“In the first place, it’s not a strip joint. It’s an adult dancing parlor.”
“Where we’re going to meet a stripper.”
“Exotic dancer. And in the second place, I don’t want to blend in.” He could see her attention had already diverted to her phone. She was using a forefinger to swipe. “Are you on some dating app?”
She tilted the phone so he couldn’t see. “Stop creeping. Eyes on the road.”
“Right, right.” But his peripheral vision still creeped. “Why are you doing that?”
“Well...” She sighed. “It’s been a long dry spell.”
“Maria—you’re a gorgeous young woman. Stylish, smart. With a great job.”
“That takes up way too much of my time.”
“You don’t need dating apps. Dating apps are for women who don’t have your resources.”
“Stop Dansplaining. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”
“This is beneath you. Look in the mirror. You’re—you’re—”
“A complete smokeshow? Yes, I am. And you’re being a complete munch.”
“No one who uses a dating app is worthy of you.”
“Get with the brave new world, Grandpa. Everyone with a busy life is on dating apps. We don’t have time to troll singles bars. Not that I think that would be in any way superior.”
“You’re choosing men based on profiles and pics.”
“Nah. Most everything in the profiles and pics is bogus. The Net is full of catfishers. Dogfishers.”
“Dogfishers?”
“Guys who post pics of themselves with other people’s dogs. Because they think women are drawn to guys who love their dogs.”
“Does that work?”
“Actually, yes. But now I demand to see rescue-dog adoption papers.”
“And you agree to meet men based upon this information?”
“And the restaurant they suggest for a first date.”
“Seriously?”
“A girl needs to have standards.”
“What if you don’t know the restaurant?”
“I research. Post around. See what other women in town think of the place. Losers like loser restaurants.”
“So if the restaurant doesn’t measure up, it’s death by Yelp for your hapless suitors. Do you post online often?”
“Well, I’m not a Kardashian or anything. But I like to stay out there.”
“I think this is unbecoming to a young upwardly mobile professional.”
She looked up at him and winked. “Maybe that’s what I like about it.”
* * *
Dan thought it had been at least a decade since he’d entered a place like this, and time had not improved the concept. Calling Ebb Tide an “adult dancing parlor” did not upgrade the environment. It was poorly lit, smoky, alcoholic, and without any redeeming entertainment value—unless you enjoyed watching women wearing next to nothing shimmer and gyrate around a pole. In an age when porn was only a click away, he was somewhat surprised places like this still survived. Perhaps he should be encouraged to know there was still an audience for live theater.
Maria leaned toward him. The music and noise levels were so high she had to shout. “Can you believe how many women are in here?”
He was surprised not only by the single women but the couples sitting around the stage. Did they find this fun? Erotic? “Of course, you’re here.”
“On business. No choice about it. Jimmy’s gay and Garrett’s way too conservative for this sin palace. And I couldn’t let you come alone.”
“No, I wouldn’t know how to handle myself.”
“Why couldn’t we meet her at her home?”
“She told Jimmy she preferred to meet at work. I get it. She doesn’t know us. She’s probably been grilled repeatedly by the police. She prefers to be in a crowded place. Feels safer.”
“Any idea which one she is?”
He pointed center stage. “Up front.”
“The cowgirl?”
“I assume she prefers to be called an erotic dancing animal handler.” On the stage, the person in question wore nothing but glittering G-string and pasties—plus a holster with two strategically arranged plastic six-guns, which she occasionally twirled and pointed in imaginative ways.
“I wouldn’t have thought this bit would play so well in Florida. We’re a long way from Texas.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe in Texas strippers dress like beachcombers.”
“Don’t you mean, undress like beachcombers?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later they were backstage in a crowded green room that apparently serviced all the dancers, which meant there was a constant flow of women wearing next to nothing. Dan ignored them, as if this was a normal thing to have going on around you. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the level of professionalism. These women were not overtly trashy, nor did they resemble the caricatures from Gypsy. They were working women getting the job done. The room was brightly lit and a gruesome pop song played much too loudly. Maria informed him it was by someone called Krewella.
“I’ve been stripping for almost three years,” Vanessa Collins said. Light brown skin. Short hair. Purple fingernail polish. The kind of abs that only arise in gyms. She was still dressed in her cowgirl outfit, which was to say, she was barely dressed at all. “Harrison didn’t approve. Which is one of many reasons why we’re not still together.”
“And the other reasons?” Dan asked.
“Well, I think he’s gay. Was gay. Sorry. No disrespect intended.”
“None taken. I hope you’ll be honest about him, despite the tragedy.” He thought Maria might take the lead on this interview, but she seemed more distracted by all the women in various states of undress than he was. “I understand you and Harrison dated for some time. What makes you think he was gay?”
“Or bi. Something. A girl gets hints. You know.”
He did not know. “Did Harrison have...performance issues?”
“No, he could manage an adequate, if uninspired bedroom encounter. I just sometimes got the impression it wasn’t his main jam.”
“What was?”
“He liked a little kink. You know, the black leather and handcuffs, that sort of thing. But at the end of the day, I just don’t think women were his raison d’etre.”
