The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  High-stepping in blue platform boots, a girl walked up behind her. Her blue Afro wig, Ophelia estimated, was eighteen inches in diameter. Her tiny blue outfit was set off by a silver garter belt.

  She batted long tinsel eyelashes at Ophelia. If one fell in her eye, it seemed likely that it would cause damage. “My name’s Velvet,” she said. “Can you buy me a drink?”

  “Sure.” Ophelia pulled out a twenty, letting the girl see that there were many more. Money always talked to neurotypicals.

  The girl murmured to the bartender, then turned back to Ophelia. “Are you thinking of being a dancer?” She looked her up and down.

  “No.” Ophelia took another sip of her Coke.

  Velvet tilted her head. “You’re a lesbian, then?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The bartender handed the girl her drink. It sported not one but two paper umbrellas.

  Ophelia appreciated the girl’s direct questions. So many neurotypicals communicated with body language or other nonverbal signs instead of simply saying what they meant.

  “Just trying to figure a few things out.” Ophelia gestured at the ceiling. “Is there someone I can talk to about seeing older tapes from that video camera?”

  A corner of Velvet’s mouth quirked in what Ophelia recognized as amusement. “That’s not a real camera. It’s just for show, to keep people from getting rowdy. If someone starts acting up, the bartender points to it and threatens to turn the tape over to the cops. Only there is no tape.”

  Undeterred, Ophelia took a photo of Rick from the folder and slid it over. “I’m interested in whether anyone here knows this guy.” In the purple glow of what passed for mood lighting, his gray eyes shone silver, like a wolf’s.

  A flicker ran across Velvet’s face. “So you’re a cop?”

  “No. I am not a cop.” Although if Ophelia were a cop, it would have been legal for her to lie about being one. Not that she would. She found it hard to say one thing and mean another.

  “Then what are you?”

  “Just someone who’s trying to figure out if this guy was in here last Wednesday night, what kind of mood he was in, how long he stayed . . .”

  “I’ve seen him on TV,” Velvet offered. “He’s the one who killed that lady, right? The TV crime reporter?”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” Ophelia said. “Her friends have asked me to find out more about what happened. So have you seen him here? I’ve heard he might be a regular customer.”

  “I’ve seen him. But I’ve never said more than a few words to him. I don’t think I’m his type.” Velvet shuddered. “Maybe that’s a good thing, huh?”

  “Do you think you could find me someone who knows him better?” She tapped her wallet. “I can make it worth your while.”

  Velvet considered this. She looked at the wallet, then up at Ophelia, then back at the wallet.

  “It’s for that girl’s friends, you said?”

  Ophelia nodded.

  Velvet seemed to come to a decision. “Come on. I’ll take you upstairs to the dressing room, and you can talk to the girls there.”

  As Ophelia followed her, Velvet said over her shoulder, “Besides, you’re making people in here nervous. You don’t fit, and they don’t like that. Customers come here because they know what to expect, you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Ophelia answered honestly as she followed Velvet down a narrow hall. No purple mood lighting here, just flat fluorescent.

  Velvet started to laugh. But when she turned back again, she must have seen something in Ophelia’s eyes. She stopped. “Look, the reason guys come here is because they know exactly what to expect. They know no girl here will reject them. If a guy meets a regular girl out in the real world, he doesn’t know how she’ll react if he talks to her. But here, girls are always interested in him. For as long as his money holds out, anyway.”

  In her own way, Ophelia understood what Velvet was saying. The men who came here were people who longed for closeness, but had no idea how to achieve it.

  If Ophelia had thought that being in Diamonds was bad, being in the upstairs dressing room was much, much worse. It was crowded with five girls, five suitcases, drinks, hot curling irons, cans of hairspray, and tubes of body glitter and mascara. Cell phones were ringing, two girls were arguing over a missing bikini top, and in the corner a TV was blaring away. It was showing a silly program all about relationships, supposedly a comedy. It was a very neurotypical show.

