Fifty-four year old Leland Hays felt like he was aging well. After twenty two years of Juvederm, Sculptra, botox, two peels, an eyelid lift and a chin implant, he looked about forty four – still hot enough to get cool girls. Right then on the showroom floor of his furniture warehouse, he was bending a boyish young Thai waitress over the end of an antique platform bed he’d just imported from Mongolia and slamming her from behind. Next he bent her over an Indonesian loveseat, then a Moroccan chaise until he finally came in her over an oversized ottoman sadly re-upholstered in a purple and gold polyester damask. Not his best piece. He loved antiques and though these pieces were almost-antiques, they were mostly still beautiful and people in LA paid a decent price for them.
Hays liked just hearing the sound of his own self at play so he’d told the waitress to keep quiet, if she did, he’d give her a present. She did make some noise unwrapping a peanut butter cup and eating it when she was bent over the chaise but other than that, she was good. He let her pick out a small punched tin Mexican lamp for her apartment before kicking her out.
Rhea was parked outside, across the loading dock, watching a little green door under a nondescript sign that read: H&H Imports. The door opened. A young woman hurried out, carrying a Mexican lamp. She got in her Kia and drove away. Rhea opened her glove box and took out her badge, figuring she had only a few minutes until Strickland and Dawson showed up.
Hays was in his office doing some inventory when someone started banging on the street door. Thinking maybe the waitress had forgotten something, he opened his door, still wearing his bathrobe. A woman cop named Porter who smelled like cilantro thrust a badge in his face and wanted to know if he owned a place called Domingos on Cesar Chavez.
He knew she knew the answer so he told her he did. “Why?” he asked her, “What’s going on?”
Before Rhea could answer, Strickland was beside her. Dawson was right behind.
“There was a fire in the kitchen at Domingos.” Strickland stepped up, shooting Rhea a look and moving in front of her.
Rhea bristled when Dawson added, “We found three bodies. Girls. They died trying to get out.”
“Was it bad?” Hays asked.
“Well.” Rhea commented, jostling for relevance, “There’s three dead girls in there.”
“Know anything about them?” Dawson continued, showing Hays a picture of the dead girls. Hays looked quickly and shoved it away, feeling dirtied.
“No. No – it’s a bar. We don’t let kids in there. Besides, it’s been closed for a couple weeks now–”
“Why’s that?” Strickland asked.
“Business dried up. I opened on weekends for awhile but not recently. I was really never there and frankly, I haven’t even driven by in over a week.” He waved his hand over the warehouse, “Furniture is my main business.”
He stepped aside, allowing them a glance into the warehouse. It was cursory but something caught Rhea’s eye.
“Anyone else have access to Domingo’s, Mr. Hays? A manager, bartender, friend?” Strickland continued.
“I had a bartender but I laid her off when I closed the place. She gave her key back.” Hays told him.
“What’s her name?”
“Ahhh…” he thought for a moment, “Myrna.”
“Last name?”
Hays ran his hand through a shock of sandy blond hair plugs. “I really can’t remember.”
“Want to check your records for us? Give us a name?” Dawson asked. Hays was quiet. “No records?” Dawson pressed.
“She came in, asked for a job. She said she’d work for tips.” Hays smiled, “I’m sure she reported them all. I trust people, Detective… it’s the only way to get through life.”
“Where do you get your furniture from?” Rhea asked, casually.
“China, Indonesia, Thailand, a little from India, even a little from France.” Hays answered, always the salesman. “You looking for something in particular? We have good price on beds right now.”
Rhea ignored him. She pointed to a spot inside, where a rustic Mexican desk stood. “That. What’s that? Indian?”
“Ahh… Mexican.” Hays answered as Strickland looked back at Rhea. “We get a little of that but not much. Hard to compete with La Fuente and Direct From Mexico. I can give you a police discount. Five percent.”
“Thanks. Let me think about it.” Rhea said, then added “You mind if I take a quick picture?”
Hays stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. As Rhea took her phone out and snapped a picture of the desk, Strickland followed her lead and asked:
“How long have you been in the furniture business, Mr. Hays?”
“Too long” Hays laughed, “A little over thirty years.”
Dawson gave Hays his card and told him to call if he remembered anything.
Hays had one last question, “Let me ask you– do you get rid of the bodies or–”
Dawson explained that they’d handle it and let him know when he could have access back to Domingos. “Might be a week. Maybe less.” He told him. Hays nodded.
As the detectives started to leave, Strickland turned back. “One last thing,” he asked, “You have insurance on the bar, right?”
Hays nodded, “As basic as it gets. I’ll be lucky if they pay for a coat of paint. Believe me, I’m the one losing out here.”
“And the dead girls.” Strickland reminded him.
A smile slid onto Hays’s face like a cat’s second eyelid. “Of course, Detective; goes without saying.” He closed the door.
Rhea held back as Strickand and Dawson walked away.
The two men reached Dawson’s car. It was parked next to Rhea’s. They waited for her to catch up.
“That wasn’t cool, Porter.” Dawson started in on her.
Rhea walked to her car, opened her car door, “Say hi to Stacey for me.”
Dawson nodded.
“You’ve been together a long time, yeah?” she asked, lingering; waiting for Strickland to get closer, within earshot.
“Ten years.” Dawson admitted, curious–
“What is she now, almost twenty-six?” Rhea commented. She looked at Strickland, got in her car and drove away.
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