Chapter Nine

A check of ChiChi Lopez's residence and workplace told Eve she'd have a five-block trip there from the D&D, and about seven to Delights, the strip joint where Lopez earned her living.

She considered the building traffic, the frustration of finding parking, and decided to walk it.

Adding the time to her considerations, and when she could reasonably expect to finish up, drive uptown and home, she tagged Roarke as she walked.

"Lieutenant, I see you're out and about."

"Yeah, I'm going to be late. I'm on my way to see a stripper."

"Anyone I know?"

She paused at the crosswalk with far too many others. "Just how many strippers are in your acquaintance?"

"Who counts? I'm just leaving the office. Why don't I join you?"

"I'm trying her residence first, so there may not be a show."

"I'll risk it. Give me your destinations, and I'll head your way. The car can drop me off, and we can drive home together. Maybe I'll talk you into letting me take you to dinner."

"A handful of blocks from Crack's," she began, and reeled off the addresses. "In that order."

"I'll find you."

Yeah, she thought as she shoved her 'link back in her pocket, he would. They'd found each other, after all, in a world of murder and mayhem.

She watched a couple of street LCs grab a cart meal before they started their nightly stroll. A woman in micro shorts and a sports bra stepped out on a third-floor fire escape and watered a wilting pot of flowers. A skinny white cat with black markings sat on the windowsill and watched her.

She passed a market with fruit stalls flanking the entrance. It smelled like summer.

A guy in a backward fielder's cap sold knockoff designer wrist units at a sidewalk table. He had a couple of tourists on the hook.

They'd be better off with a sundial, but you lived and you learned.

The after-work crowd began to flood the sidewalks, fast walking, talking on 'links, heading home or for drinks, an early meal. She passed a bar where happy hour spilled out to the sidewalk tables, and like the fire escape flowers, people wilted in the heat.

More poured up or down the steps at subway stations.

She turned a corner and watched a man in a business suit swooshing his way down the block on an airboard.

She caught snatches of conversation.

Frankie can fuck himself with a cactus.

We need to lock down that account.

My feet are killing me. Are you sure we're going the right way?

Then turned once more and stopped at the first address.

Surprised, she studied a townhome of painted white brick with a pot of flowers, not wilted, on the stoop.

Three tidy stories with solid security and windows shining clean, it nestled between another set of townhomes and a Mexican restaurant called Abuela's with sidewalk service under a red-and-white-striped awning.

ChiChi must be a hell of a stripper, Eve thought, and walked up to press the buzzer.

Though the entrance had an intercom, there was no answer, not even from an annoying program. She gave it one more buzz, and a woman stepped out of the next door, leading a little rat dog.

"She's not home."

Eve stepped down, walked over to the woman with battleship-gray hair worn in a top bun. She wore a flowered dress over a body whittled down, to Eve's eye, by a solid eight decades. She had a face of sharp bones, golden skin, lively dark eyes, and bold red lips.

Beside her the little rat dog sniffed at Eve's boots. Then yipped and yapped as if someone had kicked it in the ribs.

It bounced like a spring.

The woman snapped something at it in Spanish, and it sat, just staring at Eve with slightly crazed eyes.

"Do you know if Ms. Lopez would be at work?"

"Of course she's at work! We earn a living in our family. This is about poor Erin. A sweet girl, an artist." The woman crossed herself. "God has welcomed her into his arms, but too soon for those who knew and loved her."

Then she pointed a finger at Eve. "I know police when I see police. What do you want with our ChiChi? I'm her abuela ."

"You're her grandmother?"

"Didn't I say so? This is my place." She gestured to the restaurant. "The family business. But ChiChi, she has no skill for cooking, for this business. She has other skills."

The abuela smiled.

"Yes, ma'am. You knew Erin Albright?"

"A good friend of my granddaughter, a friend of our family. Our priest will dedicate a mass to her. Why do you need to talk to ChiChi?"

"It's routine, ma'am."

Now she wagged that finger back and forth. "The police say routine, but don't always mean it. So you talk to her, you go talk to ChiChi. There's evil in the world. It preys on the innocent and takes innocent lives. You know this already."

"I do."

"Then talk to ChiChi, but go find the evil. I have to walk my dog, then go to work."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She stepped aside so the woman could lead her dog to the sidewalk.

And continued on.

She considered the encounter fascinating, and telling. The stripper shared a wall with her grandmother, and right next to the family restaurant. And that family had known, and apparently liked, Erin Albright.

Would she have called on one of them for backup? Possible, she decided, and that opened up yet another avenue to explore.

