Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  Fifteen minutes later, Sal rounded the corner after navigating to Mason’s location on the map.

  Mason noticed the full makeup as Sal stepped into the fading light. Sal ditched the jeans and sport coat, opting instead for black pants tapering below the knee, white silk top and grey suede jacket. Diamond earrings rounded out her look. Mason’s face went slack as he took her in.

  She caught him staring, returning a smile. “Ready to talk to these people?”

  Shaking off the urge to move closer to her, Mason nodded. The pair turned left onto 18th St, toward the club.

  Mason stepped into the club and surveyed the layout and staff. The quiet music reflected the emptiness of the space. A few patrons sat along the back wall, sipping drinks. Two men, absorbed in conversation, leaned against the bar. A bartender scrolled through his phone, scanning the bar for anyone needing drinks every few minutes.

  “Hey, Joey, I don’t pay you to be on your phone. Go restock the ice.”

  A shock of red hair emerged from behind the bar, climbing steps out of the dungeon used for storage space. Clipboard in hand, the woman looked at Sal. “Hi, welcome to Club Trinity. Has anyone helped you?”

  Sal placed her purse on the bar. “No, but we’re not here for drinks.” She motioned to Mason, hanging back near the door.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Then what are you here for?”

  She placed the clipboard on the bar. Sal looked down, seeing an inventory sheet. Based on her uniform of cheap button-down shirt and black vest with the club’s logo stitched on it, Sal guessed she was a manager. A gold name tag hung below the stitched logo, the name Tracy embossed on it.

  “We need your help. A woman went missing over a week ago. No one has heard from or seen her since. This is the last place she posted on her social feed. We’re hoping you’ll let us check your camera footage from that night.”

  Tracy tilted her head and waved a hand, dismissing the idea of helping these strangers. She sized up Mason, standing beside Sal in an expensive gray suit.

  “Who are you? Police? Got a warrant?”

  Mason stepped in, attempting to get the conversation back on track. “We’re not cops. The girl’s father asked us to help find his daughter, and she might not be the only one missing. We’d appreciate any help. We won’t take more than twenty minutes of your time.”

  Tracy fiddled with a locket necklace beneath her shirt. “You’re saying two girls up and vanished from my club? I don’t believe you. No cops been around here asking about missing girls.”

  Sal interjected, scolding Mason with a sharp glance. “No, we only believe one woman was here right before she disappeared. We just want to check out any video from that night.”

  Joey, the bartender, crashed through the rear door with two massive buckets of ice. The trio turned, watching him struggle with the weight.

  Mason placed his open palms on the bar. “Listen, we don’t have any leads. You’re our last hope of finding her. We’ve explored every other option. If you won’t help us, she’s likely gone forever.”

  Tracy’s eyes shifted from Mason to Sal, then back. “Okay, you’ve got twenty minutes. You’ve got to be quick, though. My boss doesn’t like people poking around.”

  Tracy waved them around the bar, through a set of double doors and beyond a cramped kitchen. Mason examined the space as he followed Tracy. He noted the sparkling gas range and fryers. Above the range, worn but ordered stacks of pans sat shelved neatly, ready for use.

  “Any chance you’re ex-military, Tracy?”

  She looked over her shoulder in mid-stride, smiling back at him. “That’s right. Four years in the Army. Culinary specialist. Put on sergeant right before I got out. You?”

  “Ranger. That was a long time ago.”

  “Well, aren’t you fancy? Now you find missing girls?” Tracy sorted through a large ring of keys. Finding the right one, she unlocked a door.

  “Just doing a favor for a friend.”

  Mason peeked inside the room. The cramped office was a repurposed closet. Open shelves lined two walls, piled high with crates of plastic drink cups, napkins and straws. A modern computer rested on a tiny desk in the middle of the office, a Club Trinity screensaver dancing on the display.

  Tracy slid the office chair back, fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “The owner doesn’t keep the videos very long. Says it makes him nervous. I keep an extra set of backups so I can watch my staff. See if anybody’s got sticky fingers. What day do you want to see?”

