“It’s about you not paying for drinks or food or any damn thing under this roof, including a cover charge. Celebrities are what keep this place going.”

“I haven’t been a celebrity in a long time.”

“Sure you are! You have great camp value!”

I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about me being an Eagle Scout back in Brooklyn.

He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll find Vincent for you!”

He headed into the crowd and turned colors with the flashing lights. When people saw him, the way parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Then the Blue Sea, then the Green Sea…

Within two minutes, Vincent Colby and Sheila Ryan, hand in hand, emerged from the frantic crush of dancers and stood before me where I sat at the bar. Like I was the principal and this was my office.

The couple was indistinguishable from the other revelers—wild tops, blue jeans, him in Reeboks, her in Mary Janes.

“Vincent,” I said with a nod. “Ms. Ryan.”

The curvy redhead nodded back, but her date looked a little sick.

“Mr. Hammer,” Vincent said, also skilled at working his words above the noise. He seemed embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was rude to you the other day. I hope we can start over.”

“Sure. Is there anywhere in this place where we can talk without yelling?”

He gestured toward the front. “Just step outside, maybe. That work for you?”

“It does.”

I downed the rest of my drink and followed them as they moved between the dance floor and the booths.

Not many people were milling out front; it was just a sidewalk along a city street, and cold. Our breaths steamed.

Vincent slipped his arm around Sheila’s shoulder, who placed a hand on his chest—Gino who?

I said, “Casey Shannon was murdered.”

“What?” Agape, he said, “My God, what happened?”

I filled him in, including the crushed chest cavity, and told him about the similar fate that had met Roger Kraft, the mechanic used by his friend and co-worker, William Owens, on a certain Ferrari—the one that had been tentatively identified as the vehicle in the hit-and-run at Pete’s Chophouse.

Sheila looked stricken and Vincent didn’t look much better.

“This is a nightmare,” he said quietly. “A freaking nightmare.”

“We’re now at four homicides and your near-miss hit-and-run,” I said. “All connected in some fashion to the Colby brokerage… and, frankly, you.”

Alarmed, divining the accusation in that, Sheila said, “Mr. Hammer, Vincent and I have been together all day!”

I said to him, “I thought you had an appointment with your shrink.”

“With my psychiatrist’s blessing,” Vincent said, “I took a day off from work and from therapy. We went to the theater, a matinee, Cabaret, ate at the Four Seasons, spent some time at Sheila’s apartment, and came here to round the day out with a little harmless fun.”

“In the Dungeon Room?”

Sheila blushed, but all Vincent did was smile a little, saying, “It’s perfectly innocent, Mr. Hammer. Some mild spanking, whips that don’t hurt, hands tied behind the back while your partner does whatever he or she would like, within reason…”