She returned to the bedroom, where Cordy was examining the top drawer of Christi's nightstand. "Anything?"
Cordy shook his head. "Not much. Matchbooks from two other strip clubs. Those might be prior employers, so we can check them out. Otherwise, no letters, no postcards, no love notes, no bills, no receipts, no credit card statements. This girl was one private senorita."
"My dresser drawers are a mess," Serena said. "Ten years' worth of shit. You could write my biography by going through it"
"Not Christi Katt. Or whoever she was."
"Well, keep looking. Any condoms in there, by the way?"
"Why, you running low?"
Serena sighed. "How are you feeling, Cordy? You're looking pale. It could be a latex allergy. Now tell me before you go into convulsions."
"No condoms," Cordy said, chuckling.
Serena explored the girl's closet, which didn't take long. There were a few pairs of high heels on the floor, several blouses, skirts, and dresses on hangers, and two small stacks of T-shirts and jeans on a wire shelf. She rifled through the pockets of the jeans and found only a small quantity of loose change and a few sticks of gum.
She emerged, shaking her head. "This girl is quite a little mystery. How about a wallet or keys? Find anything like that?"
"Nada," Cordy said.
"That's interesting. Where are they?"
"Maybe the killer took them."
Serena reflected. "Maybe so. Let's say Christi's at home, keys and wallet in her pockets. The killer comes to the door. For some reason, she lets him in. Either she knows him or she doesn't feel threatened. Big mistake. They talk, maybe argue, she turns her back, and it's lights out The killer, a fastidious type, cleans the vase, wipes off prints-unless we're really lucky-and wraps the body in a blanket from the bed. No tracking blood outside that way. He waits until it's dark and deserted outside, hauls the body to his car, drives off, and dumps her body in the desert."
"Uh-huh," Cordy said. "Except the body was naked. I could see the guy taking the wallet and keys. But why leave her in the buff? Who knows, maybe a little horizontal tango with the corpse? This could be one sick dude."
"No shortage of those," Serena said. "Forensics can tell us whether there was sexual activity. But stripping the body down does make it seem like there's a sex angle. Unless she had a boyfriend with her and was already naked."
"But no condoms, right?"
"Right. So we've got virtually no trace of this girl's life, and yet she had someone angry enough to kill her. Nice. I hope she made some friends at the Thrill Palace. Or at one of those other clubs."
"Don't take bets on that, mama," Cordy said.
"I'm not. Look, check out the dresser, and make sure we haven't missed anything. I want to eyeball the living room again before all the guys with big feet get here."
She left Cordy in the bedroom. Slowly, she traversed the apartment for a second time, looking at every surface, studying the floor and the walls. In the kitchen, she checked for the garbage under the sink and found coffee grounds, orange peels, and an outdated TV Guide.
Back in the living room, she checked out a handful of compact discs near the boom box, opening each case carefully, but found nothing else inside. She found it mildly interesting that Christi liked jazz. Serena, too, had wallowed in jazz during her low periods as a teenager in the first few years in Vegas, before she grew up and went country. Jazz was for trouble. Country was for living.
She heard Cordy whistle, long and loud.
"What?" she called.
Cordy was silent.
Curious, Serena returned to the bedroom. She found Cordy sitting cross-legged on the floor. The full-sized mattress had been shoved half off the bed. Next to Cordy was a small stack of newspapers. Cordy had one of the sections unfolded, and he was reading it transfixed.
"Her secret stash?" Serena asked.
Cordy nodded.
"You should have waited for the search team before touching this stuff," Serena told him. Then she gave in to her own curiosity. "What's in them?"
Cordy put down the paper. "So how long you figure that body's been lying in the desert?"
Serena shrugged "A few days. Why?"
"Well, in that case, we got a problem, mama."
37
Stride heard Andrea slip out of bed at six o'clock on Thursday morning to get ready for work. He opened his eyes without moving in bed and saw her, in the darkness of their bedroom, as she slid her white nightgown over her head and peeled down her panties. Her naked body had become softer and fleshier in three years but was still attractive.
"Hi," he said softly.
Andrea didn't look at him. "Hi yourself."
"What was your name again?"
She shook her head. "Not funny, Jon."
"I know. I'm sorry." Last night, he and Maggie had interrogated a suspect in a gang-related Asian drug ring until past one in the morning. There had been a string of late nights for several months.
"A phone call would sure be nice once in a while," Andrea said. "This is three nights in a row, and I haven't known when I'll see you. You're not there for me. You're never there."
"This case-" Stride began.
"I don't care about the case," she said. "If it's not this one, it would be another one."
Stride nodded and didn't reply. She was right. And it was getting worse. He realized he was taking on parts of the investigations that should really be delegated down the line. Even K-2 had noticed it and asked him bluntly if he was looking for excuses to avoid going home. He said no, but deep down, he wasn't sure.
"How's Denise?" he asked. "I feel like I haven't seen you since then."
"That's because you haven't. You haven't asked me anything about it. Do you care? You don't know anything about me anymore."
Andrea waited, with her hands on her hips. When he didn't say anything more, she turned and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp click. He heard the shower running.
The problems had begun a year ago. They had spent two years in relative peace, avoiding conflicts by not talking about them, but recently the troubles between them had come into the open. It started with the issue of kids, which Andrea wanted desperately and Stride didn't. He was too old by now. He would be over sixty by the time the kids left home.
Andrea persisted. Eighteen months after their marriage, with his reluctant acceptance, she went off the pill. They made love at every time of the day, to the point where there was no longer anything romantic about it. For all the trying, nothing happened. He tried to look disappointed that they couldn't conceive, but he was afraid that his real relief showed in his face. He knew what Andrea believed, that if she had had a baby with her first husband, then he never would have left her, and her life would still be perfect. She was afraid that if she failed again, she would end up losing Stride, too-so she had to get pregnant.
But it was not to be.
He told her over and over that it didn't matter to him, but misery gradually took over her face, and in the year since then, it had never really left. They were well on the road to becoming strangers.
He heard the shower shut off.
The door opened, and Andrea stood naked in the doorway, watching him. He could see beads of water on her bare skin, dripping on the carpet. She was biting her lower lip, and he could make out her face well enough in the shadows to see she had been crying. They stared at each other for a long while, silently.