the place was at least okay for C.C. and me to walk into.

C.C. and I sat in the car trying to keep warm.

“This seems like a real long shot,” she whispered.

“I know. It’s just a vague hope that it might lead us somewhere. Look, this case is nearly ten years old, right? Well, this club has been in existence since 1989. It was around when the murder took place.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at the sign.” I pointed.

She giggled. “Established in 1989. Good detective work, Billie.”

“Anyway, that playing card meant something. If it was a serial killer, it meant something only in his tortured mind. If it was a warning or something specific to Cammie, then we should be able to find the connection somewhere. She had a dark secret, David said, and he felt some sort of sexual tension between her and the mystery man he says was there that night. This is the only suicide king reference I could find for several towns. It’s worth a shot. But this is a really old trail, so we can’t get our hopes up.”

We waited ten minutes, and when Lewis didn’t come out, we went inside. The bouncer at the door told us there was a twenty-dollar cover.

“We’re here to apply for jobs,” I said, batting my eyes.

“Go on in, then,” he said. Tattoos covered every available inch of skin on his arms.

The interior of the club was very, very dark, with men scattered at tables near the stage or sitting at the bar. Some looked professional. Some a good deal rougher. Out of instinct maybe, C.C. grabbed my hand.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “We’ll be okay. You’re the one with a prison ministry. This will be easy.”

A beautiful young woman, maybe eighteen, was dancing on the stage, gyrating against a pole. Her skin was shiny with sweat and baby oil, and her hair swept the floor each time she swooped down from the pole. Her muscles were toned, her belly flat. She had a belly button ring—a sparkling diamond—and rhinestone shoes five inches tall.

“She’s awful flexible,” I said.

“I couldn’t even do that when I was her age,” C.C. shot back.

We sat down at the bar. I ordered a bourbon,
and C.C. a glass of white wine. When she sipped it, she nearly spit it out.

“Oh, my God, but this is bad wine.”

“Rude wine and breasts—what a combination,” I said. “These places aren’t known for their wine list, C.C.”

I toyed with a matchbook and then leaned in to talk to the bartender over the pulsating music—a Moby song.

“I need to see the manager. I want to apply for a job.”

I squeezed my breasts together with my upper arms. I’m a C-cup, but I was hoping to look more like a D.

“He’s over there.” The bartender motioned. “At that table.”

“Thanks. What’s his name?”

“Rick.”

The manager wasn’t what I expected at all. He had a very short haircut, almost executive-looking. He wore gray slacks, a black turtleneck and a simple chain with a medallion of some sort around his neck. He was clean shaven, and basically looked as if he would be at home in a boardroom. Meanwhile, the bouncer looked like a motorcycle gang member, and the bartender had a prison tattoo—or at least a homemade one—across his knuckles.

C.C. and I stood with our drinks and walked over to his table. I felt many pairs of eyes on me. I saw Lewis sitting with a pretty blonde in a peignoir set, drinking champagne, and he and I exchanged glances. I was grateful he was there.

“Excuse me, Rick?”

The manager looked up. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Um, my name is Billie, and this is my friend Cathy, and…I was wondering if you have any openings for dancers.”

“Sit down, ladies.” He gestured to two seats at his table.

“Thanks.” C.C. smiled wide.

Right away he noticed her gold band.

“You married?”

She looked down at her left hand. “This? No. Well, technically yes. But my divorce will be final in about three weeks. This keeps the real creepy ones away.”

He took her hand in his. “I’m no creep,” he said soothingly.

She blushed and took a sip of her wine.

“So, do you girls have any experience?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“Place down in Florida. Back a few years ago. It’s shut down now.”

“You have a gimmick or anything?”

I shook my head, and purred, “When you see me dance, you’ll know I don’t need a gimmick.”

He grinned. “I like your confidence. How about you?” He looked at C.C.

She shook her head. “I’m a cocktail waitress. I don’t dance.” She played with a curl in her hair, twisting it around her pinky.

“Too bad. If I sent you two out on some party calls, you’d make a fortune—the whole blonde-brunette thing. With the exception of twins, friends who are opposites, like you two, do best.”

“You get a lot of party calls?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah. We can keep you as busy as you want to be. A lot of side money.”

“Bachelor parties?” C.C. asked.

“Yeah. We book you for a grand each. You take $500. What you do on the side is up to you. We get a cut of everything.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lewis waving a wad of singles at the dancer on stage. He was tucking dollars into her G-string.

“What I like,” I said, “is this club has been around awhile. Club I used to work at, one day I show up, it’s boarded up by the IRS or something.”

Rick smiled at me. “We don’t have problems like that. You’ll always have a job.”

“Let’s say I started, what kind of shifts could I get?” I knew from a couple of girls who’d left stripping to be waitresses at Quinn’s Pub as they got older, got boyfriends or settled down, that the lunch crowd was not as generous as the night crowd. No strippers wanted lunch.

