Like No One Else (28 page)

“What?”

“Knowing that every man you meet wants to fuck your brains out.”

Tommie laughed. “Not
every
man,” she said pointedly, elbowing him in the ribs.

Zhane grinned. “Honey, when you've got someone like that hot-tamale detective giving you pirouette-inducing orgasms, why look any further?”

 

Laverne Witten, a single mother of three with over-processed hair and a smoker's rasp, had lived next door to Ashton Dupree for the past three years. After dropping off her children at day care, she returned to the crime scene, as promised, to answer more questions by Paulo and Donovan. She recounted her discovery of the body early that morning, confirming that she'd entered the house using the spare key Ashton had previously provided for her. She explained, once again, that she and Ashton had often borrowed household items from each other and watched each other's homes while the other was on vacation. Because of the late hours Ashton normally kept, Laverne had thought nothing of ringing her doorbell at 4:00 a.m. to ask for a jump, especially since Ashton had already mentioned to her that she'd taken a few days off from work. When Laverne noticed at the end of Thursday that Ashton's car had not moved from the driveway all day, she just assumed Ashton was catching up on some sleep. She hadn't noticed any strangers loitering in the neighborhood, so she had no reason to suspect that a violent psychopath had let himself into Ashton's house and butchered her.

When Paulo and Donovan tried to press her for more information, Laverne confided that while she and Ashton had been on friendly terms and had always helped each other out in a pinch, she didn't know enough about Ashton's personal life to be able to tell them whether she'd had a steady boyfriend or had been expecting company on the night she was killed. She couldn't tell them whether Ashton still kept in touch with her foster brother or had any friends who frequently visited. She couldn't tell them much of anything.

They thanked Laverne for her time, gave her their cards, and told her to call if she thought of anything else. After letting them know how sorry she was about Ashton, how sick to her stomach she'd be for the rest of the day, she then asked them what would happen to Ashton's house now that she was gone.

“I have family who've been looking to move closer to me,” Laverne explained. “They might be a little queasy at first about buying a house where someone got killed, but I know they'd get over it eventually.”

Paulo didn't even know how to respond. So he didn't bother. Turning away in disgust, he let Donovan handle it.

After the woman left, Donovan wandered over to where Paulo stood in the living room studying a framed photograph of Ashton. In it she was smiling coquettishly into the camera, her wavy blond hair swept over one shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling with that irrepressible mischief Paulo remembered so well.

Shaking his head in grim disgust, Donovan muttered, “I've heard of greedy relatives swooping in like vultures to fight over property after the death of a family member, but
neighbors
? That's got to be an all-time low. Man, did Ashton Dupree have
any
true friends?”

“No,” Paulo said in a low, flat voice. “She didn't.”

Not even me
, he added silently.

“Detective Sanchez?”

Paulo glanced over his shoulder to see one of the evidence technicians standing behind him. Paulo recognized the man from Maribel Cruz's crime scene, but drew a blank on his name. Something like Scott. Or Skip.

“Yeah?” he said, turning around.

The man passed him a plastic evidence bag. “I just found this in the victim's top nightstand drawer. After the last time, I thought you'd be interested in seeing it.”

Even before Paulo looked down and saw what was inside the bag, he knew.

His heart knocked against his rib cage. Icy fingers of dread ran down his throat.

Gingerly he reached inside the bag and withdrew the glossy dance brochure featuring Tommie on the cover.

“Holy shit,” Donovan breathed, staring over his shoulder. “Is that what I think it is?”

Paulo nodded mutely.

Earlier he'd wondered what had put Maribel Cruz and Ashton Dupree on the killer's radar.

Now he knew.

The connection between the two dead women was none other than Tommie Purnell.

“Ashton Dupree doesn't work here anymore,” the owner and proprietor of Slicksters Gentlemen's Club announced without preamble when Paulo was shown into his office later that day.

“That's actually why I'm here. To talk to you about Ashton.” Without waiting for an invitation, Paulo sat in one of the leather visitor chairs opposite the large desk.

Woody Digger, an ironically befitting name for a man who ran a strip joint, bore a striking resemblance to the actor Michael Chiklis, with his gleaming bald head, burly frame, piercing blue eyes, and tough-guy demeanor.

“Look, I don't want any trouble, Detective,” Digger said through gritted teeth. “I run a good, clean establishment here. I don't tolerate no funny business.”

Paulo cocked a brow. “Who said you did?”

Digger scowled. “You think I don't know about those undercover cops who've been crawling around here for the past two weeks, trying to catch my girls doing something they're not supposed to be doing?”

“I wasn't aware that your club was the target of an undercover operation,” Paulo said blandly. “I don't work in vice.”

