“Thanks.” With his gloved hand, Trey removed the wallet and studied the driver’s license. “Richard Crowell. And wouldn’t you know that he has a Beacon Hill address.”
Karl shot him a smile. “Awesome. I love it when the vic is high profile. It means the press and the pols will be breathing down our necks.”
“Mmm.” Trey couldn’t argue with his partner’s assessment. “What’s he doing here? Not exactly where the tony night spots are.”
A piece of black plastic caught his attention. He’d thought it was a credit card, but it turned out to be a membership one. “Lux,” he read the bold silver lettering above the victim’s name and picture. “Ah.”
Turning on his heel, he headed back to the mouth of the alley then made a left. He pointed to the sign above the double doors for the building. “That’s why he’s here. It’s a private club.”
Karl stepped next to him and stared first at the card showing through the plastic bag Trey still held, then at the sign. “Sometimes you get lucky, huh? It would seem like the place to start our investigation. It’s probably not open now, though. We may have to call the owner.” Karl pulled out his phone and started searching the Internet.
Believing in trying the most direct approach first, Trey stuffed the evidence bag into his pocket and went over to the front door. The knob turned easily when he tried it so, opening it, he stood aside to wave Karl in. With a shake of his head, his partner obeyed the silent command. Trey followed him into the hushed, muted entryway.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Once they did, he passed Karl and led the way into a large room. The club was empty, which wasn’t surprising, although jazz softly filled the space. The sound of glass clinking caught his attention. All the way in the back, someone was working behind a long, wooden bar.
The lush pile of the carpet muted their footsteps as he and Karl walked in that direction. Nevertheless, the bartender turned before they’d made it halfway. He could tell it was a very tall woman with a bald head. She was the kind of woman who could pull off the look, though. If he’d been into females, this one would have piqued his interest.
She gave them a blinding smile. “How can I help you, officers?”
The fact that she’d made them as cops right off told him she’d probably had a run-in or two with the law herself. He put that thought aside, however. Unless and until the investigation implicated the club, he’d assume everyone here was a potential witness, not a perp.
He flashed his badge, as did Karl. “I’m Detective Sergeant Trey Duncan. This is my partner, Detective Karl Anderson. We’d like to speak with you about a homicide.”
The smile dimmed a bit. “Who’s dead and where?”
“A man out in the public alley that abuts this building. I’m surprised you didn’t see or hear the commotion when it was found.”
The woman shrugged. “I’ve been in the club the whole night. We’re open all the time to members, so I stay until noon when my second-string bar manager arrives. These walls are reinforced for maximum sound-proofing. It keeps noise in and out. Who’s dead?” she asked, again in a calm voice.
“A member of yours, as it happens. Richard Crowell.” He watched her to see how she reacted to the news. He was surprised when she didn’t even try to hide it.
Her face scrunched in disgust. “Can’t say I’m bothered hearing that.” She tossed a towel onto the counter and turned. “You’ll need to speak with the boss.”
Trey took another look around the large room as he listened in on her deferential call to someone she called ‘Alex’. Apparently the guy was in bed, and given the nature of his business, that wasn’t surprising. The place was gorgeous and he imagined membership didn’t come cheap.
“He’ll be right down,” she said once she’d hung up.
“Down?”
“His apartment is on the fifth floor.”
Trey nodded. “Ah. Thanks, Ms.?”
“Houlihan,” she replied with another flash of her teeth. “Katherine Houlihan. Everyone calls me Kitty.”
He smiled back. “I would never have guessed that.”
She laughed, a full-throated sound that reverberated around the empty space. “No one ever does.”
Leaning against the bar, Karl wore a more charming smile than Trey could ever pull off. “So, Kitty, just what kind of club is this, anyway?” He nodded toward the very obvious small, round stages with poles embedded in them at the corners of a parquet floor. “A strip one, I presume?”
Kitty shrugged. “Of course, except not the sort you’d enjoy.” She gave Trey a sly look. “Your partner, maybe, although the dues would be steep for a cop.”
Damn, how did she peg me so quickly? Not that it mattered. He was out and proud, as the kids would say. Karl didn’t care, nor did their lieutenant, but he didn’t want to be known as a gay cop, just a good one.
Karl opened his mouth but didn’t get a chance to pose his next question. A quiet ding to the right caught their attention. Elevator doors opened and out stepped one big mother-fucker sporting a Mohawk and wearing a pair of ripped jeans. He had more muscles on display than a MMA fighter and he didn’t appear to be happy. Trey instinctively shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and noticed Karl straightening and doing the same, not that they expected to be attacked. The guy just put them on their guard.
This wasn’t the boss, though. Another man strode out behind him—amazingly, even taller. The first guy had to be the muscle of the club, and given Trey’s own six-two height, he judged Mohawk as being about six-five. The club owner had to be more like six-seven and their features were enough alike for them to be family members—a family of giants, apparently.
