The Corpse Wore Pasties (17 page)

He walked away, down the block, passing the venue. He wasn’t even headed for the show.

This had been my first stop of the night, and it was a bust. Not literally; those were inside the venue. But I had been lurking in that doorway for an hour, and I’d seen neither hide nor hairy beard of my overcoated creep. Now it was 8:30, which meant that the 8:00 show was about to start, and even the latest of latecomers was already inside.

My next stop was Bar Fantastic, to see if my creep liked the bump and grind at the Slap & Tickle Show. He didn’t—at least not tonight. There wasn’t an overcoat in sight. I moved on.

At the third venue of the night I got a shock. The doorway in which I would have chosen to lurk was already occupied. By a dark figure. A dark and officiallooking figure. A dark, official-looking, and Officer Brooklyn-shaped figure.

What was he doing here? I could only imagine that he was waiting for me. He had tracked me down at the Gilded Heel the night before, and now he was waiting for me at another burlesque show. But why this particular show? The sandwich board outside the venue gave me my answer: Jillian, Eva, and Angelina were all performing here tonight. Obviously, Officer Brooklyn had pegged this as an event in which I might have a vested interest.

And damn it, it should have been. A show that put so many of my suspects in one room should have been at the top of my list, but I guess the lack of sleep was addling my brain. One of the possible motives I had ascribed to my overcoated creep was that he was an obsessed fan, killing Victoria to get revenge on behalf of one of the performers she had screwed over. If that were the case, the show he was most likely to attend would be a show his favorite performer was in. And with three possible objects of his obsession in one place, the odds were in favor of the creep showing up here.

Well, it didn’t matter. I was here now. But with Officer Brooklyn already lurking in my doorway of choice, things got more difficult. There were other hiding places, but where lurked an Officer Brooklyn, there was probably also an Officer Bronx, keeping an eye out in case I tried to do exactly the stupid thing I was currently trying to do.

If I were smart, I’d walk away. Move on to the next show. But three Dreamland performers in one place... it was just too good an opportunity to pass up. So I found another doorway. I stood as far back in it as I could, kept my head tilted down and the brim of my cap in front of my eyes, and hoped that neither Brooklyn nor Bronx would notice me there.

And I watched the crowd.

But my creep didn’t show.

Half an hour later, with a final glance towards Officer Brooklyn, I snuck out of my doorway and hightailed it very quietly out of there. I’d risked getting caught for nothing.

The next event, titled simply Raunch, attracted a very specific audience. Overcoat types regularly outnumbered the normal audience. It was like a creep convention was in town for its annual meeting. My particular overcoat might be amongst them, but in order to find out I’d have to look each and every one in the face, and that would be difficult to do without making myself a good deal more obvious than I thought prudent. I gave it a shot—did a quick pass through the crowd waiting on the sidewalk, examining the people as well as I could with the baseball cap pulled down over my eyes—but with no result. My guy might have been there—but if he was, I didn’t see him.

The creep search had turned out to be a waste of three hours of my life, hours I couldn’t afford. On the other hand, it wasn’t like I had alternate plans— the only other thing I could think to do was talk to all the suspects again, to see if they had alibis for the two hours before the show. And since they were currently onstage or waiting to go on, they were unavailable.

But maybe I could still salvage the night. After all, they might be performing right now, but after the show, I had a pretty good idea of where they would probably end up...

It’s the habit of New York burlesque performers, when finished with their various Saturday gigs, to converge on the Daybreak Diner. It’s roughly equidistant from several major venues, and the food is neither too greasy nor too expensive. You never know who you’ll run into—that’s part of the fun—but Jillian regularly stopped in, and I’d seen Eva there few times as well. Angelina was less likely, but given the fact that the three of them were in the same show tonight, and they had plenty to talk about, I thought it was a fairly good bet that she’d tag along this time. If Brioche was working tonight, she’d probably head over as well. And Brioche usually worked on Saturdays.

