Atonement (20 page)

They got their show. No way in hell was she going to let them gather any more gossip from her meeting with Cassy and Agent Hunt.

She'd just call and ask them to pick up the food and come back to the house. Home was safer.

No encounters with stupid people. Or eerie feelings of something deadly watching her.

Nic walked around her kitchen, studying the files laid out on the table while she munched on the remains of a burger. From the moment Cassy and Boyce brought the food into the house, she'd been going over each of these strange suicides, making notations on the sheets of paper next to each file. She ignored her sister's attempts to find out if she'd learned anything new this morning or if Con was going to join them at any time. Nic was fully intent on burying herself in these files.

Looking up, Nic found Cassy leaning against the door frame. The sisters were alone; Agent Hunt had split after receiving a cryptic call. His odd behavior was starting to grate. He was supposed to be assisting the McIntire Sheriff's Department with these suicides, not dropping everything and bolting the moment his phone rang.

He'd also spent a long time in secret discussion with Cassy. Her sister was agitated about something, but neither would speak loudly enough for Nic to overhear what was going on.

“Was Giselle a stripper or a hooker? Or both?”

Nic's attention snapped back to Cassy. “What?”

“Giselle Tomberlin. Her suicide note said she ‘sold her body for money,' so which was it, stripping or hooking?”

Nic had moved on to the now-cold fries. “Good question. I doubt it was hooking, since we don't exactly have prostitutes working the street corners of Eider.”

“No, but people find ways around that perception of a nice, clean town. Didn't the note say she committed adultery, too?”

“Yes, both of those
professions
result in the same thing.” Nic sniffed. “Wouldn't good ole Father Evans be devastated to know that sweet Giselle was slutting around?”

“That's harsh, Nic, even for you.”

Regret flashed through Nic, but she sloughed it off by shoving a pile of fries into her mouth. So what if she was capable of feeling bitchy? She had a right. Father Evans had rubbed her wrong, and people were in denial if they thought everyone in Eider was a good, solid citizen.

“Is there a strip joint in town?” Cassy asked.

“Not in Eider. There's some place between Eider and Cornell. I haven't been there. If they have trouble out there, Hamilton usually goes or sends Walker.”

“You going out today to ask if she worked there?”

Nic flicked through the autopsy report, eating more fries. “Con or Hunt should go. Places like that probably think I'm there for a job,” she said around the food.

Cassy smiled. “You're full of yourself.”

A text message alert played. Nic dragged her cell phone out, glanced at it, then shoved it back into her jeans. Not hers. Cassy disappeared from the doorway.

Nic picked up anther file and, again, read a portion she'd highlighted.

Wound indicative of a self-inflicted gunshot.
This from the coroner.

Nic's note in the margin:

Why, indeed?

And why would Giselle Tomberlin want to end it, too? People committed adultery every day and never had a regret about it.

Finishing the fries, Nic tapped a finger on her empty hand against the Tomberlin case file. She didn't like the idea of Con or Hunt going to that bar. In her experience, when it came to investigating someone at a strip club, men tended to get the old wink-wink treatment—“You overlook what I'm doing here, and I'll scratch your back, or some other body part.” If one of them was going, she should be there, too.

She glanced at her watch. Lunchtime was over.

“I'm heading out,” she said, breezing past Cassy. “I've got rounds to make this afternoon, and maybe I'll check into the strip bar.”

“Thought you were leaving that up to Detective O'Hanlon or Agent Hunt.”

Nic grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair and slid her arms into it. “Changed my mind. I'd have more luck than them.”

“Because you're a woman?”

“And I can speak asshole real well. Oh look, The General did teach me something.” Nic popped a piece of cinnamon gum into her mouth, saluted Cassy, then banged out of the house.

• • •

Con pulled into The Golden Slipper lot and parked. The place was a dump. Rumor had it the building had once been a feed and grain store that went under sometime in the '60s. Some enterprising gentleman bought the business and converted it into a high-class establishment for the lonely. The gravel lot was usually half full of dirty pick-ups and rusted cars. About every two weeks, the sheriff's department was called out to break up some kind of fight and make arrests.

And Nic thought Giselle Tomberlin might have worked here.

Con closed the door on his sister's SUV—his truck would be ready later today—and squinted through his sunglasses at the ugly, yellow-painted building. Early in his police officer career, he had to track down a bail-jumper who was known to frequent The Golden Slipper before running from the law, and since then, Con hadn't set foot inside the strip bar. For good reason.

Leaning against a rickety support post, Nic waited for him. She looked damn good. How did the uniform companies manage to make the pants fit just right on a woman—snug enough to show off her curves but allow her freedom of movement?

“Are you going to keep staring at me all day?” she barked.

“Only if you want me to.” With a half-smile, Con joined her.

Releasing an exasperated groan, Nic pushed the door open and went inside.

The stench of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke tried to cover up the heavy odor of marijuana. Con suppressed the urge to gag. He hated places like this. It seemed they were between girls since no one was on the stage. At this time of day, hardly anyone was here—most of the men who frequented the place were working, and they really should've been saving their money instead of wasting it in this dump.

Maybe Nic was grasping at thin air.

“What makes you think Giselle willingly exposed her body here?” he asked.

“Desperate people do desperate things.” Nic snapped her gum. “I want to know what she was so desperate for she'd admit to selling her body for money.”

“You said Doc Drummond told you she had a medical condition. These days, any kind of treatment will make you go bankrupt.”

“Possible, but I think there's more to it.” She moved through the scattered tables toward the bar.

Con pulled up a stool next to her at the bar. The barkeep, a man with sleeve tattoos, stared at them from the far end like he had no intention of serving or even talking to them. A guy the barkeep was talking with gave Nic a lewd look. If she noticed, she didn't react. Con's blood pressure spiked.

