Nightshade Cases

Chapter 6

EXT. to INT. - THE STARLET LOUNGE - MORNING

Jackson just had to get in her face and improve her mood, didn't he? He might have been pretty to look at, but the nasty frown and glitter in his impossibly blue eyes just put her teeth on edge.

"What's with the civvy showing up at my crime scene?" He tried to dodge around Gerri, who used her considerable height to keep him away from Kinsey. Protective instinct punched her in the chest, a surge of temper so strong she knew she should maybe talk to her therapist about it.

Or go shoot something. That would help.

"Get back to questioning the crowd." Gerri firmly pressed one hand to his shoulder and spun him around, pushing him with little subtlety toward the back door of the club. "I'm the lead detective on this case, which makes it my crime scene." Crap, that made her sound like a petulant kid on a playground fighting for status. "If I want to bring in an expert, I will. So back off, Pierce." Much better.

Something ugly passed through his eyes, like rot and hate lived in the shell of model perfection. He was a few inches taller than her, broad shouldered, with Hollywood good looks. But she knew the moment she met him, Jackson Pierce had something fundamentally wrong in his soul. And that flash of whatever he let her see just proved it to her.

Instead of worrying her, it set Gerri free. She relished the confident surge of trust renewed in her instincts, now knowing, with that one look, exactly where she stood with her new partner.

He didn't comment and, from the faint twitch of his lips, she assumed he regretted he'd let her see who he really was. Gerri let it go completely, striding past him toward the dented, gray door standing ajar. Just past the interior felt murky in the dark, a sudden shock from the brightness of the early morning. The exit light overhead cast a washed out red glow over everything, horror house style despite its innocuous intentions. She ignored the dimness, continuing on with confidence, down the narrow hall and out the further door at the end into light.

The club was small, almost cozy, and hideously decorated with the epitome of gaudy chic. She'd never been to the Starlet Lounge before, a favorite hangout of the lesbian/gay/trans/bi/queer community. Only because she didn't go out much, not for any bigoted reasons. Besides, Ray's s****l orientation taught her long ago she either had to get over her Midwest church girl upbringing, or not have Ray as a friend anymore.

She chose Ray every time.

Maybe if it was dark, the only light from the stage lamps and the sparkling disco ball hanging from the ceiling, it might not have been so bad. But rarely did places like this show well in the full illumination of reality. Cracked vinyl seating in deep pink shone cheap in places and looked buffed dull by a million asses in others. The tired industrial floor needed another coat of black paint, feather boas used to frame photos of the dancers limp in the humidity permeating everything, despite the air conditioning. Gerri made her way to the bar, a long, black and white tiled monstrosity covering the whole far wall of the club where a small man sat with a uniform, his head in his hands.

Her eyes flashed to the young man behind the bar, dressed in a club-logo black T-shirt, his face pulled down in sorrow, before returning to the huddled creature who looked up as she stopped at his side.

"Detective Geraldine Myers." She nodded to the young uni who nodded back before speaking.

"Detective." The uniform cleared her throat, face pale. Must have been her first murder. "This is Salvador Martin, the owner of the Starlet Lounge."

Gerri offered her hand and the old man took it. His mascara was a mess, running in thin rivers of black and gray down his lined cheeks, powder and foundation crumbling like an ancient stone wall under too much pressure. A rim of red lipstick remained around the outline of his puffy lips. When he took her hand, he squeezed it between his, palms cold and clammy.

"Please," he choked. "Find out who did this to poor Aisling."

This was the worst part of her job, dealing with the loved ones. Murder she could handle. Grief, not so much. But Gerri had lots of practice and, though her heart was softer than she was willing to admit, she pushed down the wave of sorrow in answer to his naked emotions and nodded brusquely.

"Was it busy in here last night?" Jackson stood to one side, leaning on the bar, rolling his eyes. If she thought she could get away with it, Gerri would have punched him in the face.

She really needed to call her therapist.

Salvador nodded, his comb over flopping to one side. From the look of his rumpled dress shirt, half buttoned, and the gaping zipper of his pants he'd dressed in a hurry, without thought or consideration. He had the look and feel of a man desperate to understand why his world seemed to collapse around him far too often. Disorientation and divided empathy for the victim and his own business told her he hadn't had to think through the possibility he was a suspect. Which meant he was innocent, out of her personal pool of people of interest. Still, she had to ask.

"As always on a Wednesday," he said. "I spent most of it backstage." He drew a shaking breath as she pulled her hand free, answering the question she preferred he answer without her prompting. "With the girls. I perform sometimes, still." He gestured to one of the portraits and Gerri's eyebrows shot up without her permission. The woman in the photo was stunning, though it was apparent the image was at least a few decades past. "Just for old time's sake."

Good, she had him settled, less grief stricken and calmer. Interrogations were an art form, a slow dance between her and the person she spoke to. Some cops, she knew, just dove in, asked the obvious, stirred up hard feelings that made it difficult to find the truth. But she liked to do what she could to relax her subject before going for the throat.

"Bet you make all the boys hot." Gerri shot Jackson a shut the f**k up look while both Salvador and the guy behind the bar stared at him with clear hostility. So much for her usual approach. If he screwed this up for her, she was going to kick his ass for real, and to hell what her shrink said about it.

Jackson looked away with a nasty smirk on his face. God, she hated his guts.

"Maybe you'd like to go out and canvas with the rest of the officers." It was Jackson's turn to glare. Since she'd just cut him down and put him in the same category as a uniform, maybe she deserved it. But she smiled sweetly anyway. He grunted something that sounded like "b***h" and left.

"Your partner is an asshole." Salvador's face flamed with anger.

