The neon sign wasn’t subtle. Elysium burned above the doorway in violet and gold, its glow skating across rain-streaked brick and pooling on the sidewalk like liquid light. Detective Norman Drake stood across the street under the shallow lip of an awning, watching the crowd feed through the entrance. The pavement was slick; heels clicked and slipped; laughter rose in bright, brittle bursts that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
Two bouncers worked the rope with nightclub efficiency—IDs checked, wrists stamped, hands waved forward. A woman in a silver dress shivered and laughed at the same time, the kind of laugh that said she’d decided to be twenty-two again for a night and dared anyone to stop her. A pair of men in pressed shirts walked their dates up the steps with theatrical chivalry. A clu