“He was quite a bit older than you, wasn’t he? Maybe that was a factor.”
“Perhaps. But I like to think a man doesn’t have to be eighteen to get interested when a woman with a body like mine starts undressing. I’ve got moves.”
“I saw.” All fascinating, in a way, but not what he came to talk about. “My partner tells me you used to be a teacher.”
“True. Loved teaching. Pity you can’t make a living doing it.”
“Stripping pays better?”
“Are you kidding? Two years of this and I paid off my house. But there’s more to it than money. This helps me stay fit. I’m not as young as most of the girls here, so I have to work harder at it. This job forces me to get off my butt and do the work. And I find it artistically fulfilling. You want to heap on the scorn because this is a little naughty, suit yourself. I’m a big girl and I make decisions to please myself. I love to dance. Hell, I think pole dancing should be an Olympic sport.”
“And kitesurfing,” Dan added.
“You know, they have pole-dancing competitions. The Miss Sexy pageant. Miss Trixter. Men’s and women’s divisions.”
Maria appeared amazed. “There are male pole dancers?”
He made a tsking sound. “Maria, please. Don’t be so sexist.”
Vanessa grinned. “You should join the US Pole Dance Federation, Dan. The fastest-growing section is the men’s division. Lots of contorting and propelling and thrusting.” She gave him a smile. “I’ll bet you’re good at that, aren’t you?”
He dodged the question. “In the competitions, do contestants wear G-strings?”
“No. Normal athletic wear. And you can
use your real name, not Candy or Bambi or whatever. Competition is not so much about the whips and the sparkly lollipops. It’s about interpreting the music through your body, evoking the mood of the song. But strip club work is good practice. If you can do a complex routine in high heels, doing it in gym shoes is a breeze.”
“No doubt.”
“I’m saving up to open my own studio. Can you believe St. Pete doesn’t have a dedicated pole-dance studio yet? We are so behind the times.”
“Shocking. Would you teach students your cowgirl routine?”
“Surely you see that I’m interrogating the whole Western Americana trope. Why aren’t there more cowgirls in Westerns? Why are the women always back at the ranch waiting for the macho hero to come home? Or captured by Indians? Or prostitutes? I’m giving women a role in the narrative. A woman doesn’t have to be sexually neutered to have a voice.”
“A #MeToo pole dance?”
“Exactly.”
Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “You’ve met Ossie, right?”
“The kid who’s calling himself Ossie? Yeah. Not a fan. Not convinced.”
“You don’t think he’s the real deal?”
“Definitely not.”
“Did you ever meet the real deal? Before he disappeared?”
“No. That was long before I came into the picture. But I thought the whole situation was fishy. Everyone knows Old Man Coleman is sick. Time’s winged chariot is closing in and the relatives are circling like vultures. And at the last critical juncture, Ossie suddenly appears to collect a massive inheritance. I mean, that’s just not the way life works, right? I didn’t buy it.”
“But you had no objective reason to disbelieve him. No evidence.”
“I didn’t take a DNA sample, if that’s what you mean. Do you mind if I get dressed? That was my last dance for the evening.”
“Please do.” And he meant it. Having a convo with a nearly naked woman was supremely distracting. “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Harrison?”
“Other than every one of the other potential heirs? Sure.” Apparently he wasn’t supposed to notice as she peeled off the pasties and slid into a bra. Quality frilly number, probably Victoria’s Secret. “But mostly theater people, you know? The kind who think the worst burn is a Shakespearean insult. ‘Thy head is full of stuff and nonsense.’ That sort of thing.”
“Not anyone you’d expect to commit murder.”
“No. Maybe a nasty tweet, if they were truly angry. But murder? Like this one? No way. Did they really...dissolve his body?”
“That’s what the cops say. Any particular enemies? Among those theater folk?”
“I guess you could look into Margaret Tully. She and Harrison clashed constantly. And since she controlled the funds that kept that theater afloat, he had to listen.”
“What did they clash about?”
“Programming, mostly. She thought all this old stuff, Shakespeare and the like, was boring. And you know, she wasn’t wrong. I taught English, but come on. That’s not how you get bodies into the seats. Margaret wanted more accessible, sexy, contemporary programming. And I suppose now that Harrison is out of the way, she’ll get what she wanted.”
“No one else will stand up to her?”
“No one else cares enough. Harrison felt strongly about standards. He thought they had a responsibility to the arts, a sacred calling. If people want crap, he said, let them stay home and binge-watch television crap. The theater should be better. Uplifting. Enlightening. He was a special person, Harrison. Even if you disagreed with him, you couldn’t help admiring his strength of purpose. He was the rare man who had the courage of his convictions.”
“I know someone else like that,” Maria said. “It’s fun to be with someone who has a strong sense of purpose.”
“Agreed. But it wasn’t enough to keep our relationship together. I needed more excitement in my life. I broke it off with him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Just before he disappeared. And was killed, I guess. Now I feel gigantically guilty about it. One of his last experiences was me showing up to tell him I was calling it quits. I was planning to go back the next day but—too late.” She pointed at the overhead speakers. “Like the song says. He was Dead AF.”
