Читать книгу Two Sisters - Kay David - Страница 9

ELIZABETH COULD feel the color start at her throat and work its way upward, until her face flushed a deep hot red.

“I don’t care for that word,” she answered tightly. “She’s a dancer, an exotic dancer. And I don’t see what business it is of yours, one way or the other. I called the police again this morning, and the proper people are working on the case.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You didn’t insult me, but I have a problem with dancers being called strippers. One inaccurate word generally leads to another, and in this case it’s usually hooker.”

“Is she a hooker?”

Elizabeth drew in a sharp disbelieving breath. Without another word, she whirled and headed for the door to the showers, her sneakers slapping angrily on the floor. Before she could reach it, he was standing in front of her. He put a hand on her arm, stopping her.

She looked down at his fingers, then back up at him. “Take your hand off me and please leave. Now.”

“I’m only trying to help you,” he said quietly.

He was wearing the same look of compassion he’d had when he’d met her at the mailboxes, and something inside of her melted. But she reminded herself of her thoughts only a few hours before, and refused to give in. “That’s supposed to help me? Calling my sister a hooker?”

“I didn’t call her that,” he said evenly. “I asked you if she was one. It could play in why she’d disappeared.”

Elizabeth stared at him, her jaw clenched, her hands in two fists at her side. “My sister dances for a living. It isn’t a great business to be in and I wish she’d find another career, but I don’t appreciate your question.”

His deep brown eyes held hers. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I didn’t mean to insult you…or her.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. When he spoke, his voice was even softer than before. The low timbre of it caused a shiver to travel up her arms and down her back. “Look, I may not always be tactful, but if you want to find your sister, I can help. I’m an honest cop and you can trust me.”

“I’ve heard those words before.”

“Not from me, you haven’t.”

She didn’t want to acknowledge it, but something—a quick dash of intuition?—flickered inside her. She told herself she just wanted to believe him, so that’s what was happening, but in his gaze was something awfully close to sincerity.

Would it be so terrible to let him help her?

He read her hesitation. “Why don’t you get dressed? I’ll wait for you, then we’ll hit the deli on the corner and talk. You haven’t eaten dinner, have you?”

“No, but—”

“Get your clothes on,” he said gently but insistently. “I want to talk to you some more and I have to go back to work in an hour. I was on my way home to grab something for dinner and swung by here, instead. I can’t face Central on an empty stomach.” When she didn’t answer, he spoke again, his eyes warming as they narrowed and crinkled at the corners. “C’mon—it’s just a sandwich, not a lifetime commitment.”

She looked into his eyes. “All right,” she said finally. “But it’ll take me a few minutes to get dressed.”

“I can wait. I’m a patient man.”

She turned and went into the locker room. Showering and dressing quickly, she found herself in front of the mirror, taking a little more care than usual with her makeup. When she realized what she was doing, she tossed the tube of mascara into her purse and snapped it shut. Two minutes later she was walking out the door with John at her side. Alarms were going off in her head, but she ignored them.

As they made their way to the tiny deli, dusk was starting to fall and the summer heat hadn’t relented a bit. Traffic was steady, too, and the diesel and gasoline fumes only added to the humidity. Elizabeth was happy to enter the frigid air-conditioning of the restaurant. The place was empty of customers, six forlorn booths lining the wall, three tables on the other side. They took the last booth, and the teenager who came for their order looked as if she’d rather be anywhere but standing by the red-checked tablecloth. She disappeared into the back and returned promptly with the coffee they’d wanted, promising their sandwiches would be ready shortly. As soon as she left, John began to speak, picking up exactly where they’d left off.

“I don’t care what your sister does for a living, and I wasn’t trying to imply anything. The only reason I said what I did about her occupation was that it’s not exactly like being a school teacher. The people who run those clubs are a pretty tough bunch.”

“I know.” Elizabeth sighed. “I’ve been trying to get her to quit.”

“But the money’s good.”

“The money’s great for someone who never finished college and has no other skills. She doesn’t really have another choice right now.”

“Even though you’ve offered to help.”

It wasn’t a question. He said the words as if he knew them to be true. “I have,” she answered, anyway. “I’ve offered to do everything…anything. But April can be stubborn. Even when she was a little kid and we were really close, she wanted to be herself, completely apart from me. She went nuts if Mom tried to dress us alike.”

“That’s understandable.”

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth frowned. “A lot of twins dress the same.”

“And it always invites comparisons, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Who in their right mind would want to be compared to you?” he said softly.

