The Retro Look (3 page)

“Hell, no. Something’s going on, and it’s on my nickel.”

She studied him. He was usually her most docile client, but about once a year something happened to make him dig in. This was obviously the occasion for this year, and she had to admit that she had given him more justification than usual.

And sooner or later, she would have to explain everything to him. She might as well get started.

She led Jeffrey to the stairwell. Bergsten and a younger man in a tuxedo had already found the body. The retired cop had a head start on his anger, and the sight of Jeffrey pushed him into full tantrum.

“What the hell did you bring him for?”

Diana didn’t get time to answer. Jeffrey was inept with women, but he handled other men just fine.

“I’m part of the package. Deal with it.”

Jeffrey turned to Diana and jerked his head toward the body on the floor.

“Who is that?”

“A client, Jeffrey.”

“I’m your client.”

“You know I work for other men. I’ve never tried to hide it.”

But of course he saw the flaw in her argument. She worked for other men on their time, not his. His expression said they would discuss it further.

She could wait.

“Call Slatella first,” Bergsten told his young assistant. “Then call the cops. In that order, clear?”

“Clear.”

“When you talk to the cops, hold out for Detective Novotny. Don’t let them send just anybody. Use my name. She’ll come.”

“Got it.”

The young man departed. Bergsten looked down at the body. Diana inched closer, but Bergsten glared until she retreated.

She knew he had seen the wound, and she wondered whether he was also thinking of an ice pick.

“We’ll be going back to our room,” Jeffrey said.

“The hell you will. You pushed your way into this. You’ll wait for the cops right here.”

“I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with. How much money did you raise for Republican candidates last year? Not as much as I did. The governor takes my calls. Your Mr. Slatella will take hers.”

Jeffrey took Diana’s arm and led her through the fire door into the hall. They walked in silence to their room. Inside, Jeffrey leaned against one of the dressers with his arms folded.

“You said you were going to take in a show.”

“I didn’t, Jeffrey.”

“Obviously.”

“I just wanted to watch some TV. Do you understand, Jeffrey? I’m as boring as everybody else. That’s why you don’t want to marry me. Not just because I’m a whore.”

He winced as if she had slapped him.

“Then this guy offered me five hundred dollars for an hour. And you know what? He never touched me.”

“For five hundred? I can’t believe that.”

“I only lie to you when you want me to.”

There. She had won. It had been necessary, but it made her feel terrible. Jeffrey stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was making a point of not talking to her. She didn’t feel entitled to join him. She took the uncomfortable chair at the desk and waited. The night was just getting started.

Someone knocked on the door. Jeffrey got up to open it, and an attractively tough blonde woman in her thirties stood in the doorway, ready to knock again.

“I’m Novotny. Atlantic City Police.”

Neither Diana nor Jeffrey replied.

“Okay, Mr. Pope, I need you to leave me and Ms. Andrews alone.”

Jeffrey started to speak, but Novotny was ready.

“Yes, I know the governor takes your calls. I also know the governor won’t interfere in a homicide investigation. If you go down to the bar for a while, maybe I won’t have to take your girlfriend to the station.”

Jeffrey glared, but his mother won again. He couldn’t stand up against a woman. He did jostle the detective just enough to make it possibly an accident. The door slammed behind him.

“I lied,” said Novotny. “Let’s go downtown.”

“I take it I’m a suspect.”

“We’re just going to talk.”

“Right. What about Lax’s partners? Are you taking them in too, or was the casino watching them the whole time?”

Novotny’s stony look made it clear what she thought of amateur investigators, especially those who guessed right.

“We have you in Harold Lax’s room by your admission. Not to mention a witness who puts you there.”

“That other hooker. You believe her?”

“We know her better than we know you.”

“I left him alive.”

“So you say. The problem is, we can’t pinpoint the time of death.”

“No security cameras.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

Diana shrugged. “I always check for them. Situation like this, cameras should have ruled me out.”

“No such luck.”

Novotny made a disgusted noise.

“Typical casino. They spend millions spying on their own employees, but they cheap out everywhere else. So we have to do things the hard way.”

“We can go downtown,” Diana said, “but I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we go up to his room, I’ll tell you who did it.”

“You’re going to confess?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Novotny studied her. “Okay, we can go downtown anytime.”

They took the elevator. Evidence technicians were probably at work in the stairwell. More technicians crawled through Harold Lax’s room and photographed, scraped, prodded, or tweezed everything they found. Novotny spoke to a Tyvek-suited woman, who shut her vacuum off.

The notebook still lay on the bed. A young man took one last photograph and stepped away. Novotny put a pair of latex gloves on. Diana tried not to wince. She had touched the notebook, and she was going to have to admit it. She could see no way of getting out of this mess without giving up her fingerprints, which until now no police department had ever taken.

Novotny paged through the book. Her expression didn’t change.

“You’ve seen this?”

“He paid me to do those poses. So yes, I saw it.” Diana wasn’t about to admit coming back a second time. “Look at that name.”

“Rose-with-a.”

“Rose-vee-ta, they say in German.”

“You speak German?”

“Not exactly. I’m a true crime fanatic.”

