The Midnight Club

by James Patterson

  “Bear, could the two of us, Ms. McGinniss and I, have a minute?” he asked.

  His hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his tongue planted even deeper in his cheek, Kupchek slowly backed out of the room. He shut the door behind him, letting it click with great effect.

  “May I say one thing before you start, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t think so.” Stefanovitch sighed and shook his head. He understood that he had to be absolutely stubborn with her, maybe even unreasonable. “Look, we’re both busy people. You’re writing your story, your book. I’m conducting a nasty, complicated murder investigation. One that’s particularly difficult for me.”

  “Lieutenant Stefanovitch, I think maybe—”

  “I can’t get involved in New York City politics right now. I won’t. I like what I know about your work. I read A Mother’s Kindness. But these videotapes are part of an ongoing homicide investigation. I don’t care what you can tell me about Alexandre St.-Germain. So, please leave.”

  “I like the way you said all that, Lieutenant. The compliments about my book especially.” When Sarah finally got to say a few words, a disarming twinkle came into her eyes. “The problem is, I’m not so sure it tracks.”

  “I don’t particularly care what—”

  “I listened to you, Lieutenant. Play fair, please?” Sarah smiled. She seemed slightly amused by the outbreak between them. “For one thing, the tapes are under the police commissioner’s jurisdiction, not yours. Second, the P.C. is interested in the material I have on Alexandre St.-Germain, and especially the Midnight Club. I promise not to get in your way, Lieutenant, as long as you don’t get in mine.”

  Sarah began to slip out of her jacket, an old electric-blue-and-pink windbreaker. Besides the cheery jacket, she wore a faded club shirt, khakis, and old running shoes. The outfit was comfortable, and it seemed appropriate for a long work session at Police Plaza.

  “Hold on there. Hold up. Please don’t get yourself comfortable.” John Stefanovitch was pushing his wheelchair toward her.

  “Listen,” he said. “Either I watch these tapes by myself, and this homicide investigation proceeds…or you watch the tapes, and the entire investigation shuts down until you’re finished in here.”

  “That’s your choice.” Sarah shrugged. “If you want to wait, that’s fine with me.”

  She sat down in one of the two hardwood chairs inside the cramped, musty, rather inhospitable office. The office was tiny, no more than seven by nine. She’d been in bigger clothes closets, nicer Port-O-Sans, classier phone booths.

  Sarah suddenly stood up again. She walked over to a small wooden counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Why don’t you have some coffee?” Stefanovitch said from across the room.

  “Thanks.” Sarah took a sip, her lips poised over the Styrofoam. “My God, it’s liquid ash. Do you make your own coffee? Is this coffee?”

  “I make my own coffee, and I happen to like it strong. As my father used to say, ‘It puts hair on the chest.’ I wasn’t expecting company. I didn’t invite any company. All right, watch the videotapes.”

  22

  STEFANOVITCH HIT THEPLAY button of the VCR with the heel of his hand. Two naked bodies appeared on the television screen. An appropriate punctuation to the conversation.

  “Great. Really terrific.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had boiled over the top like this. The investigation definitely had him uptight. He couldn’t stop baiting her, either.

  “You usually watch your X-rated videotapes at home, I imagine?”

  “Sometimes at home.” Sarah was beginning to enjoy herself. At least she was winning most of the skirmishes, she felt. “Hotels with pay TV are great, too. Occasionally I catch a pornographic movie by myself, over on Ninth Avenue.”

  John Stefanovitch’s eyes bored into the flickering television screen. He tried his best to concentrate on the sequence of images.

  The tapes from Allure were as explicit as anything shown on Ninth Avenue in New York, or Zeedijk Street in Amsterdam, or the Peeperbahn in Hamburg. But there was a subtle, important difference. Nobody seemed to be acting on these tapes.

  On the television screen an exotic blonde, who didn’t look any older than eighteen or nineteen, posed seductively. She lolled on the edge of a double bed draped with silver lamé sheets. The young prostitute was slender and narrow-waisted, as entrancing as any Vogue or Cosmopolitan model.

