The Homicide Hustle (6 page)

Chapter 9

A message from Kevin McDill waited on my answering machine when I got home and I returned
his call. His voice, with its former smoker’s rasp, held an undertone of excitement.

“You’ve got a nose for news, I’ll give you that,” he greeted me.

I winced, sure I knew what was coming since Nigel had already told me.

“She drowned,” McDill said, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Her BAC was 1.3, well
over the legal limit.”

“It was an accident,” I breathed. Nigel misunderstood! “She got drunk, fell into the
river somehow, and drowned.”

“Not so fast,” McDill said with an edge of “gotcha” in his voice. “Both her legs were
broken. Miscellaneous abrasions and contusions.”

“What?”

“The coroner thinks she might have been struck by a car and either knocked into the
water by the impact, or someone tossed her into the drink after hitting her. With
two broken legs—hell, she never had a chance.”

I gasped. “That’s horrible.” Poor Tessa. “What was she doing near the river, anyway?
From what I’ve heard, she was last seen at Club Nitro. That’s on Pennsylvania, nowhere
near the river.”

“Not in the autopsy report.” McDill chuckled.

Trying to push the grimness of Tessa’s death aside, I asked, “Do they know where she
went into the water?”

“Not yet,” McDill said. “But that’s the right question to ask. I’ll make a reporter
of you yet.”

“I don’t think so.” I told him I owed him one, thanked him, and hung up.

Although I didn’t want it to, my mind insisted on flashing pictures of a hurt, drunk
Tessa flailing in the river, trying to keep her head above water. I only hoped she’d
been unconscious when she went in. In an attempt to get the images of her last moments
out of my mind, I backed the reel up a bit, trying to focus on Tessa in the nightclub.
I imagined her dancing, silvery tank top glittering under the strobe lights, laughing
and flirting with some man. J. Lo’s “On the Floor” reverberated in my head as the
scene played out.

Tessa and the mystery man have a couple more drinks, maybe kiss, and he invites her
home with him. They stagger from the club, tipsy and laughing. They get in his car—something
upscale, I’m sure, because Tessa wasn’t the type to go home with someone driving a
Corolla—and they drive off. Somewhere along the way, he says or does something that
makes Tessa mad . . . or scares her. She demands that he let her out. He laughs and
goes faster. Really scared now, she waits for him to slow for a turn, then opens the
door and jumps out, breaking her legs. Maybe they’re on one of the area’s many river
roads and she rolls down the bank and into the water. Heartless and/or scared, the
man drives away. Or, maybe they’re crossing a bridge when she jumps out. The man skids
to a stop and comes back to where she’s lying helpless in the roadway. He’s scared
she’ll have him arrested for attempted rape or abduction—he’s drunk, too, and not
thinking straight—so he hoists her up and over the guardrail. Plop—into the water.
A grimmer scenario came to mind . . . he was some kind of Mr. Goodbar and he planned
to kill her all along, seduced her away from the club with that intent.

I shivered, disturbed by my imaginings. So real was the scene, I was almost convinced
I’d witnessed it. I hoped Detective Lissy was interviewing everyone who’d been at
Club Nitro Tuesday night, asking questions about who Tessa had been dancing with and
what time she left. I called him to suggest it.

Detective Lissy was silent for a long, heavy moment after I fed him my theory. Then
he said, “If this were the Old West, I could give you a star and deputize you. Since
it’s not, I’ll merely remind you—again—that I’ve been doing this job for twenty-seven
years. My superiors seem to think I know what I’m doing, as do the many, many perps
I’ve sent to prison. Why, then, Ms. Graysin, can I not convince you of that?”

Before I could formulate a response, he hung up. Fine. He was always testy when I
offered suggestions or volunteered my theories. I knew he’d been a detective for three
decades, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t overlook something. I sniffed. It was after
five by now and I was tired and hungry. Normally, I’d have called Dani to see if she
wanted to get a bite, but she was mad at me for “stealing” Zane. I could be the big
one, and apologize first, but I didn’t have the energy to do it this evening. I could
drive out to see Mom and the horses, but that, too, would take energy, especially
at rush hour. I pulled a bowl from the cupboard and was dumping cereal in it when
the phone rang.

