Broken Angels

27

Alasdair Blackburn was a taller version of his father, around thirty, broad-shouldered, athletic. He was dressed casually, wore his hair a little long. He spoke with a slight brogue. They met in Callum's office.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "I had an errand." He shook hands with Jessica and Byrne. "Please call me Alex."

Byrne explained why they were there. He showed the man Kristina's photograph. Alex confirmed that Kristina Jakos had worked at Stiletto.

"What is your position here?" Byrne asked.

"I'm the general manager," Alex said.

"And you do most of the hiring?"

"I do all of it-performers, waitstaff, kitchen staff, security, cleaning, parking attendants."

Jessica wondered whatever had possessed him to hire her friend Chet downstairs.

"How long was Kristina Jakos an employee here?" Byrne asked.

Alex thought for a moment. "Perhaps three weeks or so."

"In what capacity?"

Alex glanced at his father. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw the slightest nod of Callum's head. Alex might do the hiring, but Cal- lum pulled the strings.

"She was a performer," Alex said. For a moment his eyes shone. Jessica wondered if his relationship with Kristina Jakos had gone beyond the professional.

"A dancer?" Byrne asked.

"Yes and no."

Byrne stared at Alex for a moment, expecting clarification. None was offered. He pressed harder. "And what exactly would be the no part?"

Alex sat on the edge of his father's massive desk. "She was a dancer, but not like these other girls." He waved a dismissive hand at the monitors.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll show you," Alex said. "Let's go up to the third floor. To the Pandora Lounge."

"What's on the third floor?" Byrne asked. "Lap dancing?"

Alex smiled. "No," he said. "This is different."

"Different?"

"Aye," he said, crossing the room, opening the door for them. "The young ladies who work in the Pandora Lounge are performance artists."

The Pandora Lounge on the third floor of Stiletto was a series of eight rooms, divided by a long, dimly lit hallway. On the walls were crystal sconces, fleur-de-lis velveteen wallpaper. The carpeting was deep blue shag. A table and gold-veined mirror stood at the end. Each door had a tarnished brass number.

"This is a private floor," Alex said. "Private dancers. Very exclusive. It is dark now because it does not open until midnight."

"This is where Kristina Jakos worked?" Byrne asked.

"Yes."

"Her sister said she worked as a receptionist."

"Some young ladies are a bit reluctant to admit that they are exotic dancers," Alex said. "We put whatever they choose on the forms."

As they walked down the hall, Alex opened doors. Each room was dedicated to a different theme. One had an Old West motif, complete with sawdust on the hardwood floor and a brass spittoon. One was a replica of a 1950s diner. Yet another had a Star Wars theme. It was like walking into that old movie Westworld, Jessica thought, the one about the exotic resort in which Yul Brynner played the robot gunslinger who went haywire. A closer look, in brighter light, would have revealed that these rooms were a bit shabby, and that the illusion of the various historical settings was just that, an illusion.

Each room had a single comfortable chair and a slightly elevated stage. There were no windows. The ceilings held an elaborate network of track lighting.

"So, men pay a premium price to get a private performance in these rooms?" Byrne asked.

"Sometimes women, but not often," Alex replied.

"Can I ask how much?"

"It varies from girl to girl," he said. "But the average is about two hundred dollars. Plus tips."

"For how long?"

Alex smiled, perhaps anticipating the next question. "Forty-five minutes."

"And dancing is all that goes on in these rooms?"

"Aye, Detective. This is not a bordello."

"Kristina Jakos never worked the stages downstairs?" Byrne asked.

"No," Alex said. "She worked up here exclusively. She had just begun a few weeks ago, but she was very good, very popular."

To Jessica, it was becoming clear how Kristina intended to pay her half of the rent on that pricey town home on North Lawrence.

"How are the girls selected?" Byrne asked.

Alex walked down the hallway. At the end was a table bearing a crystal vase full of fresh gladiolas. Alex reached into a drawer, retrieved a leatherette portfolio. He opened the book to a page with four photographs of Kristina. One was Kristina in an Old West dance-hall costume; one was of her in a toga.

Jessica produced a photograph of the dress that Kristina had worn in death. "Did she ever wear a dress like this?"

Alex looked at the photo. "No," he said. "This is not one of our themes."

"How do your clients get up here?" Jessica asked.

"There is an unmarked entrance at the rear of the building. Clients enter, pay, and then they are escorted up by a hostess."

"Do you have a list of Kristina's clients?" Byrne asked.

"I am afraid we do not. This is not something that men generally put on their Visa cards. As you might imagine and understand, this is a cash business."

"Is there someone who might have paid more than once to see her dance? Someone who may have been obsessed with her?"

"This I do not know. But I will ask the other girls."

Before heading downstairs, Jessica opened the door to the last room on the left. Inside was a replica of a tropical paradise, complete with sand, beach chairs, and plastic palm trees.

There was an entire Philadelphia beneath the Philadelphia she thought she knew.

They walked to their car on Locust Street. A light snow fell.

"You were right," Byrne said.

Jessica stopped walking. Byrne stopped with her. Jessica cupped a hand to her ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that," she said. "Could you repeat that for me please?"

Byrne smiled. "You were right. Kristina Jakos had a secret life."

They continued up the street. "Do you think she might have picked up a suitor, refused his advances and he went off on her?" Jessica asked.

"It's certainly possible. But it sure seems like one hell of an extreme reaction."

"There are some pretty extreme people out there." Jessica thought about Kristina, or any dancer, up on a stage, with someone sitting in the dark, watching, planning the girl's death.

"True," Byrne said. "And anyone who would pay two hundred dollars for a private dance in an Old West saloon probably lives in a fairytale world to begin with."

"Plus tips."

"Plus tips."

"Did it strike you that Alex might have had a thing for Kristina?"

"Oh yeah," Byrne said. "He kind of glazed over when he was talking about her."

"Maybe you should interview some of the other Stiletto girls," Jessica said, tongue planted firmly in cheek. "See if they have anything to add."

"It's dirty work," Byrne said. "The things I do for the department."

They got in the car, buckled up. Byrne's cell phone rang. He answered, listened. Without a word, he clicked off. He turned his head, stared out the driver's side window for a while.

"What is it?" Jessica asked.

Byrne was silent for a few additional moments, as if he had not heard her. Then: "That was John."

Byrne meant John Shepherd, a fellow detective in the homicide unit. Byrne started the car, put a blue light on the dash, hit the gas, roared out into traffic. He remained silent.

"Kevin."

Byrne slammed his fist into the dashboard. Twice. He then took a deep breath, exhaled, turned to her and said the last thing she expected to hear: "Walt Brigham is dead."