Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (12 page)

Seventeen

If travel was a metaphor for emotions, flying home was perfect for me. My happiness about Dean—combined with the joy and relief of seeing the kids—was enough for me to sprout wings and take off, even with passengers and luggage.

Yet my depth of concern about Bruce’s past, present, and future (not to mention the risks of investigating them) kept me grounded. Thank goodness there were actual flights to Dulles, where my worn-out minivan was waiting to take us straight to Super Teddy.

It hurt not to be able to kiss Dean goodbye after we landed, but it helped that I was carrying sleepy Sophie and urging Jack to keep moving. He was the definition of
bedraggled
.

By the next morning, the kids were plenty energetic for school, so I forced myself through making breakfast, packing lunches (including treats left by Super Teddy), negotiating fall outfits, writing notes to teachers, and braving the chilly walk to and from the bus stop. Then I downloaded Liz’s Disney photos while fast-forwarding through the morning news, which I’d set to record. Both ended up being too emotional.

The search continues for a King County man who disappeared just before his wedding last weekend. Bruce Fallon was planning to marry Mia Gordon and help his mother through a medical transplant before he left his Emerson Inn bachelor party and never returned. Fallon’s car was found at Jones Falls Park, and authorities suspect foul play. An arrest of a Florida man, Eli Morgan, was made in the case, but authorities are not releasing details. Fallon’s father made a plea for help in finding his son today.

Frank stood before a group of reporters and begged the public to search private properties and nearby areas for anything suspicious. His voice broke and his eyes watered as he pleaded for help.

“My son could be injured somewhere. Please, help us bring him home.”

Photos of Bruce and Mia at their rehearsal dinner flashed across the screen.

Bruce Fallon’s fiancée has asked for privacy as she supports her mother-in-law, who is hospitalized with an unrelated illness. Anyone with information is asked to call Detective Reese Allen at 555-742-8276.

I clicked off the TV and texted Dean right away. How could Frank have gone on TV without letting us know?

He texted me during our flight and late last night
, Dean explained.
But I just got it. My phone has been glitchy since the accident. I’m heading to the store for a new one ASAP.

Water had seeped through the glove compartment and into his phone case, but he’d let it dry in the Florida sun, and its power had come back on. Apparently, we’d been too optimistic about its survival.

I tried to distract myself with photos of Jack and Sophie on rides, at an impressive musical, and with their favorite Disney characters, but it wasn’t relaxing. I dreaded their growing up to be part of the world’s awful realities, and meanwhile, I was missing their most innocent experiences while putting myself at risk.

I peeked out a window, hoping for signs of life next door. Andy worked late and slept in when Kenna didn’t have morning classes, and they’d been blessed with a child who wasn’t up at the crack of dawn.

A knock at my door startled me out of contemplation and forced me to reevaluate my baggy sweatpants and ragged, fleece pullover. Under them, I wore pajama shorts and a tank top. Questionable for a bus stop jaunt. Not okay for company.

The front door was flanked by sidelights, so I peeked through the sheer curtains and made out Kenna’s silhouette.

“Hey,” I said as I opened the door, eager to see her. “Where’s Sky?”

“Andy’s got her. They’re both asleep. Welcome home!”

We hugged, and I filled her in on everything I could.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, thankful I’d braved the water in more ways than one. “What about Genevieve? Did you ask about her?”

“No,” I said. “Why ruin a good thing?”

Kenna gently rapped on my head, as if I’d been inhabited by an alien. “Nicki, are you in there?” She smiled. “Hey, listen, if you can be relaxed about it, so can I.”

I didn’t believe her, but I appreciated the effort.

“I’m not relaxed about it. I’m just stressed about everything else. There’s only so much I can freak out about at once.”

“Phew. That sounds more like you. Okay then. Here’s a tension breaker. Let’s go see that stripper.”

“What? Look at me. And you can’t come, anyway.”

“I know, but I can drive. Please. I need to get out of the house for some adult conversation. Plus, I know where she works out.” She looked at her cell phone. “And her favorite class starts soon. So put on something investigator-ish and let’s go.”

