Lover Undercover (3 page)

The patrol car pulled to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Kylie stepped out of the car, forced a smile of thanks to her lips, and waved to the officer behind the wheel. He waved back, but stayed put while she climbed the stairs to their second-floor unit. After opening the door, she waved again and exhaled a long, relieved breath when the black-and-white slowly pulled away.

She trudged inside, kicked the door shut, and hit the wall switch. Harsh yellow light from the living room’s ugly overhead fixture bounced off cracked, tobacco-stained plaster walls.

Home sweet home. Stacy and she had done what they could to make the place livable. Cheaply framed but colorful prints of dancers graced the dingy walls. A faded rug they’d found in a thrift store covered scuffed hardwood floors. More secondhand furniture and flea-market finds filled out the rooms.

She dropped onto their slipcovered sofa, which leaned more toward shabby than chic, and set Stacy’s heavy hot-pink bag on the floor. Every muscle wept with relief. An aggrieved little voice in the back of her mind warned that in less than an hour and a half she had to be showered, changed, and on her way to her 6:00 a.m. yoga class.

Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she closed her eyes, inhaled for a count of ten, and tried to enter a sitting savasana.

Where the hell was Stacy?

Her eyes snapped open as she released the breath in a single, undisciplined burst. Wherever her twin was tonight, she obviously wasn’t coming home, despite—or maybe even because of—Kylie’s demand. Typical. Stacy did exactly as she pleased, whenever she pleased, and left Kylie to deal with the fallout.

Growing up, Stacy had borne the brunt of the disapproving glares and cruel comments from Two Trout’s vicious gossips, ensuring for the most part they left Kylie alone. In return, she’d assumed the role of Stacy’s behind-the-scenes rescuer, good for everything from completing homework to a 2:00 a.m. pickup from a party three counties away.

The dynamic didn’t work so well as adults. She loved her sister, and knew Stacy loved her, but they enabled each other’s worst habits. So why had she let Stacy talk her into this ridiculous switch?

Her mind replayed their conversation from five days earlier.

Kylie, Deuces is a top-tier club. It’s very exclusive, and competition for featured dancer slots is intense. If you don’t dance my shifts, I’m out of a job.

Her suggestion that Stacy find another job, preferably one that didn’t involve sliding around a pole half-naked, had fallen on deaf ears.

Name another gig where I can rake in enough to cover our expenses and still have my days free for auditions. Without a high school diploma, my options are limited.

Kylie had held her tongue instead of pointing out that her twin
chose
to drop out of high school their senior year. The decision still boggled Kylie’s mind.

Then again, school hadn’t exactly been a picnic. Growing up as the result of a reckless night of passion between their town tramp of a mom and some pretty-faced drifter she could never quite pin down invited comment, to say the least. The fine citizens of Two Trout had zero compassion for such irresponsibility. They considered Debbie Roberts a bed-hopping bimbo and assumed her daughters were cut from the same cheap cloth.

Stacy had rebelled by meeting quite a few of their low expectations—though not as many as the busybodies liked to think. Between fact and rumor, she’d gained her “wild twin” reputation, and a bone-deep aversion to authority in any form. Kylie, the “quiet twin,” had done her best not to give anybody anything to talk about. She’d dressed conservatively, spent her spare hours working at the library, and never, ever dated or partied.

Sadly, none of her restraint made the slightest difference. The cynics of Two Trout assumed blood would tell and it was only a matter of time before she fell off her straight and narrow path.

Yeah, well, what did they know?
Just because tonight she’d made her debut as a pole-dancing stripper, found a dead body, lied to the cops—that didn’t prove anything.

Actually, it proved things had to change.

Kylie dragged her tired bones off the sofa and made her way to her closet-sized bedroom. She turned on the light and dropped her bag on the floor inside the door. Her phone tumbled out, and she saw she had a missed call.
Three guesses as to the mystery caller
, she thought as she picked up the phone, plopped down onto her bed, and listened to the voice mail message. Sure enough, Stacy’s voice came over the line.

“Sorry, can’t make it home tonight. My ride fell asleep, and I don’t have enough cash for a cab. I hope you made it back to Deuces in time to grab the boots, but I’m not holding my breath ’cause I couldn’t reach anyone at the club when I called. Oh well. You can get them tomorrow after your morning classes. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

Kylie hit delete. Tonight, while she’d been risking her dignity—and, oh yeah, her neck—to keep them from hurtling off their own fiscal cliff, Stacy had only managed to break away from her latest bar-hound long enough to worry about overpriced boots?

