“ATTACK AT
NIGHTCLUB!” It was all over the news, print and internet. A madman had stabbed
and killed at least three people and wounded six more. Police were still
searching for the weapons—knives, maybe swords.
Most
of the news media websites played up the strip club angle, using stock photo
images of half-naked dancers and neon lights. A local Chicago news site
actually quoted two of the dancers, using photos that blurred their faces but
not their bodies.
Of
course the cops didn’t believe that a huge Bigfoot-like creature had invaded
the club, especially since none of the survivors could describe what the attacker
looked like. They tried to convince us—and themselves—that in the darkness and
noise someone had terrorized everyone with knives and swords. When I asked
where the knives and swords were, the lead detective told me to shut up.
At
least they didn’t drag me downtown to Chicago CP headquarters, even after I
mentioned that I’d seen the same creature in the alley last night. Alexa backed
me up, but she was a stripper and I was a PI. Our credibility with the cops was
somewhere below crackheads and Star Wars cosplayers. They didn’t listen,
because we were obviously crazy.
But
Dawne was dead. So was Ron, the red necktie guy. Three others were in the
hospital with broken bones and internal injuries. Franco was dead too, but no
one knew for sure why. I didn’t see any wounds during my brief glimpse of his
body on the floor, but one cop questioning me was pretty sure that it had to be
drugs. “It’s always drugs with assholes like this.”
In
the end we huddled around my car at 2:30 in the morning—Alexa, Kyra, Marta, and
Nikki. None of them wanted to go home again. Alexa went with Kyra. We agreed to
meet in the morning.
Last
night had been almost fun—four attractive young women stranded in my apartment
after I’d saved them from a monster. Tonight was about shock and trauma. Nikki
cried in my car and on my couch. I found a bottle of rum in the rear of the
cupboard, and Marta drank half of it as she rubbed Nikki’s shoulders, her eyes
drooping until she couldn’t lift the bottle anymore. So I helped them into the
bedroom and left them alone.
When
I was a reporter, everyone told me to forget about the things I’d seen. But I
couldn’t. Dawne was trying to make a living there. Ron, the red necktie guy,
only wanted to get away. His girlfriend wanted the same thing. Ron had ended up
dead, and the girlfriend had run. She’d try to forget all of it. Maybe she
could.
I
thought about Dawne. And I didn’t want to forget.
Rachel
called me at 6:32 a.m., waking me from a nightmare of the beast charging me as
Dawne shrieked for help. “You idiot! Why didn’t you call me?”
I
staggered up from the couch. “Uh, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You’re
allowed to wake me when you almost get yourself killed! What the hell
happened?”
I
grabbed a bottle of water. I was thirsty, exhausted, still trembling—but I felt
a little better hearing the worry in Rachel’s shaking voice. “I think one of
the bartenders at the club transformed into the beast. He—it—killed one of the
dancers here last night.”
“Oh,
god.” Her voice dropped low. “Do you want me to come down?”
“No.
I, uh, don’t want to wake anyone.” If Nikki and Marta had actually gotten to
sleep.
“Oh.
You mean—”
“Yeah.
I had to bring two of them home. They’re in the other room.”
“I
don’t care. Look, call me in the morning when they’re gone. Or I’ll call you.
And don’t do anything stupid, all right?”
I
wasn’t sure if she was talking about the dancers or the monster. I didn’t care.
“I try not to.”
“Marta’s
still asleep.” Nikki staggered out of the bedroom at 8:30 in the morning.
The
cops last night wouldn’t let any of the dancers back inside the club while they
were examining the crime scene, so Nikki wore one of my T-shirts. It barely
reached her hips, and I wasn’t sure she was wearing anything at all underneath.
I
closed my laptop and tried not to stare at her long legs. “Do you want a bagel
or something? Granola? Stale Doritos? Hang on, there’s coffee . . .” I hurried
into the kitchen.
“Thanks.”
She sipped the coffee and pulled at the bottom of the T-shirt. “I had to borrow
something to wear. I’ll wash it.”
