Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Could the regular’s name have been ‘Jerry’?” said Milo.

Savarin brightened. “You know I think it was. Larry, Jerry… who is he?”

“A guy.”

“He hurt her?”

Milo shook his head. “What about Christina Marsh?”

“Christi? Friend of Angie’s. Referred Angie to us. She quit, too, maybe a month after Angie. Her I was sorry to see go. Not huge in the chest department but big enough, and with a real nice shape to them- like pears, you know? Sweet little pink nipples, she didn’t have to rouge ’em. Her whole body had this milk-fed thing going on. Limber, too. She could really work the pole.”

“Why’d she quit?”

Savarin shook his head. “Her I don’t know, she just stopped showing up. I called her once, twice, she didn’t return, I moved on.” He held out his hands. “This business, pays to be philosophical.”

“You have a number for her?”

“Probably somewhere. The owners come in periodically and clear paper, but maybe something’s still there.”

“Who are the owners?”

“Consortium of Chinese-American businessmen. Lucky guys.”

“Business is good,” said Milo.

“Business is great, wish I had a piece. I get bonuses, though.”

“Where’s corporate headquarters?” said Milo.

“Monterey Park. The original club is there, it was designed for an Asian clientele. There are seven others besides this one. Ontario, San Bernardino, Riverside. All the way down to San Diego County. My cash flow’s among the best.”

“Any other owners besides the guys from Monterey Park?”

“Nope.”

“Who owns the building?”

Savarin smiled. “Nice little eighty-year-old lady from Palm Springs who inherited from her husband. Grace Baumgarten. She came in one time, watched the girls dance, said she remembered when she could move like that.”

“Anyone else involved in the business?”

“Besides employees?”

“Any other owners?”

“No, that’s it.”

“What about bouncers? Any others besides the guys on tonight?”

“I use some Cal State football players from time to time,” said Savarin.

“Ever use a guy named Ray Degussa?”

“Nope. Who’s he?”

“A guy.”

“Okay, I won’t ask,” said Savarin. “But can I ask why you want to know about Angie and this Jerry guy and Christi? What I mean to say, is it something that could affect business?”

Milo showed him the death shot. Savarin’s tan lost some bronze.

“That’s Christi. Oh, man. What the hell happened to her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Christi,” said Savarin. “Oh, man. She was basically a nice kid. Not too smart, but nice. Talk about your farm girl. I think she was from Minnesota or someplace. Natural blonde. Oh, man. That’s a shame.”

“Big shame,” said Milo.

“Let me see if I can find you that paperwork.”

Out in the vestibule Savarin unlocked one of the unmarked doors on a closet full of boxes and bottles of cleaning fluids. He rummaged through file boxes. It took a while but he came up with a single sheet of pink paper labeled Employee Data that listed a Social Security number and a mailing address for Christina Marsh and nothing else.

Vanowen Boulevard, North Hollywood. Not far from Angie Paul’s apartment complex. Christina Marsh had begun working at the club eight months ago, stopped showing up six months later.

Soon after Gavin had begun therapy.

Milo said, “There’s no phone number here.”

Savarin took a look at the sheet. “Guess not. I think she said she hadn’t gotten one yet. Just moved, or something like that.”

“From Minnesota.”

“I think it was Minnesota. She looked Minnesota, real creamy. Sweet kid.”

“Not bright,” I said.

“When she filled this out,” said Savarin, “it took her a real long time, and she was moving her lips. But she was a great worker.”

“Uninhibited,” I said.

“She’d squat for a dollar tip, show you everything. But there was nothing… foxy about it.”

“Sexy but not foxy?”

“Sexy because it wasn’t foxy,” said Savarin. “What I’m trying to say is there was nothing teasy about her. It was like fucking the pole and showing everything was just a way to show off what nature gave her. Wholesome, you know? Guys like that.”

Milo said, “Did she mention where she worked before?”

Savarin shook his head. “When I saw how she moved, I didn’t ask any more questions.”

“She have any regulars?”

“No, she wasn’t that way, she circulated.”

“Unlike Angie.”

“Angie knew she couldn’t compete physically, so she concentrated on finding one guy, really worked him. Christi was a people person, pulled in max tips. That’s why I was surprised when she didn’t show up. How long ago was she… when did it happen?”

“Couple of weeks ago,” said Milo.

“Oh. So she was doing something in between.”

“Any idea what?”

“I’d say dancing at another club, but I’d have found out.”

“The club grapevine.”

Savarin nodded. “It’s a small world. Girl moves to the competition, you hear about it.”

“Who’s the competition?”

Savarin rattled off a list of clubs, and Milo copied them down.

“The girls working tonight,” he said. “Any of them know Christi or Angie?”

“Doubt it. None of them have been here longer than a couple of months. Not at this branch, anyway. That’s our big thing. We cycle the talent.”

I said, “Helps avoid too many ‘Jerrys.’ ”

“Keeps everything fresh,” said Savarin.

Milo said, “It’s a small world. Maybe one of the girls knew Angie or Christi from before.”

“You can go backstage and talk to them, but you’d probably be wasting your time.”

“Well,” said Milo, “I’m no stranger to that.”

Backstage was a cluttered corridor crowded with costumes on racks and makeup on tables, bottles of aspirin and Mydol, lotions and hair clips, ambitious wigs on Styrofoam forms. Three girls lounged in robes, smoking. A fourth, slender and dark, sat naked with one leg propped on a table, trimming her pubis with a safety razor. Up close, the pancake makeup caked. Up close the girls looked like teenagers playing dress-down.

None of them knew Angela Paul or Christina Marsh and when Milo showed them the death shot, their eyes grew frightened and wounded. The girl with the razor began to cry.

We muttered some words of comfort and left the club.

The detectives’ room was empty. We continued to Milo’s office, and he kept the door open and stretched in his chair. It was nearly 2 A.M.

He said, “So what’re they doing in Minnesota? Milking the cows? Harvesting wild rice?” He shook his head. “Milk-fed.”

I said, “Too early to start calling locals?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

He pulled out the picture of Christi Marsh and stared at it. “Finally, a name.” Switching on his computer, he ran her name through NCIC, the local databases. No hits. Not even a driver’s license, and her Social Security number pulled up no record of employment.

“Phantom girl,” he said.

“If she was freelancing at a cash business,” I said. “There’d be no need for record-keeping?”

“A pro, like you suspected. So where’d she meet Angie?”

“Working at a club that doesn’t file paper. Or Angie was hooking, too. The Vice guys didn’t know Christi because she was new in town, hadn’t gotten caught.”

“Minnesota,” he said. “I’ll start calling there in a couple of hours. Got lots of calls to make. Sure you don’t want some coffee? I’m gonna have some.”