by J. D. Barker
Men packed every square inch of open space. About two-thirds wore military uniforms. Others were in casual dress. Several wore three-piece suits, and Fogel assumed they were security. She went to the bar and ordered a vodka and cranberry. The bartender handed her the drink, waving off the voucher when she tried to hand it to him. She dropped them into her purse and scanned the crowd. While some tables and chairs surrounded the stages, most were tucked into small alcoves and hidden behind walls that served no purpose other than to create privacy. As Fogel scanned the ceiling, she realized that privacy was only an illusion—there were cameras everywhere, each equipped with infrared sensors in order to see in the dark. Somewhere, somebody was watching everything.
A deejay announced Heaven was to report to the main stage, while Tori and a few of her friends could be found in the champagne lounge. Aerosmith made way for Guns N’ Roses and “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Three guys did a round of shots to her left, shouting over the music.
Drink in hand, Fogel began pushing her way through the crowd. Some of the women smiled at her, others sized her up—glancing up and down her body as blatantly as some of the men. Never in her life had she wanted a shower as much as she did at that moment.
She found Jack Thatch at a table in the far back corner, tucked behind a wall of fake plants on one side and a hallway on the other appearing to lead toward the women’s dressing rooms. She nearly didn’t recognize him—his hair was askew and he hadn’t shaved in days, maybe as long as a week. It had been years since she last saw him, and those years had been harsh. Although he had a clear line of sight to one of the stages, he wasn’t watching the thin blonde girl wrapped around the brass pole. His gaze was fixed on the shot glass cradled between his fingers.
Fogel crossed the room and set her drink down on his table. “Mind if I sit?”
He didn’t look up at first and she nearly repeated herself, assuming he hadn’t heard her over the music. When he did look up, his eyes didn’t register the surprise she had expected. Instead, they looked sad and dull. If he wasn’t drunk, he was well on his way.
He swallowed the shot, placed the empty glass on the corner of the table, and gestured to one of the empty chairs. “You’re a long way from home, Detective.”
Fogel sat facing him, her purse resting in her lap. “You’re a tough man to find, Jack.”
“I try.” He nodded at a passing waitress. She spotted the empty glass, winked at him, noted Fogel’s glass was still full, then headed toward the bar. An unspoken language.
He looked back toward the entrance. “Did you just come in?”
Fogel nodded.
Jack leaned forward. “How many white cars did you see in the parking lot?”
“White cars? I don’t know. Why?”
“There was only one a few days ago. I counted three when I got here tonight. I need to check again.”
His speech was slightly slurred, not as much as she first expected. His eyes glanced over the crowd, then dropped back to the empty shot glass.
Fogel leaned forward, too. “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“Stella Nettleton.”
Again, his eyes betrayed nothing. They remained fixed on the shot glass. “Why would she be here?”
“Because you’re here.”
He grinned at that. A sidelong grin. “I may be a few drinks up on you, but I fail to see the logic. Maybe I’m just thinking about joining the Navy.” He raised a hand above the table and simulated flight. “Gonna fly airplanes, like Maverick and Goose. Not like Iceman, though. He was a dick.”
The waitress returned with another shot, scooped up the empty one, then disappeared back into the crowd. Jack pulled the glass closer. “Pittsburgh has its share of strip clubs. If you wanted to satisfy some fantasy, no reason to board a plane and come all this way. Are you afraid of running into one of your coworkers? I bet that’s it. Some secrets are better left to the dark.”
“It’s August 8,” Fogel said. “Somebody is going to die tonight, right?”
“Is that a confession?”
“Every year, like clockwork.”
He said nothing.
“Billings, Montana; Iowa, Chicago, New Hampshire…now, Fallon, Nevada.” Fogel turned in her seat. “Who is it? Somebody here?”
“Go count the white cars so I don’t have to get up. Maybe I’ll tell you.”
“I know it’s her, Jack. I don’t know how or why she killed all those people, but I know it’s her. Talk to her for me. If she turns herself in, I can make sure she stays safe. You want that, right? You don’t want to see her get hurt. You care for her. I could tell that day at the house, the way you stared at that painting in her room. If she doesn’t turn herself in, who knows how this will end? I can see some rookie cop putting her down, though, some trigger-happy kid taking a shot to make a name for himself. Imagine if she died, and you could have stopped it.”
“Do a shot with me.”
“What?”
“Do a shot with me.” He grinned.
“No.”
“Yeah, you need one. You’re all wound tight.” Jack flagged down a waitress, pointed at his own shot, then at Fogel. The waitress returned a minute later and set a glass in front of her.
“It’s Jameson, you’ll like it.”
“I’ve had Jameson before.”
He took his own glass in hand and raised it above the table. “To the detectives of Pittsburgh PD Homicide Division, both past and present, the whole tenacious lot of you.” He swallowed the whiskey and brought his glass down hard on the table.
Fogel sighed, took her own glass, and drank it down. The whiskey made her shudder.