Over the table, his gaze locked with hers before she quickly looked away, the offhand compliment completely disarming her. She picked up her coffee and took a sip, then said, “When we were younger, we looked exactly alike, but now she’s blond and thinner and—”

“She colors her hair?”

“Yes, perms it, too, and it’s also longer than mine. She wears green contacts, as well.”

“To make the differences even greater?”

Elizabeth answered reluctantly. “I never thought of it that way, but yes, maybe so.”

He nodded and took a swallow of coffee.

“How did you find out?” she asked. “I mean, that April danced?”

“You mentioned her address when we spoke.”

She waited for more. When it didn’t come, she asked, “And? Did you talk to her neighbors or something?”

He smiled then, the corners of his full lips going up and pulling her gaze. Distracting her, even.

“I can’t be giving all my detective secrets away, now can I?” He arched one eyebrow, obviously prepared to say nothing more.

“Have you been to the club where she works?”

“Not yet. I was going to do that tomorrow. Is she still at the Esquire?”

Elizabeth nodded. What John didn’t know, he found out quickly enough, it seemed. “She’s been there about three years. Ever since we moved here.” She paused to gather her thoughts, then spoke quickly before she changed her mind, telling him about the conversation with Greg Lansing.

“What kind of trouble do you think he was talking about?”

“I have no idea.” She caught his look. “And before you ask, April is not into drugs. She won’t even take an aspirin when she has a headache.”

“Did she owe people money?”

Elizabeth laughed, a sound without humor. “Only me. She’s very generous with all her friends. If they need anything, they know they can come to her…and if she doesn’t have it, she usually comes to me.”

“Does she have any enemies?”

Elizabeth spoke reluctantly. “There is this woman…one of the other dancers. Her name is Tracy Kensington. She hates April even though April’s tried to be friends with her. Tracy was the top dancer at the club before April got there. Her tips went way down once the men saw April.”

He nodded without changing his expression, his next question throwing her off completely. “Where’d you say you lived before?”

The voice was still friendly and open, but for the first time, Elizabeth heard an edge beneath all the questions, an edge that reminded her of what he was. A Houston cop.

“Dallas,” she answered cautiously. What could he do with that tidbit of information?

“Did she dance there?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Elizabeth’s mouth turned dry, a lump the size of a baseball lodging in the deepest part of her throat. “At a place called the Yellow Rose.”

“How long was she there?”

“Years. We were going to college in Dallas and that’s when…when she started.”

His gaze narrowed, and she grew warm, the neckline of her blouse suddenly choking her. She tugged at the collar. God, she thought, all he had to do was ask her and she’d tell him. Everything. She closed her eyes for a second, the room spinning behind her lids. Taking a deep breath, she forced her eyes open and tried her best to look normal. The waitress saved the day by appearing with their sandwiches.

He noticed, anyway. “You okay?” he asked as soon as the teenager left.

“I…I’m fine,” she lied. “It’s just that I can’t quite believe April’s still gone. I can’t think about anything but her, yet I have piles of work waiting and a rush job to boot.”

“What exactly do you do up there in that big fancy office?”

Grateful he’d switched the subject, she used her cocktail-party version to explain what she did. He asked all the right questions, though, even seemed interested. She soon found herself telling him about the Masterson case in detail.

John shook his head. “Amazing. Here’s a guy who’s got all the advantages in the world—money, power—and he still feels compelled to go out and rob people. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

She pulled a paper napkin from the container on the table and dabbed her mouth. “Not really. There’s always someone waiting to take advantage of people who can’t take care of themselves.”

They talked for another few minutes, then John called for the bill, which, despite her protests, he insisted on paying. Within minutes of stepping back into the humid Houston air, Elizabeth’s blouse was clinging to her back and a damp curl of hair had wound itself around her neck. While they’d been eating, enormous black thunderclouds had moved in and looked ready to burst any moment. The wind picked up and sent an empty pop can rattling along the gutter.

They hurried to Elizabeth’s office building. When they reached the main door, the rain still hadn’t started. John put a hand on Elizabeth’s arm to stop her from going in. She looked at him expectantly. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to see him as he spoke.

“Listen, Elizabeth, I won’t do anything else unless you want me to.” She could read the sincerity in his eyes, hear it in his voice. “Where we take this now is entirely up to you.”