  Lockers lined two of the walls. The other two had worn wooden benches facing white Formica counters topped with long mirrors. Above the mirrors, white lightbulbs were spaced every six inches. This might have looked glamorous, like something out of Hollywood, if a third of the lights, by Ophelia’s estimate, were not burned out.

  A tall brunette wearing nothing but a G-string looked at Ophelia curiously. She was brushing her teeth. A redhead wearing a thong and matching tiny bikini top was ironing the wrinkles from a satin ball gown.

  Velvet clapped her hands. “Okay, girls, this nice lady wants to know if any of us have recently talked with that customer who killed the blond TV reporter woman. You know, the one who’s been all over the news? She was this lady’s friend.”

  Ophelia bit her lip so she wouldn’t correct Velvet, and instead held up photos of Rick and Cassidy. Neurotypicals liked to help. And they would want to help a friend of the dead woman.

  One by one, the girls came over to talk to her.

  “That guy Rick comes in alone, he drinks, he gets a little drunk, he leaves,” the brunette said. “He’s looking for someone to listen to him while he goes on and on about how nobody appreciates him.”

  “And do you?” Ophelia asked. “Listen?”

  She shrugged. “Until someone who’s a bigger spender shows up. But I wasn’t working that night.”

  The redhead said, “Sure. I remember that guy being in on Wednesday. He was saying things like, ‘You don’t know what kind of day I had.’ ”

  Ophelia straightened up. “What time was this?” If it had been after Cassidy was killed, Rick might have come in trying to establish an alibi.

  The girl shook her head. She wasn’t looking at Ophelia, but rather at the TV behind her. “I don’t remember. When I walk out of here, I wipe my mind clean, just like pressing Control and Z on the computer.” She smiled broadly, which was confusing.

  But then Ophelia followed the girl’s gaze. She was unconsciously mimicking the smiling face of the actress on the screen. When the actress raised her hands to her mouth, the redhead made an abbreviated version of the gesture.

  Monkey see, monkey do. Evolutionarily, it must have been a useful trait at some point.

  The last girl to talk to Ophelia wore a platinum wig and white angel wings made of feathers. “My name’s Angel.”

  “How apropos.”

  Angel shrugged, and Ophelia wondered if she knew the word.

  “I saw Rick that night. That Wednesday. He comes in here two or three times a week, and if I’m working he always wants me to sit with him and listen to him talk. Of all the girls, I probably spent the most time with him.”

  “Did he ever get angry with you? Or even hurt you?”

  Angel reared back. “No. That’s why it’s so hard to believe what happened. He was basically nice.”

  “Really?”

  She hesitated. “He did get jealous if I talked to other customers.” Tugging off her wig, she rubbed the fingers of her free hand over her scalp.

  Ophelia narrowed her eyes. The girl had a dark-blond shoulder-length bob and a turned-up nose. She didn’t need to look at the photo again to know that Angel looked a lot like Cassidy Shaw. “Do you always wear that wig?” she asked.

  “No.” Angel’s voice dwindled. “I look like her, don’t I?”

  “There’s a resemblance.”

  “He even told me one time that I looked like his old girlfriend.” She shuddered. “Now I guess I know how creepy that is.
And I thought I had pretty good intuition about people.”

  “So what time was Rick here on that Wednesday? What did you talk about?”

  “It was late afternoon. He was upset. Talking about having a bad day, but I didn’t ask the details. I tried to take his mind off things. The only time he really lightened up was when his friend came in.”

  “Friend?”

  “I don’t know his name. He’s got a weird vibe, so I stay away from him. I think he and Rick met here at the club. He’s tall and thin. And there’s something wrong with the left side of his face.” She put her fingers on her cheek and dragged it down. “Like he was in an accident or something. Oh, and he’s bald.”

  Bald. Ophelia remembered what Nicole and Allison had told her about the bald man Roland Baxter had seen with Cassidy the night she died. Had Rick and his bald friend gone over there together and killed her? Maybe they were both cops trying to cover up the truth about the planted gun.

