Not surprising. Geography counted.

  It counted again when she had to walk two and a half blocks from parking to the club.

  The vibe started to change as it crept closer to the end of the workday, or passed that mark for some.

  Not as many tourists on the street now, or at least not here where the sex clubs, the bars, the piercing and tat parlors ruled. She watched two women come out of one of those parlors. One had skin still pink under a vine of weird flowers now twining up her arm.

  And her face as pale as chalk.

  A trio of guys in work boots and sweaty shirts trooped into a bar. End-of-construction-day brews.

  She spotted a junkie across the street, jittery as he hunted up an early score. And ignored him.

  The neon on the D&D stayed dark and the front windows shaded.

  She mastered in.

  Rochelle Pickering, tall and built in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, stood scrubbing at the bar. She’d bundled her black corkscrew hair under a floral do-rag.

  She jolted when Eve stepped in, then blew out a breath.

  “You startled me. I didn’t expect anyone to come in.”

  “I didn’t expect to find you cleaning the bar.”

  “Wilson won’t let me near the room where it happened, so I’m helping this way. Nobody got to clean the place afterward last night. It’s terrible, what happened. He’s just sick about it.”

  She went back to scrubbing, putting some elbow grease into it as she spoke.

  “He told me he knew her, that she came in off and on, and for a long time. And how they were having their bachelorette party here, she and her fiancée getting married in a few days. He’s just heartsick, and won’t have anyone deal with that room but himself.”

  “Sometimes it helps, to do it yourself.”

  “I know, and I’m hoping it does.”

  She put down the rag a moment, turned to Eve. “I was hoping to talk to you sometime—I wish it wasn’t after this. But I wanted you to know how well Dorian’s doing at An Didean. The counseling’s helped her deal with everything that happened to her, back to her mother’s emotional and physical abuse, through the nightmare of what was done to her at that vicious so-called Academy.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s more than good, Dallas. She’s got a lot more counseling in her future, but she’s actually blossoming. She’s so much smarter than her grades at her school before she ran away indicate. Her mother simply didn’t allow her to blossom, and now she is. She’s making friends—carefully, but making them. And the boy, Mouser—Tom? He’s just a wonder. So damn entertaining, and not just smart, Dallas. Scary smart. He just latches on.

  “You helped give them this chance, and I wanted you to know what it means.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. They both got knocked around more than any kid should. Roarke put you in charge of the school because he knew you’d find ways to not only give them a chance but convince them to take it.

  “Seen much of Sebastian?”

  Rochelle smiled. “I understand your issues with him, and why you have them. I don’t disagree. He does check in with them from time to time, and I promise you, they need that connection. He helped them—in his way, but he helped them.”

  “His way is … questionable.”

  “Agreed, but right now, with these two children, I’m seeing that blossoming. Without him, without you, without the school, I doubt they’d have survived long, much less bloomed.”

  Hard to argue, Eve thought, especially since she’d been through her own nightmare of a childhood, and had had no one but herself.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll check on Crack.”

  She went back, found him on his hands and knees, a bucket by his side, a scrub brush in his big hands.

  Sweatpants, a ragged tee, and another do-rag—not floral, but ink black.

  He glanced up at Eve.

  “That dust shit you cops use is bad enough, but the blood’s worse. Been at this damn near an hour.”

  “Looks like you got it to me.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Still, he scrubbed a little more before he tossed the brush in the bucket. “I can still see her though. It’ll take more than some scrubbing to wipe that away.”

  He rose, and she stepped aside to let him out, then followed him down to the men’s john.

  When he dumped the bucket in the sink, the water came out nearly clear. She imagined he’d dumped countless others running from red to pink.

  “Maybe give it one more pass.”

  “Crack, let it be. You’ve done what had to be done. I’m betting that floor’s cleaner now than it’s been in years.”

  He smiled a little. “It’s called the Down and Dirty. But I keep the floors clean enough. You got shit to tell me, skinny white girl?”