  “April 22nd, probably into the 23rd too.” Mason pulled out his phone, bringing up a picture of Chloe her father texted to him and Sal. “This is the girl we’re looking for.”

  She paged through a screen of folders, settling on the right date. Tracy clicked on one file and a video player opened. She scrubbed through the video at ten-minute increments as Mason and Sal crowded around her.

  “There! That’s her, at the bar.” Sal jabbed a finger to the screen.

  Tracy clicked a button, squinting as the video played at half speed. “Looks like she’s with that woman next to her at the bar. And there’s Joey. He worked that night.”

  Mason leaned forward. “Any way you can print a clear shot of her?”

  “For a fellow soldier, of course!” Tracy winked at him as the printer whirred to life.

  From the side, Sal rolled her eyes. Mason ignored her.

  Tracy called to a passing staffer, “Hey Amelia, can you ask Joey to come back here for a moment, hon?”

  The woman, Amelia, didn’t break stride. “Sure thing.”

  A minute later, Joey stuck his head around the corner. “You wanted to see me, boss?”

  “Yeah, Joey. Couple questions for you.” Tracy turned in the chair, pointing to the screen. “You were working on the 22nd. Do you remember this woman?” The pen in her hand pointed to the woman talking to Chloe.

  They could see Joey recognized the woman. His eyes wide and cheeks puffed as he exhaled. “Oh, yeah. Of course. She was amazing!”

  Joey reddened as Sal chuckled behind him.

  Mason spoke up, offering a refuge. “Hey, I can’t blame you. I can see why you’d remember her. Did you talk to her at all?”

  “No, she didn’t talk to anyone but that other girl. She was pretty drunk by the time they left.”

  Sal interjected, “Who was drunk? The blonde?”

  “The other one. She was drinking rum punches all night. And they were all over each other on the dance floor. I think they left right before last call.”

  “You’d remember her, right?” Mason counted on Joey’s libido for a straight answer.

  “Oh, I’d remember if I’d seen her before. Far as I know, that’s the only time she’s been here. She was weird, kind of stand-offish. Guys kept hitting on her all night, buying drinks. She always refused. She only talked to that other girl. I don’t think they came together though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The darker-haired girl was on the dance floor by herself, already a few drinks in before they started talking.”

  Tracy sensed the questions coming to a close. “Thanks for your help, Joey. You can head back to the bar.”

  Joey jammed his hands into his pockets and looked at the people gathered in the office. “I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?”

  Mason put a hand on Joey’s narrow shoulder. “Not at all. You were a big help.”

  A loud, nasal voice sounded from outside the office. “What the fuck is this?”

  Tracy muttered under her breath, “Shit.”

  Chapter 11

  Paul explored the young woman shivering in his house. She stood in the main living room in a white cotton dress as chestnut hair flowed around her face. Her unease showed through the thin veneer of makeup as she stared into space.

  Paul took a seat on the long couch against the front wall. With his most fatherly tone, he asked, “How are you feeling, Chloe? Rejuvenated after your ceremony?”

&nb
sp; Chloe rubbed her arms but stayed silent. A porcelain statue in a wooden box. She wiped her nose with a shaking hand.

  It had been a day and a half since her last heroin fix. Paul knew the withdrawal effects would soon overwhelm her. His experience told him the runny nose led to nausea, muscle cramps, then sweating.

  Paul rose from his seat, standing in front of Chloe. He rubbed his hands against her upper arms, surprised by the chill. His arousal grew.

  “Let’s get you your medicine.”

  Escorting her to the bed, he opened a nightstand drawer. He took out a tiny glass vial of thick liquid and placed it on the table. Next, he unwrapped a green and white package, setting the syringe next to the vial.

  Chloe recoiled from the needle, weak legs propelling her backwards across the bed until she fell off the other side, thudding onto the floor.

  Paul stood and walked around to where Chloe lay. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead as she huddled against the wall. His hand reached out to caress her, but she flinched away. In a flash of anger, he grabbed a handful of hair and lifted her face to his.

