She didn't say anything for a moment, looking down at her clenched hands. "How could something they fought about help track down her killer? It didn't mean anything. They'd worked through it, and the wedding was going ahead."
I raised my eyebrows. "It didn't mean anything" was usually a metaphor for "I made a mistake of the sexual kind." "So Callie had a one-night stand?"
"At her bachelorette party." She hesitated, then said in a rush, "She was drunk, it really didn't mean anything, and she was so ashamed of herself afterward."
"When was the party?"
"Two days before… before—" She stopped, gulping down air.
I waited a moment, then asked, "And she told Liam about it?"
"She had to. I mean, how could she not? There were ten of us there. Someone would have told him eventually, and that would have been even worse."
Worse than being torn apart by a cuckolded fiancé? I didn't think so. "You didn't try to stop her straying?"
She blushed and looked away. "I didn't know. Not until later."
Because she was too busy getting laid herself, I bet. "Where did this all happen?"
For some odd reason, I was expecting her to say Mirror Image, but she didn't. "At a friend's. She owns a house down Fairhaven way, right near the beach."
Then the friend had some money. Fairhaven had a million dollar plus price tag. "Who was the man she slept with?"
She shrugged. "One of the strippers."
"There was more than one?"
She looked away again. "There were ten."
One for each of them, then. Which meant it was not your typical bachelorette party—not if they catered to everyone's sexual needs. "Do you know the name of the company?"
"Nonpareil."
Not one I'd heard of, but then, I really didn't have a whole lot to do with humans and their sexuality. "Did you arrange it?"
"No, Cheryl, the other bridesmaid, did." She hesitated. "You don't think the strippers had anything to do with her murder, do you?"
"Probably not." If only because I doubted strippers would have been a link to the Essendon case. But then, who knew? Maybe the wife had needed to recharge her sexual batteries, or had been to a party that had employed a stripper recently.
"And there's nothing else you can tell me? About the strippers, that night, or their relationship? Nothing that you think might help, however inconsequential?"
She shook her head. "Liam wouldn't do this to her. It wasn't him. He worshipped her."
Maybe, but it wouldn't be the first time someone who worshipped their partner went off the deep end and killed them, for whatever reason. I'd watched enough of the news over my short life to realize that.
I pushed to my feet. "If you do think of anything—however small—give me a call." I gave her a card with my Directorate number on it.
She took it without comment. I headed out, and left her to her tears. But I hoped like hell I never had to confront that sort of pain again, either through work or in my private life.
Once back in the car, I typed "Nonpareil" into the onboard computer and did a search. The stripper business was located in the old section of North Melbourne, and there were no reports or complaints about it.
I started the car and headed over. To be honest, it probably would have been easier to ring, because I really didn't think these men were connected to the murders, but it was too easy to avoid truths on the phone. And if the strippers had seen anything out of place that night, I wanted to know about it.
Nonpareil was situated on the first floor of a nondescript brick building. It was surrounded by factories that looked to be carrying the grime of centuries on their facades, and the air was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and humans.
Not the prettiest of places to visit, that was for sure.
I pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. There was no sign of the grime here, just plush red carpets, gold handrails, and rich-looking paintings filled with apple-cheeked men and women cavorting around naked. Not what I'd call sexy, but then, I'd never been a fan of Old World style.
I took the stairs two at a time and found myself in a lobby that was all gold drapery and overstuffed, lush-looking furniture. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon teased the air, but entwined in that was the heady scent of man. Or rather, wolf.
This wasn't a human stripper business, as I'd presumed.
He was sitting behind a large mahogany desk down the far end of the room. In the half-light of the lamp-lit room, his golden skin seemed to glow a dark amber, and his brown eyes gleamed with interest.
"Well, hello there," he rumbled, voice deep and sexy. "What can we do for you on this fine afternoon?"
Why couldn't the Directorate find secretaries—or liaisons—who looked like this? Damn, he was fine. It was just unfortunate that I wasn't here for fun. I got out my badge and showed it to him. "I need to speak to someone about a booking."
"Past booking, I'm gathering?"
"Yes." I stopped near the desk, my nostrils flaring as his scent teased them. Orange and musk. Nice.
"Then you'll need to speak to the manager, Shadow."
Amusement ran through me. "Shadow? Is that his stage name or his real name?"
"Stage. We don't do real names when we're at work. A job like this tends to attract the loons."
He pressed a button and a door to his right opened. "Just wait in there. Shadow won't be long."
"In there" turned out to a small waiting room equipped with several well-padded leather lounges and a coffee machine that had more choices than I'd seen at many cafes. I helped myself to a peppermint mocha and drew the sweet, rich scent into my lungs. Not hazelnut, but almost as good.
Five minutes later, the door at the other end of the room opened, and another wolf stepped in. He was tall and powerfully built, with chiseled features and skin so black it seemed to swallow the warm light whole. And the sheer sexual energy radiating off him had my hormones skipping along in dizzy pleasure.
"Guardian Jenson, I presume," he said, his voice a low vibration that rumbled pleasantly across my senses.
I stood so suddenly my coffee splashed over my hand. It said a lot about my state of arousal that I barely even noticed it. "Yes. Sorry to be bothering you at work, but I need to ask you some questions about a past booking."
"The Callie Harris one, I presume?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Good guess."
"I saw the report of her murder in the Herald Sun, and presumed we'd be getting a visit sooner rather than later." His bright blue gaze flicked down my length, and the heat of it echoed through the fibers of my being. "I didn't expect our interrogator to be so pleasant on the eye, however."
I resisted the urge to fan myself, and said, "What can you tell me about that night?"
He waved a hand toward the seat behind me, "Please, sit."
I did, and had the pleasure of watching him walk across the room. He was a big man, but each step was a move of grace and a sense of power restrained. He sat on the chair several feet away, his gaze sliding casually down my body again before rising to meet mine. Lust surged between us, heating the air, sending little beads of perspiration skating across my skin.
He smiled. "It is a definite pleasure to be dealing with a werewolf for a change. No blushes or uncomfortable exclamations."
No, just a whole lot of desire that couldn't go anywhere. I was working, not playing. And if I said that often enough, I just might convince my giddy hormones. "So humans arc the base of your business?"
"Of course. Human sexuality may seem outwardly repressed, but their hungers are as strong as any werewolf's."
I sipped at the coffee, then said, "But they are not. Isn't it dangerous? Especially during a full moon?"