“On the subtle side,” I said. “Wouldn’t think that would work.”
Consuela Elena Baca sighed. “You’re big boys so I’ll explain it in big-boy terms. It’s like with fucking, guys. You know how some women scream and thrash and make all those good noises, and others lie back with their eyes closed and this satisfied smile on their faces but they’re both sexy? Suzy was the second type. She’d get up and do this little side-to-side shuffle, even look a little bored. She’d start off staring at the floor then slowly she’d raise her eyes and make contact with losers in the front row. Suddenly everyone’s looking at her. Same thing with the pole. She’d take her sweet time getting with it and when she did, no acrobatics. More like she’s hugging it romantically. Stroking it.”
Licking her lips, she demonstrated. “Slo-ow. Not much in the way of calorie expenditure but there was something about her the clients dug. Maybe it was the holding back. Like in their monkey brains, pleasing her was some fantasy goal. That can be real sexy.”
Recrossing her legs, she offered a view of the other thigh. Shifted a bit more. No underwear. “Whatever it was, it worked. She did okay on tips and the booze flowed.”
Milo said, “She auditioned in a red dress.”
“All she ever wore was red,” said Baca. “It went great with her coloring, no argument from me. The bar bill’s rocking, you’re rocking.”
“Any idea where she got her clothes?”
She laughed. “These questions. We’re not talking designer stuff, guys. Probably Frederick’s, Trashy, Next to Naked, Stage Hollywood, one of those. Or a vintage place that specializes in body-conscious. This town, there’s no shortage of fuck-me rags.”
Milo scrawled rapidly. “We’re pretty ignorant about that stuff. Any other names you could give us?”
She rattled off several more shops. “You’re writing it down? You’re actually planning to visit each one of them?”
“All in the name of public service.”
“Well, enjoy your work.” She patted her nose. Cricked her neck and gave a low moan. “God, my joints—I need to rest, guys.”
I said. “Sure—just a couple more questions? Did Suzy have any regulars?”
“She didn’t stay long enough to build up a stable. We’re talking two nights a week for what, six, seven weeks?”
“Any idea what she did the other nights?”
“Maybe crammed for exams?” She laughed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make light of it, but she came and went. So what other clubs did you talk to?”
Milo said, “The Aura.”
“That shit-pit? Hasn’t been operative for years.”
“It’s a party venue now.”
“Really,” she said. “Did Suzy work there before us or after?”
“After.”
“That’s kind of nuts,” said Consuela Baca. “If she needed money, why wouldn’t she come back to us rather than waste time at a crap-dump like that? The location’s a loser and the owner, some Mideast type—hey, he’s someone you might want to look at.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s shifty. Tried to buy The Shop a few years ago. His offer was ridiculous and it wasn’t even real money, just some complicated real estate swap. Suzy did The Aura, huh? She must’ve slid way down. Was she an addict?”
Milo said, “No evidence of that, so far.”
“But maybe?” said Baca. “That could explain it. Guys like the Mideaster will sell anything.”
I said, “Who owns The Shop?”
“You don’t know?” said Consuela Baca. “I do. Family tradition, my grandpa and my great-uncle ran clubs in Caracas then came to L.A. and opened The Shop in the fifties. When they passed, my dad took over. When he passed, my mom wanted nothing to do with it. She thinks she’s a lady who lunches. Daddy knew that and left it to me and I took over and made it more profitable than ever. He knew I could handle it because he saw how I handled Vegas.”
“Congrats,” said Milo.
“I accept your admiration. I deserve it.”
* * *
—
We left her coughing and slapping her chest.
As I drove back to the station, Milo stared up at the roof liner and blew out puffs of air. “The Valkyrie. Lots of words but bottom line, no info. I keep reminding myself about the tortoise and the hare.”
I said, “Also, tortoises live longer.”
“Probably ’cause they’re too bored to die. Susan Smith. About as generic as it comes.”
“You up for some positive psychology?”
“Don’t know if I can handle it—what?”
“The Valkyrie wasn’t totally useless, she firmed up the victim profile. Quiet girl, sticks to herself, plays herself down but transforms on stage. Wearing red. The Fendi might mean she came to the wedding to party. She was in work mode.”
“What was the job?”
“A variant of what she did on stage. Using her looks to get money from an older man. Not a romantic thing with Denny, blackmail.”
“Denny doesn’t have enough dough to motivate blackmail.”
“That’s why he had to turn her down. But what if she didn’t know that because he’d been leading her on? One of those gawker-turns-into-a-sugar-daddy things. Then his money dried up but her aspirations didn’t. If she’d been leaning on him for a while, that would explain his being prepared with a hypo and a garrote.”
“Dirty Denny,” he said. “I can see him rubbing his crotch in the front row.”
“Want me to turn around so you can show Baca his photo?”
He thought about that. “Nah, too risky. She didn’t impress me as Ms. Discreet. For all we know, we just sat there and got played and sneezed on.”
I said, “Pass the zinc.”
* * *
—
Back at his office, he tried Corinne Rapfogel’s cell.
She said, “Twice in one day, Lieutenant? A girl could start to feel important.”
“You are important,” he said. “It was your big day that got ruined.”
“No, it was Baby’s day. My heart’s really hurting for her. Are you calling because you just learned something?”
“Is your husband within earshot?”
“No, he’s out. He’s involved? Oh, God, I knew it! Bastard!”
“No, no, Corinne, but I did take you seriously and intend to dig around. I’m calling because I’m wondering if you’d consent to give me access to your phone records. Any cell or landline accounts at your business and your home. Unless there’s an account that’s solely Denny’s. I’d need his permission for that.”
“Records? What exactly are you after?”
“I’d like to find out who Denny communicates with.”
“Well, I’m way ahead of you on that,” said Corinne Rapfogel. “After you were here, I decided to take a look at exactly that. There’s nothing weird on either the business landline or my line but guess what wasn’t in the file?”
“His personal line.”
“How’s that for a clue, Lieutenant? We keep all our bills for a hundred and twenty days in an expense file. For tax deductions, we take off all our phones. Denny’s bills are always in there. But now they’re not. That’s pretty suspicious, no? What’s he trying to hide?”
“Good question,” said Milo. “Problem is I can’t access his line without his consent.”
“Why don’t you get a warrant?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Not like on TV, huh?”
“I wish, Corinne. You checked out the bills because—”
“Did I actually suspect him of…you know? No, that was too horrible to think about. But you start wondering and stuff floats into your head. I’ve been totally traumatized. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, my mind’s wandering all over the place but it always comes back to a bimbo crashing the wedding. Then I start thinking about all the other stress he’s put me through with his pathetic little weenie. Then I flash back to something that happened when we were in Hawaii. Five years ago. What was supposed to be a romantic vacation, trying to supposedly heal our marriage. Everything was going fine. Until the second day when I caught him talking to some slut in a thong bikini out by the pool. It’s not like I was snooping. I was trying to be hopeful.”