When she reached Delights, it didn't surprise her to see Roarke standing outside, under the sign of a well-endowed woman in a G-string and pasties, head tossed back as if in orgasm as she rode a pole.

"And there she is," he said. "I was just about to tag you to see if I'd guessed correctly or had a bit of a walk coming."

"You guessed correctly. Lopez is at work. I talked to her grandmother, who lives in the townhouse next door. Do you know Abuela's, a Mexican place?"

"I do, yes. A very well-run restaurant. Her grandmother's then?"

"The family's anyway. The grandmother says ChiChi's talents lie in another direction. She knew the victim."

She scanned the exterior as she spoke. "More upscale than I expected. Not yours, is it?"

"Sadly no."

"You're faster. Check who owns the restaurant building, this one, and those townhouses."

He took out his PPC, and had the answer in seconds. "Aren't you the clever one. Lopez Family LLC owns those properties, and a few more besides—a few residential more."

"With all that, I guess ChiChi just likes getting naked. Let's go in."

Music thrummed. The lights held dim except on the circular stage, where a woman strolled and strutted in a three-piece suit and mile-high heels. She wore a fedora cocked on her head.

Eve recognized the woman she'd come to speak with.

Plush red seats circled the stage, and for this early in the evening, Eve found them surprisingly full.

More seats and booths lined the walls, and the bar in the rear did a brisk business. Servers in G-strings and pasties carried trays.

Some of them had bills tucked into the G-string.

A man in a corner booth enjoyed a lap dance, but his gaze stayed on the woman onstage rather than the one who serviced him.

She didn't seem to mind.

And Eve supposed ChiChi Lopez was something to see.

She'd stripped off her tie, shimmied/wiggled out of the suit jacket before doing a stylish turn on the pole. The vest came next, and more pole work.

Eve had to admit the woman was flexible, and had a style. Even while she stayed fully dressed, patrons tossed bills on the stage.

When the music hit a clash of brass, she tore open the breakaway dress shirt, revealing impressive breasts accented by tiny, sparkling pasties.

More money flew when she tossed a leg up the pole, executing a standing split. By the time she yanked off the breakaway pants, the crowd buzzed and cheered.

More cheers when she tossed away her hat, and black curls cascaded free.

Eve figured her pole work in the tiny spangles reached gymnast level, maybe contortionist.

Bumps, grinds, backbends, spins, and twirls, and Eve figured for about a ten-minute routine, she'd pulled in easily two hundred in tips. Maybe three. At roughly six in the evening.

"Entertaining," Roarke commented.

"Take off your clothes and people toss money at you. It's weird."

Since she'd already made security—the wide-shouldered man in the back in a black suit—she walked his way.

She held up her badge. "Lieutenant Dallas and civilian consultant, NYPSD. I need to speak with Ms. Lopez."

"About Erin? I'm ChiChi's cousin. Our abuela let me know you were coming. Have a seat—" He pointed to a booth. "Drinks on the house. I'll tell my cousin."

When he walked off, Eve shook her head. "More weird. His cousin gets naked onstage, and he doesn't blink."

"Just a job of work, Eve."

"A job of work where the audience is getting boners over your cousin."

"Plenty of women in here as well."

"They get the female equivalent of a boner."

She took a seat in the booth. "Stick with water, okay? We're on the job."

One of the nearly naked servers sidled up, gave Roarke a crystal clear eye fuck.

"Just water, please. Still."

"Whatever you want." She purred it. "I'm at your service."

"Jesus," Eve muttered as she hip-rocked away. "I'm sitting right here."

Roarke just smiled. "So tell me, why are we here about to interrogate a very talented stripper?"

"Interview. The stripper was at the party, and at one time got naked with the victim."

"I see."

"The victim had a friend lined up to bring the case—with the costume, the tickets—into the club. But that friend had to go to Baltimore—sister in labor, blah blah—that's confirmed, confirmed the friend never made the party at all. So Erin told the friend not to worry. She had backup."

"You're looking for the backup."

"I'm looking for the backup," she agreed, and gave him the bare bones while the nearly naked server brought their water, and they waited for ChiChi.

"A lot of legwork today," Roarke concluded.

"Yeah, some eliminations, some maybes, and now with the Lopez family, possibly some expansions. And here she comes."

ChiChi had changed into a black skin suit, cut nearly to her waist in the front. She'd left her hair down but had changed her stage heels for black sneakers.

There, Eve gave her points for sense.

She slid into the booth across from Eve and Roarke.

