She laughed at his expression. “Victoria’s Secret, Wonderbra. Uncomfortable as hell.” She crossed back to the mirror to admire her cleavage. “Bet these babies’ll get me some major tips.”
Not exactly what he wanted to hear. “I need a beer.”
“Grab me a diet Coke. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She appeared as he was taking a swallow of his beer-and nearly choked on it. Her short blond hair had been transformed to a long auburn mane. Between the makeup and wig, he wouldn’t recognize her in passing.
Which, of course, was the point.
“I’ve always wanted to be a redhead, now I’ve got the chance.” She grinned and caught the can of soda he tossed her. “This is going to be fun.”
She was liking this drug task force gig way too much.
Spencer forced himself to focus. He didn’t want her to know he was feeling uncomfortable about this. It just wasn’t cool. “What’s the story?”
“We busted a small-time meth dealer. Turns out, he’s the Hustle’s regular bartender. He rolled right over, offered us the name of a big fish.”
“And this fish is a regular patron.”
“Comes in every night. Apparently he’s got a regular girl there. I’m supposed to get to know her.”
“Who’s the guy?”
She popped the soda can’s top. “Name’s Marcus Gabrielle. Squeaky clean on paper. He’s a commercial real estate broker. Married with two kids. Lives uptown.”
“Wife know about the little hottie?”
“Doubt it.” She took a swallow of the soft drink. “According to our informant he manufactures and distributes. We get him, we get his people on both sides of the process.”
“Who else is in there with you?”
“Baxter. And Waldon. Baxter’s tending bar with the guy we busted. Waldon’s playing customer.”
Rene Baxter was a solid cop, a small, wiry guy with one of those nondescript faces perfect for undercover work. Waldon was a big doofus who fancied himself an ace detective. And a ladies’ man. Go figure.
“You’ll be wired?”
“Of course, with the cavalry in a van around the corner.”
Before he could ask anything else, she changed the subject. “I heard about City Park. About finding Uncle Sammy’s shield in that grave. I’m sorry.”
News about one of their own traveled fast. Spencer rolled the cold can between his palms. “Finding his badge in that grave…it blew me away.”
“How’s Patti?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “She said all the right things, but I’m worried she’s…” He let the thought trail off.
“She’s what?”
“When I left tonight, she was still there. Reviewing the Handyman files.”
“And?”
“And Tony and I are on it. It was after hours. Until we hear back from the coroner’s office, we’re not even certain the Jane Doe is a Handyman victim.”
He looked away, then back. “She won’t even consider any other possibilities. In her mind, Sammy was killed by the Handyman. Period.”
“If it dead ends, she will. This gives her a ball to run with.”
“I know that, it’s just…she hasn’t been the same since Sammy was killed. I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it. She’s changed.”
“It’s going to take time,” Stacy said softly. “For all of us.”
He knew she referred not only to Sammy’s murder, but the destruction and uncertainty Katrina had wrought.
Katrina had changed them all.
“You’re right. Come here.” He took the can from her hand and set it on the counter, then drew her against him. “I’ll miss you tonight.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” She kissed him, then eased away. “My shift starts at nine. I’ve got to go.”
He pulled her back into his arms and held her close, a moment too long, a bit too tightly. When he released her, he saw the question in her eyes. “People with a lot to lose fight hard to hold on to it. Don’t forget that, Stacy.”
8
Friday, April 20, 2007
9:00 p.m.
When Stacy entered the Bourbon Street Hustle, Baxter was already in place. Their gazes met briefly as she approached the bar, then he returned his attention to mixing drinks. She shifted her gaze to the bartender working with him.
Ted Parrish, their informant. Tall, with long black hair and a goatee. He looked jumpy. It could be the position he was in-or he was cranked on his own product.
“I’m Brandi,” she said, slipping into her persona. “The new girl.”
“See Tonya,” he said tightly, drawing a draft. “She’s backstage. She’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Tonya Messinger, “talent” manager. “How do I get back there?”
“Right side of the stage. Dressing rooms and everything are there.”
“Thanks!” she called, and headed in that direction, swinging her ass as she wound her way through tables and around groups of men clustered together. A guy with an awe-inspiring beer belly and a ruddy face made a grab for her. She shimmied away, teasingly wagging a finger at him. She figured her first choice of response-breaking his arm-might blow her cover.
Stacy had familiarized herself with the club’s layout through photos. She now studied the interior, looking for details she might need later. The three-tier stage was the main attraction. The first tier was the largest and round, the other two basically “wings” jutting off the sides. Tables circled the stage; the ones closest to the stage were VIP tables.
The owners had done their best to conceal the club’s rough edges and give the place an upscale feeclass="underline" sophisticated, subdued lighting; white tablecloths on the tables; a flickering candle on each; velvet drapes around the stage.
The long bar occupied the far wall directly across from the stage, affording those who preferred a little distance a full view of the show.
As she understood it, there were a number of semiprivate and private areas for personal “performances.” Call her suspicious but she’d wager tonight’s tips that more than lap dancing went on in those rooms, most of it left of the law.
As she reached the backstage entrance, the house lights dimmed, a strobe light started and pulsating music filled the club. A young woman strode out wearing sequins, feathers and scraps of fabric that would fit in the palms of her hands.
Yvette Borger. The girlfriend.
Twenty-two years old. Petite, with long, inky-black hair. Great body. Breasts too big for her petite frame.
Party pillows, Stacy thought in the slang tossed around the department. Made her own Victoria’s Secret enhancement seem pretty lame.
Stacy watched her a moment, then ducked through the stage door.
She caught sight of Tonya right away, recognizing her from her photograph. She stood in the wings, watching Yvette’s performance.
Stacy crossed to her. “Tonya?”
“Yes?” the woman responded.
“I’m Brandi. The new girl.”
Tonya Messinger looked like she had been around the block a few times-and like someone you didn’t want to cross. Stacy judged her age to be fifty, though her estimate could be off. Tobacco, alcohol and hard living all took their toll.
“You’re late.”
“Am I? I thought-”
The woman cut her off. “If your shift starts at nine, I want you here at eight-forty-five. You’ll be punched in and at your station by start time. No excuses.”
She eyed her, and Stacy had the feeling that in those few moments Tonya had calculated her age, weight and bust size.
“Sure you don’t want to dance? We could use another girl and the tips are a lot better.”
The Wonderbra wasn’t quite that wonderful.
“Dancing’s not my thing. I’m not very good at it.”
Tonya laughed, the sound deep and raspy from a life time of smoking. “Honey, dancing’s not what you need to succeed out there. Trust me, you’ve got the talent. Add some attitude and you’d be good to go.”