The boss overtook the muscle and approached Trey and Karl with a serious expression on his face. He wore black silk sleep pants and nothing else. He wasn’t quite as jacked as the other guy, but he still wasn’t someone Trey would want to tangle with. Because both of them were shirtless, a lot of pale and hairless skin was on display, not that he was into that type. He favored annoying twinks who took him for a ride before dumping him for some other daddy-type. But he could imagine these two guys never lacked for company. He also found it easy to imagine either of them ripping a man’s throat out.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentleman. I’m Alexandru Stelalux, the owner of this club. This is my head of security and cousin, Valeriu Stelalux.” The words were uttered in a clipped tone of English that made it obvious it wasn’t the man’s first language. There was only a hint of some underlying accent.
Trey held up his badge once more and reintroduced himself and Karl. “Sorry to have to wake you, sir.”
The man ran the fingers of one hand through strands of ink-black hair that fell straight to a few inches below his shoulders. “Not at all. Kitty tells me there was some unpleasantness this morning.”
The stilted coolness of the response put Trey on alert. “You could say that. The body of Richard Crowell was found this morning by city garbage collectors.”
Stelalux’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. Shall we sit to discuss this?”
“Sure.”
Trey slid into the booth indicated by the proprietor, making enough room for Karl to sit next to him. Stelalux sat on the other side. Mohawk man remained standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He went as still as a statue while his boss lounged with his arm slung along the back of the seat. Trey noticed the man had no hair under his arms, meaning he waxed, which Trey found incongruous with the guy’s overt masculinity.
He took out his battered notebook and pen to get to more important things than the witness’s personal grooming habits. “You knew Mr. Crowell, I presume, given that he was a member here?”
Stelalux gave him a hooded look. “Former member, and yes, I knew him.”
Trey looked at him sharply. “Former? When did he quit the club?”
“He didn’t.” The man’s eyes glowed with some unnamed hunger. “I kicked him out.”
Trey exchanged a quick glance with Karl. Okay, so this is going to be an interesting line of inquiry. “Why was that?”
“He assaulted one of my boys. I don’t tolerate that sort of behavior, so I showed him the door—quite literally.”
“You tossed him out bodily?” Karl asked.
“With the greatest of pleasure. He was an entitled little shit whom I should never have admitted in the first place.” He paused and shifted his gaze sideways. “In fact, I took him out the side door to expedite matters. It leads directly to the alley.”
“Which is where his body was found.” Trey tapped his pen against his notepad, weighing whether he should say anything more. Knowing that Crowell had been found right where he’d been shoved out made the idea that he’d been killed elsewhere more bizarre.
“His throat was ripped out.”
Because he was watching the man closely, he had no trouble seeing the shift in Stelalux’s expression. The calmness remained, but he tensed, became more serious. More tellingly, he glanced again at the bouncer guy, who in turn twitched a bit in reaction. The change was subtle and almost instantly gone.
“And, drained of blood,” he added because he wanted to see how the two men took the news. Ignoring Karl’s sharp intake of breath, he even pressed the matter. “Not a lot of blood was found around the body, either, which is strange, don’t you think?”
The club owner and his bouncer each made the sign of the cross over their massive chests, although neither of them wore a crucifix or anything. The gesture struck Trey as being an automatic one, not particularly heartfelt.
“How disturbing,” the club owner murmured. “I do hope you’re not going to insinuate that, given our heritage, my cousin and I had anything to do with such a ghoulish situation.”
Trey cocked his head. “I’m sorry I’m not following you, sir.”
“We’re Romanian.”
It took Trey’s brain about second too long to work out the implications. It was Karl that tripped to it first, barking out a laugh. “You mean like Count Dracula?”
Stelalux’s expression turned icy. “Exactly. You can imagine how tedious it can be having to field comments and questions about vampire legends.” He sighed. “Utter nonsense. I suppose the nature of this club gives you the wrong idea, as well—or will, once you learn of what goes on inside this private space.”
Trey sat back against the luxurious leather cushion. “You might have to enlighten us there, sir. All we know is that this is a gay men’s club.”
“It is, but we also cater to clientele that practice the BDSM lifestyle.” He flicked his gaze toward the ceiling. “We have playrooms on a higher level for the members and their guests to use. All perfectly consensual and, as I said, private. We conform to state law in that regard.”
Trey felt an odd little goose to his dick at this new piece of information. That particular lifestyle had intrigued him for years, even though so far, he hadn’t found the courage to explore it. Being a cop and in a state where it was, though not illegal, was frowned upon, had always stayed his hand. He found himself wondering if the investigation would afford him a chance to explore those rooms—in a professional capacity, of course.
Those were dangerous thoughts, however, so he turned his attention back to the interview. “Was Crowell into those kinds of games?”
“On occasion, I believe, except that he was a dilettante at best. And I did have to warn him when he overstepped the bounds of acceptable behavior. I’d actually given him a time out on the upstairs until he proved to be more trustworthy.”
“So, his run-in with the stripper wasn’t his first transgression?”
“Go-go boy, and yes, it was the last of his strikes.”
“What’s the difference between a stripper and a go-go boy?” Karl interjected.
The club owner gave Karl an indulgent smile. “Strippers take off their clothes as part of the performance. Go-go boys come out already wearing their G-strings and simply dance.”
