Detective Lib Sena strode across the empty dance floor like a wrangler wearing leather chaps. She stopped at the vacant bar and grabbed a bottle from the top shelf.

Jill, the club owner, protested. “Hey, lay off the Jack until you’ve cracked the case, Dic.” Lib opened the ice chest and saw the frozen remains of Mo Zona. Her cropped hair was like a crown of frozen gel: Miss Alaska’s tiara.

“Guess it’s true what they say about freezers. When the door closes, it really is ‘lights out’.”

Jill screamed like a top-heavy B-actress in a low-budget slasher movie. She buried her face in Sena’s lapel. The polyester smelled like black coffee and danger.

“No mystery here." Declared Lib, "Palin’s twin was a victim of fashion, not passion. See them pearls underneath her leather coat, Doll Face? She went too femme, too fast.” Lib smiled, “Whiskey,please, no ice.”