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waited.
    “Then they sleep most of the day and they work nights. A lot of the singers do, anyway. Makes it difficult to interview them. Takes time to get a story together. Mostly we talked between her sets. I like Liza.”
    “That’s nice,” Archer said. He did pick up a pen to jot down a few words on a yellow pad. He drew box after box around what he’d written.
    Fisher smiled, and enjoyed the irritation Archer showed. “Yeah, it is nice,” Fisher said. “There’s only one body, and neither of us knows if the owner was a singer. These people come and go. They get an offer or a hint of an offer that appeals to them, and they’re gone. That’s probably what’s happened to Liza—and Amber.” Fisher didn’t think so, but he wasn’t going to tell Archer that, not unless he had to.
    Archer could be more right than he knew about Fisher needing a new story.
    “And Pipes—and her kid?” Archer said.
    Shit .
    “Okay.” Archer scooted his chair away, crossed his heels on the desk and tipped back. “Shirley Cooper is the only one I’m working on for real until I find out if she was a singer or knew any of the other three.”
    “You could have four for one,” Fisher said. He wouldn’t let himself think about the possible fifth victim, the child.
    Archer laced his fingers on his flat belly. “You’re tryin’ to goad me into something. Damned if I know why.”
    “I’m not. Just stating the obvious. Amber Lee sings with a woman who calls herself Sidney. She showed up for work one night, but Amber didn’t. I was there that night. Sidney told me she’d be in touch, but I haven’t heard from her and neither of them has been at work since. Are you working on any theories about what could have happened?”
    “This Sidney’s probably scared out of her mind,” Archer said, ignoring Fisher’s invitation to share the information he had originally come looking for.
    “Or dead. That could make five for—”
    “Don’t go there,” Archer snapped.
    “If the vic can be connected, to even one of the others, people will fill in the dots and unless human nature has changed, the phones will ring. There’ll be dozens who heard them sing and can’t wait to spew anything they know—or think they do.”
    “They’ll call anyway, you know that.”
    Fisher moved his shoulders around. Prickling showered the middle of his back. He looked at his damp, empty cup. His fingers felt cold.
    “Someone walking on your grave?” Archer said. “You shivered.”
    And Fisher shivered again. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said and grinned.
    He didn’t feel like smiling. His gut was hot and jumpy. It had happened before, many times, starting when he’dbeen a kid. In the past year the episodes had come more frequently and with increasing discomfort. He might as well face it and hope whatever it was this time would move on quickly. He got these feelings before something happened, something unpleasant.
    “Tell me something about Liza Soaper?” Archer said.
    It wasn’t a pretty story—although it got better recently—and he didn’t feel like sharing much of it. “She’s a loner. No friends she mentioned or that I saw. Country girl with guts and drive. Her family never wants to hear from her again. They’re convinced she’s a prostitute or a stripper, and New Orleans is sin city.”
    “Sounds like they know our little burg.”
    “Yeah.” Fisher snorted. “She lived on just about nothing for the first months, until someone noticed she’s got a big, rich voice.”
    “That matches what we know,” Archer said. “There isn’t even a record of her having a car.”
    “I don’t think she did—or Amber.”
    Archer rocked a little, then jotted a note. “Probably doesn’t matter, but we’ll find out how these women got to work.”
    Fisher wanted to rub his back and walk around, but he stayed put, and still. The heat inside him cranked up. This time was different from the others, exciting rather than unpleasant.