"Cops can make our clientele nervous."

"I wouldn't be here making your clientele nervous if you'd responded to my partner's v-mails."

"I didn't feel like it." She shrugged as the server brought her sparkling water. "I said everything I knew, which is nothing, last night. I lost a friend. I took a pill and went to bed, and stayed there until after noon. I had to tell my family, and they liked Erin a lot. Then I went to church with my abuela , and got ready for work."

"You work an early shift," Eve noted. "I'd think the later crowd would bring in more."

"I bring in more." She tossed her hair. "And I'm done by ten."

She shifted eyes very like her grandmother's to Roarke. "If you like redheads, Gia said to tell you she'd give you the first lap dance free."

"That's a lovely offer, but I prefer lanky brunettes."

"Your choice."

"You were involved with Erin at one time," Eve said.

"I wouldn't say involved. We took a spin a few times. I like sex—not a crime. I like sex with men, with women, also not a crime. I liked sex with Erin. We had some fun, but we weren't looking to pick out china patterns. She met Shauna, and we stopped taking spins."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How was I supposed to feel?" She tossed back her waterfall of hair, gave Eve a cool, patronizing smile. "Look around here. I could have my pick, but I keep sex and work separate. Maybe I didn't get what Erin's thing was with Shauna, but her life, right?

"Until it wasn't."

"Not a fan of Shauna's?"

"She's all right. If you go for boring and ordinary." With a shrug, she drank some water. "I just didn't get it, that's all. Why she wanted this shoe store manager, this dead ordinary person, and the whole marriage thing."

"Did she know how you felt about it?"

"She knew I thought she was making a mistake, sure. I mean, hell, how long do you have to be young, and she locks herself in with one person before she's thirty? I didn't get it."

"But you went last night."

"Sure, why not? It's a party, and she's a friend of mine. Was." She paused, drank again. "Was. And I thought, what the hell, they're having this deal at a place like the D&D? Maybe Shauna's not as dull as I figured. Anyway, she got trashed enough to get up there and strip down. No style to it, and not a lot of tits, but she was game. Gotta give her that."

"Have you spoken to anyone who was there last night since?"

"No. I didn't want to. I didn't want to go over and over it. What's the point? She meant something to me. I thought she was wasting her life, then all of a sudden, she doesn't have a life to waste."

"Have you ever been to her art studio?"

"Sure. We were friends, so sure. Hell, I posed for her in there, then we rolled around on the floor. Did the same with the big guy. Anton."

"Anton Carver? So you had sex with him?"

"One round, after he sketched me. A couple rounds since. Why not?"

"After Erin met Shauna?"

"Yeah, after. No big thing."

"Did you work here yesterday, before the party?"

"I take Mondays off."

"Why don't you run me through your day?"

"For fuck's sake." She set down her water with a pissy little slam. "Look, I have to get ready for my next act."

"Then make it quick."

"I slept in. I went over to the restaurant for lunch, hung out with the family awhile, then went home. I'm working on a fresh act. Worked on that, did some yoga, had some dinner, cleaned up, changed. I walked to the D&D, got there just before the storm hit. Maybe ten.

"Is that it?"

"That'll do for now. Thanks for your time."

"We got lawyers in the family. If you want more, go through them."

She pushed out of the booth and walked away.

"Interesting," Eve murmured, and pulled out a ten for the table.

"It was," Roarke agreed. "She's very angry."

"Tall and strong." Eve slid out of the booth, walked with Roarke to the door. "Enough to fit. Angry, and she doesn't like Shauna."

"More logical, wouldn't it be, to dispose of the one she doesn't like?"

"Not if you're looking for payback." Outside, Eve started back the way she'd come. "Erin cut off that part of their relationship, and she meant more than our stripper wants to admit. Revenge sex with Erin's studio mate, that's a tell."

"Revenge sex is a long way from murder."

"Dating's a long way from marriage. In a little over a year, Erin and Shauna went from one to the other. Nearly got there. Maybe you think, all right, it's just a phase. It won't last. She'll get tired of this ordinary person and we'll pick things up where we left off. Then they're doing that—what is it—china pattern thing, and it hits, it's not just a phase. You won't be picking things up where you left off. She's rejected you and chosen someone else."

"And you think her outline of her day gives her plenty of room."

"Plenty of room to get the case, the swipes. Possible she had a swipe to the studio—between sex rounds, posing. Plenty of room to get the case in there, then party, party, party. And try this."

