by Dan Ames
Mary nodded.
“Thanks for the Bud,” she said and let herself out.
29
Twenty-nine
Mary watched as Trey Williams left the offices of Global Talent Management in his silver Porsche 911.
She followed him down Ocean until he turned up Santa Monica Boulevard. Williams seemed to enjoy flooring the Porsche whenever he could, and Mary had a hard time keeping up.
He eventually turned onto Beverly Glen, then followed that into Bel Air before taking a side street and pulling up in front of a two-story building sheathed in polished metal. Probably aluminum. It was mostly painted black and had the faux grunge look Mary despised.
The word “Styx” was painted diagonally across the front of the building.
Mary parked two blocks away, made her way back to the club, and went inside.
It took her a moment to adjust to the darkness. Once her eyes could make out shapes, she immediately recognized the trees. Mary then understood why it was so dark.
Everything, including the trees, was painted black.
The trees were black. Black leather chairs and black wood tables were gathered in intimate alcoves, in front of black marble fireplaces with actual wood fires burning. The orange flames were the only non-black items in the whole place.
Through the middle of the club’s floor ran a river of black water.
Hence, the river Styx.
Yes, Mary thought. The line between Earth and Hell. Hmm. She’d crossed that line a few times already.
Mary made her way to the bar, a long, black object manned by a woman dressed all in black with a pale face and heavy, black eyeliner.
“Top ‘o the day to you, Miss,” Mary said, sliding onto one of the black leather bar stools.
The woman said nothing, but slid a coaster in front of Mary.
“Even though I’m tempted to order a Black Russian, let’s go with a bottle of Heineken.”
The bartender nodded, popped the top, and slid the beer in front of Mary. Mary slid a ten across the bar.
“All set,” she said.
The long mirror behind the bar gave Mary a glimpse of Trey Williams as he sat at one of the little seating arrangements in front of a roaring fire.
He had a mixed drink in front of him and was chatting on his phone.
Mary wondered if he was planning on meeting someone here and, if so, who that person might be.
An agent in Hollywood never wanted to be seen eating, drinking, or simply being, alone. They had to always be seen as a social butterfly. So she knew that the longer Williams sat there by himself, the less happy he would be about it.
Mary finished her beer, checked her own phone, and ordered another beer. She had no messages, no emails, no missed phone calls.
She had to get a life one of these days.
The spooky bartender placed another beer in front of Mary. After she paid her, Mary looked at the mirror and saw Williams heading toward the restrooms, which were down a little hallway to the left of the bar.
Mary took a moment to send a text to Jake, telling him that unless he answered pretty damn soon she was going to strip him of his manhood, literally, and have it mounted above her fireplace.
Hey, she knew a good taxidermist who wouldn’t charge her too much for the job.
It would probably cost the same as having a small perch mounted.
Mary put her phone away, checked the table Williams had taken, saw it was empty, and glanced toward the men’s room.
The door was just closing, and Mary saw the back of a man headed for the front door of the club.
Something about the way he walked seemed familiar to Mary. Suddenly, she got a bad feeling in her stomach.
She got off the barstool, went to the men’s room, and knocked on the door.
There was no answer.
Mary slid the .45 from her shoulder holster and pushed her way into the restroom.
“Cleaning service . . . anyone here?” Mary said.
The room was empty.
Except for the pair of feet visible in the far stall. Mary walked toward it.
She noticed a small pool of liquid near the feet. And that the pool was growing larger.
She reached the stall and nudged it open with her foot.
Trey Williams sat on the toilet seat, slumped back, his chin on his chest. A neat bullet hole was perfectly centered on his forehead. Mary quickly left the men’s room and walked to the front door of the club.
Down the street, she saw the back end of a black Chevy Tahoe turn the corner.
30
Thirty
Jake awoke in the dark with the kind of headache that not even the nastiest hangover had ever approached.
The pain was at once blinding and mind-shattering. He couldn’t lift his head. It hurt to breathe.
He had no idea how long it took him to work up the courage to simply lift his head, but once he did, the pain actually diminished.
Next up, opening the eyes.
He tried one, then the other.
It was dark, but there was a faint light beneath the door to whatever room he was in.
At last, he let himself take a long, deep breath. The pain was still there, but—
He heard more breathing, but not his own.
For the thousandth time on this undercover job, he desperately wished he had a gun with him.
The breathing had stopped, but he was sure he’d heard it. He couldn’t see anything. Was there a vague shape to his left? A person?
“Who’s there?” he said.
Silence.
Jake fought down the panic that wanted to overtake him.
“I know you’re there. Who are you?”
Silence. And then a long exhale.
“My name is Nina,” the voice said.
31
Thirty-one
Mary saw the unmarked detective’s car idling outside her office.
Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it was maybe, finally, Jake. She would hug him, kiss him, then kick him in the gonads. Repeatedly.
