Chapter 3: Broken Justice, Broken Lives

We ID’d the victim quickly: a dancer at the Stardust Club, went by Red Rose, real name Mariah Yu, just twenty—barely an adult. She lost her parents at thirteen, got roped into dancing. They say the girls just perform, but in that world, staying clean is damn near impossible.

The other dancers at Stardust told us, “She hooked up with a rich guy—not a regular, but I heard he’s a decent man.”

Another one rolled her eyes. “Please. What decent man wants a woman like us? Dream on. Look, she’s dead.”

“Do you know who this man is?”

“Not sure, but she bragged he could get her a steady job.”

“A steady job?”

Back then, everyone wanted a steady job—otherwise, you didn’t stand a chance.

“Oh, I remember—his last name is Bishop.”

“Bishop?”

“Yeah, something like Brian Bishop.”

“Yes, that’s it. She went on about ‘sincerity and ambition,’ said educated people have fancy names.”

I grilled the Stardust manager about the girls’ work. He tried to bribe me, slipping a Rolex into my hand during a handshake. I chucked it right back at him.

He just grinned, “Detective, we just do singing and dancing here. What they do off-hours, I can’t control. Nowadays, everyone’s out for a good time. If they like each other, taking off clothes is as easy as ordering takeout.”

Oddly enough, when Tyler Chen looked into Brian’s family, he found Mrs. Bishop had been sick since giving birth to their son—needed meds, couldn’t even carry a mug, let alone be with her husband.

“Cap, you didn’t see Mrs. Bishop—she’s so frail, like a stiff breeze would knock her over. Walking wears her out.”

“Brian’s in his prime, and he’s been going without for years. Must be tough.”

Any guy would get it. No wonder folks say a man’s gotta get married!

I started thinking about my own folks trying to set me up. If not for this case, I’d probably be on some awkward blind date right now. Damn—can’t even chase a case without my mind wandering. That’s just how it is.

I forced myself to focus. “Brian wants a woman, Mariah wants a steady job. Both got motives, both get tangled up. But as the plant tanks, Brian can’t deliver. Mariah, feeling cheated, comes to the plant. Brian, scared of being outed, kills her to keep her quiet?”

Tyler clapped his hands, grinning. “That’s it! Case closed.”

“But if Brian cleaned up the scene, why’d he come back?”

Tyler looked blank, then shrugged. “Some pervs like to go back to the scene—relive it.”

I smacked him lightly on the head. “Yeah, but not the same day, genius!”

“Maybe he went back for the note?” Tyler guessed.

“That’s possible,” I said, staring at the note. “He left in a rush after stripping the victim, realized he dropped the note, so he came back? But then, why was he undressing?”

Bottom line, I couldn’t make sense of his story.

I grilled Brian again, asking about Mariah and the missing $800,000. This time, he didn’t plead innocence—just looked pissed. “Nonsense. I don’t even know her.”

“I was just worried about the money, so I got up in the middle of the night to check the finance office. I hate thieves—always have. Why would I do something like this?”

When we brought up his wife and their lack of intimacy, he snapped, jabbing a finger at us. “Is that all you care about? My wife’s sick, but that doesn’t mean we’re not a couple. Why does that have to be all that matters?”

He didn’t look like he was lying. I even felt a little embarrassed for asking.

“What about the money?”

“He just put the cash in the finance office yesterday. I have the key, I’m the responsible one. If I stole it, I’d have run off—why would I stick around to kill someone?”

“And even if I did, that’s $800,000—not chump change. I’d have to stash it somewhere.”

He made sense. Afterward, we searched everywhere he might’ve hidden anything—still nothing. Not the victim’s clothes, not the money.

I shoved the note at him. “We checked—Mariah wrote this. You say you didn’t know her, so why did she have your address?”

Brian looked like he was going to fall apart, digging his fingers into his scalp. “I don’t know, I swear I don’t.”

Later, Tyler and I played the good cop, bad cop routine.

“Brian, I talked to a lot of folks at the plant—they all think you’re a good guy. But you were caught at the scene, and there’s a note with your name. I want to believe you, but you gotta tell us everything you know, or nobody can help you.”

Tyler leaned in, voice low. “There’s four witnesses. Still want to deny it? One person could be wrong, but four sets of eyes? You’d better come clean.”

Brian just slumped, defeated. “I didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t kill, didn’t steal. What do I have to do to get you to believe me? From the time I left home to when they caught me, it was less than an hour. How could I have done all that?”

His wife said the same about the timing, but as his closest relative, we couldn’t just take her word for it.

I took statements from the four witnesses again. They were getting annoyed, but still answered. Tyler compared their answers. “Pretty much the same, no contradictions.”

I slammed my fist on the table. “But all they saw was Brian taking off clothes, not actually hurting anyone.”

With what we had, Brian looked bad, but we couldn’t convict him. Unless we found evidence or a witness tying him to Mariah. But nothing at his place, and nobody in her world had seen him.

Three years as a detective, a handful of cases under my belt, and now I was stumped.

Lucky for me, the forensic doc had an idea. “I heard there’s new tech in D.C.—DNA testing. You can ID someone by DNA from tissue.”

“DNA?”

A new word. Maybe I’d heard it on the news, maybe not.