Fool Me Once(42)
The second part might provide a little bit of a problem. The car was parked in the corner, against a fence, and a casual stroll past it, if spotted, would be awkward at best. Still, the lot was quiet. The few people who pulled in parked on the other side, and while most people might not have any reason to be embarrassed about being here, they weren’t exactly puffing out their chests with pride about it either.
The license plate started to come into view, and yes, it was the same car.
WTC Limited. A holding company, maybe for Leather and Lace?
“Wrong way.”
It was Meathead. She turned. He moved right next to her. She forced up a smile.
“Sorry?”
“That’s the employee parking area.”
“Oh,” Maya said. “Is it? I’m sorry. I’m so ditzy sometimes.” She tried a “tee-hee, aren’t I a ditz” laugh. “I parked in the wrong place. Or maybe I wanted the job so badly—”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Pardon?”
He pointed with his beefy finger back the other way. “You parked over there. On the other side.”
“Oh, did I? I’m such an airhead sometimes.”
She stood there. He stood there.
“We don’t let no one into the employee area,” he said. “Company policy. See, some of the guys, they’ll come out and they’ll wait by a dancer’s car. You know what I mean? Or they’ll try to get the license plate and call her. We gotta escort the girls out here sometimes so they can avoid the creepy guys. You get my drift?”
“Yes, but I’m not a creepy guy.”
“No, ma’am, you certainly are not.”
She stood there. He stood there.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll escort you to your car.”
*
There was one of those giant warehouse stores across the street and maybe a hundred yards down the road. Maya parked in the lot, positioning her car so she could stake out the employee lot of Leather and Lace. Her hope was that someone would eventually get into the red Buick Verano and then she could follow him.
And then what?
One step at a time.
But what about all that nonsense about looking several steps down the road when you make a plan?
She didn’t know. Preparedness was all well and good, but there was also a little something called improvisation. Her next move would be dependent on where that red Buick went. If, say, the car stopped for the night at a residence, then maybe her move would be to figure out who lived at that house.
A strip club gets a fairly varied clientele in dress, if not gender. There were the blue-collar guys in work boots and jeans. There were business suits. There were guys in cargo shorts and T-shirts. There was even a group of guys in golf clothes, looking like they just came off the links. Hey, maybe the food was good, who knew?
An hour passed. Four people left the employee area of the lot; three entered. None involved the red Buick Verano parked against the fence.
Maya had time to sort through all the recent developments, but time wasn’t helping her. She didn’t need time. She needed more information.
The red Buick was leased by a company called WTC Limited. Was that something the Burketts held? Caroline had talked about payouts to and from offshore accounts and anonymous companies. Could WTC Limited be something like that? Had Claire known the driver of the red Buick Verano? Had Joe?
Maya and Joe had several joint accounts. She opened them on her phone app and brought up the credit charge charges. Had Joe visited Leather and Lace? If so, it wasn’t showing up on the statements. Then again, would Joe be that stupid? Didn’t places like Leather and Lace know that prying wives might check their husbands’ credit card charges and, knowing Lulu’s desire for discretion, use another name?
Maybe WTC Limited?
With new hope, she searched for any charge to WTC Limited. Nothing. The club was in Carlstadt, New Jersey. She searched for any charges made to that city. Again nothing.
Someone parked two spots away from the red Buick. The car door opened, and a pole dancer got out. Yes, Maya knew her occupation. Long blond hair, shorts that barely covered half a cheek, a boob job that lifted them high enough to double as earrings—you didn’t need the pole dancing equivalent of gaydar to see that this woman was either a pole dancer or a sixteen-year-old boy’s fantasy come to life.
When the shapely pole dancer entered through the employee side door, a man stepped out. The man wore a Yankees baseball cap pulled down low over his sunglass-covered eyes. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, the way one does when they want to blend in or hide. Maya sat up. The man sported one of those unruly beards superstitious athletes grow when they’re on a playoff run.
She couldn’t get a look at him obviously, but still there was something familiar . . .
Maya started up her car. The man kept his head down, hurried his step, and slid into the red Buick Verano.
So this was her man.
Following him would be risky. Maybe her best move was to confront him now. He might spot a tail. She might lose him. So maybe she should stop with the subtlety, pull back into Leather and Lace’s parking lot, block his car, demand answers. But there were problems with that scenario too. There was security there, probably a fair amount of it. Meathead would interfere. Others too. Strip clubs were used to handling incidents. Shane’s work as an MP backed up what Meathead had said. Men often hung out after the club closed, hoping to approach some dancer they sincerely believed was interested in more than what was in their wallet, though that was never, ever the case. Guys who lack confidence in so many ways still manage to delude themselves into thinking they are irresistible to all women.