  “This is for your own good! Do you want to be sick again? The aches you’re feeling? The hot and cold flashes? That’s the disease coming back. I can help you. Only I can help you.”

  Paul relaxed his grip, releasing Chloe. She whimpered as her head cracked against the floor.

  “Now, get back on the bed.”

  Nodding, Chloe pushed herself to a sitting position. Paul watched as she clutched at the white sheet in front of her. Inching across the cool fabric, her teeth chattering.

  “I can make this pain go away, Chloe. Each of your sisters went through this. They emerged on the other side as the glowing spirits you’ve seen. Don’t you want to be free?”

  With her torso half on the bed, Paul heard her whisper, “Home.”

  “Silly girl. You are home. You’re here forever.”

  Paul stood over her limp form, grabbing her under the arms. The thin cotton stuck to her thin form. With a heave, he tossed her onto the bed. Chloe lay motionless except for the faint rise and fall from her labored breathing.

  Paul withdrew a small dose of pharmaceutical grade heroin with the syringe. He wrapped a rubber tourniquet around her upper arm and swabbed the crook of her elbow with alcohol. Finding a vein, he pushed the plunger.

  Paul watched the drugs take hold of Chloe in seconds. Her face transformed from tortured to euphoric. Her body relaxed as the withdrawal side effects eroded. She reveled in the high only opiates offered.

  Paul knew she’d ride this train for hours.

  Sliding her out of the damp cotton dress, he left her naked on the bed. Out of the same nightstand drawer, he took out an expensive digital camera. A tripod sat in the room’s corner.

  He told himself these pictures were collateral. Leverage he used to keep his flock in line. They could leave, he told them, but he’d leak the photos and videos. Remaining with the collective secured their futures.

  At least, that’s what he told them. Then he sold them off to the Saudis, the Chinese, or another buyer. His clientele wanted drug-addicted entertainment they could control.

  Chloe Stewart and Laurel Fitzgerald were part of a new business model. Beyond selling girls for entertainment, Paul wanted to use the daughters of D.C.’s power brokers as control. Once he’d broken the women, he’d sell them to anyone wanting immediate influence in the halls of American power.

  He’d proposed the idea to his North Korean clients three months ago. They approved it days later. They’d even suggested the Fitzgerald girl. The Koreans thought holding the daughter of the National Dynamics CEO would force him into providing weapons and cash to their regime.

  Paul didn’t think the plan could succeed, but he didn’t care. He negotiated ten times his normal rate for the girl. With the new plan running with one client, he called his Saudi clients with the same proposal. A week later, they agreed to the price and requested influence over the US federal judiciary. Paul’s next phone call went to Bethany.

  He needed something to placate the Koreans. His best customers were also his most volatile.

  After taking dozens of pictures of Chloe draped across the bed, he put the camera on a tripod, switched it to video and turned on every light in the plain bedroom.

  Stripping off his clothes, he climbed onto the bed with a euphoric Chloe.

  The color ran from Joey’s face at the sound of the voice. Out of reflex, he ducked, avoiding eye contact with the man standing feet behind him.

  “Why are you back here, Joey? My customers need drinks! Get back to the bar!”

  Mason heard the door swing open as Joey fled. Tracy reached to the back of the computer’s display, flicking the power switch. The tense body language showed she was as terrified of the voice as Joey.

  A belly drifted into the doorway, followed by the rest of a corpulent body. Thinning black hair slicked back over a perspiring forehead topped two dull black eyes. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth, chewing something real or imagined. Mason imagined the man spent so much time shouting or chewing, his mouth didn’t know what to do if it weren’t doing one of those things.

  The head transformed into a torso without the ceremony of a neck. Three open buttons at the top of the shirt displayed a few gold chains, taut against the stump linking his head and body. The rest of his bulk spilled over his waistline.

  “Tracy, what’s going on? Health inspectors don’t work this late. And these two sure as hell ain’t police.”

  Reluctant to meet his eyes, Tracy focused on his gold chains. “It’s okay Dave, they’re just looking for a missing friend. I’m helping them out with our security footage.”

