The Granite Moth (14 page)

“They keep a database, Star of David-style, except in an Excel sheet.” He spat on the ground before continuing. “They set up Google alerts for each name that they have on record. It's incomplete, but impressively thorough.”

“Impressively?”

The Texan shook his head at my irritation. My attitude was apparently less impressive than a target list.

“I'm not sure if there's a drug connection, yet, but it's worth checking out. If I can bring down a hate group in my spare time, hell, that's a fine day's work.”

“What about the porn?” I asked, mulling over this new development. I leaned against the wall, my knees weak since the adrenaline was leaving my system. Agent Thornfield hadn't
threatened me to back off his case, so I was feeling okay about my odds of seeing this investigation through. And vigilantism is overrated. If the DEA brought down Salvatore Magrelli all the better. I'd rather keep my head on my neck, thank you very much.

“No kiddie stuff that I saw, but I'll look into the production companies. Probably a storage facility. A few extra bucks a month to keep some men's habits from their wives.”

I was lost in thought, staring at the flaking paint on a cinder-block wall when John continued talking. “Which brings me to you, Miss Stone.”

I stood up a little straighter, ready for the lecture. It wasn't the one I expected.

“You're working for the Dekker fellow, right?”

“Yes. Lars,” I clarified.

“And his brother's the cop?”

“The detective, yes.”

John grunted. “Alrighty then. Let's see what shakes out.”

The Pink Parrot had reopened, and customers were packed in, vying for drinks and seats. The benefit performance wasn't until Saturday, but that didn't stop the locals from paying their respects in the form of large cash tips. Carlton Casborough was on stage as Cassandra when I entered, and I paused to consider whether the man wearing cowboy boots and a red halter dress looked like a murderer. It was easier to believe that a hate group had been behind the explosion than a jealous lover, but statistically speaking, you're more likely to know your killer.

I glanced at my phone to check the time and remembered the voicemail from Lars that I hadn't checked. It was too loud to hear when I pressed the phone to my ear, but he had texted, as well: “
Dinner 2morrow nite?” I texted back “sure” before I could chicken out and ignored the anticipation that settled in my stomach. At least I could update him on what I'd found out from Thornfield. Otherwise, my trip to the viper's den had been something of a bust. All I'd really found out was that the Zeus Society had been at the graveside service for Ernesto and the memorial for Bobbie and Taylor. It was a link, sure, but cobweb thin.

I squeezed through the sea of bodies, murmuring apologies for stepped-on toes, and ducked backstage. Dolly's dressing-room door was closed, but he was expecting me, and I entered after knocking. Dolly wasn't gussied up for performing, and I wanted to know if he ever would again. The burn was exposed and covered with scabs that seemed infected, though I'm no expert. I mentioned something about antibiotics, and my friend pointed at a Duane Reade bag tossed beside old lipsticks on his vanity.

“The doc says the wound needs to air out, so I've been taking it out for strolls in Riverside Park,” Dolly said.

“How romantic.”

“No other murders,” he said, turning his computer screen toward me, so that I could see the NYPD's graphic. “But three gay men killed in one week doesn't seem like a fluke to me.”

Meeza had already told me this information, but I wanted Dolly to think he was helping. And he was. In fact, I wouldn't have been at The Pink Parrot if I didn't need some serious help.

“I still consider Tongue worth checking out,” I said, thinking again about killers usually knowing their victims. I wanted to talk to Bomber, Ernesto's boyfriend who hadn't yet shown his respects to the grieving parents. Dolly hadn't complained about me juggling two cases, but I think he wanted them to be connected. To be honest, so did I. I was with DEA agent John Thornfield on this one: Why not take down a hate group when you can?

“
Bien sûr, ma chérie.
I wish I could go with you,” Dolly said, examining his burn in the mirror. “Trust me when I say this face wouldn't go over well.”

He made this declaration in a matter-of-fact tone. Dolly may have chosen a drama-filled career, but he carried his burdens lightly. It was possible that his star turn was over, not to mention the ubiquitous longing glances I'd seen thrown in his direction. Not that he still wasn't beautiful to me, but I may have been biased.

“I was thinking I might go as Keith,” I said after a pause, and Dolly laughed. The sound was spontaneous rather than mean, and I found myself laughing, too, even though I hadn't been joking. Maybe I hadn't thought this one completely through, but I sometimes passed myself off as a teenager named Keith by slipping into some skater clothes and slicking down my boy-short hair. It was one of my favorite disguises, a sure-fire way to be left alone.

“Not if you want to get into the place. It's gayboy bunny or nothing.”

By the time I teetered out onto the street, Dolly had worked some witchcraft on me. I sported the long, platinum curls I thought of as Kiki and a black, sequined dress that hit a scandalous-length above my knees. Dolly had conceded to my plea for tights, but they were silver and sparkled. I had my Kate Manning ID with me, just in case, not that I resembled a soccer mom in the least, but I doubted anyone would card me. With caked on foundation and fake eyelashes, I looked older—if not washed-up at least trying-too-hard. Maybe under stage lights this getup would scream “alluring,” but here in the flashing neon in front of The Pink Parrot, “garish” came to mind. So much for my usual plan of flying under the radar. I raised my hand, and two taxis squealed to a stop.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
he house music was hypnotic after awhile, or maybe the 7 & 7 I'd ordered was too strong. In any case, I was sleepier than I should have been on a reconnaissance mission. “Go do that badass spy shit that you do,” Dolly had said when I slinked (okay, tripped) out of his room. So I was trying. The Zeus Society convert dress I had worn that morning may have left something to be desired, but at least it didn't pinch my sides if I turned too quickly. Tina Turner must have superpowers to shake and sing in similar outfits. Thinking about my run-in with Leader Cronos Holt and his devotees made me feel more tired, but I ordered another drink (light on the Seagrams) and surveyed my surroundings.

