HOME OF RALEIGH’S FINEST FEMALE ILLUSIONISTS.

Markham stepped inside and found a map on the wall to his left—color-coded with sections labeled bar, dance floor, patio, video bar, pool hall, and theater.

He approached the bar.

“Can I get you something?” asked the bartender. He was muscular, bald, and wore a tight black T-shirt. Markham quickly scanned the room—eight patrons, all male, two at the bar, the rest scattered at the tables. Half suits, half casual.

“Is the manager or the owner around?” he asked.

“You got a two-for-one special, friend,” the bartender said, smiling. “I’m Paulie Angel, and welcome to my home.”

Markham flashed his ID and introduced himself.

“I see,” Angel said, nervous. “Perhaps we’d better talk in the office.” He signaled over Markham’s shoulder. “You’re up, Karl,” he said, and a man rose from one of the tables and stepped behind the bar.

Angel led Markham out the back and across an enclosed courtyard. Once inside again, they quickly passed through the pool hall and entered an office at the end of a narrow hallway. Markham had taken in as much as he could, but what stuck out to him the most was the obnoxious neon sign at the opposite end of the hallway:

Starlight Theater

“All right,” Angel said, settling in behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”

Markham sat down and slid him a copy of Jose Rodriguez’s senior class photo. “You recognize this man?” he asked.

“Sure. That’s Ricky Martinez.”

“Ricky Martinez?”

“Yeah. She used to work here as one of our performers, only for a few months, though. Called herself Leona Bonita. Kickoff slot in our Wednesday and Saturday shows. I haven’t seen her in a while, though. Left her shit in the dressing room and never came back for it. That happens sometimes with the younger girls. Tried calling her, but number is no longer in service. Stuff’s pretty much been picked through. What’s left is still back there. Something happen to her?”

“His real name is Jose Rodriguez,” Markham said. “Seventeen years old. Found murdered two months ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” Angel gasped. “What happened?”

“Mr. Rodriguez and a man by the name of Alex Guerrera were both shot in the head and later discovered by police near a cemetery outside of town, their bodies impaled up through the rectum and planted in the ground.”

The nightclub owner gasped, and Markham slid Guer- rera’s mug shot across the bar. Two years old, from a petty-theft conviction in Texas. “You recognize him?”

Angel shook his head, dismissed the photograph and went back to Rodriguez.

“You said she was seventeen?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus,” Angel said. “I hired her myself. Checked her ID—Ricardo Martinez, it said, I swear. Said she was a college student; was going to be a fashion designer and made her own costumes. I—how come we didn’t know?”

“The confusion about the names, for one; but also because the police initially kept the details from the press. Rodriguez and Guerrera were thought to have been the victims of a gang-related drug hit; their deaths, the display of their bodies were very similar to what’s been going on in South America. Consequently, there’s been a conscious effort among law enforcement not to give this kind of thing too much media traction.”

“But you said it’s been two months. You’re just getting around to us now?”

“It appears that Mr. Rodriguez’s sexuality, as well as his alias of Ricky Martinez, was kept secret from everyone except a handful of people. He was terrified that his family would find out that he was a homosexual, but he was also a very smart young man. In addition to questioning his friends, the original police investigation looked into Rodriguez’s cell phone records and his computer activity with the hopes of getting a lead on the drug angle. Nothing there. Consequently, there was also nothing there that tied him to this establishment or his secret lifestyle. The phone number he gave you was most likely a prepaid cell deal that his parents weren’t aware of. I’ll want that phone number and any records of his employment here if you still have them.”

The nightclub owner nodded. He stared down at the photograph, upset.

“Two more men have been found murdered in the same fashion,” Markham said, producing another pair of photographs. “You know either of these gentlemen?”

Paulie Angel glanced quickly at the picture of Randall Donovan—shook his head and said he knew him only from the news reports about his murder, about his supposed connection to Colombian drug money. But when he saw the second photograph, the nightclub owner let out a moan and held his head in his hands.

“Please don’t tell me,” he said. “That’s Billy Canning, isn’t it?”

“You know him?”

“He and his partner were regulars here for years. Disappearance was in the news. Police questioned me and some of the other club owners in town after it first happened. Questioned Stefan, too, from what I heard; thought he might have had something to do with it, they said, but we all knew it wasn’t true. I know they were having problems, and we all thought maybe that Billy just bolted, that maybe—but what happened? Where’d they find him?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that just yet. Murder has not been made public, investigation still in its preliminary stages.”

“I understand.”

“But Donovan and Guerrera, you’re sure you’ve never seen them here before?”

