In the Club

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  “I know,” Park said. She put her hands on both of their shoulders. “This is shocking and insane and totally twisted, but now’s not the time to fall apart. We’re standing here doing nothing, but we have to do something.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere near poor Damien’s body,” Madison cried. “I don’t think I have the courage.”

  Park tightened her grip on their shoulders. “Of course you do. We all do. When you get right down to it, this club belongs to us, and that’s the first thing everyone will be blabbing about. Now come on—let’s get ready. We have to inspect the body.”

  Lex nodded.

  After a beat, so did Madison.

  Park led the pre-investigatory procedures. She opened her purse, pulled out her compact, and flipped it open. She immediately applied a fresh sheen of blush to her cheeks.

  Madison, her hands still trembling, winced at her own reflection. She was pale, and the corners of her mouth looked dry. She ran a light pink gloss over her lips, then smoothed out the edges with a wad of tissue.

  It took Lex a little longer to sift through her magic purse. When she finally found her compact, she reached for her eyeliner and quickly worked some color around her eyes.

  “Okay,” Madison said. “I think I feel a little better.”

  “That’s because you look beautiful.” Lex pointed to Madison’s lips. “I love that shade. It totally highlights your cheekbones.”

  “It’s a new variation on pink berry.” Madison sniffed, holding back her tears. “I have an extra one. I’ll give it to you when we get home.”

  Park took slow, careful steps across the huge cage. It was at least twenty feet long. She circled Damien’s body, stopping only a few inches from his twisted arm. She leaned over and, holding tight to her purse, swept her eyes over the trail of blood.

  “Wait,” Madison said. “You’re never supposed to disturb a crime scene.”

  Lex nodded. “I know, I know. The smallest movement can contaminate forensic evidence. I’ve been reading all about it.”

  “We’re not disturbing the crime scene,” Park said nonchalantly. “We’re…checking to make sure that Damien isn’t actually still breathing. I mean, what if he needs CPR or something?”

  “Okay, that works.” Madison drew closer to the body.

  Park squatted down and gently pressed her right hand to the side of Damien’s neck. “Well, he definitely doesn’t need CPR.” She shook her head sadly. “He’s dead. And this wound on his head…”

  “What about it?” Madison asked.

  “It looks…ugh. It’s all matted with blood and…other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?” Lex walked around to Park’s side. She squatted down and leaned in even closer. “Look at the strands of hair around the wound. There’s, like, a weird glitter to them.”

  “Did Damien use any special kind of hair gel?” Park asked them both.

  It was Madison who answered. “How would we know? But I would guess that he didn’t. I’ve never seen a glittery shine to his hair before.”

  “Neither have I.” Lex stood up. “But I don’t get it. What was he killed with? Where’s the weapon?”

  “Good question.” Park shifted her weight onto her knees as she continued her close inspection of the body. Unable to find a comfortable position, she swung her purse off her shoulder and handed it to Madison. Then she ran her hands through her hair and knotted it into a bun at the back of her neck.

  “You don’t want to be photographed like that,” Madison warned.

  “I know. But it’ll only be a minute. I think…” She rested both her hands on one side of the body and gave it a little shove. “I think he’s lying on something. His back is arched, like there’s something pressing into his stomach.” She glanced up, a determined look in her eyes. “I’m gonna roll him over.”

  “Be careful!” Madison whispered fiercely.

  Using all her weight, Park managed to lift Damien’s body a few inches off the floor of the cage—just enough to catch a glimpse of what he was lying on top of. She couldn’t help but gasp. “Oh, my God.”

  Madison took a step back. “What is it?”

  “Lex, honey,” Park said quietly. “I don’t think you should look. It’s…”

  “It’s what?” Lex asked.

  “It’s something really, really gross.” Park closed her eyes and shook her head in a gesture of complete horror. She gave the body a final, hard push, grunting as it rolled over.

  Damien’s back hit the bars of the cage. The side of his face came into view.