“Keep
it.” I forced my mind to focus. “Can we talk about last night?”
“You
mean . . .” Nikki groaned. “I don’t remember that much. It was like the night
before. A bad dream, and I couldn’t wake up. Everyone was screaming. Wait—” She
rubbed her eyes. “Did I give you a lap dance?”
“No,
it was another guy.” I sat back. “Do you know a guy named Sigmund?”
“Oh.”
She gulped some more coffee with a grimace. “There’s four or five guys who own
the place, and he’s one of them. He hangs around a lot. He doesn’t bother us,
much. But he’s kind of creepy. I think he’s a gangster. You know, the Outfit?”
I’d
heard of it. “Dawne said she heard him talking to someone.”
“Who?”
I
shook my head. “Maybe Franco.”
Nikki
kicked the table leg. “I like Franco. Liked him. Everyone did.” She groaned.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
It didn’t.
The
bedroom door opened. Marta, in another one of my shirts, leaned against the
bookcase. “Is there coffee?”
I took them
both home.
Nikki
kissed my cheek when I dropped her off. “Thanks, Tom.” She headed up a short
sidewalk to the door of a small house, unlocked the door with a key hidden
under a plant on the porch, and turned for a wave as I drove away.
Marta
didn’t talk. When I got to her building she jumped out, slammed the door, and
ran up the steps, my second-best blue shirt blowing under her legs. I waited as
she hit the door buzzer.
I
sat at the curb, tired, irritated, and confused. So I called Kyra. “Can we
meet? Or are we done?”
“Finished?
Oh, hell no.” Kyra sounded as feisty as ever. “You get everyone home okay?
Here’s my address.”
“Okay,
twenty minutes. Wait—” Marta was trudging down the steps, breathing hard. She
stood on the sidewalk in bare feet, pulling my shirtsleeves down as she
shivered in the morning air.
I
reached over to open the door. “Get in.”
Marta
sat next to me, wiping her eyes. “He won’t let me in. Bastard. Two nights, he
said. Bastard!” She pounded my dashboard, sobbing. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re so
nice, and he’s just a son of a bitch.”
“Here.”
I reached in my back pocket for a handkerchief. “This is—well, it’s mostly
clean. I’ll take you back to my place. Or anywhere else you want.” Maybe to a
Target to buy some clothes.
Marta
blew her nose. “Thanks. Sorry.” She wiped her sleeve across her face. My
sleeve. Then she looked down, as if just remembering she had no pants. “Oops.
Can I borrow your phone?”
I dropped
Marta at a girlfriend’s house. After watching her walk her up to the door to
make sure she was safe—the girlfriend looked me over as if I was some kind of
spider, but hugged Marta and rushed her inside—I went back to the Honda and
made my way to Kyra’s apartment.
Alexa
answered the door in gray sweats. “Are you all right? And the others?”
I
smelled fresh-ground coffee inside. “Everyone’s fine. I took them home.”
Kyra
and Alexa sat together on a snug couch in her small living room. Kyra poured
Irish whiskey into her mug and then pointed the bottle toward me.
I
shook my head. “So, was it Franco?”
Kyra
lit a cigarette. “You’re the detective. You tell us.”
I’d
only gotten a quick look at the body in the dim lights before I was down on the
floor with a cop on top of me. More naked than the dancers, Franco hadn’t
looked mauled or bloody as if the beast had attacked and killed him.
So
what did kill him? No idea.
I
told them about Dawne. “Any ideas what Sigmund might have been talking about?”
“You
think he was talking to Franco?” Alexa shook her head. “No. Franco’s the best.”
Yeah.
“How long did he work there?”
“Since
we opened.” Kyra closed her eyes for a moment, as if searching her memory.
“Sigmund recommended him, actually.”
That
raised the question I really wanted to ask. “So who is Sigmund?”
Kyra
sipped her coffee, and then glanced at Alexa. “You or me?”
“All
right.” Alexa sat forward. “Tom, you can imagine that you don’t go to the bank
to borrow money to run a nightclub like this. So we had to do business with
whoever was willing.”
