“I think maybe Vern’s mistaken, or drew some kind of wrong impression.”
“We’re not ones to take people’s impressions at face value either, so we looked into it. Mr. Long’s credit card receipts confirm Mr. Firth’s belief.” He opened the evidence folder and pulled one out. “Over a three-month period, Mr. Long purchased several private dances. Mr. Firth walked us through the service codes Deuces uses and we noted that the vast majority of those purchases involved dancer 1469.” Tapping the line item on the receipt copy, he flicked his eyes to hers. “That’s you.”
She squinted at the receipt. “Yes.”
“So, Carlton Long has been one of your regular clients for at least three months, and yet, last night you told me you didn’t recognize his name. I find that curious.”
Stacy took a long drink, while her eyes strayed down and to the right—a classic indication of someone formulating a story. “I’m not good with names. If I’d seen his face, without the…trauma, I might have recognized him. The name by itself?” She executed a jerky shrug. “It just didn’t click.”
“I hear what you’re saying. Business is business.” He tucked the receipt back in the folder, and then scratched his chin. “The thing is, Stacy, I’m not quite buying it, because I noticed something about you last night.”
She took another sip of water, sloshing a little due to her shaking hand.
“When you work,” he continued, “you’re very aware of your audience. You take in details and retain them.”
There went those eyes again—down and right.
“That’s, um, kind of an illusion, Detective. Customers want to feel special, like they’re getting personal attention. I hate to burst your bubble, but for the dancers, the clients’ names and faces all blend together.”
Trevor rubbed his jaw and made a show of considering her explanation. “Maybe for some dancers they do, but I sense not for you. You’re an active observer, strategic even.”
She used the nail of her ring finger to worry the cuticle of her thumb and shook her head. “No, not really. Like I said—”
“Last night, during your stage dance, you sized up everyone in the front row before choosing your dance partner. You correctly assessed your mark as a little drunk and available for some audience participation, but not so drunk as to risk getting out of hand. To make those kinds of decisions, you have to be observant and smart.”
Full, unadorned lips parted, as if to offer an automatic denial, and then closed. She took a breath and relaxed her shoulders. “The man happened to be sitting in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. I’m a dancer, not a trained observer.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Of course, you’ve made some bad calls too, like your choice last week.”
“My choice last week?”
Again, he noted her genuine confusion. “Yes. Last Saturday you selected Mr. Long as your dance partner, but instead of playing nice, he got overexcited and pulled you offstage. Mr. Firth said you sprained your ankle as a result of the spill and took this past Thursday off in order to give yourself an extra day to heal. I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good.” He gave himself a moment to simply look at her, into her, beyond the line of bull she persisted in feeding him, but she kept her expression locked tight. “Forgive me, Stacy, but I need to run through these facts one more time. Last night, when I told you the victim was Carlton Long, no bells of recognition rang in your head. Correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s hard to keep track of every Tom, Dick, and Carl.”
“Despite him being a long-standing customer? Despite him spending over five thousand dollars for private dances before the night of your accident?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Handling the charge cards and payments is someone else’s job. The dancers don’t deal with it, so names don’t necessarily come up.”
“You’d given him at least one private dance a week for the last three months. Are you telling me his name never came up during all that time? Wouldn’t you want to address such a devoted client by name?”
“Maybe he called himself Carl once or twice, Detective. I meet a lot of men. You stop retaining names after a while. I don’t really remember.”
“A regular client who pulls you o
ffstage and injures you so badly you need a full week to recover doesn’t stand out?”
“Of course I remember the incident, but…” She shrugged.
He leaned forward until he could look her in the eye. Hers were wide and unhappy. “Sorry, but I’m still having a tough time with this. You pick up details and you have a good memory. Last night when I showed up at the crime scene, you recognized me and remembered my name. I’m not even a regular customer, let alone one who’s spent thousands on your private dances. How do you explain your remarkable recall with me?
Eyes down and right, like clockwork. “You’re a cop. Cops don’t blend in,” she replied, a little desperately. But he had to hand it to her. She had a marginally plausible answer for everything.
“So, you’re not good with names, or faces?”