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lock him in his apartment so that nothing bad ever touched him.
    Another chilling thought hit. If the murderer was hunting his next victim at this club, I was also at risk, since I was passing myself off as a gay man.
    "Stop second guessing yourself." Apollo admonished, obviously in reference to my frowny face. "You're on a mission, girl. You signed a contract."
    That contract was the only reason I didn't insist we head back to the exit.
    "This is our table. Sit." Apollo reeked of energy and excitement. "I've got to get out there and participate."
    "You promised to stick to me like Velcro."
    He pointed toward the dance floor. "I'll be right there in sight of God and everyone."
    "What am I supposed to do?"
    "Signal a waiter. Order a bottle of merlot."
    I arched a pointed brow.
    "Oh, you mean the spy thing. Well, honey, I'm not the one who does private inquiries, that's your area. So, do what you always do. Inquire. Just. Don't. Talk."
    Inquire, but don't talk? Order wine, but don't talk? I pondered how to do that as I scanned the room. I spied Frankie near the bar, his thatch of red hair like a flame atop a giant white candle. I shrank back on the booth seat.
    Apollo followed my gaze. "Definitely don't talk to him ."
    "I don't see Bruce anywhere."
    "He's probably in his dressing room."
    As Apollo headed out to the dance floor, I signaled a wandering waiter and pointed to the wine menu. I wanted hundred proof tequila shots, but it wasn't on the wine list. Just as well. I needed a clear head. I was officially on duty. Like a cop. Like Stone. My gaze darted as I searched the crowd, half of me praying I wouldn't spot the one face that haunted my dreams, my fantasies.
    The other half hoping I would. The other half ruled itself winner of the tug of war, and fear headed South, chased by my damnable deep-seated yearning for that man.
    No, no, no. I don't do men. Particularly that man. I would not seek him out. I would only watch Bruce. And Apollo. Apollo? Oh, God, where was he? Oh, there. Still dancing, his starburst tie flapping as he hopped to a rap song. Before the relieved breath left my lungs, a throaty laugh to my right tightened my gut. I whipped around. Yikes. Dinah was moving from table to table, greeting her patrons. I lurched to my feet.
    The sooner I found out something on Bruce, the sooner I could get Apollo to leave. I sidled away from Dinah, scooting toward the bar. But Frankie was at the bar. I stopped in my tracks, frozen with indecision, and as I did, something cool seemed to grip my neck as if I'd been grabbed by icy fingers.
    I twisted around. No one staring at me, and yet, the sensation lingered; an evil permeating the immediate air as though I stood next to death. I glanced left, right, and studied the people at the nearest tables as though half expecting to see one of them wearing a sign:
    It's me, Jack B.
    The Black Boutonniere Killer.
    Choosing my next victim.
    Instead I saw an empty chair with an untouched cocktail. Nothing to cause goosebumps, but they rose over my flesh as though the person who'd been sitting there a moment before was the embodiment of malevolence, and all that remained of him now was a wisp of malignant spirit as elusive as smoke rising from an ashtray.
    Apollo! There. Still dancing. I blew out a relieved breath and made up my mind. I was going backstage, spying on Bruce, then taking my friend and getting the hell out of here.
    I stole through the Employees Only door and into a long hallway containing several doors. At the one marked "star," I paused and pressed my ear to the panel. I'd know that whine anywhere. Bruce. Arguing with someone.
    A man resembling Marilyn Monroe caught my arm and whispered in a breathy voice, "Wow, honey, you're the best Parton I've seen in years. You're on in two."
    On in two? On ? As in on stage? In two? As in two minutes? I felt the heat leaving my face. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I muttered, "Gotta pee."
    "Be quick about it, honey."
    Yeah, Jack B quick.
    As soon as