  And so did the object he had been lying on top of.

  It was a large, garish hot pink stiletto; its straps looked like they were made of vinyl, and the blue rhinestones studding both sides were unmistakably plastic. By all accounts, the ugliest piece of footwear on the planet had just been discovered.

  The moment Lex saw the stiletto, her eyes began rolling into the back of her head. She dropped her magic purse and grabbed on to the sides of the cage for support.

  “Catch her!” Park shouted.

  Madison’s arms bolted out and encircled Lex.

  “I’m feeling…faint,” Lex whispered. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”

  But she wasn’t. Her disdain was echoed by the crowd of onlookers.

  Madison pulled Lex into a tight embrace, cradling Lex’s head against her shoulder. “Don’t look,” she whispered into her ear. “It’s not something anyone should see.”

  “The final insult,” Park said angrily. “That’s the murder weapon. There’s blood on the stem of the heel.”

  Madison gasped. “Is it…?”

  Park looked up and closed her eyes as she nodded. “It’s a steel-tip stiletto,” she said quietly.

  Her face still buried in Madison’s shoulder, Lex let out a horrified wail.

  “Come on now,” Madison said. “Be strong. Think of what poor Damien had to endure.”

  Lex lifted her head. “That’s the most awful part of all,” she sobbed. “To think that Damien’s last moments were spent struggling against…against…” She mustered her strength and stared down at the stiletto. “Against that! I can’t accept it!”

  Park was still kneeling beside the body. She leaned over it again, trying to inspect the wound. “Lex,” she said. “I think you should see this.”

  “I mean, who on earth would be that sick?” Lex ranted. “What kind of a killer would use such an appalling weapon?”

  “Lex?” Park tugged on the hem of her sister’s dress.

  “And where would you even get something so ugly?” Lex continued. “What reputable retailer would sell something like that? I—”

  “Lex!” Park’s voice was sharp.

  “What?” Lex drew a tissue from her purse and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  “I know you don’t want to do this, but you have to. I need your expertise.” Park waved her down to the floor. “Look at the wound on Damien’s head, then look at the stiletto.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the one who knows about shoes. Just do it!”

  With a reluctant sigh, Lex squatted down again. “How much can I possibly take in one night?” she sighed. And then all thoughts dissolved as her eyes swept from the gaping, bloody wound to the steel tip of the stiletto. She studied the shoe intently, taking in every last detail, from its mammoth size to the high arch.

  “Well?” Madison asked.

  “It’s the murder weapon,” Lex said. Her voice was firm and confident, all traces of fear gone. “The wound is about three inches wide. It’s circular, just like the stiletto’s tip. The tip is only about a quarter of an inch wide, but that means the killer popped Damien in the head with it and dragged it, creating a gash. But…”

  “But what?” Madison’s voice rose.

  “The stiletto’s straps are vinyl and very weak,” Lex said. “Not at all the same tensile strength as leather or snakeskin. The killer obviously held the shoe from the front end and then struck,
but there isn’t any damage to the front end at all. That’s pretty weird. I would’ve expected at least some minor stress in the vinyl.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” Madison asked, growing impatient.

  “It means that I’m ninety-nine percent sure this was the murder weapon.” Lex pointed at it. “But I’m still a little confused. I know it has a steel tip and everything, but is that really enough to kill a person? Maybe at the right angle it could do a lot of damage, but actually cause death?”

  “It’s called blunt impact trauma,” Park said. “We’ve been reading the same books, Lex. I’m sure you’ve got it right. I knew you’d pick it up faster than any autopsy person.”

  “You’re right,” Madison agreed. “That has more to do with fashion than anything medical. That stiletto has to be a size twelve.”

  Still squatting, Lex swept her eyes over Damien Kittle’s body, stopping when her gaze found his face. His eyes were open but unseeing. His lips were parted in a grimace. The hives on his forehead dotted his face now, looking more like bright red welts. Lex couldn’t stop herself from letting a fresh wave of tears spill over her cheeks. For the first time in her life, she didn’t bother wiping away the black streaks of mascara swirling almost to her chin.