“Stacy?” It was Zane.

“How are you doing?” I asked in a concerned voice.

“I’ve been better. Look, I’m going to drop by Club Nitro later on, see if I can spot
some folks who were there Tuesday night, who might remember seeing Tessa. Would you
come with me?”

I was flattered. My weariness disappeared. Nightclubbing with Zane Savage! I hastily
damped down my inappropriate enthusiasm. This wasn’t a date . . . it was a fishing
expedition. Apparently, Zane lacked faith in the Alexandria Police Department, too.
“Sure,” I said.

“Pick you up at nine.”

* * *

Club Nitro had a line of people snaking around the block when Zane and I arrived at
nine thirty. It was located in a stand-alone building on Pennsylvania Avenue, near
where 395 terminated—not remotely close to the famous house at 1600 Pennsylvania.
Geography and direction are not my strong suit, but I thought we were closer to the
Anacostia River than the Potomac. What looked like a small park across the street
seemed to have a lot of foot traffic for this hour of the night and I figured there
were drug deals going down. I stuck close to Zane when the valet gave me a hand out
of the car. I appreciated his assistance since the shortness of my skirt and the height
of my heels made exiting a car something of a challenge. Despite the line, we had
no trouble gaining entry. As the valet drove off in Zane’s rented Audi TT, a man in
black jeans—I missed his name—greeted us and escorted us inside, past the waiting
partiers who were variously disgruntled and awed. I heard Zane’s name whispered several
times.

“My people called ahead,” Zane said in answer to my questioning look. I wondered how
it felt to have “people.” His hand at my waist felt good and I let myself revel in
the reflected glow of celebrity, just a teeny bit, as we entered the club. I knew
I looked my best in a midnight-blue miniskirt shot through with silver threads, and
a silver cami that draped my curves in a sensual but nontrashy way. High-heeled silver
sandals, blond hair in a messy knot, and smoky eyes completed the look: casual glamour
with a sexy edge. Hey, when your living depends on your looks almost as much as your
talent, you get into the nuances.

The music thrummed through me and I found myself moving with the beat as we followed
our escort—one of the owners?—to a semicircular booth beside the dance floor. It was
easily large enough for eight people. Lots of young professionals were getting an
early start to the weekend on a Thursday night and the dance floor was packed. It
was a crowd of mixed ethnicity—black, white, Asian, Hispanic—but if the clothes were
anything to go by, the economic level was yuppie to the core.

Zane slid onto the banquette and I wiggled in beside him. His lips practically touching
my ear so I could hear him over the music, he said, “We sat in these three booths
Tuesday night, all of us. Tessa wore a shirt just like that.” He nodded to my silver
cami and a frisson ran up my spine. I wished I’d worn something else.

A server appeared, holding a small tray aloft with practiced expertise. She was young,
brunette, cute, and had eyes only for Zane. “Mr. Savage,” she said, leaning over the
table to display impressive cleavage and a name tag that said M
AYA
. “It’s good to see you again. G&T with a twist?”

Zane nodded and looked at me. I’d allow myself one drink before switching to club
soda, I decided. It wasn’t that I was afraid of getting drunk. Alcohol is chock-full
of calories and I couldn’t afford to gain an ounce before the
Blisters
debut. The camera added ten pounds to start with, and my opening-night costume fit
closely enough that an extra olive or single pistachio was going to show. “The same,”
I said.

“Maya,” Zane said, stopping the server before she could leave. “Tuesday night . . .
I was here with some friends. One of them was wearing a silver shirt like that”—he
pointed to my cami—“only she had dark hair, cut to about here.” He chopped a hand
at his jawline. “Do you remember her?”

Maya nodded. “Sure. The one who died.”