Not liking the image that popped into his head, Trey said, “I’m going to have to interview the boy. What’s his name and address?” He poised his pen over the paper, ready to write the information.
“His name is Quinn Cooper, and as it happens, he’s living here at the moment.”
Trey frowned at the man’s tone. There was an underlying menace and Stelalux’s expression had turned fierce. He was almost baring his teeth.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Something—heat, maybe—flared in the man’s oddly-violet eyes before he banked it. “No, merely a down-on-his-luck employee that needs a place to stay until he’s back on his feet.”
“I see. Well, we need to interview him, so maybe you could call him.”
Those teeth were showing again. “He had nothing to do with Crowell’s death, I can assure you. Crowell had at least five inches on him and probably forty pounds. Quinn couldn’t even free himself from the man’s grip, let alone kill him.”
Trey shot him a bland look. “I appreciate your assessment of the situation, sir. We still need to interview him.”
The club owner was clearly working to suppress his irritation. Finally, he said, “Very well. I’ll fetch him for you.”
Not much liking the idea of one witness having the chance to coach another, Trey tried to work it so the man didn’t leave his sight. “Can’t you simply call him?”
Stelalux slid out of his seat. “There’s no extension in his room, and I don’t know his mobile number, assuming he even has a phone at all. He’s been on the streets since his family kicked him out because he’s gay.”
Trey didn’t have anything to say to that. It was still an all-too-common story. Resigned, he settled back once more. “I see. Thanks for getting him.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to help solve this unpleasantness to the extent I can. Would you care for some coffee while you wait? I bet you haven’t even had breakfast,” he added with his host expression on full display.
“We’re fine, thanks.”
“I could use a cup and maybe a doughnut if you’ve got one,” Karl countered. He shot Trey a look when he kicked him under the table. “What? I didn’t get a chance to eat.”
Stelalux smiled. “I think we can do better than that, detective. Our kitchen is open twenty-four hours. Kitty, would you please see about coffee for the gentlemen, and how about an egg sandwich on an English muffin?”
Karl perked up like a dog scenting a bone. “With cheese and bacon?”
“Absolutely.” The man appeared delighted to ply them with breakfast.
“Jesus Christ,” Trey muttered, but he knew when he was out-gunned. Maybe if he appeared to let his guard down, his witnesses-potential suspects would, too.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. You know how teenage boys can be—hard to wake.”
With that convenient warning, the club owner strode over to the elevator and disappeared inside.
Alex used the brief time riding to the fourth floor to calm his seething nerves. The humans had an expression that appeared like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Well, he’d been waiting more than half a century for his old friend and former first officer to rear his head again. The last time they’d clashed, Alex had come out on top at the cost of two men on the other side and one on his, not to mention millions of human lives lost. He was determined that this time he would suffer no loss and keep the collateral damage to a minimum. He hated killing the others, given how they’d once all been his men. But they’d fractured into two camps long ago, despite his efforts to hold them together.
Worse, the Stelanyx family couldn’t seem to just live their lives quietly. If they weren’t slaughtering humans, they harried Alex’s family for sport. Even now, apparently Dracul hadn’t learned his lesson. Alex recognized the killing on his doorstep as being the first volley in the next phase of their never-ending war on Earth. That Quinn was going to be dragged into the mess made him even more furious and the fact that it did disturbed him. Sin
ce arriving, the young human had wormed his way into Alex’s blood, quite literally. He couldn’t allow that to continue. If Dracul learned of this new vulnerability, it would end as badly as it had the last time.
He pounded his fist on his thigh as the doors slid open and he left the elevator. I will not let that happen. One human lost because of Alex’s devotion was more than enough for his conscience to bear.
He approached the boy’s door with his usual quiet tread. Humans lacked grace, clomping their way through life like boar crashing through the undergrowth, while his species moved almost silently on this planet. In fact, they were superior to humans in almost every way. Conquering them would have been all too easy, especially in the beginning when human technology was non-existent. Sometimes, when he felt weary, he wondered whether he should have taken a different path than he had. Did being morally right after all this time and so far from his own people matter?
Alex chided himself. That was fatigue talking. He knew that all he and his men had left was integrity and the chance to forge a new life that didn’t include casting aside all that they’d been taught. He stopped outside Quinn’s door and listened. The sound of the boy’s rhythmic breathing met his ears. The human was sleeping, and he hated to wake him. This was probably the first chance the boy had had in days—maybe weeks—to sleep soundly and safely.
But the cops downstairs weren’t going to leave before interviewing Quinn, so with regret, Alex knocked a couple of times. When there was no response, he did it again and called, “Quinn? Can you wake, please?”
There was a break in the breathing, indicating that the boy had woken, a rustling of cloth that invoked a sudden image of Quinn turning in bed. Is he naked under the sheets? Have my cool sheets wrapped around all the lustrous pink skin? Oh, that was a bad train of thought. Hadn’t he just reminded himself not to get attached?
“Quinn?” he called out again with less patience than he intended.
More cloth moved, feet hit the floor then padded over. A brief hesitation and the door opened. Lovely Quinn peeked out. “Alex? Is there something wrong?”
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