  “So he’s a cop like Rick?”

  Angel shook her head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem like one.”

  “And he’s a regular customer?”

  “He’s been coming in for a week or two. But I haven’t seen him in the last few days. The first time I saw him, I tried to get him to buy me a drink, but he brushed me—and every other girl—off. It wasn’t like he was gay. It was more like we were beneath him.” Angel opened her eyes wide. “When, hello, he’s at Diamonds. He’s got these really intense eyes, but when he looks at you, it’s like he’s looking right through you. Like you’re nothing. But for some reason, he likes Rick. And Rick loves to talk about being a cop. The first night they started talking, Rick ended up telling all these stories. He was really chatty. But then all of a sudden he was wasted, even though he was only on his third drink. He could hardly walk. That’s not like him, but I figured he might have been drinking before he got here. A little party before the party, and the drinks don’t cost ten bucks.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I had to go back onstage, but the bald dude took Rick’s keys away and told me he would help him get home.”

  Ophelia leaned forward. “And all this happened on Wednesday?”

  “No. It was a few days before.”

  “Oh.” So much for the idea that had glimmered in front of her for a moment.

  “But on Wednesday, Rick got pretty drunk again. I was onstage, and he and that bald dude were talking, but when I came down again, the bald dude was gone and Rick was already slurring his words. He must have had a couple of drinks while I was up there.” She grimaced. “Maybe he was just trying to work up his courage to do what he—to do what he did.”

  The idea was back. “Have you ever seen someone who’s been given a roofie?”

  “What? Like the date rape drug?”

  Ophelia nodded. Flunitrazepam, nicknamed roofie because its trade name was Rohypnol, could induce short-term amnesia in sufficient doses. Someone given a roofie would be unable to remember events they experienced while they were under its influence. It could explain Rick’s sudden drunkenness. And Allison and Nicole had told her that he claimed to have been having trouble with blackouts.

  “Once,” Angel said. “Some creepy customer slipped it in the drink of this girl, Cinnamon, but we always watch each other’s backs. When she started staggering we got her off the floor and away from him.” Angel’s expression changed. “Wait—are you thinking this bald dude slipped Rick one?” She narrowed her eyes, considering. “You know what? You might just be right. But why . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  Ophelia didn’t answer. She was still turning things over. What if the bald man had drugged Rick and then manipulated him to be on the scene when Cassidy was killed? Maybe even held Cassidy while urging Rick to stab her? That could explain why she had been both strangled and stabbed.

  “Would you be willing to testify about this to a grand jury?”

  Angel’s eyes widened. “I don’t really want to get involved. Especially not when there are cops. They have ways of getting back at you.”

  “Just think about it, okay?”

  Instead of answering, Angel said, “I am dying for a cigarette.” She went to one of the lockers, spun the combination, and pulled out her purse. “We can’t smoke in here. I’ll be right back.”

  Ophelia considered offering to go with her, but the thought of cigarette smoke made her gag. Instead she sat with her eyes closed, rubbing her temples and trying to block out all the sensations. She needed to get home where she could be alone. Too many people, too much noise, too many expressions she couldn’t read, too many comments that weren’t plain.

  Ophelia waited five minutes, ten. It was only after twenty minutes that she realized the girl wasn’t coming back.

  Angel was gone. Probably for good.

  CHAPTER 22

  When Nic got up, she found an e-mail summarizing Ophelia’s evening at Diamonds. A dancer had seen Rick with a man at the club late in the afternoon the day Cassidy was killed. While the description was vague—“bald,” “intense eyes,” “droop on the left side of his face”—it still sounded eerily like the same man Roland had seen Cassidy with later that evening. One theory Ophelia had was that the bald man was another cop, and that together he and Rick had gone after Cassidy once she started asking about a throw-down gun.

  Ophelia also had another theory. The dancer had reported that on Wednesday evening, as well as on an earlier one, Rick had become unusually inebriated. Ophelia wondered if someone had slipped him roofies.

