Gotta Keep Trying

Hardesty fucked the information out of the dancer, such as it was, from behind, as the dancer was bent over the back of a straight chair in the dancers’ dressing room. Nathan Winstead seemed to be into live-action Internet porn now. The dancer had no firm answer on where Nathan was, but he’d heard something about a studio on 16th Street somewhere. And, oh, yeah, there was also some middle-aged, but well-preserved, rich guy in construction who used to come sniffing around for Nathan. He’d stopped coming around when Nathan stopped dancing here. And, yes, of course, for future consideration, the dancer would be happy to keep his ears open for where Nathan lived now and who the construction man was.

“I had him one night when Nathan was home sick and the construction man had ants in his pants. One strong cocker, honey—but not a candle to you, sweets.”

When he went to the precinct the next day, Hardesty found a bunch of the other vice detectives gathered around the equipment of one of their Internet techs, Charlie.

“Damn,” he heard Charlie say as he walked up to the group. “Lost it again. Almost had it. West by northwest of here is the best I can do. At least for now.”

Hardesty walked around behind him. The screen everyone was staring at was blank.