I stuffed Sophie’s leftover toast in my mouth and rolled my eyes. Even if I could get out of this, I didn’t really want to. Kenna’s company was just what I needed. I downed a shot of OJ and hoped I was right.

We took Kenna’s convertible and blasted rap music most of the way, pretending we were in high school without a baby seat in sight. At least that’s what I was doing while keeping an eye out for anyone following us, just in case.

I texted Dean to make sure he was okay with the plan, which he was. I didn’t want him to think I was keeping him from Stripper Mom. From the beginning, when I’d met his trashy-hot receptionist at the PI Academy, I’d decided that if she was his type, I couldn’t and wouldn’t compete. I’d lose in every way.

A few miles from “da club,” I lowered the volume to peruse my case notes and plan with Kenna. She’d accompany me inside, where she’d talk with the manager, whom she knew, and I’d sit in the lobby hoping to catch Stripper Mom, whose name was Rita Evans, walking by. Then I’d ask her to chat in the club’s smoothie café.

“I’ll text you if I see her ass,” Kenna half-joked.

Spotting Rita might be easier if she’d walk around backward.

“Class ends in what, ten minutes?” I said, as we parked near the entrance.

“Yep. Let’s go.”

I settled into a comfy lobby chair and tried to maintain self-confidence while endless toned glutes paraded by, none of which resembled Rita’s—or mine.

I kept an eye on the “pole room” door, since its windows were obscured by heavy, black fabric to protect the dancers’ privacy. The aerobics room was just the opposite—all glass. Yet another reason for me to avoid exercise.

Finally, the class ended, and women in skimpy outfits streamed by, capturing all but the most dedicated weight lifters’ attention. At least my staring wouldn’t look out of place.

Rita was one of the last students out, sky-high heels in hand, chatting with the instructor. They parted ways at the women’s locker room, and Rita got busy assessing her abs as she strolled toward me.

I felt my phone buzz, and I ignored it, assuming it was Kenna.

“Rita?” I asked politely when she got within hearing range. She was wearing a tiny skort and an athletic bustier, for lack of better apparel terminology.

“Yes?” she said, looking me up and down, surely unimpressed. I’d changed into leggings, a t-shirt, and a sweat jacket to blend in and hide my neglected muscles. Rita’s body was amazing, and although Kenna was the fittest woman I knew, Rita wasn’t far behind. Maybe there was something to this pole thing.

I stood and stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Nicki. You were at a friend’s party recently, and I heard you’re a great dancer. Do you have a few seconds to chat?”

She looked hesitant, so I gestured to the smoothie bar and offered to buy her a drink.

“I guess I have a few minutes.”

We perused the options and both settled on the vanilla-orange soy special.

“So who’s your friend?” she asked while a blender screamed behind the counter. “I haven’t done many events lately.”

“It’s someone from a bachelor party you did,” I said, watching her reaction.

“Oh. You mean Bruce Fallon’s party? I called the police about that as soon as I heard about Bruce on the news. They’ve already talked to me. You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not at all.”

The blender stopped, and I stalled while the server poured our smoothies into giant plastic cups and added lids and straws.

“I’m still in shock about that,” she said. “I told the police everything I could remember, but I doubt it helped.”

“Actually,” I continued, glancing back as I led the way to two stools farthest from the counter, “I’m asking around about the party because I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking for Bruce.”

“Really? That’s cool,” she said. This was a common, helpful reaction. Many people thought private investigators, especially women PIs, only existed on TV. This often got them talking, at least for a little while. “Who hired you?”

I was tempted to say,
I can only say his name is Charlie, and my friends Jaclyn and Farrah will be here any minute.

“Let’s just say that his family is extremely worried,” I said, deliberately vague. “So I’m talking with everyone who had contact with him that night.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Interesting that you put it that way. I already told the police everything, so I guess it’s no big secret.”

“What’s no big secret?”

“That I had contact with him.”

I’d started the interview with an open mind, thinking of Rita as a “dancer,” not really a “stripper,” and definitely not a “prostitute.” Plus, hadn’t Todd called her a prude?

