Naked Addiction by Caitlin Rother Page B

Was there something to what Tony said about smoking? It seemed counterintuitive, but she decided to go buy a pack anyway. A walk in the cool night air would feel good, maybe even relax her a little.
    She pulled on the jeans and turtleneck she’d been wearing before she took her bath and stepped into her ankle-high boots. To top off the outfit, she put on some “Burgundy Summer” lipstick.
    The drugstore was about half a mile away. To avoid drunk skateboarders, she took a wide residential street parallel to Garnet, the main drag. The moon seemed even bigger from outside her apartment. It was a Super Moon, after all. She swore her hands were gleaming.

Chapter 10
    Goode

    G oode reported the details of his conversation with Alison Winslow to Sergeant Stone as he was driving over to the Pumphouse bar in search of a Seth, Keith, J., or anyone else who’d seen Tania on Friday or Saturday night.
    “You’re making good progress,” Stone said. “Keep it up, buddy.”
    Pumphouse was only a few minutes from Tania’s and Alison’s apartments—not really far enough to take a cab. But then again Goode could understand why a woman wouldn’t want to walk the streets of Pacific Beach, which were crawling with young men, teeming with testosterone. He certainly didn’t like his sister living among them. He always worried that one would follow her home because she’d let him buy her a drink.
    Goode parked a few blocks away. By the time he got to the bar, it was about ten o’clock. The green neon sign cast a cartoonlike incandescence over the sidewalk. As he opened the door, he heard the scratchy sound of skateboard wheels on pavement and scooted out of the way just in time. He felt a breeze as a kamikaze surf rat rode past him, jumped the curb onto the street, and skated away, his long, stringy hair flying behind him like the tail of a kite.
    Ah, youth .
    Inside, stools and round tables were clustered around the narrow dance floor, which skirted a stage that would comfortably fit a two-person band but likely would have to accommodate four and a drum set. The place had that fraternity house smell from so much stale beer seeping into the wooden floor that no amount of soap or wax could kill it. No one was playing at the two pool tables in the adjoining room. The lights were low and Patsy Cline was singing on the jukebox. The music was a little loud but Goode didn’t mind. He liked Patsy.
    “I go out walking, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just hoping you may be somewhere a walking, after midnight, searching for me…”
    It seemed like an apt theme song for the night.
    Apparently, Sunday nights were slow enough that the bartender could choose his own music, a marked contrast to the monotone bass-thumping noise emanating from bars along Garnet, where the Navy guys and the hip twenty-something crowd hung out. The bartender was polishing glasses with a towel, sliding them into an overhead rack and singing along with Patsy. There were only a few patrons, including a middle-aged man with a three-day beard, hunkered over the bar. He tossed back a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser, pounding the glasses on the bar so hard that Goode was surprised they didn’t shatter. Goode couldn’t picture Tania Marcus there. But then again, maybe he could.
    “What can I get you?” the bartender asked, without making eye contact. He was a large man with a big beer belly, his T-shirt not quite long enough to cover the hairy roll. His sun-streaked brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail.
    “Some information,” Goode said, pulling his badge from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “Detective Ken Goode, Homicide. And you are?”
    “Jack O’Mallory.” The bartender hung another glass in the rack and this time he looked at Goode for a moment. “What kind of information?”
    The bartender had a lazy eye, so it was difficult to know where to focus when talking to him. Goode settled on his nose. “There’s been a murder,” he