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The girl blinked, noticing her She sar You don’t look like the kind of wo and I promise I can make you real happy"

"I need to speak with you," Whitney told her, flashing her badge

The woe as if she wanted to run Whitney quickly hopped on stage and showed her the picture of Sarah Larson "Was she your friend?" Whitney asked

Again, the girl looked longingly backstage, dying to flee

"Look atwoman’s shoulders slumped "That’s Sarah," she said softly "She was my friend She’s dead, isn’t she?"

"I need to knoho she was seeing," Whitney told her

The ski anyone She said if you closed your eyes and dreamed, it didn’t matter that they were smelly creeps She wouldn’t have seen anyone here, I mean, not beyond work She told us all that we had to be strong and keep drea to be a star She was a real dancer"

"And she left here, to go soirl nodded, slowly at first, then strenuously "She said she was going to go off and be a star"

"Where? With and for whom?" Whitney persisted

"She wouldn’t tell us She said that she’d been pro past her at Myra

"Think, please, it’s very iently

"I swear, that’s all that she would say," the skinny woman said

"What’s your name?" Whitney asked

"Candy"

"What’s your real na forward

"Debbie Debbie Mortensen," the girl said

Whitney started to hand her a card; she realized that the girl had nowhere to put it, except in the string of the ridiculous studded thong she earing Jude drew out his own card and joined it to Whitney’s, then stuck both cards in the band of the thong "The police need your help Anything you can think ofeveryone here--talk to them, or call us"

He turned and strode out Whitney followed hiet officers down to the place to question everyone involved He called Hannah and told her to get on the business records

"You don’t believe Myra or Debbie?" Whitney asked

He sighed "No, I do believe theirls will notice if someone was in here as a bit above the usual clientele"

As they stood there, Debbie Mortensen, norapped in a red, faux-silk housecoat, ca!" she told thee was visible Debbie Mortensen wasn’t a girl She had to be at least thirty-five And, like Myra, she was scared Her face hite and pinched