“Guess I’d better look into Margaret Tully. I assume she’s wealthy.”
“Oh no.”
“But you said—she controlled the funds—”
“True. But it isn’t her money. She represents some wealthy donor guy.”
His eyebrow rose. “Who?”
“I can’t think of the name. Big guy. Bald.”
“Conrad Sweeney?”
“Yeah. That’s the one. You know him?”
He and Maria exchanged a look. “Yeah, we know him. And worse—he knows us.”
Chapter 19
Dan woke all at once, eyes wide open, before sunrise, as usual. Sleeping on his boat gave him the most tranquil rest he’d ever had. Something about the combination of waves and wind and the smell of the sea and the sounds of the gulls—worked. He loved it. He normally slapped on his suit and hit the water by dawn. Perfect way to start a day. But this morning, he thought he might allow himself to linger in bed a bit.
Camila lay beside him, slightly snoring, cute as could be.
He’d stayed over at her place several times, but it took some doing to get her to stay here. His boat was large by sailboat standards, but tiny compared to her apartment. Even harder than convincing her to stay was convincing her security detail, which tended to follow her everywhere. She had received death threats, so he encouraged her to be careful. Just so the security guy wasn’t in the tiny alcove he called a bedroom.
He must’ve fidgeted too much. Her eyes opened. “Is it morning?”
“Not quite.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Only if you want me too.”
She reached out and pulled him close. “Then stay.”
“Your wish is my command.” He kissed her lightly on the neck. “Big day today?”
“Like every day. Boring political stuff.” She sighed. “My new Chief-of-Staff wants me to make a statement about the murders. And Ossie Coleman.”
“It would be better if you stayed out of it.”
“Not my style.”
“Make an exception. Everyone knows I’m repping Ossie, and many people know we’re dating.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Point being, any statement from you could be taken the wrong way. Like you’re trying to help your boyfriend.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.”
“And the mayor has to be a virgin?” She sat up. “What are you doing today?”
“More interviews. After my morning workout.”
“I’ve got an idea for your morning workout.” She pulled him closer till he was completely on top of her.
“Madame Mayor, what are you suggesting?”
“For someone who supposedly excels at reading people, sometimes you are seriously dense.”
* * *
Dan got another chance to drive the Jag since he was travelling with Jimmy, who felt that driving interfered with his constant conversation.
“How’s everything at home?” he asked, knowing this could well lead to a lengthy diatribe on the travails of living with an ER doc. Or perhaps he would segue into a discussion of Star Wars or DC Comics. He wasn’t sure how that could be possible, but Jimmy always found a way.
“Fine. Hank gripes about my long hours, but his are just as bad and he’s not looking for a new job, so why should I?”
“I think you two make a terrific couple.”
“True.” He paused. “But would it hurt him to help out with the laundry on occasion? I finally gave in and hired a housekeeper. The dust was destroying my comics.”
“The housekeeper might be willing to do the laundry.”
<
br /> “That’s too decadent even for me.” Pause. “Do you think the housekeeper would cook dinner?”
“You could ask.”
“I don’t want to be frivolous with money. But we are doing well financially. Maybe I could afford Hello Fresh.”
“Might as well enjoy the salary Mr. K provides.”
“I suppose. I just keep coming back to the same ethical question.”
“Which is?”
“What would Clark Kent do?”
* * *
Dan surveyed the members of the Coleman family, all assembled in one room. A motley crew, to be sure, and none of them particularly friendly. Most had nothing kind to say about Ossie, either—or the “Ossie-pretender.”
Any potential suspects in the room? he asked himself.
All of them.
Jimmy started snapping his fingers rhythmically.
“What are you doing?”
“Addams Family theme song.”
“Why?”
“How can you not? Look at this crew. Zachary Coleman’s eldest surviving son, Benny, could be Gomez, and his wife is the spitting image of Morticia. The youngest brother, Phil, is a born Pugsley. Benny’s daughter could be Wednesday. And her kid, the toddler who won’t shut up? Definitely Cousin Itt.”
“Who’s Uncle Fester?”
“I don’t know. Probably me.”
The family gathered in the living room of their mansion on and around a sofa, as if positioning themselves for battle. Zachary Coleman rolled his wheelchair beside the left arm.
Dan wasn’t sure where to begin. This assemblage was about as far from a typical African-American family as it was possible to be. He suspected he was more likely to hear about trust-fund portfolios than Black Lives Matter. “Thank you for speaking to me.”
“We didn’t do it for you,” Benny said. Puffed-out chest. Gold wedding band. Conservative haircut. “We came for Papa. He wanted us to see you. That’s all it is.”
“Since we have a civil suit on file, I could have taken formal depositions. But that’s expensive and largely unproductive, so with the consent of your attorneys at Friedman and Collins, I opted for a more informal chat. Seems less burdensome for everyone.” And more productive. He’d never gotten much out of depositions, with lawyers posturing and every word being taken down by a court reporter. This couldn’t be used as evidence, but what he wanted most was insight into the characters. Once he understood who he was dealing with, he’d have a better idea how to put the pieces together.
Trial by Blood Page 9
