A tall, slender, dark-haired man in a well-tailored gray suit met them in the back corridor. His deep voice echoed off the walls. “I’m Lieutenant Montoya. Please come with me.”
“First, I need my phone to call my attorney,” she answered, standing firm in her place.
Montoya nodded sympathetically. “Please forgive me, Miss Santillan. You’re not under suspicion, and you won’t need your attorney tonight.”
The man was as smooth as glass, but like Robles and Mesa, he made her uneasy. “That’s my decision, Lieutenant, and I want my phone.”
Robles pulled it out of his pocket, and as her fingers brushed his sweaty palm, she wished for a pack of hand sanitizer wipes. She’d buy some tomorrow, if they let her out tonight.
Montoya dismissed the detectives and led her up the narrow rear stairs. He moved with a refined elegance and escorted her into a room with a cork wall covered in gory photographs. She shuddered and quickly looked away. “I didn’t kill Jaime, and you can’t frighten me into confessing.”
He closed the door. “I’m so sorry, I should have warned you. I’ve seen so much blood over the years I’ve become inured to violence. Sit here so your back faces the photo wall.” He pulled out a chair for her at the long table and waited until she was comfortably seated. “The murder scene showed such a vicious attack, we believe Jaime’s assailant was male. In addition to Mr. Campos’s fashion photography, we’ve discovered he also submitted work to several S&M magazines.” He picked them up from the end of the table and took the chair across from hers.
The graphic glossy covers nauseated her. “I’d rather not look at those.”
He shrugged sadly and opened a folder. “I’d rather not know such publications exist, but I’ve a crime to solve. We found Mr. Campos’s original photos in his studio computer and printed these. I know they’re distasteful, but would you please look at them and tell me if you recognize any of the men? The editors of the magazine can’t name them.”
It was the last thing she wanted to do. “First, I need to speak with my attorney.” He nodded permission, and she called Elena but got her voice mail. She left a brief message, but doubted Elena would object to her looking through photos. “I had plans for the evening, and I need to send an apology.”
Montoya reached for her phone. “Of course, but do not tell him where you are.”
“If I’m supposed to be a secret informant, you shouldn’t have brought me through the front door this morning.”
He frowned with what appeared to be sincere regret. “Unfortunate, I know, but it was before we found these photos.”
Although that didn’t sound like an apology, she wouldn’t push him for one. She licked her lips and tried to decide what to say when it wouldn’t make any sense. Alejandro answered on the first ring. “I’m so sorry not to be there on time.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he replied. “I’m waiting on the bench where we sat this morning, and I’ll take you home.”
“Thank you.” She ended the call. “He’s here, so I’ve no secret to keep.”
Montoya’s eyes narrowed as he sat back. “Don’t tell him why you’ve been brought in. He’ll mention it to someone else, and it will swiftly become common knowledge. If the man who killed Jaime Campos is in these photos, we don’t want him to know you’ve identified him.”
She scanned the room. “Are you videoing this?”
“No, there are no cameras here, and I’m not recording our conversation either. Let’s begin. Just look at the men.”
The women were impossible to ignore, however. Some appeared terrified and others posed as the perfect submissive with a totally blank expression. Many had long blonde wigs tickling their bare breasts, but none resembled her. There was less variety among the men. They were bare-chested, clad in tight leather pants and gloves, and wore masks or hoods. She looked up at Montoya. “If you’ve seen one waxed chest, you’ve seen them all.”
“I know this is trying, but look closer. They’re not all the same man.”
“I realize that.” One of the masked men was blond, but his hair was long, unlike Gian Carlo, who always wore his fair hair in a stylish cut. She quickly scanned the photos. “Menswear models tend to be tall, broad-shouldered, slim, and designer suits fit them beautifully. Look at the muscles on these men. They’re bulked-up like bodybuilders. You’d have a better chance of identifying them if you looked in the gyms that promote bodybuilding rather than healthy exercise.”
She’d captured Montoya’s full attention, and he leaned forward. “Excellent observation, Miss Santillan, but nothing about any of these men looks familiar?”
“Without being able to see their faces, no, not at all.” She shuffled through the photos and sorted them into four piles. “There’s the blond; this man looks to be the tallest; this one has really hairy forearms. I don’t see tattoos on any of them, but there’s a faint shadow on the fourth man’s right arm that could be makeup covering a tattoo. I’ll bet if you showed these photos to bodybuilders, you’d find someone who knows them.”
Montoya stared at her a long moment, then shrugged unhappily and placed the photos in a single stack. He carefully neatened the corners. “I’ll send Robles and Mesa out to do so tomorrow. You’ve been a great help to us, but again, don’t tell your date the subject of our discussion. I may need to contact you again, but rather than send detectives, I’ll call you myself.” He rose from his chair with the sinuous grace of a cobra weaving above his basket.
She looked up at him and raised her hand. “Wait a minute. I need to leave another message for my attorney.” This time she asked Elena to respond in the morning rather than tonight. She hesitated before leaving the table. “The women in these photos aren’t professional models. Have you been able to find any of them? Wouldn’t they know the men’s names?”
Montoya crossed the room and rested his hand on the doorknob. “Some are runaways who’ve scattered. Others are known, but drug-addicted prostitutes have few clear memories. That’s why I wished to speak with you.”
Not wanting any part in their investigation, she left her chair and gripped her bag tightly under her arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Galen Salazar is hosting the memorial for Jaime on Saturday. One of the men in the magazines might show up, and it would give you a chance to question him.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “The murderer might attend. They love funerals where they can offer comfort to the family, even if they’r
e not acquainted with the deceased. Sick individuals all. I’ll plan to be there. Will you?”