by Blake Pierce
Maurice gave a brief, courteous nod, and turned to Morgan. The two stood looking at each other awkwardly. Morgan stepped forward as if to give him another kiss on the cheek, but he waved her off. His lips were trembling, and Riley realized that the man was trying to keep from crying.
He shook Morgan’s hand and managed to say, “Goodbye, madam. It’s been an honor and a pleasure to serve you.”
Morgan smiled and said to him, “I won’t miss much about this place, Maurice. But I will miss you.”
This comment seemed to be too much for the butler.
He choked back a sob as he nodded, then wheeled around and walked silently back to the house.
Bill got behind the wheel and started the car. Riley helped Morgan into the back seat, then got in front beside Bill. There was very little conversation in the car as they made their way through Atlanta to the Haverhill Dependency Center, just outside of the city.
When they arrived, Riley was surprised to see that the place looked like some kind of luxury resort, with several large houses nestled in an exquisitely maintained landscape.
The three of them went inside, Morgan carrying the folder her lawyer had given her and Bill pulling the wheeled suitcase. The lobby took Riley’s breath away—a grand room with a high ceiling and huge windows framed by wood paneling. As Morgan got checked in, Riley picked up a brochure and browsed through it.
She could see that the treatments the place offered were all holistic, including yoga, meditation, hiking, acupuncture, Shiatsu massage, and others with exotic names Riley had never heard of. The kitchen offered the kind of gourmet menu that one might expect to find in an expensive restaurant. And of course, there was a swimming pool.
Trendy stuff, Riley thought.
There was no trace of anything resembling a twelve-step program.
She wondered whether all these features really added up to an effective treatment of addiction.
On the other hand …
Maybe I’m just envious.
She sure wouldn’t mind spending some time here herself. Maybe they had something that would cut down on an addiction to work.
Soon Morgan was fully checked in. Clinic employees took her suitcase and led her away. Before she disappeared into a hallway, the thin, elegant woman turned and gave Riley a silent, grateful wave.
Riley felt an unexpected pang of sadness at the expression on her face.
There was still something lost and waiflike about Morgan—something Riley doubted that all the treatments in the world could possibly cure. And now it occurred to Riley that most if not all of the clients in this place were surely as lost and sad as Morgan.
It felt strange to pity a woman who had the resources to spend months at a time in a place like this.
Maybe I don’t envy her after all, Riley thought.
Riley and Bill got back in the rented car and found a place to have burgers. Riley pulled the ashtray out of her bag and turned it over, staring as though she should be able to find some hidden meaning.
“You know,” Bill said, “that thing might not have anything at all to do with the case.”
“I think you made a good catch,” she said. “We need to follow up on it.”
She realized that if others like this turned up at the other sites, they would be onto something. She would run the photo past the police chiefs in Monarch and Atlanta and Birmingham. She would also see if Flores and his team at Quantico could turn up anything on where the thing came from. She photographed the ashtray and sent the pictures off.
They finished their burgers, returned to the hotel where Riley was staying, and checked Bill into a room of his own. Riley sent cheerful text messages to April and Jilly. They had already sent her a string of messages accompanied by cute pictures of the little dog. Apparently Darby was settling in just fine.
It had been a long day—with a new murder that morning, then Bill’s arrival, then getting Morgan out of jail, checking out the Farrell murder scene, and finally getting Morgan into her new quarters.
They were both tired, and intended to turn in early, but first they went down to the hotel bar for a drink. They were sitting in a quiet booth when Riley’s phone buzzed. She wasn’t entirely pleased to see that the caller was Jared Ruhl.
She answered and asked, “What’s going on over in Monarch?”
She heard Jared let out a growl of irritation.
“I’m not in Monarch anymore. I’m back in Atlanta. After we got finished with the crime scene, the local cops just left me on my own, wouldn’t even give me a ride. So I had to take a bus to Atlanta. Can you believe that? The nerve of those guys, dumping me like that!”
Riley couldn’t muster a lot of pity for Jared over the inconvenience of a short bus ride to Atlanta. She could well imagine why the local police in Monarch might be eager to get rid of the rookie cop who was capable of being pretty obnoxious, but she didn’t say so.
“Did anyone find anything new there?” Riley asked.
“Not a damn thing. It was a waste of my time. What’s going on with you and your partner?”
Riley was tempted to tell him they’d found nothing at all. Maybe then she could be through with him.
But then she realized …
Fat chance of that.
Jared was surely going to find some way to nag her until she gave him something else to do.
Besides, she reminded herself that he had been useful from time to time. In fact, she probably wouldn’t be here investigating this case if it weren’t for him.
She said, “Jared, I’m going to send you an image. See if you can tell me where this thing came from.”
She sent him the shot of the glass ashtray.
There was a silence, and then Jared said, “You should recognize that. I showed you the Vulcan statue in Birmingham.”
“I know,” Riley agreed. “But what are the dancing girls?”
Another silence followed.
Finally Jared said, “Uh … nymphs.”
“Nymphs?”