We? I looked from Alexa to Kyra. Of
course. “You two?”
Alexa
nodded. “I don’t let on that I’m an owner. It’s easier to work with the other
girls.”
I
shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I just always pictured nightclub owners as big sweaty
guys in bad suits.”
Kyra
laughed and poured more whiskey into her mug.
“I’m
an owner.” Alexa held up one hand and counted down on her fingers. “The club is
40 percent mine. Sigmund has 25 percent. Another guy owns 15 percent, and Kyra
has 20.”
“You
always mention me last.” Kyra kicked her ankle.
“I’m
saving the best.” She patted Kyra’s hand.
“So
what about Sigmund?” I asked.
“I
met him at a bar I used to hang out at.” Kyra light another cigarette. “The
Witches’ Brew. It’s for, well . . . witches.” She puffed. “That doesn’t sound
as crazy as it used to, now that we’ve got monsters outside my bar. Anyway, he
was an investor there, and he was always talking about looking for a deal.”
Alexa
stood up and stretched her arms, looking tired and stressed. “He’s a real
estate developer. I think he only bought in because he wants to tear the club
down and put up a big new building, and then take over the whole block. He has
mob connections. But that’s the only way to do business when you run a
nightclub.”
“He
wants to buy us out.” Kyra tapped a foot on the floor. “He’s been after us for
weeks. So far it’s only been money. But now . . .” She stared into the air. “I
don’t know.”
“What’s
his full name?” I pulled out my phone.
“Sigmund
Schuyler.” Kyra sat forward and grabbed her own phone. “I can send you his
information.”
“What
do we do now?” Alexa sat back on the couch, exhausted. “I mean, if Franco was
the monster, and he’s dead—is the club safe?”
“Not
if Sigmund is behind this somehow.” I looked at Kyra out of habit. “Are you
going to reopen? Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m still thinking of her as the
boss.”
“Oh,
she’s the boss.” Alexa smiled.
“I
don’t know.” Kyra lit another cigarette. “We have insurance. But if anyone’s
willing to come back and work there after last night . . . that’s the problem.”
I
thought of a different problem. “Alexa, what happens with the club if, you
know, something happens to you?” It was maybe a tough question right now, but
asking questions is my job. “Sorry.”
Alexa
leaned back. “It’s a fair question. Kyra has a power of attorney if I’m in a
coma or something. But if I die . . .”
Kyra
glared. “Didn’t you read the damn contract, bitch? Your shares get split
evenly. So Sigmund gets 38 percent, Henry gets 28. And I’m left with 34,
depending on how they do the math. But if you’re not here . . .” She kicked the
side of the couch. “I might as well sell out the day after the funeral.”
“And
if we sell out to Sigmund now . . .” Alexa frowned. “After last night he’ll
probably cut down his offer. Tell us he’s doing us a favor.” She shook her
head. “No. I won’t do it. Not after people died in my club. Our club.” She
nodded to Kyra.
I
stood up. “Let me see what I can find out about Sigmund. And Franco. Did he
have any friends at the club who might be willing to talk to me?”
“I’ll
get you some names.” Kyra reached for the whiskey again.
So back at
my apartment I opened up my laptop and started looking for data on Sigmund Schuyler.
But Rachel came down before I finished typing his name on the keyboard. I was
beginning to think she had my place bugged.
First
she hugged me. Then she punched my arm. “Don’t scare me like that again!”
“I
love you too.” We sat down.
I
was done with coffee for a while, but Rachel got herself a Coke from my fridge
while I filled her in on what I’d learned—such as it was. “Great.” She
grimaced. “It’s not enough you've got monsters. Now you’re getting mixed up
with the Outfit?”
I
sighed. “I hope not. Maybe Franco was just a rogue shapeshifter with a fixation
on Alexa? And Sigmund was talking to someone else about something completely
different. But it’s better to find out, right?”
“Right.”
She’d brought her laptop. “You find out what’s on the internet about Sigmund. I
want to know more about this girl Alexa. Not that I’m jealous, or anything!”
