Read Online Midnight Louie 14 - Cat in a Midnight Choir by Carole Nelson Douglas - Free Book Online Page A

deception, Max Kinsella.
    Molina tried not to let her distaste show. She was playing at undercover work now herself, and it was entirely different from anything she had done in police work before except for a brief, early stint as john-bait in East L.A.
    “Come on,” Reichert was cajoling, maybe only half kidding in his womanizing role, “you could use a guy like me, admit it.”
    “Using is one thing; liking it is another.”
    “Ooooouch!” He shook a mock burned hand. “I’d be great on camera.”
    By now everyone at the bar had lost interest in their interchange.
    Barry leaned so close she could smell his motor-oil cologne. “You getting any info?”
    “A little. And you?”
    He lifted her almost empty glass and sucked the remaining water and the ice filling it. “The girls are spooked.” He spoke so softly that he might have been whistling Dixie through his teeth. “These parking lot attacks are getting to them.”
    Molina nodded. Strippers weren’t dumb. They saw the axe from the first. “You see that man I mentioned?”
    Reichert’s shaggy yeti-like head shook. “No really tall guy like that here. You ever notice that guys who patronize strip clubs tend to be short? No? True. Must be compensation. For the height of what, I won’t say.” Grin. “As far as tall guys go, not even an Elvis in disguise either. Were you serious about that?”
    “I’m always serious, Reichert.”
    He grinned as if she had issued him a challenge. “So I heard. The Iron Maiden Lady of Homicide.”
    She didn’t react. Stoicism was the best defense. “Believe it. I don’t care how much you’re enjoying a break from the speed freaks, Reichert, I’m after a killer here, maybe a serial killer. He won’t play the part, like you do, but he’ll mean business. So you keep at it. I’m sure those bills are burning a hole in your…pocket. Enjoy.”
    She pushed off the bar and headed for the door. Halfway there a drunken topless stripper collided with her.
    “Hey, who was that lady! Whatcha doin’ here?”
    “I’m a location scout.”
    “Location scout?”
    “For a TV show.”
    “Oh, a TV show. C’mon, you gotta be in the picture.”
    “No.” Molina pulled her arm away.
    “We’re all having our picture taken. It’s Wendy’s birthday. C’mon.”
    Molina didn’t have to “c’mon.” A bunch of strippers surrounded her, hanging off her shoulders and making her part of a topless chorus line.
    “That’s it, ladies,” a guy shouted over the noise,“get closer now. Smile.” The photographer backed up to include the whole impromptu row, the camera’s long telephoto lens obscenely erect given the atmosphere.
    Molina ducked her head, let the false hair fall forward over her face just as the camera flashed.
    “Sorry, ladies, I’m outa here.” She pulled away, the drunken one clinging.
    “It’s my birthday,” she slurred,“you gotta say ‘Happy Birthday’.”
    “Happy Birthday Suit,” Molina muttered, making for the door.
    She wasn’t happy about being in a photo. These pro-am shutter bugs always haunted strip clubs, selling prints to regulars and the girls themselves, cataloguing offstage life and likely illegal activities.
    The whole scene had a stench that was almost smothering. She crashed through the door to the outside, suddenly understanding what prisoners must feel on release.
    Air. Black night. Bright constellations falling to the ground, like angels, and becoming neon signs. Another night on Paradise. On Paradise Avenue in Las Vegas, a long, straight row of strip clubs magnified to infinity.
    When you thought about the endless numbers of women who found a tawdry glamour and even self-esteem in flashing nudity at men, and the families they came from that made this strip-club life seem a far, far better thing than they had ever done…. Molina shook her head, though no one was there to see it.
    In another moment she herself didn’t see the gaudy neon tracks of signs narrowing into the distance