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him by a micro-skirted waitress, ordered two Flatliners.
    “What’s a Flatliner?”
    Quinn said, “No idea. We’ll find out. Go with the flow.”
    Two women approached purposefully and Quinn dismissed them with polite reluctance, saying their delightful presence might prove distracting to a discussion of business matters. The drinks arrived in squat glasses; amber liquid shading to brown, with ice, a twist of peel, and an unidentifiable sprig of greenery. The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck Jace; the provocatively pouting dancer, the clichéd surroundings he’d only experienced before vicariously in movies, the names of the drinks, his surely mistaken melodramatic suspicions of his boss . . . He relaxed and began to laugh.
    “ Quiet chat, did you say?” he said, leaning in to be heard above the noise. He raised his glass. “Cheers.” He sipped and grimaced. “Bloody hell. I’m guessing meths and paint stripper, with . . . let me see, the merest dash of shoe polish?”
    “The first sip is the worst, no doubt. You may find it grows on you.”
    Another young woman joined them, sitting in one of the two unoccupied chairs and swaying forward to promote her assets. She had long hair, a shapely figure barely contained in a fringed bra and g-string, and might have been pretty under heavy makeup as traditional in its way as a geisha’s. “Would you like a private dance, guys? I’ll do both of you for the price of one.”
    Jace said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Unable not to, he watched as she walked away, then looked around the bar, fascinated by the weirdness of the place and the men who chose to come here. Those not enjoying one-on-one attention were staring at the pole dancer, who appeared to be reaching the climax of her act, spinning round the pole as the music got more deafening. “That’s actually really impressive. Especially done in five inch heels.”
    “Jace, focus. We’re here to talk.” He dragged his gaze back to Quinn, who said, “You seemed a bit . . . strange when you saw me outside Scott’s. What’s up?”
    Jace pulled himself together. The place was distracting. He looked Quinn in the eyes, trying to read him, though subtly things had shifted; now he was more worried by what his boss would think of him for having such crazy suspicions than anything else. True, given the data, crazy was a bit strong. It had all made sense, in its own way.
    Yet another lap dancer sashayed up to their table to try her luck, smiling seductively. She leaned forward and purred, “I don’t suppose either of you gents would like to buy me a drink?”
    “We’re gay,” Quinn told her. “And in love.”
    “No problem, boys. I’m here if you change your mind.”
    The girl left and he turned to Jace, expression amused and quizzical, eyebrows raised. “Well? Why were you visiting Scott?”
    Jace said reluctantly, his voice flat, “I couldn’t help considering the possibility that you might have killed McGuire on purpose, after you took the TiTrav off him. Then blamed Scott. Because he was new in the department. Then I was worried you might get rid of him so people would assume he’d taken off with the TiTrav, then no one would suspect you. You’d be able to disappear the bullets, too, so no one could prove he wasn’t McGuire’s killer.” He could hear, as if listening to someone else say it, how far-fetched the whole thing sounded; like the summary of a thriller’s plot, ridiculous, sensational. He sat back, feeling a fool, waiting for Quinn’s reaction, though his overriding emotion was relief that he’d been wrong.
    Quinn said nothing for a moment then started to shake with laughter, gazing at Jace. Apparently Jace’s solemn face made the joke funnier. Quinn thumped him on the shoulder, unable to get a word out. Jace couldn’t help laughing a little too. He remembered he’d thought Quinn would laugh if told his conjectures.
    Quinn’s hilarity died down enough for him to speak.