  “Oh? Did they present you with a warrant?” Dave’s weight moved from foot to foot, the garish chains swaying with the shifting bulk.

  Her eyes now fixed to the floor, Tracy whispered, “No.”

  “Of course they didn’t, because they aren’t cops. And you just let them back here to look at security footage? How do you know they’re looking for a girl at all? Maybe they’re the competition spying on how we do things around here.”

  Sal, unable to suppress it, exhaled a quick laugh.

  “You got something to say, honey?”

  Color rising in Dave’s face, Mason tried defusing the escalating situation. “Dave? Dave Goldsmith? I’m Mason Ashford. Heard great things about your clubs.” Mason extended a hand in greeting.

  Dull eyes shifted from Tracy to Mason. Dave ignored the hand Mason offered. “Yeah, who told you?”

  “Clayton Eakes, owns Gridlock. Spoke highly of you.” Mason felt the conversation going sideways. Behind Dave, Mason saw two men wearing stereotypical leather coats. One with his arms folded, the other leaning back against a metal worktable. Both watched the discussion with light interest. Mason guessed the two were Dave’s hired muscle for his extracurricular drug dealing business.

  With this kind of muscle, Mason realized Dave was doing more than selling study drugs to college kids.

  “Owns Gridlock! You mean he stole it. From me! You tell that thief if I see him, they’ll find his body rotting in the trunk of a car somewhere in West Virginia.”

  Dave turned to the men behind him. “You two, get rid of ‘em.”

  Sal and Mason looked at each other. He knew Sal wasn’t carrying her Glock. Through his suit coat, Mason’s arm grazed the baton clipped to his belt. Opposite the baton was a small folding knife. His back pocket held a leather twelve-ounce flat sap.

  “You’re coming with me,” Dave said to Tracy, stepping further into the cramped office.

  Sal side-stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He reached for her arm, threatening to toss her aside. As his arm extended, Sal’s left arm swung, her hand clasped around a stapler she’d lifted from the desk.

  The crunch of cartilage and bone echoed in the small room. Blood poured from Dave’s nose as he bent over, hands covering his face.

  “You bitch! You’ll pay for that
.”

  Mason launched out of the office towards the two men. He reached into his back pocket, looping the retaining strap of the sap around his right hand.

  He charged out of the office and caught the first goon by surprise. Mason ducked below a clumsy right cross, swinging the sap and striking the man’s extended elbow.

  The man yelped, bending over and clutching his arm as pain shot up the limb. Mason knew he didn’t break bone, but the weighted hunk of leather left the arm useless for hours. Mason caught the man’s lower jaw in an uppercut, the force slamming his teeth together.

  The man’s head rocked back from the fury of the assault. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

  The second man rushed Mason, attempting to tackle him to the ground. Mason shifted to his left as the man barreled past. He launched a kick to the outside of the man’s right knee. His leg gave way and his momentum propelled him head-first into an industrial oven against the fall wall.

  Mason rushed to close the distance, holding the sap high to deliver a finishing blow. He found the second man unconscious from his impact with the kitchen equipment. A thin trickle of blood leaked from his nose.

  Turning, Mason found Sal standing over the form of Dave Goldstein, panting. Her hand clutching the bloody stapler. Tracy kneeled next to the inert body of her boss, checking for signs of life.

  “Well, he’s still breathing. Pulse is strong. You messed him up, but he’ll live.”

  The stapler clattered to the floor.

  Mason looked at the two men lying motionless on the floor. “They will too, but they’re going to need some dental work.”

  Sal grabbed the paper with the image of the woman and Chloe on it. Surveying the surrounding wreckage, she shook her head and walked through the double doors out to the bar.

  Joey placed a cup of club soda on the bar in front of Sal with shaking hands.

  Sal dipped a bar towel into the cup, dabbing at the flecks of blood on her pants. “You always make friends like that, Mason?”

  Wiping a mix of saliva and blood from his sap, he dropped the hunk of weighted leather into his back pocket.