And it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone. In addition to checking their alibis, I could ask about the creep—maybe one of them had seen him on Wednesday and could identify him.

I headed over, hoping to beat them there. If Officer Brooklyn saw three of his suspects—no matter how little he seemed to suspect them—heading out of the venue together, he would have to follow them as a matter of course.

I scoped out the Daybreak from across the street before I walked in. Thanks to the floor-to-ceiling plate window that served as the street-side wall of the diner, I had a clear view of everyone inside, and there wasn’t a performer in sight. So far, so good.

The bell jangled as I opened the door. I kept my head down, hoping the late-night staff wouldn’t recognize me in the disguise, though they had recognized me in more improbable getups than this. The fewer people knew I was there, the smaller the likelihood of my cover getting blown. I looked around the room for a quiet spot to hide myself while I waited. The booths were no good, and neither were the tables, because as I’d just seen a few moments ago, anyone standing outside could see anyone sitting inside through that window.

I could sit with my back to it, but that meant everyone inside the diner would see me.

Which left only one option. It was somewhat un- savory, but I doubted that even the most diligent police officer would follow a woman into the bathroom. I’d be out of the way of the windows, and come to think of it, it wasn’t a bad place to wait for my suspects— chances were that each of them would need to use the facilities at some point.

I sauntered not at all sneakily to the back of the diner. I took a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching me, then walked into the ladies room quickly but confidently. If anyone was inside, I’d apologize profusely, claim confusion, skedaddle, and try again when I saw her leave.

The restroom was empty.

Excellent. But a man standing in the middle of the ladies room would definitely arouse suspicion, if not harassment charges, so I needed a place to hide.

I took the “Employees Must Wash Hands” sign off the mirror and carefully peeled off the tape that had been holding it up. I scribbled “out of order” on the back of the sign, and taped it to the door of one of the stalls. The reused tape was slightly precarious, but it would hold.

That brilliant diversion in place, I ducked inside the stall, locked the door, and put my eye to the crack. Through it, I could see who was walking into the bathroom. If it was someone I wanted to talk to, I would emerge. If it wasn’t, I’d hop up on the toilet seat so my feet couldn’t be seen under the stall door and keep as quiet as I possibly could while the visitor powdered her nose.

So there I was, at one in the morning, squatting on the toilet in a stall of the ladies room at the Daybreak Diner. However exhilarating my life was these days, it had certainly become less glamorous.

Ten minutes later, I figured out the major flaw in my strategy: it wasn’t one. Squatting on a toilet and hoping the right people would just happen to walk in couldn’t be described, even in the loosest terms, as “a plan.” I was going to need assistance.

I took out my phone and sent a text message.

And I waited.

Twenty minutes later, in she walked.

“
Need help, meet me in Daybreak ladies room,
” Filthy said as she entered the bathroom, reading from her phone. “You, my darling, are a hopeless romantic.”

I told Filthy what I needed.

She grinned. “You want me to figure out how to get four women into this bathroom with you?”

“One at a time,” I said.

“Well, that’s not as much fun. What should I do, force-feed them water?”

“You’re a resourceful gal. You’ll figure something out.”

“And you’ll be alone in the room with each of the possible murderers? Didn’t we discuss this?”

“You’ll be right outside. If anything happens, I’ll scream like a girl and you can come running.”

“When this is all over, remind me to bring you back to Jillian’s dungeon and leave you there.”

“Now who’s the hopeless romantic?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Filthy said, and left.

I resumed my perch on the toilet and waited.

The door creaked and swung open. Through the gap in the stall door, I saw Jillian walk into the bathroom.

“Hi, Jillian,” I said, stepping out into the open.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she said.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Filthy told me there was something in the ladies room I might find amusing. I figured it was you.”

“Glad you find me amusing.”

“Well, I’ve seen you naked. Mind if I pee?”

“Be my guest. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Shoot,” she said, and stepped into one of the stalls.

“You know the creepy guy who was at the Dreamland show?”

