Kit was careful to move nothing but her eyes. “My friends and I get off on American cars, swing music, and nautical-themed tattoos. We’re not murderers.”
Hitchens huffed. “It still sounds weird.”
“Probably because it demands more of you than plopping down in a La-Z-Boy, sticking your hand down your pants, and plugging into someone else’s reality.”
“O-kay,” Dennis said loudly, straightening as quickly as Hitchens. Kit just leaned back and crossed her legs. “So we’ve defined Nicole’s lifestyle as rockabilly. Boyfriends?”
“Plenty,” Kit answered, then looked at Hitchens. “All weirdoes.”
“And when did you last see her alive?”
“Twelve thirty. There’s a cafe attached to the motel. Just a hash house serving grease and caffeine to overtired truckers. She did a round there to attract our contact’s attention, as agreed, then crossed the gravel lot and went up the motel stairs.”
She’d dressed in conventional hooker wear, Kit remembered-too short, too low, too tight-and had shot Kit a pained grimace as she fought the skirt for movement, hating that such a junky item of clothing would even touch her body. Not yet knowing she would die in it.
“She didn’t take her camera with her? We didn’t find one at the scene.”
“She left it in my car. It’s hard to fit a Nikon D3 in a tube top, and she didn’t want to scare away our source. She took my notebook instead.”
The cops looked at each other.
“I could use it back,” Kit tried.
“Evidence,” Dennis replied, though there was a strange frown marring his brow.
Hitchens propped himself on the table so that he was looming over Kit. “All right, so Nicole entered the room alone, and you stayed in the car the whole time?”
“Didn’t take my eyes from that door.” Which meant the killer had been inside, lying in wait the whole time.
“We’ve confirmed with the motel manager that the place was being used as an unofficial whorehouse,” Hitchens said, looking through his notes. “The rooms were booked in blocks. One woman picks up all the keys. Then they’re returned in a single envelope placed in the drop box the next morning.”
“My research confirms the same.”
Head still lowered, Hitchens lifted his gaze. “Your research?”
“Well, I don’t just make up the stories that go in my newspaper, Detective Hitchens. I fact-check. Double- check. Then I find secondary confirmation and I check again. This was an ongoing operation. Truckers driving through the southern portion of the state, probably through Arizona via the new Hoover Dam bypass, would tweet about it online.”
“So you think it was a passion kill? Some trucker snapped when he found himself being interviewed rather than undressed?”
“No. We were supposed to be meeting a girl there, maybe a woman. And she had a list naming some of the most powerful men in this city as clients. I think one of the names on that list killed her.”
“I’m sorry,” Hitchens said, “but what would Vegas’s most powerful leaders want with street lays in a fleabag motel off a stretch of highway best known for being forgotten?”
Kit exhaled. “I don’t know.”
Dennis leaned forward. “Kit, can you think of anyone who might want to harm Nicole?”
“She was a reporter,” Hitchens remarked under his breath.
“But well-liked,” Kit countered. “I told you. Vivacious. Happy. Full of life.” And now she was dead. “But she was also stubborn, a total pit bull when something captured her curiosity. Even I thought there was a better way to do this thing, but Nicole wanted the list. And she wanted more than just names, she wanted proof.”
“And what did you want?”
Kit looked at Hitchens. “To know who this girl was.”
Why she was on the streets at such a young age. Why she’d ever consider selling her body for money. For Kit, it was always about the person more than the story. That’s why she was working for her family’s newspaper rather than running it. “I wanted to help her.”
Dennis looked at his partner. “If she was juvie, it could’ve been a pimp.”
“I worried about that,” Kit said, “but Nic just said I was weaving tales again. That my imagination was getting the best of me, and that if the girl was defying a pimp by meeting with us, then she must really be desperate.”
“But she didn’t come. And you waited a full hour before checking on Nicole?”
“She texted me after ten minutes, told me to stay put.”
“We’ll want to see that text,” Hitchens said.
But Dennis looked worried. “So is it fair to assume that whoever was with Nicole knew you were waiting in the car?”
Kit nodded, and told them about the figure that’d momentarily pushed aside the curtains.
“I’ll have forensics do a run on those panels,” said Dennis, standing. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
A rockabilly lifestyle, a sting involving truckers, young girls, possibly pimps. An anonymous woman who’d written the names of the city’s movers and shakers on a list that had drawn Nicole to her death. Was that all?
Wasn’t that enough?
Kit shook her head. “No.”
But there was more, of course. There was Nicole’s family and friends to inform. There were visits to make and a funeral to plan.
“Do you still have this list of names your contact gave you?”
Kit nodded at Dennis. She could print another copy. “So you believe me?”
“It’s an angle,” he said. “But even without that list, you girls were playing with fire.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d done so, and maybe that was the problem. They’d thought their journalism credentials could protect them from anything. “We’re a great team.”
And before she’d realized she’d spoken as if Nic were still alive, Hitchens said, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have left her alone in that room.”
“Brian,” Dennis said.
But Kit lowered her head, knowing he was right. And, somehow, she was going to have to live with that.
Chapter Three
