Rick didn’t answer. He knew Frank didn’t mean it as an insult. His partner had seen him at his worst and hadn’t run. But the word sat wrong, heavy, especially in a town where real monsters wore human faces and peeled them off like gloves. Whatever Rick was, he wasn’t that.
They drove off the bridge into New Town. The change was immediate. The clean lines and stately towers of Mokasset gave way to narrow streets and crumbling stone. Duskhaven unfolded before them, a decaying blossom of brick and neon, its petals wilting under the weight of their own sins. This was the city’s blackened heart, where the nightlife never slept. The kind of place where beauty wore bruises and lies walked in high heels. Here, the architecture hunched inward, the façades a mix of old and new. It smelled of wet cobbles and strip-club perfume, cigarette ash soaked into the roots of the buildings, as if hell erupted through the pavement and kept on going.
Frank broke the silence again. “Don’t suppose the kid’s gonna magically confess today?”
“Nah,” Rick said, grateful for the change of subject. “He won’t break.”
“Quite a looker, though,” Frank chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mug that pretty. Hell, most skirts don’t come close. But there’s something in his eyes…” He scratched his chin. “You ever get the feeling he’s not the one in the cage?”
Rick didn’t reply. His hands just tightened on the wheel.
They turned onto Mercury Street, and Eclipse rose out of the morning haze like a half-remembered dream. Its canopy loomed over the sidewalk, ornate and proud, a crown of gilded lights now dimmed against the gray sky. The grand façade lost some of its glamour without the forgiving veil of darkness. By night, Rick imagined, it would dazzle—a beacon for the desperate andthe damned. But in the blunt light of day, the place showed its bones: the cracked frontage, the cigarette butts ground into the asphalt, the velvet ropes sagging from the weight of too many promises.
Yet even so, there was a pedigree to it, a lingering opulence in the decorative moldings and the heavy, polished doors. This was no corner dive. Eclipse carried the kind of reputation that came with whispered passwords and rumors stacked higher than the tabs. A faded marquee promised ‘Men After Dark—Every Flavor, Every Night.’
Frank gave a low whistle as Rick slowed the Eldorado to the curb. “Fancy joint,” he muttered.
Rick cut the engine, shoved the door open, and stepped onto the sidewalk. For a moment, he hesitated. He’d never set foot inside a place like this. It was the kind of decadence he couldn’t afford on a detective’s paycheck, the kind you only heard about if you moved in the right circles—or the wrong ones. He straightened his fedora, jammed his hands into the pockets of his coat, and squared his shoulders.
“Come on,” he said to Frank, heading for the entrance. Another beautiful lie was waiting to be dug up.
(12:38 p.m.)
Inside, the club was a shrine to excess, even stripped bare in the daylight. The tables were scattered beneath the soft lamplight glow, each crowned with upside-down chairs, their legs tiny wooden pillars pointing to the high ceiling. Wall sconces cast a drowsy amber shine that clung to the damask wallpaper, sleepy sentries in frosted glass, while the scuffed marble still glimmered subtly under the dust of last night’s revelry.
They’d been let in by a janitor mopping the tiled vestibule, who barely glanced up from his bucket as he waved them through. The stale reek of perfume, cigarettes, and booze hitRick hard. The spotlights were off, but the scent of bodies and the bitter tang of lost nights still hung like heat. He pocketed the sensory note without thought, the same way he logged the sticky floors, the large mirrors, the lechery baked into the skeleton of the place. Somewhere deeper in the shadows, a crate thudded onto the floor—supply crew stocking the bar with fresh liquor for the night ahead.
The stage at the center was a dark altar framed by heavy burgundy curtains rich as old blood, and a grand semicircle arch trimmed in zigzag gilt. Right next to it, the band was setting up: cases unlatched, a bass thumped gently into place, the moody murmur of a piano being tuned. A cymbal shivered to life with a brush of fingers, then fell silent. Rick expected poles and cheap glitz, but there was none, just the hush of velvet and slow jazz. It looked less like a place for dancing than for worship. A temple of lost illusions that seemed frozen in time.
Behind the long mahogany bar, a tough-looking dame in her late twenties stacked bottles with brisk, mechanical precision. Her outfit—black blouse, high-waisted slacks, silver brooch—fit the Eclipse’s brand of sultry vintage glam, but nothing about her demeanor invited flirtation. Auburn curls spilled in tousled waves, pinned haphazardly like she’d done them in a cracked rearview mirror. Blood-red lipstick, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, brows carved into a permanent scowl. A cigarette clung to the corner of her mouth, dangling with contempt. It was the kind of face that dared you to call it anything less than pretty.
She moved without grace, but without wasted effort either, in the way of someone used to earning her keep the hard way. When Rick and Frank descended the shallow stairs, her eyes locked on them instantly: half dare, half disdain. She didn’t smile. Didn’t stop working, either.
“We’re closed,” she barked. “Can’t you read the damn sign?”
Rick approached the bar leisurely, flashing his badge without fanfare. “Take it easy, sister,” he said, his tone low and even. “We’re just here to talk.”
Frank hung back a little, surveying the area with the instinct of a man who’d been shot at more than once.
The woman slammed a bottle down a little harder than necessary. The clink echoed sharp off the bar top. “This about that murder last night?” she asked, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice.
Frank, ever the diplomat, stepped in beside Rick. “Yes, ma’am. Just need a minute of your time.”
Rick watched her hands as she continued restocking the shelves. Fast hands. Nervous hands. Click, clack, thunk—the rhythm almost soothing if you didn’t know it covered stress. Stress made people stupid. Dangerous.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re digging for,” she said, never glancing up. “But Ash didn’t kill nobody. He’s a good guy.”
Rick filed that away carefully. The loyalty was real. So was the anxiety simmering below it. He leaned a fraction closer, letting the dead weight of silence do its work. “How do you know he’s our suspect?” he asked.
She glared at him with eyes that sparkled with green anger. “Because I was there when it happened. I was taking out the trash when I heard the sirens blaring like it was the end of the world, and I went to see what was going on. That’s when I saw your boys in blue take him away.”
“So you were working last night?” Frank asked, keeping the rhythm casual.
“I’m here most nights. Somebody’s gotta feed the cattle.”
Rick let his body relax against the bar, one elbow propped, a picture of easy patience. But his mind was racing ahead, picking apart her answers, stitching them into something more useful.He focused his hearing on her heartbeat, searching for any signs of deception. “You see him leave the club?” he asked.
Another hesitation. Subtle, but there. Rick saw it. He heard her pulse spike.