“How are you going to approach this?” he asked.

A wry smile turned up the corner of her mouth. “Not the way they expect.”

The songs changed, and the lights dimmed as a girl came out onto the stage. Once the men's attentions shifted to the dancer, Nic slipped off the stool and sidled around the bar to a dark corner Con hadn't noticed when they came in. How she moved without attracting attention set him back. Then again, this was probably ingrained in her during her days as a sniper.

Quietly, Con trailed her through a door that opened into the red-lit back rooms. They passed a storage cooler and a janitor's closet that didn't appear to get much use.

“The barkeep's going to figure out what you did,” he said in a low voice.

“I expect him to, but let's hope it takes him a while. Do you know who the owner is?”

“Some slimy geezer who doesn't spend much time here.” Con avoided a stack of boxes filled with empty beer bottles. “I think the barkeep is a family member.”

“Who probably has a rap sheet a mile long.” Nic paused outside of a closed door where the sound of hushed female voices drifted out. “Please contain your maleness once this door opens and you see all that glorious female flesh.”

He flashed what he hoped was an irritating smile. “Would you like me to close my eyes and conduct this interview blinded? It would prevent me from seeing all that glorious female flesh and not sinning.”

Nic rolled her eyes and mumbled something.

“What was that? I didn't quite catch it.”

“How does your sister put up with you?”

He shrugged. “She loves me, I guess.”

Nic opened the door, and he braced for the squeals sure to come once the girls saw a man back here. Nothing. His presence was rewarded with a single gasp and a few groans.

“Does anyone man that damn back door?” a gal with a husky voice demanded.

“What do you want?” another spat out.

“Wow, what a jaded bunch,” Nic said, moving further into the dressing room.

Most of the women in the room didn't look much older than twenty-five. Con questioned if one or two of them were even of legal age to be stripping. The one with the husky voice appeared to be pushing forty, but it could be the fact she was probably hooked on marijuana or meth and this lifestyle.

“Usually, when a cop comes in here, someone is getting their ass arrested, and we're getting grilled about what we saw,” Husky Voice said.

“Well, no one is getting arrested at the moment.” Nic stood in front of a disheveled blonde Con didn't believe was older than eighteen. “'Course, I could always bring one or two of you in on suspicion of underage drinking and”—she sniffed the girl's robe—what little of it there was—“drug use.”

“Oh, give it a break, bitch. We've heard it all before.” Apparently, Husky Voice was the ringleader.

Con shifted closer to Nic. The vibe in the room was turning uglier. If making all of these rough-and-tumble strippers mad was part of Nic's plan, she'd gone loco.

She turned to the ringleader and pulled out the picture of Giselle they'd taken from her home instead of using a photo from the morgue. “I had this theory and wanted to see if I was right.” Nic held up the picture for everyone in the room.

Con watched some of the younger women closely, waiting for a reaction. The blonde did her best to keep her features stone cold, but he spotted the flicker of recognition in the girl's eyes.

“I'm sure you heard the rumors that Giselle Tomberlin passed away this week.” Nic circulated the dressing room, pausing in front of each woman. “Kind of tragic. A young woman like that with a full life in front of her, and she cuts it short. On a whim.”

The blonde clutched her robe and swallowed hard. Bingo. She was the weakest link.

He caught Nic's eye and winked. She cocked her head to the side and gave a subtle nod; she got the message.

“What's that got to do with us?” Husky Voice snapped.

Nic stopped in front of her. “You tell me.” A chill fell over the room at the sharp edge to her tone.

Husky Voice's scowl deepened, and she looked Nic up and down, as if sizing her up for a fight. “I remember who you are now. You're that shooter who killed Dusty Walker.”

Nic didn't flinch this time when her kill shot was mentioned. Instead, she invaded the other woman's personal space. Was she getting past the guilt?

“Did Giselle work here?”

“No,” Husky Voice said, unfazed.

“That wasn't so hard.” Nic returned the picture to her jacket pocket. “I think I'm done here.” She turned her back on Husky Voice.

Con stiffened when the other woman twitched as if she wanted to attack Nic, but one look at him and Husky Voice relaxed against the vanity she stood in front of. He waited for Nic to leave the dressing room before following her out. They didn't speak as they made their way back to the front of the bar. Slipping out of the back hall, they came face to face with the barkeep.

“No one is supposed to be back there except employees.”

“Oh, my bad. I thought this was the way to the restrooms,” Nic remarked.

Angry lines etched deep on the barkeep's face. “I'll be giving a call to your boss, Deputy.”

“You do that. I'll be sure to let him know about the pictures I took of the boxes of pseudoephedrine back there. I think he'd love to crack down on another meth house.”

“There are no boxes back there.”

“Aren't there?”

Con's nerves tingled. What the hell was Nic doing? It was like she was purposely provoking the bear to attack.

“Get out of here,” the barkeep snarled.

Con kept a watch on the barkeep and anyone else in the joint who presented a threat as they left. Once the door closed behind his back, he pushed Nic forward until they were beside her Jeep.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What I do best.”

“Piss people off to the point they want to physically harm you?”

She didn't even have the grace to look ashamed of her actions. “This is me, Con. You have The General to thank for that.” She moved to get around him, but he blocked her way.

“This shouldn't be you. It's time you drop the tough-girl act. The people of Eider and McIntire County won't stand for it.”

“Maybe it's time someone kicked them in the balls and brought them into the twenty-first century, because this outdated mentality is going to be the death of them.”

“And you think you're going to be the one to do it?”

The sound of metal hinges squealing from disuse brought them to a stop.

Nic crossed her arms and smiled smugly. “Yeah, maybe it is me.” She pointed toward the back of the building.