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I don’t hang out in strip clubs very often. Not because I’m a prude or have a problem with women doing what they choose with their bodies. It just feels too much like window-shopping. You can look, but you can’t touch. What fun is that?
But I needed some strong evidence to impeach Indigo’s DNA. If Scarlett witnessed Fitzgerald’s murder, I needed to find her.
I paid the cover charge for the three of us, and we stepped inside. The place smelled of booze, cheap perfume, and s*x. The music was loud and bouncy. A dancer who looked all of sixteen spun around a pole on stage, leaving nothing to the imagination. Topless women with drop-dead gorgeous bods, in all sizes and colors, were giving lap dances and serving drinks. Middle-aged guys with an out-of-town-salesman vibe filled the tables c
