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Suddenly, the "cover version" of their lives—the fake persona, the staged crime—began to crack. The police officer wasn't there for the stunt. He was there because Ronnie, in a desperate bid for fame months ago, had actually stolen the royalties from a dead artist. The dead artist's family had hired a private investigator. The PI had brought the cops.

The neon sign of The Crimson Lounge buzzed with the familiar, erratic rhythm of a dying insect. It was the kind of club where the smoke was thick enough to chew on, and the music was the only thing that kept the shadows at bay.