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He smirked and raised both hands. “None at all. She was excited for the opportunity. It’s a specialty, meaning people pay more to see it. And since it’s a rare, limited-time situation, our girls jump at the chance.”
“Did she perform any otherspecialtiesfor extra pay?” Jo asked.
“You mean lap dances?” He shrugged. “Of course. All the girls do, with a strict no-touch policy.”
“Private rooms?” Arnett asked.
“Not always.” Travis steepled his fingers over his lap. “But some of our customers value privacy.”
“Well, asortof privacy,” Jo said. “You have cameras in those rooms to monitor for abuse, right?”
“One hundred percent.”
“But I’m sure you delete the files almost immediately after the fact,” she said.
“Within the week.”
The smug smirk on his face told her all she needed to know. An extra hundred flipped those cameras right off, and she’d bet her salary Travis had a pile of recordings at home for his own personal pleasure—or blackmail.
“Any chance you can check the recordings you haven’t deleted yet?” Arnett asked.
“Not without a warrant. I’d never get another customer if it got around I let you see who comes in here.”
And by the time they got the warrant, he’d have them deleted anyway. “Customers get out of hand from time to time. Any instances with Madison?”
He shook his head. “I’d’ve heard. But check with Chuck, he’s our head of security. If there were any incidents, he’d know about it.”
“Did Madison have any regulars?”
Travis shrugged again. “Nobody particular I know about.”
“How did she get along with the other dancers?” Jo asked.
Hartley threw both hands up. “I don’t track the pajama parties. But all my girls know if they don’t treat the others with respect, they’ll be out of a job.”
Jo forced down the revulsion that pushed into her throat. “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if we talked to your employees about it?”
“As long as you don’t keep them from their work,” he said.
* * *
He left them alone in the dressing room, which told Jo the room had cameras or mics or the dancers knew better than to tell them anything. Sure enough, while they expressed shock and sadness and talked about how sweet Madison had been, when Jo asked about the working conditions, regulars, or problematic patrons, their answers became rote and practiced. Chuck the security guard was mostly monosyllabic, and claimed to remember no incidents with Madison whatsoever.
As they made their way toward the exit, Arnett jutted his head toward the men’s room. “Gotta see a man about a horse.”
As Jo waited, she scanned the crowd in the dim, pulsing light. A blonde cocktail waitress in a short, corseted blue-and-white lace concoction that had probably come from a Halloween store headed in her direction; Jo stepped forward to move out of her way. But the woman also maneuvered at the same moment and, teetering on her five-inch heels, crashed into Jo. The partially filled drinks on her tray spilled down the front of Jo’s pants.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” The waitress grabbed a stack of napkins out of her teensy apron and swiped at Jo with them.
Jo gently pushed her hand away. “Please don’t worry.”
She met Jo’s eyes with an odd intensity. “No, please, you have to let me help clean you up. Take these and I’ll grab some more.”
Not surprised when her fingers hit something more solid than tissue, Jo made a few cursory swipes at her legs before slipping half the napkins, and the card hidden under them, into her pocket.
“You’re never gonna believe this.” Arnett appeared in front of her and jutted his chin to the door. “Outside.”
Jo reassured the waitress again, then strode out behind Arnett. As she slipped into the passenger side of the Crown Vic, he tapped at his phone.
