The light changed and they drove on in silence, Vicky thinking about what Harry had told her. She couldn’t even imagine what a heavy weight he carried around inside. But she did know it was heavy enough to be a problem in the case they were working. She also knew it was a concern she couldn’t voice, at least not yet. But there was no getting around the fact that Harry Doyle might be the wrong cop to be working the murder of a child-harming monster like Darlene Beckett.
The dark sedan stayed three car lengths back in the far right lane. Traffic was light so it was easy to maintain a safe, unobtrusive pace, to speed up whenever it was needed to make a light; then fall back and blend into the traffic again.
He had almost missed them. He had gotten tied up by things he couldn’t avoid, and it had taken longer than expected, and he had rushed out to Darlene’s apartment complex, assuming it would be one of the first places they would visit after finding her body. The local radio and television stations were full of the news; were already running special reports reliving every detail of her corrupt life, and he had no doubt the networks would soon pick up the story, if they hadn’t already done so. It was the only part of her murder that displeased him, giving her more of the notoriety that she had so clearly enjoyed. But that couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t dwell on that, had to force himself to ignore it. Now he had to concentrate on the detectives who were working the investigation. He had to know what they were doing so he could stay one step ahead. One of the news reports he had heard claimed the sheriff’s department had assigned one of its top homicide investigators to handle the case. Harry Doyle. Well, we’ll see, won’t we? We’ll just see just how good Harry Doyle is.
When the car carrying the two detectives made a turn on to Nebraska Avenue, he knew exactly where they were going. One point for you, Harry Doyle, he thought. You got here faster than I thought you would. Now we’ll see if you’re good enough to find anything. But I don’t think you will be. Oh, no. In fact, unless I’m very much mistaken, you won’t ever find what you’re looking for, not here, not now, not ever. You see, I’m very sure that all traces of the whore’s killer have already disappeared.
The Peek-a-Boo Lounge was located on Nebraska Avenue in an area dominated by street walkers and their pimps. It was a windowless white cinder-block building with a massive air conditioner hovering above a wooden front door that had been painted red. On each side of the door the name of the bar had been painted in large, block red letters along with the silhouette of a naked dancer. The only other decorative touches were the four scraggly cabbage palms that lined the adjacent crushed-shell parking lot. All in all it was a depressing sight and Harry and Vicky both knew it would be even more so in daylight.
Harry pulled the car into the parking lot, gathered up a photo of Darlene Beckett that they had taken from her apartment, and headed for the front door. Vicky hurried to catch up.
“You always in such a hurry to get into a place like this?” she asked his back.
“I lead a lonely life,” Harry said over his shoulder.
“Don’t we all.”
Harry pulled open the door and stepped aside. “Ladies first,” he said.
“You’re cute,” Vicky snapped back.
The interior of the Peek-a-Boo Lounge was as original as its name, a central stage with two fireman’s poles stretching from floor to ceiling, a battered collection of tables and chairs gathered before it, and a long bar off to one side. There were two dancers working the poles, each wearing only the briefest of thong underwear, the tops of which were stuffed with currency. The dancers glistened with sweat and the smell of that sweat and the sweat of those who had preceded them mixed with the odor of cigarettes, spilled booze, and stale beer, and seemed to permeate the room. The heavy beat of rap music pulsated from speakers set above the stage.
“Nice place,” Vicky offered. “I wonder if they do wedding receptions.”
It took a moment for their eyes to refocus as the door closed behind them. Except for the stage, which was engulfed in lights that presented a continuous change in color, the room was dimly lit and filled with a haze of cigarette smoke. Through that haze they could make out men sitting at the tables set before the stage. The men stared dully at the women who gyrated before them, occasionally luring one closer by extending a hand that held a folded bill. When the dancer reached the edge of the stage, squatted and rolled her hips to the beat of the music, the men would stuff the bill into the string of her thong.
There were men at the bar, filling half the stools, most turned toward the dancers, some just staring blindly into their drinks like drunks the world over. Harry moved toward the bar with Vicky at his side, stopping at the far end and raising his shield for the bartender when their eyes met.
The bartender, a thickly built thirty-something with a shaved head and one gold earring, gave a heavy sigh to let Harry know he wasn’t pleased to have cops in his bar, then moved slowly toward them.
“You need somethin’?” he asked.
Closer up Harry could make out part a barbed-wire tattoo that showed through the open collar of his shirt and appeared to encircle his neck. There were matching tattoos encircling each arm.
“I need you to look at a picture,” Harry said.
“I’m not too good with pictures,” the bartender replied in the raspy voice of a heavy smoker.
“What’s your name?” Harry asked.
“Name’s Jack.”
“Well, Jack, if you’re not good with pictures, it’s probably the lighting in this pisshole of a joint.” Harry made a show of looking around the room and squinting. “I think it might help if we took you someplace where the light is better.”
“I’m workin’,” Jack offered.
“Yeah, so are we,” Vicky said. “And guess whose work comes first.”
Jack turned his head away to demonstrate his disgust. “Show me your picture,” he said. “I’ll light a match if I need to.”
Harry handed him the photo of Darlene Beckett.
Jack looked at it and snorted. “This is who you wanted me to ID? Shit, that’s Darlene.”
“How do you know her?” Harry asked.
“I know her ’cause she’s here a couple times a week,” Jack said.
“She’s a regular?” Vicky asked.
“As regular as they get here. Hell, she was here last night.” Jack jerked his head toward the front entrance. “Her car’s still in the parking lot. I saw it there when I came to work.” He gave them an evil smile. “She musta got lucky and found somebody to take her home last night. Not that it would take much. I mean she’s a good-lookin’ broad.” He grinned again. “And, what the hell, she’s a fuckin’ celebrity, am I right?” The grin widened and returned to its distinctly evil quality. “I mean a real fuckin’ celebrity.”
Harry and Vicky ignored the comment.
“You ever take her home?” Harry asked.
Jack shook his head. “Never got that lucky.”
“You sure?” It was Vicky this time.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
How come you know what her car looks like?” Now it was Harry. They had Jack’s head swiveling between them as though he were watching a tennis match, and small beads of sweat had formed on his upper lip.
“Hey, I helped her get it started once, that’s all.”
“Just a good Samaritan, huh?” Vicky said. “Just the kind of a guy who offers to help when a lady finds herself in a tough spot, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Bullshit,” Harry snapped.
“Hey, what the fuck is goin’ on here? What’s this all about?”
“Who was Darlene with last night?” It was Vicky again. “Who was she talking to?”
“How the hell do I know? I mean she was a friendly broad. She sat here at the bar and talked to lots of people.”