Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(90)

D.D. grabbed her jacket, headed out.


*

D.D. HAD NEVER BEEN a nightclub sort of girl. A good Irish bar she appreciated. But blackout surfaces, strobe lights, loud music, not really her style even when she’d been young and, supposedly, hip.

It was always interesting, she thought, to visit such places by the bright light of day. Sort of like catching a movie star without her makeup on. At night, with the lighting just so and the floor crammed with writhing bodies and the stage dominated by the next up-and-coming band, the place probably felt electric.

Four P.M. on a Monday, it reminded her more of a college student with a hangover. The floor was sticky and covered in shredded cocktail napkins. The dark-painted walls were scratched and dinged, the bar area tired. The place looked like it could use a refurbishment, or at least a break from its high-risk lifestyle.

Rosa and Keynes had arrived first, and were already talking to a woman near the back. They made quite a trio. Rosa in her usual yoga grunge, Keynes in his classic gray suit, and the manager in nightclub black-on-black.

Currently, the dark-haired manager had her eyes locked on Keynes. He wasn’t even talking, and she still stared at him, entranced. Apparently, Keynes’s cheekbones worked even on a woman surrounded by pretty and even prettier staff.

D.D. walked up. She flashed her credentials, purely to establish dominance. Because, yes, she was that petty.

No dice. The manager kept her attention fixed on Keynes. On the other hand, Keynes smiled slightly, as if he knew exactly what D.D. was doing and appreciated the effort.

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. spoke up crisply, never one to back down from a fight.

The manager finally dragged her attention away. “Jocelyne. Jocelyne Ethier.”

“You’re the manager?”

“Yes. I’ve worked here five years.”

“Were you here Friday night?”

“Yes. I split my time between the back office and, of course, making frequent tours of the floor, just to make sure things are going smoothly. I, um, I recognize the picture of her daughter.” She flickered a sad, nervous glance at Rosa. “I noticed her at the end of the night, when things were winding down. She was out on the floor, still dancing.”

“Did you happen to see who she was with?” D.D. asked.

The manager shrugged. “There was some guy holding a beer, watching her. I assumed they were together. She was out of his league, I can tell you that, but . . .” She shrugged again.

“What did the guy look like?”

“Average. Khakis, long-sleeve, light blue button-up. Like a wannabe finance guy or something. Not really much to look at.”

D.D. nodded. That was consistent with what they knew thus far. “I understand Devon had worked here for the past three years.”

“Yes.” The manager’s face shuttered. “Um. Devon. Excellent bartender. Reliable, which is tough enough around here. But also . . . he had the look. We’re a nightclub. Appearances matter.”

“He worked out,” D.D. supplied neutrally.

“He did. His chest . . . Women and men lined up for at least one more drink.” The manager still didn’t look up. Uncomfortable about talking about a recently deceased employee? Or something else?

“He mind the male attention?” D.D. asked.

“Not that I could tell. My impression was that he worked pretty hard to look the way he looked and he enjoyed showing it off.”

“He have a girlfriend?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“And you and he . . .” D.D. let her voice do the asking.

“No,” the manager said flatly. “I run the asylum; I don’t frequent with the inmates.”

There was an edge to her voice, however, that spoke of a lesson learned the hard way. A woman scorned.

“What about Natalie Draga?” D.D. switched gears.

“Natalie . . . She worked here. Briefly. I think I showed her file to one of your other detectives.”

“Did she know Devon?”

“Would’ve been hard not to. He was one of our regular bartenders, she was around for at least a couple months. As for fraternizing . . . Back-room staff hookups are about as common as front-room players. Anything’s possible.”

“What about Kristy Kilker?”

“Who?”

D.D. flashed a photo. The manager shook her head. “I don’t recognize her. The volume of people who pass through here on any given night, however . . . I’m only familiar with the regulars.”

“You didn’t know Stacey Summers,” Rosa spoke up.

“No.”

“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t come here on occasion,” Rosa supplied.

“It’s possible. Like I said, the volume of people in a night . . .” The manager shifted uncomfortably again. “Of course, what happened to her, that video of her abduction on the news. It’s every manager’s nightmare. We made some changes to our procedures immediately.”

“Really?” D.D. interjected sharply. “Because given what your own bartender did on Friday night . . .”

Ethier stiffened, her expression turning wary. “I didn’t know, okay? Is that what this is about? Because I’ve already told all this to the first detective you sent over. No, I didn’t suspect my own bartender was a rapist. No, I didn’t realize Devon had ambushed some girl on Friday. He left abruptly. Didn’t come back. Was I pissed? Yes. But did I think, did I imagine . . .” She thinned her lips. “This is a hard job. The amount of turnover in staff, vendors, customers. I don’t know everything that goes on. No matter how hard I try, I can’t know everything that goes on.”