“Even if I was good with faces, how would I have recognized Mr. Long? His face was… ruined.”
“True enough.” He sighed and shook his head. “The medical examiner’s preliminary report sheds some light on his last few hours. Someone hit him on the back of his head with a blunt object—likely a liquor bottle—and fractured his skull. That blow pretty much punched his ticket. He couldn’t put up much fight when his assailant slipped on the brass knuckles and went to work on his face. Needless to say, it wasn’t quick or painless.”
Her uneven breaths and shimmering eyes made him pause.
“Poor man,” she whispered.
Everything inside him believed she meant it. Her horror, her compassion, both struck him as genuine.
“I agree. Being beaten to death is a harsh end. It’s also a fairly unusual death, statistically speaking. There were two hundred reported homicides in Los Angeles County last year, but only a handful of the male victims were beaten to death. If I look for similar crimes locally, within the last three years, I get a real short list.” He rolled his shoulders and lifted his water bottle to his lips. “Sometimes the similar crimes angle is a dead end.”
“You have a difficult job, Detective.”
“Trevor,” he corrected and took a long drink. Lowering the bottle, he shifted topics. “So, you think if Mr. Long had sustained less blunt force trauma, you might have recognized him as a Deuces patron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try another face and see what you recognize.” With that, he opened the evidence envelope again, pulled out a photograph from his cold-case file and tossed it on the table between them. “Recognize this man?”
She picked up the photo and stared at the well-groomed, swarthy man, as if memorizing for a test. Finally, she dropped it and shook her head. “No.”
“His name is Alex Montenegro. Sound familiar?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Is that a no?”
“Yes, that’s a no.” Her irritation came through loud and clear.
“Vern indicates he was also one of your regulars, until about eight months ago. At that time, the LAPD discovered his body in an alley a block from Deuces. He’d been beaten to death, just like Mr. Long.” Trevor tossed out another picture of Mr. Montenegro, this one a lot less flattering.
Her eyes darted to his. “I thought you said the similar crimes angle was a dead end?”
“I said sometimes it’s a dead end.” Relaxing in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head and smiled. “Not this time, as it turns out. Speaking of similarities, Vern says Mr. Montenegro behaved improperly during one of your private dances and security escorted him out against his will. Do you remember the incident?”
“I don’t know…vaguely?”
“A disappointing answer from such an observant woman. Vern couldn’t remember exactly what went down, but he thinks the incident occurred during what ended up being Mr. Montenegro’s last visit to Deuces. Tell me, Stacy, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“A jealous ex? An overprotective man in your life who isn’t real happy with your career choice?”
“No. No,” she insisted when he continued to stare at her. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m getting at two men, beaten to death in a manner so similar it’s practically a signature, whose only other connection appears to be their enthusiasm for Deuces…and you. That’s either an incredible coincidence—and I don’t believe in coincidence—or you’re involved. For several reasons, not the least of which is all the heat you walked into by finding and reporting Mr. Long’s body, I doubt you’re knowingly involved.”
He waited a beat, to gauge her reaction to his statement, and caught the faintest flicker of relief cross her face. “Don’t take too much comfort from staying off the suspect list, because if I’m right, you’re in an even more precarious situation. You’ve caught a killer’s eye. So far he’s going after your poorly behaved clients, but I can’t help wondering what happens if he decides you’re the one behaving poorly.”
His words rounded her huge, blue eyes, but she didn’t crack. Instead, she dropped her gaze to her watch. “I’ve answered your questions as best I can. Am I free to go?”
“What’s your hurry? Somebody extremely dangerous is watching you closely, if my theory is correct. Maybe you’d like to consider the implications for a moment?”
She didn’t respond, but her expression conveyed such apprehension, uncertainty, and plain old misery, he couldn’t stop himself from trying again.
“Hey.” He softened his voice. “You’re in a risky situation. I need your help to get you out.”
She glanced his way, but said nothing.