“Stay in the car, Mark. Your presence might prejudice the results we hope to get.”
Mark reluctantly acquiesced to Burt’s request, acknowledging that he would be more of a hindrance than a help.
Burt had parked a few doors from Donna’s apartment because he didn’t want her to be able to look out her window and see Mark. Detective Johnson, on the other hand, parked right in front of her door and he was waiting for us when Burt and I walked up.
“Donna’s car is here, so she must be home,” I said, pointing the old Chevy out to the two of them.
“I called her and made sure she would be home,” Detective Johnson said, the coldness in his voice indicating what he thought of my reservations about his competence. “You just better not be wasting my time.”
He rang the bell and as we waited I noted that the broken front window had been replaced. Donna opened the door; she seemed surprised to see me and even more surprised to have Burt introduced to her as Mark’s attorney. However, she shook hands with Burt and led us into the main room of the apartment.
When she offered us seats, Detective Johnson said, “We’re not going to stay long. We want to talk to you briefly about your role as the Shooting Star.”
“Is that going to be brought out at the trial?” Donna asked, looking from one of us to another.
“Your own testimony will bring it up,” Detective Johnson said. “That’s where you were the night of Elise’s murder. Right?”
“But if you answer our questions now,” Burt said, smoothly, “maybe we can downplay it. Do your parents know you were the Shooting Star?”
Donna shook her head.
“How long did you dance as the Shooting Star?” Detective Johnson asked.
“About…three months. I started in December.”
“How did you get to and from Club Cavalier?”
“I drove my car. But I didn’t park in the parking lot.”
“How did you get along with Lefty?” Burt asked.
Donna hesitated. “You mean the owner? Fine…we got along fine.”
“But you didn’t give him your correct name. And you asked to be paid in cash.”
“That was…I didn’t want people to know I was doing it.”
“It also allowed you to avoid paying taxes on your earnings.”
“I…”
“We’re not going to rat to the IRS on you,” Detective Johnson said, irritably, looking at Burt. “We just want the truth. Could you please put on your wig and mask?”
“Why?”
“Because Mrs. Morgan saw you dance. We just want to verify that it was really you.”
Donna looked at me, warily. “I’ve already put on my mask and wig for her.”
“I’d like to see you in them again,” I said, trying to placate her. If she refused, could Detective Johnson force her to wear them?
Donna hesitated, and said, “I’m not going to take off my clothes.”
“That’s okay,” Burt said, with a smile. “We have good imaginations.”
Actually, I wondered if I would be able to verify her identity better with her clothes off, but when she turned and went into the bedroom I figured we’d take it one step at a time.
Donna returned two minutes later with the mask and wig in place and she did bear a striking resemblance to the Shooting Star from the neck up. Below the neck she wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt and that completely spoiled the picture. I wished Burt hadn’t said it was all right for her to leave on her clothes.
“Can you play the music you used?” I asked.
“I’m not sure where the CD is.”
Donna stalled, but the three of us looked at her, expectantly, and the force of our wills eventually impelled her to search through a stack of CDs until she found the correct one. She placed it in the player and soon the up-temple notes of Perry Como filled the room: “Don’t let the stars get in your eyes, don’t let the moon break your heart…”
“Do some of your routine for us,” Burt said.
“There isn’t enough room.”
“Would you like to do it outside?” Detective Johnson asked.
“No.”
This was like pulling teeth. I could understand Donna’s embarrassment at doing a strip routine under these circumstances, even with her clothes on, but we were trying to find out the truth and didn’t have time for sympathy. Again the force of our collective will did battle with hers.
“Okay, okay. The kitchen. I’ll do it in the kitchen.”
The kitchen was small, but at least it wasn’t cluttered with furniture. The three of us crowded into the doorway to watch. Donna kicked off her sandals and started doing some dance steps in time to the music. I had to admit that she looked plausible. She did know something about dancing and she did have a sense of rhythm. Still, it would have been much easier to compare her performance with what I saw at Club Cavalier if she hadn’t been wearing all those clothes.
This was a strange situation because since she had taken her clothes off in front of men before, it shouldn’t be a big deal, but the clients of Club Cavalier were anonymous and there had at least been a psychological distance between her and them. Maybe if I shooed Burt and Detective Johnson out of the apartment…
I said, “But can you do a split while hanging upside down on the pole?”
Donna immediately went into a split on the floor.
“I could never do that,” Burt said, with a shiver.
She wasn’t on a pole, but still… I had another idea. I said, “Do a back-flip.”
“A what?”
Donna stopped dancing and stared at me. So did the others.
“A back-flip, like you did at Club Cavalier.”
“You’re out of your mind. I never did a back-flip at Club Cavalier. You’re trying to get me because I told what I knew about Dr. Pappas. You won’t admit I’m the Shooting Star. Well I am the Shooting Star, damn it. You want me to take off my clothes and prove it? Okay, I will.”
Donna grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt with her arms crossed and started to pull it over her head. Detective Johnson took hold of her arms and stopped her, probably thinking of the trouble he could get into for having a witness strip.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” Detective Johnson asked me.
In the background, the song “Don’t Let the Stars Get Into Your Eyes” ended, and Perry launched into another star song: “Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away…”
I was on to something. I tried to remain calm as I said, “Hundreds of people have seen the Shooting Star dance at Club Cavalier. They include my son and the owner and the other dancers. And thanks to Eric Hoffman, we have the license plate numbers of many others. It would be easy to find a dozen witnesses who will tell you that the Shooting Star did two back-flips in her routine. All I’m asking is that you do one for us now.”
“I can’t do a back-flip in here,” Donna said, her voice suddenly reasonable. As you can see, the apartment is too small. And the ceiling’s too low.”
“How about outside on the grass?” Burt said.
“I need a firm surface to take off from.”
“Okay, the sidewalk.”
“It’s too uneven.”
“This is what we’re going to do,” Detective Johnson said, reaching the end of his patience. “We’re going to the field-house, where Crescent Heights plays its basketball games. A basketball court has the same kind of floor as the stage at Club Cavalier, right? Or at least it’s close enough.”
“Or we could go to Club Cavalier, itself,” I said. “Then you could show us how you work on the pole. There aren’t many patrons at this time of day and I’m sure Lefty would be glad to see you again.”
A look that might have been panic briefly crossed Donna’s face. It passed, but she remained silent for a bit. When she spoke her voice was soft. “I did it for her,” she said. “I did it for Elise. Mr. Hoffman was so into this morality thing with strip clubs that I couldn’t let him remember his daughter as a stripper.”
“So Elise was the Shooting Star and not you?” Detective Johnson demanded.
Donna nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Detective Johnson turned to Burt and me. “Out,” he said. Both of you, out. I want to talk to her alone.”