She paused at the corner, glanced over at him. "She keeps the privacy room swipe, tells Erin how she'll help her change for the big surprise. Good friend, lending a hand, so she slips into the room and waits."

"Very cold and calculating. She seemed more hot and angry."

"Now," Eve agreed. "Now it's done, and she can't take it back." Eve gestured. "That's her place, grandmother next door, then the restaurant."

"And they also own the other townhouses there. Are you interested in tortillas for dinner?"

"I thought about it, get a look at her family at work, but no. If it's her, it's her, not likely them. Plus, they look packed, so not a good time to try to squeeze out any information.

"I'm parked a couple blocks from Crack's. I cleared him to open tomorrow. Rochelle was in there cleaning the bar. He did the crime scene himself. Wouldn't hire it out."

"It's his place. It's personal for him."

"It's all personal with this one. I was in the victim's studio today, and saw some of her work. It looked good to me. She'd done a painting of Polumbi's, the pizzeria where I had my first slice. Her artist friend—the one who was in Baltimore—said it was one of their hangouts. She got it, she really captured it. And she painted a figure at the window counter. It took me right back."

He took her hand, kissed it. "Why don't we go there now? I'll call ahead, get us a booth."

She started to say no, they should just go home. Her board, her book, the case.

"Yeah, let's do that. I could use that place, the pull back to that time, not to mention the pizza."

It worked its magic, the smells, the light, the energy. She sat so she faced the front, and the memory.

Roarke ordered a carafe of the house wine, and pizza.

"I did a lot of walking around New York today," she told him. "Downtown anyway. And it struck me how much it's mine. And that painting… I'd never felt what I felt when I sat on that stool at that counter looking out at the street. I never felt that freedom, and more, honest-to-God, like home. Mine. Never tasted anything half as wonderful as that first bite of pizza."

"Whenever I think of buying the place—" He held up a hand before she could object. "Whenever I do, I understand no, no, it would change what it is for you if it was ours in that way. But you should buy the painting."

"I should buy the painting?"

"If her parents, or whoever's in charge, will sell it. I'd buy it for you, but I think it's the same as buying this place. It wouldn't be the same. You should buy it for yourself."

She hadn't thought of it, but now…

"Maybe. I don't know if that's weird again."

"I don't think so." He poured their wine when the server brought the carafe.

"I'll think about it, but first we find who killed her so she'll never paint another. So far, I'm leaning toward exes. One of Erin's, two—possibly three—of Shauna's. You put an ex on somebody, no matter how it happens, there's a dig in there. A lot of times that dig keeps getting deeper instead of filling in."

He listened while she ran it through, and when the pizza arrived, put a slice on her plate, then his.

"You're leaning away from the bootie buddy."

"Leaning away, but not crossing off entirely. He doesn't feel right for it," she admitted. "But again, Erin got in his way. When and if Shauna wants to pick things up again, he's right there."

"Sex is powerful, but sex alone as a motive?"

"That's what we've got, so far. Weak, yeah."

She lifted the slice, took a bite. And yes, it took her back, back to where everything was new and bright and, most of all, free.

"But under sex is resentment, maybe a sense of betrayal. I sure as hell felt that from Lopez. ‘You chose her over me? And now you ask me to help you give her this big deal? This dream? Screw that.'"

"And Shauna's exes."

"Starts the same. Rejection, betrayal. Then wait a damn minute, now she's with a woman? What does that make me? Was she faking it with me? Pretending? Using me? Asking him to help with the surprise, that's both insult and opportunity."

"But he doesn't target the one who rejected him."

"Maybe he still wants her. Maybe he wants to soothe his ego, maybe both. So remove the obstacle."

She ate more pizza. "Still weak, but it's what we've got. It's not money, it's not some deep secret, I don't find envy. What I find is personal. Sex, passion, rejection, betrayal. Add making a mistake—the way Lopez sees it. The timing, Roarke, days before the wedding, and at a party. That counts, too."

She picked up her wine. "Everyone I've looked at? No major criminal, clean finances, no signs of gambling, addictions. They're a tight group, close in proximity, a tribe. Peabody calls the women a tribe. I guess that makes the male portions just outside that, but they connect, too."

"Why don't I take a closer look at the financials? Of the victim, her fiancée, and your top suspects?"

"If you can't find anything there, it absolutely eliminates that as any sort of a motive."

"Plus, entertaining for me. You said her art was good."

"I thought so. So did Peabody. And apparently so does the woman who runs the gallery where she had a show, and sold the paintings that paid for Maui."

"Her art will likely be worth more now. Dead artist, it often follows."

