She threw herself into his arms and he brought her down with him to the soft, verdant earth where they were embraced by a sweet-smelling bed of leaves....
Then she woke, bathed in sweat and embarrassed beyond all measure, despite the fact that she was entirely alone. Except for Rollo, of course.
And Rollo didn’t know that she’d been having an erotic dream about a man she barely knew. A man who didn’t seem to like her.
She groaned and glanced at the bedside clock. It was three in the morning. Punching her pillow, she lay back down.
The moon was full, and its light drifted into her room. Since that morning, when she’d left the house with Rollo to search for Richard Highsmith, it seemed that even the earth and sky had changed.
*
At 3:00 a.m. Aidan was still up.
He sat in a front row at Mystic Magic, the place advertised on the matchbook found in Richard’s pocket.
In front of him, a very busty blonde gyrated around a silver pole.
The club appeared to be straight up—there were warnings all over to look and not touch. The dancers were beautiful girls, mostly enhanced for their chosen profession, but it wasn’t a last stand for down-and-out prostitutes.
He’d spoken to a few of the women, and he’d shown them a picture and asked if they’d ever seen Richard Highsmith before. None had. He was a good judge of liars. He’d studied all the physical tics and nuances that were typically signs of lying. But lots of liars had studied the signs, too. Still, he was pretty certain that he was getting the truth. Richard had been given the matchbook or picked it up somewhere, and he’d used it for the note he seemed compelled to write. Twice, at least.
The blonde was the last of Mystic Magic’s lineup. Her name—or her stage name—was Starlight. Her G-string was crystal studded; the same crystals had adorned the cape, bra and skirt she’d started out with, along with her bountiful blond hair. She was extremely popular, with a magnanimous smile for each horny bastard who leaned forward to slip money into the studded belt.
She slithered around the pole, posed and gyrated. Her audience went wild. She simulated sex with a gusto he was sure most men had never seen in a bedroom.
Then she rose and bowed to thunderous applause, blew the audience a kiss and hurried offstage.
For the most part, the crowd began to leave. There were still some private lap dances to be had, but most of the men—and the few women—in the establishment were paying service tabs and heading out.
Aidan waited.
In a few minutes, the bubbly blonde came out from the rooms behind the stage and walked toward him, smiling.
“Hi!” she said. She didn’t posture. At that moment, she might have been the girl next door, scrubbed clean of makeup and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “I understand you wanted to ask all of us some questions. You’re really an FBI agent?”
He smiled back. “Yes.” He pulled Richard’s picture from his pocket and held it out. “Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him here?”
She gazed up at him with huge blue eyes. “Of course I know him! He’s Richard Highsmith. He was a wonderful speaker. And the poor man died here. In our town. A really awful death. I’ve been watching the news all day.”
Aidan nodded. “Yes, he’s on the news. But was he ever in this club? Did you run into him anywhere? Did you ever meet him?”
“He shook my hand,” she said proudly.
“Where?”
“At the Coffee Spot, just off the highway. He was even better in real life—he had the best smile. He was so sincere.”
“Did you actually meet him?”
“We spoke and he asked me for my name. It’s Debbie. Debbie Howell,” she said.
“Thank you.” Aidan presented a second picture, the computer rendering of their Jane Doe.
“What about her?”
“What about her?” Debbie repeated.
“Have you ever seen her?”
“I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but how would I know? She just looks like...like tons of people,” Debbie said. “She could be anyone. I’m sorry, but...it’s not a very good picture.”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
He pocketed both pictures again.
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could have helped,” Debbie said. “But what made you think that Richard Highsmith would have, um, been in a place like this? I mean we’re perfectly legal—and we’re really dancers, not whores.”
“No, of course you’re dancers. Listen, Richard was found with a matchbook from this place in his pocket,” Aidan said. “You didn’t happen to give him a matchbook when you saw him, did you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t smoke. But people leave matchbooks all over. He might have picked it up anywhere.”
“True.” He’d already concluded that himself. “Except that Richard didn’t smoke, either,” he pointed out.