REASON TO DOUBT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “You sleep okay?” Sheri asked.

  “Better than you,” I teased. “At least I didn’t wake up feeling like I had to hang upside down like a bat.”

  “Don’t knock it, Carol. I’ve lost an inch around my waist and two pounds already. Can’t tell you the last time that happened.” Sheri grabbed a hand towel and wiped her hands. “By the way, did you find Sam last night?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “You try the Tri-Delt house? If she’s not answering her cell, maybe you could leave a message.”

  I wasn’t about to tell Sheri I knew Sam wasn’t a Tri-Delt, but she did have a point. If Sam was hiding, what better place to hide than inside a sorority house where she could mix in with a lot of young girls?

  “When’s the next time you’re meeting with her?”

  “Not ’til Monday, unfortunately. Max is back Sunday, and I’d really like to get one more session in with her. Spice things up for his return.”

  I glanced back at the pole. “Based on whatever it was you were doing on that pole, I’d think things between the two of you were spicy enough.”

  Sheri walked over to a large antique armoire and stared at herself in the mirror. “I know, right? Like who could turn this down?” With her hands on her hips, Sheri looked at me and rolled her lower lip outward, like a pouty child. “But, things aren’t always what they seem. Nice guy and all, but more of a looker than a toucher, if you know what I mean.”

  I raised my hands above my head. “TMI, girlfriend. And a little too early in the morning.” I backed towards the bedroom door and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “How about I go downstairs and make us breakfast?”

  “And eat toast that tastes like cardboard?” Sheri asked. “You can forget that.”

  While I showered and dressed, Sheri went downstairs and fixed breakfast. By the time I got to the kitchen, the corner bistro table where Sheri liked to serve light meals was set with colorful linen napkins, a basket full of fresh, homemade cranberry scones and a copy of today’s LA Times.

  I was about to sit down when I read, “Police to Exhume Body in Model Slaying Case.”

  “Did you see this?” I held the paper up as I skimmed the article.

  “No, why?” Sheri looked over her shoulder at me while she removed a tray of sliced tomatoes with melted parmesan cheese from the broiler. “What is it?

  “It says the police are planning to exhume the body of a man believed to have ties to the model slayings.” I read aloud from the paper. “In a bizarre turn of events, detectives have uncovered an accident report connecting Stacy Minor, a cocktail waitress, whose body was found on Venice Beach Tuesday morning, to the death of a man she accidentally hit with her car behind The Sky High Club, three weeks ago.”

  “The Sky High Club?” Sheri grabbed a napkin and sat down at the table. “I wonder if Sam knew her?”

  I shook my head and kept reading. The less Sheri knew about Xstacy’s connection to Sam the better. “Detectives believe Ely Wade, 41, an unemployed photographer, may have visited the club with a friend the night Wade was struck by Ms. Minor’s vehicle.”

  “Wow! Now that is bizarre,” Sheri said.

  I jumped ahead in the story. “Police suspect Ms. Minor’s murder to be the work of the Model Slayer and are asking anyone who may have information about the accident behind the Sky High Club, Ely Wade, or the man police believe may have been with him the night Ms. Minor’s van struck and killed Wade to call LAPD.”

  “So why aren’t you jumping up and down, Carol? Sounds to me like the detectives have reason to believe Wade had connections to the Model Slayer, and that his friend killed this cocktail waitress as retribution for her running his friend over. Certainly somebody will remember seeing the two of them together, and Pete will be off the hook.”

  I reached back into the basket for another scone. “I hope you’re right.”

  Sheri’s cell rang. She glanced at the screen and smiled. “That’s Max. I’ve gotta take this. He’s back Sunday. Any chance you and Chase could come for dinner Monday night?”

  “Monday?” I paused. It’d be a miracle if I weren’t in jail.

  Sheri held a finger up, signaling me to wait, and answered the phone. “Hi, handsome. Can you hold a minute?”