That opened my eyes, and I could tell it surprised Zane, too. Before I could ask how
she’d made the connection between news reports about Tessa King, who wasn’t exactly
a household name, and one of thousands of patrons who must cycle through Nitro weekly,
she added, “The police were asking about her. They had a photo.”

“What did you tell them?” Zane asked.

Maya shrugged. “She danced, she drank, she left. I told them I didn’t notice her particularly.
Now, if they’d asked about
you . . .
” She trailed off flirtatiously, winked, and left to get our drinks.

Zane slumped against the leather back of the booth, staring broodingly out at the
dancers. Several of the women had clearly sussed out who he was and were dancing provocatively
within his line of sight, all but ignoring their poor partners.

“Who all was here with you Tuesday night?” I asked, almost shouting. My voice was
going to be hoarse in the morning.

He slid closer, so we could talk more easily, and his hard thigh pressed along the
length of mine. Tendrils of warmth curled in my belly, but I ignored them. Mostly.

“Everyone,” he said.

“Define ‘everyone.’ Nigel said he wasn’t here.”

“Me, Phoebe, Kristen, Tessa, Ariel—she was one of Tessa’s best friends—Larry, Nanette,
Calista, Mickey . . .” He went on to name another eight or ten crew members. “I think
that’s it,” he said, “but I might have missed someone. Oh, and Carmelo.” Carmelo was
Blisters
’ head judge. “People were coming and going . . . dancing, getting drinks at the bar,
taking a leak. You see how it is.” He gestured to the writhing mass of people around
us, the crowd so thick now that navigating from one end of the club to the other was
a test of agility, determination, and diplomatic skills.

Maya came back, placing our drinks carefully on the table. Zane slid her a bill and
she smiled brilliantly. “You know,” she said. “The cops spent a long time talking
to Gabriel about your friend, but I don’t know what he told them.” She gestured to
a narrow-faced, dark-haired man behind the bar. He was moving with the smooth efficiency
of a man who’d been bartending for many years.

“Think he’d talk to us?” Zane held up a hundred-dollar bill between his forefinger
and middle finger.

“I’ll ask.” She nipped the bill away.

We watched as she forced her way through the throng and beckoned to Gabriel. They
conversed for thirty seconds, with him glancing at us across the crowd’s bobbing heads
when Maya slipped him the bribe. Maya made it back five minutes later, delivering
some drinks on the way. “He goes on break in forty minutes. He’ll meet you across
the street in the park.” She brought two fingers to her mouth as if puffing on a cigarette.
“That door”—she nodded toward a hall to the right of the bar where an exit sign glowed—“is
the closest one.”

“I feel like Jason Bourne,” I admitted a bit sheepishly when she left. “Meeting sources
in dark corners of the nation’s capital.” I sipped my G&T, savoring the gin’s zing
on my tongue.

A smile crept onto Zane’s face, but before he could respond, a gorgeous blonde slithered
up to the table. “Would you like to dance?” she cooed at Zane, acting as if I wasn’t
there.

“Sorry, babe, but I’m taken.” Zane put his arm around my shoulders and smiled down
into my eyes in a way that made the blonde merge back into the crowd without another
word.

I caught my breath and had to remind myself that the man was an actor. “Is that why
I’m here?” I asked a little breathlessly. “To keep away the hordes of love-crazed
fans?”

“Partly,” Zane admitted, “and partly because you’re so hot I can hardly keep my hands
off of you. Let’s dance.” Downing most of his G&T in a single swallow, he grabbed
my hand and led me onto the floor.

The song was a fast one with a driving beat, but body contact was unavoidable since
other dancers pressed in on us from all sides. Zane rested his hands lightly on my
hips and we moved together, freestyle, going with the music. I let my hips do their
own thing and raised my arms above my head. I could feel my hair tumbling from the
loose topknot and sweat dampening my forehead. Zane was likewise flushed and I watched
a bead of sweat streak from his neck into the open V of his gray silk shirt, disappearing
into a moderate thicket of chest hair. The DJ kept the tunes coming and we stayed
on the floor until Zane glanced at his watch.