"You have no idea," Gerri said. "Please, go on."

He hesitated and, for a moment, Gerri worried the spell was broken after all. But his trust in her hadn't been damaged, fortunately. If anything, he leaned closer, the bond deeper for Jackson's intrusion. Gerri refused to thank the bastard for it, but relented a little as Salvador went on.

"Aisling is a favorite." He shuddered, sobbed once. The young man behind the bar shook, turning away at the same time. Gerri's eyes caught the movement, but she refocused on Salvador. She could talk to the kid later. "Was." He looked away, toward the narrow stage, the cheesy pink sparkle velvet curtains, a bit threadbare even from a distance. "She loved to perform. And she knew how to pack a place."

The next question was delicate, but Gerri learned enough from Ray she was confident Salvador would answer. "Aisling was a stage name." She glanced at the uniform who watched in silence, before nodding herself. "Was it a legal name change?"

Salvador sighed, shrugged. "No," he said. "Though she hated it. Aisling identified as female, unlike some of the queens who dance here." He pointed skinny fingers at his chest. "Old case in point. I know she was in the process of completing her full transformation. But, she was waiting to finish the surgery before she did the paperwork." He sounded dull, lifeless, like he'd heard this story end badly before. "Her real name was Adam Rose."

Ray would be able to tell her if Aisling's transformation from man to woman was complete or not. She had breast implants, at least, which made her a transsexual, not just a queen cross dressing for the fun and excitement of it. No need to fish for that information here. And, not like it mattered. Or, did it? There was enough hate crime against the l***q community in Silver City-everywhere, for that matter-it was possible this murder was the result of sheer idiocy. But the symbols carved into the dancer's flesh told Gerri there had to be more to this story.

"Was there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt Aisling?" An obvious question, but one Gerri liked to ask anyway. Not just for the obvious, either. There were times when those she interrogated showed signs of guilt when confronted so directly. They might not understand just how much they gave up with their facial expressions, body language, even the words they chose to answer.

In this case, Salvador's reticence wasn't guilt of murder, but of naming names. She could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, in how he looked away for a moment, lips tightening before his tongue ran over them.

"Just the usual rivalries." Desperate need for her to believe him surfaced in his watery green eyes as he met hers again. "Nothing that would lead to murder."

"Please, let me be the judge of that." Gerri fished out her notebook from her jacket pocket, her favorite pen-a gift from her mother-catching the light on the silver barrel. "Names?"

"Just one." Salvador slumped lower. "But Roxy wouldn't hurt Aisling, not physically. I'm sure of it."

"Roxy has a real name?" Gerri pushed, soft but insistent. The faint tingle of the thrill of the hunt washed away her irritation with the humidity still clinging to her even in the AC of this place, her anger at Jackson, her worry about what Kinsey might find. This was what she was born to do.

"Thomas Yates." Gerri saw the regret on Salvador's face the moment he gave up the name, how he turned to meet the eyes of the young man behind the bar with a twitch of guilt. The bartender didn't respond, seemingly lost in his own grief. Without that support to hold him back, Salvador gave in to Gerri completely. "I'll get you her address."

She let Salvador go, small, hunched body bent in sorrow, edging closer to the bar as the young man stared at the counter in front of him, seemingly in a daze of emotions. She watched him a long moment before setting her pen on the bar, the rattle of it a conscious focus breaker. When he looked up, his pale gray eyes were full of tears.

A horrible weight lived inside him, but was it guilt? She did her best to remain impartial as she asked her next question.

"Have you worked here long?"

He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and nodded. "A year," he said, deep voice cracking with stress. "Curtis Alexander." His words hesitated on the "c" and the "x", suggesting a stutter. Mild, but enough of a marker his stress was honest.

"You were friends with the victim?" Gerri understood how hard it was to be faced with these questions, underneath it all. This part of her job, the pressure on the victim's family, friends, associates, so soon after a death. And yet, as necessary as breathing if she wanted to catch the killer. As the tingle of reveal grew in strength, she didn't care how he felt, even about the dead dancer in the alley. All she wanted was to find who murdered Aisling. But, she was very good at pretending.

She had to be.

Again Curtis nodded. "Aisling was..." he looked away, jaw jumping, throat working. "She was really special."

Gerri's mind sighed. Was he in love with her? Maybe. Motive?

Maybe.

Next question, same one as before. "Can you think of anyone besides Roxy who might want to hurt her?"

Curtis shrugged, met her eyes with his clear gaze. Not a trace of guilt. Just the most sadness she'd ever seen in anyone. Enough to crack her own heart and break the bubble of excitement into pieces.

"She had someone bugging her last year," he said. "When I first started working here. But she never said who and I think it stopped because she wasn't stressed over it anymore."

"Bugging her how?" Gerri hoped focusing on the question would help him ease away from his sorrow. But, she could tell when she asked, she was only making things worse.

"She wouldn't talk about it." Curtis's lower lip trembled. "Just said some assholes were making her life miserable, but refused to tell me who." Gerri had the impression if Curtis knew, he'd have done something about it.

A question for Roxy, maybe?

Salvador shuffled his way from the back of the club, returning to hand Gerri a piece of paper. His tall, narrow handwriting was barely legible, but she tucked the address into her notebook anyway with a nod of thanks.

"Did you know the person who was troubling Aisling last year?" Salvador glanced at Curtis. The bartender had gone back to staring in forlorn grief at the surface of the bar.

"The girls keep to themselves," Salvador said. "They don't tell this old queen anything anymore." He muffled a sob behind one hand.

Not much she could say to that.

"I'll be in touch," Gerri said, with plans to fully investigate both men before twenty-four hours was up. For now, the trail led elsewhere.

***