Thunder rumbled above their heads, and Elizabeth felt an echoing sensation in her body. She didn’t know what she should do. “I…I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’m sure you have enough work of your own, and—”

He interrupted her. “I don’t have time for anything but the truth, so just say what you want to, Elizabeth. You don’t trust me. You can’t figure out why I’d want to help you when we’re basically strangers. Am I right?”

His words forced her to face facts. “Yes,” she said, “I don’t trust you. But it’s not personal. It’s just the way I am. The way I…turned out.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he answered, surprising her once again. “Women need to be careful these days. Hell, we all need to be careful. Like you said before, there’re a lot of sharks out there.” He paused, then, “But I’m a cop. I like to put the pieces of the puzzle together and make sense of it when it doesn’t look as if there’s any sense left. And I like to help people.” He held his hands out again, a gesture he tended to use frequently, she noted. “That’s it, pure and simple. I don’t have any ulterior motive.”

She looked into his warm brown eyes and didn’t believe a word he said. He did have a motive; everyone had one for everything they did, whether they knew it or not. The only question was if his was good or bad.

“I know you’re worried and I know you want your sister back. I understand that better than you think I do, believe me.” He reached out and touched her arm again briefly, as if to confirm his words. The gesture was warm and somehow reassuring. It scared her, but she believed him. “If you do this on your own, though, you may never find out what happened to her—until her body turns up.”

Elizabeth’s heart clutched. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“I don’t know, but unless I start to look, we may never know.”

Still she hesitated, torn with indecision. Should she trust him and allow herself to be indebted to him? Then she wondered why she was even debating the issue—she’d known the outcome when she’d started answering his questions, hadn’t she? This might finally be one of those things she couldn’t handle on her own. Her brain was screaming, though. Don’t trust him. He can hurt you. You like him too much already.

“If I don’t get involved,” he went on, “Missing Persons will do nothing.” His voice held regret. “I’m sorry, but the reality is they’re not going to get excited about this, Elizabeth. Not for someone in April’s position.”

She studied his face and read the truth, as painful as it was, in his eyes. He was right, she thought, her chest tightening as she remembered the woman she’d reported April’s disappearance to. Tuesday morning, Elizabeth had called her back and requested an official investigation, but she knew that route would bring nothing. The woman had taken the information, then quickly transferred her to the stolen car division. When she’d explained her sister had probably taken her car, they were even less interested than the previous department. And what about her own efforts? In the four days since April had been gone, Elizabeth had called the club, talked to April’s neighbors, her landlord and everyone else she could possibly think of, and they’d been no help at all. She’d even put up posters around the apartment building, but not a single call had come in. Did she have any other choice but depending on this man?

She nodded and said slowly, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt if you just ask a few questions.”

As soon as the words were out, Elizabeth wanted to take them back. What kind of terrible mistake was she making?

He met her eyes. “I’ll do the best I can, Elizabeth. And you won’t regret letting me help, I promise.”

FRIDAY EVENING John pulled up to the curb and parked his car, staring over the steering wheel at the house where he used to live. The red brick glowed dully in the late-evening light, and he could see the azaleas had just been trimmed. The home was in a nice neighborhood, more expensive than he’d liked, but Marsha had insisted, saying her salary would make up the difference they needed. Now she lived there by herself—her and Lisa. And Marsha’s father gave her all the money she wanted—since John was no longer there to protest.

He’d fully intended to be here yesterday, but Marsha had called him that morning and put Lisa on the line. Her mother hadn’t changed a thing, and she’d been jumping with enthusiasm for her scheduled haircut. He hadn’t had the heart to insist she see him, instead. Dinner in the cafeteria and the bunk bed in his apartment didn’t hold the same appeal as a fancy beauty salon did to a little girl. Gritting his teeth, he’d simply given in to Marsha, deciding on his own to stop by this evening. It’d given him the time to catch Elizabeth at her office, but he hadn’t liked the situation. He wasn’t going to let two weeks pass without seeing his daughter.

His eyes went to the upstairs corner bedroom—Lisa’s room. A small lamp shone in front of the window. It was her Goofy lamp. She loved the damn thing. He’d got it for her last year when they’d taken a trip to Disneyland. For one whole week, he’d had her all to himself, and more than once the thought of never coming back had crossed his mind. He was a cop—he knew how to disappear—and the temptation had been awfully strong to take his daughter, find a quiet little town in California, change his name and start a new life. In the end he’d resisted, of course. Not because he didn’t want to hurt Marsha, not even because it was against the law, but because Lisa deserved better. She had the right to a father and a mother, regardless of how selfish and egocentric the mother happened to be.

