Begging for Trouble (14 page)

He resisted snorting. Before questioning Frieda deManeata—real name: Michael Woolsey—he’d interviewed a few other performers and received the same vibe from each of them. These drag queens were irreverent and entertaining and, as far as he could tell, truthful. He would never confess this to anyone, but he’d even lost the creepy feeling he’d had when he was here to watch the opening-night show.

“And the other reasons?” he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

“Well, this is between you and me, but”—Frieda waggled a finger to draw him near—“I heard she was arrested for prostitution a few times in the past. Can you imagine? I mean, no drag queen worth her thigh-highs would ever be that stupid.”

Sam had already researched the victim’s criminal history. He knew exactly how many arrests Carmella had, where they’d taken place, the charges, and the names of the other persons involved. Her last arrest, almost a year ago, had led to a trial, where she was given a slap on the wrist. Since then, there’d been no other police interaction, but he intended to speak to the men in her past over the next few days.

“Thanks.” He closed his notebook and looked at his watch. “I take it the rest of the performers will be here soon?”

“They usually trickle in until about six and gab for a while, but they’re putting on their war paint by seven.” Frieda swung around in her seat and crossed her milelong legs. “Have you talked to Angel Bebé yet?”

“He’s—er—she’s on my list. Why?”

“Because she and Carmella did not get along. And check out Nita Zip, too.”

“I was told she was on the stage at the time of the murder,” said Sam.

“Maybe so, but someone has to take Carmella’s place as Bobbi’s understudy, and Nita’s been itching for the job.”

“Did she tell you that in private?”

“Honey, very little is private around here.”

Sam made another notation in his spiral. “I didn’t realize they had understudies for the understudies.”

“Not officially, but that doesn’t stop a girl from dreaming.” Frieda batted her inch-long eyelashes. “And if you’re ever in the mood for information that’s a little more personal, you know where to find me.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Sam backed out of the room and closed the door. Then he shook his head. Until he’d met this crew of cross-dressers, dog lovers had topped his list of odd ducks and nut jobs. After grilling a couple of these faux women, he realized he owed Ellie an apology.

Frieda, as well as the show’s director, had told him most of the performers wouldn’t mind talking in front of the others, and suggested that he hang around while they got ready for the show, but Sam had no intention of watching exactly what was involved in cross-dressing. Instead, he opted to catch the performers as they filed in, but he also had to take a final look at the crime scene. It was possible he might find something he’d missed earlier; if he didn’t, he had to give the room back to the participants.

After the backstage manager unlocked the dressing room door, Sam ducked under the yellow warning tape and perused the area. Flecks of blood still dotted the floor, even though the club had been given the okay to hire a cleanup crew for the worst of the mess. Forensics had to forgo the usual practice of preserving footprints because so many of the cast had tromped in and out when they heard the scream. Thanks to the traffic, the police had gotten little they could use in the way of shoe identification.

Scanning the room, he crouched down and spotted the hot pink dog carrier Chesney owned, still tucked where Vince had found it. The forensic team had returned and dusted it for prints, but just as he’d figured, they’d found only Chesney’s. Taking it to Ellie seemed like a good idea, because she was babysitting the pooch that owned it, but he didn’t want to give her a chance to quiz him.

In fact, he’d made a point of not contacting her since she’d made that one phone call because he knew if they met, her string of questions would surely lead to a fight. He scanned the room, trying to think straight. Well, maybe not a fight, but certainly a heated discussion. And only because she considered Rob Chesney a friend.

He ran a hand over his jaw, thinking about the facts in the case. Chesney had opportunity because his number had been over for a while before the scream. They’d found him kneeling over the body with the weapon in hand. Since the shears were long and narrow, they’d held only partial prints, and most of those were smudged beyond recognition. Though he and Vince had yet to ferret out a motive, Sam was certain they’d find one eventually.

As the lead on this case, it was Vince’s job to take care of the up-front stuff, coordinate with the DA, speak to the press, and answer to the top brass. That left Sam free to question witnesses and amass the data needed to prove Chesney had committed the crime. When he and Vince weren’t side by side, they talked a couple of times a day, going over the clues and putting the pieces together. They’d worked out a rhythm that suited them, and they often rotated the lead on their assignments.

Except when Ellie was involved.

And that seemed to be happening more and more these days. He could forgive her the first murder. Finding a client dead could have happened to anyone. And she’d been a victim of circumstance in number two. He could even give her a buy on number three, but this fourth episode was too much. Was there something in her attitude that made her attract violent crimes like the dog crap she scooped attracted flies?

Worse, she was so used to snooping, she simply couldn’t let things alone. In fact, he could practically feel her presence in his bones right now. He took a seat on one of the stools in the empty dressing room and began flipping through his spiral, hoping to put things in order, and then he heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

“We’ve never met, but I was wondering—could I ask you a few questions?”

At the sound of those words, Sam stood, jammed the notebook in his jacket pocket, and headed out the door.

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten.

What the hell was Ellie doing here?

He raised his gaze to the ceiling. Of course, she was here. A friend of hers, a fellow dog lover, was in trouble.

He straightened his tie, took a calming breath, and pulled out his badge. He thought he’d made himself clear the other morning, when she’d called to ask about Chesney’s bail hearing. He should have taken the time to lecture her then on minding her own business, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Ellie had never listened to him in the past. Why would she take his advice now?