“It’s time.” He sounded reluctant, and his gaze lingered on my lips for a long moment.
I could lean forward a breath and let him kiss me. Being with Zane would be fun, easy,
and temporary . . . no complications at the inevitable parting. It might even be good
for the studio for me to be seen with a celebrity. I imagined Tav’s frown of disapproval
at my train of thought and bit my lip.

I pulled away and said, “Let’s go.”

Chapter 10

We danced our way off the floor and serpentined our way to the hall Maya had pointed
out. It was dark and a bit quieter than the dance floor. A man wheeled a dolly with
a metal keg on it from a storage room on our right and I peered in, spotting cases
of liquor and wine stacked several boxes high, and a walk-in cooler with sliding doors
clouded with condensation. The man paid us no attention as we headed for the door
at the hall’s far end. We emerged into what looked like the valet parking lot on the
building’s east side and I caught the glow of a cigarette over by an attendant’s hut
and heard the murmur of voices. I’d thought the night air would cool my flushed face
and arms, but the day’s heat still lingered, even though it was coming up on midnight,
and humidity kept the sweat from evaporating. My heels tapped on the sidewalk as Zane
drew me toward the street. Hopeful partiers still waited in line to get into Club
Nitro but I knew we were nothing more than people-shaped shadows to them as we crossed
the street. The only illumination was the bluish light spilling from the nightclub’s
door since the streetlights seemed to be uniformly nonfunctional. Glancing at one
as we passed by, I saw why: thieves had opened the lamp’s base and removed the copper
wiring. Bits of insulated wire dangled from the opening.

The sweetish smell of marijuana drifted from the park and two teens eyed us narrowly,
stuffing something into their pockets as we passed them. Zane pulled me closer to
him and whispered, “I hope the police don’t raid this park tonight—that’s all we’d
need, to get hauled downtown as part of a drug user roundup. Think Nigel would be
thrilled or enraged?”

I giggled. “I don’t know, but your mom would go ballistic.”

He almost stopped in surprise. “How do you know my mom?”

“I forgot to tell you that she stopped by the studio earlier. She wants you to call
her.” For some reason, maybe the G&T or the tension, this felt much funnier to me
than it had earlier. I bit back another giggle. “There.” I pointed to a bench where
the thin bartender sat in a relaxed posture, drawing on a cigarette.

Gabriel looked up at us but didn’t stand as we approached. Something rustled in the
bushes behind him and I jumped. “Cats.” He lit a new cigarette off the stub of the
first and said, “Maya tells me you want to know about the dead chick.”

“We worked together,” Zane said, as if Gabriel had asked a question. “We were friends.”

A thin woman with fried blond hair, out-of-proportion boobs bouncing in a tube top,
a skirt about the size and tightness of a tourniquet, and six-inch heels, swayed past
us, an older man in her wake. They disappeared into the shrubbery twenty feet past
us and Gabriel snorted at my expression. “Capitalism at its finest. The law of supply
and demand at work.” He gestured with the cigarette. Its glow showed the aquiline
cast of his nose and deep-set eyes. He looked a weary forty, but was probably only
my age. “I could tell you what I told the police about your friend, Terry.”

“Tessa.”

Gabriel stayed silent, looking up at Zane with his brows slightly raised. It took
Zane a moment to get what the bartender wanted. With an impatient sigh, he pulled
a money clip from his pocket, shielding it from the view of the park’s nocturnal denizens.
Withdrawing another hundred, he offered it to Gabriel. “Tell us what you saw in the
club.”

The bill disappeared into Gabriel’s pocket. “Thanks.” He didn’t look one whit embarrassed
or self-conscious. Drawing on the cigarette so hard his cheeks went concave, he blew
out a long stream of smoke. “I didn’t see her in the club,” he said. “It was out here,
while I was taking my break.”

“Go on,” Zane said grimly.