Jack fell back in his chair, smiling again. “Are you even considered a cop in this state? I bet I have just as much power to arrest you as you do to arrest me. The way I understand it, your boss is supposed to call the local sheriff and let them know you’ll be in town working a case. You need permission, can’t just show up. I imagine if you did just show up, without telling the appropriate people, you’d probably land yourself in a world of trouble. You seem like a ‘by-the-book’ kind of girl, so I’m not sure…Oh…Do you have your gun?”
Fogel’s eyes darted to her purse and back again before she could stop them.
Jack’s smile widened. “I don’t have one of those, so I guess that gives you a little leg up. The people in the white cars? They like to carry guns. Every time I travel to a new state, I check the concealed carry laws and figure out what’s allowed and what’s not. Interestingly enough, Nevada is very relaxed, still kinda the Wild West out here. You can carry a gun openly in this state nearly anywhere you want. Feel free to strap that thing to your hip and wear it proud!”
“Who are the people in the white cars? You’ve mentioned them a few times now.”
Jack raised a finger, motioned for her to lean in closer. “I don’t like Nevada. It’s too hot out here, too hot for coats. They leave their cars, and you can’t find them anymore.” He motioned wide around the club. “Any one of these people, except the girls, maybe…but who knows?”
Two more shots appeared on their table. Fogel hadn’t seen Jack order them this time. Jack slid one toward her.
Fogel shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Come on, you’re on vacation, right? Because if the sheriff doesn’t know you’re here, you’ve got to be on vacation.” He raised the glass. “To whoever is next!”
“Do you know who’s next?”
“I’m surely not going to tell you, if you won’t even drink with me.” He finished the shot and nearly dropped the glass.
A silly thought crossed Fogel’s mind at that point, one she should have ignored but didn’t—If she got him drunk enough, he might talk. He’s almost there. Maybe one more, two at the most. It wouldn’t be a confession, not in the legal sense, but she might learn what was going on, and she could use that.
Fogel raised her glass, smiled, and drank.
They did one more after that.
“What if it’s you? Maybe that’s why you’re here. Maybe she wanted you here. How do you know you’re not next?”
The deejay came over the loud speaker and told Grace to report to the main stage.
Jack’s posture changed. He grew tense.
The lights in the club went dark, and a single white beam struck the stage. The opening notes of “Uninvited” by Alanis Morissette began, and the most beautiful girl Detective Joy Fogel had ever seen stepped into the light.
Unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up, she wore nothing but a men’s white dress shirt, black heels, and black lace gloves, the kind you might find worn by the starlet in an old movie. They covered her fingertips to nearly her elbows. She stood there for a moment, perfectly still, her long, brown hair dripping over her shoulders, her head tilted down. Long, toned legs beneath the shirt, a hint of black lace panties beneath that. When she began to dance, Fogel found herself mesmerized, unable to look away. She didn’t see Jack motion to one of the security guards. She didn’t even see the man come over. It wasn’t until he was standing behind her and put a hand on her shoulder that she noticed him at all.
The guard leaned close to be heard over the music. “You’ll need to come with me, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been told you have a firearm in your purse.”
“I’m allowed to…” The whiskey hit her harder than she thought, and the room tilted. She drew in a breath to compose herself.
He knew what she was going to say, though. “Yes, you’re allowed to carry a gun in your purse in the state of Nevada, providing you are not intoxicated. You are clearly intoxicated, though. You’ll need to come with us, ma’am.”
Another man lifted her out of the chair. When had ‘he’ become an ‘us?’
She looked to Jack. He held up his empty shot glass and smiled. “I’m a stickler for the law, Detective. Thanks for drinking with me. I hope you have a wonderful night.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the men dragged her away before she could, one riffling through her purse as they went.
5
I watched the security guards take the detective away only long enough to see them disappear down the hallway behind the deejay booth. Then my eyes went back to the stage, to her.
I first saw her the night before last, and the aching in my heart only grew with each tick of the clock. I sat at this same table, picking it because it was close to the dressing rooms—from the moment I left Pittsburgh, down each highway, turnpike, and interstate, I felt myself growing closer to her. By the time I crossed into Nevada, more than two thousand miles behind me, I found myself pressing the accelerator damn near to the floor, my Jeep’s motor screaming. On one particular stretch in the desert, I broke one hundred miles per hour, not once but three times. I forced myself to slow. A ticket meant my name would appear in a report, and that report would go into a computer and that computer’s data would become searchable… I saw a number of white cars while driving, but none followed me. I wanted to keep it that way. I couldn’t risk them learning where I was, where Stella was.
The moment I arrived in Fallon, I knew Dunk had been right.
She was nearby. The air crackled with her.
Over the past four years, as I followed her around the country, each time I got close I felt her presence, a lingering electricity in the air. Although certainly imagined, there was the scent of vanilla, too. Each of those places, her presence there but slowly fading.
In Fallon, though, it was different. The sense of her waxing rather than waning. Not only was she still in town, but she had been here for at least a week, maybe longer. Dunk hadn’t been specific on that, I’m not sure he even knew, but I could feel it, I could feel her.
When I took the turn onto I-118.
When I pulled into the parking lot of Mike’s Gentlemen’s Club.
I knew she was inside.
I harbored not even the slightest of doubts.
