Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  Two fractured pendant lights, their bulbs swinging from the ceiling, were the sole sign anyone had entered the kitchen before now. In the corner, Sal spotted a shattered bottle of wine, its contents staining the marble tile.

  A woman in her mid-fifties leaned against the countertop, a cigarette dangling from two fingers. “My aim isn’t what it was.” She flicked ash to the floor.

  Sal checked the countertop near the woman. It was empty, save for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “You planning on throwing anything else?”

  Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the woman’s hazel eyes leveled on Sal standing across the expanse of marble comprising the kitchen island. “That all depends. Who are you and what do you want?”

  Judge Stewart cleared his throat. Half of his body remained behind Sal.

  “Ah, the coward has something to say.” Another flick of ash landed the floor.

  The judge edged out from behind Sal. Shoulders hunched, arms hanging at his sides, Sal saw defeat written over the man.

  “Joan, meet Detective Salome Peterson. She works for the Metropolitan Police Department. She’s helping us find Chloe.”

  “You finally decided involving the police was the right idea? About time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Sal interjected. “That’s not entirely true.” She had no desire to continue the judge’s lie. It didn’t help her. “I was police. Maybe I still am, but I’m on suspension now. Judge Stewart…”

  “My husband.” Joan spit out the word. “For all that’s worth.”

  Turning, Sal stared at Harrison Stewart. He’d claimed he was a widower at Chief Justice Borisov’s house. The man shrank further under Sal’s glare.

  Sal seized the chance to build a connection with Joan. “You’ve made a remarkable recovery. Judge Harry here said you were deceased.”

  “Really?” Joan shouted in surprise. “Bastard.”

  Reaching into her pocket, Sal pulled out a folded piece of paper. Handing it to the judge, she asked, “Do you know this woman?”

  Joan stalked around the kitchen towards her husband. He unfolded the paper, finding the scene of a tall blonde woman talking to Chloe in a crowded nightclub.

  “Yes, I know her,” the judge said, defeated.

  Joan blew smoke into his face. “That her? That the intern you fucked a couple years ago? Did she take our daughter?”

  The judge let the paper slip from his fingers. Joan and Sal watched it drift to the floor. The judge swung, the back of his hand catching Joan along her jaw. The blow surprised her, sending her crashing to the floor.

  Sal’s hard-won instincts took over. Kicking the judge’s knee, the man dropped to the floor as she grabbed his right hand. A fierce twist and the man slammed into the floor. Blood smeared against the white floor as he thrashed in Sal’s grip.

  “No more of that, Judge.” Sal chided. “Now, are you going to tell me who she is or is a domestic in your immediate future?”

  Joan picked herself up off the floor, bare feet squeaking against the marble.

  “You okay?” Sal said to the stunned woman.

  “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. I’m more surprised the old coward has some life left in him.”

  “Good. You’ll want to put some ice on that.”

  Joan nodded, putting a hand to her face. “You want a drink, Detective?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  Sal talked at Judge Stewart’s back, explaining the mountain of negative press he’d encounter if she caused him more problems. Asking if he understood, he nodded.

  Seating him alone in the dining room, he hunched over the table like a reprimanded child. Sal resumed her questioning.

  “Her name is Bethany Kaine. She was an intern of mine a few years ago. Expert attention to detail with paperwork. She went to George Washington.”

  “What was she like? Friendly?”

  Shaking his head, the chastised man responded, “Oh no, she wasn’t outgoing at all. A real cold fish. Didn’t talk or socialize with anyone outside of work. Once her internship was over, I never heard from her again.”

  “Is that uncommon? For law interns to disappear like that?”

  “I’d say it’s highly rare. Interning with a district court judge is a career maker. My other interns always ask for references, letters of recommendation, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you do something that made her disappear? Some reason she didn’t come to you for references?”

  Placing his hands on the table, the judge shouted at Sal, “No! Nothing like that happened.”

  Sal ignored Joan’s biting laugh from the kitchen. “What else can you tell me about her?”