Mary approached the car and just about vomited when Lieutenant Arianna Davies, “the Shark,” exited the car and faced Mary.
The woman was dressed like always: dark slacks, a dark shirt, and skin so pale Mary was certain the Zombie Apocalypse had begun.
“I need a minute, Cooper,” Davies said.
“You need a lot more than that,” Mary said. “A better embalmer for starters.”
Mary watched as the woman ignored her. Arianna Davies was tall, extremely thin, and had jet black hair.
“I’ve gotten word you’ve been in the vicinity of several homicides recently,” the Shark said. “It would be interesting to hear your explanation.”
“Several?” Mary said. “Try one.”
“Misinformation, your stock-in-trade,” Davies said. “I wonder why there’s a perception that you’ve been involved in at least one other murder? Are you once again keeping information from the police?”
“I’m surprised such a silly question merits a personal visit from a rising star in the LAPD,” Mary said. “Unless you’re here to talk to me about something else. Or just harass me enough to merit a call to my attorney.”
The Shark seemed to assess Mary for a moment.
“Have you heard recently from Jacob Cornell?” she said.
Now Mary was surprised by that question.
She narrowed her eyes at the Shark, and then she realized what the question meant.
“You’ve fucking lost him, haven’t you?” Mary said. “Why the hell did you send him undercover? He’s all wrong for that kind of thing. Of course, most men who’ve slept with you probably look for the most dangerous activity they can find immediately after. To banish the memories.”
“Have you heard from him?” Davies repeated.
“He called awhile back complaining about crabs. I told him to smear some cocktail sauce on his crotch and give you a call,” Mary said.
Davies held out he
r card.
“Always so pleasant, Cooper. If you do hear from him or learn anything about his current whereabouts, have someone call me immediately,” she said.
Mary watched in disbelief as her own hand reached out and accepted the lieutenant’s card. She briefly thought of setting it on fire, but she didn’t have a lighter.
Besides, the woman was worried about Jake too. She should respect that, right?
Mary watched as Davies got back in her car.
32
Thirty-two
Mary turned to go into her office, but a vague shape caught her eye.
She turned and caught a glimpse of the black Tahoe behind her.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
Mary went and got back into her car. This was too much. Following her to her office, to Alice’s, probably all over Los Angeles?
No, that wasn’t going to work for Mary.
She pulled out, drove into the heart of Venice, then turned onto Ocean Park. Mary took a right on Lincoln, then goosed her car to put a few extra cars between herself and the Tahoe.
When the opportunity presented itself, she shot off Lincoln onto a side street then ducked and threw it into reverse, backing into a driveway that was across from an alley.
The Tahoe roared down the street, and Mary shot out into its path.
The big SUV had no choice but to veer into the alley, where it crashed into a pile of garbage cans.
Mary pinned the nose of her car against the Tahoe’s rear bumper and shut off the car.
She popped the trunk and took out a seven iron.
She didn’t golf, but a club in the trunk occasionally came in handy.
Like now.
Mary went to the side of the Tahoe and swung the club into the tinted window. It shattered. She pulled the club out, taking chunks of glass with it.
A man threw the driver’s door open and got out. He was a big guy, with close-cropped dark hair and aviator sunglasses.
“What the fuck?” he said. He had on dark slacks, a black T-shirt, and a black sport coat.
Mary saw him slip a hand inside his sport coat toward the area where a shoulder holster might be located.
She swung again, the club cracking his forearm with an audible thunk.
“Fore,” she said.
The man clutched his forearm, his face turned red. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I don’t think so,” Mary said. “I don’t see you reporting me. What kind of story would you tell? That the woman you’ve been following all day got scared after you tried to run her off the road?”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he said.
Mary waggled her fingers at him. “Oooooohhhh, scary,” she said.
The man produced a cell phone in his good hand and dialed a number.
Mary swung the seven iron upward, like an uppercut. It hit the man’s elbow and the cell phone shot into the air.
“Oh, sliced it a bit,” she said. “I’ve got to remember to follow through.”
Mary caught the phone and glanced at the screen.
The man had dialed a name that was familiar to Mary.
Derek Jarvis.
33
Thirty-three
Mary punched the number for Derek Jarvis into her phone and when he answered, she asked if they could meet. He gave her the address of his gym, where he said he was currently working out.
It was off of Abbott-Kinney, just a few minutes from her current location.
She left the man with the Tahoe, throwing the seven iron into her backseat.
Minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot in front of the building bearing the address Jarvis had given her. It was a nondescript steel shed, with a glass door and a security keypad.
Mary pressed the button.
“Yes,” said a voice through the speaker.
“Bruce Willis here,” Mary said.
The door buzzed and Mary opened it, then went inside.
