Killerfind (18 page)

hetta
nearly spit coffee
across her desk.

  
  “Adele Griffith? Are you sure?”

“Yep. Her picture was in the paper this weekend.”

“Still, how do you know it was her for sure?”

“Well, besides the lady looking just like her
picture, her license plates are personalized. They say A-D-E-L-E.”

“Holy cow. I overheard her tell the deputy she
doesn’t drive.”

“Well, maybe she doesn’t drive much, but that
doesn’t mean she can’t drive.”

Rhetta thought about that. “Yeah, maybe she was too
upset in the sheriff’s office.” She told Woody about seeing her there, and how
she’d confirmed that the belongings they found were indeed Malcom’s.

“Have you just changed your mind or are we still
going to Illinois?”

“We’re absolutely going to go look for Mylene
Allard. Checking out Mrs. Griffith will just have to wait.”

“Do you want to drive on this person hunt, or do you
want me to?” Woody asked, jingling his keys at her.

“I need air conditioning, so I’ll drive,” Rhetta
said, withdrawing her keys from her purse, then sliding the purse up her arm.
She gulped the last of her coffee.

“My Jeep is air conditioned. All natural air when
the top’s down.”

“I know how that works. No thanks. Let’s take mine.”
She aimed her keys at Streak, clicked the opener and unlocked the doors.

Woody jumped in quickly and was strapped in by the
time Rhetta slid behind the wheel, set her phone on top of the console and
inserted the keys in the ignition. She turned and studied him. “You sure got in
quickly.”

“Last time I got in with you, you took off so fast,
you nearly threw me out on the pavement,” he said. His lips twitched in a faint
smile.

“Dang, Woody, you make it sound like I did that on
purpose.”

He shot her a sideways look, but said nothing. He
pulled out his notepad containing the page he had printed with the information,
along with his iPhone. “I mapped the address, as well as printed it.” He held
up the phone. “Let’s roll.”

*
* *

Twenty
minutes later, they’d crossed the Emerson Bridge over the bank-f Mississippi
River. The drive normally took about five minutes, but today, thanks to a load
of produce that had been dumped in the middle of Kingshighway, and a minivan
that sideswiped a police cruiser, traffic was snarled all the way from their
office to the bridge.

Early persistent summer rains had pushed the river
up against the Cape Girardeau, Missouri, floodwall during several months of
high water, resulting in swamped fields on the unprotected Illinois side. The
flooding was still evident in the water-soaked land that bordered each side of
Route 146, making the highway look like a causeway through a giant lake. No
crops this year. As they rounded a curve near the small village of East Cape
Girardeau, Rhetta spotted the local notorious bar and hot spot, The Pink
Peacock. A single car sat in the parking lot. Although the business appeared
closed, she knew the bar didn’t open until evenings, and that later, the lot
would be full. She and Randolph used this route when they went to the Lake.
According to the blinking roadside sign in the parking lot, the club featured
pole dancers, strippers and various other forms of entertainment that Rhetta
didn’t want to think about. About a quarter mile past the Peacock, Rhetta
pulled over and began to turn around.

“What’s up?” Woody asked, swiveling his head to look
back to where they’d just come. “Why are you turning around?”

“The sign back there said the Pink Peacock has
strippers and pole dancers. Just for grins, let’s go and see if anyone there
knows Mylene Allard.”

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone there right now,
and what makes you think anyone there would know her?”

“There’s one car in the lot. Someone’s there, maybe
the manager. I’m thinking Mylene’s our missing pole dancer.”

Woody gazed back at Rhetta. “If she is, she’d be a
little old to still be pole dancing, don’t you think?”

“That depends. Nobody seemed to know exactly how old
she was when she was supposedly carrying on with Malcom Griffith. She could be
barely in her forties now. Not too old for the Peacock, based on the pictures
I’ve seen of the entertainers there,” Rhetta said and chuckled. “It isn’t Las
Vegas. Besides, the interior is dim and they serve alcohol, so all the women
are bound to look good.” Woody just shook his head, and said nothing. “I’m
wondering why she wanted to meet me out at the barn. Now Jeremy is dead. It’s
much too coincidental.”

Woody continued staring at Rhetta. “I know—you hate
coincidences. You think she might be the killer?”

“I don’t really know what to think. That’s why we
need to find her and talk to her. The cops don’t seem in a big hurry to find
her. They’re too busy looking at Ricky for this.”

“Then we should try going to her address first. It’s
only about ten miles from here. Besides, if we ask about her at the Peacock,
word might get back to her. Not to mention what might happen to us for asking.”

Rhetta made a left turn into the Peacock’s
pothole-riddled parking lot. The only car near the building was incongruous in
the surroundings—a magnificent late-model Dodge Viper. She pulled in beside it
and shut off Streak. She climbed out and wandered around to the front of the
spotless red machine. The personalized plate read MYVPR. “Hmm.
My Viper
.
I’d take it in a heartbeat.” She glanced at the plate again and noticed it bore
a running horse across the top. Not an Illinois tag. The car must belong to a
wealthy Peacock customer from Kentucky.

