Hamilton and I were told we’d have to talk to the night supervisor at the gym. That gave us a day in Santa Barbara to kill. We spent much of it talking about Julie Larimore and how the trail to her had run into a dead end prior to her job with Killer Body, how Hamilton could find no trace of her before that. I told him I’d talk to Lucas Morrison at once, and I was furious that this man I liked more than was wise had probably lied to me, by omission, at least.
Hamilton and I had lunch, walked State Street, in and out of the galleries, eyeing the assortment of types brushing past us on the crowded sidewalk. When the ninth or tenth braless, panty-challenged woman in halter and shorts jiggled past us, I finally said to Hamilton, “Not quite like the Valley, is it, Den?” and watched him color as he pretended he didn’t know what I meant.
Now we visit the gym again. I’ve learned, in my short time here, that the city changes on the weekends, swelling with visitors, taking on a noisier, more frenetic pace. It’s like that tonight. The commingled scents from the restaurants tangle in the sea air. The sidewalks look automated, like the ones in airports. If one person were simply to stop, everyone behind would crash like dominoes.
The night manager is only slightly friendlier tonight than she was the evening of Tania Marie’s mishap. She informs us at the front desk that men are not allowed, and the three of us go outside into the still air of early evening.
“We don’t have anything to say,” she tells us, crossing tanned, well-muscled arms across her black T-shirt imprinted with the name of the gym. “I hope you’ll keep the club out of the paper.”
“You didn’t know it was Tania Marie Camp?” Hamilton asks.
She shakes her head. “I was as surprised as anyone. She registered as Mary Warren. We don’t run checks on our members, and nobody recognized her.”
“How did she get locked in?”
“An accident.” Although it’s dark, I can almost see the sheen of perspiration on her smooth forehead. When neither of us speaks, she adds, “A new employee who didn’t understand the procedure.”
“Would it be possible to talk to the employee?” Hamilton asks. “Maybe she saw something that would be helpful.”
“She’s no longer with us.”
Hamilton pounces on that. “You let her go?”
“No, she resigned.” More silence from us. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “I guess it was too much for her. She never came back to work after that night.”
Hamilton and I exchange glances. “Surely you have contact information for her,” I say, suggesting with my voice that it’s her duty to turn it over to us. She’s not buying it. The gym-teacher stance again, the voice of finality.
“I’m sorry.”
“If we had her name—” Hamilton begins.
“I said I’m sorry.” She stops at the open door. “She was a new employee.”
“We’re not blaming the club,” I say, but before I can continue, she goes inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.
“Want me to go after her?” I ask.
Hamilton frowns. “Why piss her off more? We can always come back.”
“What next? Julie Larimore?”
He nods. “Think you can get hold of Lucas?”
“Let me try.”
I take out my cell but get only Lucas’s answering machine. “It’s Rikki. Please call me as soon as you get this.” I’m still shaken by Hamilton’s news that there is no Julie Larimore, and the fact that Lucas might have withheld that information from me.
We’re in the middle of the club’s parking lot, which it shares with a wholesale liquor store, a coffee kiosk and assorted smallbusinesses. As I return the phone to my purse, I’m aware that Hamilton is staring at me with his odd, pale eyes, his lips set. It’s that same feeling I get when someone points a camera at me.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You have that reporter look. Did I do something wrong? You think maybe the message I left on his machine was too rude?”
“It was fine.”
He starts for the car, but I can’t let it go. “I want to know what made you stare at me like that.”
