Beware False Profits Read Free Page A

I’ve done a lot of detective work on my own this year, and this was the first time I hadn’t been forced to shield my activities from my husband’s suspicious gaze. Today Ed and I were a team, albeit a reluctant one. And even if our activities weren’t as much fun as a leisurely stroll down Fifth Avenue, at least we were together.
    “Let’s go over what we know one more time,” I said, “and maybe we’ll have a great idea, which will include hopping in a cab and going somewhere else. Like out to a great restaurant for dinner.”
    “Repeating the facts won’t change them.”
    I repeated them anyway. “Joe was supposed to be in the city at a meeting of an organization called Funds for Food. He told Maura he came here to attend a similar meeting every month.”
    “And now we know there’s no organization in New York called Funds for Food, and that nobody at any of the local food banks has heard of an organization by that name.” Ed glanced at his watch.
    Behind us, the perpetual serenade of police sirens and honking horns crescendoed. I spoke louder. “Our repeated calls to Joe’s cell phone have gone unanswered.”
    Three guys pushed past us. One was dressed as a cowboy, the second a cop, and the third was unmistakably an Indian chief with a headdress that almost didn’t clear the doorframe. They were three guys short of the Village People. I stifled the impulse to raise my arms and make the letters YMCA in salute.
    Apparently Ed had no such impulse, because he was still listing facts. “Unfortunately, just as we were about to give up and tell Maura we’d hit a brick wall, you had to try one more time.”
    I wrinkled my nose in apology. “Sorry, I get going, and I just forget to stop.”
    “Whoever picked it up—”
    “A guy with a gravelly voice,” I reminded.
    “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 East 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 at the East Village’s own Pussycat Club, 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 forced myself to watch 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 Monday and Tuesday, vaudeville on Wednesday and Sunday, female impersonators on Thursday and Saturday. Something for every—”
    He stopped. I let my gaze drift back to the photos. “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 was broad shouldered to boot. She had straight black hair and thick bangs, like the younger 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