“Lincoln Tavernier? Yeah, doesn’t surprise me. Old bastard walked around with a poker stuck up his ass most of the time. He wasn’t just the boss—he was the fun police. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead or nothing, but things improved a lot when his number came up and Premium took over the company. Still don’t think Eleanor was involved with any of the guys, though.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Not enough dinero for Eleanor.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eleanor liked money. And she liked men with money. Ones with big bank balances and fat wallets and dumb enough to spend all their cash on her.”

“Sounds pretty shallow.”

“Yeah, well, she had a really shit life growing up in those kids’ homes, didn’t she? I guess she just wanted some financial security, a better future for herself. Who could blame her? What I could never understand was how she wound up slumming it in this dump and then working in an office for peanuts. The way she spoke, it sounded like she was earning a fortune when she lived in Hollywood.”

“What did she do in Hollywood?”

Jessica tried to keep her tone neutral despite the excitement suddenly bubbling up inside of her. Hollywood. Eleanor’s missing years. The years off the radar.

“Worked in a few of the topless bars. You know, a bit of ‘exotic dancing,’ as she called it. Skimpy panties and high heels and not much else. Reckoned she could make a hundred bucks on a good night and even more on weekends and holidays.”

“You know which bars?”

“Never asked. Not my scene.” Stevenson laughed raucously, as though the topless bars in Hollywood were exactly his scene.

“Did she have an apartment in Hollywood?”

“Nah, from what she told Darla, she crashed on couches mostly. When she wasn’t spending the night in motels and hotels with the customers, that is.”

Her excitement at finding out more about Eleanor’s past evaporated as Jessica listened to the details. She started to feel sick to her stomach. Hopper had been right about Eleanor—she had been lost. It seemed to Jessica that Eleanor Lavelle had been a young woman who thought she was playing all these men when she was the one who was really being exploited.

Jessica drank some Scotch, hoping the burn of the whiskey might wash away the bile rising in her throat.

“The police report mentions Darla had a fight with Eleanor the night she died. Did she?”

Stevenson whistled through his teeth in a way that set her own teeth on edge. “You’ve seen the police file? I’m impressed.”

“Yes, I have. Did they fight?”

“Physically? I don’t know about that. But they did have one helluva argument.”

“According to your own witness statement, you told the police you didn’t know anything about a fight.”