Enough was enough. Kylie had worked hard to build a following for her yoga classes, and recently accepted a teaching slot at one of the biggest, most respected studios in West Los Angeles. Professionally, things were starting to come together. If she continued to fill her classroom, she’d earn real money for a change, which in turn meant she could start planning the next step—her own studio. But she couldn’t very well plan her future if she constantly allowed Stacy and her habit of getting into trouble distract her. And working at a strip club for the next six to eight weeks qualified as one big, messed-up distraction.

Anger fueled her through her shower, her commute, and her morning classes. Not a terribly enlightened motivator, but surprisingly effective. She was driving back to her apartment for a much-anticipated nap—
without
a stop at Deuces for the stupid boots—when her cell phone rang. She grabbed the earpiece from the dash, inserted it, and said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” a deep, familiar voice replied. “This is Trevor McCade.”

His cool, sexy smile swam before her eyes as her heart stalled and then nose-dived straight to the pit of her stomach. “Detective,” she replied on a rushed breath. “What can I do for you?”

“We have some follow-up questions. Can you come down to the station?”

Her blood chilled. Down to the station? That sounded bad. “Today?”

“Yeah. I know your shift doesn’t start until ten tonight. I’m betting you can work us in sometime before then. If not, I’m sure if my partner and I come down to Deuces, management will let you take a break to speak with us.”

The traffic light up ahead turned from yellow to red, and Kylie hit the brake just in time to avoid slamming into the car in front of her.
Concentrate!

She took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. Nothing good would come out of making the police question her at Deuces. Better to meet with them this afternoon. How long could it take, given that she didn’t know anything?

With her fantasy of a long nap evaporating before her gritty eyes, she watched the signal change, hit the gas, and replied, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Chapter Three

Trevor tapped an evidence folder against his leg and watched from the monitoring room as Ian escorted Stacy into an interview suite. The days of the stark white sweatbox with a two-way mirror were gone, replaced by superior technology and psychology. With its integrated audio and video components and blue-toned corporate conference room decor, interview subjects enjoyed the illusion of privacy, and might forget they were participating in a police interview long enough to let their guard down and give up information.

All smiley, friendly good-cop, Ian pulled out a chair for their guest. Once she was seated, he perched on the conference table and attempted some small talk. With his rolled shirtsleeves, loose tie, and easy charm, he exuded relaxed calm. More like a desk jockey at happy hour than a homicide detective conducting an investigation.

Stacy’s replies, on the other hand, were stiff and cautious, and her body language matched. She kept her arms folded protectively across her chest. Although dressed in a casual white workout tank and stretchy cropped pants the exact color of her eyes, she somehow managed to look uncomfortable.

After wearing her guard down infinitesimally with his relentless pleasantness, Ian left to fetch her a bottle of water. Her stiffness gave way to fatigue almost as soon as he left. She straightened her long legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned back in her chair. A moment passed. She shielded her mouth with her hand and surrendered to a jaw-dropping yawn. The gesture coaxed a smile from him. Who covered their mouth when yawning in an empty room?

Finally, she leaned forward, rested her arms on the table, and pillowed her head on her biceps. Within minutes her slow, regular breaths told him she’d fallen asleep. Poor baby. She probably hadn’t gotten much last night. Stumbling over a homicide victim tended to have that effect on people.

Ian sauntered in and nodded to Trevor. “How’s our girl? Aw, look at that…a sleeping angel.” He palpated a hand over his chest and grinned.

“Yeah, she’s a heart-stopper.”

“That she is,” Ian agreed. “But while she looks like a slice of heaven, she lies like hell. Nothing Vernon Firth told me this morning jibes too well with her ‘never heard of him, don’t know him’ line on Carlton Long. She’s either a liar or an idiot.”

“She’s no idiot. What’d you find when you ran her?”

“Not much. Drives like a maniac and parks wherever she wants, but other than the parking violations and speeding tickets, her record is clean. I found a sealed juvie, but it’s nothing.”

“How do you know?”

“I spoke to the local deputy and he remembered her well enough. They picked her up for partying a few times—underage drinking, a little weed. She’s trouble with a lower-case t.”

“Local deputy, meaning not here in LA?”

Ian nodded. “She’s a transplant. Born and raised on the wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout, Tennessee.”

“Sounds rustic.”

“It’s a speck on the map. The municipal website puts the population at just under two thousand. Father unknown, but according to the deputy I spoke to, the mom is alive and well and living in Two Trout. No brothers, one sister, so not a lot to look at in terms of family.”

Trevor watched Stacy on the monitor and wondered what convinced her to trade the wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout for a Hollywood strip club. Another small-town hopeful trying to make it big in Tinseltown, discovering that the shot comes at a very steep price?

