Friedman's face went dark. "Worse. I-"
"Enough," Yates said, cutting him off.
Loren turned toward Yates. She gave him a what-gives shrug.
"Look," Yates continued, checking his watch, "this is all interesting, but we're a little pressed for time here. What can you tell us about Candace Potter specifically?"
"May I ask a question?" Friedman said.
"Shoot."
"She's been dead a long time. Has there been a new development in the case?"
"There might have been," Loren said.
Friedman folded his hands and waited. Loren took the chance.
"Did you know that Candace Potter may have been"- she decided to go with a more popular though inaccurate term-"a hermaphrodite?"
That got him. "Wow."
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"I've seen the autopsy."
"Wait!" Friedman shouted it in the same way an editor in an old movie would shout, "Hold the presses!" "You have the actual autopsy?"
"Yes."
He licked his lips, tried not to look too anxious. "Is there any way I can get a copy?"
"It can probably be arranged," Loren said. "What else can you tell us about her?"
Friedman started typing on the computer. "The information on Candace Potter is sketchy. For the most part she went by the stage name Candi Cane, which, let's face it, is a horrible name for an exotic dancer. It's too much, you know? Too cute. You know what a good name is? Jenna Jameson, for example. You've probably heard of her. Well, Jenna started as a dancer, you know, before she got into porn. She got the name Jameson from a bottle of Irish whiskey. See? It's classier. It has more oomph, you know what I mean."
"Right," Loren said, just to say something.
"And Candi's solo act was not the most original either. She dressed like a hospital candy striper and carried a big lollipop. Get it? Candi Cane? I mean, talk about clichéd." He shook his head in the manner of a teacher let down by a prized pupil. "Professionally she'll be better remembered for a dual act where she was known as Brianna Piccolo."
"Brianna Piccolo?"
"Yes. She worked with another dancer, a statuesque African American named Kimmy Dale. Kimmy, in the act, went by the name Gayle Sayers."
Loren saw it. So did Yates.
"Piccolo and Sayers? Please tell me you're kidding."
"Nope. Brianna and Gayle did a sort of exotic dance rendition of the movie Brian's Song. Gayle would tearfully say, 'I love Brianna Piccolo,' you know, like Billy Dee did on the dais in the movie. Then Brianna would be lying sick in a bed. They'd help each other undress. No sex. Nothing like that. Just an exotic artistic experience. It had great appeal to those with an interracial fetish, which, frankly, is nearly everyone. I think it was one of the finest political statements made in exotic dance, an early display of racial sensitivity. I never saw the act in person, but my understanding was that it was a moving portrayal of socioeconomic-"
"Yeah, moving, I get it," Loren interrupted. "Anything else?"
"Sure, of course, what do you want to know? The Sayers-Piccolo number was usually the opening act for Countess Allison Beth Weiss IV, better known as Jewish Royalty. Her act- get this- was called 'Tell Mom It's Kosher.' You've probably heard of it."
A waft of banana bread was reaching them down here. The smell was wonderful, even in this appetite-reducing atmosphere. Loren tried to get Friedman back on track. "I mean anything else about Candace Potter. Anything that can illuminate what happened to her."
Friedman shrugged. "She and Kimmy Dale were not only dance partners but also real-life roommates. In fact, Kimmy Dale paid for the funeral to save Candi from- pardon the unintentional pun here- a potter's grave. Candi is buried at Holy Mother in Coaldale, I think. I've visited the tombstone to pay my respects. It's quite a moving experience."
"I bet. Do you keep track of what happens to exotic dancers after they leave the business?"
"Of course," he said, as if she'd asked a priest if he ever went to Mass. "That's often the most interesting part. You wouldn't believe the variety of life roads they take."
"Right, so what happened to this Kimmy Dale?"
"She's still in the business. A true warhorse. She no longer has the looks. She's- again pardon the unintentional pun- slid down the pole, if you will. The headline days are over. But Kimmy still has a small following. What she loses in not being, say, toned or hard-bodied she makes up for in experience. She's out of Vegas though."
"Where is she?"
"Reno, last I heard."
"Anything else?"
"Not really," Friedman said. Then he snapped his fingers. "Hold on, I have something to show you. I'm quite proud of this."
They waited. Len Friedman had three tall file cabinets in the corner. He opened the second drawer of the middle one and began to finger through it. "The Piccolo and Sayers act. This is a rare piece and it's only a color reproduction off a Polaroid. I'd really like to find more." He cleared his throat as he continued his search. "Do you think, Investigator Muse, that I could get a copy of that autopsy?"
"I'll see what I can do."
"It would really add to my studies."
"Studies. Right."
"Here it is." He took out a photograph and placed it on the table in front of them. Yates looked at it and nodded. He turned to Loren and saw the expression on her face.
"What?" Yates said.
Friedman added, "Investigator Muse?"
Not in here, Loren thought. Not a word. She stared at the late Candace Potter aka Candi Cane aka Brianna Piccolo aka the Murder Victim.
"This is definitely Candace Potter?" she managed.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Of course."
Yates looked a question at her. Loren tried to blink it away.
Candace Potter. If this really was Candace Potter, then she wasn't a murder victim. She wasn't dead at all. She was alive and well and living in Irvington, New Jersey, with her ex-con husband Matt.
They'd had it all wrong. Matt Hunter wasn't the connection here. Things were finally starting to make some sense.
Because Candace Potter had a new alias now.
She was Olivia Hunter.
Chapter 47
ADAM YATES TRIED to maintain his cool.
They were back outside now, on the Friedmans' front lawn. That had been much too close a call. When that Friedman cuckoo had started yammering about never ever telling, well, it could have ended right there- Yates's career, his marriage, even his freedom. Everything.
Yates needed to take control.
He waited until he and Loren Muse were back in the car. Then, calmly as he could, Yates asked, "So what was that all about?"
"Candace Potter is still alive," Muse said.
"Pardon me?"
"She's alive and well and married to Matt Hunter."
Yates listened to Loren's explanation. He felt his insides tremor. When she finished he asked to see the autopsy. She handed it to him.
"No photos of the victim?"
"It's not the whole file," Loren said. "It's just the pages that concerned Max Darrow. My guess is he somehow learned the truth- that Candace Potter hadn't been killed all these years ago. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the real victim was an AIS female."
"Why would Darrow have checked that now? I mean, after ten years?"
"I don't know. But we need to talk to Olivia Hunter."
Adam Yates nodded, trying to take this in. It was impossible for him to fathom. Olivia Hunter was the dead stripper named Candace Potter. Candi Cane. She had been there that night, he was sure of it.
It was likely now, very likely, that Olivia Hunter had the videotape.
That meant he had to take Loren Muse out of the equation. Right now.