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law enforcement and he had likely made a huge mistake trying to attempt any such thing without the background for it.
    It also occurred to him as he’d gone about his day that he should probably contact the police. That almost definitely would be what any reasonable person would do, Max conceded. But the police had already closed the case and tossed it out of their collective mind. Persuading them to reopen it—even with Josh’s letter in hand—would take some concrete proof. Max needed suspects, faces and not just names, tangible people with social security numbers and home addresses.
    Once he had something substantial, something on which someone might actually be able to take some sort of action, then he’d go to the police. Until then, he planned to conduct his own investigation, watching from afar until he saw something that stuck out, something that begged questions the police would be interested in answering.
    He texted Ruby earlier in the day and asked for photos of Gabe and Julie. Ruby obliged, sending two pictures Max’s way. Julie’s photo turned out to be high quality; Max could have pointed her out of a lineup if need be. Gabe’s photo had been part of a candid group photo, something he’d been accidentally caught up in. Ruby apologized for the poor quality, but Max at least had something to work with. He’d need it for tonight because he planned to follow Gabe Harris after work and see just what this guy was up to.
    As the night ticked by, Max observed the steady stream of patrons going in and out of the building, like ants on their way to a picnic site. He recognized a couple of the men from the previous night and he wondered if they were daily customers, if the better part of their paychecks went into Gabe’s wallet, day after day, year after year. Seemed like a hell of a lot of money spent just to see some naked girls.
    Just before two o’clock a.m., Gabe appeared through the door, followed by a few dancers and the bouncer Max had encountered the previous night. Max recognized Gabe much more easily than he thought he would, the man’s dark hair and eastern European features clearly visible under the yellow light of the sodium-vapor lamps illuminating the parking lot. He didn’t see Ruby with them.
    Gabe got into his car—an expensive-looking silver Audi—and pulled out behind the others, bright red taillights flaring as he stopped before entering the two-lane road running perpendicular to The Hustle.
    “Show time,” Max said out loud in his own reasonably priced Volkswagen Passat. He started the car and left the lights off until he entered the highway, trailing an inconspicuous distance behind Gabe Harris.

Chapter Twelve

    Max followed Gabe for nearly twenty miles, down the two-lane road and onto the interstate highway. After some time, they exited back onto another two-lane road and eventually into a dilapidated subdivision that might have once been affluent but had long since descended into disrepair and financial ruin.
    Once inside the subdivision streets, Max killed the headlights, cursing the daytime running lights still giving away his presence. He parked the car in front of the first house he found and turned off the engine. The lights died along with the engine, leaving behind a half-moon lit scene of disintegrating houses with weedy, overgrown front yards and few lights shining through windows. Max assumed that either most of these houses didn’t have inhabitants or their owners were asleep.
    Gabe drove his out-of-place luxury car another fifty or sixty yards until he arrived at a nondescript and unimpressive darkened house. A rectangular brick flowerbed sporting weeds and errant grass blades sat in the middle of an equally overgrown front yard, visible beneath the streetlight planted beside the road a door down. He parked the car in front and got out, entering the house with an unlit flashlight in hand before closing the front door behind him.
    Max sat in his car and watched the