“Basically, nothing I uncovered in her past or her family tree sets my Spidey sense tingling,” Ian concluded. “I’ll leave the data on your desk if you want to take a look?”

Trevor shook his head. Ian was thorough and his instincts reliable, even if his detective’s badge wasn’t yet six months old. “No need. Nothing’s tingling for me either. What about her job, or personal life?”

“Vern confirmed she’s been at Deuces for almost two years, like she told you, and he says she’s one of his most popular dancers. Not the warmest, friendliest gal with the rest of the staff, but she always shows up on time and ready to work, and doesn’t bring a lot of personal drama with her like some of the girls. Consistent with that observation, he’s never caught so much as a hint of a jealous boyfriend, obsessive ex, overprotective buddy, or strange stalker-type hanging around.”

“No boyfriends?” Trevor raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Plenty of boys, but no friends. Vern implied she likes variety in her personal life and rarely goes back for second helpings of anything she’s already sampled. Claims he tries to stay out of his peoples’ business, but in his experience, she doesn’t stick with the same guy long enough for anybody to develop an attachment. Also, as far as he knows, she doesn’t hook up with the customers.”

“Has she ever hooked up with anybody on staff at Deuces?”

“Vern says no. Frankly, I got the impression she’s not real popular with her coworkers.”

Trevor turned back to the monitor. “Doesn’t look like she’s losing any sleep over it.”

Ian handed him two bottled waters. “I’d say it’s time for her wake-up call.”

Trevor took his folder and the waters, and with his back to the door, lifted his chin in a salute. “Join in if the mood strikes.” With that, he pushed out the door and, bracing himself for…he couldn’t say exactly what, walked toward the interview room.

She didn’t stir when he entered, not even when the door swung shut behind him. He sat across from her, placed the water bottles and evidence folder on the table, and cocked an eyebrow at the camera in the corner of the room. A muffled moan pulled his attention back to the sleeping woman.

“Stacy?”

She shifted in her sleep, evading some phantom pursuer, and cried, “Don’t…oh, my God!”

Concerned, he touched her arm, and kept his voice calm. “Shh. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

She jerked upright, completely disoriented. Her cheekbone bore a red imprint from her arm. Wide, jumpy eyes flew around the room and finally settled on him.

He fought an impulse to smooth his hand over her cheek and tell her everything was okay. Everything
wasn’t
okay. Instead, he cracked open a bottle of water and pushed it toward her. “Bad dream, huh?”

Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands in a way he found strangely endearing, she released a breath and nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary. I understand. You had an ugly shock this morning.” When she offered a small, pained smile, he cracked the cap on his own bottle of water and got down to business. “I know you’re anxious to find justice for Mr. Long and I appreciate you coming in this afternoon. I have a few additional questions for you, based on information gathered earlier today.” Picking up the remote control for the camera and recorder he added, “Do you mind if we record this?”

She licked her lips and shook her head. “Obviously, I want to do what I can, but I warn you, I don’t have anything new to add to what I told you last night.”

Trevor forced his mind away from speculation about whether her lips tasted as lush and sweet as they looked. “Why don’t I tell you what we’ve learned first, and then we’ll see if you can shed any light?” He took her silence as agreement. “Ian spoke to Vernon Firth this morning.”

No discernible reaction to that piece of news.

“Interestingly, Mr. Firth recognized the victim. He characterized Carlton Long as an extremely loyal customer. In fact, according to him, Mr. Long frequented Deuces for a very specific reason. Can you guess why?”

Guileless blue eyes met his. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a clue.”

“Really? That’s strange, because Mr. Firth indicated that you were the reason Mr. Long came to Deuces on a regular basis.”

“Me?”

Her surprise struck him as completely genuine. She either didn’t see his answer coming or she was a very good actress.

“Yes. That’s what he said.”

“I think maybe Vern’s mistaken, or drew some kind of wrong impression.”

“We’re not ones to take people’s impressions at face value either, so we looked into it. Mr. Long’s credit card receipts confirm Mr. Firth’s belief.” He opened the evidence folder and pulled one out. “Over a three-month period, Mr. Long purchased several private dances. Mr. Firth walked us through the service codes Deuces uses and we noted that the vast majority of those purchases involved dancer 1469.” Tapping the line item on the receipt copy, he flicked his eyes to hers. “That’s you.”

She squinted at the receipt. “Yes.”

“So, Carlton Long has been one of your regular clients for at least three months, and yet, last night you told me you didn’t recognize his name. I find that curious.”

