The obvious conclusion is that Kira was hooking, but she didn’t need the money. I knew first hand she had an active libido, but she was pretty enough to have her desires filled by almost any man she chose.

She had no need to sell herself unless it was a self-esteem issue.

I’d have said she was someone’s mistress, had she not been known to live the carefree independent lifestyle she did.

While the MacDonald blood in my veins eschews the American habit of seeing a therapist, I know one might be able to give us some insight into her life.

As the burn from my run announces itself, I concentrate my mind on the places where Kira might ply her trade and leave my body to look after itself.

Casperton is too small a town for someone as well known as Kira to keep hooking a secret. Therefore, she must be entertaining people from out of town.

The nearest large cities like Salt Lake City and Denver are over two hours away, so whoever her clients were, they must be wealthy and in a position where they could disappear for hours, or a day at a time, without getting awkward questions from their wives or girlfriends.

Next I worry about how she attracted clients, if that is the right word for them. The obvious answer is via the internet, hence the InPrivate browsing. That, however, is Alfonse’s problem to deal with.

My best guess is Kira’s clients must either travel to her place or she left town to see them. I consider checking the local hotels before realising the futility of that course of action. Looking for someone whose name I didn’t know, who possibly stayed on dates I’m not sure of, will get me laughed out of every hotel reception in town.

As I turn onto Constitution Avenue, I slow to a jog when passing Kira’s house. Farrage and one of his buddies are on the lawn holding a small cardboard box.

Altering course I trot over to them, only for Farrage to manoeuvre himself so he’s blocking my view of the box.

‘What you got there?’ Trying not to manhandle or touch him in any way, I strain to look over his shoulder.

His buddy isn’t quick-witted enough to react in time, giving me a look in the box before he whips it away.

An iPhone and a platinum Amex are all it contains.

‘Keep your nose out, Boulder. This is police business.’

‘Haven’t you heard? We’ve been hired by Kira’s father.’

I can see from his reaction he already knows.

‘Maybe so. But we’re the police.’

His posturing gets to me more than it should, making the MacDonald blood seethe in my veins for a split second. ‘A hundred bucks says we identify her killer before you.’

Uncertainty flickers beneath the buzz cut before the bravado returns. ‘Deal. You’ve got no chance, Boulder. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.’

I leave him to it and navigate my way home so I can take a shower and call Alfonse.

11

Twenty minutes after calling Alfonse I am showered, changed, and heading west at ninety-five miles an hour.

Having got past the InPrivate setting he’s discovered Kira was hooking. A quick look through her search history saw him find login details for a site called Fantasy Courtesans. Alfonse found pictures of her on there, along with rates and services offered. Clients made bookings with her through the site.

He’s also found a secret bank account which funded the Amex and the extra iPhone Farrage had found. A quick look at the statement for the Amex told Alfonse she used it to buy sex toys, some of the clothes in her spare room and the occasional flight to LA.

Alfonse had tried digging into her client history on the site but hadn’t been able to identify any of her client’s identities. He has though, managed to trace the owner of the site and get me an address for him.

As the Mustang eats up the miles, I drive on autopilot while creating a mental list of the questions I need answers for.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Salt Lake City, I thread my way through the afternoon traffic, then take the fifteen north until I’m at Feltingville. The traffic is light so I make good time.

I want to do this interview and get back to Casperton as soon as possible. Unless I learn something that takes me further afield.

After pulling over at the side of the road, I fire up my GPS and feed in the required zip code. Before setting off, I check my iPad and see my membership application for Fantasy Courtesans has been accepted.

Having paid a membership fee, I am now part of the club. I scroll through a few pages and try to book an appointment with Kira, or Candice as she calls herself on the site. I get an automated response saying she will get back to me within forty-eight hours.

With the MacDonald blood lava-hot in my veins, I swing the Mustang back into the flow of traffic and carry on.

Feltingville is smaller than Casperton, but being a satellite town for Salt Lake City, it plays home to some of the city’s seedier elements. My destination is a strip club called Bourbon A Go Go.

Located halfway along a dead end off State Street, Bourbon A Go Go is open just as Alfonse told me it would be.

I reverse into a parking bay in case I need to make a rapid exit, and walk towards the club. A doorman gives me a bored look I return with interest. All steroidal muscle, he’ll be too slow in the face of a determined opponent unless he manages to get the first blow in.

As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I buy a beer I have no intention of drinking and take a seat at the edge of the room where I can survey things.

The pounding music is too modern and too loud for my tastes, its thumping bass makes my beer vibrate on the table.

I cast my eyes round the room again and find three visible cameras, several hidden ones and a half dozen perverts. If things get exciting, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t happen in here.

A short girl carrying thirty extra pounds is gyrating on the stage in a poor imitation of eroticism. What little appeal she has is ruined by the disinterest on her face.

‘You fancy a private dance, honey?’

I turn to focus on the girl speaking to me.

‘Not right now. I’ve only just got here.’ I give her a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a beer until I’m ready?’

She lets her eyes flit round the room, no doubt weighing up the odds of someone else paying her to dance in the time it takes to have a beer with me.

‘Sure. That’d be cool.’ She waves to the barman and takes a seat beside me, her cheap perfume catching the back of my throat.

I hold out a hand. ‘I’m Frank.’ Sometimes it doesn’t pay to use your real name.

‘Onyx.’

Onyx is stick thin with a drawn face. A pair of obvious implants strain against the pink bikini she wears.

With a practised spiel she works at my defences, trying to entice me into the private dance.

Ignoring her questions about the existence of a Mrs Frank, I start asking a few of my own.

Onyx isn’t much help as she has only worked here for six weeks. What I do get from her is she doesn’t think the guy who owns the club is as bad as some of the sleazeballs she’s worked for. Although she admits she thinks he has other businesses as well as the club.

I slip her enough money to cover the beer and the private dance I am never going to have and ask where I can find Hank Young.

Her eyes become slits. ‘You a cop?’

‘No. A potential business partner.’ I shrug. ‘For one of his other businesses. Not this one.’

Onyx tosses a fearful glance over her shoulder towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors.’

‘Then be a honey and go tell him to expect me. You can also tell him it’s about Candice and that I’m a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’