A man was approaching him-midthirties, black T-shirt, black jeans, and leather motorcycle boots. He had a round face, small lips, thick brow, and dark curly hair. Dante Michelli was the owner of Leather and Lace and five other gentleman’s clubs. Oliver had heard that Michelli was a self-made man, a third-generation Italian-American from Brooklyn. As far as Scott knew, Michelli ran a clean and safe environment, the security of his patrons and girls ensured by a half-dozen bulldozer-looking men parked at strategic places about the floor. He took a seat at Oliver’s table without asking permission.

“What can I get for you, Detective?”

“I’m fine with my beer, Mr. Michelli, but thanks.”

“Call me Dante.” He waved a finger in the air and a leggy woman with a platinum crew-cut hairstyle was there within moments. “Get the man a fresh beer, Titania.”

“Not necessary, but thanks,” Oliver said.

Dante said, “You look like you’re here on business.”

“I am, but it has nothing to do with your business.”

That was exactly what the owner wanted to hear. The beer came a minute later, cold and premium quality. Oliver reached into his wallet, by Michelli put his hand over Oliver’s. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I won’t argue.” Oliver put away his billfold. “It’s either you pay or I have to file a forest’s worth of paperwork just to get reimbursed.”

The two men returned their eyes to the stage. Michelli spoke, still looking over his undulating ladies. “What do you need besides a beer?”

“I’ve got a problem, Mr. Michelli. I need to speak with one of your girls, only I don’t know her exact name. It might be Miranda or Melissa.”

Michelli shook his head. “Not familiar. What does she look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what do you know about her?”

“Only that she knows a man named Ivan Dresden.” Oliver sneaked a quick peek at Dante before returning his eyes to the stage. The man’s face was a blank. “I’m way more interested in Dresden than I am in the woman. Maybe you know him?”

“What does he look like?”

“Dark, good-looking, in his thirties. Some kind of finance guy.”

“That describes ninety percent of the clientele.”

Oliver was still looking at the stage, specifically at a blonde with size triple E hooters. She was pixieish, around five five, with a pug nose and long hair, and wide eyes. Her boobs were very nice to look at but way out of proportion to her body. It was a wonder that she didn’t fall forward whenever she took a step. “The man I’m looking for had a wife who perished in a plane crash a couple of months ago.”

Dante didn’t even have to think about it. “Jell-O.”

Oliver laughed. “Excuse me?”

“Sweet and jiggly in all the right places.” Dante regarded Oliver and grinned, showing perfectly shaped, yellow-stained teeth. “One of Jell-O’s regulars was getting too far behind in his tab. I was getting a little antsy, but he recently paid it off.”

“How big was the bill?”

“Fifteen grand.”

“Wow,” Oliver exclaimed. “That’s a lot of lap dancing.”

“That’s nothing,” Michelli said. “We have guys that run up that kind a bill in a single evening. But there was something about this dude I didn’t trust. I told Jell-O to take care of it…get some kind of ante into the pot. A week later, he paid it off in full.”

“Credit card, check, or cash?”

“Cash. That’s when Jell-O told me that the customer was always yakking about his wife dying in a plane crash. Not that he cared about the woman, just that he expected to come into lots of cash very soon, waiting for insurance to pay off.” Michelli took a fistful of peanuts from the nut dish and popped them into his mouth. “That true?”

“If she did perish in the crash, yes, that would be true.”

“But you think he bumped his old lady off or something.”

“I’m investigating a case, Mr. Michelli. Right now all I want to do is talk to the girl.”

“You’re looking at her,” Dante said.

“The blonde with the ginormous ones?”

“That’s her. I told you she was sweet and jiggled in all the right places.”

I N THE BACK dressing room, Oliver waded through racks of costumes, trying not to ogle the women in various stages of nudity. The back wall was a full-length mirror harshly lit with makeup bulbs, and bisected width-wise by a countertop obliterated by creams, powders, ointments, glosses, brushes, and makeup of all textures, colors, and sizes. There were several occupied bar stools, but most of the women stood as they painted their faces like warrior chiefs.

Jell-O’s given name wasn’t Melissa or Miranda, but it was Marina Alfonse and Oliver imagined her for a moment in a sailor’s suit and hat doing a hornpipe. She was in the corner, dressed in civilian clothes, and in the process of taking off her makeup. He went over and introduced himself, producing his gold shield for validation. “Marina Alfonse?”

She gave it a steely glance. “Yeah?”

“Dante Michelli said you wouldn’t mind talking to me.”

That gave her a moment of pause. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to talk to you about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Ivan Dresden.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes lowered to the floor. A moment later she lifted them back to the mirror and continued to examine her reflection. Each time she removed a layer of face paint, she looked younger, until she was milkmaid fresh, with startling blue eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Dressed in a black wife-beater and jeans and low-heeled sandals, she looked sexier than she had an hour ago, gyrating for an audience.

“Why are the police interested in Ivan?” Marina’s voice tried for casual but fell several notches short.

“We’re just dotting our t’s and crossing our i’s.”

“Isn’t it the other way around?”

“It was a joke,” Oliver said.

“Ha ha.” The girl was about twenty-five, with the cynicism of an old man. “David Rottiger gave me your card. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have called you.”

She was pissed and Oliver wondered why. Rottiger had claimed Marina wasn’t interested in Ivan, but a good-paying customer can generate interest. “Just trying to get a little information.”

“If you’re interested in Ivan, ask Ivan.”

Oliver took an educated guess. “Sweetheart, there’s a lot of insurance money at stake. If you want to help him out, just answer my questions.” That shut her up and he continued. “David Rottiger said when you first met him, you didn’t like Ivan. So what changed?”

“Ivan’s okay. He’s a steady customer, a big tipper, and I don’t want to piss him off.”

“No one has to know we talked.”

She shrugged.

Meaning she was going to call the guy as soon as Oliver left. Marge had already gotten the warrants for Roseanne’s phone and credit card receipts, so Ivan couldn’t put a monkey wrench in that. Still, it was more desirable for Ivan to be kept in the dark. Oliver needed leverage to use against her.

“Why didn’t you like him when you first met him?”

“I thought he was a jerk,” Marina said. “I don’t care about a married man flirting with me, but not in front of his wife. That wasn’t cool.”

“Did you know Roseanne?”

“When I met her, she seemed cold. Ivan tells me she was frigid. ’Course he was flirting with me all evening, so it’s natural that she wasn’t going to like me.”

“Do you date Ivan?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Rules are meant to be broken.”

“Mr. Michelli is a good boss and runs a clean place here. That’s all I have to say.”

“Look, honey, I don’t care what you do on the side. I’m just trying to get some handle on Ivan Dresden. He’s supposed to come into lots of money if his wife’s body is ever recovered. Until insurance finds the corpse, Dresden is going to be looked into by insurance and by the police. If you have something going on, we’re going to find out.”