Sampson said, “She was murdered in Florida.”
“Murdered?” she said, horrified. “My God. You never know, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Why’d she leave?”
Fox frowned, said, “I think she had issues.”
“Boyfriend issues?”
“A few weeks before she quit, she started insisting that someone always walk her to her car. She said she thought a guy was stalking her.”
“What guy? A customer?”
She frowned again, thought a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. She would have said something about that, right?”
“You’d think.”
“Sorry I can’t help you more than that,” she said.
“No, this helps,” I said.
On the way to the Fairfax Hooters, we laid odds on the likelihood of a creep or stalker having shown up in Althea Marks’s life. Sampson was calling it at three to two.
But I was thinking five to one when we went through the front doors and saw well-endowed young women in tight shorts and white T-shirts ferrying drinks and food to ogling young men, just like we’d seen at the Hooters in DC and in Laurel.
A creep could definitely be stalking young women here, I thought while Sampson asked to speak to the manager. Peter Mason, the manager, came out and apologized when he was unable to identify Kissy Raider or Althea Marks from photos.
Sampson said, “Ms. Marks worked here. She put it on a job application.”
Mason frowned. “How long ago?”
“Three years and a couple of months?”
He thought about that and then his brows shot up. “I was on paternity leave for ten weeks about then. Let me ask Stella. She’s been here as long as I have.”
Stella, the assistant night manager, didn’t recognize the name Althea Marks, but when she looked at the picture, she said, “Aly. Yeah, she worked here, maybe six weeks. Good waitress.”
“She say why she quit?” Sampson asked.
That seemed to make Stella uncomfortable. “What’s this about? She okay?”
“No,” I said. “She was murdered in Newport Beach, California, two years ago.”
“Murdered?” she said in a bewildered voice. “Oh my God. She was right.”
“Aly was right?” I said.
“I wanted to promote her or at least give her more shifts. But out of the blue, she came in and said she thought she and her son were unsafe here and that she was quitting. She wanted me to send her last paycheck to some PO box in California.”
“Who was making her feel unsafe? A customer?”
She shook her head. “No. Anyway, I don’t think so. We didn’t have any incidents with her and a guy that I could point to. But you know how it is — people’s lives are complicated. Especially for a young mom like that.”
By the time we left, it was pushing ten, and Sampson was in favor of calling it quits for the evening.
“No,” I said. “We’re three for three on the victims thinking they were unsafe or being followed by a creep. We just need to find out where Kissy worked.”
“You want to go to all four other Hooters on the list tonight?”
“One more,” I said. “The one in Chantilly, and then we’ll call it.”
Big John wasn’t thrilled about it, but he said, “Deal.”
We had luck on our side.
Carol Patrick, manager at the Chantilly Hooters, recognized Kissy Raider the second she saw the picture of her.
Her face lost all color and she said, “Is Kissy okay? Please tell me that beautiful soul is okay.”
Chapter 17
Carol Patrick broke down in a booth at the back of the Hooters where we’d gone to talk.
“Kissy told me he was a psycho,” Patrick said through sobs. “She said she could see it in his eyes, and that she needed to run.”
We told her to back up and give us what she knew. After she’d composed herself, Patrick said there’d been a guy in his thirties, real well dressed, who’d come to the restaurant several times and always asked for Kissy to be his server.
“He tried to follow her home one night,” Patrick said. “Kissy said she drove her car crazy and lost him, but she was frightened out of her mind, said she needed to quit.”
“Do we have a name?” Sampson asked.
“I don’t think she knew for sure. She called him creepy Mike, I think.”
“Mike,” I said, writing it down. “No last name?”
“Just creepy Mike with the dead eyes. And he wore a toupee.”
Sampson said, “He pay with a credit card?”
“No. That I do know. He paid cash and left her a big tip every time he was in.”
“And that was how often?” I asked.
“She worked here only, what, three weeks? He might have been here four times.”
“What about after she left?”
Patrick thought about that. “I don’t see everyone who comes through the door.”
“But you saw him?”
“I did. Twice.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Sampson said. “Enough for you to work with a sketch artist?”
“I guess. Sure, and...” Something seemed to dawn on her.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ll be a son of a... I got someone you might want to talk to.”
Patrick got up and came back with a Hooters girl in tow. Her name was Marlene Rogers. She was in her late twenties, five two, a buxom pretty blonde.
“She could be Kissy’s sister, couldn’t she?” Patrick said. “I’ve always said that.”
We knew Kissy’s sister, and she didn’t look anything like Ms. Rogers, but there was no denying Marlene’s resemblance to Kissy Raider, Althea Marks, and Samantha Bell. They were all of a type.
“Tell them, Marlene,” Patrick said. “Tell them what you told me last week.”
“I don’t know,” she said, twisting a strand of her hair. “It’s just a feeling I’ve been getting.”
“What kind of feeling?” I asked gently.
“Like I’m being watched. Like maybe someone is following me.”
“Who?”
“I... I don’t know for certain, but I’d swear it was this guy who came in for lunch about six weeks ago. Maybe longer.”
“Sharp dresser,” Patrick said. “Obvious toupee, right?”
Rogers frowned. “No toupee. He was balding. He was big and lean, and yeah, he had nice clothes.”
“What did he talk about?” Sampson asked.
“Wanted to know all about me.”
“What about you?”
“Like if I was married. And if I had a kid.”
“Are you? Do you?”
“My husband died in Iraq, and I have a little boy. Eddie.”
“How old?” I asked.
“Four.”
Blond, busty single mother with a young son.
We asked her if she remembered anything specific about the guy other than that he was lean and a sharp dresser. She said that he made her uncomfortable every time she went to his table because he stared at her with this bright smile. “And his eyes were weird. Too blue to be real, like he was wearing contacts.”
She didn’t remember the exact date that he’d been in the restaurant, but it was definitely more than a month ago. Patrick said that, unfortunately, they didn’t keep security-camera footage past thirty days. Corporate policy.
The waitress was more than willing to work with a sketch artist as well.
“That will help, thank you,” I said. “One final question?”
“Sure.”
“When was the last time you felt you were being watched or followed?”
“Like, every night since then. I’m always looking over my shoulder.”
We gave them our cards and told Ms. Rogers to alert us if that customer came into the restaurant or if she saw him anywhere else in her life.
“You can call anytime,” I said. “Day or night.”