“Yeah, I guess so,” she said. “Easier to control someone who’s dependent, you know? I tried to keep those girls clean, tell them to just dance.” She shrugged one shoulder, shook her head, and said dispassionately, “What’re you gonna do?”
“Have you kept in touch with Sal,” Larkin asked.
Candace cackled at the suggestion. “Baby… have you met Sal?”
“Yes.”
“And do Ilooklike the sort of woman who’d stay in contact with him?” She laughed a bit longer under her breath and dabbed carefully at the corners of her eyes.
Doyle closed his notepad, set it beside himself, and reached for his portfolio. “Ms. Ward—”
“Candi, honey, please.”
“Candi,” Doyle corrected as he removed the composite sketch of Esther Haycox. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Candace reached forward, accepted the portrait, and held it at arm’s length. “Did you draw this?”
“I did,” Doyle confirmed.
“I’ve always had a soft spot for artists.” She looked over the top of the paper before adding, “They’re so…sensitive.”
Larkin looked sideways, caught the tinge of pink dusting Doyle’s cheeks, but then jerked his head in Candace’s direction when she gasped.
“I do recognize her! God, what was her name… you know, I don’t remember, but she was real popular on Broadway. One of those hoochie-coochie girls.”
“Burlesque?” Doyle tried.
“That’s it,” Candace agreed. “Before those places became free-for-all strip clubs.” She tapped the thick paper with one finger. “This girl’s face was everywhere for a hot minute.” Candace studied it a moment longer before handing it back to Doyle. “I think she left in the ’80s.”
“She was murdered,” Larkin clarified.
Even Candace’s Upper East Side Botox wasn’t able to hide the dismay that took over. “I wish I could say I was surprised but… it came with the territory. I didn’t really know her, but other girls, her fans, everyone spoke highly of her.”
“She’d transitioned to live sex shows,” Larkin said. “We believe she was killed in a hotel room.”
Candace was thoughtful a moment, then swung her legs over the daybed and got to her feet. She moved across the room to a liquor cabinet, collected a bottle of gin and dry vermouth, and poured the contents into a mixing glass with some ice. “You boys like martinis?”
“We’re fine,” Doyle answered.
Candace glanced over her shoulder as she stirred the contents. “Nothing for medicinal purposes?”
“No,” Doyle said again.
“Gin was my go-to.”
Larkin cut in. “Do you have an idea as to who might have hurt this woman.”
Candace poured the cocktail through a strainer and then reached for a container of olives. “I love sex,” she began, her back still to both of them. “And being a sexual person. The antipornography feminists hated me, but what they didn’t understand was that even someone like me, who embraced carnal pleasure in a way women haven’t ever been allowed to, was in as much danger as anyone else.” She turned, dropping a pick into her glass with three olives skewered on it. “Guys at the Dollhouse who grabbed at me through the open window when I was strictly a dancing-only kind of girl. Guys who wouldn’t stop drilling me on set, even after the director called,Cut. Shit like that.” She returned to the daybed, knocked back half of the cocktail in one gulp, and said, “I was friends with a girl who did those live shows at the Kitten.”
“That’s where our victim worked,” Larkin clarified, keeping his voice its even monotone.
Candace snorted. “What a dump that place was…. She told me, one night after wrapping her scene, she’s in the bathroom cleaning up, right? Some guy from the audience followed her in. Tried to help himself to her—felt entitled to her just because he’d watched her be sexual. She beat him with the heel of her stiletto and ran out. Not every girl was so lucky, especially the ones who turned tricks in the Times Square hotels. Do you know what it was like at those places?”
“It was before my time,” Larkin answered.
Candace finished her martini in a second swallow and then ate one of the olives. “Johns would rent rooms by the hour. They’d bring a girl, sign in at the front desk in one of those old-timey ledger books, and then they’d go up and conduct business. Some girls would have friends be on the lookout in the hallways or on the street—make sure she came back. And if those johns were up to no good, the girls couldn’t even report them for rape without being arrested for prostitution. Johns always used fake names too. Mickey Mouse, Harry Houdini, whatever they wanted. No one cared. So your girl being found dead in a hotel room? It’s not surprising. It’s just sad.”
One of the yorkies interrupted Candace with a loud and high-pitched bark.
