Page 9 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
“Did you hear what she said to the driver? Did she confirm it was actually her ride?”
She shakes her head. “No, we were too far away to hear them. We were standing just outside the doorway, and it was really noisy behind us in the club.”
“And you don’t know which rideshare company she used?”
“No, I’m sorry. She uses more than one, so I can’t be sure.”
“You didn’t see a logo on the car?”
“It was too dark, and I guess I wasn’t paying that much attention. I assumed it was her ride.”
“One last question for now,” I say. “How do you know Dina? Kimi said you two are friends.”
Teresa nods. “We work together at Maxine’s, a restaurant in Rogers Park. Neil used to work there too, when he was a student. That’s where we all met.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a server.”
“Both of you? Dina, too?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone at the restaurant who has ever given Dina a hard time? Perhaps an employee or maybe a customer? Does she have any admirers? Or enemies?”
She shakes her head. “A hard time? No, I don’t think so. Dina’s never complained about anyone in particular. But she does get hit on a lot by customers. She’s asked out a lot,too, sometimes repeatedly by the same guys, but she’s never indicated anyone was a serious problem.”
I nod as I finish up my notes. “Thank you for the information. I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions.”
Teresa walks me to the door, her face pale, her eyes framed by dark shadows. “You don’t think something bad has happened to her, do you? I could never forgive myself if it had.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you yet, but hopefully I will have some soon.”
When I get back to my car, I use my phone to check the hours of operation for the nightclub they visited last night. As it turns out, Jax doesn’t open until 4 PM. I head over there anyway hoping I can talk to someone. As I drive past the front of the club, I take note of two security cameras pointed at the front sidewalk and curb. If Dina got into a car, there should be camera footage. All I need is the license plate number of the car she got into.
I pull around to the rear parking lot, expecting it to be empty, but there are two cars parked near the back entrance—a sleek silver Porsche and a beat-up blue Ford Fiesta. I park beside the Ford and walk up to the back door. It’s locked, so I knock loudly. Twice.
An older black man wearing dusty coveralls and a toolbelt answers the door. “We’re not open yet,” he says in a gruff voice. “Not ’til four. Come back then.”
I pull out my leather wallet and flip it open to reveal my ID. It’s only my business card for the PI business, but it looks official—impressive even. I learned from my years, first as a police officer and then as a homicide detective, that flashing an ID can accomplish a lot. “I need to speak to the owner. Is he here? Or can you tell me how to contact him?”
The door suddenly swings wide open, and a brunette woman dressed in a form-fitting cream skirt and a sleeveless white silkblouse appears beside the handyman. “I’m the owner.” She eyes me from head to toe. “And you are?”
I show her my ID. “Tyler Jamison, private investigator.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “A private investigator?” She sounds more intrigued than she should. “Do come in.” And then she addresses the older man beside her. “Thanks, Eddie. I’ll handle Mr. Jamison myself.”
As I step inside, I wonder what she thinks she’s going to handle. I follow her down a hallway to an office. She closes the door behind us and leans against it, her ankles crossed. She’s wearing sharp cream-colored stilettos, and her skirt is a bit on the short side, which means she’s showing a lot of leg. It used to bother me that looking at an attractive woman’s leg did absolutely nothing for me. Now I know why, and I no longer care.
“Vicky Moreland,” she says as she pushes away from the door and walks toward me. She offers me her hand, and we shake. Her nails are long and painted a bright glossy red. Her fingers are adorned with a number of flashy rings. If those are real diamonds, she’s wearing a small fortune. I’m guessing the Porche outside is hers.
When she holds my hand longer than necessary, I gently pull mine free. “Ms. Moreland—”
“It’smiss,” she says, cutting me off. The corners of her mouth curve upward. “I’m single.”
And I’m not.“Miss Moreland. I’m investigating a missing person case. According to the young woman’s friends, she was last seen here at your club at approximately two-thirty AM this morning, when she got into the back seat of a white sedan and was driven away. I’m hoping your surveillance cameras picked up her departure. If I could look at the footage… I’m hoping to get the make, model, and license plate number of the vehicle she left in.”
The woman eyes me for a long moment, apparently sizing me up. “I might be persuaded to let you see the footage, if you offer to buy me a drink first.” Her voice trails off suggestively as she gestures to the door. “The bar’s right this way.”