  Madison kneeled down beside her. “I know,” she whispered, her own voice breaking. “Our crazy English bad boy. What are we gonna do without him?” Then, forgetting about the onlookers and the continuous stream of whispers—forgetting about any stray paparazzi—she reached out and tenderly stroked Damien’s cheek. It was ice cold.

  “All those ugly welts on his skin,” Lex said. “Where’d they come from?”

  Madison shook her head. “I don’t know. But there were blotches on his forehead the last time we saw him. I remember that.”

  Park leaned over them. “I think I hear sirens outside,” she said gently.

  Lex stood up.

  Madison, however, stayed kneeling. As she stared down the length of Damien Kittle’s body, something caught her eye. There, in the palm of his right hand, was a dark mark, clearly visible through his splayed fingers. She leaned in closer to inspect it. “Damien had a tattoo?” she asked, confused. “I don’t remember seeing that before.”

  Park hunched over, pulling her hair out of the bun as she did so. “That’s weird. But it doesn’t look like a tattoo. It looks like a…stamp of some kind. Like ink. The edges are smeared a little.”

  “Like it’s fading,” Madison said. Slowly, carefully, she grasped the wrist of Damien’s right hand and drew it forward. The stamp was a perfect circle, and in it was a small but clearly defined human profile.

  “What is it?” Lex asked.

  “It looks like a Roman coin.” Madison leaned over until her face was less than two inches from Damien’s palm. “I’ve seen this image before, in one of the Roman collections at the Met. Yes, it’s definitely a Roman coin. The human profile in the stamp—it’s wearing a Corinthian helmet.”

  “What the hell does it mean?” Lex sounded impatient.

  “I don’t know,” Madison said. “But why would he have a stamp like that on his palm? I didn’t notice it when I saw him today in the student lounge.”

  The question hung on the air as a burst of noise echoed across the main floor of the club. A line of uniformed police officers stormed in through the entryway, all of them ordering guests outside. In minutes, the upper levels were being cleared as well.

  Madison, Park, and Lex stepped out of the cage but remained standing beside it. They didn’t budge as a tall, well-dressed man came striding toward them. He looked to be in his forties, with thinning blond hair and stylish rectangular glasses. He wore a navy suit and tie.

  “Detective Aaron Connelly,” he said as he approached them. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out his badge. “Homicide.”

  “We assumed as much.” Park offered him a cool smile. “Our father, Trevor Hamilton, owns this club.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Aaron Connelly said. “It’s been all over the news for weeks.” He stared up at the high ceiling, at the waterfall, at the elaborately decorated levels. “Never thought I’d be in here tonight—or ever, for that matter. This is one amazing piece of architecture.”

  Madison cleared her throat. “Thank you. All the marble was imported from Europe.”

  “And most of the art on the second level is priceless,” Lex added. “You should totally see it. You like Egyptian art?”

  “Yeah, actually, I do. My wife and I went to Egypt last year.” Connelly flipped open a small notepad, then reached into his blazer pocket again, this time pulling out a pen.

  “You must’ve had a great trip,” Lex said. “The sunsets in Cairo are so romantic.”

  “My wife is actually a professor of Egyptology,” Connelly said proudly.

  “Really?” Madison tried to sound totally interested. “If only I’d known. I could have employed her as a consultant.”

  “Eh, maybe next time.” Connelly smirked. He turned and stared through the bars of the cage at the body of Damien Kittle. “So what happened here?”

  Park gave him a synopsis of the morbid events.

  Connelly took notes furiously, turning one page after another. Several minutes passed before he looked up. “Tell me about Damien Kittle,” he said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Madison replied. “He was a wonderful guy. Everybody loved him.”

