Thirty-Four

W ell?” Kate said as we left the place. “Any luck?”

“She shoved me and slammed the door.”

Kate laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”

“Well, you missed it,” I replied.

We walked along the lively street. It was dark, but well-lit by businesses up and down the pavement. We were moving at quite a clip when an arm reached out and grabbed me.

“What the—”

Kate turned and followed as the person, wrapped in a long overcoat, pulled me into an alley.

“Hey!” Kate said just as the person revealed herself to us.

“Shhhh,” she replied.

Madonna.

“What’s this about?” I said. My shoulder ached where she’d snagged me.

“It’s a warning,” she said, breathless. “Don’t come back to the club. Sal has your photos, and the bouncer won’t let you in.”

Was that it? She pulled me off the street for this? There had to be more to this.

“Okay. I wasn’t planning to return. You pushed me. I don’t need that. I’m just trying to bring justice to the Jean Harlow impersonator.”

Kate stood with her chest sort of puffed, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed. She sensed danger. And so did I. What was going on here?

“About that …” Madonna said. “I did know her, but not well. She tried to get work with us and Sal was unimpressed.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure of his reasoning. She was a beauty.” She paused. “But she might have sent an email from the agency, if that’s why you keep asking us about her. We all use the agency’s computers from time to time.”

That was interesting. And so far, it all rang true. But there had to be more to it. Or else why was Madonna being so secretive?

“I spotted her at the computer and she was frightened,” the impersonator added.

“Of what?”

“Well, at first I assumed it was because I’d caught her and she wasn’t supposed to be there. She hadn’t been hired.” Madonna twisted her head and looked both directions, lowered her voice. “But she said her father had located her and would kill her.” The impersonator’s face drained of color. She herself was frightened. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so scared.”

Kate’s eyes were now wide with excitement—or was it fear? Sweat beads formed on my forehead. If the Jean Harlow look-alike’s father had found her, and killed her, her murder had nothing to do with Justine’s. It didn’t figure. I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that the murders were connected.

“So do you suspect her father killed her?” I asked in a whisper.

“I’m almost certain of it.” Madonna cracked her gum, a habit I despised.

“Do you have a name for her dad?” Kate asked.

Good question. I should have thought to ask that.

“No,” she said. “So many trans people have such a rough time with family. It’s very … sensitive. We’re not all Caitlyn Jenner, you know. ”

Kate grunted.

I felt queasy when I considered it. “Did you learn her real name?”

“Jean’s?”

I nodded.

“Oh, no. We never use our real names,” Madonna replied. “The only person who’d know would be Sal, for paycheck purposes, and he never hired her, so …”

A pedicab driver whizzed by me, cutting it close.

“Those bastards,” Madonna said. Chew. Chew. Chew. “A menace to the streets.”

“So the only information you can offer is that she was frightened of her father and maybe he killed her. But you’re uncertain,” I said.

“That’s right. And please tell nobody where you’ve gotten that information from. I don’t need cops poking around in my business, if you know what I mean.” She blew a large pink bubble, and I thought once again how she was so Madonna-like.

It was interesting to get confirmation for our theory. But I doubted it would help without names. We needed names, the one thing these impersonators didn’t seem to want to give.

“Why so secretive?” Kate asked. “Is that Sal guy a prick or what?”

“Yeah, he’s a piece of work. I don’t need him to learn I’ve talked to you, okay?”

We both nodded.

“I’m also afraid that Sal might know Jean’s father. Or Jean’s father is around somewhere watching us? I might be paranoid. But I’d like to live a while longer, such as it is.” She rolled her eyes. “Gotta get home to the kids. The sitter hates when I’m late. But promise me you won’t come back. It could be dangerous for you.”

I didn’t expect to return. Besides, Madonna might be right. “Okay, I promise. Take care of yourself.”

A softness came over her face, as if nobody had ever said that to her before. “Thank you.” And she was off.

“What do you think?” Kate said after she left.

“She’s genuine. But we need details.”

“Interesting to learn about the Jean Harlow impersonator’s father.”

“Yes, but we don’t know her real name, let alone his,” I said, exasperated.

“How much longer can these people remain unnamed? I’m certain a name will turn up soon.”

I hoped Kate was right. I wanted justice for both murdered women. But the eccentric way both of them lived their lives was making it difficult. Nobody ever suspects they’ll be murdered and people will try to track down their killer.

Then again, it sounded like the Jean Harlow look-alike might have suspected it. Perhaps she’d left a trail of bread crumbs somewhere—or was that too much to hope for?