Novotny closed the notebook. “Let’s go.”

“I’m telling you, you want to hear this.”

“Make it quick.”

“
American Justice, Cold Case Files, City Confidential
—I watch them all.”

“Your point?”

“Roswitha Loschky. She was German, and she was a prostitute, which is why it made a special impression on me. It always does when somebody in my line of work meets the wrong guy.”

“When was this?”

“Twenty-some years ago, in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Get real. This has got nothing to do with anything.”

“The woman in those drawings is European. You can tell. And she’s from the seventies. You can see that too.”

“Our victim was, what, twelve years old?”

“Exactly.”

Diana told Novotny about her hour with Lax.

“Sexually, he was a case of arrested development. Trust me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. In that department he was still a twelve-year-old boy.”

“Or he was like you. He saw the case on TV and got obsessed.”

“Maybe, or maybe he was there. You can call Fort Lauderdale and check.”

“Let’s go.”

Diana hadn’t really expected to avoid a trip to the police station.

They drove through the real Atlantic City, the one behind the casinos. Diana didn’t want to look too closely. Novotny put her in an evil-smelling interview room. The detective didn’t bother telling her to wait. What else could Diana do?

Over an hour later Novotny came back. She wore a thoughtful expression.

“Our victim is Harold Lax Jr. Fort Lauderdale tells me that his father was a suspect. They just had no evidence.”

“He’s your suspect, too.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“At least see if he’s in town.”

That led to more waiting. An hour became two, and then three. Jeffrey was never going to speak to her again. Or worse, he would, and she would owe him for ruining the weekend.

Novotny came back.

“Get up.”

“What?”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Harold Lax Jr.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Novotny wasn’t kidding, or talking. She walked Diana through the booking, the mug shot, the fingerprinting, all of which were firsts for Diana. She decided she hadn’t missed anything.

Finally they were back where they had started, in the interview room.

“All right,” Diana said, “what’s this really about?”

“We have a case. I told you, a witness places you in the room around the time of death. More evidence will come.”

“Not unless you invent it. I guess I gave you too much credit.”

“Maybe I gave you too much.”

“I just told you who did it.”

“You were right about one thing. Harold Sr. is in town. All the way from South Dakota. He used his debit card, and we know where he’s staying. Problem is, none of that is illegal.”

“Ahah.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you want my help. You could have just asked, without the drama.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust a hooker to be on our side.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“But it’s going to cost you. Since you couldn’t be bothered to talk to me like a human being.”

“You’re in no position to bargain.”

“I’m already under arrest. Would I be in this job if I was afraid of jail?”

“Okay, what?”

“I want to watch you tear up that fingerprint card.”

“I would do that anyway, if you’re in the clear.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust a cop to be on my side.”

“Okay.”

“What do I need to do?”

“I want you to wear a wire and talk to him.”

“Me? What do I know about interrogating anybody?”

“We call it an interview.”

“That’s my point. I have no experience at this.”

Novotny grinned. “Do you know something about men?”

“I guess.”

“Trust me. That’s just as good.”

* * *

She itched.

Diana couldn’t concentrate on what she had to do. Clients often requested sexy lingerie without knowing what discomfort they were inflicting on her, but this tape job was something new on the misery index. And the microphone between her breasts reminded her of something stuck in her throat.

At least Novotny had let her change into the business casual slacks and blouse that Diana usually wore when she was working.

The sign in front of the building read, “Regal.” It figured. Fleabag motels usually had pretentious names.

Her pose felt reassuringly familiar. She had stood in front of hundreds of motel room doors with her fist raised to knock, but this time she had no idea what to expect or what she would say.

She rapped on the cheap wood veneer. Thirty unbearable seconds later someone inside the room started fumbling with the chain and the deadbolt. Diana felt a jolt of adrenaline in her core. What would a man who could kill his own son look like?

Ordinary. Harold Lax Sr. looked like an ordinary man in his mid-sixties. His son must have taken after his mother, because Diana saw no resemblance.

“Hi. I’m Diana.”

“I didn’t call for anyone.”

He knew hookers. That figured, if he had come close enough kill one.

“I know,” she said.

He started to close the door.

“I’m here about your son.”

The door stopped closing, and they studied each other. He was starting to look less ordinary. Most men would have shown some sign of fear or panic.

“Why don’t we talk inside?” she said.

“Why should we?”

He was as cool under pressure as she was, and that impressed her. She almost played the Roswitha Loschky card right then, but her instincts told her to save it.

“I just talked to your son.”

He glared at her. When she didn’t wilt, he stepped back and let her enter. More glaring followed, but she waited him out.

“Okay, you talked to him. Why do I care?”

“He told me a lot.”

Another staring contest.

“Such as?”

“I know he wanted to be an artist.”

That was a guess, but she was confident of her ground.

“He had talent. But you bullied him out of it.”

“If he thought that was bullying, he should have seen how life would treat an artist. Artists starve.”

“You wanted him to follow in your footsteps. So what is it—insurance? Accounting?”

It was insurance, but Diana didn’t plan to let him know that the cops had found out and fed her the information. She needed an edge.