“What do you mean by
contact
, specifically?”

“I mean Bruce couldn’t keep his hands off me.”

“I’m sorry to ask you to get more specific, but…could you be more specific?”

“Sure,” she said. “I just started this dancing business for parties and stuff, and I have a clear hands-off policy. No touching. But Bruce didn’t respect that. He was grabby. Not only that, but he hit me. Like ‘slap that ass’ hit me. Twice. So I cut the show short and left. I don’t think they could tell how upset I was, but it made me think twice about what I’m doing.”

“That’s awful. Were you okay?
Are
you okay?”

“Yeah. It didn’t leave a mark, other than mentally. I’m sort of rethinking my plans. I mean, I’m crazy about pole dancing. I’m kind of addicted to it. I thought bachelor parties would be a fun way to make money and use my skills. But now I’m thinking of entering contests and teaching. Oh, and I host girls’ parties. Like group lessons.” She handed me a “Pole Parties by Rita” card that listed her phone number and email address.

All helpful, but I wanted more details about Bruce.

“Tell me more about how Bruce was acting, other than what you’ve already shared. What was his mood overall?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t drinking too much or anything.” She thought for a moment. “But that was part of it. It seemed like he was putting on an act, like he was smiling, but I didn’t buy that he was relaxed or happy. I couldn’t wait to leave.”

We discussed when she arrived and left, which matched the timeline we had so far. As far as pay, Todd had given her his credit card over the phone in October. I asked if Bruce had said anything to her during the event.

“Not much. He offered to help set up my pole, which I turned down. And the typical ‘woohoos’ and ‘yeahs’ during the performance, although it got a little dirtier than that.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘work that shit’ and stuff. From everyone. I don’t remember who in particular.”

“Okay. So how about his friends? What else do you remember about them?”

“They were normal.” She shrugged. “Drunk. Friendly enough, but not too friendly. You know what I mean. The best man had his act together and tipped me a hundred bucks. I smelled pot in the room, by the way. So maybe he wanted to shut me up. None of them stopped Bruce from being an a-hole, though.” She looked at her cell phone. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I have to pick up my son at childcare.”

She drained the last of her smoothie and tossed the cup into a wastebasket. I picked up mine to finish on the way home.

“I totally understand. Let me walk you out. How old is he?”

“Four. Crazy as it sounds, he’s the reason I’m doing this. I’m a single mom, and we need the money. Pole is my passion, but I do medical billing part-time, and as soon as my son hits kindergarten, I have to work full-time.”

“I know the feeling.” Meaning I was a single, working mom…not on the pole. I almost said,
It’s a grind
, but changed it to “It’s no picnic.”

Rita’s car was parked close to the entrance, and I got out my business card while she threw her gym bag in the trunk. I couldn’t help noticing a long, black canvas bag with “InstaPole” in proud, pink letters on its side.

“Were there any red flags that night?” I asked. “Anything else that, looking back on it, was a sign of trouble?”

Rita tapped her lips with a pink, manicured nail. “I’ve thought a lot about it, but no. He didn’t seem in a great mood, but he never said anything like, ‘I don’t want to get married’ or anything. I think my ‘no touching’ policy teed him off, but too bad, right? I mean, I’m sorry, I know he’s missing and everything, but…”

“Of course. Don’t worry. I can’t thank you enough for talking with me,” I said, handing her my card. “Please get in touch if you think of anything else.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “And call me if you ever want pole dancing lessons. I can set up my pole anywhere.”

Good to know. I thought of the moms I knew, and no one struck me as the pole-dancing type, other than Kenna. But then again, how many moms would discuss their pole-dancing proclivities? (“Can you go to Thursday’s PTA meeting?” “Oh, no. Sorry. I’ll be on the pole that night.”) Even Kenna didn’t announce “I’m teaching pole” to just anyone.

I said goodbye to Rita and walked toward Kenna’s car, pausing to send her a text.

That’s when I saw the message I’d missed, and it was from Dean, not Kenna.

Call me.