“She’s...she’s one of ours. Is she—”
“Yes, I’m sorry. She’s dead. She’s our Jane Doe,” Aidan said.
Music soared to a crescendo. Across the expanse of tables and men, Aidan saw Debbie finishing her act.
Her eyes went directly to his.
He nodded, trying to tell her she was safe; the police were here.
She nodded in return before she took several bows, smiling that great smile of hers for a cheering audience.
Bolton was still staring at the picture. He glanced up at Aidan. “I saw what they put on TV yesterday, but I never thought... Lord. She was supposed to be in the city for a few days, visiting friends. We didn’t even know she was missing. We didn’t know....”
His voice broke, and there were tears in his eyes.
He wasn’t that jaded, after all.
“I’m very sorry,” Aidan said quietly.
Bolton looked at him. “You probably think this place is filled with immoral, disgusting people. Strip club—criminals, prostitutes and drug addicts. Half of my employees are in the middle of getting degrees and the other half are single mothers doing what they can do to support their children. We’re not a drugged-out has-been place at a strip mall. Believe it or not, we have some class. There are no perks to be had here—when we say no touch, we mean no touch. So, you go ahead and judge. Everyone loved Wendy. The girls are as close as sisters and...well, all the world will think is, hey, another stripper dead. There you go. The wrath of God.”
“I’d be the last one to pass judgment, Mr. Bolton,” Aidan told him. “And I promise you this—I’ll be looking to put away Wendy’s killer with the same dedication and determination as if she were a kindergarten teacher—or a politician.”
Bolton shook his head.
“That’s the truth, I swear it,” Aidan said.
“I believe you. Here’s the irony, Agent Mahoney. Wendy was a kindergarten teacher. Until budget cuts. She’d been a dancer in Broadway musicals. Then she got married, had a little boy, and went back to school. Her husband died a few years ago, all very tragic. She began teaching, and then her position was cut....” He shook his head again. “She was a good person.”
“If she was the Virgin Mary or the devil’s mistress makes no difference. We will catch her killer. What does make a difference is what we can learn about a victim—because that helps us find the killer,” Aidan explained. He filed away the information about Wendy’s child; this was urgent, and he’d look into it as soon as he could. He figured Debbie was more likely to know about it.
Bolton nodded. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“Was she at all political?” Aidan asked.
“Political?” Bolton seemed to find the question confusing. “No, I never heard her talk about politics. We don’t usually talk politics here, especially not with our clients. Men actually look down on these girls. What they don’t know is how the girls talk about them—and how they make fun of these guys who think they’re the studs of the world. We’re friendly here, more like a family. Maybe we purposely avoid politics and religion. That’s kind of a get-along rule, isn’t it?”
“Probably best to avoid both,” Aidan said.
“If you want to know more, talk to the girls. They were close.”
Aidan thanked him, adding, “I’ll do that.”
“Debbie Howell knew her best, although Wendy hadn’t been here long. I’ll call the dressing room from the hostess stand. She’ll be right out.” He gestured at the bar. “Wait for her there, okay?”
Aidan walked toward the bar area. The young woman working there offered him a drink. He accepted a cup of coffee and asked her about Wendy, saying he was sorry, but that she was dead. The girl was horrified, and tears sprang from her eyes. But as for being helpful, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything. She’d only known Wendy vaguely. “Bartenders have it easy in a way. We change at home. When I’ve cleaned up after last call, I’m out of here. Takes our dancers a bit longer. It’s not that we ostracize one another, it’s just how it is. But Wendy was always so nice. So pleasant. I’m really sorry about this.”
Aidan noticed that Sloan was across the room, speaking with one of the bouncers. Sloan nodded toward the rear by the stage; Debbie Howell was coming around to join him.
She was now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail.
“Thank you for coming so quickly!” she said. “I wasn’t the only person to see the news when the picture went out earlier today.” She glanced at the woman tending bar. “Not that everyone knows yet.”