Jared let out a snort of laughter.
“The Nymphs of Vulcan,” he said. “It’s a private gentlemen’s club in Birmingham—you know, with exotic dancers and call girls and all, but really posh, really high class, with strictly private clientele, way out of my price range.”
Then he stammered awkwardly, “Not that I … well, you know. The only reason I know about it is I hear guys talk, and they say stuff about …”
“Yeah, I understand,” Riley said.
Jared’s information excited her. If Andrew Farrell had belonged to a gentleman’s club in Birmingham, perhaps Julian Morse had too. It wasn’t even hard to imagine that Edwin Harter might have visited the same club. If any of that turned out to be true, it would be the first connection they’d found among the victims of this killer.
Jared also sounded fired up now.
“So, why are you interested in that place? Have you got some new clue leading there? Are you going there? When?”
Riley stifled a sigh. There was no point in trying to keep Jared out of this.
She asked, “Can you go with us to Birmingham tomorrow?”
“I sure can. Like I told you, I’ve got lots of sick days saved up.”
“This is an official FBI case now,” Riley told him. “I’m sure Captain Stiles will agree to assign you to me.”
“I’ll tell him you requested me.”
“OK, then,” Riley said. “We’ll pick you up at your apartment tomorrow morning.”
When she ended the call, Bill asked, “Who was that?”
Riley sighed and said, “That kid I told you about—the one who called me about Morgan Farrell, the guy I’ve been working with since I flew down here.”
“So he’ll be joining us tomorrow, huh?” Bill said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Riley almost said …
“You won’t like him.”
But she thought better of it. For all she knew, Bill and Jared might wind up getting along toge
ther perfectly. Instead she told Bill what Jared had just said about the ashtray.
“The Nymphs of Vulcan?” he said. “Well, we definitely need to check them out in person.”
*
Early the next morning, Riley and Bill decided that Riley would drive the car to Birmingham. They went by Jared’s apartment and picked him up, but they hadn’t even gotten out of Atlanta before it became apparent to Riley that Jared was getting on Bill’s nerves. Just as he had with Riley, the young cop asked all kinds of questions about Bill’s investigative career. Finally Bill folded his arms and fell into a sullen silence, ignoring the sound of Jared’s voice.
The drive seemed interminable, and Riley breathed a huge sigh of relief as the statue of Vulcan that towered over Birmingham finally came into view. They drove north of the business district until they arrived at the Nymphs of Vulcan gentlemen’s club.
As they parked and walked toward the place, Riley was startled by its appearance. She’d expected a so-called gentlemen’s club to be tacky and possibly rundown. But this building was a new and attractive piece of architecture, with smooth blue-gray slate walls and elegant designs suggestive of the nymphs in its name.
Riley and her colleagues weren’t surprised to find that the business was closed for the morning. They knocked on the impressive and ornate front door until a tall, Nordic-looking, pale, platinum blond man came and let them in. His face seemed so plastic and nonporous that he looked more like a male mannequin than an actual human being.
When the man asked how he could help them, Riley and Bill produced their badges and introduced themselves and Jared.
Riley said to the man, “We were wondering if you’d ever had a client named Andrew Farrell.”
The man shook his head and was obviously about to say no when Riley heard a woman’s voice speaking from inside the club.
“Lars, who is that asking about Andrew Farrell? Send them on in here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Riley felt a burst of anticipation as she followed the tall man named Lars into the club, with Bill and Jared close behind her. Whoever had called out just now seemed to have recognized Andrew Farrell’s name.
Maybe they were about to get a break.
Inside, the club was spacious. It was even more impressive than the exterior, with the same smooth gray-blue surfaces. There was a high gallery looming above the bar and the tables, and a stage and runway with poles jutted out from one wall. Rising from the back of the stage was a majestic stairway that weirdly reminded Riley of the one in the Farrells’ home—except that this one was smaller and more tasteful.
The place was dark now, but Riley could easily imagine what the place would look like with dancing lights and scantily clad silicone-enhanced women gyrating around those poles. Or perhaps dancing all but naked around someone decked out as the god Vulcan.
Riley quickly spotted a flash of color in that sea of dark, monochromic gray-blue. A youngish woman wearing a brightly printed silk kimono was sitting at a table with a computer in front of her.
The woman got up from the table to greet them.
“I’m Brynn Montgomery,” she said. “Did I hear you say that you were FBI?”
With a laugh, she added, “You’re not here to raid us, I hope! If you are, you might want to come back when there’s more going on.”
Brynn was a remarkably attractive young woman with a buxom figure that Riley was sure was much admired by the men who came in here. She had bright blue eyes and a slightly asymmetrical smile that projected a feeling of cheerful, world-wise irony. In her kimono and slippers, she seemed extremely comfortable and at home here. Riley also sensed a distinct air of confidence and authority about her.
Apparently Jared noticed this too. He asked her, “Do you own this place or something?”
“Own it? Goodness, no. But I’m flattered that you think I might.”