He got out of the car and started up the sidewalk, his thoughts turning to the woman he’d had dinner with the night before. He’d put Elizabeth Benoit into the same mold as Marsha, and he hadn’t even known her. Just because the two women were beautiful, he’d assumed Elizabeth was as self-centered as his ex. A stupid premise, he realized now. Still, he’d known other beautiful women who definitely thought the sun revolved around themselves, and to guess Elizabeth was the same hadn’t really been that far out of line.

He’d been wrong, though. Very wrong.

Knocking on the door and waiting for it to open, he thought back to the conversation at the deli. Elizabeth Benoit loved her sister, loved her and wanted her back, no matter what. Despite her innate mistrust, she’d realized she’d needed his help. He wondered once more about the pain he sometimes saw in those eyes. Who had hurt her so badly? Why hadn’t she ever married?

The doorknob turned and John smiled. Lisa always answered it when he was expected. But Lisa wasn’t standing there when the door opened. Marsha was.

She looked surprised to see him, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the woman he’d once loved. She really was beautiful. “John! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Lisa. Since yesterday was out, I wanted to visit with her a bit.”

“John…” She shook her head and said his name with resignation. Unbelievably, just beneath the surface, he heard a hint of sympathy, then decided he was imagining it. “I told you the other day that Lisa had a birthday party to go to this evening. That was why I had to have her hair cut. Weren’t you listening?”

He inhaled deeply and let the air out on a sigh. “Obviously I wasn’t.”

“If you’d pay attention when we have a conversation, these things wouldn’t happen.”

He couldn’t argue with the truth, could he? Especially as he’d been thinking of Elizabeth at the time. “Then I have to wait until next week?”

Her expression softened minutely. “We’re going to Galveston in the morning,” she said. “If you want to come down to the beach house, you could see her there.”

Marsha’s father owned a huge beachfront villa, and every weekend in the summer, the whole family met there. “I don’t have the time. It takes two hours to get there when the traffic’s bad. And I’m on call this weekend.”

Her bitter tone returned with the mention of his job. She’d never liked his being a cop; it didn’t hold enough status, not to mention earn enough money. “Then I guess you’ll just have to wait. And don’t blame it on me, either. You have the option.”

Her changed attitude brought back all the wrong memories, and he responded in a voice less than kind. “All right. But you have her here and ready next Thursday. I don’t like going so long without seeing her.”

She gave him a curt nod, and he walked away, not even bothering to say goodbye. The door slammed behind him before he was even off the porch.

Back in the truck he sat for a moment and fumed. Why go home? He’d just sit there and get madder. He wheeled the vehicle around and headed for the Richmond strip. Within ten minutes he pulled into the parking lot of the Esquire Club.

He found a spot but didn’t get out right away, choosing instead to sit for a moment and check out the setup. He wanted to calm down, too. He couldn’t work when he was this angry. He’d miss things, important details. He took three deep breaths, then looked out the window at the nightclub.

Stuccoed and well lit, it had the appearance of a home on River Oaks Boulevard. Looking exactly like a miniature Tara, the front stretched at least seventy-five feet with white columns going from one end to the other. A series of regularly spaced windows, wide and arched, lined the wall. Behind them, he could see men and women moving about, as if at a party. The setup looked pretty good, but then these joints usually did—in the dark.

Stepping out of his vehicle, John wove his way through the parking lot, his initial impression of wealth reinforced by the cars he passed. The vehicles were mainly European: BMWs and Mercedes, even a few Rolls-Royces. No good ol’ boy pickups here—except for his. Reaching the veranda where scattered groups of men stood, John saw several faces he recognized from the news. Many of the men were smoking cigars, expensive clouds of blue hanging over their heads. Their laughter was full and assured. With a glance he could tell who they were, even the ones he didn’t recognize. They were the high-rollers of Houston. Powerful men. Rich men.

John pushed his way through the crowd and into the club where the smells of expensive perfume and call-name liquor hit him hard. People flowed around him in what looked like the entry hall of an elegant home. From somewhere in the rear came the faint strains of music, but certainly not the overwhelming blast that usually assaulted you when you entered a bar. A discreet sign near the door announced a fifty-dollar cover and a two-drink minimum. Before he could decide which role to take—cop or patron—a young woman approached him. Red sheath, high heels, blond hair.

“Welcome to the Esquire Club,” she said. “How may I direct you this evening?”

