DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  “Ten-dollar cover,” he said.

  Tom fished out the cash and looked at the club doors. “Sasha here tonight?”

  “Who?” The bouncer scowled.

  Tom realized Sasha could be the stripper’s real name and she might use an alias at the club. Or, the bouncer was playing dumb, maybe nosing out Tom as five-oh. Tom shook his head and offered a shy smile. “Sorry, maybe I forgot her name.”

  The bouncer ran his hands over his black, slicked hair. He stared at Tom, and Tom stared back.

  The bouncer grabbed the money and looked away. Tom took it as his cue to head inside.

  The bass became louder, the place blasting with music. There was a central dancefloor surrounded by leather chairs looking like they belonged in an executive board room. Only three of them were occupied.

  A woman gyrated against a pole, then thrust out her butt, jiggling it for the spectators.

  The lights were red, purple, amber, the walls mirrored. Two gaudy chandeliers hung above the bar. Cushioned bench seats lined the opposing wall. Tom saw bathrooms at the back, and an exit. There was a DJ booth in the corner, squished between two unmarked doors. The place wasn’t all that big, more dismal than sexy.

  A cocktail waitress with legs everywhere took a tray of drinks over to two men seated together on the benches. Tom sat at the bar, noticing more men at the far end, huddled together. Four of them, young, dressed in expensive suits. One laughed and clapped another on the back. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, unsteady on his feet, while the rest guffawed and pointed at him.

  The bartender made her way over to Tom. She put on a big smile and leaned down, her breasts squeezing together. “Hi. What can I get you?”

  Tom ordered a Heineken and she moved off to get it. He glanced at the men on the far bench, well-dressed, middle-aged. They stared at the woman onstage. Tom checked out the customers in the executive-looking seats. One, his back to Tom, was wearing a ratty-looking sweater, bald head shining in the syrupy lights. Another, overweight, in a tracksuit, leaned forward with a grin and a bill in his hands. The stripper squatted down in front of him and bounced her ass. The overweight man gobbled it up with his eyes, licked his lips and stuck the bill in her G-string. The last man, bobbing his head to the distorted beats pumping through the speakers, watched the exchange, then his eyes met Tom’s.

  Tom turned away as the bartender set down the bottled beer. “Hey,” he said, “do you know if Sasha is working tonight?”

  She pulled back and her smile faltered. She searched his eyes, probably wondering who he was, whether he was trouble or not. He took his badge and palmed it, then grabbed some cash. He set the cash on the bar and then moved his hand away to partially reveal the badge. She looked down and her smiled disappeared altogether.

  “She’s not in any trouble. I want to talk to her about Carrie.” Tom wondered if the bartender could even understand what he was saying beneath the deafening music. How do people stand it?

  As soon as he thought it, the song faded. The DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Alright, gentlemen, let’s give it up for Skylar!”

  The stripper left the stage and the overweight man put an unlit cigar in his mouth and applauded enthusiastically. The three young suits at the bar whistled and howled. As their intoxicated companion came wandering back from the restroom, he made a sweeping bow, as if the applause was for him. The suits at the bar cut up laughing.

  The drunk guy sat down by the stage instead of returning to his friends.

  “Alright now,” the DJ cooed, “coming on to the stage next, our final show of the night, let’s give a big welcome to . . . Destiny!” The DJ drew out the clichéd name so long and loud the speakers rattled. At the same time a new song dropped, bass booming, synth-tones rippling. Tom realized that “Destiny” was already in the room — she was the cocktail waitress he’d seen coming in with the crazy long legs. Destiny had traded in her tray for a horse whip. She took the stage, grabbed a pole and snapped her hair around as she twirled to a squat. She gave each of the men a feral look, hair hanging in her face as she slowly rose and strutted in her stilettos, dragging the whip, wagging her finger at the men in the chairs. They had been bad boys, she seemed to be saying, and she was going to punish them.

  The bartender nodded at the woman onstage. “Maybe you should ask her when she’s finished her routine.” Then she left for the three men in suits, who were waving their money for more drinks.

