Page 22 of Rage

“Not to mention tats,” someone else says.

“Gotta be Amish,” comes another voice.

A round of chuckles ensues, but I ignore it and make eye contact with T.J. “If we don’t get her IDed by end of day, I want you to take the photo to Steve Ressler over at The Advocate first thing in the morning,” I say, referring to the weekly newspaper. “Ask him to run it on the website with a request for assistance to the community at large.”

“You bet,” he says.

Tomasetti pipes up. “If you supply me with a high-res, I’ll plug it into a database and see if I can come up with a match. Long shot, but we might get lucky.”

“Will do.”

I’m about to move on to my next point when Skid clears his throat. “Uh … Chief, can I have a closer look at that photo for a sec?”

Curious, I move around the head of the table. He rises and meets me halfway. “You recognize her?” I ask.

“Well, not her,” he says. “I think I recognize the location where the photo was taken.”

Something off about his demeanor, I think. He looks uncomfortable. Skid is not an uncomfortable kind of guy; he’s not shy—not by any stretch. In fact, he’ll be the first to crack an inappropriate joke or take a topic into unseemly territory.

“Where?” I ask.

“Uh … well, looks like the gentleman’s club over in New Philly. The Cheetah Lounge.”

Someone in the crowd cuts loose with a laugh, covers it with a cough.

I blink, glance over at the photo, tap it with my index finger. “You’ve seen her there?”

“No, but I recognize that backdrop. That riser behind her. The curtain.” He clears his throat. “And that uh … pole there in the background.”

A round of snickers erupts, but I don’t look away from Skid. He stares at the photo, a splotch of color climbing up his neck. I turn my attention back to the photo. Sure enough, there’s a stagelike riser behind the woman. A curtainlike shimmering skirt. A chrome dancing pole. I’ve frequented my share of bars, but I can honestly say I’ve never ventured into a gentleman’s club. Of course, it doesn’t take much of an imagination to make the connection.

“How long ago were you there?” I ask.

“Couple of weeks.”

“He’s a regular,” someone mutters.

“Goes with his mom.”

I ignore them, look at Skid. “Get me the address.”

“Ah … sure.”

I turn to the deputies sitting at the back of the room. “The rest of you shut up.”

“Kate!”

I’m pushing through the ocean of bodies, on my way to my office, when Tomasetti calls out my name.

I turn to see him working his way toward me. We meet in the hall outside my office.

“We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” I mutter beneath my breath.

“And ruin all this fun?” But his smile is grim, telling me he has news. “Crime scene tech called a few minutes ago. They found a chain saw. It tested positive for blood. And bleach.”

“Where?”

“The nursery,” he says. “It was hanging on the wall with some other tools. A sharp-eyed CSI happened to spot a fleck of what looked like blood on the chain.”