Thinning his lips to enhance his I’m-in-charge expression, he strolled out of the dressing room, dodged several performers parading down the hall, and stopped at Ellie’s side. Raising his shield to her face, he said, “NYPD. I need to see you in private.”

Ellie jumped in place, but the cross-dresser standing with her had another idea. “Hey, wait a second, Mr. Manwith-a-Badge,” said the queen in black leather. “She hasn’t done anything wrong, so what’s your problem?”

“My problem is none of your concern.” He added a snarl to let the she-male know he meant business. “The lady is coming with me.”

“Sam—”

“It’s Detective Ryder, Ms. Engleman. Now come along peacefully or I’ll take you to HQ and arrest you for interfering with a police investigation.” He clutched her elbow and led her into the scene of the crime. After slamming the door, he swung her around to face him.

“You have ten seconds to explain what you’re doing here. And don’t try lying, because that never works with you.”

Ellie huffed out a breath and jerked her elbow from his grip. “Jeez, you don’t have to get so bossy.”

Sam slipped his badge back in his jacket pocket and folded his arms. “Unfortunately, I do.” Fighting to keep his voice calm, he said, “Now start talking.”

She ran her hand through her curls and heaved another sigh. “Okay, fine, but promise you won’t get mad.”

“I won’t get mad.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I won’t get mad because I’m already beyond mad. I’m furious—wait, no. It’s more than that. I’m incensed, irate, crazed with anger. How does that sound?”

She raised a corner of her mouth. “Like you belong in an insane asylum, if you want the truth.”

He paced in front of her, using the time to regain his composure. When he looked up, Ellie said, “Is it okay if I sit for this interrogation?”

“Why not? You’d do it anyway, just to irritate me.”

“That’s not why I asked. This is supposed to be a crime scene, correct? Should I even be in this room?”

“You’re asking me about proper police protocol? While you keep pushing your way into my homicide investigations? You’re kidding, right?”

She fisted a hand on her hip and frowned. When he didn’t say anything, she pulled a chair out from under one of the tables and took a seat. “Okay, now what?”

“Now what?” He began to pace. “Let’s see, where should I begin?” Ellie opened her mouth to speak and he held up a hand. “This is my party, so we’ll play it my way, understand?”

She bit her lower lip and nodded.

“Why are you here talking to the performers about what happened the other night?”

“I’m here because I spoke to Rob, and he told me a couple of things that I thought needed looking into.”

“And you couldn’t have told me those things, so that I, in my official capacity as one of the officers in charge of the case, could see to it instead?”

She shrugged. “I thought if I got the answers myself, it might save you a step in your investigation.”

Sam shook his head. “Please. Let’s not go through this again. You have no right to be here in any capacity, and certainly not in the guise of helping me.”

“Then I’m here to help Rob.”

“Rob Chesney doesn’t need help. As far as I can tell, he has a competent attorney, and I hear his sister is coming to town to hold his hand.”

“But you believe he’s guilty, and he’s not.”

“I believe he’s guilty because the evidence points in that direction, which is why he was arrested, but the case is ongoing while we amass the data. Vince and I do the legwork, but it’s the DA who decides the charges and presses for a trial.”

She sat up straight in the chair. “So if I give you some new facts, you’d take them into consideration?”

“If it pertains to the investigation, yes.”

“How about this one? Carmella Sunday was blackmailing someone—someone big in New York.”

“And you know this because . . .”

“Because Sheleata told me so.”

“Sheleata? Since when are you on a first-name basis with these . . . people?”

“Since I told them I was a friend of Rob’s and he was innocent. I also found out there are a half dozen performers who are happy Carmella is dead. If that’s the case, any one of them might have committed the crime.”

“How about you give me their names, and I’ll look into it?”

She moved to the edge of her chair. “Really, you will?”

He pulled out his notebook, just to prove he would. “Sure. Now talk.”

“Lily and Pearl. I don’t know their real names, but they hated Carmella. I’m not sure why, though I could probably find out for you if you wanted.”

“Not necessary, because . . .” He flipped through the pages, and stopped when he found their names. “Both of them were onstage at the time of the killing. Next?”

“They were?”

“The director and two dozen witnesses say so, and I could probably corroborate that with a dozen more.”

“Oh.”

“Who else?”

“Nita Zip, but I don’t know her real name.”

Sam nodded. Ms. Zip was on his list. In fact, he’d planned on finding her until Ellie’s voice had knocked him senseless a few minutes ago. “I have her down. In fact, I’d be talking to her right now if I hadn’t found you snooping in the hall.”

She huffed out a breath. “You make it sound as if I’m a pain in the ass who has nothing better to do with her time than step on your toes.”

“And . . .”

“And I’m not. I’m the friend of a person I’m positive is innocent, and I want to make sure the police know it.”

“Then I guess this all boils down to trust.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known this day would come. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t trust me to do my job. You think I’m incompetent.”

“What? No!” Her shoulders drooped. “I know you’re a good cop. It’s just that—”

Sam raised both hands. If Ellie didn’t trust him as a cop, she couldn’t trust him as a man. And without trust, a relationship was nothing.

He stepped to the door and pushed it open. “This interview is over. Please leave the building. I have work to do.”

Her eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t let that stop him. “Now, Ms. Engleman.”

She made a move in his direction, but he stood firm. “I said now.”

Ellie swiped at the single tear trickling down her cheek. Hoisting her tote bag on her shoulder, she left the room.