  “I can tell you some shit, big, buff Black man. Buy me a Pepsi.”

  “I can do that.”

  He carted the bucket with him into the club area, then stopped and shook his head.

  “Ro, you keep cleaning, none of my customers are gonna recognize the place, and walk right out again.”

  He crossed over, took the bucket and rag from her. “Sit on down here with Dallas. We’ve got us a private party.”

  But Rochelle shot him a worried look as he went in the back.

  “He’ll be fine,” Eve told her. “He can open again tomorrow, and that’ll help him get it back.”

  “I know you’re right.”

  She took a stool when he came back.

  “I’m having a drink,” he said, and pointed at Rochelle. “You’re having a drink. You still on duty?”

  “I am.”

  “Girl.” Shaking his head, he poured her a Pepsi on ice in a sparkling clean glass. Then pulled a bottle of wine from under the bar, poured a glass for Rochelle, tapped a beer for himself.

  “Here’s to fucking justice. You get it for her, Dallas. You get that fucking justice for Erin.”

  “Working on it.”

  “That’s good enough for me. What do you know?”

  “I know the person who was supposed to bring the case for her had to go to Baltimore. Her sister went into labor. It checks out. So Erin had to use a backup. I don’t know who yet.”

  She ran through what she had, at least what she had that she felt she could share with him.

  “That’s more than I expected, less than I wished for. I wished you’d gotten the bastard, but I expected it would take you time. I expected not to know too much today.”

  “Do you really think one of her friends killed her?”

  “Yeah.” Eve nodded at Rochelle. “I do.”

  “Then that’s what happened.” Rochelle gave Eve a decisive nod. “When they killed my brother, you knew right away he hadn’t overdosed, hadn’t lied to me about being clean. And you found out who did that to him, and why.”

  She looked at Crack, laid a hand on his. “She’ll do just that here, Wilson.”

  “I believe it. You held me like I was a baby when I cried over my sister. My baby girl’s body. I’ve got every reason in the world to trust you with this. Erin died in my place, while I was right here where I am now. And that’s hard for me to take. You’re going to see who did it pays. I believe it.”

  “Anything that comes to mind. Anything you thought of, remembered, since last night? Dynamics,” Eve added. “A look that didn’t strike quite right. Someone slipping in and out. Anything.”

  He downed some beer. “I haven’t thought about much else since, and I got nothing. Just nothing. Pisses me off I got nothing but a bunch of women blowing off steam, having a hell of a good time, cutting it loose. I thought about how Erin came in early for the swipe. She didn’t tell me why, just she had something planned for Shauna, and could she have it now.”

  He shrugged. “I figured sure, why not?”

  “Mondays are slow.”

  “Damn slow, and since she’d already booked it, I was going to keep it closed for her anyway. Tell you one thing.” He pointed a finger at her. “Soon as Roarke gets me the plan for cameras and such, they’re going in. Ain’t letting this happen again. No use me asking you to give me five minutes with who did this before you lock them up, especially in front of my lady, who wouldn’t like it. But I wish for that, too.”

  “A cracked head or punch in the face heals,” Eve told him. “Life in a cage goes on and on.” She pushed off her stool. “I’ve got somebody else to track down and talk to. Like I told you, you’re cleared to open tomorrow.”

  “And we will.”

  “Good luck, Dallas,” Rochelle called out.

  “I’ll take it,” Eve said, and left.

  Chapter Nine

  A check of ChiChi Lopez’s residence and workplace told Eve she’d have a five-block trip there from the D&D, and about seven to Delights, the strip joint where Lopez earned her living.

  She considered the building traffic, the frustration of finding parking, and decided to walk it.

  Adding the time to her considerations, and when she could reasonably expect to finish up, drive uptown and home, she tagged Roarke as she walked.