  Harry Stewart shrugged. “Nothing. Like I said, she kept to herself. She never attended the lunches and dinners for interns. She did her job, and that was it. I don’t even know if she finished law school.” Leaning back in his chair, he asked, “What’s this about? You think she had something to do with Chloe’s disappearance?”

  Joan drifted into the dining room from the kitchen. Placing her glass of bourbon on the ornate buffet, she leaned against the wall as her gaze leveled on Sal.

  “All we know is she was the last person seen with Chloe. The investigation is ongoing, but she’s our only lead.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’” Joan asked

  Sal explained how she’d met Mason at Chief Justice Borisov’s house a few days ago.

  “Borisov!” Joan sighed. “That old bastard is going to get my daughter killed. If she’s not dead already.”

  Mason spotted Clay on the main floor, chatting with a group of women and pointing to his beloved vault.

  “Clay! Clay! Over here!” Without his radio, Mason had to shout over the deafening beat. The resident DJ didn’t consider it a successful night unless people had short-term hearing loss.

  Clay spotted him, waved. Clay wrapped his conversation and glided over to Mason. “Good of you to make it tonight. I mean, it’s not like you work for me or anything.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I’ve got good news. You said you were short-handed. I want you to meet Tracy. She’s your new manager.”

  “She’s my what? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Manager! Tracy. She’s a dear friend. When she heard you were short-staffed, she left an outstanding job to come help you out.”

  Clay examined Tracy, which didn’t take long, given she only came up to his chest.

  “You worked for Goldstein? At Trinity? What was that like?”

  Firing back, Tracy responded, “Chaotic, but everybody’s gotta pay the bills.”

  Turning to Mason, Clay asked, “Bro, you sure about this?”

  “I vouch for her. She’s good people. Former soldier. Runs a tight operation despite the management.” Mason clapped Clay on the shoulder hard enough for him to wince. “Not the first time you’ve taken in a stray. And you could use the help.”

  Clay turned to Tracy. “Okay. You start tonight. Mason says you’re good, so you’re good. You shadow the main floor operations tonight, and we’ll get you trained up. Mason will get you setup on a radio. We’ll do the paperwork tomorrow, but cash tonight. Good?”

  Tracy extended a hand. “Good.”

  Clay took her hand in his, shaking once. “Welcome to Gridlock. Now get to work.”

  The two women stood in the kitchen, half-empty glasses of bourbon in front of them. Harrison Stewart sat alone in the dining room. Sal suspected he feared his wife, despite striking her.

  “Joan, what do you do? Professionally, I mean.”

  “Dr. Joan, actually.” The woman smiled. “I work at the Department of Commerce. I advise the administration on oil policy - how much we import and export.”

  “What do you mean? I thought we imported oil from everywhere.”

  Joan shifted into her work persona. “Not at all. The US is a net oil exporter, but we’re not producing much of the type of oil we can use. Our refineries are setup for heavier grades of oil, the grade we get from Canada, Venezuela and Mex
ico. Shale oil is mostly lighter and sweeter. We export it to about one hundred eighty countries. OPEC imports, like from Saudi Arabia, continue to fall, mostly because of my work at Commerce.”

  “I didn’t know,” Sal responded. She didn’t expect a lesson on global oil trade tonight.

  “What can you tell me about my daughter?”

  Sal set the heavy crystal tumbler on the thick marble counter. “There isn’t much to tell. She was at a bar called Club Trinity where she met with the woman your husband identified. We’re still following this lead as far as it will go.”

  Joan inhaled, held the breath for a moment, then exhaled. “Did you know my baby got into Stanford? Law school, like her father.”

  “I didn’t. Congratulations.”

  “Not that he’d notice. He never notices her. He only notices me when I throw things. He’s like a dog that way.”

  Sal finished the amber liquid in front of her. The warmth flowed through her.

  “We’ll do everything we can to get her back.”

