The Hellfire Club, Part One

It was going to be a long night.

            I sat in my Honda looking across the street. I’d watched Roger Mathis walk up the steps to the two-story house, ring the bell, and shake hands with someone inside. That was at 8:30 p.m.

Now It was past midnight, and Mathis was still inside. Along with the dozen other men and women I’d seen go in.

            Mathis’ girlfriend, Linda Niles, had hired me to check out the “club” her boyfriend went to twice a month. “He comes home and he’s out of it,” she explained, twisting a strand of her long black hair around a finger. “Not drunk, just  . . . somewhere else? One time he was sick for three days, but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. Then the last time . . .” She hesitated. “There were scars all over his back. Not fingernail scars,” she added quickly, her face red. “More like—claws. Or whip marks.”

            We were meeting in a coffee shop near her apartment. I do lots of business in coffee shops—it’s cheaper than renting an office with a “Tom Jurgen, Private Detective” sign on the door.

            “He’s been going since forever, I guess,” Linda said. “I just didn’t think about it until we moved in together six months ago. Since then . . .”

            I agreed to follow Mathis the next night—Thursday—and find out what I could about where he went. She wrote me a check, we shook hands, and parted ways.

            Now I was waiting, glad I hadn’t drunk too much water before leaving my apartment. Linda told me that Mathis often didn’t come back before 3 a.m. All I could do was listen to my radio on low and try not to fall asleep.

            Finally, at 3 a.m., the front door opened and people began leaving. Some stumbled and staggered. Most left alone, but a few walked together. Mathis seemed fine.

            So I followed him home and then drove home myself. Nice and anticlimactic. The kind of late night I like.

Linda Niles called me the next morning. “He’s in the hospital.”

            I was drinking coffee. “What happened?”

            “I don’t know! He was a little feverish when he got home, but this morning I couldn’t wake him up. I called an ambulance. They say he’s got some kind of infection. I’m at Northwestern. Did you find out anything?”

            “He went to a house on the north side. It’s owned by—” I checked my computer. “Terence Keeler. Does it ring any bells?”

            “No. I don’t think so.” She sounded frantic. “Maybe. I can’t think straight.”

            “Go ahead. I’ll keep looking and call you back when I have something. Call me when you can.”

            “Th-thanks.” She sniffed.

            Keeler’s LinkedIn profile said he was a marketing executive. His Facebook page had pictures of friends, pets, and travels abroad. He had Mathis on his “Friends” list of 231 people. I tried to look at all of them for people I’d seen last night, but I hadn’t seen anyone’s face clearly enough to spot them from a small profile picture.

            I was noodling around Keeler’s internet presence when the door opened. Rachel. “Hi. I’ve got a client meeting this morning. How’d it go last night?”

            Rachel is my upstairs neighbor, my girlfriend, and at least somewhat psychic. Also she’s a graphic designer. She wore slacks, boots, and her favorite suede jacket. She looked hot. “Fine, except the target’s in the hospital today.”

            “Huh?” She poured herself a cup of coffee.

            “Infection, my client says. I’m looking into the owner of the house I watched.”

            “Okay.” She sat down. “Look, I’ve been thinking.”

            “About . . . what?” I moved the laptop away, nervous.

Rachel tapped her fingers on the table. “I want to get an apartment together.”    

            I nodded. “Okay.”

            “Wait, what?” She set her mug down. “Okay? That’s it? Is this some kind of Jedi mind trick?”

            I held my hands up. “Why wouldn’t I want to move in with you? We spend half our time at each other’s place. Plus, we kind of like each other.”

            “I spend most of my time here, except when I’m working.” She looked around. “But think about it! I have trust issues, you’re gun-shy because you’ve been divorced—”

            “We’ll have to work out the details.” I stood up and kissed her. “But it’s a good idea.”

            “Details, huh? That’s how you’re going to get out of this, aren’t you?” She punched my arm. “Jerk.”

            “Dinner tonight?”

            “Yeah.” She kissed me back. “Make that cilantro-rice thing with mushrooms and vegetables.” Rachel’s a vegetarian.

            “Deal.” I watched her leave, then collapsed in my chair.

            Move in together? What the hell?

Linda Niles called back two hours later. “He’s dead.”

            Oh my god. “I’m so sorry.”

            “I called his parents, my parents, my sister . . . everything I can think of. The doctors can’t tell me what happened, what the infection was. It was like the other time he got sick, but . . .” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

            “Do you want me to do anything?”

            “I still want to know . . .” She paused for breath. “About that club.”