  Then turning back to me she held her hand over the phone’s small speaker. “Please, Carol. I’d love for you to meet Max, and the boys are coming home Monday. We could make it a big family dinner.”

  Coming home? How could I have forgotten? Charlie and Sheri’s son Clint were due back from sports camp Monday. We always celebrated their return together.

  “Can I let you know? Tyler’s got me scheduled for something. If I can’t make it to the school, I was hoping you could pick Charlie up.”

  “As long as you’re home in time for dinner. And ask Chase. It’ll be more fun that way.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Cate called as I left Sheri’s, and she wasn’t happy. The detectives who had been trailing them since they had left the city had approached their campsite and suggested Pete and his roommate might like to accompany them back to Los Angeles where they could chat.

  “Might like to accompany them?” Cate screamed into the phone. The tension in her voice pulsated against my ear. “Are you kidding me? Everyone knows that’s code for they’re going to arrest them again.”

  “You don’t know that, Catie. They’re just doing their job.”

  “Mom, I’m scared. The detectives told me the girl whose body was found in Venice–”

  “Stacy Minor,” I said.

  “That her van was parked behind Pete’s house the night she was murdered, and they found Pete’s address scribbled on a sticky pad on the dashboard.”

  “Slow down, Catie. Catch your breath.”

  I didn’t know if I was talking to my daughter or advising myself. The cops were closing in on Pete, and there was little I could do other than tell Cate to stand down.

  “It’s going to be fine. But you have to do what the cops tell you to do. No funny business, Cate. Promise me.”

  Cate sniffed. “Okay, but Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Call Dad for me, will you? I didn’t tell him what I was doing. I don’t think he knows.”

  I was pretty sure Rob didn’t know, or he would have been on the phone with me wanting to know how it was his daughter had escaped with a possible murder suspect without my knowing. I didn’t relish that conversation.

  “I will. But before you hang up, Catie, there’s something else. I need your expertise.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the message Misty left about the blood types?”

  “It does. And there’s an outside chance it may help Pete too.”

  “How?” Cate’s voice sounded hopeful.

  “The DA dropped the charges against Pete because he didn’t believe there was enough evidence to proceed to trial. Mainly because he wasn’t a match for DNA found at the crime scene.”

  “That’s what Pete’s attorney told us.”

  “But, since releasing Pete, detectives have come out and said they believe the Model Slayer had a partner. That’s one of the reasons why they’re asking Pete to come in again and talk.”

  “Yeah, right. Talk,” Cate said bitterly.

  “But the good news is, I think I may have a lead on someone else who might be a match.”

  “You think you know who the Model Slayer is?” Cate asked.

  “I don’t know that for sure. But I might know someone who may be a match for the rare blood type the cops are looking for. If I’m right, I might be able to at least point detectives in another direction and take the focus off of Pete.”

  “So what are you asking?”

  “If a woman gave birth to a baby and you knew both their blood types, would it be possible to know the father’s?”


  “Sure. It’d be easy. Why?” Cate said.

  “There’s this woman, who’s possibly related in some way to a man who I believe might be a suspect. She gave birth yesterday to a baby boy, and I think the baby is his.”

  “What’s her blood type?”

  “B positive,” I said.

  “And the baby?” Cate asked.

  “AB positive.”

  “Then the father has to be either an A or AB.”

  “And what if the father is AB negative?”

  “Wouldn’t make any difference. But it’d be rare. Only one percent of the population is AB negative. Just because the father is negative, doesn’t mean the baby would be.”

  Cate’s answer wasn’t a hundred percent proof that Brian Evans was the Model Slayer. But if he were the baby’s father, and an AB blood type, I felt like I was one step closer to finding evidence to connect Brian to the murders.

  “One more thing. I need you to come home. Something’s come up. It’s personal, and I’m going to need you here.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cate sounded concerned. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, honey, but something’s come up at work, and we need to talk. It’s important.” I wasn’t about to tell Cate on the phone about the subpoena, but I needed to tell her before she found out about it after I was in jail.

