“I don’t think so. She was pretty new to the scene, and I was on my way out. I’d only met her once or twice.”
Moreno met the apology on Carmen’s face with a quick shake of her head. “That’s okay. How about the guy? He got a name?”
“Something weird, like one of those MMA fighters. Fury? Or maybe Rage? Something like that. Huge guy. Longish dark hair. He gave me the fucking creeps. But he didn’t recognize me when I delivered the pizza, and I got the hell out of there, fast.”
Moreno nodded in encouragement. “Do you remember what club you were at when he asked you to the party?” she asked, but Carmen shook her head, reaching out to check the napkin dispenser by the register even though it was already full.
“No. I’m sorry. I ran the circuit that night, so it could’ve been half the clubs on the north side. A couple of them have even closed since then. It’s been a while.” She paused, her chin snapping up as if someone had just snuck up on her to yell boo, and concern washed over Isabella’s face.
“Carmen? What is it?”
“No. Nothing.”
But this time, rather than going all pit-bull on her, Isabella softened her demeanor and her voice to just above a whisper. “I think this guy is hurting people, Carmen, and I really need to find him. Help me out here. Please.”
“Danny Marcus. He and I used to…” Carmen dropped her gaze to the floor tiles. “He’s a john. Small-time dealer, he used to trade product for services. I just remembered that Danny was there that night, talking to the wrestler guy. I heard he’s running with a high-end group now, moving up in the game. Real fancy.”
Kellan thought of the background in the photos he’d found, and his heartbeat picked up the pace. It was a stretch—a yoga instructor’s wet dream, actually. But at least it was something.
Apparently, Moreno thought so, too. “You know where I can find him?”
Carmen nodded. “Danny might be moving up in the game, but he ain’t gonna forget his roots when they mean he can make a fast buck or get an easy lay. He still slums it sometimes, doing business over by the park on Atlantic Boulevard Friday and Saturday nights. Skinny guy, really curly dark hair. Talks about himself in the third person all the time, you know ‘Danny Marcus says he’s ready to play,’ and stupid shit like that.”
She paused to laugh, although the sound didn’t hold a whole lot of joy. “He has a thing for Hispanic girls. He’ll probably love you. ’Til he finds out you’re a cop, anyway.”
“Thank you, Carmen. You’ve been really helpful.” Isabella took the other four twenties from the back pocket of her jeans, carefully putting them into the tip jar before taking a step back from the counter.
“Aren’t you gonna eat your pizza? I thought you said you were hungry.” Carmen pointed to the paper plates still splitting the divide between them, but Moreno just smiled.
“The pizza’s for you. Take care of yourself, mija. I’ve got an appetite for something far bigger than food.”
8
Isabella coaxed her cell phone to life with a quick tap of her thumb, the time stamp display cutting through the shadows around the pier and filling her chest with a whole lot of oh-hell-yes. She had just about an hour to scope out the park on Atlantic Boulevard and figure out a strategy for her next move. If—no, when she spun this Danny Marcus thing just right and got him to give up the wrestler guy, she’d likely have enough of a lead on whoever was hurting the women in those pictures for Peterson to open an investigation. With the mention of high-end “parties” and the way Wrestler Guy had been obviously recruiting prostitutes, there was no chance the connection between all the pieces was merely a coincidence. All she needed was some sort of hard evidence from Danny to link the whole thing together.
Evidence she was a lot less likely to get with Walker going along for the ride. And judging by the way he was walking no more than a foot beside her on the boardwalk and looking way too sexy for his own good—not to mention way, way too expectant about the next move—convincing him to let her fly solo was going to be a ten-foot-tall order.
“I’ve got some time to kill before I head down to Atlantic Boulevard.” Isabella kept her voice as neutral as possible, as if she were remarking on the weather or hockey scores or anything else that didn’t have a massive bearing on breaking the case in front of her wide open. “Nothing starts moving in that neighborhood until at least midnight, so that gives me plenty of time to drop you back at your car.”
Walker’s mouth curled into a smile, and really, was it too much to ask that he have crooked teeth or bad breath or something that would keep her freaking lady bits in check?
“You’re not taking me back to my car,” he said, and she stopped short on the pavement leading back to the dilapidated side street where they’d left the Mustang, crossing her arms over her chest so tightly that the seams of her jacket dug into her shoulders.