The following day, in the late afternoon, Detective Anderson visited the strip club as part of his inquiries, with the especial intention of questioning the staff at the club regarding the murder.

He had instructed his team, specifically Trent, to make sure that the club was closed to the public, so, it came as quite a surprise to him when he arrived at around five in the afternoon to find the staff at the club rustling and rushing about to get things ready.

Chairs were being stacked, and then unstacked in a different part of the room.

The stages (of which there were three) were being mopped down.

The many lights, neon or otherwise, were being checked and the amps were being tested.

Blaine, in a 'rush' of 'rage' slammed the door shut, and was so angry that, after taking his hat off and resting it neatly on the beautiful oak hat-stand by the doorway, marched over to who he assumed was the manager and tapped him furiously on the shoulder.

The manager, a short and angry Italian American turned around and looked up at Blaine. He wasn't entirely unlike a tomato; he was round, red and plump in the face, and Blaine had two questions that his professional and social standing prevented himself from asking. Firstly, 'How can there by a full grown adult who is shorter than me?' and, secondly, 'Was he red because he was angry, or was it just natural? And why is it that the red makes his thick eyebrows look like little black jet fumes?'

He elected to ignore his internal thought process, and returned to his upset state.

"I thought you were supposed to be closed today?"

"Eh? Nobody told me nothin' about closin' today? And what difference does it make? Just ask your questions and be on your way kiddo" he returned. Clearly Trent didn't do his job especially well.

"I…but…urgh! I suppose you're right!" Blaine said with frustration.

The manager ushered Blaine to the side of the room, and, with a small microphone, Blaine recorded a conversation that occurred like a game of tennis, and went like this.

"Where were you at the time of the murder?"

"What time was the murder?"

"Eight thirty seven PM."

"I was in here!"

"Doing?"

"I was with my wife!" (He gestured to a rather placid, tall blonde girl, roughly half his age, in a short black dress)

"That doesn't answer my question sir."

"Doing? Well…her!"

Blaine had all the information he needed, and, while he switched his recording off, and said his thank you to the manager and walked over to the next interviewee, he shuddered with repulsion at the thought of a middle-aged, hairy man and his wife having sexual contact at eight thirty seven in the office of a strip club.

He then went all around the room, speaking to as many cleaners, bar staff and eye-witnesses as he could, asking them relatively generic questions.

Once he was done, he checked his notes, and then went back to the frustrated manager, with one final question.

"I'm looking to speak to the member of staff who, according to my Intel, was the last person to see the victim alive before the murder. I'd like to speak to a Mr. Evans, please?" he asked, trying to hold back the barf that came after a thought of the manager and his wife together.

"He's not here."

"Well where is he?" Blaine demanded. He was dumbfounded at this comment, and his overdramatic mind assumed automatically that Mr. Evans was the killer, who had fled the crime scene and the country and was going to attack other victims around the world.

The manager looked up from his clipboard, and with a furrow of his sluggish brow cackled at the confused Detective.

"He doesn't get into work until about seven; you'll have to come back then."

And Blaine did exactly that. In somewhat more casual wear, he went back to the grand 're-opening', as it was branded, of the Demons and Pearls strip club. The place was busy with a crowd of both genders, and varying ages, but, Blaine was too concerned with doing his job to focus on trivialities like the 'unimportant' members of the public who had showed up.

He tried to catch the managers' attention by waving his hand gaily, but, there was no response.

The Detective knew that he would have to just 'play along' and hope for the best. Mr. Evans would show himself sooner or later.

He allowed himself to get ushered into the crowed, until he was about three rows of people away from the main stage, a position he most certainly didn't want to be in. The helpless boy tried to push his way out, but a rather gruff man who was comparable to a brick wall blockaded the way. He turned the other way, but still couldn't get out.

His attempts became more frantic as the lights went entirely out, save for a single spotlight on the stage.

"What have I let myself in for?" he asked out loud, much to the dismay of a nearby clubber who expressed his dismay with a grunt. Blaine forced himself into silence.

"And noooooow!" the announcer boomed.

"Get ready for your legs to go weak! Ladies and gents, something sweet for you…it's White Chocolate!"

Blaine's eyes were transfixed to the tall blond who emerged from behind the curtains. He was perhaps pretending to be some sort of Indiana Jones-like adventurer, and he wore a loose tan coloured shirt, which was unbuttoned about halfway to show the performers' chest, a strap of some sort of leather sash, a fedora, loose looking trousers and big, brown leather boots.

Despite every mental urge telling him to maintain his professionalism, the rest of Blaine's body wanted to pounce on the gorgeous specimen who pouted his lips in Blaine's general direction. His legs really did feel weak.

With a series of thrusts which swished the blonde's hair in all directions, he stepped to the edge of the stage, and ripped open his shirt, and flicked it off with experienced ease, so that the sash still remained, and it highlighted the stripper's perfect, alabaster sculpture body.

Blaine shamefully swooned.

Then came off the slacks. They were torn off in one swift movement, and now all the scoundrel was wearing was his sash, his fedora, a brown coloured jockstrap which didn't do much in concealing, and these ankle-high boots. He walked with swagger to the edge of the stage and slut-dropped down, encouraging a girl and boy at the front of the crowd to slot two five-dollar bills into his underwear.

Blaine couldn't cope. This boy, no, this god was about three feet away from him, and he let out a worryingly high-pitched 'oh my'.

White Chocolate in all of his glory, noticed Blaine's swooning, and took off is fedora, leaned over the girl in front of Blaine and propped the hat on his head.

Detective Anderson felt as if his spirit had died and left his body.

After the 'dance' was finished, Blaine tried to return to his work, but, he hardly could with the image of a naked hero fresh in his mind. His face was crimson with blushing so much.

Then, as if by magic, the stripper, who had apparently finished, appeared again wearing a dressing gown. He waltzed over to Blaine with such an air of confidence that it, by extension, made Blaine nervous.

"You're assistant said you wanted to talk to me?" he said. Blaine could hardly form a response.

"N-no…I'm looking to speak to a Mr. Evans…" Blaine said, trying to hide his blushing face with his notebook.

"Yeah…that's me. Didn't you work that out?" He offered his hand out to shake Blaine's. Then, he simply uttered "Sam, Sam Evans".

Thanks so far for all the kind words! Hope you like this chapter as much as the last one! Please review if you like or dislike it.