I wasn’t one to speed and I rarely even ran yellow lights, so I knew my driving habits wouldn’t draw attention.
Kyle pointed to an apartment building that looked like something out of Tudor England. It was out of place among the stucco and banana yuccas.
“Turn here,” he instructed.
I did as I was told, and I pulled around the building, which I saw now was raised, with parking spots underneath. Kyle directed me to a spot that he said was just under Trevor’s apartment.
I made sure to lock up the Pontiac. Not that there was anything in it to steal, except maybe the car itself. This definitely looked like a gold Pontiac neighborhood.
We climbed a staircase up to the walkway that ran along the perimeter of the building. The apartments were lined up along it like little wooden soldiers.
Kyle stopped at the one closest to the stairway, took out a key, unlocked the door, and opened it.
Trevor’s apartment was a mess. At first I thought maybe someone had tossed it on purpose, but Kyle didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.
“Charlotte?” I called, then turned to Kyle when no one answered. “Was he this messy?” I asked, noting the piles of beauty and celebrity magazines next to the flowered sofa and more cardboard boxes than I could count. “Or was he moving?”
Kyle grinned. “Our Britney loved the QVC.” He pointed out the exercise equipment taking up the corner of the room and the wigs hung suspended from it. It looked like a character from some creepy Tim Burton movie.
I stepped over piles of sequined clothing and stiletto shoes toward the galley kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and it smelled like that Dumpster behind Murder Ink. I wrinkled my nose. “How did he live like this?” I asked.
Kyle held up a pair of nylons. “These are in good shape,” he said, stuffing them in his front pocket. He picked a silk top up off the floor and held it up in front of his chest. “Is it my color?”
“You know, Kyle, Trevor’s dead. Do you think he’d want you rifling through his things?”
Kyle chuckled. “Trevor would be the first one to clean this place out, girl. Nothing should go to waste.”
I pushed aside heavy curtains, letting the sun in, and opened a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony overlooking the front entrance to the complex. A small breeze wafted in, and I wondered whether it would be enough to air this place out.
The bathroom was in worse shape than the kitchen: makeup everywhere. Kyle started pawing through it, picking up mascara and taking out the wand to make sure it was still fresh. He wiped some foundation on his face with a cotton ball and turned to me.
“Too dark, right?”
Kyle’s skin was very pale, as compared to Trevor’s darker, tanned complexion. I nodded, moving toward the bedroom.
More of the same. I didn’t even bother going farther than the doorway. It was starting to get to me, how sad it made Trevor’s life seem, living in this mess.
“She’s not here,” I said as I passed the bathroom. Kyle was still playing with the makeup.
I went back out onto the balcony to collect my thoughts. There was a white plastic chair there, with a matching table. I sat down and looked out at the street through the slats in the balcony wall.
“Didn’t Charlotte say she was bringing Trevor’s makeup case here after the show the other night?” Kyle asked, startling me. He’d put on one of Trevor’s wigs, a dark, flowing mess of curls that actually looked pretty good on Kyle. The dress he’d donned was purple lame, and it would be clingy in all the right places if there were any of those places to cling to. But Kyle was just playing dress-up and had forgone any semblance of breasts.
Still, he was a fine-looking woman.
“Isn’t his makeup case in there?” I asked, indicating the bathroom.
“Not the one he used for shows. I can’t find it anywhere.”
I frowned. That was funny. Charlotte had taken the case that night. And as I thought about the case, I remembered that Dr. Bixby had the brooch. He’d said it was the only item Trevor had on his person when he went to the hospital. Somehow the brooch had gone from the case to Trevor, but where was the case?
I leaned over and put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, closing my eyes. I needed to make sense of all this.
Unfortunately, my brain was all mixed up right now.
“What about this?”
I looked up to see Kyle posing in a shimmery satin minidress and thigh-high white patent leather boots.
“Very Donna Summer,” I said.
Kyle grinned. “And this isn’t the best part.”
I wondered what that would be: Another wig that would hit the ceiling? Huge round rhinestone sunglasses?
“Guess what I found in the boots.”
I didn’t want to know. From the state of Trevor’s apartment, there could be a family of small rodents playing house in those boots. There was certainly room enough in them.
But when Kyle held out his hands, instead of mice, they were filled with bills. As in money. As in the most cash I’d ever seen in one place besides a casino.
Chapter 30
My mouth hung open as I stared. “How much?” I managed to stammer.
Kyle chuckled. “This isn’t all of it. There’s money stashed in all the boots, and that girl loves her boots.”
I followed him into the bedroom, which I’d dismissed before as just another room where a hurricane had blown through. Now, though, I watched as Kyle pulled boot after boot out from under the bed, sticking his hand inside each one and taking out wads of bills, dumping them on top of the unmade bed.
I peered around the closet door. “Any in here?”
“He seems to have kept all the boots under the bed, for some reason.”
The boots were all thigh high and patent leather, and in all the colors of the rainbow. There were ten pairs, when all was said and done.
“Didn’t Trevor believe in banks?” I asked.
“These might be tips,” Kyle said, his tone matter-of-fact. “This is the cash we don’t want Uncle Sam to know about.”
“What was he doing to get tips like this?” I asked, noting that most of the bills were either hundreds or fifties. I started counting.
Kyle was counting on the other side of the bed. We were silent for a while as we kept the numbers in our heads. Finally, Kyle said, “I’ve got twenty grand.”
Our eyes met. “I’ve got thirty grand.”
Kyle blew a low whistle. “This ain’t tip money,” he said. “No one’s that good.”
“I thought Trevor didn’t have any money. That’s why he kept pawning that brooch.”
“If you listened to him, he never had any money.” Kyle surveyed the bills, which we’d arranged neatly in piles. “What a con.”
“Maybe it’s not his,” I said softly.
“It’s in his boots,” Kyle said.
He had a point. But something was nagging at me. “It seems like a coincidence that Wesley Lambert was poking around Chez Tango the other night. Now Trevor’s dead, and Lambert is dead. Maybe it’s not so much a
