Doakes did not take a drink and he didn’t dance, either. He found a corner of the room with no unconscious body in it and just stood there, looking like a cut-rate Grim Reaper at a frat party. I wondered if I should help him get into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps I could send Camilla Figg over to seduce him.

I watched the good sergeant stand in his corner and look around him, and I wondered what he was thinking. It was a lovely metaphor: Doakes standing silent and alone in a corner while all around him human life raged riotously on. I probably would have felt a wellspring of sympathy for him bubbling up, if only I could feel. He seemed completely unaffected by the whole thing, not even reacting when two of the South Beach gang ran past him naked. His eyes fell on the nearest monitor, which was portraying some rather startling and original images involving animals. Doakes looked at it without interest or emotion of any kind; just a look, then his gaze moved on to the cops on the floor, Angel under the table, and Vince leading a conga line in from the kitchen. His gaze traveled all the way over to me and he looked at me with the exact same lack of expression. He crossed the room and stood in front of me.

How long we got to stay? he asked.

I gave him my very best smile. It is a bit much, isn’t it? All this happiness and fun—it must make you nervous.

Makes me want to wash my hands, he said. I’ll wait outside.

Is that really a good idea? I asked.

He tilted his head at Vince’s conga line, which was collapsing in a heap of spastic hilarity. Is that? he said. And of course he had a point, although in terms of sheer lethal pain and terror a conga line on the floor couldn’t really compete with Dr. Danco. Still, I suppose one has to consider human dignity, if it truly exists somewhere. At the moment, looking around the room, that didn’t seem possible.

The front door swung open. Both Doakes and I turned to face it, all our reflexes up on tiptoe, and it was a good thing we were ready for danger because otherwise we might have been ambushed by two half-naked women carrying a boom box. Hello? they called out, and were rewarded with a ragged high-pitched roar of WHOOOO! from the conga line on the floor. Vince struggled out from under the pile of bodies and swayed to his feet. Hey! he shouted. Hey everybody! Strippers are here! Banzai! There was an even louder WHOOOO! and one of the cops on the floor struggled to his knees, swaying gently and staring as he mouthed the word, Strippers . . .