  Destiny was Sasha.

  Tom watched the show for a moment. Sasha worked herself up into a frenzy, mock-whipping the men, then slapping her own backside hard enough to leave red streaks on her flesh. The drunk guy in the suit really seemed to be enjoying the show. He moved his body to the beats, then beckoned her over. Sasha got down on all fours and crawled, tossing her hair back.

  The drunk guy gave her some cash and then reached for her breasts. Sasha shook her finger in the air, no no. Then she rolled back onto her haunches and spread her legs, giving him an eyeful. Now the guy started to go crazy. He kept looking at the three suits at the bar, egging him on. They whistled and clapped while their friend kept swiping at Sasha, acting like he was going to climb up and get her.

  He had a knee on the stage when the door burst open and the bouncer strode in. The man backed away, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. The other suits at the bar booed and hollered, laughing all the while. A big joke for them, seeing their buddy dragged out of the joint, blowing kisses at the stripper.

  Sasha’s number was winding down and the DJ made the announcement for last call. Tom peeled a couple bills from his stack, left a decent tip and walked out of the club.

  * * *

  It was a relief to get away from the deafening music. He felt like his ears were ringing as he lit a cigarette and kept his eye on the bouncer, talking with the rowdy, drunk man. The guy was putting up a big fuss, whining that he wasn’t doing anything wrong, just horsing around.

  “You’re done for the night,” the bouncer said. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “My friends are still in there. I need a ride.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Wait for them over there.”

  Tom saw an ATM machine near the club entrance and eyed the roofline for cameras. Seeing none, he rounded the building, leaving the bouncer and drunk guy behind. He wanted to see if there was a side or rear entrance to the club so he walked along until he found a set of double doors back by the dumpsters. He pitched his cigarette away and returned to the front of the club, noticing the used car lot again, the colored pennants limp in the breezeless night.

  The bouncer had taken his stool inside and was gone. The drunk guy was still in the parking lot. He tried the front door, found it locked. Then he spied Tom. “Hey!”

  Tom quickly got in the Jeep and started it up. He didn’t know which door Sasha was going to leave from and wanted to park over on the side street to have eyes on all possible exits.

  The drunk guy knocked on the window before Tom could pull away. Tom rolled it down.

  “You got a smoke?”

  “Yeah.” Tom fished one out and handed it over.

  “Got a light?”

  Tom gave him his Zippo and the man fumbled around with it before getting the flame to work. He was swaying on his feet. The booze coming off him smelled like apples left to rot in the sun. The man pocketed the Zippo and stared at the club.

  “Hey,” Tom said. He snapped his fingers and stuck his hand out the window, palm-up.

  “Oh. Sorry.” The man dug through his pockets, cigarette dangling from his lips. The cigarette fell. He bent to pick it up, mumbling something incoherent. At the same time, the front door opened and the customer in the ratty sweater scurried out. He looked left and right, as if crossing a busy street, then hurried away from the club.

  Tom glimpsed more movement along the side of the building. He could just see the back of a car parked there.

  The drunk guy stood up, his face flushed with blood. He’d rec
overed the cigarette but not Tom’s lighter. Tom dropped the Jeep into gear and pulled away.

  “Hey! Hey, man, what the fuck?!”

  Tom spun the wheel and goosed the gas. He was afraid after all this he was going to lose Sasha. He didn’t waste time finding the parking exit but drove over the curb onto the side street, the Jeep bouncing.

  He slowed in the side street, having caught the attention of a woman — the first dancer, the one called Skylar. She shot him a look then got into her car. He parked and waited, his heart pounding. That was close.

  A moment later, the door near the dumpster opened again and Sasha emerged. Tom killed the engine and hopped out.

  “Excuse me. Miss?”

  She saw him and grew alarmed. He had his badge ready. “Sasha? I’m Special Agent Tom Lange.”

  She seemed to relax. “Oh . . .” Then her eyes widened and she repeated, “Oh!”

  “Can I talk to you? Somewhere we can go?”