  Bethany sneered at the huddled groups of people waiting their turn to get into another club. She felt the eyes of desperate men, and more than a few women, roving over her. The high slit in her white sequined skirt left little to the imagination, while the black leather corset accentuated her cleavage.

  She exuded more confidence than she felt. Aaron’s ferocious attack shook her. Bethany hadn’t been that scared since her awful childhood. She pulled over twice on the drive back to the city. Crying on the side of the road, she lashed out at the steering wheel as memories came flooding back. Now Aaron’s dead eyes replaced the faces of so many of her mother’s sadistic boyfriends.

  Her hand shot to her neck, feeling the bruises she covered with makeup an hour ago.

  Walking up to the doorman, she cleared her throat. “Bethany Kaine. I should be on the VIP list.” Her voice came out scratchy and faint.

  The bouncer inspected her, not disguising his obvious leering. “Yes, you should be.”

  A beefy finger scrolled down the tablet. “Ah, here you are. Go right in, Ms. Kaine. Would you like an escort to the penthouse? It’d be my pleasure.”

  Bethany breezed past him. “Not tonight.”

  Chapter 14

  Mason paced a tight loop in the security office, staring at his phone. Sal went to question Judge Stewart over an hour ago. He’d heard nothing from her since. Text after text went unanswered. Calls went straight to voicemail.

  He’d watched Sal handle herself multiple times over the last day. Knowing she could take care of herself didn’t stop his concern from bubbling up. Sal’s tenacity and intelligence reminded him of Claire, although Claire’s academic pedigree contrasted with Sal’s police-honed street smarts.

  Desperate for news from Sal, Mason swore and rebooted his phone. The frustration of being out of the loop wore on him.

  “Hey Mason, everything okay? You seem on edge, man.” Rob, one of his security team, asked as he flipped through security video feeds and scrolled through his phone.

  Rob had been with Gridlock for eight months, starting at the door. He’d worked his way up as the natural attrition of the nightclub business cleared a path for him. A former Maryland offensive lineman, he’d dropped out after a torn meniscus cost him his scholarship. Mason liked the guy. Rob projected a natural calm that came from being the largest person in any room.

  “Yeah, Rob, everything’s fine. Just have a lot on my mind right now.”

  Rob shrugged, resuming his scrolling. “Okay man, let me know if I can help with anything.”

  “Thanks. What’s that?”

  Mason and Rob watched a conflict develop in slow motion on the mezzanine level. Two groups converged, one wearing various bits of clothing in yellow; another group in purple. Gridlock had a strict dress code policy designed to keep out gang colors. Enforcing that policy on busy nights presented a constant challenge for his team.

  Rob reached for his radio. “Should we send the guys in?”

  Mason took a moment. “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  “You sure, boss? That’s a lot of people.”

  “It’s fine. Maybe I won’t be as on edge when I get back.”

  The server delivered her vodka, soda, and lime. Bethany dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Want to start a tab? It’ll be faster with the change.”

  “No, just cash. Thanks.” Bethany didn’t want the paper trail of a credit card. Paying cash also created a red flag since everyone else used plastic. She made the trade-off of cash.

  Leaning back against the bar, she surveyed the crowd for candidates. As the crowd and music grew louder over the night, she’d narrow the field. Single drunk girls topped the list. Next came girls abandoned by their friends to random hookups, always leaving one person on the outside.

  Paul preferred his girls thin, which limited her options. Once he joked with her that the skinnier girls kept his food and dope costs low. She laughed when he said it. She knew he wasn’t joking.

  Two women standing in a corner caught her eye. One, with smudged makeup, seemed inconsolable. The other tried to comfort her friend.

  Bethany finished her drink and flagged the server for another.

  “Hello, Bethany.”

  The accented voice ran up her spine like icy fingers. Bethany turned, facing Max Sokolov. Bald and sporting a goatee, Max stood the same height as Bethany in her heels. The dark eyes she once found seductive now appeared soulless and calculating.

