Let There Be Suspects (33 page)

“A guy with a gravelly voice—” I reminded him.

“Said there was nobody named Joe Wagner there.”

“But just before Gravel Voice spoke, I heard—”

Ed sang the finale: “Pussycat, pussycat, I love you. Yes, I do.”

“Welcome to the West Village’s own Pussycat Club,” I finished on an exhale.

“See any good reason to hail a cab?” Ed glanced at his watch again.

I opened my mouth to say no, that it looked like we were stuck with paying the cover charge, and trooping inside to see what we could discover. But as I avoided eye contact with my significant other, my gaze fell on the photos displayed in the case just in front of us.

“Ed . . .”

“You know, we could be in and out of there in minutes, Aggie. But first we have to go
in.
”

“Ed . . .” I took his arm. “I, well . . .” I turned him a little. “Look at these photos and tell me what you see.”

I didn’t want to influence him, so I averted my eyes and watched as three heavily made up women in sequins and fishnet stockings sauntered into the club.

Ed sounded tired. It had been that kind of a day. “I see what I’d expect to. The Pussycat Club’s a no-holds-barred kind of place. Old fashioned burlesque on Mondays and Tuesday, Vaudeville on Wednesdays and Sundays, Female impersonators on Thursdays and Saturdays. Something for every . . .”

He stopped. I let my eyes drift back into focus. “That’s some coat, isn’t it?” I said.

Ed leaned closer. But I didn’t have to watch to know exactly where his eyes were riveted. He was staring at the gorgeous dame, third from the left, posed in a stunning full-length fur coat with just enough shapely leg peeking out the opening. How many animals had gone to the happy hunting ground to provide enough pelts for that number? Because the gorgeous dame had to be six-foot-three in her bare feet and broad shouldered to boot. She had straight black hair and thick bangs, like a young Cher, and the toothy, flirty smile was Cher’s as well.

But the face was not. Nope, under the false eyelashes, the layers of foundation, the close, close shave, the face was even more familiar.

“Maybe we’ve been working on this so many hours we’re just seeing him everywhere,” Ed said at last.

“Or maybe we’re looking at the real reason Joe Wagner comes to New York once a month.”

We both stared at the photo a minute longer. Then Ed sighed. “Exactly what are we going to say to Joe if we find him in there dressed like that?”

I took Ed’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “I Got You, Babe?”