  I met Chase outside the Sky High Club just before ten p.m. The street, little more than a narrow, poorly lit, rutted alleyway, ran parallel to the 405 Freeway. It was littered with trash and shopping carts that made parking and two-way traffic difficult. I found a place to leave my Jeep behind a liquor store a block away, locked it and picked my way around the potholes while I dodged oncoming cars in a pair of ankle boots and a tight leather skirt.

  Chase smiled as I approached. He was standing with one of the bouncers, a beefy looking man with arms like watermelons in a black T-shirt. The word SECURITY printed boldly in white letters on the back. Night and day from the silk suits the guards outside of Stilettos had worn.

  “Little different than Stilettos,” Chase said.

  “Different clientele,” I responded. “You’ll see inside. Follow me.”

  I led the way through the door, toward the bar where I had met Sam. Chase took the stool next to me and ordered a sparkling water for himself and a glass of white wine for me. On stage, a trio of identical platinum blonde dancers in G-strings and six-inch heels entertained the crowd with a pole dance. I scanned the tables by the stage, then, spotting the man I’d come looking for, bumped Chase lightly on the shoulder and tilted my head in the direction of Scarface.

  “That’s him,” I whispered.

  Without a word, Chase picked his drink up off the bar and wandered down toward the front of the stage where Scarface was seated at a table by himself. Chase stood casually by the table, nursing his non-alcoholic beverage, and waited for the trio of blonde dancers to finish their number, then engaged Scarface in a conversation. I had no idea what Chase must have said. Whatever it was, Scarface nodded to the empty seat next to him, and Chase sat down.

  A barmaid served up a tray of drinks, pushed the tray in my direction and waited for one of the servers to pick it up. “Hey, Blondie, weren’t you here last week?” A heart-shaped name tag attached to her bustier said Red, an apt description of her curly, flame-red hair.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You look familiar that’s all. That your boyfriend?” She pointed in the direction of where Chase was sitting.

  “Make a difference if he were?” I asked.

  “Hey, I’m not hitting on you. Just curious. The gal you were talkin’ to last week, she’s a friend of mine. Thought if I saw her again, I’d tell her you were in. That’s all.”

  “You know how I might get hold of this friend of yours? Because I’ve been trying to get hold of her and she’s not returned any of my calls.”

  Red picked up a dishrag and started wiping the bar in front of me. “If you can’t find her it’s ’cause she don’t wanna be found. She’s probably scared, like a lot of us are. Particularly after what happened this week.”

  “You talking about that girl’s body the cops found on Venice Beach Tuesday?”

  “Yeah, Xstacy. And Marilynn Brewer before her too. I knew ’em both. Girls around here are scared, wondering who’s gonna be next.”

  “You tell the police?”

  “They came by. I told ’em some. People like me, we don’t really like to talk to cops. You open your mouth and next thing you know, they’re asking you all kinds of questions about things you’d rather not talk about. And the management here would just as soon boot you out the door than have a lot of cops hanging ’round. Not exactly their clientele.”

  I slid my business card across the bar. “I’m not a cop, Red. I’m a reporter with KTLK. Will you talk to me?”

  Red picked up my card, flashed it under a dim light by the cash register and read my name aloud. “Carol Childs, this you?”

  I nodded.

  “You work with Kit and Carson?”

  “I’m on in the mornings with them. I do the news.”

  Red looked back down at my card. “I love that show. Sure, I’ll talk to you. But you gotta leave my name out of it.” Red tucked my card inside of her bustier. “What do you want to know?”

  “You mentioned Marilynn Brewer. How do you know her?”

  “I know she was the bookkeeper. Usually came by during the day when things were slow. She’d order a Rum and Coke, and we’d chat at the bar.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Nothing special. Work. Hobbies. Her boyfriend.”

  “She talk to you about Brian?”