It was a novel approach, he’d give them that.

“What do you feel like tonight?” she prompted when he didn’t answer right away. “We have the club divided into different areas depending on your mood. Wild music? Something soothing? A little country or rock and roll?” She smiled seductively, then put her fingertips on his arm. “Name your pleasure, sir. We have them all.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Lansing.” He spoke politely and made no move to pull out his badge. He didn’t have to. For some reason, he felt this one would know the drill.

She blinked, then her expression hardened minutely. “Of course,” she answered, her voice still cordial but now lacking the coquettish tone. “Let me see if he’s in.” She reached for the phone sitting on a nearby desk, but John reached out faster.

Smiling, he stilled her movement. “What do you say we just go to the back? Surprise him?”

“Mr. Lansing doesn’t like surprises.”

“That’s too bad,” John said. “Just take me to his office.”

She hesitated a second, because there was nothing else she could do. With a curt nod she started toward the rear of the club. John followed, but his steps were slower. He took his time, looking into the separate areas as they passed by.

Different music flowed from each one, matched by the decor. The first resembled a gentleman’s study. Padded leather chairs were grouped around square wooden tables, and the air was filled with the same expensive smoke he’d noticed earlier. No doubt imported—and illegal—cigars. He didn’t recognize the music, but it was slow and seductive. A woman in a flowing sheer dress was moving dreamily to it on a small stage near the front of the room. Beneath the gauzy fabric, she wore a G-string and nothing more. Some of the men were watching her, but most were talking among themselves, drinks on the tables before them. There were just as many women in the room as men.

The next room thrummed with rock music, and it had the look he’d come to associate with this kind of club. Low lights, a long bar across one wall. The hazy miasma of smoke smelled cheaper here. The walls were painted black and mirrors lined the area behind the bar. Small round tables dotted the floor, just large enough for two drinks and the high heels of the women who would dance on them. It would look garish and shabby in the daylight hours, but at the moment it oozed a kind of erotic appeal, primarily due to the woman in the center of the stage.

She had the body, she had the moves, she had it all. To say she was sexy didn’t do the word justice—or her, for that matter. She wasn’t wearing much beyond a G-string and heels, and her long red hair flowed over one bare shoulder like silk. She moved in perfect time to the music, an old Santana song he recognized immediately, “Black Magic Woman.” As he stared, she caught his gaze and held it.

John was as red-blooded as the next guy, and he felt his body respond automatically. The woman grinned as if sensing his reaction, then she broke the moment, moving sinuously around the pole to the center of the stage. Putting her back to the glowing column made of neon, she bent over to the floor. The red hair followed in a graceful sweep. John stared a few seconds more, then let his interest dissipate. Up there, she was beautiful and sexy, but something told him that, like the room, she might not fare too well in brighter light.

He turned to leave, the waiting blonde watching him with a jaded expression. As he came toward her, she turned and continued to the back of the club. John followed and they passed three other rooms. Rap music, country, then finally, in the last room, a voluptuous belly dancer accompanied by a sitar.

The blonde stopped in front of a paneled door and knocked. Apparently hearing an answer over the music that John didn’t, she turned the brass handle, then stepped aside to allow John to enter. She pulled the door closed behind him, and the music was silenced. He found himself in front of a massive oak desk, a man built to match sitting in a leather chair behind it. In one meaty hand, he held a cigarette. His eyes were narrow and hard in the smoke that wafted upwards. His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

John spoke first. “Greg Lansing?”

The man eyed him. “Who wants to know?”

It sounded like a line from a bad movie. John pulled out his badge now, flipped it open, then closed it and stuck it back in his pocket. “Detective John Mallory. H.P.D. Homicide.”

The cold blue eyes flickered once. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

“No problem. Just a few questions about one of your dancers—April Benoit.”

“She dead?”

“What makes you ask that?”

The big man shrugged. “You said homicide. And she’s been missing.”

Without being offered, John took one of the chairs in front of the desk and sat, his jacket opening just enough for Lansing to glimpse his holster. He pulled the lapels closer. “She’s not dead that I know of, but I’m looking into her disappearance.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” The answer was surly and impatient. With a quick stabbing motion, Greg Lansing leaned over and extinguished the cigarette in a chipped crystal ashtray. “Look, I’ve got work to do and even if I didn’t, I’m in the dark about April—”

“Let’s just save each other some trouble here, Mr. Lansing.” John spoke smoothly, no hint of aggression in his voice. “Elizabeth Benoit already told me what you said, and I’m here to find out what kind of trouble April’s in. Just give me the details and I’ll leave.”

