Colorful lights flashed like lightning over designs hanging from the ceiling and the pink satin divans below—which were filled with laughing, shouting, and clapping guests—overflowed. The food and the drinks at the tables were also flowing. And so was the money.
Most of the patrons were men, of course. There were more women out on the dance floor, but the males had hung back guzzling bubbly, throwing back shots, feeding their faces, and of course gluing their eyes to the action on the stage.
It seemed to be some sort of lion tamer’s act.
A statuesque dark-skinned woman with heels so high they made Miranda’s feet ache to watch her, strolled around center stage. Dressed in a peek-a-boo swimsuit version of a tuxedo with a tall stovetop hat encircled with feathers, she wielded a lacey black whip while four other dancers pranced around her on all fours dressed in animal costumes. There was a tiger, a leopard, a panther, and a zebra.
Must be short of cat outfits.
The tiger was first. With the snap of the ringmaster’s whip, she spun around with her back to the audience, gave them a wink over her shoulder. She did some fancy moves with her arms and presto! The top part of her outfit was gone, leaving the tiger-striped legs and tail along with a pair of glossy black thigh-high boots.
Can’t give it away all at once, after all.
She did a backbend, giving everyone a peek of a pair of rather large boobs. Stretching out her arms, her head upside down, she jiggled herself, and the guys in the audience turned into the animals, complete with roars and catcalls. The noise was deafening.
Miranda felt a press on her arm.
A waitress in another skimpy outfit was talking to her, her lips moving. She couldn’t hear a word, but she must have been asking if Miranda wanted something to drink.
Remembering why she was here, Miranda shook her head and made her way past her and around the back of the divans to the little side door Santiago had led her through that afternoon.
Inside the hall there was some relief from the noise. But Miranda discovered she’d traded catcalls and loud music for the girlish chatter of a dozen or so twenty-somethings.
The dressing table Miranda had seen earlier was alive with activity. The leotards, headdresses and high-heels she’d noticed on the clothes rack now had live bodies in them. Everyone was adjusting straps or head pieces, or dabbing on powder or lipstick, or otherwise primping for their turn on the stage. The air was filled with a bouquet of rose-scented powder and hair spray.
Miranda caught sight of Yolanda at the far end putting stitches in a blue sequined cape a redhead was fussing over.
She pushed her way through the dancers to her. “Have a minute?” Miranda asked.
Yolanda took a straight pin out of her mouth. “Do I look like I have a minute?”
“I need to talk to some of these women.”
The stage manager pulled a needle through the cape at the dancer’s shoulder. “Bad time. You’ll have to come back later.”
This was the time she’d told her to come back.
The redhead twisted around, ruining whatever Yolanda had been doing to her cape. Her red hair sparkled with glitter and was piled high atop her head and woven around a shimmering headdress of orange and red feathers. She was clad in a fire engine red fishnet getup that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her big round eyes were decorated with a lot of sparkly, colorful makeup, including very long dark blue false eyelashes.
“What’s this about, Yolanda?” she asked.
Stubbornly Yolanda put the fabric back on the dancer’s shoulder. “Hold still. This is the PI the boss hired to find Nitro.”
“Nitro? What’s wrong with Nitro? I thought she was sick.”
Yolanda looked annoyed with herself for letting the cat out of the bag.
“Bambi, you’re up in ten minutes,” someone called from the area that led to the stage.
The redhead turned to the manager. “I can talk to her for that long. Are you done?”
Snipping off the thread, Yolanda held the needle up and shook her hands in the air. “Do what you want. But do not mess that cape up again or there will be hell to pay.”
“C’mon over here,” The redhead said in a sweet feminine voice, ignoring her surly stage manager.
She beckoned Miranda to the darker side of the clothes rack where two empty chairs stood against the wall in the shadows. She took one, lifting the cape as she sat and gestured to the other for her new guest.
“What’s your name again?”
