“Looks like what she was strangled with,” Dacey said.
“It hasn’t got the same fancy lace top, but close enough,” Vaughn said.
“Guess the perp’s got a thing for black stockings.”
“Looks that way,” Steve said.
“This adds a whole ’nother venue,” Reardon said. “The people who frequent strip joints are all over the social-economic landscape. Also means a higher-than-average number of congenital whackos who may have tattoos from head to foot or look like Kenny dolls with Harvard M.B.A.’s.”
“How often was she stripping?” Dacey asked.
“From the Web site schedule, a couple nights a week, Thursdays and Saturdays. During the day she was full-time at the Kingsbury Club.” Reardon looked at Neil for a response.
“I guess she was good at keeping a secret,” Neil said.
Reardon nodded. “We called the Beals woman before the meeting and she had no idea.”
“Probably not something one boasts if she wants to keep her day job,” Steve said in Neil’s defense.
“Cyber’s also putting together a list of people she exchanged e-mails with,” Reardon said. “Unfortunately, she had a program that automatically deletes e-mails after three days, except for those designated to save.”
The meeting went on for a few more minutes. When it was over, Reardon asked Steve to remain behind. Just before Neil filed out behind the others, he muttered to Steve in passing, “Moving to the head of the class, huh?” Then he closed the door before Steve could respond.
Reardon put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I want to tell you that I’m impressed how you put it all together—the stocking check and time line.”
“Thanks.” Steve was buzzing to leave.
“That’s the kind of investigative work I like to see. Things are coming together for you, I take it.”
Steve knew what he meant. “I’m doing fine.” That wasn’t true, but that’s what came out.
“Good to hear. Lots of people develop drinking problems during times of stress. You’re not the first in this department. But I want you to know I’m impressed with your turnaround.”
Steve made an appreciative nod and made a move to the door.
“And this gives you focus and purpose. How are things on the home front?”
Reardon knew Dana only casually, from holiday parties and department events. But it was clear that Reardon admired her. “We’re working on it.”
“You still living separately?”
“Yup.” He really didn’t want to talk about it.
“I hope things work out for you.”
“Me, too.”
Reardon walked him to the door. “Good luck and keep up the good work.”
Steve thanked him and closed the door, thinking that he’d kill for a drink.
17
The Mermaid Lounge was located on Ocean Drive at the northern end of the strip at Revere Beach. Named after Paul Revere, the three-mile-long sandy crescent was America’s first public beach in 1896. During the first half of the twentieth century it became a world-famous amusement park with a roller coaster, carousels, stage shows, fireworks, even hot-air balloons. The place flourished until the 1970s when the amusements were torn down to make way for hotels and condominiums. Now it was home to “The best exotic entertainment club in Eastern Mass.”
In spite of that claim to fame, the Mermaid Lounge was a squat cinderblock bunker that was painted industrial gray and could have passed for a muffler shop. Steve had passed it on the road in the past but could not recall ever being inside.
He and Neil parked in front. You’d never know it was a strip joint but for the Plexiglas display boards at the entrance—a small photo collage of featured “exotic entertainment performers.” Current headliners were Trixi LaFlame, Cherry Night, and Jinxy.
“How much you wanna bet those aren’t their real names,” Steve said.
Neil was not in a jesting mood and didn’t respond. He was fixated on another poster on the opposite wall—a shot of a naked woman blocking her breasts and glaring catlike at the camera. The caption read, THE FABULOUS XENA—EVERY THURSDAY AND SATURDAY NITE.
“Doesn’t even look like her.”
Steve nodded. It was not the same woman he had shared coffee breaks with. “Hair dye and four pounds of makeup will do that.”
As they went inside, Steve could feel Neil’s tension. The place represented everything he abhorred. “Maybe I should do the talking,” Steve said. “And try not to shoot anybody.”
Neil smirked and followed him in. The place had a divey murky beer biker feel—a place with more tattoos than people. The interior was a dark rectangle with the main stage on the long wall and a smaller stage at the rear, poles rising from each. Twenty people sat at the bar and scattered tables, mostly guys although Steve spotted two women. Two flat screens flickered with sports shows. A sign pointed to private booths on the far side of the room. Because it was early afternoon, no dancers were onstage. Behind the bar was a guy about thirty with a bouncer’s upper torso pressed into a black T-shirt.
A waitress in a tiny pink halter top and black short shorts came up to them. Steve did not recognize her, nor she them. He flashed his badge and asked if the manager was in. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.” She hustled off and returned with the bartender.
“Mickey DeLuca. Nice to meet you, Officers.” He pumped their hands. “What’s the problem?”
Again no recognition. “We’d like to ask you about one of your dancers.” Steve handed him a shot of her with her sister.
DeLuca looked at it. “Jeez, I don’t recognize her.” Steve moved him into the light. Then his face brightened. “Yeah, that’s her on the right. Xena Lee.”
“Xena Lee,” Steve repeated as if taking an oath.
“Her stage name. She took it from that old TV show Xena: Warrior Princess.” Then he squinted at the photo again. “Must be an old picture. Her hair’s red now. But, yeah, that’s Xena, real name’s Terry Farina. What’s the problem?”
“I’m sorry to say she’s dead.”
“What?” DeLuca’s head snapped back as if he’d been jabbed with a needle.
“She was found in her apartment Sunday morning, and the case is being treated as a homicide.”
“Homicide. Holy shit! Who’d want to kill her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to learn. Maybe you can tell us a little about her, maybe her friends and fans, guys she might have known and dated.”
DeLuca looked shaken by the news. He led them to a table in the empty rear corner. He said he knew very little about Terry Farina’s personal life, except that she broke up with a guy last year but never mentioned seeing anybody else. She drove herself to and from work and kept to herself. As DeLuca talked he kept glancing at Neil, who said nothing but stared at DeLuca as if he were dog vomit.
“She was a great performer. Really. And she looked fantastic. Fact is, she had more energy than women fifteen years younger. Honest to God, she could go all night.”
“I guess she kept in shape.”
“Yeah, I think she was a yoga instructor or something. The thing was, she’d finish dancing then take questions from the crowd, like some kind of celebrity. She was wicked awesome, really sharp, and a great personality. She was more popular than some of the national acts we get—you know, girls from New York and Atlantic City, former movie stars. She was one of our all-time bests. I can’t believe this.”