Rook said, “They’re sending a production assistant down to take us upstairs to the studio. What was the call?”
“Forensics. They were able to pull a couple of decent fingerprints off the cartridge of that typewriter ribbon I found in the subway.”
“Score another one for us. Although, with all the people who must have handled it, how will they know whose is whose?”
“I have a feeling these were the Texan’s,” she said. “Seeing how they were the only ones with blood on them.”
“Hey. You’re the detective . . .”
Heat could tell by Soleil Gray’s reaction when she and Rook entered the back of the studio that Allie had not called to tip her off they were coming. The performer was running the same routine with the male dancers they had seen her working at the rehearsal hall, only this time she was singing live to the track. The song was a hard-driving rocker called “Navy Brat,” Nikki guessed, judging by the repeat of the phrase in the chorus. It would also explain why the boys were in white sailor suits. Soleil’s wardrobe was a one-piece sequined white bathing suit with admiral’s epaulettes. Hardly regulation, but it had the advantage of showing off her stunning gym-rat figure.
She spun two cartwheels across the stage into the waiting arms of three sailors, but made a sloppy landing. Soleil waved her arms to stop the track, and when it chopped to a halt, she blamed the sailors. Nikki knew it had happened because she was distracted by her.
The stage manager called a crew break. As the camera operators and stagehands left for the exits, Heat and Rook approached Soleil on stage. “I don’t have time for this. I’m on live TV at midnight, and in case you didn’t notice, this sucks ass.”
“I don’t know,” said Rook. “You’ve got me counting the days to Fleet Week.”
The singer pulled a robe on. “Do we have to do this right now? Here?”
“No, not at all,” said Nikki. “If you’d like, we can do this in about a half hour at my precinct.”
“In a more official setting,” said Rook with a wink to Nikki.
“Might cut into your rehearsal a bit, Soleil. And you’re right. You can use it.” Heat had decided on the drive over that this was going to be about intimidation and shaking the tree.
“You don’t have to be a bitch.”
“Then make it so I don’t have to be. This is a homicide investigation and I had to come back to you because you lied to me. Starting with saying you were with Allie when in fact you left her early in the night.”
Soleil’s eyes darted around. She took a step as if to go, but stayed. “OK, here’s the deal. It’s a reflex thing. Whenever I have something to handle like a detail thing, I always refer it to the record company.”
“That’s weak,” said Nikki.
“That’s the truth. Besides, I told you, I was also with Zane. Did you talk to Zane?”
“Yes, and he said you were with him at the Brooklyn Diner for all of about ten minutes.”
Soleil shook her head. “That bastard. So much for having my back.”
“Let’s forget about where you were, or weren’t, that night.”
“Fine by me,” said the singer.
“Why did you lie to me about not having contact recently with Cassidy Towne?”
“Probably ’cause it was no big deal, didn’t register.”
“Soleil, you knocked her out of her chair in the middle of a restaurant. You called her a pig and threatened to stab her in the back.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, as if her answer could be found among the suspended rigs holding the stage lighting. “Well,” she finally said, “think about how she died. Why do you think I didn’t want to tell you what I said to her?”
Heat had to admit there was logic to that, but she responded, “I am trying to find a killer. Every time you lie to me, you’re making yourself look more guilty and making me waste valuable time.”
“Fine, whatever.”
Heat brought out some pictures. “Have you ever seen this man?”