Digger's blue eyes narrowed suspiciously on his face. “You said you were here to ask about Ashton.”

“That's right.” Paulo paused. “Is that why she was fired? Because she was doing something she wasn't supposed to?”

Digger clenched his jaw. “I didn't say she was fired.”

“So she quit?”

Digger's mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Let's just say she was encouraged to resign.”

“Why?” Paulo's tone was mild, but the steely glint in his eyes let the other man know he wouldn't accept another evasive, bullshit answer.

Digger heaved an impatient breath. “She was bad for business.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for starters she had a mouth on her. She was combative, always talking back. To her manager, to the other dancers and waitresses. It didn't matter who it was, she always had to have the last word.”

“Was she ever reprimanded? Written up?”

“All the damned time. Made no difference. She was a hellcat through and through.” His lips compressed in an expression of disgust. “We called her Ash because when she got through lighting you up, that's all that was left of you—ashes.”

“I guess it's safe to assume she wasn't very popular with the other dancers,” Paulo dryly surmised.

Digger snorted. “That's putting it mildly. They hated her guts.”

Hated her enough to kill her?
Paulo wondered.

As if he'd read his mind, Digger said, “But they were terrified of her, every last one of 'em. They thought she was bat-shit-crazy. Avoided her like the plague whenever it was possible. Plus she was much older than most of them, so they didn't have a lot in common with her anyway.”

“What about the customers? How'd they feel about Ashton?”

“Well, that's the thing,” Digger grumbled, scratching his chin that bore a faint cleft. “They loved her. She was one of our best dancers. She put on a helluva good show.”

“But she was bad for business,” Paulo reminded him.

Digger frowned, his jaw hardening. “Like I said before, I don't want any trouble. Seems like every time I turn around I'm hearing about another strip club being raided by the police, dancers getting arrested for prostitution in sting operations. This year alone there've been at least five major busts. I don't want no part of that. My girls know the three-foot rule. They know they're not allowed to get any closer than that to customers. And they sure as hell know they're not supposed to offer them sex for cash.”

“But Ashton did it anyway,” Paulo concluded.

Digger hesitated, then nodded shortly. “She was using the club as her own personal referral service,” he growled, nostrils flaring in anger. “Giving out her business card, setting up appointments right under my damned nose.”

“When did you find out?”

“A week ago. One of the other girls came and told me, thought I should know since the undercover cops were crawling all over the place.” He shook his bald head. “Ashton's damned lucky she didn't approach the wrong guy.”

“Maybe she did,” Paulo murmured.

Digger's gaze sharpened on his face. “What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. If you're not here as part of a sting operation, then what—?”

“I'm a homicide detective.” Paulo paused, letting that sink in before adding, “Ashton Dupree was found dead in her home this morning. She was murdered.”

The other man's eyes widened in horror. The color leached out of his face, leaving him ashen. “Jesus!” he whispered, staring incredulously at Paulo. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“No, unfortunately.”

Digger leaned back in his chair, passed a trembling hand over his face. His shock seemed real, Paulo thought, but that didn't mean squat. After seventeen years on the force, fifteen in homicide, he'd encountered more than his fair share of accomplished liars and actors. Sometimes the higher the stakes, the more convincing the performance.

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Ashton?” Paulo asked.

“A w-week ago,” Digger stammered, still looking stunned. “I called her in here and told her what I'd just found out about her. She didn't even bother denying it. She said she needed to earn some extra cash, and since I wasn't paying her enough, she'd decided to take matters into her own hands. Pun intended, she joked.” He shook his head. “I warned her about the vice cops, told her I wasn't about to get put out of business or thrown into jail just because
she
was being a greedy, opportunistic bitch.” He grimaced at the memory.

“And how did she respond?”

“She said it was none of my damned business how she chose to supplement her income. And I told her that if she couldn't abide by the house rules, she'd better find someplace else to work. She said that's exactly what she would do. She claimed she could get hired by another club in a heartbeat, and I said something about her being over the hill,” he admitted guiltily. “She told me to fuck off, then slammed out of the office. That was the last time I saw or heard from her.”

“Do you know who any of her customers were?” Paulo asked.

“You mean the ones she was screwing?” He shook his head. “She wouldn't tell me their names, and I couldn't even try to guess for you. She was friendly with all the customers, always more than happy to give a lap dance. Truth be told, I could see any of those guys going home with her.”

“Would any of the other girls know?”

Digger hesitated. “Casey might.”

“Casey?”

“Yeah. She's the one who came to me in the first place.”

“Is she working today?”

“No. Not till Saturday evening. If you come back then, you can talk to her.”

Paulo nodded. “Where were you on Wednesday night between the hours of ten p.m. and five a.m.?”

“I was here until midnight. Went home after that.”