  She was drop dead gorgeous, the kind of face he saw in magazines. She’d put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that said Ralph’s Gym. She threw her bag in the open car door. “How did you find me?”

  “Your email. You mentioned this place.”

  She looked at the building, ugly from this side with pipes rambling up the wall to the roof, the smell of garbage wafting from the overloaded dumpsters. “Oh right,” she said. “Yeah, okay.”

  He flipped to the image of the artist’s sketch of the Jane Doe on his phone and held it up for Sasha to see. The recognition in her eyes appeared genuine and she welled up. “Yeah, that looks like her. That’s Carrie. What happened to her?”

  “You mentioned you went to Carrie’s apartment,” he said. “Can you take me there?”

  “Yeah.” Sasha nodded, her expression serious. “Yeah, sure. Bosco is all freaked out about it. She’s one of his best girls, he’s always saying. But we haven’t seen her since—”

  “Last Tuesday, you said.”

  “Exactly. Last Tuesday. It’s not like her. We went to her apartment, knocked on the door, looked in the windows, nothing.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Ten minutes, this time of night.”

  “Great.” Tom started away. “I’ll follow you?”

  “Sure, of course.” She gave him another look, as if working out once and for all whether he was alright. Then she made a little nod and got in her car.

  “Yo!” Tom heard. “There he is!”

  The drunk guy was at the corner, pointing. He’d been joined by his frat boy friends from the bar. “Hey, man,” the drunk guy said, “you nearly fuckin’ ran me over back there. What’s your deal, huh?”

  The four men started over. Tom glanced at Sasha, who looked concerned. He held up his hand. “It’s okay. Just give me a second.”

  He approached the four suits as they walked down the sidewalk in a pack, got out his badge again and held it up. As they gaped at it, he pulled open his blazer to reveal the firearm holstered against his ribs.

  “Guys, fuck off, alright?”

  They stopped, and two of them turned around and started walking away. But the drunk guy stood his ground, holding up the Zippo lighter. “Hey, was just trying to give you this back, that’s all.”

  Uh-huh. Sure.

  Tom snatched it out of his hand. He glimpsed the fat man in the tracksuit walking away from the club, crossing the street near the used car lot. The man was talking to himself and chuckling, paying Tom and the others no mind. Tom returned his attention to the drunk guy and his friend, their two buddies lingering a little ways off.

  “Alright, get home safe,” Tom said.

  “Fuckin’ asshole pig,” he heard the drunk guy mutter. The guy’s friend patted him on the chest and hustled him away.

  Sasha started up her car and backed out into the street. Tom got in the Jeep and followed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a five-story mid-rise with balcony walkways. The community pool looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for a few weeks, with dead bugs and leaves floating in it. Carrie’s apartment was on the top floor. There was a white door marked 36 and a window, drapes obscuring most of the interior. Tom cupped his hands to the glass and peered in.

  He saw a simple layout, couch and TV in the living room, beyond it a kitchen with a pass-through window. A dim light glowed in the kitchen, either from a stove hood or a plug-in nightlight. A hallway led from the kitchen out of sight. It looked lived in — a rumpled blanket on the couch and a box of takeout on the coffee table — but otherwise tidy. No immediate signs of a struggle.

  “What happened to Carrie?” Sasha’s voice was a low whisper.

  “I don’t know.”

  He moved to the door and feathered his fingertips over the seam where the door met the wall, searching for gouges or scrapes. He was getting his prints on a potential crime scene, but he could eliminate himself later on. At the moment, exigent circumstances were dubious grounds to enter the apartment. Better way to get inside would be to obtain a search warrant from a state judge and do it properly, with a Tampa forensic team, or his own IFS. Peering through the crack, the deadbolt appeared engaged. He tried the knob anyway, found it immovable. He probed the lock with his finger — no one had punched it out.

  There was a worn welcome mat at the door. It could be taken to the crime lab and examined for trace evidence. He took a few pictures with his phone and then let the scene be.

  “Please tell me . . . you’re killing me.” Sasha said.

  “Can you show me the parking lot?”