“Yes, I’m sure. But that doesn’t mean they’ve never been here. Well, perhaps the Hispanic gentleman. You can ask Karl and the other bartenders if they ever saw him. Can ask our performers, too—there’s a show tonight. But this Donovan? No, now that I think of it, I ’d have to say definitely not a patron.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I pride myself on keeping a hand in things,” Angel said confidentially. “I’m here seven days a week. Of course, I can’t say I know everyone who frequents our establishment. But a guy like Donovan, well, I think if he’d been in here I ’d know.”

“Why?”

“He was well-known in Raleigh, even nationally they said on the news. Sure, a lot of those family types—the ones with the kids and the golf clubs and the reputations—they like to keep their real tastes hush-hush. But even before I learned of Donovan’s murder, I never heard anything in our circles about him being gay.”

“I see.”

“Again, I’m not saying I’m an authority on the subject. But, here in Raleigh—in the grand scheme of things, I mean—the circle is pretty small. Word gets around, especially about the high-profile ones.”

Markham was silent, thinking.

“Would you like to speak with Karl?” Angel asked. “He’s the only bartender on call right now.”

“Yes, I would. But first I ’d like to see any business records associated with Rodriguez—your telephone number for him, pay stubs, a Social Security number for Ricky Martinez. I ’d also like to see what’s left of his act.”

“Yes, of course. But, I have to be honest with you, Agent Markham. We pay most of our employees in cash. That includes our performers. Helps with accounting and whatnot, if you know what I mean.” Angel smiled sheepishly. “I hope you’ll take into consideration how helpful I’ve been when you look into our business records. Last thing I need right now is the IRS breathing down my neck.”

“I understand,” Markham said. “No worries.”

Angel gave a sigh of relief and proceeded to make Markham a copy of his pay ledger. No pay stubs, no phony Social Security number for Rodriguez, just the name “R. Martinez” and the amount he was paid per show: fifty dollars.

Plus tips, Marla Rodriguez had told him.

Angel then led him behind the stage to the dressing room. The space was tight with the smell of body odor and stale hair spray; it was packed wall to wall with spangled dresses and bouffant wigs on Styrofoam heads. Angel brought down an old shoebox from atop the shelf. It was filled with makeup mostly, as well as a tube of glitter, a pair of cheap costume earrings, and a dirty bra and panties. Rodriguez’s wig was still here, Angel explained, but his dress and other accessories were gone—had been “adopted” by the other performers, he figured. Nonetheless, he assured Markham that he would try to track that stuff down, too. Markham informed him that he would have to call the forensic team to collect what remained of Rodriguez’s things. Some men from the Resident Agency would be by shortly, he added, but assured the nightclub owner that they would try not to cause too much of a scene.

Angel thanked him and slipped through the split in the curtains, leaving Markham alone backstage in the dark. He waited there until he saw the lights from the theater spill underneath the curtains and onto his shoes. Then, he stepped out onto the stage. Angel waved to him and disappeared through the door at the rear of the theater.

The Starlight Theater was barely a theater at all, Mark-ham thought. High ceiling, black walls, with only a dozen or so colored spotlights beamed down at its narrow, two-foot-high thrust stage. An electric piano and a sound system stood in the corner to the right; to the left, a handful of tables and chairs.

Markham walked to the edge of the stage and gazed out into the house. He counted the tables, the bistro chairs, and the barstools at the back of the theater and estimated the space could hold about a hundred people. He stepped off the stage and wandered aimlessly about the house. He soon arrived at the bar at the rear of the theater and sat down on one of the stools.

It was then he noticed for the first time the large, glittered sign above the stage: a pair of singing lips and a microphone inside a group of stars—all of it cradled by the word STARLIGHT in the shape of a crescent moon.

A crescent moon and stars.

“Oh my God,” Markham cried. “It’s all right here!”

His mind spinning, his heart pounding in his throat, Markham looked up to find a disco ball on the ceiling. He was off his stool in a flash—went straight for the big spotlight at the right of the bar, where he discovered a control board. He flicked on the small reading lamp—rows of sliding dimmers and switches labeled with electrical tape. He scanned them quickly, figured out the workings of the light board and flicked the switch labeled O-ride/Finale.

All at once the theater was bathed in darkness and in light—a spattering of cutout stars on the curtains; a swirl of shimmering diamonds that slowly picked up speed across the walls. Markham looked upward and instantly became hypnotized by the revolving disco ball. A flashback of a dream, of speeding toward a planet on a spaceship made of fire. Then suddenly the universe and the fire became a crowd—a sparkling theater of silhouetted applause, of music and laughter.

Markham sat down at the bar and stared open-mouthed at the crescent moon above the stage.

He finally understood.