“You’d work two days and two nights. Can’t give you Friday or Saturday at first—you have to earn those. But stick around, show up on time, get a following, and trust me, you’ll move into the big money slots.”

“Great.” I sipped my drink.

“Why don’t you come back into my office for a few minutes? I can give you an application. I’d like to say yes, but I usually make you dance one shift before I hire. We can arrange a time.”

“Okay.”

He stood, and I followed him, telling C.C. I’d be right back. We walked through the club, my belly tingling with the bass that reverberated up through the floor. The dance floor–runway was illuminated from below. Mirrors on the ceiling and a dry-ice machine gave the room a dreamy quality.

Rick opened a door that read Office. Inside
was a classier take on the club. A dark purple velvet couch lined one wall, a wooden desk polished to a sheen dominated another wall. There were two computers side by side at a computer workstation—also in wood. A thick Oriental rug covered the floor. It was so thick my heels sank into it, and I almost tripped. When the door was shut, I could hear a muffled bass from the music, but it was quiet. My ears rang at the shift from the noise of the club to the relative quiet of this inner sanctum.

Rick opened a file cabinet drawer and pulled out an application. “Here you go, beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“So what have you been doing the past few years, since you worked at the Florida club? You’re not eighteen…” He winked at me. “But you’re still drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Well, I try to take care of myself. Most strippers seem to age in dog years.”

“Clever.”

“Clever? Or clever for a stripper?”

“Both. So…what have you been doing?”

“I was with a rich guy. Haven’t worked. I thought he was the real deal. Yeah, right. I caught him in bed with not one but two hookers. We got in a fight, he gave me a black eye.
I took off with all the money I had, all the jewelry and clothes he gave me and my car.”

I twirled around, looking at the photos on the wall—all strippers. “So who owns this place?”

“Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “I like to be careful. Like I said, I don’t want to end up coming here and finding it shut down.”

“I said not to worry.” His voice had a slight edge to it.

I walked closer to him. Now I had a clear look at the medallion around his neck. “Are you a cop?” I asked. I reached out and touched the medallion. It was a badge, with the number 135 on it.

“Used to be.”

“When?”

“Twelve years ago. Got shot and left the force. Been here ever since…me and my partners.”

“So
you
own this place?”

Without warning, he grabbed me and shoved me roughly up against the wall, causing my breath to leave me. I groaned.

“Are
you
a fucking cop?” He was twisting my arm, and I saw stars. I brought my knee up into his groin, and he doubled over. I moved away from him and he grabbed me, and then
hauled off and slapped me across my face. I twisted out of his grasp on my wrist and ran for his desk and grabbed a letter opener.

I wheeled around and faced off with him. “Let me out,” I said evenly. He had moved and was blocking the door. I waved the letter opener, which was solid metal and had quite a point on the end.

“Not until you tell me why you’re asking so many questions.”

“I told you. I want a place that’s stable. Then I see you wearing a shield around your neck…I don’t need to be near any cops. I don’t like them, and I sure as hell don’t want to work for them.”

“Put the letter opener down.”

“Move away from the door.”

“You got fire, girl. I like a girl with fire. All right, listen, let’s call a truce, okay?” He made a “calm-down” gesture with his hands. “Me and some pals own this place. We mind our own business, okay? I’m not a cop.”

“Fine.” I rubbed at the spot on my face where he hit me.

“Sorry about that. I just thought you might be undercover.”

“No. I hate cops. I told you that.”

“Still want the job?”

I clenched my jaw. How many desperate women had this guy abused and then turned around and hired? I mean, maybe it was just because he was suspicious I was a cop, but he sure as hell was quick to hit me!

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m telling you, a girl like you could easily make four grand a week. Maybe more.”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it. Can I go now?”

He stepped aside, but I kept the letter opener out as I walked toward him. Once the door was ajar, I handed him the metal opener.

“See you around, beautiful.”

“I bet you will,” I muttered.

I went out to collect C.C. She saw the red mark on my face.

“Oh, Billie, what happened?”

“Let’s just say that they didn’t teach me in organic chemistry how to handle guys like him. Let’s get going.”

We collected our things, and left. On the way out the door, out of habit, I grabbed a matchbook from a giant fishbowl full of them. C.C. and I shivered as we walked across the parking lot. When we reached the car, I started it up and prayed for the heat to come on fast. It was so cold, my nipples physically hurt under the sheer camisole.

“So what happened?” C.C. asked, once we had warmed up again.

“I’m not sure. He started getting antsy when I asked him a couple of questions.”

“So do you think this place had anything to do with the suicide king murders?”

“I don’t know. Could just be a crooked strip club. We didn’t have much of anything to go on to begin with.” I played with the matchbook in my hand.

“Oh, my God…”

“What?”