“In the book, the dead woman had a mother who didn’t give up. Be smart, Yola. Stay out of the clubs.”
“Do you think she will?” Peabody asked as they walked downstairs.
“She’s clean. She may stay clean, may not, but she’s clean now, so her brain’s clear enough to let her think twice. It all depends on where she ends up after she thinks twice.”
“I’m going to have nightmares for sure now, with all those paintings. She’s good enough to make them really, really disturbing.”
“Death’s the ultimate experience.” Hissing out a breath, Eve walked back into the bitter rain. “What makes some people so damn interested in death?”
“Well, we are.”
Eve frowned as she walked. “You’ve got a point. Look up the clubs she listed. See if any of them are open, or if you can tag a manager, an owner.”
They hit two clubs, three more skanks, one club manager, and two bartenders. They didn’t get a nibble until the second bartender.
Brad Smithers tended bar at Screw U to finance his pursuit of his masters in political science. Twenty-three, buff, and black, he earned extra pay taking deliveries, stocking the shelves, and doing setups three afternoons a week.
“Plus it’s a quiet space until about five and the crew starts rolling in. We open at five-thirty for the happy hour crowd, but things don’t start hopping till after nine, and don’t really heat up until more like eleven most nights.
“Hey, how about I fix you guys a fancy coffee? It’s nasty out there.”
“Black works,” Eve said, but he winced.
“You want to trust me here, you don’t want the java straight, not what we’ve got. But it works fine as a base when I fancy it up.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Peabody said. “It is nasty out there.”
“I like to talk while I work anyway.” He went behind the long, stylized U of the bar, began to program an AutoChef.
The lights, on full now, consisted of trios of screws with tips that appeared lethal should they fall and impale a customer.
The walls carried a dull shine and numerous photos of naked or mostly naked people in creative poses of debauchery. Booths and tables crowded in together, some with privacy domes, some with filmy curtains. The dance floor spread, another dull sheen in front of a currently empty stage.
Stairs corkscrewed up to the open second level where Eve could see some lounging sofas, sleep chairs, and doors to what would be the privacy rooms.
“Place shows better at night,” he commented as he took some bottles from under the bar, began to doctor up the coffee. “For what it is. The lights start pumping, music starts grinding. We get some colorful characters, and they’re part of the show.”
Eve laid the photo on the bar. “Is she one of the colorful?”
He glanced at it while he sprinkled something onto the thin froth topping the coffee. “Going by the outfit, as that’s about all you can go by, that’s not the sort who patronizes this establishment.” He smiled when he said it. “You might see her wander in during happy hour, look lost, and head out again.”
He set the coffee on coasters sporting a drawing of a screw and a large U.
Eve rattled off names of the women on her list.
“Those are the sort who patronize this establishment. Shanna was in last night. Yola earlier in the week. You never know when the Flash is going to show. Pops in and out or settles in and closes the place down. Are they in trouble?”
“Maybe. How about a woman, more thirties or even forties, white, red hair, blue side dreads, orange—”
“Dragon tat,” he finished.
“You’ve seen her.”
“Sits at the end of the bar.” He wagged his finger toward the other end of the bar. “Drinks … wait, I’ve got it.” He shut his eyes, hummed a moment. “Virgin Moscow Mule. She makes one last.”
“The women I named? Does she interact with any of them?”
“I don’t think she interacts much. Sits alone. I tried chatting her up once, like you do. She told me to fuck off. I fucked off. Now she sits at the other end of the bar, so I figure she’s not here to chat.”