“Miranda Steele.” Miranda slid onto the seat, hoping there was nothing sticky on it. “And you’re…Bambi?”
“My real name is Crystal.” She didn’t have a southern accent. Miranda wondered where she was from. “What’s up with Nitro?” she asked, frowning with concern.
Names and IDs must be slippery around here. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Me?” Bambi-Crystal blinked her frosty blue eyelashes. “I don’t know. I guess it was Thursday. That’s right. Friday night Dolly was complaining she had to fill in for her. I thought Nitro had that stomach flu that was going around.”
Flu? Had she checked herself into the hospital? “Did Nitro mention she was feeling ill on Thursday?”
“No, but I hear it comes on fast.”
Surely the girl would have called her roommate if she’d gotten sick. Miranda decided to start with the basics. “How well did you know Nitro, Crystal?”
“As well as anybody knows anybody here. Well, I guess a little better. I trained her. She was a fast learner. Picked up the moves right away and invented her own thing with them. She’s really good.”
“So I hear. How long has she worked here?”
“Oh, just since this summer. I think she started at the end of June. She’s a college student, you know.”
“Yolanda told me that. Did Nitro say anything to you recently?”
“Like what?”
“Did she mention any travel plans? A trip to see her folks, maybe?”
“Oh, no. If anybody wants time off, they have to get it approved at least a week ahead. We have to have time to learn their act to fill in or get a replacement. That takes even longer. Yolanda wouldn’t have approved anything on such short notice. That’s why Dolly’s so upset.”
“You mean because of that slacker, Nitro?” a low sultry voice rang out from the other side of the clothes rack.
The rocky music stopped and changed to something with a slower beat. Out on the stage someone began to sing. This was a real talent show.
Miranda looked up and saw the tall dark-skinned woman who’d been the ring master in the act she’d witnessed descend the stairs from the stage. Graceful as a ballet dancer on those stilt-like shoes, she moved over to the crowded space where Miranda and the redhead were sitting and began shuffling through the rack.
“Where’s the fringe outfit?” she called over her shoulder.
“Nitro isn’t a slacker,” Crystal said to her.
“No, she’s an egotistical bitch.”
Friendly coworkers. Sounded like the competition for the top spot might be pretty keen around here.
Dismissing the remark, Crystal gestured at Miranda. “Look, Yolanda has a detective looking for Nitro.”
Miranda eyed the tall ring master as she started to peel off her costume. “Actually, it was Santiago who hired me.”
At the mention of the gangster’s name both woman went silent and wide-eyed.
“You’re Dolly?” Miranda asked, ignoring the reaction as well as the half naked woman before her.
“That’s me.” She found the white fringed outfit and pulled it off the hanger.
It looked like the one Nitro had been wearing in the video Yolanda had shown her that afternoon. Miranda wondered just how intense the rivalry was among strippers.
“I hear you were studying to be an astrophysicist, Dolly,” she said.
Dolly stepped into the costume and eased it up her long body. “Yeah, I got a degree. But I needed
to go to grad school to get a decent job, and it just got to be too much of a hassle. This gig pays well and it’s fun. It’s all I do now.” She let out a low, sour sounding laugh. “Nobody ever whistled at me for getting an A on a Wave Mechanics test.”
Sounded as if she were hiding regrets. “Did Nitro say anything to you Thursday night?”
“About what?” She pulled one thin spaghetti strap of the white outfit up her coffee-colored shoulder, then the other.
“Plans she had for going away? Anything that might explain where she is?”
Dolly shrugged and shook out the long fringes under her arms.
Miranda’s stomach tensed. The lead dancer knew something. “Do you think she’s in trouble, Dolly?”
The young woman was quiet for a moment, then she said, “I don’t think so. Except maybe with Yolanda when she gets back from her fling.”
“Fling?”
Crystal sucked in her breath. “You think she’s with that guy?”
“What guy?”
Dolly glowered at Crystal as if she’d just revealed a trade secret. “There was a guy in the audience. He came here every night for a week. Sat right in the front row table.”