Eve's eyes narrowed. "That's an angle. Some of this tribe has some of her art. And then the gallery. She didn't have a will. Most people her age, and in her financial bracket, don't bother. So do the paintings go to her parents—next of kin—or to Shauna?"

"Next of kin would be the legal answer, I'd think. Some sort of combination would likely be the emotional choice."

"Yeah, they'd probably work something out, and add some of her friends in, too."

She went back to pizza. "But how much could it come to? And still," she added, "people kill for less than whatever that may be. It's a good angle."

"Happy to oblige."

Like in the painting, a waitress walked by with a tray. People ate slices, wound pasta, drank wine.

"We need to find out who has any of her work. I know Angie Decker does. She's not hurting for cash—unless I didn't find that in her financials. There's art in the vic's place she shared with Shauna. I don't see Shauna in this, but it's worth a look. Lopez posed for her, bound to have a piece or two. Stillwater told us he had a couple. And so did Wanda Rogan. And there were a hell of a lot of canvases in that studio—with crappy security. Someone could walk in, take their pick.

"This is an angle." And she felt the boost from it. "Maybe money after all. Or sex and money—always a top combo."

"I have a great deal of affection for both myself."

She gave him a "Ha! That's no secret. You may have reached your quota of sex already today, since that busty server eye-fucked you twice."

"And yet, I don't feel satisfied."

"You could've had a free lap dance with a redhead."

"And yet," he said again, "here I am, having pizza with my lanky brunette."

"If redheads are redheads," she wondered, "why aren't people with brown hair brownheads? Why brunettes?"

He lifted his wineglass. "A question for the ages."

"People with blond hair are blonds, with an e on the end if female for some stupid reason. You got black hair, they say black-haired. Who decided to make up a whole new word for brown hair?"

"I believe it's French."

"Should've figured." She shrugged it off. "Anyway. I don't get the lap dance thing. Paying somebody to sit on your lap and rub crotches. You can't put hands on her—gotta pay more in a privacy room there if the club has a license for it. You just sit there with your pants on while she grinds and rocks on you. So if you get off, you get off in your pants, and that's gotta be a damn mess."

Roarke took another slice of pizza. "Who else has such fascinating discussions over wine and pizza? I'll say I'm in general agreement re the worth of the lap dance, but to each their own."

"Whatever." She shrugged again, ate. "Lopez? She was born with those tits. Too much movement for otherwise."

Roarke eyed her over the slice. "Interesting comment. If I agree I might be accused of paying too much attention to those tits."

"Ace, if you weren't paying attention to that set, you're not the man I married."

"I'm very much the man you married."

Laughing, she took a bite of pizza.

Traffic—street and pedestrian—had calmed, at least some, by the time Roarke drove uptown. Eve used the time to update Peabody.

Lopez goes on the list. Full report to follow, but she's angry, a hard-ass, and had plenty of time on Monday to collect the case, swipes, etc. My sense is she had stronger feelings for the victim than she admits, and more dislike for Hunnicut than she let show.

New angle: Dead artist = steeper prices for paintings. Who gets the paintings in the gallery, in the studio, elsewhere? Who already owns her paintings? Who among those might have money issues we haven't uncovered?

No will, so next of kin? But there are several pieces we saw in the shared apartment. So possession to Shauna there. Gallery might have some sort of contract. Need to find out.

Contact Frost, find out what you can on that. If we need more, we bring her in tomorrow. Delay that. We'll go to the gallery tomorrow. Meanwhile, double verify her travel, in case.

I'm going to want a list of who bought or was gifted any of her work. Let's play the angle out.

"It could go toward revenge, too," Eve said when she finished the text. "She tossed me aside, or she's the reason Shauna tossed her aside, I not only get rid of that bitch, I cash in on it. What does a struggling young artist give pals for birthdays, Christmas, all the damn gift-required shit we worship in our society?"

"A drawing, a painting, and likely something that has some meaning to the recipient."

"That's what I say. The amount of profit probably doesn't matter nearly as much as the satisfaction."

"And how do those just outside the tribe acquire them?"

"Maybe they buy. In Stillwater's case, he got to be friends with the victim, too—and he said he bought a couple. He stayed connected. Same with Barney, and he's added the Becca link to it. Rierdon? I'll find out."

"I've no doubt," he agreed, and drove through the gates.

She looked at the house that Roarke built as the quieting summer sun dropped in the west. Her home, she thought, inside the city that was her home.

Then she looked at him, the man who'd made home more than she'd ever known it could be.

"That was damn productive pizza."