I did see one white car in the parking lot, a Nissan, but I also saw the girl who got out of it in tight jeans and a black halter top, and I knew she wasn’t with the people in white. I hadn’t noticed any of the people in white when I arrived in Fallon, but they began to trickle in. I felt them, too.
On that first night, when Stella was called to the stage as Grace, I fought every urge to get up and go to her. I forced myself to stay in my seat and watch—she was absolutely mesmerizing. At that point, I hadn’t learned why she was here, but I suspected it was because clubs like this offered a cash income and allowed her to live off the radar. That was only partially true. That was before I saw her dance for him.
Yesterday I learned his name was Leo Signorelli, and only a few hours ago, after calling Dunk, I learned just who he was.
Leo Signorelli owned Mike’s Gentlemen’s Club.
He also owned six area brothels. Although legal in Nevada, the conditions were poor. Many of the girls were brought here illegally from around the world and forced to work for him for little to no money in exchange for payment on the debt incurred by Signorelli in bringing them here.
Leo Signorelli was responsible for the death of at least four of those girls. He enjoyed strangling them during sex. The youngest being only fourteen. Dunk said his behavior was well-known among those who skirted the law, but he paid enough to various local officials to remain off their radar.
My first night here, Leo Signorelli took a seat at the side of the stage moments before Stella appeared, and he had been as enthralled with her as the rest of the men in the club. Last night, he brought her a single red rose and placed it on the corner of the stage as she began to dance. Stella only glanced at him, but that had been enough—this man, like me, like all the others here, could not look away. Tonight, he brought another rose, also red, and placed it on the stage. Tonight, Stella not only glanced at him, but smiled.
Oh, how my soul ached at the sight of that smile.
Leo Signorelli looked a lot like me. Same hair, same build. But she smiled at him, not me, and I wanted to jump up from my table and go to her, yet, I didn’t.
I could only watch.
I could only watch as she danced, as she danced for him.
On stage, Stella reached for the brass pole and twirled around effortlessly. Although she wore the dress shirt, it was unbuttoned so low the sides of her breasts were visible, and somehow that was so much more alluring than the dozens of girls in the club wearing little or nothing at all. Others thought so too, because men began to crowd the stage with cash in hand.
Most of the girls wore garters and men would slip money into those garters, their hands lingering a little too long on that girl’s leg as they did. Stella did not wear a garter. She didn’t approach the sides of the stage at all. She remained out of reach. The men in the audience were forced to throw their cash on the floor at her feet. This didn’t seem to stop them, though. Bills piled up before Alanis Morissette finished the first verse.
Stella only stared at him, at Leo Signorelli, as if no one else in the club existed.
I so wanted her to look at me that way, if only for a second.
At one point, she leaned against the pole and simply slid to the ground, her slender legs curling beneath her, her dark eyes on him, a single finger pressed against her red lips. The look she gave him had been enough to send him leaning back in his seat, his hard cheeks flush. I hadn’t realized how quiet the club got until the song ended. Without the music, there was utter silence as all eyes watched her.
When Stella left the stage, she walked past Leo Signorelli, and he reached out to her, his hand going for the creamy white of her exposed thigh. Her gloved fingers stopped him before he could make contact, and Stella nodded to a sign on the wall with a playful giggle:
TOUCH THE GIRLS
AND THE BOUNCERS
WIL
L TOUCH YOU
Signorelli laughed at this. After all, he owned the club. But he raised both palms in defeat, anyway. As he did, I saw the note Stella had slipped to him, held tight between his thumb and forefinger. When she disappeared down the hallway beside the stage, he quickly read it and followed, two of his large bodyguards behind him.
When Detective Joy Fogel arrived, I had been surprised to see her. Having arrived much earlier myself, I was also a number of shots up on her. While I enjoyed her company, as brief as her company may have been—and I particularly enjoyed having someone to drink with—I wasn’t drunk. I probably wouldn’t even qualify as buzzed. Okay, maybe a little, but not bad, not to the point of impairment. Much like a long-distance runner outpacing a novice, a practiced drinker can easily outdrink someone who is not. Jameson was my whiskey of choice and had been for years. While I would get drunk if I drank it too quickly, I’d have to drink it far faster than I did tonight.
When Stella, followed closely by Leo Signorelli, owner of nefarious businesses and killer of the innocent, disappeared down that hallway, I stood at my table and finished the detective’s cranberry and vodka. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be back for it, and I’d be leaving soon. No drink left behind.
I counted out four twenties, more than enough to cover my bill, and set them on the table. The waitress scooped them up before I was halfway to the front door.
I couldn’t follow them down the hallway, not with the women’s dressing room down there. I’d be stopped and probably beaten senseless within seconds.
I’d wait outside.
And hope she didn’t intend to kill him in the building.
Nine white vehicles sat in the parking lot.
Six sedans.
Two SUVs.
One van.
None of them occupied, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching.
I brought a knife. A six-inch switchblade I found in a pawnshop in Reno a few days earlier, and I used the knife to puncture two tires on each of these vehicles. I stuck to the shadows as I darted around the parking lot, careful to avoid the cameras on the corner of the building and the valets who occasionally ran into the lot to fetch a car or park a new one.