After a long pause, Coral agrees.
Another pinch. Karen can’t help it.
48
Coral St. James lives in a quiet neighborhood, the kind with basketball hoops above garage doors, well-kept lawns, and CAUTION: CHILD-AT-PLAY signs on the sidewalk. A Ring camera lets Coral know Karen has arrived.
She looks about forty, wearing leggings and a big T-shirt with a small stain on the front. No makeup, and her hair is no longer red, it’s black and slicked into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. A small boy peeks out from behind her long legs. Coral looks exactly like what she is: a woman who has two young children and is married to a dentist.
But for five years, she worked as the backstage manager at the Fine Line. Before that, she had been a dancer at a club in Sacramento.
“Come on in,” Coral says, opening the door wider.
Karen follows her down a hallway and into the kitchen. The child, a boy of about four, stays by his mother’s side but looks back at Karen as they walk.
“Have a seat.” Coral points to the table. “I’m making coffee.”
Karen waits until Coral gets her son settled in the other room in front of the TV. Once the coffee is poured, Coral sits down and exhales.
“Your son is adorable. So well-behaved,” Karen says. As much as she wants to talk about her own son, she has a job to do. And if there’s one thing today has proved, it’s that Karen isn’t half-bad at it.
“You said something about Joey Fisher?” Coral says.
“Yes. We’ve uncovered new information about his case.”
Coral drums her nails against the table. They’re long, neutral in color, and perfect except for the chip on her left pinkie. Motherhood does take a toll on nails, along with everything else.
“Joey’s case is what led me to you,” Karen says. The downside to officially being on the case is that she can no longer pretend to be a private investigator. Every witness and every piece of evidence will be part of a trial. Hopefully. “We have reason to believe the person who hit him may have been at the Fine Line before the accident.”
“Reason to believe,” Coral says. Not a question.
“Obviously, I can’t go into too many details of an active investigation.”
“Of course.” Coral stills her hand and glances back into the living room. Her son hasn’t moved. She then looks around the kitchen, like she’s making a mental list of things that need to be done. Karen can relate.
“I have to be honest,” Coral says. “If this was about anyone else, I wouldn’t be talking to you. Those days . . .” She waves her hand, like she’s swatting a bug. “They’re long gone.”
“I understand. Thank you for talking to me.”
“Go ahead,” Coral says. “Ask your questions.”
“Given your position at the club, you must have known all the women who worked there.” Karen takes a photo of Ivy out of her bag. It’s an old picture, printed off Ivy’s now-dormant Facebook account. As far as Karen can tell, it was taken around the time she worked at the Fine Line. “Does this woman look familiar?”
Coral studies it, her face showing no expression. “She looks really . . . wholesome.”
She did. The picture had been taken outside, in the sun, with her hair blowing in the wind. Ivy was wearing a sundress and a smile.
“Her name is Ivy Banks,” Karen says. “She worked as a waitress at the Fine Line.”
Coral tilts her head to the side. “Maybe? I’m not sure.”
“On the same night Joey was killed, someone called 911 from the club. They mentioned a domestic disturbance, and I believe it involved Ivy and her boyfriend.”
“We had a few problems with boyfriends over the years,” Coral says. “That wasn’t unusual.”
Karen takes out a picture of Wes. Another old photo, also from Ivy’s Facebook page. “This was her boyfriend. His name is Wes Harmon.”
Coral stares at it for a minute. “No. I don’t recognize him.” She picks up Ivy’s picture again. “But she does look a little familiar. With more makeup and fewer clothes . . . maybe.”
“After the night Joey died, there’s no record she ever returned to the club.”
Coral’s head snaps up. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, that helps a little. I vaguely remember one story about a new girl and her boyfriend, but I don’t remember the details.”
Karen’s shoulders drop. She had been hoping Coral remembered something useful.
“Have you checked with our security guys?” Coral asks. “One of them might remember more if there was some kind of trouble.”
“I’ve tried to reach a few of them. So far, none have called back.” Karen opens one of the lists on her phone and reads off the names of the bouncers who were working that night. Or at least the ones who were owed money in the bankruptcy.
Coral listens to all the names and then says, “Uncle Bobby.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Robert Tubbs. Everyone called him Uncle Bobby,” she says. “That’s who you want to contact. He knew everybody.”
Karen pulls up the calls on her phone. She had tried to call him over a week ago. Left a message and never heard back.
“Coral,” she says, “do you think you can get him to talk to me?”
She shrugs. “I can try.”
49
Ivy turns down drinks with her coworkers to have dinner with Heath, who wants to show off his fancy electric car. He’s been wanting one for a while, though it makes her feel even worse about her own financial situation. Her fault, not his, but that car makes her feel the weight of her own decisions.
“They must pay you a lot to build those communities,” she says.
“I can’t complain.”
“How about the women? Do they like it?”
“They don’t hate it.” He smiles in that dorky way guys do when they’re proud of themselves.
She shouldn’t be annoyed, but she is.
Not that it’s personal to Heath. Everything is irritating her tonight and the alcohol hasn’t helped. She puts on a smile, trying not to show her surly mood. This is Heath, someone she’s been friends with forever, and he deserves better than how she really feels.
Heath hasn’t had the most successful love life. Yes, there have been a lot of dates and a lot of women, each one more beautiful than the last. But no one “special.” His word. Ivy isn’t sure a fancy car will attract the right woman. At least by her definition.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Everything seems to be going so well.”
“Thank you. It really is.” He leans back in his chair, smiling. “So tell me about this lawyer.”
“He’s expensive.”
“And you’re sure you need one?” he says. “It’s not like you’re a suspect or anything.”
“I know.”
Back when Ivy first took the job at the Fine Line, Heath was a billion times more supportive than Wes. At least he had talked to her about it, asking if she was nervous and if she really wanted to work at a strip club. But Wes didn’t even believe her.
Now, Heath doesn’t understand why she needs a lawyer, because he still doesn’t know the whole story.