Mr. Kiss and Tell

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

 

The Eagle’s Nest was even more dazzling in person than on video. Fragrant herbs and flowers overflowed from recessed planters. At the central bar, backlit rows of top-grade liquor lined a crescent-shaped wall. The ocean was visible beyond the other buildings downtown.

 

It was still early, and the bar was almost empty. Two men in suits, their ties loosened, sat talking quietly in chairs that looked out over the vista. A young woman with hair knotted in a tortured-looking bun read a paperback at the bar. Other than that, the only person was the bartender—the exact person Veronica was looking for.

 

Alyssa Winchell was in her late twenties, with dark hair cut in a bob around her cheekbones and a silver hoop in her left nostril. She stood behind the bar, yawning as she dried a glass. Veronica sat on one of the high wooden stools, a few seats down from the girl with her book.

 

“Hey, hon, what can I get for you?” The bartender put down the glass and braced her weight against the counter.

 

Veronica handed her a card. “I’m looking into the assault that happened here back in March. I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few questions.”

 

Alyssa’s eyes widened. She stared at the card for a moment, then looked up. “Shit. You’re that private eye who busted the girl who faked her kidnapping, right?”

 

My dear stepsister, Veronica thought drily. Aurora Scott—her mom’s new husband’s daughter—had used Hayley Dewalt’s disappearance to stage her own, hoping to reap the reward money.

 

“That’s me,” Veronica said. “Do you have a minute?”

 

“Sure.” The woman leaned in toward Veronica. “I don’t know how useful I’ll be—I already told those cops everything I know. Total dicks, if you ask me,” she said. “They treated me like I was some kind of criminal because I couldn’t tell her ID was fake. It’s not worth my job to serve eighteen-year-old kids. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have. But—I mean, the license looked fine. And you’ve seen her, right? She looks like she’s older. What nineteen-year-old carries a fucking Fendi handbag?”

 

Chatty, defensive, observant. My new favorite witness.

 

Veronica smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, well, they were probably just trying to cover their own asses. That whole investigation’s been a royal clusterfuck from the get-go.”

 

Alyssa smirked. “Typical douche-nozzle cops.”

 

“Hear, hear!” Veronica drummed her knuckles on the wooden bar top. “So, did the victim come in pretty often?”

 

“Oh, yeah, she was in here a lot. Three, four times a month.”

 

“Did you ever see her meeting anyone in the bar?” Veronica asked. “Did she talk to anyone?”

 

A sly smile crossed Alyssa’s face. She glanced up the bar at the reader, still immersed in her novel. Then she looked back at Veronica.

 

“Nope. Never saw her talking to anyone here, except the staff. I mean, plenty of guys tried to talk to her, but she made it pretty clear she wasn’t interested. She’d just come in, have a few drinks, pay her tab in cash, and leave. She was a good tipper.”

 

“That’s so strange,” Veronica said, injecting a note of earnest confusion into her voice. “Why would she come in here all the time if she wasn’t meeting anyone?”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a theory about that.” Alyssa leaned in a little. Veronica hid a smile. Chatty, defensive, observant, and a gossip. Jackpot. “I mean, I’m guessing you’ve seen the surveillance tape. You saw what she was wearing, right?”

 

Veronica nodded.

 

“The girl was flashing some serious labels. And that was totally normal for her. She’d come in here on a weeknight, dolled up like she was going to a movie premiere.” Alyssa looked at her significantly. “You’ve heard about her boyfriend?”

 

“I heard she had one,” Veronica said carefully.

 

“Yeah, well, my impression: older dude, married. Kind of guy that loves to throw his cash around,” she said. “Eventually he gets a little soft around the gut—maybe in the sack too—but as long as he can buy his girl some diamonds, he feels powerful.”

 

Veronica frowned. “Did Grace ever talk to you about him?”

 

Alyssa shook her head. “Nope. She was pretty discreet about personal stuff. Sweet girl, though. If she was in on a slow night we’d talk sometimes. She’s smarter than she looks.”

 

“What makes you say that?” asked Veronica.

 

“I’ve met more than my fair share of dumb, mercenary bitches working here.” Alyssa tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “But Grace uses words like pivotal and Brechtian when she talks about TV shows. She can’t dumb herself down even when she’s trying.”

 

The reader at the end of the bar waved her hand, trying to get the bartender’s attention. Alyssa held up one finger toward Veronica, a just-a-minute gesture, and went to see what she wanted. For a moment, Veronica just sat and watched as Alyssa pulled out half a dozen liqueurs, chatting easily with the customer while she mixed, shook, and poured the complex drink. Then she came back, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. What was I saying?”

 

“Do you remember any other particular nights she was in here? Did anything ever stand out to you?”

 

Alyssa thought for a moment. “I don’t remember specific dates, if that’s what you’re asking…” She bit the corner of her lip. “Actually, she was in here the night of the fight.”

 

“Fight?”

 

“Oh, man, it was epic.” Her eyes flashed. “Somehow both Jimmy Ray Baker—a stubble-faced slab of man meat—and Oneiroi were in town the same night, and guess where they both were staying?”

 

Veronica gratified her with an open-mouthed gape, only half feigned; it was kind of funny. Former rodeo champion, super patriot, and noted NRA-apologist Jimmy Lee Baker was one of the top-charting country singers in the US. His latest No. 1, “Welcome Home, Sergeant Jake,” was an over-the-top weeper in which a high school football coach reconnects with his legless former star tailback at a Veteran’s Day parade. Oneiroi, on the other hand, consisted of three emaciated junkies in corpse paint who shrieked black metal suites about insect-headed succubi.

 

Alyssa grinned at Veronica’s expression. “I know, right? I don’t know what started it, but Baker’s bass player lost his shit and took a swing at one of the Oneiroi fans. Everyone was wasted, so of course it instantly turned into a full-on brawl. Grace left just before it happened. I remember telling her afterward that she’d missed the best show of the night.”

 

“What night was that?”

 

Alyssa frowned. “It was back in December, I think….I can’t remember the specific date.”

 

“Thanks so much. You’ve been really helpful.” Veronica dropped a twenty in the tip jar—an investment in future goodwill—and eased herself off the stool.

 

She had one more stop to make. Her dad still had some old friends from his days as sheriff, including a retired deputy who just happened to be a security guard at the Grand. It looked as though she needed to cash in a favor.