Fool Me Once

One was the obvious. Confront Judith. Confront Neil. Confront them immediately and demand answers. But there were problems with the direct approach. Logistically speaking, neither one of them was home right now, but more than that, what did she hope to find? If they were hiding something, would they admit it? Even if she somehow forced them to log into that account, wouldn’t they have gotten rid of the evidence or covered it up somehow by now?

And cover up what?

What did Maya think was happening here? Why would the Burkett family pay off the homicide cop who was investigating Joe’s death? Did that make any sense at all? Let’s assume that Caroline was on the up-and-up. If the payoffs had started before the murder, well, again, how could they possibly know he’d be the detective who’d catch the case? No, that made no sense. Caroline hadn’t been sure about the date of the first payment anyway. It would make more sense-“more sense” was in this case just a hair above “absolutely no sense at all”-if the payments started after the murder.

But to what end?

See several moves ahead. That was the key. And when Maya looked several moves ahead of directly confronting either Neil or Judith, assuming they were the ones behind the alleged payments, she saw nothing substantially beneficial. She’d be revealing herself to them without getting any valuable information in return.

Be patient. Learn what you can first. Then, if need be, confront. They say an attorney should never ask a question unless she already knows the answer. In a similar vein, a good soldier doesn’t attack unless she’s already calculated and can counter the most likely outcomes.

She’d had a plan before all this: Get hold of Isabella and make her talk. Figure out why Claire was secretly calling Leather and Lace.

Stick to the plan. Start with Isabella’s house.

Hector answered the door.

“Isabella is not here.”

“Mrs. Burkett thinks she and I should talk.”

“She’s out of the country,” Hector said.

Bullshit. “Until when?”

“She’ll call you. Please don’t come back.”

He shut the door. Maya had expected this. As she headed back toward her car, she circled around Hector’s truck and, without breaking stride, slapped a magnetic real-time GPS tracker under his bumper.

Out of the country, my ass.

The tracker was simple: You download the app, you bring up the map, you can see exactly where the vehicle is now and where it has gone. They weren’t hard to get. Two stores at the mall sold them. Maya didn’t believe for a second that Isabella had left the country.

But Hector, she bet, would eventually lead Maya to his sister.

Chapter 13

Some might figure that Leather and Lace would be closed until the nighttime. They’d be wrong. Located in the shadow of MetLife Stadium, home to both the New York Giants and Jets, Leather and Lace opened at 11:00 a.m. and offered a “deluxe sumptuous lunch buffet.” Maya had been to strip clubs before, mostly during leaves. The guys blew off steam there. She’d gone once or twice. They obviously weren’t for her, but you’d never guess that from the star treatment female clients received. Every pole dancer hit on her like mad. Maya had theories-less to do with the dancers being gay than being anti-male-but she kept them to herself.

Leather and Lace had the prerequisite meathead at the door. Six four, probably three hundred pounds, no neck, buzz cut, black shirt so tight it worked like a tourniquet on his biceps.

“Well, hello,” he said, like someone had offered him a free appetizer. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

Oh boy. “I need to talk to your manager.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down-beef inspection-and nodded. “You got references?”

“I would like to speak to your manager.”

Meathead gave her the once-over for at least the third time. “You’re a little old for this line of work,” he said. Then he nodded again and awarded her with his best smile. “But me, I think you’re smoking hot.”

“That means a lot,” Maya said, “coming from you.”

“I’m dead serious. You are hot. Great tight bod.”

“It’s all I can do not to swoon. Your manager?”

A few minutes later, Maya passed the surprisingly extensive buffet. The crowd was still light. The men kept their heads down. Two women danced onstage with the enthusiasm of middle schoolers waking up for a math test. They couldn’t have looked more bored without prescribed sedation. Forget your morals, this was Maya’s real problem with clubs like this. They had all the eroticism of a stool sample.

The manager wore yoga shorts and a sleeveless top. He told her to “Call me Billy.” Billy was short, spent too much time in the gym, and had thin fingers. His office was painted bright avocado. The computer had monitors watching the dressing room and stages. The camera angles reminded Maya of the ones that shot Lily at Growin’ Up.

“First off, let me just say you’re hot. Okay? You’re hot.”

“So I keep hearing,” Maya replied.