  “Hello yourself, Max. Somebody let you out of your cage tonight?”

  “It’s nice to get out once in a while. You know, see the sights.” Max moved closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Who’s caught your eye tonight?” Max nodded to the girls in the corner. “Those two?”

  “What do you want, Max?”

  “You keep avoiding my calls. It hurts my feelings. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want to pay what you owe me.” His fingers slid under her top, sinking in under her ribs. Bethany’s breaths turned halting and shallow. “Answer me.” His fingers dug deeper.

  Bethany answered in a shallow whisper. “Money’s coming. Next week. Promise.”

  Max relaxed his grip. “Next week? You said that a month ago. Why should I trust you now?”

  Gulping at her drink, Bethany shivered as her thin sheen of panic sweat cooled in Gridlock’s arctic climate control. “I have a massive deal lined up. End of next week, you’ll have your money. I swear it.”

  “Another week means more interest. Interest is the real killer here. You’re a smart girl. You should know that.”

  Bethany squeezed her hands, keeping the trembling at bay. “I’ll have your money. Next Saturday.”

  “You’d better. I’d hate to pay a visit to your junkie mother rotting in her trailer in Pennsylvania. After that, maybe I’ll pay you a little visit, too. It’ll be like old times.”

  Bethany remembered the old times with Max. Her back and legs still carried faint scars from his beatings.

  He pulled her close, shoving his tongue into her mouth as his hands roamed up her skirt. The taste of cigarettes made her gag.

  Max jerked away from her before the bile reached the top of her throat. “Let’s go, pal. You’re out of here.” With one arm, the bouncer bent the irate Russian’s arm behind his back. He grabbed a handful of shirt collar with the other. The Russian yelled as the man drove him through the crowd and out of the club.

  Relief flooded over her. Gathering herself, she flagged down her server and ordered another vodka and soda.

  Bethany slapped forty dollars on the bar, shouting, “Keep the change.” The woman winked and mouthed thanks.

  Grabbing her drink, Bethany headed to the restroom to pull herself together.

  After he tossed the guy, to the cheers of people waiting outside, Mason searched for the woman. Something familiar about her etched in Mason’s memory, but he couldn’t place her.

  He patrolled the outer perimeter of
the main floor, looking for the blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail. He doubled back, checking the line to the ladies’ restroom. Mason spotted her emerging from the restroom as he approached.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  The stranger kept her eyes down, avoiding his gaze. He’d seen her before.

  She pushed past him, setting an empty glass on a nearby table. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for your help earlier.”

  The sound of shattering glass nearby pulled Mason’s attention away from the woman. By the time he turned back, she had disappeared.

  The first piece fell into place. Mason groped for a mental snapshot of the video he’d seen earlier that night. The woman’s hair and clothes were different, of course, but the eyes, mouth and cheekbones were identical to the woman from Club Trinity.

  His pulse quickened. In his mind, he felt the first domino fall. Mason hadn’t felt that sensation since he’d left the Marshals Service. He finally had a lead. Mason swiped his keycard, giving him access to the private elevator reserved for VIPs.

  Racing from the elevator, Mason crashed into the door of the security office. He found Rob, feet up at the surveillance desk, his face buried in a calzone.

  Grease running down his chin, a muffled, “Hey boss,” choking out between bites.

  “Move!” Mason tossed Rob’s size fifteens off the desk. The man spun in the fragile office chair, the safety of his dinner his critical concern.

  Mason punched a button. Images from the array of cameras covering the main floor lit the wall of screens in the security office. He’d placed every camera in the security system and wasted no time finding the angle he needed.

  Capturing a frame with the mystery woman’s face, he emailed it to himself. For good measure, he switched cameras. Frames containing a fresh image of the woman and the man he’s tossed from the club displayed on the screen.

  Rob caught sight of the blonde Amazon draped across a pewter suede couch. “Whoa. Who’s she?”

  Without turning, Mason spat through a clenched jaw, “Bad news.”