Bambi-Crystal nodded. “When Nitro came out and did her number, he acted like he was in love. Drooled all over himself.”
“You’re exaggerating, Bambi,” Dolly sneered. “He didn’t drool. Nobody that good looking drools. And nobody in the audience falls in love with us. Not in a healthy way, anyway.” Dolly smoothed the sides of her costume.
“You’re wrong, Dolly. There was something about this guy.”
“Yeah, like the night I saw Nitro talking to him in the parking lot. Bet he wanted a blow job.”
Miranda’s ears were prickling. “Who was this dude? Did you get his name?”
Crystal shook her head. “Nitro never told me. I teased her about him, but she was so closed lipped about her personal life.”
“What kind of car did he have?”
Dolly shrugged. “I don’t remember…a gray one, maybe? Or maybe it was white.”
“Sports car?”
“No, something more ordinary. A Camry or a Hyundai. I’m not sure. Excuse me. I’ve got to freshen my makeup.” Dolly turned away and sauntered over to the dressing tables.
Miranda turned back to Crystal. “Did you see this guy?”
The girl nodded.
“What did he look like?”
“He had curly dark hair. Oh, and a thin little mustache.”
Miranda’s heartbeat kicked up. Hannah Kaye’s boyfriend had curly dark hair and a thin little mustache. She’d seen both herself that very afternoon. “Is he here now?”
Crystal looked a little lost. “I don’t know. I peeked out and saw him in the audience a few times, but lately I forgot about him.”
Maybe he was there right now. The boy friend, Miranda bet.
“Can you show me?”
“Sure.” She rose, took Miranda by the hand and led her down a dark little cubby hole. “All you have to do is pull the curtain back just a little like this and you can see them but they can’t see you.”
Miranda watched as Crystal moved the curtain and peeked through it.
She pointed a finger. “See? That’s the spot. Booth number three. Front and center. That’s where he sat.”
Miranda scooted up next to her and peeked through the opening. The crowd was getting even more rowdy. The singer on the stage was nearly finished with her number.
She squinted through the smoky air and counted tables. “Next to the chubby bald guy with the glasses?”
The man was guzzling what looked like champagne.
Crystal peeked through the curtain. “Yes that’s the place, but—”
“But what, Crystal?”
“The seat where the guy sat? The guy who was in love with Nitro?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s empty.”
Chapter Eleven
Back in her apartment, Miranda paced back and forth, every nerve on fire. She’d never get to sleep tonight but that didn’t matter.
She had work to do. She had a lead. Sort of.
Was the mystery man in the audience at Exótico Marty Jenkins? Hannah Kaye-aka-Nitro’s boyfriend?
Miranda thought of Marty’s words that afternoon after band practice. He told his friend he’d gotten rid of the “architect major bitch.” Had he done that after her performance on Thursday? Left her body in a dumpster somewhere?
What was the matter, Marty? Had Hannah been too much of a clinging vine? Did she get in the way of your studies? He did seem to take his work seriously.
Still it wasn’t much of a motive.
What if he didn’t want her working at that club? And what if Marty had a violent streak that came out once in awhile? They had a fight over it. He demanded Hannah quit. She refused. Marty lashed out, maybe hit her. Maybe too hard. An accident. He had to cover it up.
She was deep into speculation.
But the guy in the audience had to be him, right? Curly dark hair. Thin little mustache. Plain, easy-to-forget car. Though Crystal had said he was good looking, and Miranda wouldn’t have described the dude she’d followed from band practice that way. Well, maybe Crystal thought he was. There was no accounting for taste.
Miranda wished she’d brought along that photo of him tonight from Hannah Kaye’s fridge.
Her thoughts racing, she paced to the card table she’d set up in a corner for a place to eat. The table where her laptop now sat. She paced back to her tiny kitchen and got a bag of tortilla chips out of the cabinet. She retrieved a saucer of leftover salsa from the fridge and sat down at the table.
