“Didn’t you ever see Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure?” I asked him, envisioning the row of bikes toppling like dominoes.

“No.”

I shrugged. “Never mind.”

Inside the Wheelhouse, it was dark and seedy. There were a half dozen patrons: four rough-looking guys wearing black leather vests with Outcast motorcycle club patches, and a couple of . . . well, skanks. The sound of clanking pool balls and gruff banter gave way to dead silence as Cody and I entered the bar.

The bartender exchanged a glance with the patrons, then ambled over toward us. He was a wiry guy with ornate tattoos peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and full muttonchops, a look he was definitely not rocking. “What can I do you for, Ossifer?”

Cody opened the file. “I’d like you to look at a few photos, let me know if you recognize any of them.”

Muttonchop gave him a tight smile. “Nope, not a one.”

Cody’s brows rose. “You haven’t even looked at them.”

Muttonchop glanced toward the back of the bar again. A fifth guy I hadn’t noticed before, seated in the shadows, nodded at him. He thumbed through the photos. “Nope, sorry. Can’t help you.”

“No problem,” Cody said pleasantly, moving past the bartender. “I’ll just ask these ladies and gentlemen to have a look.”

I stuck tight behind him. One of the pool players, a big guy with a walrus mustache, moved to intercept us.

The bartender wasn’t a ghoul, but this guy was. Ghouls don’t have that underlying deathly white pallor that vampires do, maybe because they’re not prone to ignite in sunlight, but you can always tell that their skin tone is a few shades paler than it was when they were alive. And their pupils are always too dilated, their stares too intense. There’s something inhumanly avid about their eyes.

Walrus Mustache blocked Cody’s path with a pool cue. “Mind telling us what this is about, Officer?”

“Just need you to look at a few photos, tell me if you recognize anyone.”

He gave the photos a dismissive glance. “Nah, these look like college boys. What are some college pussies doing in a place like this?”

“You tell me,” Cody said in an even voice.

“Lemme see.” One of the skanks pushed her way forward. She was twenty-something going on forty, haggard before her time. “I seen some college boys in here a couple of weeks ago.”

Walrus Mustache rounded on her. “You do what you’re told, Loretta!”

Fear flared in her eyes, then faded, replaced by a vacant contentment. “I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

A rich, molten tide of anger rose in me, driving out fear. The atmosphere tightened as I stepped out from behind Cody. Behind the bar, the bartender swore as the seal on one of his kegs burst.

I raised my voice. “Let her look at the photos, you big fucking bully!”