She gestured to the computer. “I guess you could say that I’m the brains around here, at least nowadays. I do the books and handle the advertising, most of the managerial work. And of course I’ve got …”
She paused and winked suggestively.
“I’ve got other duties, you might say.”
Riley could imagine what “duties” she might mean.
Riley also sensed that what Brynn had said about brains was quite true. Perhaps she hadn’t had much formal schooling, but she’d probably managed to learn a lot on her own. She was probably a lot more intelligent than the owner of this place, and most of the customers too.
Brynn invited Riley and her colleagues to sit with her at the table. Then she asked …
“So you were asking about Andrew Farrell. What’s new with that cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, anyway?”
Riley thought she heard an odd note of affection even in that insult.
“I’m sorry to have to break the news,” she said. “He was murdered a couple of nights ago.”
Brynn’s eyes widened and she gasped slightly.
“Oh, my! How terrible! I didn’t know. How did it happen?”
Riley told her without getting into specifics. She also told her that two other men had been killed under similar circumstances.
Then she asked, “Did you happen to know the other two men—Edwin Harter and Julian Morse?”
Brynn shook her head. Her wry smile was gone now, and she sat staring off into space.
Bill asked, “Were you close to Mr. Farrell?”
Brynn’s smile flickered again as she lit a cigarette.
“Close? Yeah, I guess you could say that. Actually, I once had hopes that things might get serious between us—or at least as serious as a guy like that can be about a woman. But then he got interested in that model, Morgan Chartier, and he married her.”
She chuckled softly. “I couldn’t compete with a squeaky clean pedigree like hers. I’ve lived kind of a … well, colorful life, if you know what I mean. Not that I wasn’t resentful when he hooked up with her. But one way or another, I knew it wasn’t going to last. From everything I knew about Morgan, she wasn’t a good match for Andrew. She just wasn’t …”
Brynn seemed to be searching for the right word.
“Tough enough for him?” Riley said.
Brynn nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “He had … his ways, not all of them pleasant. A girl had to stand up to him, give back as good as she got.”
Her voice dropped and her expression darkened. She flicked an ash from her cigarette into an ashtray that was identical to the one they’d found in Farrell’s mansion.
Riley found herself feeling a certain admiration for this woman who was both smart and versatile—probably as skilled with money and figures as she was at adult entertainment and seduction. It was likely that Brynn had endured more than her own share of abuse over the years. But self-pity wasn’t her style. Not that she’d gotten hard-bitten and cynical like Tisha, Harter’s widow. Somehow, Brynn seemed to have gotten through it all without losing her spirit.
A real survivor, Riley thought.
Riley also got the distinct feeling that Brynn had something unspoken on her mind right now.
Riley asked, “Do you have any idea who might have killed Farrell?”
Brynn’s brow knitted anxiously as she took another puff on her cigarette.
Then she said, “I could kind of get into trouble for saying this …”
Her face trailed away.
Jared said with a note of sharpness in his voice, “Things will be a lot better for you if you tell us.”
Riley threw him an angry glare that said …
You’re not helping.
Jared withered a bit under Riley’s look. Riley hoped maybe he’d keep his mouth shut for a while. Threats weren’t going to work on this woman.
Everything went quiet while Riley waited for an answer.
Finally Brynn said, “We’ve got a regular member here, Harrison Lund. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“The name sounds kind of familiar,” Bi
ll said.
Riley also thought she’d heard the name, but she couldn’t place it.
Brynn continued, “Harrison is an OK guy for the most part—at least with the girls. But our clients—men—don’t like him. In fact, I think they’re kind of afraid of him, although they never say that exactly. Once in a while he gets into an argument with one of our members, and it gets ugly. But he keeps his voice really low, so the girls and I can’t hear what the argument is about. And afterwards …”
She paused for a moment, then said …
“Well, whoever he was arguing with usually stops coming here altogether. They even drop their membership.”
Riley was starting to get an idea of what might be on Brynn’s mind.
She said, “I take it he had an argument with Andrew Farrell.”
Brynn nodded and flicked another ash off her cigarette.
“Yeah, and it was just a couple of nights before you say that Andrew was killed.”
Riley’s skin prickled with interest as she waited for Brynn to continue.
Brynn said, “Well, I asked Andrew what they’d fought about, and sure enough he wouldn’t say. But he did tell me he wasn’t going to let that bastard push him around. He seemed more angry than scared. He also wanted to have Harrison barred from the club. But … well, we’re not exactly in a position to do that.”
“Why not?” Bill asked.
Brynn shrugged. “Well, he’s got kind of special privileges, on account of the fact that he’s the architect who designed this place. The owner admires him and drops his name into conversations whenever he gets the chance.”
Riley glanced around, again impressed by the elegance of the place.
Brynn shook her head and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. No, I probably shouldn’t have. Really, it was all about nothing, I’m sure—whatever it was that got Andrew so mad. Just forget I mentioned it.”
Riley tried to reassure her. “We don’t need to tell Lund that we heard anything from you. For all he’ll know, we could have found out about him from any of your clients.”
Brynn shuddered a little.
