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Smart girl. “Safe travels.”
“Thanks, duce,” she says with a wink, then heads off toward her bike.
There’s a look of longing on Carson’s face as he watches the biker girl leave. I have to admit, I don’t blame him. It is tempting… Maybe twenty years ago tempting for me.
He’s making the right call, though. He could’ve held her here for another twenty-four hours. Longer if he pressed the full charges. The white powder coating the tip of her nose and the jacked-up tremble of her hands are dead giveaways.
“Glad to see you got the right head in the game,” I say, drawing his attention away from the girl.
He jerks his head back, feigning ignorance. “I don’t have time to waste on simple possession charges. Not with another murder hitting headlines.”
I let it ride. He knows I’m talking about more than popping the girl with a drug charge, but neither of us are going there.
“You learn anything new?” I ask, heading back around to the other side of the Dumpster. CSU already processed the scene last night, but that was before the M.E. had any info on the possible murder weapon. I read through the reports, looking for any mention of pens, pencils…any circular object that could’ve been tossed in the Dumpster with the vic. Nothing of the like made it into the CSU reports.
Doesn’t mean that there’s not something here, however. I don’t envy the CSU crew, Dumpster diving into the early hours of the morning, picking through garbage and rotten food. My nostrils flare as I lean over the edge and get a rank whiff.
“Besides the fact that I’m too old for biker chicks?” Carson says, and I send an impatient glare his way. “Yeah, I did. Melody said she recognized the vic from her picture on the wall inside the bar.” He points toward The Cosmo. “I figured I’d go check it out. Find out why the rest of the staff failed to mention she was a regular.”
This piques my interest. “I’ll go with you.”
Inside the bar, I let Carson question the bartender while I get an impression of the place. Dim, multicolored track lighting highlights crimson leather-backed chairs and white marble counters. Cherry oak tables match the hardwood flooring. It says “money.”
It’s the kind of bar that let’s you know you’re spending a hefty wad just walking into the place. In the corner near the floor-to-ceiling window, a group of suits stand around a tall table, doing just that.
I stroll toward them, picking up on their conversation before they make me. Their discussion of the recent murder dies abruptly.
“Gentlemen,” I say, reaching inside the inseam of my trench coat to produce my badge. “I need a moment of your time.”
The leader of the pack makes himself known immediately. “This in regard to Marcy Beloff?”
I hold my poker face. “You know the victim?”
“No. Not at all. Just an educated guess,” he says, motioning the hand holding a tumbler toward the yellow tape marking off a section of the side door.
“Right.” I glance over at the door, then look at him. “But normally strangers don’t refer to a victim by name. I believe you’re educated enough to understand my leap there. What are you…?” I take in their faces; clean shaven, soft as a baby’s butt. “Post grad? First year interns just passed the bar?”
I hate lawyers. I especially can’t stand cocky little yuppie lawyers living off their trust funds. They waste my time, get in the way, and make my job harder. All of them—every single slimy one—bend the law. And not for their client’s sake; so they can get their headline claim to fame for when they run for the District Attorney’s office.
“I’m second year,” trust fund says. His eyes narrow. “And I happen to always refer to the ‘vic’ by name. I find it helps me remember they’re a person who deserves justice, instead of just another victim whose case I need to close out to meet my monthly quota.”
I raise my eyebrows. So trust fund has some experience—and some balls. I let the jibe go and bring out my notepad. “Were you and your party here last night?”
“We’re here nearly every evening,” one of the even younger looking lawyers says. “The firm is a couple blocks away.”
Noted. I look up. “Then I gather you’ve seen Marcy Beloff in here before.”
Vacant stares.
“Come on, guys,” I say, pointing toward the wall of framed photographs behind the counter. “You’re here every night, and not a one of you have laid eyes on a woman who’s obviously in here enough to make the wall of fame?”
Trust fund clears his throat. “Listen. I don’t know anything about her. Never seen her—but that’s because I doubt the pic was taken for her sake.” At my pinched brow, he adds, “Ryland Maddox. The guy in the photo with her. I’m sure that’s how she got up there.”
A familiar itch tickles the back of my head.
“Hotshot attorney who just made partner at Lark and Gannet,” he continues. “Maddox has a different girl on his arm at any given time, so I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
Maddox. The face in the photo clicks with the name, and tension grips my shoulders. Captain Wexler had a run-in with this guy a couple months back. Maddox got a felony offender off on a technicality. The charge: rape.
