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The Velvet Volcano turned out to be located in a window-free gray-slab building that looked like an industrial sheet cake somebody left out too long. If the GPS hadn’t directed her to the location, Jo would have missed it; there were no exterior markings other than a single, sad banner with the club’s name bookended by girls in flame-covered bikinis.
“This is just depressing,” Arnett said. “Not lurid, not seedy—just sad.”
“They’re definitely not targeting drive-by traffic. Maybe that’s why Madison picked it.” Jo ran her eyes over the half-filled parking lot. “But they’re not hurting for business.”
“Not bad at all for just after nine at night.”
What the club lacked in curb appeal it made up with sheer sensory assault inside. Competing rows of pink, purple, and blue neon stripes outlined everything—the trio of stages, the bar at the back right, even the walking paths of the floor—and pulsed in time with blaring music. Three disco balls sent glittering neon reflections dancing over the chairs and tables that crowded the three jutting stages, and off the sequined curtains that periodically disgorged naked women. And an odd vanilla-jasmine scent with hints of talcum powder and baby oil saturated it all, causing Jo to rub her nose.
“This place should come with a seizure warning,” Arnett said.
“It’s like an electric unicorn exploded.” Jo passed the cashier to the immediate right and pushed aside the visual clutter to peer at the far ends of the large room. “Two doors to the right, probably to the dressing room and management’s office. The three doors on the left look like VIP rooms.”
“Can I help the two of you?” The cashier, a forty-something woman with black back-combed hair a few shades too harsh to be natural, stood up, hand slipping under the counter as she did so.
Jo showed her badge. “We have some questions regarding the death of a woman who worked for you. I’d ask you to call out your manager if you hadn’t just done that already.”
The woman had the nerve to look indignant. She picked up the phone in front of her and spoke into it. “Two detectives are asking to talk to you.” She listened, then hung up. “You said this is about one of our employees?”
Jo held up a picture. “Madison Coelho. You know her?”
The woman flinched. “Amber.” She met Jo’s eyes. “She’s dead?”
A tall, lanky man with spiked brown hair and a tan suit appeared, pulling his office door quickly closed behind him. Over the carefully arranged smile on his face, his hard eyes lasered in on Jo and Arnett.
Despite his speed closing the door, he sauntered over to Jo and Arnett. “I’m Travis Hartley, the owner. How can I help you, Detectives?”
Jo ran through her introductions and showed the picture to Hartley. “Madison Coelho was found murdered today.”
His smile faded. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Eyes followed them as they passed by the right-hand stage—several customers and the woman straddling the pole watched closely.
The throbbing music disappeared once the door closed behind them, and the refreshing lack of neon allowed Jo’s eyes to relax. She took a seat in front of the large oak desk that dominated the surprisingly normal office. “When did Madison start work here?”
“Let’s take a look.” He opened a drawer to his right and rifled through the files there. When he found Madison’s, he flipped it open on his desk and ran one finger down the front page. “Madison Coelho. She started March twenty-eighth of this year.”
“As a stripper?” Jo asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“What’s your pay model?”
“Minimum tipped-employee wage per hour, currently six dollars fifteen cents, plus forty-five percent of their take in tips. Additional tips to the DJ and security are optional,” he said. “While she was learning the ropes she danced three nights a week. Once she was up to speed she moved to five.”
“And when it became obvious she was pregnant?” Jo asked.
His eyes narrowed so quickly she almost missed it. He flipped to a page in the file, rotated it, and pushed it toward Jo.
She leaned forward to scan the document. A liability waver signed on July twenty-fifth, releasing responsibility for anything that might happen to her unborn baby as she continued to dance for the club.
“How did that go down?” Arnett asked.
Hartley leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. “When we couldn’t ignore it anymore, I told her she had three choices. Continue dancing specialty rooms, switch to waitressing, or go on hiatus. She kept dancing.”
“With no pressure from you?” Jo asked, watching him carefully.
