Free The Dead Detective by William Heffernan

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