  “Lieutenant, I see you’re out and about.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to be late. I’m on my way to see a stripper.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She paused at the crosswalk with far too many others. “Just how many strippers are in your acquaintance?”

  “Who counts? I’m just leaving the office. Why don’t I join you?”

  “I’m trying her residence first, so there may not be a show.”

  “I’ll risk it. Give me your destinations, and I’ll head your way. The car can drop me off, and we can drive home together. Maybe I’ll talk you into letting me take you to dinner.”

  “A handful of blocks from Crack’s,” she began, and reeled off the addresses. “In that order.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Yeah, she thought as she shoved her ’link back in her pocket, he would. They’d found each other, after all, in a world of murder and mayhem.

  She watched a couple of street LCs grab a cart meal before they started their nightly stroll. A woman in micro shorts and a sports bra stepped out on a third-floor fire escape and watered a wilting pot of flowers. A skinny white cat with black markings sat on the windowsill and watched her.

  She passed a market with fruit stalls flanking the entrance. It smelled like summer.

  A guy in a backward fielder’s cap sold knockoff designer wrist units at a sidewalk table. He had a couple of tourists on the hook.

  They’d be better off with a sundial, but you lived and you learned.

  The after-work crowd began to flood the sidewalks, fast walking, talking on ’links, heading home or for drinks, an early meal. She passed a bar where happy hour spilled out to the sidewalk tables, and like the fire escape flowers, people wilted in the heat.

  More poured up or down the steps at subway stations.

  She turned a corner and watched a man in a business suit swooshing his way down the block on an airboard.

  She caught snatches of conversation.

  Frankie can fuck himself with a cactus.

  We need to lock down that account.

  My feet are killing me. Are you sure we’re going the right way?

  Then turned once more and stopped at the first address.

  Surprised, she studied a townhome of painted white brick with a pot of flowers, not wilted, on the stoop.

  Three tidy stories with solid security and windows shining clean, it nestled between another set of townhomes and a Mexican restaurant called Abuela’s with sidewalk service under a red-and-white-striped awning.

  ChiChi must be a hell of a stripper, Eve thought, and walked up to press the buzzer.

  Though the entrance had an intercom, there was no answer, not even from an annoying program. She gave it one more buzz, and a woman stepped out of the next door, leading a little rat dog.

  “She’s not home.”

  Eve stepped down, walked over to the woman with battleship-gray hair worn in a top bun. She wore a flowered dress over a body whittled down, to Eve’s eye, by a solid eight decades. She had a face of sharp bones, golden skin, lively dark eyes, and bold red lips.

  Beside her the little rat dog sniffed at Eve’s boots. Then yipped and yapped as if someone had kicked it in the ribs.

  It bounced like a spring.

  The woman snapped something at it in Spanish, and it sat, just staring at Eve with slightly crazed eyes.

  “Do you know if Ms. Lopez would be at work?”

  “Of course she’s at work! We earn a living in our family. This is about poor Erin. A sweet girl, an artist.” The woman crossed herself. “God has welcomed her into his arms, but too soon for those who knew and loved her.”

  Then she pointed a finger at Eve. “I know police when I see police. What do you want with our ChiChi? I’m her abuela.”

  “You’re her grandmother?”

  “Didn’t I say so? This is my place.” She gestured to the restaurant. “The family business. But ChiChi, she has no skill for cooking, for this business. She has other skills.”

  The abuela smiled.

  “Yes, ma’am. You knew Erin Albright?”

  “A good friend of my granddaughter, a friend of our family. Our priest will dedicate a mass to her. Why do you need to talk to ChiChi?”

  “It’s routine, ma’am.”

  Now she wagged that finger back and forth. “The police say routine, but don’t always mean it. So you talk to her, you go talk to ChiChi. There’s evil in the world. It preys on the innocent and takes innocent lives. You know this already.”

  “I do.”

  “Then talk to ChiChi, but go find the evil. I have to walk my dog, then go to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She stepped aside so the woman could lead her dog to the sidewalk.

