dotted the floor, just large enough for two drinks and the high heels of the women who would dance on them. It would look garish and shabby in the daylight hours, but at the moment it oozed a kind of erotic appeal, primarily due to the woman in the center of the stage.
She had the body, she had the moves, she had it all. To say she was sexy didn’t do the word justice—or her, for that matter. She wasn’t wearing much beyond a G-string and heels, and her long red hair flowed over one bare shoulder like silk. She moved in perfect time to the music, an old Santana song he recognized immediately, “Black Magic Woman.” As he stared, she caught his gaze and held it.
John was as red-blooded as the next guy, and he felt his body respond automatically. The woman grinned as if sensing his reaction, then she broke the moment, moving sinuously around the pole to the center of the stage. Putting her back to the glowing column made of neon, she bent over to the floor. The red hair followed in a graceful sweep. John stared a few seconds more, then let his interest dissipate. Up there, she was beautiful and sexy, but something told him that, like the room, she might not fare too well in brighter light.
He turned to leave, the waiting blonde watching him with a jaded expression. As he came toward her, she turned and continued to the back of the club. John followed and they passed three other rooms. Rap music, country, then finally, in the last room, a voluptuous belly dancer accompanied by a sitar.
The blonde stopped in front of a paneled door and knocked. Apparently hearing an answer over the music that John didn’t, she turned the brass handle, then stepped aside to allow John to enter. She pulled the door closed behind him, and the music was silenced. He found himself in front of a massive oak desk, a man built to match sitting in a leather chair behind it. In one meaty hand, he held a cigarette. His eyes were narrow and hard in the smoke that wafted upwards. His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
John spoke first. “Greg Lansing?”
The man eyed him. “Who wants to know?”
It sounded like a line from a bad movie. John pulled out his badge now, flipped it open, then closed it and stuck it back in his pocket. “Detective John Mallory. H.P.D. Homicide.”
The cold blue eyes flickered once. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
“No problem. Just a few questions about one of your dancers—April Benoit.”
“She dead?”
“What makes you ask that?”
The big man shrugged. “You said homicide. And she’s been missing.”
Without being offered, John took one of the chairs in front of the desk and sat, his jacket opening just enough for Lansing to glimpse his holster. He pulled the lapels closer. “She’s not dead that I know of, but I’m looking into her disappearance.”
“I don’t know anything about it.” The answer was surly and impatient. With a quick stabbing motion, Greg Lansing leaned over and extinguished the cigarette in a chipped crystal ashtray. “Look, I’ve got work to do and even if I didn’t, I’m in the dark about April—”
“Let’s just save each other some trouble here, Mr. Lansing.” John spoke smoothly, no hint of aggression in his voice. “Elizabeth Benoit already told me what you said, and I’m here to find out what kind of trouble April’s in. Just give me the details and I’ll leave.”
“I told the woman all I know.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“I don’t know.”
John shook his head. “Wrong answer.”
Like two alley cats, they glared at each other over the desk—a stalemate, but not really. Lansing didn’t appear to be a fool; he couldn’t be, not if he was running a club as apparently successful as this one. Bars in Houston with good clientele brought in thousands every night. Hell, maybe tens of thousands. Lansing wouldn’t jeopardize his setup by pissing off a cop.
“Tell me,” John prompted.
The door to the office opened unexpectedly. Both men stared. The red-haired dancer John had watched stood on the threshold. His impression had been right, he thought cynically. She was beautiful, but he could see her looks had just started to fade. In a few more years, the gleam in her eyes would be harder and the glow of her skin somewhat dimmer. She’d have to move down the strip to less expensive clubs where the women were older and the drinks cheaper.
For the moment, though, she still looked good. Very good, as a matter of fact. John let his eyes take her all in. Red hair framing a face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. Short terry-cloth robe allowing a full view of long shapely legs.
Lansing introduced her.
“Detective Mallory, Tracy Kensington. Tracy, this is Detective Mallory. H.P.D.”
Her expression turned stony, giving John another glimpse of her future. Two lines formed on either side of her mouth. “I knew you were a cop. You got the look.”
“Tracy…” Lansing’s voice rose in warning.
She held up both hands, the robe gaping slightly to reveal a patch of perfect skin.
“He’s here about April.”
“Have they found her?” She sounded expectant.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about her disappearance, do you?” John said by way of an answer. “I heard you and Miss Benoit weren’t exactly close.”
“Who told you that?” she asked. Not waiting for him to answer, she spit back, “That sister of hers is—”
“Leave,” Lansing interrupted. “You can close the door on your way out.”
“But I need to talk—”
“Later.”
She sent John one last look, then left, slamming the door.
John turned back to Lansing and raised a single eyebrow.
The manager shrugged his wide shoulders at the unspoken but obvious question. “Professional jealousy, I guess you’d say.”
“How intense?”
Lansing shook his head. “Not that intense. Tracy wouldn’t hurt her. She wouldn’t want to risk breaking a nail.”
“Are you sure?”
Lansing’s eyes grew even colder. “Women are vicious creatures, Detective. I wouldn’t guarantee anything when it comes to them.” He stood up behind the desk. “I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a club to run, so if there’s nothing else…”
John made no move to get up. “Then tell me about April’s trouble and I’ll be on my way.”
“April Benoit’s biggest trouble is April Benoit. She gives everyone here a hard time, from the bar girls to Tracy. She’s got an attitude, that’s the best I can say. A chip on her shoulder.”
“But it didn’t bother you?”
Greg