I shifted from foot to foot, the silver sandals pinching my toes. I couldn’t imagine
why Tessa would come to this fetid little park. If she wanted a breath of fresh air,
she’d have been better off lingering just outside the club. “What was she doing out
here?” I asked.

Gabriel tapped ash from the end of his cigarette. “What everyone else is doing here:
looking to score.”

“Bullshit,” Zane burst out, bunching his hands into fists.

Gabriel shrugged. “All one to me, man, whether you believe me or not.” He made as
if to get up.

Putting a calming hand on Zane’s arm, I said, “No, please, tell us exactly what you
saw. What time was it?”

“It was coming up on one o’clock,” Gabriel said. “I remember because I’d had to take
my break way late. Sharita, the other bartender, cut her finger on a broken glass
and had to go to the ER for stitches. It was hopping in there for a Tuesday night
and I couldn’t get away for my cancer stick”—he waved the smoldering stub—“until quarter
to one. I had barely lit up when I saw her coming across the street.”

“Alone?”

Gabriel nodded. “She was wearing a top kinda like yours, and she seemed a bit uncertain.
One of the local entrepreneurs”—he put the word in air quotes—“approached her. She
seemed cool with it. They talked for a couple minutes and then she went off with him.”

“Tessa did not do drugs,” Zane said. “She used to say her brain was her greatest asset
in an industry that worshipped physical beauty, and there was no way she was risking
losing one brain cell to a temporary high. End quote. I’ve never seen her do so much
as a line of coke at a party.”

I gave Zane a troubled look.

Gabriel held up his hands. “Hey, I didn’t say the chick was scoring drugs. There’re
other things for sale in this park, you know?”

As if on cue, the blond hooker emerged from the shrubbery and sashayed toward the
street. Her customer followed a moment later, still tugging at his zipper. He ducked
his head as he hurried past us. Zane frowned. “I don’t know what you’re smoking there,
but Tessa did not come out here for
that
, either.”

Gabriel stood and ground out his cigarette with his shoe. “I can only tell you what
I saw. Hey, I gotta get back to work.”

“Did you know the guy, the one Tessa talked to?” I asked, detaining him with a hand
on his arm.

He flinched away from me. “Not to say
know
. I mean, folks mind their own business out here, right?” His eyes cut toward a shadowy
area farther down the street from where we’d entered the park. A large black man,
at least six foot seven and coming up on three hundred pounds, loomed over a man wearing
a hoodie. They were too far away for me to hear their conversation, but the shorter
man scuttled away after a few seconds, tucking something into the kangaroo pocket
of his jacket.

“Him?” I breathed.

“I gotta go,” Gabriel reiterated, striding down the path.

“Let’s see what he has to say,” I said, starting off toward the supersized drug dealer.

Zane grabbed my hand to halt me. “Are you insane? I can’t be seen talking to a drug
dealer. My fan base is tweenage girls—that kind of publicity would sink my already
foundering career.”

I thought he was overreacting. I made a show of looking around. “I don’t see any paparazzi
hiding under the park benches.”

“It’s not funny, Stacy. Everyone’s got a camera on their cell phone these days, and
a YouTube account. Besides, he’s gone.” Zane lifted his chin toward where the big
man had been; the sidewalk was empty.

Telling myself that Gabriel had told the police the same thing he told us, and the
police would take care of asking the “entrepreneur” about his interactions with Tessa,
I let Zane lead me away, conscious of the feel of his hard palm against mine. “Did
you see Tessa in the club after one o’clock that night?”

Running a hand through his tousled hair, Zane said, “I don’t remember! We’d all had
a few drinks, we were all up dancing with each other and with total strangers, like
you do. I don’t remember seeing her specifically, but I don’t remember
not
seeing her. I mean, it didn’t hit me that she wasn’t there anymore, if you know what
I mean. I didn’t look around and wonder, ‘Where’s Tessa?’”

I knew what he meant. We waited for a car to pass, and crossed the street to where
Club Nitro glowed like a beacon of safety after the unsettled furtiveness of the park,
although I suspected there were just as many drugs being sold in the club’s restrooms
or other out-of-the-way corners as there were in the park. “So, when you all got ready
to leave, did you miss Tessa then?”