The club was tamer than I imagined it would be, but it was a Monday night after all. No one was taking advantage of the dance floor, and the disco ball made rainbow-colored patterns on the floor as it spun. The tables around the edges were mostly occupied. My story, which I shared with the uninterested bartender, was that I was waiting on someone. I wasn't the only woman in the place, but the only other one was with a group, some sort of
celebration I deduced from their occasional cheers. They seemed to be toasting a friend who covered his face every time at their declarations of love. “More, more” disguised as “Stop it, you guys.”

I tossed back my drink, so that I could order another.
What would Tina Turner do
, I asked myself. Well, Tina wouldn't hang out on this barstool by herself, that's for damn sure. Bomber's Facebook privacy settings had been severe, and even jealous-ex-worthy cyberstalking hadn't turned up a photograph. I was hoping that he would look familiar from the snapshot at Ernesto's salon workstation. It was probably like picking out your suitcase from the luggage carousel. You couldn't describe it in a police report, but when it slid into view, you'd know to grab the handle. Fingers crossed. The bartender acknowledged me when I caught his eye, but finished his conversation before sauntering in my direction. He either thought I wasn't likely to be a repeat costumer or was too cool to care.

“I'll have another, although it looks like I've been stood up,” I said. He raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, then turned to pull the whiskey from a shelf. “Hey, you don't happen to know if Bomber's here tonight. I can at least say hi and not call this whole night a bust.”

The bartender looked at me curiously as he added Seven Up to my glass, then gestured toward the birthday party in the corner.

“Well, I'll be! How could I have missed him?” I slid a twenty onto the bar and said he could keep the change, hoping a five-dollar tip read as grateful rather than desperate—or worse, suspicious—and headed toward the group in question. The woman noticed my approach, and she didn't seem welcoming, her smile replaced by a thin, tight line of pink lipgloss.
May she get it on her teeth for scowling.

“So sorry to interrupt,” I began. “My pals are late—really late, like rude-level late—and I'm bored to absolute tears. Do you think I could join you? I'm Kiki, by the way.”

The group tried to communicate telepathically, but in the end, the first to speak got his way, and he muttered “sure.” I slid in beside him on the pleather bench, maneuvering my short skirt in as lady-like manner as possible. I wished the man had a luggage tag that I could check, but I was pretty sure that I was sitting next to Bomber.

“I've seen you here before,” I began before anyone could start questioning me. In my periphery, I could tell that the bartender noticed my acceptance into the group, and I was glad that he was well out of earshot. Actually, the other occupants of the table were basically out of earshot, as well, given the bass line pouring from the speakers above our heads. I yelled my opening line this time, “I've seen you here before!”

Bomber leaned close to my ear. “I should hope so! It's my place,” he shouted and laughed, pleased with himself. The others laughed, too, although they couldn't have heard him.

“Well, shut my mouth, no way,” I said. “That is too dreamy. This place is wild.” I poured on the compliments thick and hoped he caught some of them. In Ernesto's photograph, he had looked barely old enough to drink, but up close, I could see that he was probably in his late twenties, baby-faced but with faint lines on his forehead. It still seemed crazy that such a young guy would own a Manhattan nightclub. The rent payments alone on this place must have been astronomical, and good credit can only get you so far. Color me impressed.

I was less impressed by his easy manner, his total lack of obvious heartache. His boyfriend had been killed three days before; shouldn't he be at home wallowing? I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Belasco's tart response to Bomber's whereabouts. Maybe what I had mistaken for homophobia was a dislike for their son's choice of partner. And if Ernesto hadn't been showing up for work, did that mean he planned to get serious
with this budding mogul? Maybe Bomber wasn't much into having a trophy husband.

I took another drink of my 7 & 7 and looked up at Bomber's friends with an over-the-top pout on my lips.

“I can't believe I've been STOOD UP.” They expressed various amounts of sympathy. It was clear that I had disrupted their levity, and all they wanted was for me to leave them alone. I wasn't quite finished, and turned back to Bomber, cupping my hand around his ear.

“Where's that handsome beau of yours? I've seen him around here, too.”

The music didn't screech to a halt, but it might as well have. Bomber must have made some sort of signal because a bodyguard appeared to suggest I retake my seat at the bar. No velvet ropes in sight, but that area was now “V.I.P.” I waved good-bye to the group as if accustomed to being shuffled out of sight and sauntered back over to the bar with my glass.

“I guess I'm calling it quits for the night,” I said to the bartender. He barely looked up from the flirtatious conversation he had struck up with the older gentleman who had taken my spot. I tucked my tail and headed out in the brisk night. A taxi pulled up before I even raised my hand.

“Home, Jeeves” is something I have never said. I had the driver drop me at Columbus Circle, then took the subway home where I carefully placed Dolly's wig on a mannequin head then fell asleep in my dress and makeup.