Thread of Fear

by Jeff Shelby

  As soon as I sat, another girl in a white blouse, this one with short dark hair, hustled over to me from behind the bar. “Good afternoon. What can I get you?”

  “Something on tap,” I said, looking behind her at the tap handles. “Stella's good.”

  She nodded, fetched a pint glass from beneath the bar and expertly filled it, angling it to the side, minimizing the head. She set it on the bar in front of me. “You wanna run a tab?”

  I pulled out a twenty and slid it across to her. “Nah, I'm good for now. All yours.”

  She smiled and nodded appreciatively, pulling the cash off the bar. “Can I arrange anything for you? Did you have any interest in a private room?”

  I shook my head. “I don't, but thank you. I'm actually looking for Carina. Guy out front told me she was here.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Can I give her your name?”

  “It's Joe,” I said. “But we haven't met before and she's not expecting me.”

  “Can I tell her what it's about?”

  “Patrick Dennison sent me,” I told her, which was technically true.

  If the bartender recognized the name, she didn't show it. She shrugged and said she'd be right back. She walked to the end of the bar, picked up a phone that glowed purple beneath the neon lights and pushed a couple of numbers on it.

  I turned back to the stage. The half-naked woman was now fully naked, save for a thong the width of a strand of hair. She writhed on the stage, crawling over to a table near the front. A guy in a dark suit tossed cash in her direction. She snatched it up and slithered to the opposite side of the stage, where another guy did the same thing. She plucked that up, too, then caressed his face before pushing herself up and strutting back to the pole.

  I'd never been a strip club guy. A lot of guys on the force used to frequent them in San Diego, often getting comped free drinks when the club found out they were cops. But I'd never understood the mentality of handing over a wad of cash just to watch a girl dance without her clothes on. There was nothing sexy or erotic about it for me. Maybe I was just old-fashioned. Or maybe I'd just been happy with what I'd had at home.

  “Are you Joe?” a voice said from behind me.

  I swiveled on the stool. A woman in her late twenties with short blond hair stood there. She was about five-ten with a prominent chin and big eyes. She wore a blood red blouse with black buttons up the middle and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. She didn't wear much makeup and she didn't need it. She was far more attractive than the girl on the stage.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Are you Carina?”

  She nodded, her eyes focused solely on me. “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Joe Tyler,” I said.

  “And you said Patrick sent you?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, then glanced at the stage, then back at her. “Can we talk somewhere a little quieter?”

  “About?”

  “Patrick.”

  She shrugged. “I don't really have anything to say about him.”

  “Can you just answer a few questions for me?”

  “I'm super busy.”

  I leaned closer to the bar. “John Anchor gave me your name.”

  Something flashed quickly through her eyes and her shoulders stiffened. Then she nodded to a hallway at the side of the bar. “Come on.”

  She exited the bar area and I followed her down the hallway. The black skirt she wore barely covered her ass and her matching shoes were more stilettos than pumps. An angel tattoo adorned her left calf.

  She reached the end of the hall, punched a code into a number pad on the wall and pushed open a door I could barely see. Light exploded behind it and I realized we were stepping outside, behind the building.

  She turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Sorry. But my office is small and I figured it would be easier out here.”

  I blinked several times, the light about a thousand watts brighter than the inside of the club. “No problem.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I don't know who you are or why you're here, but I'll give you five minutes.”

  “I'm looking for Patrick Dennison,” I told her. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  She made a face like she was about to vomit. “No. I can't. I have no clue where that asshole is.”

  “Why is he an asshole?”

  “I guess that's the way God made him.”

  “Is he your boss here?”

  She snorted. “My boss? No. Hardly.”

  I waited.

  She didn't say anything.

  “So how do you know him?” I asked.

  “He does our books,” she said, looking away from me, squinting out toward the front parking lot.

  “That's it?”

  “I don't know if he does other stuff.”

  “I mean, is that the only way you know him?”

  “Yes.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Really? Because I'm not sure why you'd tell me he was an asshole if that's the only way you know him.”

  She stubbed her toe against the asphalt. “We were friends.”

  “Were? Meaning you're not anymore?”

  “Definitely not anymore.”

  “Why?”

  She turned back to me, eyed me. Her face was hard but I thought I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Who exactly are you? Do you know him? Or do you work for Anchor or what?”

  “I'm trying to locate Dennison,” I said. “No one has seen him for a week.”

  “Well, include me in that group, too. Just tack on a few extra days.”

  I pointed at the building. “What exactly do you do here?”

  “I'm the food and beverage manager,” she said. She gave me a flat smile. “I'm not a dancer.”

  “I didn't say you were.”

  She gave me a haughty look. “Graduated UNLV with a hotel and tourism degree. No stripping for me, regardless of what you might have assumed.”