The sound of metal clacking together, the faint drone of heavy metal music, and a combined odor of Febreze and sweat assailed Mary.
She spotted Jarvis among a stack of weights and bars. He had on workout shorts and a muscleman shirt.
His arms and shoulders were impressive, Mary had to admit. But she still didn’t like the guy.
Jarvis spotted her, and he walked over.
“Let’s chat over there,” he said, pointing to a small room with a hardwood floor and a bunch of exercise balls.
Mary went inside and leaned against a stack of plastic platform risers used in step aerobics.
“So did you change your mind?” Jarvis said. He squatted on one of the exercise balls. Mary noted how his thigh muscles bulged as he steadied himself. He probably thought he was turning Mary on, but the effect was quite the opposite. She wished she could drape a serape over him while they talked.
“The only thing that changed was my opinion of you. It got worse,” Mary said.
Jarvis seemed not to hear her.
“Oh that’s good,” he said.
“Why are you following me around?” Mary said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Bullshit, Muscle Boy. Either you or one of your boyfriends paid a visit to Trey Williams in the restroom at Styx. It doesn’t surprise me; you seem like the kind of guy who hangs out a lot in mens bathrooms.”
Jarvis rolled back and forth on the ball, seemingly transfixed by his own thigh muscles.
“I have no idea who Trey Williams is. Besides, you give me too much credit, Miss Cooper,” he said. “I don’t have those kinds of resources. I’m just a freelancer, like you,” he said.
Mary shook her head.
“Look, asshole,” she said. “Back off. I’m not cooperating with you on my investigation. I’m not sharing. I am, however, sick of seeing your people following me. Call them off. Or I’ll start seriously fucking them up, not just their vehicles. Got it?”
He got to his feet.
“Your information is wrong, Cooper. I haven’t been following you. And I don’t have ‘people.’ It’s just me and a cell phone.”
“Look, I know you and your mystery bulges are full of crap,” Mary said. “One of your boys practically ran me off the road, and I’m sure he already called you to let you know I was coming by to chat.”
He shook his head, the veins in his thick neck coiling and uncoiling with the movement.
“Wrong again,” he said.
Mary laughed.
“Okay, I believe you. I’ll let you get back to your overcompensating.”
She walked out past him.
34
Thirty-four
The door opened, and the bright light made Jake wince. He forced his eyes open, and through the water that filled his eyes, Jake could make out the shape of a man. He had on a white shirt and a blue baseball cap.
“Bring them,” the voice said. He had an accent.
Someone placed a blindfold on him and then grabbed Jake by the arm. He heard Nina cry out as she must have been jerked to her feet.
Jake was pushed forward hard, and he tripped over something, then landed hard on his chest.
“Get up, cop,” the voice said.
One of the others laughed.
Jake struggled back to his feet and allowed himself to be led forward. They walked through what Jake figured to be the same main warehouse in which they’d been working. He heard no sound, so assumed it was the middle of the night.
A door opened, and Jake felt the change in air. They were outside.
The rumble of engine was the only sound, and he smelled exhaust.
“There’s a step, cop,” the voice said. Jake felt with his foot until he detected the metal ledge, he stepped up, and then hands pushed him forward. He fell again, and this time he knew it was the back of a truck.
The girl landed next to him, and she whimpered. He could hear her crying.
“
Don’t worry, Nina. We’ll get out of this,” he said. Jake had no idea how, but he tried to put as much assurance in his voice as he could.
It sounded hollow, even to him.
35
Thirty-five
Mary decided it was time to clamp down on Vince Buslipp, owner and Chief Executive Asshole of ExtReam Productions. She staked out the production company’s office starting just before five. She didn’t know where Buslipp lived, and she figured he was the kind of guy who would mostly be found at work anyway, playing with his dirty movies.
Mary waited until almost seven o’clock, and when there was no sign of anyone coming or going, she got out of her car and rang the bell at the door.
She waited, remembering the woman who’d answered last time. As Mary recalled, she’d been a big-boobed, big-lipped woman trying to look twenty years younger than she really was.
Mary checked her watch. She leaned against her car and waited. After ten minutes, she rang the buzzer again.
Nothing.
Just out of curiosity, she pulled on the door. It was locked.
Mary leaned in against the window. She saw a pair of leopard print shoes sticking out from behind the receptionist’s desk. She pulled out her lock picks, worked the door, and let herself in. Her gun was in her hand.
She walked down the hallway, glanced at the woman behind the receptionist’s desk. Her chest was a mess—bloody and torn to pieces, with a pool of blood spread out on the concrete floor behind her.
Mary reconnoitered the rest of the office space.
She got to Buslipp’s office and saw that papers were knocked off the desk and onto the floor, stacks of DVDs had been tossed around the room, and the furniture was slightly askew.
A struggle?
Mary went back to the receptionist’s desk.