She took out her phone and scrolled to the shot she’d gotten of Marty Jenkins’ license plate.
Firing up one of her expensive database subscriptions, she keyed in the number along with make and model and waited. She reached for a chip, dipped it into the salsa, popped it into her mouth and chewed. It took several more chips before a result flashed on the screen.
Too long.
Silently acknowledging she’d been spoiled by Parker’s fast sophisticated equipment at the Agency, Miranda studied the data.
Five year old Civic. Good car for a college kid. Purchased in Minnesota. Fit the description Dolly had given.
There was his local address. Off campus on May Street, just off Atlantic, as Bonnie had said.
Miranda did a little maneuvering on the keyboard to see if he’d ever gotten in trouble anywhere.
Nope. No priors. Not even a speeding ticket.
She drummed her fingers on the table. Pays to be thorough. She’d learned that lesson at the Agency. And a few others.
She stretched her fingers, then went to the school’s website and did a little engineering of her own, courtesy of Parker’s personal training. She played around for another fifteen or so minutes, following one link then another. Finally she entered a code—and cracked it.
Hah! She was in.
There sat Marty Jenkins’ academic record right on her screen. She rubbed her hands together and reached for another chip.
He’d come from Rochester, Minnesota. His parents were research scientists at the Mayo Clinic. Only child. His high school record was outstanding. Graduated valedictorian of his class. Won a slew of science contests. Built a robot in his sophomore year. Smart kid.
At Tech the dude was pulling down a three-point-nine grade point average. Impressive. She bet he was upset it wasn’t a straight four-point-oh.
The guy seemed squeaky clean but you never knew. Maybe after a while Hannah got tired of the academic perfection and wanted to break up with him. Maybe he couldn’t handle it when she gave him the bad news and socked her one. Harder than he’d meant.
Someone with his scientific background could get creative about getting rid of a body.
She was grasping at straws.
Objectivity, Parker would say. Yeah, yeah. The kid could also be totally innocent. But if he was, what had happened to
Hannah?
One thing was certain. This data wasn’t going to tell her anything about Marty Jenkin’s temper or what had gone on recently with his girlfriend.
For that she’d have to confront him.
The guy’s class schedule was loaded with course titles covering subjects that were Greek to her. Electromagnetics, Software Fundamentals, VLSI Design. But there at the top was the Digital Processing class he’d mentioned to his buddy after band practice.
Nine a.m. tomorrow morning.
She’d be there.
With a big yawn she got up and stretched. Now that she’d made some progress, the adrenaline high was wearing off. Fatigue hit her big time. Better get some shuteye if she was going to make that class.
She shut down her laptop and plodded into the bedroom. As she was pulling down the covers she heard a crash outside.
She lifted the blinds and peeked through the window. On the opposite corner under the streetlight, three young men were tossing beer bottles at the dumpster under her window.
Punks.
Maybe she should go out and break up the party. She still had her Berretta in the handbag she’d carried to the club tonight.
For a minute she thought about calling the cops. Maybe she could get hold of her old buddy, Officer Chambers. Except he wasn’t a beat cop any more. He’d been promoted to Assistant Detective some time ago, thanks to her. Well, because of a case she’d gotten him involved in.
Maybe she should look him up. It was good to have a contact on the police force. But then she might run into Lieutenant Erskine. He was Parker’s longtime friend at the ADP. If she went to the police station, she might run into Parker. She didn’t need the hassle.
On the other hand, maybe Parker would go through with his plans to retire soon. He’d told her he wanted to quit the Agency and go off with her somewhere peaceful.
The memory of him springing that idea on her without any warning made her blood boil. But she couldn’t think about Parker now. She had to get some sleep.
Yet as she glanced at the empty bed, the thought of him only grew stronger. She remembered the smell of him, the feel of the silky sheets on the bed in the Parker mansion master bedroom, the touch of his skillful fingers over her skin.
Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7) Page 6
