Part 2 (2/2)
”Right,” Marco said. ”But you said so yourself that someone went through some trouble to make it look like a vampire death. I'd say that makes it a pretty relevant angle.”
I had to admit, I agreed.
”And who better,” Marco went on, ”to track down a vampire killer than us? I mean, how many times have you seen Moonlight?”
”Seven,” I admitted. ”This week.”
He turned to Dana. ”You?”
”Way too many,” she answered rolling her eyes.
”I rest my case,” Marco said. ”We are totally vampire experts.”
”Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask a few questions...” I hedged.
Famous last words.
Marco squealed and clapped his hands. ”OhmiG.o.d, I've got the perfect pink trench coat for vampire slaying. I've always wanted to go Buffy all over some evil undead hottie!”
I rolled my eyes. I hoped for all our sakes that Ramirez was making more headway.
Chapter Four.
Marco made himself a cup of real coffee while I took a shower, did a quick blow dry, mascara swipe and lipgloss application. Then I tried to wedge myself into a cute pink top and my favorite pair of jeans. Which almost fit. If I looped a rubber band through the b.u.t.ton hole and around the b.u.t.ton. But the top was a no-go. My belly stuck out beneath the hem like a giant white bowling ball. I conceded defeat and grabbed a long, skinny-tank to layer beneath it. Then I thrust my feet into a pair of sequined wedges from my summer collection.
”Okay, so where do we start?” I asked as we all piled into Dana's red Mustang.
”Um, duh, clearly looking for a vampire,” Marco said.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at him from the backseat.
”Hey, are you rolling your eyes at me?”
Okay, I almost resisted. ”Look, we can't just roam the streets looking for some guy with fangs. We need a real plan.”
”Well, what about the friend?” Dana asked. ”The girl Alexa was at Crush with. I think we should talk to her.”
I nodded. ”Perfect. Let's go back to Crush. Maybe someone there knows who she is and where we can find her.”
Hollywood was quieter at this time of day, mostly filled with tourists and sightseers as opposed to the club crowd from yesterday. The outside of Crush looked a lot less interesting in the daylight the steel grey door a nondescript opening, the sign above it dark, though the door was unlocked as we pushed through it.
While the swarm of police officers was gone, a few crime scene techs still lingered, dusting down tables and doorframes for fingerprints. I hated to break it to them, but they were going to find about a million of them on every surface. If this was the process of elimination the cops were employing, I had to agree with Marco that we had a fighting shot at catching the killer first.
To the right, the gla.s.s bar looked duller and decidedly more sticky than it had last night, a lone bartender standing behind it drying gla.s.ses with a white towel. He looked up as we approached, and I recognized him as the guy who'd poured our drinks the night before.
”We're closed,” he said, spotting us.
”I know. We were actually hoping to ask you a couple questions,” Dana responded, putting her elbows up on the bar.
The guy raised an eyebrow at her. ”And you are?”
”Dana Dashel,” Dana said, extending a hand across the bar to him. ”My boyfriend, Ricky Montgomery is a part owner in this place.”
The bartender looked from Dana's hand to her, then back at the hand. ”Darwin Watts. But we're still closed.”
”We were in here last night?” I jumped in, hoping to jog his memory into more friendly territory.
His gaze pinged to me, then narrowed.
”Yeah. I remember you. Cranberry juice.”
”Right” I said, pointing to The b.u.mp. ”Anyway, we're looking into the death of Alexa Weston,” I supplied. Then added, ”For the owners.” Or at least one-sixteenth of them.
Up went his eyebrows again, his gaze going from Dana to me to Marco (who had, in fact, insisted on stopping by his place for a pink trench coat, a leopard printed fedora, and a black turtleneck that covered his entire neck from collarbone to chin, ”just in case”), clearly not totally believing that anyone would trust an investigation to a pregnant lady, a blond in a miniskirt, and gay-lock Holmes.
”Was Alexa a regular here?” Dana asked, pressing forward.
The bartender shrugged. ”I wouldn't say regular.”
”But she had been in before?” I asked, jumping on that tidbit of info.
He shrugged again, turning his back to us as he grabbed another gla.s.s that was clearly already clean and started polis.h.i.+ng away. ”Sure.”
”Sure?”
”I've seen her in once or twice before, I guess.”
”What about her friend?”
He gave me a blank look.
”The girl she was with last night? The redhead? Had you seen her before?”
He shrugged again. ”Sorry. A lot of people come through here every night.”
I pursed my lips. This was getting us nowhere fast. ”Do you know how she paid?” I asked, changing tactics. If we had the redhead's credit card receipt, we'd at least have a name.
Predictably he shook his head. ”Dude, how am I supposed to remember how every patron pays?”
”What if I could tell you the drink she ordered?” I asked. ”Could you look up if anyone paid with a credit card for that specific drink last night?”
He looked from Dana to me. ”You sure Ricky Montgomery's your boyfriend? 'Cause I thought I saw him in here with Ava Martinez last week.”
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