Stacy took a long drink, while her eyes strayed down and to the right—a classic indication of someone formulating a story. “I’m not good with names. If I’d seen his face, without the…trauma, I might have recognized him. The name by itself?” She executed a jerky shrug. “It just didn’t click.”

“I hear what you’re saying. Business is business.” He tucked the receipt back in the folder, and then scratched his chin. “The thing is, Stacy, I’m not quite buying it, because I noticed something about you last night.”

She took another sip of water, sloshing a little due to her shaking hand.

“When you work,” he continued, “you’re very aware of your audience. You take in details and retain them.”

There went those eyes again—down and right.

“That’s, um, kind of an illusion, Detective. Customers want to feel special, like they’re getting personal attention. I hate to burst your bubble, but for the dancers, the clients’ names and faces all blend together.”

Trevor rubbed his jaw and made a show of considering her explanation. “Maybe for some dancers they do, but I sense not for you. You’re an active observer, strategic even.”

She used the nail of her ring finger to worry the cuticle of her thumb and shook her head. “No, not really. Like I said—”

“Last night, during your stage dance, you sized up everyone in the front row before choosing your dance partner. You correctly assessed your mark as a little drunk and available for some audience participation, but not so drunk as to risk getting out of hand. To make those kinds of decisions, you have to be observant and smart.”

Full, unadorned lips parted, as if to offer an automatic denial, and then closed. She took a breath and relaxed her shoulders. “The man happened to be sitting in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. I’m a dancer, not a trained observer.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Of course, you’ve made some bad calls too, like your choice last week.”

“My choice last week?”

Again, he noted her genuine confusion. “Yes. Last Saturday you selected Mr. Long as your dance partner, but instead of playing nice, he got overexcited and pulled you offstage. Mr. Firth said you sprained your ankle as a result of the spill and took this past Thursday off in order to give yourself an extra day to heal. I hope you’re feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” He gave himself a moment to simply look at her, into her, beyond the line of bull she persisted in feeding him, but she kept her expression locked tight. “Forgive me, Stacy, but I need to run through these facts one more time. Last night, when I told you the victim was Carlton Long, no bells of recognition rang in your head. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s hard to keep track of every Tom, Dick, and Carl.”

“Despite him being a long-standing customer? Despite him spending over five thousand dollars for private dances before the night of your accident?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Handling the charge cards and payments is someone else’s job. The dancers don’t deal with it, so names don’t necessarily come up.”

“You’d given him at least one private dance a week for the last three months. Are you telling me his name never came up during all that time? Wouldn’t you want to address such a devoted client by name?”

“Maybe he called himself Carl once or twice, Detective. I meet a lot of men. You stop retaining names after a while. I don’t really remember.”

“A regular client who pulls you offstage and injures you so badly you need a full week to recover doesn’t stand out?”

“Of course I remember the incident, but…” She shrugged.

He leaned forward until he could look her in the eye. Hers were wide and unhappy. “Sorry, but I’m still having a tough time with this. You pick up details and you have a good memory. Last night when I showed up at the crime scene, you recognized me and remembered my name. I’m not even a regular customer, let alone one who’s spent thousands on your private dances. How do you explain your remarkable recall with me?

Eyes down and right, like clockwork. “You’re a cop. Cops don’t blend in,” she replied, a little desperately. But he had to hand it to her. She had a marginally plausible answer for everything.

“So, you’re not good with names, or faces?”

“Even if I was good with faces, how would I have recognized Mr. Long? His face was… ruined.”

“True enough.” He sighed and shook his head. “The medical examiner’s preliminary report sheds some light on his last few hours. Someone hit him on the back of his head with a blunt object—likely a liquor bottle—and fractured his skull. That blow pretty much punched his ticket. He couldn’t put up much fight when his assailant slipped on the brass knuckles and went to work on his face. Needless to say, it wasn’t quick or painless.”

Her uneven breaths and shimmering eyes made him pause.

“Poor man,” she whispered.

Everything inside him believed she meant it. Her horror, her compassion, both struck him as genuine.

“I agree. Being beaten to death is a harsh end. It’s also a fairly unusual death, statistically speaking. There were two hundred reported homicides in Los Angeles County last year, but only a handful of the male victims were beaten to death. If I look for similar crimes locally, within the last three years, I get a real short list.” He rolled his shoulders and lifted his water bottle to his lips. “Sometimes the similar crimes angle is a dead end.”

“You have a difficult job, Detective.”

“Trevor,” he corrected and took a long drink. Lowering the bottle, he shifted topics. “So, you think if Mr. Long had sustained less blunt force trauma, you might have recognized him as a Deuces patron?”