Page 49 of Rage

“Hey, they did great work. I paid them in full. Told them if they ever needed a reference I’d give it to them.”

“Did anyone ever call or inquire about hiring them?” I ask.

He scratches his head. “No one ever did. If they had, I would have given a glowing review.”

I’m sitting at my desk at the police station. I’ve gone through every photo, police report, interview, and my own scrawled notes on the Yutzy and Shetler cases too many times to count. Somehow another day has blown by and I have nothing more than a big fat zero to show for it in terms of progress.

I haven’t seen or heard from Tomasetti since our trip to the country club earlier. I wonder if he’s home, if he’s gotten any rest. Or if he’s stuck at a desk, same as me, torturing himself with these horrific photos and details of two murders brutal enough to give even seasoned detectives nightmares.

I’ve just reopened the media software on my laptop to rewatch one of the videos of the crime scene at the nursery when my cell vibrates. I brace, expecting to see the coroner’s name pop up. Surprise ripples through me when I see UNKNOWN CALLER.

“Burkholder.”

“If you want to talk to Cassidy, she’s here to pick up her check,” comes a harried female voice.

It takes me a few seconds to recognize who it belongs to. The woman at The Cheetah Lounge who came out to the parking lot to speak with me and Skid. “Hi, Angelica,” I say easily. “Cassidy’s there?”

“Hurry.” She’s whispering as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear her. Talking too fast. “I think there’s something going on.”

“Like what?”

“I gotta go.”

I get to my feet. “Angelica, wait—”

A resonant click ends the call.

“Crap.” I drop the cell into my pocket and start toward reception. My third-shift dispatcher is burning up the keyboard, probably working on the minutes from our latest briefing.

“Who’s on tonight?” I ask.

“T.J.”

“Tell him to drop everything and meet me at The Cheetah Lounge.”

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Chief?”

“The one in New Philly. Tip just came in on our mystery woman. Tell him I’m on my way.”

The parking lot of The Cheetah Lounge was nearly full last time I was here. Tonight—at twenty to midnight—it’s jam-packed with vehicles of every shape and size. I circle the lot twice, finally landing a spot in the grass at the rear. Single men and a few couples come and go as I make my way around to the entrance. I’m wearing my uniform and, like the last time I was here, patrons give me a wide berth.

I go through the door and find myself engulfed in an ocean of bodies. A band is set up at the back of the stage, belting out an interesting rendition of Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks.” Forestage, a young woman wearing nothing more than a patch of sequins at her vee undulates to the beat, her body wrapped around the dance pole. The club is dark interspersed with the flash of strobes. I’m jostled multiple times as I make my way to the bar; all the while I keep my eye out for both Cassidy and the young woman I know only as Angelica.

Every stool is occupied, so I sidle right to where the barkeep is punching buttons on the cash register. He’s younger than the previous bartender, busy with his customers, and looks as if he’s enjoying himself.

When he glances my way, I have my shield at the ready. “Where can I find Angelica?”

“She do something wrong?”

“I just need to talk to her. Where is she?”

He looks around, feigns confusion. “She was here a moment ago,” he tells me.

“Is she working this evening?”

“I think so.” Turning, he strides to two men sitting at the bar and pours Patrón into waiting shot glasses.

When he returns to ring up the sale, I ask, “What about Cassidy?”