Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
It had been like going back in time.
Obviously, the upper floor had been updated, and that had happened recently. It was stylish, expensive, subtle and comfortable.
It was Lucinda.
The downstairs was her great-grandmother.
The first thing he noticed were the pictures on the walls around the staircase down to the lower level.
A hundred years ago, they would likely be considered pornographic.
Now, they seemed like art.
After he was waved through by Barrett in his doorman booth (cover charge was twenty-five dollars for bar and general admission seating, fifty bucks for a booth, this was hefty and still, there was a two-drink minimum), he entered Washington State’s version of Moulin Rouge. Except the lush reds, blues and black were replaced with black, purples and pinks.
It was a large space, but still seemed close and intimate.
The bar to the side was long, manned by three people and packed two deep.
The cocktail waitresses wore old-fashioned, little black dresses with pink or purple frilly petticoats under skirts that were so short, they exposed white panties with ruffles at the seat.
The small, semi-circle booths staggered back along the space in front of the stage had black velvet seats and pink or purple velvet backs. The round tables had black tablecloths and small candles in pink glass on top.
In the back of the theater, there was less posh seating and space to stand and watch.
He lived close enough, and his daughter was interested, so they hit New York for weekends that included musicals and the ballet.
So when the numbers came on the stage, Rus saw talent, but there was a reason they weren’t in a big city trying to get their big break. They were good, it worked, but mostly because the women were attractive and each number was so sexual, it was almost a choreographed group striptease.
The stars of the show were the costumes and the sets. Each dance lasted a good while, but there was at least a ten-minute lull in between so they could wow the crowd with something entirely new and patrons had plenty of time to order fresh drinks.
The place was packed, so it wouldn’t be cool to take the time of staff to ask questions.
But word got around he was there, and several of the dancers came and spoke to him between sets.
They were Brittanie’s friends, so they had reason. They wanted to help.
But he learned nothing new.
He waited it out, had a few more chats after closing, and was pleased to see Sue, Emeril or one of the bouncers escorted all female personnel to their cars even if this was the middle of nowhere and the parking lot was brightly illuminated. Not to mention there were numerous visible camaras trained on the lot and the building.
Since she left him to it after he’d finished eating, he’d not seen Lucinda. She was either busy, or, with the way she spoke about her daughter, she went home to her girl.
That morning, he was dragging.
It was a risk to have such a late night when he had no time to sleep in. That was something he wouldn’t blink at doing when he was twenty-five. Now forty-five, it no longer caught up with him, it dogged him.
But when you had nothing, you had to take every shot to find something. Anyone could have seen or heard something that would give him a lead.
The risk didn’t pan out.
But even as he drank coffee, texted Moran about a meet up, sent in a progress report suggesting they look at other sexually-motivated open cases to ascertain if there had been another copycat they hadn’t caught, re-read the reports written for him, examined photos he’d already examined, wrote notes on a yellow legal pad about any little thing that struck him, and ate eggs, bacon and toast, he didn’t regret it.
What he felt he had now was a full picture of Brittanie.
She had her flaws, but she was a good person.
Whoever did this to her was the one with the damage. Unless they turned something up in her bank accounts, texts or emails, the motive would be as twisted as the murder, and none of it would land on Brittanie.
He got a responding text from Moran, and it was time to roll out.
He wanted back in the motel room. He wanted to return to her apartment. And he wanted to hit the local lab where they were processing what they’d found in the room.
He’d been to these places and examined the pictures. He saw the pile of her clothes in the corner.
But he wanted to inspect things more closely.
Items spoke.
And when you had nothing, you had to find something else that might talk.
He wanted the brother, the father and the ex-boyfriend they couldn’t find, but he wouldn’t be doing the leg work on that. McGill and Moran’s deputies were on it.