  That could explain Rick’s blackouts. Nic had even heard stories of criminals who took roofies before committing a big crime, craving the calm it gave them, as well as the chemical blankness that would swallow any memory of what they had done so they couldn’t give themselves away when questioned about it later.

  On her way to work, Nic kept turning over the new pieces of information. Maybe they didn’t mean anything. The connections were tenuous. Eyewitnesses were often wrong. She kept coming back to one certainty. Bald man or no bald man, roofies or no roofies, one thing was for sure. Rick had been the one who stabbed Cassidy.

  Did the bald man even matter?

  But of course he did. Nothing could take away Rick’s culpability, but that didn’t mean the bald man might not also bear some responsibility for what had happened.

  By midmorning Nic couldn’t take her seesawing thoughts any longer. She picked up her cell phone and called Jensen.

  “It’s Nicole Hedges.”

  “Yes?” His voice was edged with suspicion.

  “Look, can I come talk to you?”

  There was a long pause. “What? Why do you even think I would say yes?”

  “There’re a few things you should know.”

  “Sorry. I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for getting off on the wrong foot with you, all right? But what I’ve learned could change things. Maybe even help your friend.” Nic wasn’t going to say Cassidy’s or Rick’s name out loud, not in her open-air cubicle, not when she had specifically been warned off the case. But then again, Bond would want to see justice done. If she had to, Nicole could always fall back on that as a defense.

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” Jensen said grudgingly. “No more. And this had better be good.”

  Fifteen minutes later the detective sat with arms folded while Nic told him about Roland Baxter. He had seen Roland cut his throat at Cassidy’s funeral.

  What Jensen didn’t know about was the bald man Roland had seen with Cassidy and the stripper had seen with Rick. As he listened to Nic, Jensen’s arms loosened. He put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward.

  “What if the two of them acted together?” Nic said. “Did the lab find anyone’s fingerprints on the knife besides Rick’s?”

  “On the murder weapon, they just found partial prints from Rick. No one else. The knife even matches ones from his apartment. Hers are Wüsthofs, and his was one of those J. A. Hencke
ls.”

  “Wait—so Rick brought the knife with him?”

  Jensen nodded.

  Nic tried to imagine how that had worked. Earlier she had thought that if the knife proved to be Rick’s it would show premeditation, but now she thought of another consideration. “It’s a hundred degrees. People are wearing as little as they can get away with. It’s not like he could have hidden it inside a coat.”

  “He could have carried it inside something,” Jensen said. “A backpack or even a grocery bag.”

  “Where else were Rick’s fingerprints found?”

  “They weren’t. Not really. On a drinking glass next to the sink and the murder weapon. That’s it.”

  Nic thought back to the scene. “What about the garbage can that was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor? Whose prints were on that?”

  Opening up a file drawer, Jensen pulled out a fat blue binder. Nic recognized it as the murder book—a record of the investigation of Cassidy’s death that would include crime scene photographs and sketches, evidence documentation, the autopsy report, transcripts of the investigators’ notes, and witness interviews. Basically, it was a complete paper trail of a murder investigation.

  Jensen leafed through it. “The only prints on the garbage can belonged to Cassidy.”

  “No one else? Even someone you can’t identify?”

  “No.” He tapped his index finger against his lips.

  “Okay,” she said, thinking out loud. “Say Rick acted alone and not under the influence of anything but alcohol. Rick goes to Diamonds, then he goes home, then he decides to visit Cassidy and bring his own knife with him. Which means the murder was not a spur-ofthe-moment thing.”

  Jensen didn’t agree or disagree, just watched her with hooded eyes.

  “Sometime that night, before he stuffs Cassidy’s body under the sink, Rick moves the garbage can, but he’s careful not to leave prints on it. Or on the doors or windowsills or cupboard knobs or anything else in her condo but a single glass. Which means he was more than likely wearing gloves. Again that points to premeditation.”