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our interchange with an exaggerated late night patience. In a bar like CC’s, this was the hour when the sexually desperate made their last minute appeals for company. By then enough liquor hadbeen consumed that potential partners, who earlier had been rejected as unworthy, were now being reconsidered. The bartender apparently assumed we were negotiating a one-night relationship. Cheney ordered wine for me and another vodka tonic for himself.
    He checked back over his shoulder, doing a quick visual survey of the other patrons. “You ought to keep an eye on all the off-duty police officers. Last call, we go out in the parking lot and pass around a Breathalyzer, like we’re copping a joint, make sure we’re still sober enough to drive ourselves home.”
    â€œI heard you left homicide.”
    â€œRight. I’ve been doing vice for six months.”
    â€œWell, that suits,” I said. “Do you like it?” He’d probably been moved to vice because he still looked young enough to have some.
    â€œSure, it’s great. It’s a one-man department. I’m the current expert on gambling, prostitution, drugs, and organized crime, such as it is in Santa Teresa. What about you? What are you up to? You probably didn’t come down here to chat about my career in law enforcement.” He looked up as the bartender approached, halting further conversation until our drinks had been served.
    When he looked back, I said, “Janice Kepler wants to hire me to look into her daughter’s death.”
    â€œGood luck,” he said.
    â€œYou handled the original investigation, yes?”
    â€œDolan and me, with a couple more guys thrown in. This is the long and short of it,” he said, ticking the items off his fingers. “There was no way to determine cause of death. We still aren’t absolutely certain what day it was, let alone what time frame. There was no significant trace evidence, no witnesses, no motive, no suspects . . .”
    â€œAnd no case,” I supplied.
    â€œYou got it. Either this was not a homicide to begin with or the killer led a charmed life.”
    â€œI’ll say.”
    â€œYou going to do it?”
    â€œDon’t know yet. Thought I’d better talk to you first.”
    â€œHave you seen a picture of her? She was beautiful. Screwed up, but gorgeous. Talk about a dark side. My God.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œShe had this part-time job at the water treatment plant. She’s a clerk-typist. You know, she does a little phone work, a little filing, maybe four hours a day. She tells everybody she’s working her way through city college, which is true in its way. She takes a class now and then, but it’s only half the story. What she’s really up to is a bit of high-class hooking. She’s making fifteen hundred bucks a pop. We’re talkin’ substantial sums of money at the time of her death.”
    â€œWho’d she work for?”
    â€œNobody. She was independent. She started doing out-call. Exotic dance and massage. Guys phone this service listed in the classifieds, and she goes out and does some kind of bump-and-grind strip while they abuse themselves. The game is you can’t make a deal for more than that up front—Undercover used to call and pull that ’til everybody wised up—but once she’s on the premises, she can negotiate whatever services the client wants. It’s strictly their transaction.”
    â€œFor which she gets paid what?”
    Cheney shrugged. “Depends on what she does. Straight sex is probably a hundred and fifty bucks, which she ends up splitting with the management. Pretty quick, she figures out she has more on the ball, so she bags the cheap gigs and moves up to the big time.”
    â€œHere in town?”
    â€œFor the most part. I understand they used to see quite a bit of her in the bar at the Edgewater Hotel. She also cruised through