  A gauzy, cream white nightgown revealed the outlines of her breasts. Her large brown eyes were dusted with delicately applied eyeliner. Her hair was clipped back on one side, held by an exquisite ivory barrette. He thought of Kay Whitley and Kimberly Manion; of the perfection demanded at Allure.

  Where did they get such beautiful women? Sarah McGinniss was also wondering. What did any of this have to do with the murder of Alexandre St.-Germain? With some kind of gang war that might be erupting around the world? With the shooting of John Traficante on Third Avenue? With the Midnight Club?

  Watching the glossy film, she thought that she understood what a high-budget pornographic movie might look like. Sarah also began to feel embarrassed. Then, a bit later, more than a little embarrassed.

  A well-preserved, silver-haired man, probably in his early fifties, entered the scene from camera left. He sat beside the blond woman on the bed.

  Sarah could tell that the man worked out. He also looked rich; there was something pampered about him. His silverish hair was still wet, combed straight back. He wore a puffy, white half-robe. She thought she ought to be writing some of this down.

  “I haven’t been with anyone for three weeks,” the blond woman said. Her voice was soft, melodic. Her smile was slightly crooked, even more appealing because of the imperfection. The nipples of her breasts poked and pointed against the nightgown.

  “You look so good to me, but you always do. I love the way you dressed for me tonight. All over Chanterelle, men and women were staring at you. Did you happen to notice, Gerard?”

  The older man smiled, and seemed taken in completely by her. His ego was obviously close to bursting. A pair of expensive Italian loafers lay turned on their sides near the bed.

  “Where did you go on your little trip?” he asked.

  “Oh, I was on St. Bart’s. Lazing out completely. A friend of mine owns a villa up in the hills.”

  “A friend?”

  “Oh, a girlfriend.” The young blonde’s movements were almost feline; she had a natural grace, a poise that suggested dance training, maybe even professional dancing. There was a faint rustle of her nightgown, silk against soft skin. Sarah imagined somebody paying for her dancing lessons once upon a time. It made her sad to think about that. What a waste.

  The girl curled herself around the old man’s back. She began to massage his furrowed temple with both hands. Her nails were bright vermilion. He sighed at her touch.

  After several minutes of massage, she suddenly left the bedroom suite. The romantic music in the background was subdued and sensual. Every detail had been attended to. Had it been this way for Alexandre St.-Germain? Was it always like this at Allure?

  The young woman returned with a silver metal carton that looked like a pillbox. She and the silver-haired man each selected a different-colored pill from the many rolling around inside the box. They had obviously practiced this routine before. They were laughing now, giddy as children allowed to stay up too late.

  Stefanovitch had heard about one or two highly expensive, very private bordellos in New York. So this was what they were like. “He took a Quaalude,” he said. “I don’t know what she had in her hand.”

  Standing in front of Silver Hair, the prostitute slowly stretched the straps of her gown down over slender, freckled shoulders. The silk gown was finally bunched at her waist, her breasts revealed to the man, but not to the camera.

  Next, she reached forward, underneath the man’s robe. Sarah felt that she finally understood the word “courtesan.” Things she had only read about in
police reports were coming to life.

  “I really missed you, Gerard,” the blond woman said in a soft stage whisper.

  “Touch yourself down there, too.” The older man suddenly seemed humble. He slowly began to stroke himself.

  Touch yourself down there, Sarah silently mocked the scene. She was angry at the man for using the young girl. When she had heard about her husband Roger’s lover in California, she’d felt betrayed and used herself. She had also felt that somehow she must have been at fault for losing him.

  “You’re such a beautiful, beautiful man. You’re so elegant. You do everything with such style, Gerard. I’m not just saying it because… you know.”

  Sarah could tell that the silver-haired man needed to believe the words he was hearing. She had an urge to talk back at the movie. The scene was powerfully moving. Across the small room, Stefanovitch self-consciously cleared his throat.