“Of
course not.” It might be useful. I’d investigated my own clients more often than
I like to think about.
We
played computer nerds for an hour or so. I made sandwiches, and we compared
notes.
“Alexa
Spring, real name Irina Nikova,” Rachel read from her screen. “Parents born in
the Ukraine, she was born in Milwaukee. Studied dance at University of
Michigan. Arrested in Florida for indecent exposure, two counts, arrested in
Nashville for prostitution, charges dropped all three times. A couple of
traffic tickets. Opened a nightclub in Detroit six years ago. It lasted two
years. Opened the Tiger Club here six months ago. It’s not exactly clear what
she was doing in the meantime. I could try hacking her credit reports, but you
probably have some squishy ethical thing about that, don’t you?” She smirked at
me.
“Kind
of.” I sipped some water. “Sigmund Schuyler is indeed a real estate developer,
but he seems to make more money suing his partners than building or developing
anything. Although he was named in a suit by Donald Trump in a hotel deal that
fell through. He’s partnered with people with ties to the Outfit, but he’s
never been indicted for anything criminal. He’s been sued a lot, almost as much
as he likes suing other people.”
Rachel
swallowed some Coke. “First positive thing I’ve ever heard about Donald Trump.”
“We
don’t know he’s bad. Sigmund, I mean, not Trump.” I shuddered. “You didn’t
happen to check up on any of the other partners, did you?”
“A
little. There’s not much on Pablo Nelson, he looks pretty legit. The other one,
Kyra Madison?”
“She’s
the manager.”
“She
did two years in Kentucky for writing bad checks. Divorced, no kids. Possibly
gay.” Rachel shrugged. “Someone named KyraM did show up on a website for
witches, looking for a spell that would make her ex-husband, uh, impotent.”
Yeah,
we’ve dealt with witches before. And there was definitely bad magic floating
around this case. “Check that out.”
“You’re
the boss. Not literally!” Rachel shot me a warning look. “What are you going to
do?”
I
sighed. “I hate to say this, but the next step is to talk to Sigmund. Wait, no.”
I checked my email. Kyra had sent me a list of dancers to contact. “First I
have to talk with some hot women.”
Rachel
groaned.
So I spent
the rest of the afternoon talking to dancers. On the phone. They all loved
Franco. I heard that he was “the best” so often I started marking it off on a
pad. Not that Franco was a saint—one dancer told me they’d hooked up three or
four times—but he’d never gone over the line to outright offensiveness. Or
stalking.
I
also asked about Sigmund. The few who said anything would only admit that he’d
creeped them out with the occasional leer.
I
couldn’t put it off any longer, so I called Sigmund’s office to make an
appointment. A secretary told me he could see me at 5:30. Two hours.
“Am
I coming?” Rachel looked up from her screen.
I
hesitated. Rachel can be stubborn when she wants, which is most of the time.
“I’d rather he didn’t get to know you. At least until we’re sure the Outfit
isn’t involved in this.”
To
my relief, Rachel nodded. “Just me when you go into his office, and then call
me as soon as you’re done.”
“You
really do care.”
She
snorted. “Hah. I need someone to feed my fish when I’m out of town.”
I
called Kyra next and told her about my meeting with Sigmund. Then I looked at
Rachel. “Anything on Kyra?”
“Well,
she shows up on a couple of witchcraft and magic forums, but . . .” Rachel
rubbed her eyes. “Nothing that looks suspicious. You did say someone
recommended you, right? Maybe this is how she got your name.”
I
do have a reputation in some unusual local communities. For better or worse,
although it got me some business. “Okay.” I stood up and stretched. “I need to
take a break before I visit Sigmund. You can go home. Or whatever.”
“Oh,
you idiot.” Rachel shoved her laptop back until it bumped mine and stalked
around the table. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Except maybe
now.” She
kissed me. This didn’t happen very often.
She
ran a hand across my shoulders when we both came up for air. “Don’t get too
used to this, Tom Jurgen.”
I
licked my lips. “So does this mean you like me?”
Rachel
pulled at my shirt. “Just shut up for a few minutes. All right?”
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