I walk into the jazz club, the Midnight Blues, my eyes darting around in search of you. I have only seen your pictures a few times in my research, but I am sure you are the one I am looking for, the one who escaped the Papillion. I spot you as you make your way to the stage, the back of your dress cut in a low V, revealing the top of what I am certain is a butterfly tattoo. I approach the stage before you can mount the stairs. Miss? I'm Sergeant James Walker. Might I have a word in private?
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