  “I have some Halls Eucalyptus, Lieutenant,” Sarah said. He deserved every zinger she could come up with.

  Stefanovitch felt his face flush. His neck and his chest were tingling. He nearly laughed, though. Sarah McGinniss was quick on her feet. “The pills probably made their bodies more sensitive,” he finally said.

  “Have you used Quaaludes yourself?”

  “Once or twice,” Stefanovitch said. Then he frowned when he thought about his remark ending up in her book. Many, if not most, New York City detectives use illegal drugs themselves.

  “Let me undress you all the way now.” Silver Hair’s voice was a low, sibilant whisper.

  “Not yet. Don’t rush this… Gerard?… There’s something even better we can do. Is that all right? …You trust me?”

  “Of course. Whatever you want to do is fine.” Suddenly he was sounding closer to his age. Unsure of himself.

  The call girl rose from the bed again. She moved two steps away.

  Very sensually, she slid the straps of her gown back up onto her shoulders. She let her long nails slowly trail down her legs, making a long scratching sound.

  Stefanovitch thought of a few steamy Hollywood movies he’d seen. Body Heat. A remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice. They were tame and prudish compared with this.

  And nothing had even happened yet. Just some foreplay… But the real stuff. Not wooden-Indian actors and actresses playing make-believe.

  Midnight? Stefanovitch wondered again. What was Midnight? If it was the Midnight Club, what was the connection? Had the Club come after Alexandre St.-Germain?

  Or was someone coming after members of the Club? There was a big difference right there. A huge difference for his investigation.

  The blond hooker’s profile was turned sharply to the camera now. Did she know the scene was being filmed? By her employers? By someone else? Her lips parted, and they were ruby red and moist; they opened like an exotic string bag.

  Her breasts were erect. If she was faking everything, she was a brilliant actress, much too good to be doing this film. Her palms rubbed against her nipples, blood rushing into her breasts.

  With one hand, she reached underneath the gauzy white gown. Her knees were bent as far forward as possible. She was on her toes, her slender ankles arched.

  Suddenly, the silver-haired man started to spasm. It was the first time he had lost control. Silver Hair looked as if he weren’t used to losing control. Stefanovitch was almost certain the older man was somebody important, somebody he ought to recognize.

  Did he know about Midnight? Did the blond call girl know? Did anyone who visited Allure know the answers he needed?

  There was no other sound inside the small office, only what was coming from the VCR.

  Stefanovitch hadn’t looked over at Sarah McGinniss for the last several minutes.

  “Two thousand dollars a night.” Stefanovitch finally spoke. He felt that he had to say something, to break the tension.

  “She’s very clever,” Sarah McGinniss said from the other side of the room. “She never let him touch her.”

  23

  Sarah McGinniss; Kennedy International Airport

  “DADDY! DADDY!” SAM hollered. His little-boy voice was light with joy and expectation.

  At that instant, Sarah winced. Her pain was sharp and immediate, almost overwhelming. Roger the Dodger was striding toward them inside the streamlined, crimson and blue TWA terminal. He was straightening imaginary wrinkles in his corduroy sports jacket and trousers. Daddy was home.

  His face, as usual, looked nervous and too thin. He finally smiled and waved at Sam, both arms crisscrossing high over his head.

  Sarah had to reach inside herself for a deep breath. Roger’s smile made her remember how the two of them had been in the very beginning, for almost six years, actually. She remembered how funny and charming Roger could be, when he was in the mood. Plus the undeniable fact that he had been a good father, a real daddy, right up until the time he had left them.

  “Hello, pumpkin.” Roger immediately picked Sam up. In her mind’s eye, Sarah could see him stooping and picking Sam up hundreds of times before that. She noticed how Sam was watching them both, still trying to understand what could have happened two years ago between his mom and dad. Sarah was still trying to understand that one herself.

  “How are you, Sarah?” Roger finally acknowledged her. “Looking all summer-brown and pretty,” he answered his own superficial question. “You too, sport. Do you like your mom’s beach house?”