  And continued on.

  She considered the encounter fascinating, and telling. The stripper shared a wall with her grandmother, and right next to the family restaurant. And that family had known, and apparently liked, Erin Albright.

  Would she have called on one of them for backup? Possible, she decided, and that opened up yet another avenue to explore.

  When she reached Delights, it didn’t surprise her to see Roarke standing outside, under the sign of a well-endowed woman in a G-string and pasties, head tossed back as if in orgasm as she rode a pole.

  “And there she is,” he said. “I was just about to tag you to see if I’d guessed correctly or had a bit of a walk coming.”

  “You guessed correctly. Lopez is at work. I talked to her grandmother, who lives in the townhouse next door. Do you know Abuela’s, a Mexican place?”

  “I do, yes. A very well-run restaurant. Her grandmother’s then?”

  “The family’s anyway. The grandmother says ChiChi’s talents lie in another direction. She knew the victim.”

  She scanned the exterior as she spoke. “More upscale than I expected. Not yours, is it?”

  “Sadly no.”

  “You’re faster. Check who owns the restaurant building, this one, and those townhouses.”

  He took out his PPC, and had the answer in seconds. “Aren’t you the clever one. Lopez Family LLC owns those properties, and a few more besides—a few residential more.”

  “With all that, I guess ChiChi just likes getting naked. Let’s go in.”

  Music thrummed. The lights held dim except on the circular stage, where a woman strolled and strutted in a three-piece suit and mile-high heels. She wore a fedora cocked on her head.

  Eve recognized the woman she’d come to speak with.

  Plush red seats circled the stage, and for this early in the evening, Eve found them surprisingly full.

  More seats and booths lined the walls, and the bar in the rear did a brisk business. Servers in G-strings and pasties carried trays.

  Some of them had bills tucked into the G-string.

  A man in a corner booth enjoyed a lap dance, but his gaze stayed on the woman onstage rather than the one who serviced him.

  She didn’t seem to mind.

  And Eve supposed ChiChi Lopez was something to see.

  She’d stripped off her tie, shimmied/wiggled out of the suit jacket before doing a stylish turn on the pole. The vest came next, and more pole work.

  Eve had to admit the woman was flexible, and had a style. Even while she stayed fully dressed, patrons tossed bills on the stage.

  When the music hit a clash of brass, she tore open the breakaway dress shirt, revealing impressive breasts accented by tiny, sparkling pasties.

  More money flew when she tossed a leg up the pole, executing a standing split. By the time she yanked off the breakaway pants, the crowd buzzed and cheered.

  More cheers when she tossed away her hat, and black curls cascaded free.

  Eve figured her pole work in the tiny spangles reached gymnast level, maybe contortionist.

  Bumps, grinds, backbends, spins, and twirls, and Eve figured for about a ten-minute routine, she’d pulled in easily two hundred in tips. Maybe three. At roughly six in the evening.

  “Entertaining,” Roarke commented.

  “Take off your clothes and people toss money at you. It’s weird.”

  Since she’d already made security—the wide-shouldered man in the back in a black suit—she walked his way.

  She held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas and civilian consultant, NYPSD. I need to speak with Ms. Lopez.”

  “About Erin? I’m ChiChi’s cousin. Our abuela let me know you were coming. Have a seat—” He pointed to a booth. “Drinks on the house. I’ll tell my cousin.”

  When he walked off, Eve shook her head. “More weird. His cousin gets naked onstage, and he doesn’t blink.”

  “Just a job of work, Eve.”

  “A job of work where the audience is getting boners over your cousin.”

  “Plenty of women in here as well.”

  “They get the female equivalent of a boner.”

  She took a seat in the booth. “Stick with water, okay? We’re on the job.”

  One of the nearly naked servers sidled up, gave Roarke a crystal clear eye fuck.

  “Just water, please. Still.”