And then something mysterious and terrible happened: watching Sydny’s perfect body, lubed and shining, writhing in the motions of simulated sex, she found herself unaccountably depressed. All at once, she couldn’t breathe. She rose so abruptly she spilled her drink, which she hadn’t touched, and rushed out of the joint.

For what seemed an eternity, she stood outside watching the rain falling, silver and gold in The Doll House’s garish lights. She huddled in her leather jacket and wished she had worn jeans and a sweater instead of the silk shirt and short summer-weight wool skirt she had chosen. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. Who was she kidding about liking sex? Before King, she’d been with exactly three men, two whose bumbling attempts at intercourse had scarcely included her, and a third who had cut her to the quick. He’d accused her of being frigid—“lying there like a corpse” were his precise words. Christ, she had hated that guy, and after he left her, she had tried harder with King. She thought King liked what they did together, but who could really be sure? She sure as hell wasn’t going to ask him.

But now, having watched Sydny and the others, she wondered what she was doing when it came to sex. One thing was for sure: she could never let herself dance like that; no way could she be so uninhibited.

And then she thought … A shiver ran down her spine. No, she couldn’t allow herself to go down that path. She stared up into the sky, wanting nothing more than to be far away from here, tucked into her own bed with the covers pulled up to her chin.

But Hemingway, damn him, had given her an assignment. She had to see it through. Screwing up her courage, she turned and went back inside. Sydny had already left the stage.

She found herself thinking about the stripper. As she picked her way toward the backstage area, she felt as if she were in a plummeting elevator. She could not feel her feet as step by step they led her toward the place where a burly security guard was standing. He stared at her as she came up to him.

“I’m looking for Sydny,” she said over the din.

“Get lost, honey,” the guard said with a sneer.

Hemingway had anticipated such a response. She held up the very real DCPD badge he’d given her. “You don’t want any trouble here,” she said, with her heart in her mouth.

The guard gave her a hard stare, which was about as far as he was willing to go, then stepped aside.

“Third door on the left,” he said, his gaze fixed over her head. “Knock yourself out.”

Julie bared her teeth and brushed by him. The backstage corridor was long, narrow, and cramped. It stank far worse than the club itself; she’d need a shower when she got home, and her outfit would have to be dry-cleaned.

The third door on the left was closed. She could hear female voices, raised and frantic, as the thumping music of the club receded to a deep, dull backbeat. Pushing the door open, she found herself in a windowless room, cluttered with the stage outfits, such as they were, of the pole dancers. A lighted mirror ran along one of the long walls, with a dozen canvas directors’ chairs lined up in a row for the girls to use as they put on their makeup and sprayed their hair, or whatever pole dancers did before they went on stage. There were three girls in various stages of undress. None of them paid her any attention.