“Can it,” Archer said. “I told you I’m asking the questions.”
“You need tips and I want you to get them.”
“Why did you know those women?”
“I interviewed them for a piece on making it in New Orleans. As jazz singers. I’m working on it now.”
Archer might as well have told Fisher he didn’t believe a word he said. The message was clear in his eyes. “How many other singers have you interviewed?”
Letting out a long breath, Fisher finally said, “None. Just the two.”
“You got more singers on your list?”
“I’ve got some prospects.”
“You sure Shirley Cooper wasn’t one of them?”
Fisher sat up straighter. “Is she a singer?”
“I don’t know yet. Do you?”
“No,” Fisher said. “I told you I didn’t.”
“She lived with a boyfriend. He’d already reported her disappearance when we found the body. How about the fourth one, Pipes Dupuis?”
Fisher put his forehead in his hands and leaned over his knees. “Yeah, Karen Dupuis, she’s the next one after Amber Lee. She was the next one I intended to talk to. It’s a tough world, y’know, trying to make it as a musician or singer here. Talent pours into the Quarter. Only a few ever make it big.”
“Save the informational announcement.” Archer appeared to consider his next move. He checked his watch, then reached out a hand to hover over his phone. “Looks like you’ll be working a different story real soon. I should put you in an interview room.”
Fisher buried a rush of anger. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss. How did you find out about Liza Soaper and Amber Lee? How did you link all the women together?”
Archer looked as if he’d refuse to answer, but he shrugged and said, “Liza’s landlady said her lodger went out to work one night and never came back. That was about ten days ago.”
“You’ve known she was missing that long without making it public?”
“Yeah.” And Archer’s hard eyes warned Fisher not to have any opinions about that. “The case didn’t come to me then. They were hoping to get some leads before any suspect got frightened out of the area. Amber’s been gone a few days. Pipes dropped out of sight last night.”
“Who reported them?” Fisher asked.
“Sidney, that’s Amber’s singing partner, reported Amber missing. She didn’t arrive at Scully’s for work one night and hasn’t been seen since. Pipes took a break between sets at Caged Birds last night and we can’t find anyone who saw her afterward. Or her daughter…” Archer paused, staring at Fisher. “Erin. The kid’s five or six and she wasn’t mentioned in case it put her in more danger. If she’s still alive, the killer might decide she’s too much of a liability and get rid of her.
“While her mother sang, she slept in a dressing room. They didn’t go home—or they didn’t get home. The band Pipes sings with is sure she and the kid were snatched. No husband or lover on the scene.”
Fisher winced. “Too bad about the kid.”
Archer gave him an exasperated look. “I don’t like it that you may be part of the problem. Not at all.”
“If you thought I was a problem, you wouldn’t be answering my questions.”
“If you already know the answers, what difference does it make?” Archer pushed around the mess of papers on his desk. “We’ll get through a few preliminaries right here. If you’re willing to do that? Informal?”
“You’d better record everything, hadn’t you?” Fisher said, unflinching.
“I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. Just having that chat you wanted. Who did you meet first?”
“Liza Soaper. Maybe I need a lawyer.”
“There’s the phone,” Archer said, nodding at his desk. “How long ago did you hook up with her?”
“Around six weeks, give or take.”
Archer wasn’t taking notes—or recording anything. “How did you find her?”
“I asked around. Who was an up-and-comer? Did anyone know someone who was making it, but had a rough story to tell about getting there? Most of them do, but you’ve got to think through how you approach them.”
Archer kept his mouth shut and waited.
“Then they sleep most of the day and they work nights. A lot of the singers do, anyway. Makes it difficult to interview them. Takes time to get a story together. Mostly we talked between her sets. I like Liza.”
“That’s nice,” Archer said. He did pick up a pen to jot down a few words on a yellow pad. He drew box after box around what he’d written.
Fisher smiled, and enjoyed the irritation Archer showed. “Yeah, it is nice,” Fisher said. “There’s only one body, and neither of us knows if the owner was a singer. These people come and go. They get an offer or a hint of an offer that appeals to them, and they’re gone. That’s probably what’s happened to Liza—and Amber.” Fisher didn’t think so, but he wasn’t going to tell Archer that, not unless he had to.
Archer could be more right than he knew about Fisher needing a new story.
“And Pipes—and her kid?” Archer said.
Shit.
“Okay.” Archer scooted his chair away, crossed his heels on the desk and tipped back. “Shirley Cooper is the only one I’m working on for real until I find out if she was a singer or knew any of the other three.”
“You could have four for one,” Fisher said. He wouldn’t let himself think about the possible fifth victim, the child.
Archer laced his fingers on his flat belly. “You’re tryin’ to goad me into something. Damned if I know why.”
“I’m not. Just stating the obvious. Amber Lee sings with a woman who calls herself Sidney. She showed up for work one night, but Amber didn’t. I was there that night. Sidney told me she’d be in touch, but I haven’t heard from her and neither of them has been at work since. Are you working on any theories about what could have happened?”
“This Sidney’s probably scared out of her mind,” Archer said, ignoring Fisher’s invitation to share the information he had originally come looking for.
“Or dead. That could make five for—”
“Don’t go there,” Archer snapped.
“If the vic can be connected, to even one of the others, people will fill in the dots and unless human nature has changed, the phones will ring. There’ll be dozens who heard them sing and can’t wait to spew anything they know—or think they do.”
“They’ll call anyway, you know that.”
Fisher moved his shoulders around. Prickling showered the middle of his back. He looked at his damp, empty cup. His fingers felt cold.
“Someone walking on your grave?” Archer said. “You shivered.”
And Fisher shivered again. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said and grinned.
He didn’t feel like smiling. His gut was hot and jumpy. It had happened before, many times, starting when he’d been a kid. In the past year the episodes had come more frequently and with increasing discomfort. He might as well face it and hope whatever it was this time would move on quickly. He got these feelings before something happened, something unpleasant.
“Tell me something about Liza Soaper?” Archer said.
It wasn’t a pretty story—although it got better recently—and he didn’t feel like sharing much of it. “She’s a loner. No friends she mentioned or that I saw. Country girl with guts and drive. Her family never wants to hear from her again. They’re convinced she’s a prostitute or a stripper, and New Orleans is sin city.”
“Sounds like they know our little burg.”
“Yeah.” Fisher snorted. “She lived on just about nothing for the first months, until someone noticed she’s got a big, rich voice.”
“That matches what we know,” Archer said. “There isn’t even a record of her having a car.”
“I don’t think she did—or Amber.”
Archer rocked a little, then jotted a note. “Probably doesn’t matter, but we’ll find out how these women got to work.”
Fisher wanted to rub his back and walk around, but he stayed put, and still. The heat inside him cranked up. This time was different from the others, exciting rather than unpleasant. Muscles in his back bunched so tight he rotated his shoulders.