            “My next step was to call Terence Keeler.” I had the number of his company. “But under the circumstances—”

            “Wait, Terry Keeler?” Linda’s voice dropped. “That’s right, I know him. At least I met him a few times. Yeah, go ahead. Call him.”

            “All right.” I’d have to be careful. “In the meantime—I know this is difficult, but if you look up his Facebook page? Let me know if you recognize any names. They might be able to—”

            “Yeah, let me do that first. That’s better. Terry . . . always gave me the creeps. And I need to do something.” She gulped. “God, this is a nightmare.”

I got an email from Linda at 3 p.m. with a list of names from Keeler’s website. Linda had added the phone numbers she had.

·      Bart Erickson

·      Mickey Bering

·      Dean Lutz

·      Philip Aiello

·      Liz Ray

           

I emailed her back:

I think I should wait. When I was a reporter, I had to interview people in the immediate aftermath of a tragedy. I got good quotes, but not much information. And I got yelled at a lot. Give me a day or before I start calling?

Linda sent me a return message five minutes later. “No. I want to know what happened. Call him. Or I can.”

            Damn it. But she was the client.

            First I looked through the attachment she’d sent me, with the names and numbers of the Facebook friends she recognized.

            Mickey Bering posted pictures of his wife and sons. Liz Ray posted images of her vacations in Mexico and South America. I saved a few nice shots of her in a bikini because . . . I’m a guy. Bart Erickson shared no pictures at all.

            Dean Lutz shared pictures of food: What he ate for breakfast at home, lunch with clients, and dinner with his family and friends he ate with. Also office parties—blurred photos of co-workers and their spouses dancing and drinking.

            But one image was different.

A small brazier burned on an oriental rug. High flames rose up. Four or five people huddled around, their eyes bright.

Roger Mathis was in the photo. His eyes were bright, reflecting the fire.

I tried to enlarge it, but that only works on TV. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The image was taken from a low angle, as if whoever had taken it was trying to hide the shot.

I checked the date. Two months ago.

I saved this image too. In the case file.

Then I gritted my teeth and punched the number for Terence—Terry?—Keeler.

He picked up on the second ring. “Terence Keeler, how can I help you?”

“Mr. Keeler?” I talked fast. “I’m Tom Jurgen, a private detective working for Linda Niles. Her boyfriend Roger Mathis died today. I’d like to talk to you about the meetings you have in your house, the club he’s been part of for months. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh god, no.” Keeler sounded stunned. Legitimately. “I didn’t think—he looked a little sick last night, but I didn’t think . . .” He groaned.

“What can you tell me about last night? About the club?”

Silence. “I can’t talk about the club. I’m sorry about Roger. Really. Tell Linda . . . anything.”

He hung up.

Now what? I wrote up notes on the call, and then glanced over the list that Linda Niles had sent me. So I started calling numbers.

Dean Lutz insisted he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Yeah, we’re friends, Roger and me. What do you mean he’s dead?”

            “The image of you around the fire.” I looked at the image on my screen. “Two months ago. Was that at Terence Keeler’s club?”

            “I don’t know what—I can’t talk about it.” His voice was low. “Don’t call me again.”

            Most of the others didn’t know what I was talking about. I left a few messages.

At 5 p.m. I closed my laptop to start working on dinner. Rachel came in just as I was chopping the mushrooms. The rice was boiling, and the oil was already sizzling on my wok. “How was the meeting?”

“I’ve got three contracts and way too much work for the next week.” She kissed my cheek. “How’s your case?”

I hesitated. “The guy died.”

“Oh, shit.” Rachel grabbed my hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got leads.” For a moment I thought about Linda Niles. Calling everyone she knew. “I’m fine.”

Rachel helped with dinner—the rice, the cilantro, the garlic and everything else. I opened a beer for her and a Coke for me.

“So.” I sat down at the dining room table, my laptop and papers pushed to the side. “Let’s talk about the apartment.”

“See, I knew you were going to do this.” Rachel stirred up the rice in the bowl. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem. Just details. That’s all.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “We need a couple of rooms. Us, obviously, and an office for you—”

“That’s right.” Rachel shoveled the rice onto her plate. “I can’t share an office.”

“Okay.” I sipped my Coke. “So we need two bedrooms, and at least a big closet for me. Unless you’re okay with me on the dining room table.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Tom. I just can’t have your—stuff—all over the table where we eat breakfast and dinner and lunch.”

I pushed a stack of mail onto the floor. “Got it.”

Rachel laughed. She leaned down to taste dinner. “Hey, this is good.”

I poured some soy sauce. “We’re going to have to share making dinner when we live together.”

She sighed. “This is going to take some getting used to.”