“We didn’t leave at the same time,” Zane said. “Some people left way early, before
midnight, and others closed the place down and then went out for breakfast, from what
I hear. I knew you were going to kick my butt on the dance floor that morning, so
I went back to the hotel to catch some z’s.” He gave me a half smile, the first lightening
of his expression since we entered the park. “Look, I don’t want to go back in the
club, okay?”

“Sure,” I agreed, my mood also quenched by our conversation with Gabriel. We crossed
the valet lot to the attendant’s hut and a kid reading a graphic novel jumped up to
retrieve the rental Audi. As I buckled myself in, I had a thought. “Who did Tessa
come with that night, or did she drive herself?”

Zane gave me an interested look, then put the car in gear and zoomed out of the lot.
“Good question. I’m pretty sure she drove herself. I think I heard Ariel say something
about catching a ride with her.”

“Then where’s her car?”

We pondered that question in silence for a couple of beats before Zane said, “Maybe
the cops know.”

“If they do, they won’t tell us,” I said, yawning. “Detective Lissy never learned
about sharing in kindergarten.”

“Is the bridge we came across the only way back to Virginia from here?”

I laughed sleepily. “Oh, no. If you went that way”—I pointed over my shoulder down
Pennsylvania—“you’d cross a bridge that leads to 295.”

I held on to the edge of my leather seat as Zane flipped an abrupt U-ey. I raised
my brows, but didn’t say anything. We sped down Pennsylvania Avenue, past Club Nitro
and the park, and onto the bridge spanning the dark waters of the Anacostia River.

“Where to now?”

“South on 295. That’ll take us to the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, which will spit us out
by Route 1, which is just a hop, skip, and a jump from Old Town. Or, there’s another
bridge by Nationals Park that would put us in the same place, I think.”

“I’m thinking that this doesn’t look like a very nice neighborhood,” Zane said. “If
Tessa got turned around leaving the club, or her car broke down—”

I shivered and Zane turned down the air-conditioning, even though it wasn’t the A/C
making me cold. “A woman alone in this area would be pretty vulnerable,” I admitted.
The southeast side of D.C. was one of the city’s less desirable areas. Slums, drugs,
and gangs abounded. We saw nothing unusual or unsettling as we traveled south to the
Woodrow Wilson Bridge, crossed it, and headed up Route 1. Within twenty minutes, Zane
was pulling up outside my town house. I opened the door and slid out before he could
come around. Still, he insisted on walking me to my front door, which I appreciated.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight, Stacy,” Zane said, as we stood on my stoop and
I fumbled the key out of my tiny purse. “Next time, we’ll have an evening that doesn’t
include interrogating witnesses.”

I felt myself flush with pleasure at his implicit promise there would be a “next time”
and was about to say I’d look forward to it when he bent his head and kissed me. There
was none of the first-date awkwardness I remembered from my dating life pre-Rafe.
His lips found mine unerringly and he kissed with an assurance and competence that
left me breathless. He was breathing hard when he lifted his head long moments later,
and his eyes glittered. “Perhaps we should continue this inside?” he suggested.

I pulled away slightly, knowing his closeness was affecting my judgment. His hands
slid down my back, molding me to him, and my whole body buzzed with lust. “Too fast,”
I murmured, unable to keep my eyes off his full lips.

They grazed mine again, teasingly. “You’re sure?”

“No, but you’ve got to go anyway.”

Laughing, he released me. With a foot of air between us, I could feel sanity returning
and I unlocked the door.

“See you tomorrow at practice,” Zane said, as I slipped inside. “Eight o’clock, Nigel
said.” The hall light I’d left on struck gold from his tawny hair and highlighted
the planes of his face.

“Don’t think I’ll take it easy on you just because you were up late,” I warned, and
closed the door on his laugh. I leaned back against it to prevent myself from opening
it and hauling him inside.