Stahl spotted white grains on the nightstand. A folded piece of stiff paper—the coke chute. A crumpled Kleenex stiffened by snot.
Kyra Montego knew Stahl had seen the dope leavings, but she pretended to be oblivious.
“I don’t understand,” she said, tight butt perched on the edge of the bed. Zipper all the way up, now. Her bra was slung over a chair, and her nipples pushed through the red top.
She fooled with her hair, had little success organizing the wild yellow thatch.
Stahl said, “The man you were with—”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Montego.
Kyra Montego. No way that was on her birth certificate.
Stahl asked her for ID and she said, “What gives you the right? You’re implying I’m a hooker or something, and that’s bullshit—you have no right.”
“I need to know your real name, ma’am.”
“You need a warrant!”
Everyone watched too much TV.
Stahl took her purse off the dresser, found three joints in a plastic baggie and placed them on the bed next to her. A long blond hair curled atop a crushed pillow.
“Hey,” she said.
He removed her wallet, found her license.
Katherine Jean Magary, address in Van Nuys, a three-digit apartment number that said she lived in a huge complex.
“Katherine Magary’s a fine name,” he said.
“You think?” she said. “My agent said it’s too clumsy.”
“Film agent?”
“I wish. I’m a dancer—yeah, the kind you think, but I’ve also done legit theater, so don’t go assuming anything about my morals.”
“I don’t think it’s too clumsy,” said Stahl.
She stared at him and her eyes softened—big, moist irises, deep brown, almost black. Somehow they went okay with the white-blond hair.
“You really think?”
“I do.” Stahl replaced the wallet in the purse. Put the joints back, too.
Magary/Montego arched her back and flipped her hair and said, “You’re cool.”
He talked to her for twenty minutes, but after five, he believed her.
She’d never seen Shull before, had drunk too much (wink, wink), Shull had seemed cute. Masculine. Funny. Kinda smart. From his clothes, she thought he had money.
“His clothes?” said Stahl.
“His jacket was Gucci.” Magary/Montego smiled. “I managed a peek at the label.”
Stahl smiled back in a way that told her that had been clever and kept her talking.
Shull had spun her a good yarn, telling her he was a professor of art and a landscape painter, had exhibited all over the world, was represented by galleries in New York and Santa Fe.
“Landscapes.” Stahl remembered Sturgis’s description of the Kipper woman’s paintings. Sturgis had gone into detail, more than was necessary. He’d clearly liked the pictures.
“That’s what he said.”
“Did he name the gallery?” said Stahl.
“Uh . . . I don’t think so.” Katherine Magary—he’d decided to think of her by her birth name—licked her lips and smiled and placed her hand on his knee. He let it sit there. No reason to alienate a witness.
“Was it all b.s.?” she said. “What he told me?”
“He’s not a good guy,” said Stahl.
“Oh, boy.” Katherine sighed, knocked a fist against her blond bangs. “I’ve gotta stop doing this—getting wasted, getting picked up. Even when they’re cute.”
“It is dangerous,” said Stahl.
“I’ll bet you know all about that. Being a detective. You could tell me stories.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yeah,” said Katherine. “It must be fascinating. Your work.”
Stahl didn’t answer.
“Was I in serious danger?” she said. “Being with him?”
“I wouldn’t go with him again,” said Stahl.
“Jesus . . . I’m sorry.”
Apologizing to him? He said, “Living by yourself, you need to keep yourself safe.”
“Yeah, I do . . . I’ve been stressed-out. Haven’t worked for a while.”
“Must be tough,” said Stahl.
“Oh boy. You learn to dance when you’re a kid, let me tell you it’s hard, it’s really hard work. An Olympic athlete wouldn’t work any harder. And then all they want is . . . you know.”
Stahl nodded. Grimy drapes pocked with cigarette burns blocked the motel room’s sole window. Through the glass and the fabric, he could barely make out the rush of the tide.
Slow rhythm; easy come, easy go.