  “That was his name? I don’t remember. Only that she said they were having troubles.”

  “She say what kind?”

  “He didn’t like that she wanted to be a standup comic. Too bad. Maybe she should have listened to him. In my opinion, that’s what got her killed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She convinced management that if they let her work the last call, she’d cut her rate for bookkeeping.” Red dunked a couple of beer glasses in a sink behind the bar and continued to talk as she wiped them clean. “One night, she got her big break, and got up on the stage and started making jokes about the Model Slayer. It was right after that third model was found dead and everyone was talking about it. I remember Xstacy was up front and started shaking her head at Marilynn like this wasn’t a good idea. Marilynn couldn’t see her though, ’cause the lights up on stage are so bright it’s impossible to see anything beyond the first row.”

  “Xstacy and Marilynn were friends?”

  “Friendly as you can be in a place like this. More casual than close.”

  “And you think Marilynn may have pissed somebody off?”

  “Maybe. Most of what she did was pretty rank. Big surprise, right? In a place like this, what isn’t? The girl had a foul mouth and wasn’t afraid to use it. Thing is, for whatever reason, she hits on the subject of the Model Slayer. Talks about how he was prejudiced. Always picking on the pretty girls. Like that was supposed to be funny. Then she points to this guy at Xstacy’s table and says, ‘So what about us ugly girls? We not good enough for you?’ It was as though she was accusing this guy. Anyway, one of the bouncers got up and pulled her off stage. Later, I hear she was fired, and she wasn’t going to be doing the books anymore. I didn’t think much about it. Not until I started reading in the paper that she’d gone missing. Gave me a real uneasy feeling. Girls like Marilynn just don’t vanish. Then those firefighters found that body, and I just knew it had to be her. She used to tell me how much she liked to go hiking out near Vasquez Canyon. I mean who else could it be? Then next thing I know, Xstacy showed up dead and far as I’m concerned, that’s too close for comfort. Know what I mean? Now we’re all thinking something’
s going on and we’re looking over our shoulder wondering who’s next.”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw Marilynn?”

  “It was the night she did her performance. ’Bout six weeks ago. May 4. I got stiffed that same night for a $150 bottle of wine. Some guy at the bar orders it, places a couple of Ben Franklins down, waits for the change, then takes the bottle to a table. Next thing I know, I’m stuck with a couple of bogus bills, and he’s nowhere around. My manager wanted to fire me. Only reason he didn’t is ’cause it’d be too much trouble to train someone new to deal with the lowlifes who come in this place. He stapled the phony Franklins to the bill and told me next time to run it under a black light. The real thing should glow pink.” Red reached behind the register for the receipt, the date circled in red, and handed it to me.

  I made a mental note of the date and asked after Marilynn was fired if Xstacy had ever talked about her again.

  “Once. Xstacy had come by to pick up her paycheck like usual. Kid was always out of money and wanted to cash her check soon as she could. I offered to fix her a drink while she waited. I remember she looked kinda nervous and was playing with this keychain. Had a rabbit’s foot on it. She said it had belonged to Marilynn. That Marilynn had given it to her as kind of thank you for her helping her out.”

  “Helping her out? I don’t understand.”

  “You know, talking to management. Helping Marilynn get the gig. I don’t know what went on between them, but I do know this: that rabbit’s foot was no lucky charm. First, it’s Marilynn’s, and she gets killed. And then it was Xstacy’s, and now she’s dead.”

  I thought about Xstacy’s timing, how she had shown up at my condo right after the firefighters had found the body in Vasquez Canyon. No doubt she had suspected, like we all did, the body was Marilynn Brewer’s. The question was, had Xstacy stopped by my condo because she knew Marilynn had been a victim of the Model Slayer? Or was she worried Marilynn’s ex-boyfriend Brian had killed her and Xstacy wanted to tell me she believed he was Ely Wade’s partner? And when I wasn’t there to talk, did she leave the rabbit’s foot as a clue?