  She had me there because that was exactly what I'd thought, at least when I'd started looking at the clubs. I'd seen the name on the card and immediately pegged her for a stripper or waitress or something in that vein. And even though she was telling me she wasn't, I couldn't help but think that she was exactly the package club owners would want. She was beautiful, she had a spectacular body and she had all kinds of attitude.

  “I did,” I told her. I offered her an apologetic smile. “My error.”

  She frowned at me like she didn't care. “Right.”

  “So then you're only dealings with Dennison were here at the club?” She didn't say anything, just stubbed her toe against the ground again. I tried again. “Look, I'm not looking to hang you out to dry here or anything like that,” I said. “I'm just trying to find him.”

  “If Anchor's looking for him, that's not good,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Why?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Please. If you're working for him, you know why.”

  “Patrick's wife actually hired me,” I said. I didn't like lying but it was technically true. “I was just at their home this morning. So I'm just trying to find him.”

  She studied me for a second. “Well, I haven't seen him for a week and a half. When he told me to get lost.”

  “He wanted to fire you?”

  She shook her head.

  “So you had... another relationship with him?”

  She nodded.

  “Romantic?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Let's call it that. Sounds better than mistress.”

  “He broke it off?”

  She dropped her arms to her sides, then folded them across her body again. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed and tucked a strand of the short blond hair behind her ear. It promptly shifted and fell back toward her face. “Probably because I knew everything.”

  FIFTEEN

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Carina brushed her hand against her forehea
d. We were in the shadow of the building, protected from direct sun, but it was still warm. “It means I overheard a couple of conversations. And when he got a little drunk, he talked a lot.”

  “About?”

  “Things,” she said. She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not getting into it because I still don't really know who the hell you are.”

  “I told you. I'm just trying to locate him.”

  “Yeah, but you said for his wife. And you also said Anchor gave you my name.”

  “In a roundabout way, yeah, he did,” I said, trying to appease her. She was the only solid lead I'd come across and I needed to keep her talking. But part of me was tempted to walk away, to pretend I'd never met her, that the lead Anchor had given me had gone dry. Because following it would probably mean finding Dennison. And I wasn't prepared for where that would lead me.

  “Yeah, well, nothing good ever happens when that guy is involved,” she said, referring to Anchor. “So I don't know who you are or what you're doing, but I have no idea where Patrick is. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'd be the last person he'd contact at this point.”

  “Okay.” I resisted the urge to thank her and walk away. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and continued. “So where might he go?”

  “Hell if I know,” she said, frowning. “I've got no idea.”

  “Okay. How about why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would Dennison take off?”

  “You'd have to ask him.”

  “What are the things you say you know that made him break it off?”

  She sighed. “I already told you, man. I'm not getting into it with you. You aren't a cop and I've got a meeting in ten minutes that I need to get back inside for.”

  She seemed pretty hell-bent on stonewalling me and while it was pretty clear that she didn't like Anchor, using his name hadn't intimidated her. She was either really tough or she had no idea what he was capable of.

  I stared at her for a moment. I could end it right there. Stop the questioning and follow another trail and hope it ended at a dead-end. I knew Anchor wanted Dennison dead but I wasn't sure how long he'd be willing to wait, especially if the clues I followed turned up nothing. And if I could prove due diligence, if I could show him that I'd played my part and came up empty-handed, maybe I'd be off the hook. I could tell him I questioned Carina and got nothing. Because I hadn't, at least not enough to follow a new trail.

  “Thanks for your time,” I told her.

  She eyed me suspiciously. “That's it? You're done.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  Relief flooded her eyes but it quickly disappeared. She chewed on her lip and her eyes roamed everywhere before they eventually landed back on me. “Do me a favor?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “What's that?”

  “Can you...not mention my relationship with Patrick?”

  “To his wife?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don't care about her.” Her cheeks colored as she realized her words. “I mean Anchor.”

  “He didn't know about your relationship?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “That wouldn't have been good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we work together,” she said. “We...we aren't supposed to do that. Fraternize. And it's more about the dancers and stuff, but it applies to us, too. Even though Patrick didn't work here full-time, we still work for the same people.” She shook her head. “So I don't want Anchor to know.”

  I wasn't sure if that was just paranoia on her part, but I wasn't sure why Anchor would care all that much about an accountant and a bar manager hooking up. It seemed way down the chain for him, too far for him to care. But maybe it was an organizational message designed to minimize conflict and sharing information. Or maybe there was more there, more that I wasn't seeing.

  “I have to go,” Carina said. “I really do have a meeting.”

  I hesitated for a moment, then pulled one of my cards from my pocket and held it out to her. “My name and number. In case anything changes.”

  She hesitated, then took it. “Like what?”

  “Like anything.”

