Free Thread of Fear by Jeff Shelby Page B

smiled and nodded appreciatively, pulling the cash off the bar. “Can I arrange anything for you? Did you have any interest in a private room?”
    I shook my head. “I don't, but thank you. I'm actually looking for Carina. Guy out front told me she was here.”
    She tilted her head to the side. “Can I give her your name?”
    “It's Joe,” I said. “But we haven't met before and she's not expecting me.”
    “Can I tell her what it's about?”
    “Patrick Dennison sent me,” I told her, which was technically true.
    If the bartender recognized the name, she didn't show it. She shrugged and said she'd be right back. She walked to the end of the bar, picked up a phone that glowed purple beneath the neon lights and pushed a couple of numbers on it.
    I turned back to the stage. The half-naked woman was now fully naked, save for a thong the width of a strand of hair. She writhed on the stage, crawling over to a table near the front. A guy in a dark suit tossed cash in her direction. She snatched it up and slithered to the opposite side of the stage, where another guy did the same thing. She plucked that up, too, then caressed his face before pushing herself up and strutting back to the pole.
    I'd never been a strip club guy. A lot of guys on the force used to frequent them in San Diego, often getting comped free drinks when the club found out they were cops. But I'd never understood the mentality of handing over a wad of cash just to watch a girl dance without her clothes on. There was nothing sexy or erotic about it for me. Maybe I was just old-fashioned. Or maybe I'd just been happy with what I'd had at home.
    “Are you Joe?” a voice said from behind me.
    I swiveled on the stool. A woman in her late twenties with short blond hair stood there. She was about five-ten with a prominent chin and big eyes. She wore a blood red blouse with black buttons up the middle and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. She didn't wear much makeup and she didn't need it. She was far more attractive than the girl on the stage.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Are you Carina?”
    She nodded, her eyes focused solely on me. “Yeah. Who are you?”
    “Joe Tyler,” I said.
    “And you said Patrick sent you?”
    “Not exactly,” I said, then glanced at the stage, then back at her. “Can we talk somewhere a little quieter?”
    “About?”
    “Patrick.”
    She shrugged. “I don't really have anything to say about him.”
    “Can you just answer a few questions for me?”
    “I'm super busy.”
    I leaned closer to the bar. “John Anchor gave me your name.”
    Something flashed quickly through her eyes and her shoulders stiffened. Then she nodded to a hallway at the side of the bar. “Come on.”
    She exited the bar area and I followed her down the hallway. The black skirt she wore barely covered her ass and her matching shoes were more stilettos than pumps. An angel tattoo adorned her left calf.
    She reached the end of the hall, punched a code into a number pad on the wall and pushed open a door I could barely see. Light exploded behind it and I realized we were stepping outside, behind the building.
    She turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Sorry. But my office is small and I figured it would be easier out here.”
    I blinked several times, the light about a thousand watts brighter than the inside of the club. “No problem.”
    She folded her arms across her chest. “I don't know who you are or why you're here, but I'll give you five minutes.”
    “I'm looking for Patrick Dennison,” I told her. “Can you tell me where he is?”
    She made a face like she was about to vomit. “No. I can't. I have no clue where that asshole is.”
    “Why is he an asshole?”
    “I guess that's the way God made him.”
    “Is he your boss here?”
    She snorted. “My boss? No. Hardly.”
    I waited.
    She didn't say anything.
    “So how do you know him?” I asked.
    “He does our books,” she said, looking away from me, squinting out toward