  “Sure, it’s neat. Are you coming out there with us?” Sam asked, once again checking them out, both their reactions to his innocent-sounding question.

  “Well, I don’t know. We’ll see, pal, but I think there will be enough other things for us to do for a while. I was thinking of taking Sam upstate to see my parents,” Roger announced to Sarah.

  It was purely informational. He had Sam for two weeks during the summer, and two more weeks at Christmas, no strings attached. He could take him anywhere he liked. When he had called Sarah yesterday, Roger had even made a crack that this was a good time for Sam to be away—while she was working on such a potentially “dangerous” story.

  Sarah was conscious of the way Roger had used pumpkin, pal, and sport to address Sam. It was a little like the way she might avoid using the same word twice in a sentence in her writing, very self-conscious and uncomfortable. She was surprised at how hard these occasional meetings continued to be.

  “Do you remember going up to Batavia?” Sarah asked Sam. She sensed that her voice was strained and sounded slightly unreal.

  “Sure Sam remembers,” his father said.

  “Of course. Grandpa and Grandma live there. The snow gets twenty feet high in the winter. Mom calls it Outer Bavaria.”

  “She’s quite the writer. Great imagination.”

  Sarah didn’t want to let Sam go, and the three of them continued to exchange cheery, if hollow-sounding, small talk in front of a flight insurance kiosk.

  Both of them waved good-bye, their own zany two-handed wave. They smiled as if this were no big deal.

  Sarah finally forced herself to turn away. She started to walk back toward the airport parking lot and her car.

  She noticed that she was biting her lower lip, and then, finally, she was crying. Hot tears streamed down both her cheeks, her throat, and under the collar of her blouse. Her mascara streaked, but she didn’t care. She coughed and began to choke as strangers stared.

  A passing woman finally stopped and asked if she was all right, if she needed any help.

  Sarah tried to explain that she was just being dumb—her ex-husband had two weeks of visiting rights with her little boy, and she missed Sam already.

  The woman gave Sarah a sympathetic hug, and she kept lightly patting her arm while they talked. New Yorkers could perform such kind acts sometimes, Sarah knew, and it was especially touching when they did. She knew that she still loved Roger, in a strange, perplexing way. Sarah knew, too, at that moment, if not before, that she was over him. She had to move on with her life.

>   She felt so lonely, though. Sharing the moment with a stranger in Kennedy Airport, Sarah thought she had never been so alone in her life. All that she had was Sam, and now she didn’t even have him.

  24

  LATER THAT MORNING, she was unusually apprehensive from the moment she entered One Police Plaza. She didn’t want to repeat the previous day’s ordeal with Lieutenant Stefanovitch, but she needed to see some more of the videotapes, possibly all of them.

  Fortunately, she was the first to arrive at the small interior office where the television monitor and VCR unit had been set up the day before.

  An obliging secretary unlocked the inner office. Sarah then made herself as comfortable as possible in the enemy’s camp. Over the next few minutes she developed a workable system for viewing the videotapes by herself.

  Shortly past noon, the door to the office opened slowly. Sarah’s eyes rose from the sheaf of log notes in her hands. Lieutenant Stefanovitch had arrived.

  He hesitated before coming all the way into the room. Actually, he looked different today, almost like a real policeman. He was wearing a brown tweed sports jacket, green khaki shirt, semi-pressed trousers, and desert boots.

  “I didn’t know you were here.” He smiled. He was actually being moderately civil.

  “I turn the volume down when I fast-forward,” Sarah offered an explanation for the silence.

  “Anything interesting in the latest batch?” Stefanovitch asked.

  She held up a pad that was full of the morning’s notes. “I’m keeping a log. What I’ve seen on the tapes is a mixture of organized crime figures, legitimate businessmen, an awful lot of show business celebrities, especially the Los Angeles-to-New York jet set.

  “I made coffee,” Sarah said before she took another sip. She noticed that Stefanovitch was still being reasonably nice.

  He was actually starting to laugh.

  “You’re laughing at me.” Sarah frowned. “I’m playing by all of your rules, too.”