  She sighed and took him back down the stairs where they followed a pathway around to the rear of the building. The lot was lit by three lampposts. Sasha pointed out a green Hyundai. “That’s Carrie’s.”

  Her vehicle? It was a major score. Tom circled the car, excited, looking for scratches or dents. He switched on his flashlight. There was a disposable Starbucks cup in the center console, some wrappers on the floor. A couple utility bills, it looked like, sitting on the passenger seat. In the backseat, an empty Amazon box. He walked to the rear and took a few more pictures, getting the license plate and a couple angles on the car. He’d work another warrant for the vehicle, have the forensics team give it a thorough examination.

  “Alright,” he said.

  “Alright? What happened to Carrie?”

  She was really something, a natural beauty beneath the heavy make-up. Her mouth turned down to a pout on one side. The air around them was fuzzy with humidity, and her skin glistened, her eyes sparkled.

  “Now let’s find a place where we can talk. And I’ll tell you what I can.”

  * * *

  Sasha led him to another part of the city, North Bon Air, not far from Carrie’s apartment. It was four-thirty in the morning, the first hint of dawn brightening the sky. Sasha’s neighborhood was more upscale than Carrie’s. She had her own house. She unlocked the front door and invited him in.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t been here long.” She tossed her gym bag on a plush couch and gave him the tour, only switching on a couple of lights, seeming to prefer the place dim. When they came to a gun cabinet, he asked about it. “You want to see?” She undid a rotary lock and stepped aside so he could look, pride on her face.

  Tom gaped at the small arsenal. “That’s an AR-15 . . .”

  “Yup. Got that beauty at a Georgia gun show. And there’s my favorite, the M&P9. That’s the same handgun the cops use in L.A. County. Everything is registered, legal. I have no criminal record.” She smiled at him, then invited him to sit on the couch and offered him a drink.

  “Just water, thanks.”

  While she was in the kitchen fiddling with the ice machine, she called back, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re thinking, how does a stripper afford all of this?”

  Tom looked around at the framed art on the walls, the statues on the entertainment center flanking a giant flat-screen TV, expen
sive furniture, guns in the cabinet. I guess you could say that.

  She came back with a water for him and a bottle of beer for herself. She sat on the adjacent couch, and took a long pull from the beer. “Ah, that’s good.” She crossed her long legs. “Well, I’m just a girl from Macon, Georgia. For one thing, I know some real estate people. But, I dreamed big. You know?”

  “What’s your full name, Sasha?”

  “Sasha Marie Clay. My momma and I, we had nothing. At one point we lived under a bridge. I used to find green tomatoes in the trash and we’d fry ’em up.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yup.” She took another swig, smacked her lips and bounced her foot. He imagined she was used to the hours — she seemed full of pep, whereas he could feel the fatigue closing in. He realized time was slipping away — he had an 8 a.m. appointment at the ROC to keep.

  “So, about Carrie . . .”

  “I just said to myself, Sasha, this ain’t gonna be your life. You ain’t gonna live like your momma. You know? First of all, you don’t need a man. They are just gonna leave you high and dry, like my daddy left me and Momma. So I decided, I’m gonna make that work for me. You know what I mean? No offense.”

  He nodded, hoping she would finish her story.

  “And then I saw what some of these other girls were doing. I mean, some of them — they’ve built a fortune!” Her eyes widened and she planted her feet, sitting forward. “I mean, this one girl, Theresa, T, she’s got three houses. Can you believe it?”

  He could, though he imagined T, whoever she was, was in debt up to her tassels. People who could afford three houses were hedge fund managers and surgeons and movie stars. Or, they’d been issued subprime mortgages and lost everything in ’08. Certainly exotic dancing could pull in some cash, but he didn’t see Carrie living that way.

  “How about Carrie? She seems to be living a bit more modestly.”

  Sasha frowned a little and shook her head. “Well, that girl doesn’t know what to do with her money. You blow it all on stupid stuff when you need to be investing it, and that’s what you get.”

  “Like what? What sort of stuff did she blow it on?”