“I told the woman all I know.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“I don’t know.”

John shook his head. “Wrong answer.”

Like two alley cats, they glared at each other over the desk—a stalemate, but not really. Lansing didn’t appear to be a fool; he couldn’t be, not if he was running a club as apparently successful as this one. Bars in Houston with good clientele brought in thousands every night. Hell, maybe tens of thousands. Lansing wouldn’t jeopardize his setup by pissing off a cop.

“Tell me,” John prompted.

The door to the office opened unexpectedly. Both men stared. The red-haired dancer John had watched stood on the threshold. His impression had been right, he thought cynically. She was beautiful, but he could see her looks had just started to fade. In a few more years, the gleam in her eyes would be harder and the glow of her skin somewhat dimmer. She’d have to move down the strip to less expensive clubs where the women were older and the drinks cheaper.

For the moment, though, she still looked good. Very good, as a matter of fact. John let his eyes take her all in. Red hair framing a face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. Short terry-cloth robe allowing a full view of long shapely legs.

Lansing introduced her.

“Detective Mallory, Tracy Kensington. Tracy, this is Detective Mallory. H.P.D.”

Her expression turned stony, giving John another glimpse of her future. Two lines formed on either side of her mouth. “I knew you were a cop. You got the look.”

“Tracy…” Lansing’s voice rose in warning.

She held up both hands, the robe gaping slightly to reveal a patch of perfect skin.

“He’s here about April.”

“Have they found her?” She sounded expectant.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about her disappearance, do you?” John said by way of an answer. “I heard you and Miss Benoit weren’t exactly close.”

“Who told you that?” she asked. Not waiting for him to answer, she spit back, “That sister of hers is—”

“Leave,” Lansing interrupted. “You can close the door on your way out.”

“But I need to talk—”

“Later.”

She sent John one last look, then left, slamming the door.

John turned back to Lansing and raised a single eyebrow.

The manager shrugged his wide shoulders at the unspoken but obvious question. “Professional jealousy, I guess you’d say.”

“How intense?”

Lansing shook his head. “Not that intense. Tracy wouldn’t hurt her. She wouldn’t want to risk breaking a nail.”

“Are you sure?”

Lansing’s eyes grew even colder. “Women are vicious creatures, Detective. I wouldn’t guarantee anything when it comes to them.” He stood up behind the desk. “I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a club to run, so if there’s nothing else…”

John made no move to get up. “Then tell me about April’s trouble and I’ll be on my way.”

“April Benoit’s biggest trouble is April Benoit. She gives everyone here a hard time, from the bar girls to Tracy. She’s got an attitude, that’s the best I can say. A chip on her shoulder.”

“But it didn’t bother you?”

Greg Lansing’s eyes were guarded when they met John’s. “What do you mean?”

“You bailed her out of jail a few months ago. Drunk and disorderly.” John had run her name the day after he’d spoken with Elizabeth. It was how he’d obtained April’s address and place of employment—along with an arrest record Elizabeth obviously didn’t know about.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t anything. The girls were having a party. One of ’em roped some poor sucker into marrying her, so they were celebrating. They got loud and out of hand. No big deal. April didn’t want her sister to know, so I helped her.”

“Tell me more.”

“There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“She knocked Tracy off her pedestal. What does that say?”

“Did she know how to use it?”

Lansing spoke reluctantly. “She can shine on the clients, if that’s what you’re asking. Every man in the audience thinks she’s dancing just for him—more than one always trying to make the promise real.”

“Anyone in particular? Was she going out with any of the customers?”

“That’s not something we encourage, but the girls don’t always listen. She coulda been.” He came from behind the desk, his fingers beating an impatient rap against the wood. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to get out there. On the floor. We’ve got a convention of computer salesmen coming in at ten.”

John rose slowly. They were almost eye to eye. “You never defined that trouble for me, Mr. Lansing. The trouble you told Elizabeth about.”

Lansing stiffened. “Is this an official investigation?”

“It’s as official as it needs to be.”

“I don’t see a warrant.”

“That’s ’cause I don’t have one.” John smiled amicably. “But you know what? I don’t need one to make your life miserable, do I? I can call the liquor board, the restaurant inspectors, the SOB people.” He waved his hand to the hallway outside. “You know how crazy those sexually oriented businesspeople are. They’d love to see the inside of this place, I’m sure.”