Sin City

words Lipton Construction on the back of the jacket, as the couple disappeared out of frame.

Catherine sped the tape forward, until the figure in the jacket…bearded, all right…returned for a quick exit- alone.

'Conroy's back.'

Catherine spun to see Sara standing in the doorway.

Sara ambled over to the monitor. 'Anything good on?'

Catherine nodded. 'Looks like Lipton was there, all right-got a good shot of his jacket going down the hallway with Jenna Patrick.'

'Time on those tapes?'

'Yeah…' Catherine pointed to her notes. 'Time jibes. And Lipton, or anyway a guy in a Lipton Construction jacket, comes back out of the lap-dance cubicle…alone.'

'Interesting,' Sara said. 'But why watch TV, when a live performance is available?…Come on. Conroy's got the star of your show in interrogation.'

They walked quickly down several connecting hallways and ducked into the observation room next to interrogation. Through the two-way mirror, they could see Ray Lipton, directly across from them-sitting alone, eyes cast down, the streaks of tears drying on his cheeks.

'He must've loved her,' Sara said. 'Crying for her.'

'Love's the motive of choice,' Catherine said, 'of many a murderer.'

Lipton's hands were balled into fists and lay on the table like objects, forgotten ones at that. The denim jacket with the tan sleeves hung over the back of the chair. He was thinner and shorter than Catherine would have expected from someone in construction, with hazel eyes, a long, narrow nose and, to her surprise, no beard.

Could she have been mistaken about what she'd seen on the video? He might have shaved, but…no, his cheeks were shadowed blue with stubble, indicating Lipton hadn't shaved for many hours.

A moment later, Detective Erin Conroy entered the interrogation room, a Styrofoam cup of water in one hand, notepad in the other. She placed the cup in front of Lipton, said, 'There you go,' and sat at the end of the table, giving her observers a view of both of them. Lipton picked up the cup, sipped from it, returned it to the table, then leaned his elbows on the wood, running his hands through his longish brown hair.

'I can't believe she's dead,' he said, his voice quiet and raspy, a rusty tool long out of use.

Catherine looked at Sara as if to say, 'What's he trying to pull?'

Lipton looked across at Conroy, his expression pitiful. 'We were going to be married, you know.'

'Again, Mr. Lipton, I'm sorry for your loss,' Conroy said. 'But there are some things we need to talk about.'

Lipton looked down, shaking his head, tears again trailing slowly down his cheeks. 'Can't it…can't it wait?'

'No. The first hours of a murder investigation are vital. I'm sure you understand that.'

'Murder…a gentle soul like Jenna…murdered….'

'For Jenna being a 'gentle soul,' Mr. Lipton,' Conroy said, no inflection in her voice, 'you two seemed to fight a great deal…especially for a couple about to be married.'

'But…we didn't fight,' he sputtered. Then his eyes moved in thought. 'Well…no more than anybody else. All couples fight.'

Conroy shook her head. 'All couples don't include a partner with a restraining order on them…like the one the court issued on you, to keep you away from where Jenna worked-right?'

'Oh Christ,' Lipton said, all the air rushing out of him. Catherine and Sara watched as, before their eyes, sorrow turned to despair. 'You…you think I killed her!'

'I didn't say that, Mr. Lipton.'

'Do I…need a lawyer?'

Conroy ducked that. 'No accusations have been made. I simply asked if there isn't an in-force restraining order against you.'

'You must know there is,' he said, sullenly. Now his voice grew agitated: 'I loved Jenna, but I hated her job-everybody knew that. But that doesn't mean I killed her. Jesus, she was going to quit! We were going to be married.'

'Where did you meet Jenna?'

'At…Dream Dolls.'

'You were a customer.'

'At first, but….' His look was more pleading than angry now.

'How do you explain being in Dream Dolls tonight?' Conroy asked. 'Considering the restraining order.'

Now he sat up, alert suddenly. 'Dream Dolls? I wasn't in Dream Dolls! You think I want to go to jail?'

Conroy didn't answer that.

'Lady, I was home all night.'

'That's not what everyone at the club says.'

'What do you mean by 'everyone'? Who says I was there?'

'Just the owner, the girls, and the DJ.'

'What the hell…' Lipton's voice was incredulous; he shook his head, desperately. 'Well, they're mistaken. They're wrong! Or maybe lying!'

'All of them? Wrong? Or lying?'

'That fucking Kapelos, he hates me. He's the one took out the restraining order! He'd say anything. Where was he when Jenna was…was…'

He couldn't seem to say it.

Conroy said, 'And the rest of them? Lying? Wrong?'

He sighed, shrugged. 'I don't know what else to say-I was home all night. Honest to God. I swear.'

'Anybody to verify that?'

'I live alone, except…when Jenna stays over.'

And he began to cry. To sob, burying his face in his hands.

Catherine left the observation room, circled to the other door, and strode in. Lipton jumped in his seat, looking up, though Conroy didn't even turn.

'Who…who are you?' Lipton asked, face a wet smear, eyelashes pearled.

'Crime scene investigator, Mr. Lipton. Catherine Willows.' She came around and sat opposite him. 'Would you like to know how I've been spending the night?'

He swallowed thickly, shrugging as if nothing could rock him now-he'd been through it all. But he hadn't.

Catherine said, 'I've been watching videotape of you at Dream Dolls-videotape captured on security cameras…tonight.'

His eyes widened, lashes glistening. 'What? But that's…that's just not possible.' His voice had a tremor, as if he was about to break down, utterly.

Still Catherine pressed, gesturing to his jacket. 'I saw Jenna going into one of the back rooms, with a man about your size, wearing your jacket.'

'My jacket?'

'The jacket had your Lipton Construction logo on the back. Denim with tan sleeves-just like that one.'

Something close to relief softened his face. 'Oh, well shit. I had those made up for all my guys, and even a few of our better customers.'

Conroy, poised to write in her notepad, asked, 'How many jackets like this exist?'

Another shrug. 'Twenty-five…maybe thirty.'

'Could you be more exact?'

'Not off the top of my head. Probably my secretary could. At work.'

A bad feeling in the pit of her stomach started to talk to Catherine, and she wished those security cams had caught a better face shot of the person wearing the jacket in the bar. Was it Lipton or not?

Catherine asked, 'Have you ever worn a beard, Mr. Lipton?'

'What? Yeah…yes.'