"CSI?" the officer asked.
She read his nameplate: JOHNSTON. A newbie, right out of the academy she'd bet, all wavy blond hair and blue-eyed, vacant stare-was this his first crime scene?
"Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle," she said with a nod toward her partner. "Pardon the expression, but it's kinda dead out here."
His voice was a breathy tenor. "I was told not to let anyone in or out, 'cept you guys and the detectives."
She nodded and strode past him.
"Real mess," he said, hollowly.
Spinning to face him, Catherine demanded, "You were in there?" All she needed was for some rookie to contaminate her evidence. "You saw the scene?"
Eyes bright and glistening, he nodded. "Just for a second-from out in the hall." He swallowed. "Never seen anything like that."
"But you didn't go near the body?"
"No."
She studied his face for a second, then-satisfied he'd been frank with her-said, "Good," turned back to the club and pulled open the front door. Behind her, Sara tossed a hip to hold the door open. They entered a small alcove with still another door between them and the bar; already the smoky, spilled-beer-stench atmosphere assailed them. To their right, behind a small table, sat a good-looking if steroidally burly doorman in a white shirt, red bow tie and black jeans.
"You ladies…" He seemed to have been about to say one thing, in his pleasant baritone, then-perhaps noting Sara's silver flight-case field kit-finished by saying something else. "…are with the cops?"
Catherine said, "Crime scene investigators."
He nodded, gesturing toward the club, as if there were anywhere else to go.
Catherine opened the inner door and the blare of amplified rock almost knocked her back into the entry way. The music hadn't been this loud back in her day-or at least she didn't remember it that way. Stepping inside, the two women let the door swing shut behind them.
The stage was where it had always been, still about the size of Wayne Newton's yacht, filling the center of the room, a brass pole anchoring either end. No dancers were on stage at the moment, though the lights continued to blink to the beat of the music. A few customers dotted the chairs near the stage and most of the girls huddled in a faraway corner with two uniformed officers. In the corner to the left an elevated DJ booth oversaw the room like a prison tower, the sentry a scrawny guy in headphones, a scruffy beard, short blond hair and a fluorescent DREAM DOLLS T-shirt. His head moved to the music like a head-bobbing toy. He seemed oblivious to the fact that another employee was dead and the stage was empty.
Detective Erin Conroy stood at the long bar at the right, a notepad in hand, talking to someone Catherine couldn't see.
Still moving slowly, Catherine and Sara made their way to the bar and Conroy looked up, her green eyes tight, whether from the situation or the smoke, who could say? On the other side of the bar stood a short, bald, fat man, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, the top three buttons left open to reveal the sort of gold chains it takes hours to win at a carnival.
Catherine had to yell to be heard. "Hey, Ty!" She jerked a thumb toward the DJ, then slashed her throat with a finger.
His mouth dropped open, as he recognized her, but he obeyed. Tyler Kapelos looked over at the DJ's corner and yelled. "Worm!"
The DJ glanced up-the club owner, too, dragged a finger across his throat, the DJ nodded and the sound system went quiet, though Catherine figured she'd be hearing the echo for hours. Minus the blare of music, the club's essential seediness seemed to assert itself.
"Cath," Kapelos said, a smile spreading like a rash over his ample face. "Jeez, it's good to see you. What's it been…ten, fifteen years? I was starting to think you didn't love me no more. I heard you were with the cops, but still…never expected to see you in my place. You know me, I run a clean shop-no drugs, no hooking."
"I'm not a cop, Ty-I'm a scientist."
His dark eyes danced; he was in a good mood, considering. "You did make good!"
Sara-apparently feeling left out-said, "Crime scene investigators-my name is Sidle."
Kapelos acknowledged Sara with a nod, then turned his sweaty grinning countenance back on Catherine. "I just knew you'd make something of yourself." He gestured with a wag of his head to the squalid world around them. "You were always too good for this place."
"Okay," Catherine said, all business, "we're officially all caught up-now, what happened here?"
Kapelos began to speak, but Detective Conroy stepped in, glancing occasionally at her notepad. "We have a dead dancer in the back, in one of the private rooms. Goes by 'Jenna Patrick'-don't know if that's her real name or not. Late twenties, strangled-apparently by a john."
"Excuse me," Kapelos said, mildly indignant, "but they're not 'johns.' This is not the Mustang Ranch, y'know. They're customers. Patrons."
"Speaking of which," Catherine said to Conroy, "if you don't mind a suggestion-we could use a couple more detectives to question those customers. We can't release them without preliminary statements, at least."
But Conroy was ahead of her. "I have a call in. O'Riley and Vega are on the way…. Crime scene?"
The detective led the way, Catherine and Sara falling in line behind her as they moved to the back. With the music off and the echo subsiding, the customers and dancers corralled out there were talking too loud, yelling to be heard over music that had gone away.
As the trio of female investigators edged into the cramped hallway in back, Catherine noticed a small video camera overhead. She paused and pointed it out to Sara, who had seen it, too.
"We'll get the tapes before we go," Sara said.
The hallway contained six doors, three on each side, all standing open; this area was not part of the building's original design, and had not been here during Catherine's tenure-strictly contrived out of sheetrock, cheap trim and black paint, to accomplish a specific purpose.
Looking through the first door on the left, Catherine saw a room the size of a good-sized closet with a metal frame chair facing the door. The walls back here were black, too, and the carpeting looked like some cheap junk maybe picked up at a yard sale. Each cubicle had a mounted speaker to feed in the DJ's tunes.
"Private dance rooms," Conroy said. "Lap dances, they call 'em."
Table dances-where a dancer, between sets, would work the room, squeezing dollars out of patrons for up-close-and-slightly-more-personal glimpses at a girl-were as far as things had ever gone, in Catherine's day. Nothing to compare with the likes of "lap" dances and the stuff that went on in these private rooms, on the current scene.
"There are doors on the rooms," Conroy pointed out, "but no locks."
"If a customer gets out of line," Sara said, thinking it through aloud, "a bouncer can respond to a shout or a scream, and put a stop to it."
"In theory," Catherine said. "But that doesn't seem to have helped, here…."
Peeking over Sara's shoulder, Catherine got her first look at the body. Nude except for a lavender thong, Jenna Patrick lay in a fetal position, her long blonde hair splayed away from her face and bare back, something thin and black tight around her throat. Her head faced left, one sightless brown orb staring at the place where the wall and floor met. Full dark lips were frozen in a parody of a kiss and a tiny mole punctuated the corner of her mouth. She had full, heavy breasts and the strong, muscular legs of a dancer. She wore black patent-leather spike heels that would have been a bitch to walk, let alone dance, in.
"That looks like an electrical tie," Catherine said.
"Looks like it," Conroy said.
The women remained in the hallway, huddled around the doorway, maneuvering around each other for a better view.