Rhetta returned to her vehicle and leaned on the
passenger door. Woody had rolled down the window, but was still buckled in. She
pointed to the bar. “This is the only strip joint in a fifty mile radius of
where you say her address is. All the more reason to stop here and check it
out.” She eyed Woody, who still hadn’t unfastened his seat belt. “Aren’t you
coming with me?”

“I want to know how you know this is the only strip
joint? You make a habit of going to strip joints? Does Randolph know about
this?”

She glared at him. “You’re not the only person who
knows how to use Google.”

Woody wasn’t swayed. “This isn’t a good idea. This
is a rough place, Rhetta. We have no business being here.” She knew he was
referring to the stories they’d heard about unsavory happenings at the Peacock.
Tales of abundant drugs and hard-boiled mobsters, prostitution rings, and
you-name-it made the news many times over the years. “That snappy red Viper
probably belongs to a hit man out of Chicago,” he added.

She turned so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes with
impatience as she headed for the entrance. He threw open the car door. She was
already striding toward the building. “Hold on, I’m coming, since you’re
determined to go in and ask about her.” He loped toward her. When she saw he
was following, she waited for him to catch up. He placed a hand on her arm.
“Just what, exactly, are you going to say?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll play this by ear.” Woody
groaned and Rhetta shot him a withering look. At least she hoped it was. She
felt like she was the one withering, standing in the heat arguing with him.

The Peacock was housed in a sixty-year old,
flat-roofed concrete block building in a shade of yellowish green that hadn’t
been popular in over forty years. An eight-foot peacock in chipped pink paint
and trimmed in neon tubing adorned the front. At night, the lighted neon
peacock strutted across the face of the building. By day, it merely looked worn
out.

Rhetta cupped her hands around her eyes and peered
through the frosted glass on the locked entry door. Although she couldn’t see
anyone, lights glowed from inside. “Someone must be here. There are lights on,”
she said as she banged on the door. The heat had already caused sweat droplets
to pop out on her forehead, and made Woody’s head shine. Wiping his head with a
handkerchief he’d pulled from his rear pants pocket, Woody stopped alongside
her. She’d forgotten her sunglasses in the car, so she shielded her eyes as she
swept them across the parking area. Unless there was additional parking in
back, there were no other cars.

At the sound of her knocking, a shadow slid from
behind the bar and made its way to the door. “Someone’s coming, but I can’t
tell if it’s a man or a woman,” Rhetta whispered, just as the figure reached
the door and unlocked it. A tall, slim brunette woman of indeterminate age
greeted them.

“Yes?” she asked. Her voice sounded much older than
her face appeared. Probably from the years of smoking as evidenced by the lit
cigarette she carried, the smoke coiling toward the ceiling. She took a deep
drag, then said, “What can I do for you? The bar doesn’t open until seven.” She
turned her head and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“We’re not looking for the bar. I’m trying to find
someone, and I wonder if she may have worked here at one time.”

“Maybe. Who wants to know? Are you guys cops?” She
scrutinized them from top to bottom. “Or the IRS?”

“Us, IRS? No. Not cops, either. We’re bankers.”
Rhetta glanced at Woody. He was staring at the redhead. His hand went to the
top of his head.

The woman threw her head back and laughed. “That’s a
new one. Bankers.” Her laughed turned to a choking cough. When she caught her
breath, she said, “The last two nuts that showed up here were carrying Bibles.
They were a husband and wife team from some little reform church over in Marble
Hill. They stopped the girls on their way in. They did that for a couple of
days, and finally gave up. Tried to get the girls to quit working here. Didn’t
have another job for ’em, but wanted ’em to quit so they could get saved.” She
took another long drag, then tossed the still burning cigarette out into the
broken asphalt parking lot. “So, are you guys going to lend ’em money instead
of trying to save ’em?” Her laugh turned to a rattle, and then she coughed
again. After a wheezy breath, she folded her arms across her chest. “All right,
who are you looking for?”

Rhetta shot Woody a glance, and he nodded.

“Mylene Allard,” he said. “Do you know her?”

The woman stepped to within inches of Rhetta. With
hands on her narrow hips, she studied Rhetta from top to bottom, then performed
a similar appraisal of Woody. When she was apparently satisfied, she stepped
back and held the door open, gesturing for them to follow her. “Come in,” she
said, jutting her chin toward the interior. Once inside, she closed and bolted
the door. Rhetta spun around and stared at the locked door. At least she had
Woody there for protection, although she wished she had her .38. The locked
door made her decidedly nervous. More than one person had been shot at the
Peacock. She glanced around the dim interior. The air was stale with cigarette
smoke. Tables with chairs stacked on top were crowded together on the hardwood
floor. Along one side of the huge open room was a long bar, with stools lined
up close together, like soldiers awaiting orders. Across the opposite wall was
a raised stage where Rhetta spotted several poles and a few cages on platforms.
Cages? Were those handcuffs attached to the bars? She shuddered.

The brunette whirled around.

“I’m Mylene Allard.”