Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

illuminated signed footballs, trophies, and photographs, some of Nash wearing a Louisiana State University uniform.
    “Linebacker?” Kins asked, considering a photograph of Nash in football pads.
    “Safety,” Nash said. “I wasn’t fast, but I hit like a truck. I hurt my hammy my senior year or I would have gone pro.”
    Kins nodded. He almost never spoke about his own abbreviated NFL career, which had ended after a year with a hip injury.
    Nash stepped to the door and yelled down the hall, “I’m freezing my tits off here.”
    Nash’s wife— and what a treat that job must be, Tracy thought—handed Nash what Tracy referred to as a “meathead sweatshirt,” sleeves cut off at the biceps. Nash picked up a football from an expansive desk and sat in a high-back leather chair.
    Tracy and Kins stood across the desk from him. “You own the Pink Palace?” Tracy asked.
    “A limited liability company owns all three. Which one are you talking about?”
    “The one just off Aurora.”
    “That’s the flagship club.”
    “The flagship club?”
    “First one.”
    “You’re the president of the company?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You employ a dancer named Angela Schreiber?”
    “Independent contractor,” Nash said.
    “Did you know her?”
    “I don’t get involved with the dancers.”
    “I didn’t ask if you got involved with them. I asked if you knew her.”
    Nash put the ball in his lap. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
    Tracy placed Angela Schreiber’s dance card—the Seattle Municipal Code required erotic dancers to be licensed—now sealed inside a plastic evidence bag, on the desk. Nash leaned forward to consider it. “That’s Angel.”
    “Angel?”
    “Her stage name. The dancers all have stage names. Look, Detectives, I’m running legitimate gentlemen’s clubs. We don’t condone any extracurricular stuff in the club. I have no control over what the girls do after they leave, so if she was giving some guy a blow job in the parking lot, it’s not my problem.”
    “Did you see Angela Schreiber giving someone a blow job in the parking lot last night?” Tracy asked.
    “No, I was just . . . Look, I don’t remember even seeing her last night.”
    “But you were at the club?”
    “Yeah, I was there. My club.”
    “And you don’t recall seeing Angela Schreiber all night?”
    Nash shook his head. “I’m mostly up front working the booth or in my office in back. Like I said, I don’t pay much attention to the dancers.”
    “Independent contractors,” Tracy said.
    “What?”
    “Did you see anyone paying attention to Angela Schreiber last night?”
    Nash shrugged. “No. But it wouldn’t be unusual. I mean, that is how they make their money. They get a guy interested, ask if he wants a lap dance or a private show. Making men pay attention is what they do.”
    “Who else pays attention to the dancers and customers?”
    “Floor manager.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Why do you need that? What did Angel do?”
    “She died,” Kins said.
    Nash looked to Tracy, then to Kins. “Do I need my lawyer here?”
    “Why don’t we start with the name of your floor manager,” Kins said.
    “Nabil.”
    “That a first or last name?” Kins took out a small spiral notebook and scribbled the name.
    “First. Last name is Kotar.” Nash spelled both names. “I think he’s Egyptian or something. How did she die?”
    “Someone killed her,” Tracy said.
    “You have an address or phone number for Nabil?” Kins asked.
    “I’ll have to ask my director of human resources,” Nash said. He looked to Tracy. “Killed how?”
    “We’re going to need the name of every employee and independent contractor working last night.” Kins held out a business card.
    Nash hesitated, took the card, and set it on the desk. “So how did she die?”
    “That’s still under investigation,” Tracy said.
    “When can you get us that information?” Kins said.
    “But she was murdered, right? I mean that’s why