“Alone?”

Digger frowned. “Did I leave here alone, or do I live alone?”

“Both.”

“Yes to both. I left here alone that night, but I had someone waiting for me at home.”

“Girlfriend?”

A hint of a suggestive grin touched Digger's mouth. “I guess you could call her that. When it's convenient.”

Paulo pretended to misunderstand. “Convenient for an alibi?”

“No.” The grin stretched meaningfully.
“Convenient.”

“Ah.” A look of amused understanding passed between the two men. “I'll need her name and a number where I can contact her. To verify your alibi, of course.”

“Of course.” Digger reached for one of his business cards, neatly displayed in a glass holder. He jotted down the information on the back and passed the card across the desk.

“Thanks,” Paulo said, sliding it into his jacket pocket. “I know you said Ashton didn't get along with her coworkers. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

Digger frowned. “No one here hated her enough to kill her, if that's what you're getting at.”

“How do you know that?”

“I make it my business to know what kind of people work for me. They're not cold-blooded killers, I can tell you that.”

“What about the customers?” Paulo prodded. “Do you remember any altercations she may have had with a rude customer? Maybe someone who'd had one too many beers? Or a guy who came on to her and refused to take no for an answer?”

Digger shook his head. “Like I said, she was friendly with all the customers, and even if one had come on a little too strong, she knew how to take care of herself.”

Apparently not
, Paulo thought grimly, his mind flashing on an image of Ashton's brutalized remains.

Giving himself a mental shake, he asked, “Do you know if she was seeing anyone?”

“Someone other than her johns, you mean?” Digger drawled, his lips twisting sardonically.

Paulo just looked at him.

“No, I don't think she was seeing anyone. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“How well did you know her?”

“She worked here for over seven years. I think I knew her well enough.” He frowned. “Like I said before, she had a serious mouth on her. I always told her that mouth would one day get her into trouble with the wrong person. I hope to God I wasn't right about that.”

You and me both
, Paulo thought.

“One more question. If Ashton was such a problem employee, why didn't you fire her seven years ago? Why'd you keep her around for so long?”

Something like resentment flickered in Digger's eyes. “Believe me, if it were left up to me, she would have been canned a long time ago.”

Paulo frowned. “Why wasn't it left up to you? I thought you were the owner.”

“I am. But I've got a partner. A silent partner who wasn't so silent when it came to Ashton. Keeping her was nonnegotiable.”

Intrigued, Paulo asked, “Who's this partner?”

Digger looked uncomfortable. “He's a silent partner—”

“I need a name.”

“I'd rather not say.”

Paulo's muscles tightened. He leaned forward, a cold, feral smile curving his lips. “Just because I don't work in vice doesn't mean I don't know people,” he said, dangerously soft. “One phone call is all it would take to clear you—or bury you.”

Digger stared at him, his mouth tightening. “My partner is Ashton's foster brother. A lawyer named Ted Colston.”

 

That evening, Ted Colston was striding toward a sleek silver Jaguar in the law firm's underground parking garage when his cell phone rang. He groaned inwardly, praying to God it wasn't a client calling with an emergency or some other issue that would detain him at the office for the rest of the evening. He'd already stayed longer than he should have, and tonight of all nights—his fifteenth wedding anniversary—he couldn't afford to be late for dinner with his wife. Not after everything he had done to her.

The phone trilled again.

Heaving a resigned breath, Ted dug the phone out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and checked the caller ID. When he saw the number displayed, his pulse quickened. He pressed the Talk button.

“I sure as hell hope you have more information for me than you did the last time we spoke,” he bit out tersely.

There was a low, grating chuckle on the other end. “Good evening to you, too. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I'm on my way home,” Ted said impatiently, throwing his briefcase into the car and sliding behind the wheel.

“Ah yes. Today's the big day, isn't it? Can't have you working late on your fifteenth anniversary, now, can we?”

Ted said nothing, unnerved that the private investigator knew so much about his personal life. About him, period.

“Got any special plans with the missus?”

“We're going away for the weekend.”

“How romantic. Someplace nice and secluded, I hope?”

Ted didn't answer.

Hank Nolan chuckled dryly. “Not in a very talkative mood today, are you?”

Ted clenched his jaw. “Stop wasting my time. Do you have information for me or not?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He paused, and Ted knew it was purely for dramatic effect. “I completed the background check on the cop.”

“It's about time. You've had me waiting for days.”
While Sanchez has been circling me like a damned shark in blood-infested waters
, Ted added silently. When the detective called the office an hour ago, Ted had instructed his secretary to tell Sanchez that he'd already left for his weekend getaway with Abby. When he emerged from the building that evening, he'd half expected to find the detective leaning insolently against his Jaguar, waiting for him.