Lies We Bury(39)

“It seems like it.” Remembering my conversation with Oz, I say, “You been signed by an agency yet?”

Topher shrugs. “Nah, not yet. I’d like to be.”

“You’ve got a great look; I’m sure it’ll happen.”

He beams.

“How’d you decide you want to be an actor?” I ask.

The smile makes his brooding features magnetic. “I guess I’ve always thought that relationships are what’s most interesting in this world, you know? It’s not exactly who you know—more like how you make people feel. And acting is all about tapping into emotion like that.”

I nod. “Seems like you know your stuff. Any agency is wrong not to give you a chance.”

He shakes his head, floppy hair falling artistically across his face. “Man, I keep sending my headshot and YouTube reel, trying to get their attention. I think my stuff gets lost in their inbox.”

“Wow, you have a reel?”

The pint glass sparkles in the sunshine slanting through the bay windows. The woman next to me licks her finger, having finished her burger and fries.

Topher places the glass on the bar. He withdraws his wallet from his back pocket, then removes a card. “Yeah, I mean, if you want, you can check it out here.”

“Thanks.” I take the square. “Hey, random question for you. Are there any good strip clubs close by?”

He lifts both eyebrows.

I shrug up to my ears and throw him another smile. “Strippers are great background in any law enforcement shoot.”

He grabs the dish towel again. “I mean, we know the victim was a stripper, if that’s what you’re getting at . . .”

“Do we? I’m not following the investigation right now. I get in, take pictures, and get out. But hey, if you don’t feel comfortable answering, I get it. I’ll keep you in mind for our next photo shoot.” I rise to stand, and he rushes to speak.

“No, I’m not—yeah, I mean, I’ve been to a few. The Drive-In is a fun spot.”

“And El Cody’s?”

He shakes his head, and more black hair flops. “Never been. I’ve heard it’s fun, though. That’s the vegan strip club.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for the card.”

He straightens, like I’m departing military. “Thank you . . . uh . . . Officer.”

I lift a hand in a wave, then hightail it onto the sidewalk before any real uniforms arrive.

My phone buzzes, and I realize I missed three text messages from Jenessa. The first one contains only “mind blown” emojis, but she says she did know about Chet’s parole:

Victim notification arrived two weeks ago, yes. Did you get yours? I’ve been trying not to think about it, honestly. You?

I exhale the breath I’d been holding, my whole body deflating. Relief and annoyance mix together—annoyance that Jenessa didn’t tell me about the notification but mostly relief that I didn’t just deliver another bombshell of unwanted news. At least she will be prepared for whatever happens come Monday.

Sweat forms underneath my arms and the backs of my legs as I walk the blocks to where I parked. My interaction with Topher went better than expected, even earning me a card with his contact information. He didn’t seem to recognize me—not the response I would expect if the murderer was the same person who left me the anonymous note—but I can’t help feeling the police aren’t wrong to identify Topher Cho as a person of interest. A desire for fame, for notoriety, for extra followers—those are motives for murder. John Wilkes Booth was a respected theater actor before offing Lincoln. Now he’s a household name.

When I arrive at my driver’s side door, I startle at coming face-to-face with two sculpted dogs I hadn’t noticed in my hurry earlier. No, not dogs—Chinese dragons. Stone jowls part midway in a roar or as if readying to eat me. I step back, one foot in the street to fully absorb the scene.

They’re guard dragons, protecting Portland’s Chinatown district. Crouching on either side of the road, they flank an ornate archway painted red and gold—colors meant to bring good luck, and which I recognize from when Rosemary first tried to teach us girls about our respective heritages.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. An unknown number. I raise it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Claire Lou? This is Juan Montoya from the Portland Gazette. Are you the one who took photos recently for the Post? At Four Alarm Brewery.”

“Yes, that was me.”

“Excellent. Do you have any others of that crime scene? I’d like to feature some of them in the Gazette’s online channel.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head, ruing the one-page contract I had to sign before Pauline handed me a check. The exclusivity clause said I couldn’t supply photos to any of the Post’s competitors for six months. “I wish you would have called me sooner.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the phone. “I thought as much. Pauline and her damn lawyers.” The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone until noise carries from farther down the narrow road, from past the storefront signs displaying Chinese characters in neon lettering. Music. Laughter. Glasses clinking. I follow the sound around a corner and find a door propped open. Hanging in the front window, a sign in English with characters beneath reads BEIJING SUZY’S.