“How is that possible?” Mary said. “You said you were an item.”
“She was very private. I wouldn’t hear from her for long stretches of time. Weeks. She wouldn’t return my calls. Then she’d reappear and act like she’d never been gone.”
Mary drank the rest of her Bud Light.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Mary said.
“Awhile ago,” DeLoof answered. “I can’t remember when. I was at a party, a pretty crazy one thrown by a director who’d just signed a three-picture deal with New Line.”
DeLoof’s eyes got a bit wistful.
“And?” Mary said.
“And Nina was there. With Trey and Vince. And let me tell you something, Nina was totally fucked up. Not on booze, either.”
“Was she high on life?” Mary said.
“Not hardly,” he said with a scoff.
Mary nodded.
“Thanks for the Bud,” she said and let herself out.
29
Twenty-nine
Mary watched as Trey Williams left the offices of Global Talent Management in his silver Porsche 911.
She followed him down Ocean until he turned up Santa Monica Boulevard. Williams seemed to enjoy flooring the Porsche whenever he could, and Mary had a hard time keeping up.
He eventually turned onto Beverly Glen, then followed that into Bel Air before taking a side street and pulling up in front of a two-story building sheathed in polished metal. Probably aluminum. It was mostly painted black and had the faux grunge look Mary despised.
The word “Styx” was painted diagonally across the front of the building.
Mary parked two blocks away, made her way back to the club, and went inside.
It took her a moment to adjust to the darkness. Once her eyes could make out shapes, she immediately recognized the trees. Mary then understood why it was so dark.
Everything, including the trees, was painted black.
The trees were black. Black leather chairs and black wood tables were gathered in intimate alcoves, in front of black marble fireplaces with actual wood fires burning. The orange flames were the only non-black items in the whole place.
Through the middle of the club’s floor ran a river of black water.
Hence, the river Styx.
Yes, Mary thought. The line between Earth and Hell. Hmm. She’d crossed that line a few times already.
Mary made her way to the bar, a long, black object manned by a woman dressed all in black with a pale face and heavy, black eyeliner.
“Top ‘o the day to you, Miss,” Mary said, sliding onto one of the black leather bar stools.
The woman said nothing, but slid a coaster in front of Mary.
“Even though I’m tempted to order a Black Russian, let’s go with a bottle of Heineken.”
The bartender nodded, popped the top, and slid the beer in front of Mary. Mary slid a ten across the bar.
“All set,” she said.
The long mirror behind the bar gave Mary a glimpse of Trey Williams as he sat at one of the little seating arrangements in front of a roaring fire.
He had a mixed drink in front of him and was chatting on his phone.
Mary wondered if he was planning on meeting someone here and, if so, who that person might be.
An agent in Hollywood never wanted to be seen eating, drinking, or simply being, alone. They had to always be seen as a social butterfly. So she knew that the longer Williams sat there by himself, the less happy he would be about it.
Mary finished her beer, checked her own phone, and ordered another beer. She had no messages, no emails, no missed phone calls.
She had to get a life one of these days.
The spooky bartender placed another beer in front of Mary. After she paid her, Mary looked at the mirror and saw Williams heading toward the restrooms, which were down a little hallway to the left of the bar.
Mary took a moment to send a text to Jake, telling him that unless he answered pretty damn soon she was going to strip him of his manhood, literally, and have it mounted above her fireplace.
Hey, she knew a good taxidermist who wouldn’t charge her too much for the job.
It would probably cost the same as having a small perch mounted.
Mary put her phone away, checked the table Williams had taken, saw it was empty, and glanced toward the men’s room.
The door was just closing, and Mary saw the back of a man headed for the front door of the club.
Something about the way he walked seemed familiar to Mary. Suddenly, she got a bad feeling in her stomach.
She got off the barstool, went to the men’s room, and knocked on the door.
There was no answer.
Mary slid the.45 from her shoulder holster and pushed her way into the restroom.
“Cleaning service. . anyone here?” Mary said.
The room was empty.
Except for the pair of feet visible in the far stall. Mary walked toward it.
She noticed a small pool of liquid near the feet. And that the pool was growing larger.
She reached the stall and nudged it open with her foot.
Trey Williams sat on the toilet seat, slumped back, his chin on his chest. A neat bullet hole was perfectly centered on his forehead. Mary quickly left the men’s room and walked to the front door of the club.
Down the street, she saw the back end of a black Chevy Tahoe turn the corner.
30
Thirty
Jake awoke in the dark with the kind of headache that not even the nastiest hangover had ever approached.
The pain was at once blinding and mind-shattering. He couldn’t lift his head. It hurt to breathe.
He had no idea how long it took him to work up the courage to simply lift his head, but once he did, the pain actually diminished.
Next up, opening the eyes.
He tried one, then the other.
It was dark, but there was a faint light beneath the door to whatever room he was in.
At last, he let himself take a long, deep breath. The pain was still there, but —
He heard more breathing, but not his own.
For the thousandth time on this undercover job, he desperately wished he had a gun with him.
The breathing had stopped, but he was sure he’d heard it. He couldn’t see anything. Was there a vague shape to his left? A person?
“Who’s there?” he said.
Silence.
Jake fought down the panic that wanted to overtake him.
“I know you’re there. Who are you?”
Silence. And then a long exhale.
“My name is Nina,” the voice said.
31
Thirty-one
Mary saw the unmarked detective’s car idling outside her office.
Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it was maybe, finally, Jake. She would hug him, kiss him, then kick him in the gonads. Repeatedly.
Mary approached the car and just about vomited when Lieutenant Arianna Davies, “the Shark,” exited the car and faced Mary.
The woman was dressed like always: dark slacks, a dark shirt, and skin so pale Mary was certain the Zombie Apocalypse had begun.
“I need a minute, Cooper,” Davies said.
“You need a lot more than that,” Mary said. “A better embalmer for starters.”
Mary watched as the woman ignored her. Arianna Davies was tall, extremely thin, and had jet black hair.