Micki cut her off. “Did you get her name?”
She seemed not to notice Micki’s impatience and nodded. “Oh yeah, I got it. Brite Knight. I remember because it seemed sort of cheesy, you know. Fortune-teller, illuminating the darkness. Puh-leese.”
Zach, Micki noticed, was having a hard time not smiling.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Detective,” she corrected.
“Yes, ma’am, Detective.”
Zach made a choked sound to cover a laugh. Micki frowned. How the hell did he know her so well already? “Could you describe her?” she asked.
“Don’t have to.” Beth pulled out her cell phone. “I took a picture of Gwen when the reading started. Before Brite Knight—” Beth made quotation marks with her fingers “—went all psycho on us.”
Her two friends gathered around her, to get a look at the photo.
“The only thing is, you can’t see her eyes. They were super-weird. Bright, like a cat’s.”
“I thought they were colored contacts,” Nick offered.
“Had to be,” Angie agreed. “Right, y’all?”
Micki recalled thinking exactly the same thing about Zach and his FBI buddy, Parker. During that first meeting.
Micki glanced at Zach, wondering if he had made that connection.
“Could you email that photo to me?” Zach asked. “In fact, any you might have taken that day? It could important.”
“Like maybe her abductor’s pictured in one?”
“Exactly. You’re good at this.”
He smiled; Beth nearly swooned. “I’m majoring in criminal justice.”
“Then you should realize,” Micki said, “we don’t even know for certain she’s been abducted.”
Beth didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she batted her lashes at Zach. “What’s your email address? Or I could text them to your cell?”
No one missed the invitation in the question and Micki stepped in. “Detective Harris doesn’t have an email address yet. Here’s mine.” She handed each of the three of them one of her cards, saving the flirty Beth for last. She looked her squarely in the eyes. “Now,” she continued, “we need to question each of you independently.”
Angela looked startled. “Why?”
“So you don’t influence each other’s recollections of events. We’ve already talked to Nick, so—”
“Okay by me,” Beth announced. “I get Detective Harris!”
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday, July 9
7:15 P.M.
Micki had been in a hundred French Quarter bars exactly like Cayenne’s. Cover bands every night, cheap beer on tap, young people looking for love and tourists looking for fun. They all smelled the same—of cigarettes, stale beer and sweat. The ones on Bourbon, Cayenne’s included, kept the front doors thrown open so the music could pour out into the street.
Micki looked at Zach, standing beside her in the doorway. “Ready?”
“Depends. What’s your plan?”
“Question Lacoste. Arrest him if he confesses.” He should have smirked at that; he was still too green to know how ridiculous that comment was. Confess? Hardly even an option. Flee, fight, deny, dodge and lie their asses off—no, those were options.
“What do you want me to do,” Zach asked as they started for the bar.
“Try not to start a riot.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Do I really deserve that?”
“I get Detective Harris,” she mocked. “Pick me, pick me! Stampede ensues.”
“Not my fault I’m devastatingly handsome.”
She rolled her eyes. “Watch and learn, my young padawan.”
Micki sidled up to the bar. She motioned to the ruggedly good-looking bartender.
“Yo,” he said, smiling and setting a coaster in front of her. “What can I offer you, beautiful?”
Implied in his tone was a promise that nothing she might desire was off the table. Micki pegged him the sleazy, scumbag Miller had been gaga over.
“Anything I want?” she asked, lowering her voice to a sexy purr.
“You bet, baby.” He rested his elbows on the bar and leaned toward her. “Anything.”
She wanted to barf; instead, she held out her badge. “Information, lover-boy. That’s what I’m looking for.”
He straightened up so quickly, Micki figured he’d have a back ache later.
“I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“You so sure of that? I think you’re making a little extra money on the side, selling a different kind of happy juice. Pills maybe. Yeah, that’s it. Pills.”
“No way.”
The patrons on either side of her glanced their direction. The kid looked sick. Sometimes she freaking loved this job. “So, I shake you down now, I don’t find any contraband in your pockets?”
“That’s right. I’m clean. One hundred percent.”
“Detective Dare,” she said. “My partner, Detective Harris. We have a few questions.
His relief was all but palpable. “About?”
“Gwen Miller.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“I understand she was in Saturday night.”
“So?”
“It was her birthday. You kicked her out.”