“Creepy guys? I know ’em all. I didn’t notice one in particular on Wednesday, though. Describe him.”

“Wore an overcoat. Had a beard. Sunglasses. A little bit shorter than me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“I can name ten guys who fit that description. They’re probably all over at Raunch right now.”

“More like twenty. And you have no idea which of them was at Topkapi that night?”

“Sorry, Jonny, I just didn’t see him.” She stepped out of the stall and went to the sink to wash her hands. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

“About him,” I said. “Let’s talk about you.”

“One of my favorite subjects.”

“What were you doing before you came to Topkapi on Wednesday?”

“Why? Never mind, I can guess why. I was teaching a class. My fan dance workshop.”

“With students?”

“That’s why they call it a class.”

“They can verify that?”

“Every one of them. Want a list of their names?”

“When did the class start?”

“At 7:30, but I was meeting with a couple of the students for at least a half hour before that. And before you ask, the class normally ends at 9:30. I wrapped a bit early so I wouldn’t be late for the show.”

“So when you left the class, you went straight to Topkapi?”

“Dragged my suitcase door to door. You saw me arrive.”

“And the walk took you how long?”

“Ten minutes.”

“How do I know you didn’t take a cab?”

“Because I got there on time,” Jillian said. “You know what the traffic is like in that neighborhood at that time of night. It would have taken me twice as long by cab.”

“And your students will confirm that you were in that class from 7:30 to 9:30?”

“Why wouldn’t they? It’s the truth.”

It probably was. I would verify it later, but let’s face it: if you’re going to lie about where you were, you don’t involve an entire class full of students. If she had tried to use an S&M client as an alibi, I would have been suspicious; I already knew she could get those guys to do anything she wanted.

Jillian wished me luck, dried her hands on her dress, and left.

I went back into my stall.

The next one in was Eva. When I stepped out of the stall, she laughed and said: “Porky, baby, if I’d known
this
is the sort of thing you were into, I’d have given you a very different kind of lap dance.”

“I’m only here to ask you a few questions.”

“
Sure
you are.” She stepped closer to me and started swaying her hips back and forth.

“Eva, I’m serious. Stop that. I’m still a murder suspect, for crying out loud.”

“I know,” Eva said, “that’s what makes it sooooo sexy. Did he or didn’t he? Will he or won’t he? Is he going to stick something sharp in me?”

“Right. Anyway. I was wondering—” I shut up because the bathroom door was opening again. “Crap. Quick, into the stall.”

“Don’t be silly,” Eva said. She slammed me against the wall and in one smooth motion unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, pulled them down, shoved her tongue into my mouth, hiked up her skirt to her waist, and began to grind against me.

The woman who walked in was a stranger, thankfully, and seemed flustered to discover a pair of folks en flagrante in el baño. “Oh, uh, sorry,” she said, “I didn’t, um...” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her looking at the stalls, as if considering whether to make use of them anyway, but Eva cleared her throat demon- stratively, and the visitor lost her nerve and scurried out. As soon as the door was closed, Eva pulled away and lowered her skirt.

“See?” she said. “No problem.”

“You’re the best murder suspect ever,” I observed, pulling up my pants.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” she said. “So, what did you want to ask me?”

“Do you know the name of the creep in the overcoat who was at the show on Wednesday?”

“What creep?”

“In the front row? He was also standing right by the curtain before the show. Tried to push his way in when we went backstage”

Eva shook her head. “Sorry, Porky,” she said. “I wasn’t there when the rest of you headed back—I was in the bathroom, remember? Just like right now.”

“You don’t remember seeing him earlier, though?”

“Honestly, I don’t pay a lot of attention to guys like that at shows. I see enough of them at my other job.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “Okay, then, on a completely different topic: In the two hours or so before you arrived at Topkapi, what were you doing?”

Eva smiled, licked her lips. “Now you’re getting personal.”

“I am?”

“In this case. Because what I was doing was...” She leaned close and whispered it in my ear.

“Ah,” I said. “For the whole two hours?”