  “Well, not everybody,” Connelly said. He gestured his head at the trail of blood. “Were most of the guests here tonight from your school? St. Cecilia’s Prep on the Upper East Side?”

  “No,” Madison said. “There were a lot of students here from St. Cecilia’s, but the guest list was long. Why?”

  Connelly cut her a wry stare. “Pretty pricey school you got there. All you famous kids can’t have everything in common.”

  Madison cut him an equally sharp stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that there are a lot of suspects to consider,” Connelly said.

  “You don’t actually think anyone from our school is guilty of this crime, Detective?” Park’s tone was incredulous.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “So many of your fellow classmates were here tonight. Maybe one of them who hated Damien Kittle took the right moment and killed him.”

  Madison gasped. “That’s completely impossible. We’re a united student body at St. Cecilia’s Prep.”

  “It’s a family environment,” Park added.

  Lex shook her head at the detective. “Our uniforms are even color-coordinated. There’s no way Damien was killed by one of our own. He was too well liked. He was fun and fun-loving.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been my experience that even the fun-loving types have their enemies.” Connelly stepped into the cage and squatted over the body. He began taking more notes. He waved at one of the younger men standing by the club’s main entrance, a crime scene photographer who approached the cage and immediately began snapping pictures.

  “I can’t think of a single enemy Damien might have had,” Lex whispered to Madison and Park. “Can either of you?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “So, now, I guess none of you girls saw who was in this cage dancing with Damien, huh?” Connelly asked.

  “No,” Park replied. “We were all here on the main level. The cages were suspended way up in the air. And the strobes were spinning and the music was really, really loud.”

  Connelly shook his head. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and reached for the stiletto. Turning it over to stare at the steel-tip bottom, he said, “Poor guy got clocked in the head pretty hard.” He stood up. “I’ll need a list of the people you invited to tonight’s event—and I mean the full list, before RSVPs.”

  “I have that at home,” Madison said, sniffling again. “But I can totally assure you, Detective, that none of our guests did this.”

  “So you’re telling me you think someone—the killer�
��got past the door guy, got around security, snuck in here, got into the cage, killed Mr. Kittle, and just left?” Connelly twisted his mouth in a bemused expression.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” Park said.

  “You tell me,” Connelly snapped. “I was under the impression that security was tight here. A stranger couldn’t have just waltzed in unnoticed. The killer is someone who knew Damien Kittle. And probably someone who knows all of you.”

  “We don’t know anyone who would own a pair of stilettos that ugly.” Lex’s voice was adamant, sharp. “The fact that you would even try to tie us to this whole thing is offensive.”

  “It’s sickening,” Madison whispered.

  “I mean, really, Detective,” Park said calmly. “Do we look like we’d condone a piece of footwear like that? Something so…plastic?”

  There was a brief silence as Connelly looked at the huge ceiling of the club, at the other suspended cages and the long catwalk leading to them. The staccato murmuring of voices echoed from outside as more chaos ensued. The reporters were obviously going crazy, clamoring for dirt.

  Then Connelly nodded to the team of forensic technicians and said, “Okay, boys. Wrap the vic up and transport him to the morgue. We’ll have him autopsied first thing in the morning.”

  “The morgue?” Madison snapped. “You’re not just going to take Damien Kittle’s body to a city morgue, are you?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Connelly asked. “It’s procedure.”

  Park stepped forward. “Detective, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Damien Kittle is the fifth duke of Asherton. He’s—or at least he was—English royalty. As in blue blood.”

  “Like, related to the queen of England,” Lex chimed in.

  Connelly shrugged. “So?”

  “So you can’t just bring him to some smelly old morgue!” Madison screeched. “There has to be some sort of official procedure to follow when English royalty is murdered in the United States!”

  “Oh, really?” Connelly sniffed. “Whataya want me to do—find a crown to put on his head?”

  “Well, maybe not a crown,” Park replied. “But you can’t just drape a white sheet over his body. Maybe something more…”