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“He doesn’t match the description the bartender gave us.” The man with Elizabeth in the picture is big, around six-two, and bald. Both of which would have been obvious things to mention when giving a description. Instead, the bartender told us he was a white male with blond hair and blue eyes.
“Want me to circle back to the Moonlight Lounge with this picture?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Call ahead. Check it’s open and that he’s actually working.”
Sade pushes to a stand. “On it.”
“Hold on.” I glance at my watch, deliberately ignoring the pile of paperwork on my desk. “I’m going to tag along.”
“Okay.”
“Let me know if Jim is working and we’ll go straight there.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, hey!” I shout before she disappears. “Did they pull anything off the laptop? From Catherine Beauchamp?”
“Not yet. Might take a few weeks,” Sade says as she starts back to her desk.
While she follows up with the bartender, I take the time to think about the new information Sade and Mani have gathered. There are only two strong reasons I can think of that justify why someone would go to lengths to create a fake identity just to hire an escort. One, they’re so embarrassed by it or scared of the consequences if they get caught that they feel the need to hide. And, two, considering what happened to Elizabeth, they were always planning to kill her.
Given that we have a fake identity, a dead escort, and a burner phone, option two seems more probable. Although the new information doesn’t give us any hint as to who our perp is, it’s narrowed the list considerably. We’re looking for a male who hated Elizabeth but was close enough to the agency or one of the girls to know how things worked.
The alternative, which is one I don’t want to think too much about, is that Christopher Torey, although a fake identity, was just a new client trying to hide. Option one doesn’t seem likely to me. If the mystery client was new, how did he know which parts of the background search were standard with the agency?
Several questions still resonate for either theory. Why would he have gone through all the effort—and left a sizeable trail—to lure an escort? And why would he kill her and leave her body in a public place? It’s not logical. And it doesn’t follow the typical psychology of a killer. If it did, he would have skipped all the bullshit, trailed Elizabeth, and taken or killed her when she was vulnerable—which was often enough. And he would have left none of the online evidence.
The answers evade me.
The loose pieces refuse to find a pattern in my discombobulated mind, irrespective of how hard I think.So, when Sade texts me that Jim is working and she’s waiting outside, I take the distraction offered. Pushing to a stand, I grab my jacket off the back of my chair and make for the door.
***
The Moonlight Loungeis one of those historic entertainment hubs in LA that has managed to withstand the ravages of time and the changing tastes that come with it. The bar used to be a lounge, one of those fancy clubs that all the greats frequented. The interior is full of dark reds and browns that somehow manage to bring both vampires and sex to mind. The booths are blood red. The bar is lacquered wood in a shade of brown that looks almost black.
The crowning feature, and the reason the bar has stayed open so long, is the small stage at the front of the room and the incredible musicians that still come and sing or play in the small space. To sing at the Moonlight Lounge is an homage of sorts; it’s a joint that flourishes on ticketed events as much as it does on the nights when there’s just one of three house musicians to entertain the crowd.
My apartment is just down the street, maybe a half mile or so south of the bar, and over the years I’ve found myself walking here late at night when a case has been keeping me up. I’ll sit at the bar with my back to the stage and just listen to the music as I nurse a beer, alone but surrounded by people.
Today, the Moonlight Lounge is preparing for some pop singer whose name I didn’t recognize when Saderattled it off. Apparently, she’s the hottest new thing in town. In LA that seems to be a weekly turnover, but I’ve never been the type to follow the hype anyway.
We parked a good two-hundred yards from the door. When we’re standing outside, Sade rings the doorbell to the right of the grated security gate.
Behind the gate, there’s a saloon door painted in red. At night, the doors gape so that you can see just enough of the dark interior past the bouncer to get excited.
We’re greeted by a young man with shaggy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He’s dressed in black jeans with slashed knees, a tight, white tee and black vest, with a fedora on his head. “Can I help you?” he asks.
Sade and I hold up our badges.
“LAPD,” Sade leads. “Jim here?”
“Oh, yeah. He mentioned you’d be stopping by.” The man leans forward and unlocks the front gate before stepping back and letting us through. As soon as we’ve filtered past him, he leans forward and closes the gate behind us. The sound of the bolt sliding into place raises the hairs on the back of my neck, but I keep my face neutral.
“This way.”
Sade follows first. “Thank you, Mr…?”
“Terry Richards,” he replies over his shoulder as he leads us through the doors. “Excuse the mess. We’re setting up for a big show tonight.”