  She looked at it again and I was pretty sure it was going right in the trash can as soon as she saw one. And I would have been one hundred percent okay with that. “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  I turned to go, headed toward the alley. I knew it would eventually lead to the parking lot of the club. I heard the door to the club open and I turned back around. Carina was watching me, a worried expression on her face.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?” I asked.

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Did you know about Dennison's son?”

  Even from where I was standing, I could see her expression change. “Yeah,” she said, pulling the door open wider. “I knew about him.”

  I couldn't ask her anything else because she disappeared inside.

  SIXTEEN

  “I've got two guys on me,” I said into my phone. “Are they yours?”

  I left Ted's and stopped at a gas station to grab a hot dog and a Coke and to fill up my car. I left the pump in the tank and went into the mini-mart to get the food and drink. As I was paying, I glanced back outside and saw a green Chevy Blazer two pumps over. I'd seen the Blazer when I'd left Ted's, but hadn't thought anything of it. I was several miles away from the club but I knew seeing it now wasn't an impossible coincidence. We were close to the freeway onramp and it was a logical place to stop, especially if someone was gassing up and heading out of town. But the driver was out, fidgeting at the pump but not pumping gas. And he kept glancing inside the mart.

  I handed the cashier a five and waited for my change, then walked outside. I didn't look at the Blazer or its driver, but went straight to my car, unhooked the pump and got in. I set the drink in the drink holder, put the hot dog on the passenger seat and dug my phone out of my pocket.

  I pulled out of the station slowly. The guy was already back in the SUV but hadn't moved yet. I turned left, so I could keep the pumps in view. As soon as I pulled out, the SUV moved and made a left, too.

  He stayed two cars behind me, trying to be subtle. I saw the outline of a second person in the car, sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver. I made another left at the next light, then a right three lights later. The SUV was still there. When I slowed down, they slowed, too, doing a decent job of keeping their distance. The average driver would have never noticed them. When I made the U-turn at the next light, careful not to glance over at them, I knew they were tailing me because they made the same U-turn.

  So I picked up my phone, punched Anchor's number and asked him if he had anyone on me.

  “No,” he answered. “Definitely not mine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I've no reason to tail you, Mr. Tyler,” Anchor said. “I trust that you're doing as asked.”

  “Well, I'm in Vegas and I've got a tail,” I told him. “Just wanted to make sure they weren't yours before I ask them what they're doing.”

  “Do you need assistance? I can have someone there momentarily.”

  I flinched like he'd punched me in the stomach. There was no way in hell I was ever asking for his help again. Not with what I was being forced to do now to repay the favor.

  “I'll let you know,” I said tersely. I punched off the phone and dropped it on the seat.

  Four minutes later, I found a grocery store and pulled into the lot. I parked in the first spot and waited. The SUV turned in and drove to the opposite side of the lot and parked.

  Perfect.

  I got out of the car and ignored the SUV. The lot was decently full and the store was big, one of those oversized superstores. With two entrances.

  I went in the entrance closest to where I'd parked, walked over to the produce section that was just off the door and waited for two minutes.

  No one came in except for a mom carrying a toddler.

  I walked to the other end of the store an
d out the other entrance. I could see the green SUV a row over from the entrance and made out two people inside. Watching the other entrance.

  I hustled across the lot at an angle, trying to stay out of their rearview mirrors. I came up directly behind the SUV and smacked the back window with both of my hands. Both of them jumped and twisted in their seats.

  I backed away from the car and waited.

  The driver got out first, the same guy I'd seen messing around at the pump at the gas station. A little taller than me, thick through the middle and dark hair buzzed down into a flattop. He wore jeans and a Florida State football T-shirt and mirrored sunglasses. He stared at me, puzzled, like he wasn't sure what to do.

  The passenger door opened. Another guy, also slightly taller than me in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He had a square-shaped head and a wispy beard that covered his cheeks and chin. He wasn't wearing sunglasses and he squinted at me.

  “You need something from me?” I said to the driver.

  He walked to the back of the car and stopped. “What?”

  “Did you need something from me?” I repeated. “You've been following me for awhile now.”

  The passenger joined him at the back bumper and they exchanged another confused look.

  “You're not good at it,” I said. “If you get out at a gas pump, you should at least put gas in. Makes you less obvious.”

  The driver frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Right,” I said. “Let me make this clear for you. I'm going to leave now and if you continue to follow me, I'll stop my car, get out and hurt you both.”

  The passenger chuckled and rubbed at his weak beard. “Oh, you think so?”

  I nodded.

  “What were you doing at Ted's?” the driver asked.

  So they'd been with me at least that long. “None of your business.”

  “I'm asking,” the driver said. “I'm making it my business.”

  “None of your business,” I repeated.

  He glanced at his friend.

  “We wanna know where Patrick Dennison is,” the other guy said, puffing out his chest, pulling his shoulders back.