“He had a break a little before one,” she said. “That’s all I know.”
Lie. Or half a lie. There was a difference—and it mattered. Before he could press her, a voice drifted from the back, a drawl laced with mockery.
“He didn’t leave alone. He never does.”
Rick and Frank both turned as a young man sauntered out of the back room shadows. Lean, handsome, strung together with cheap jewelry and cheaper bravado. His jeans and mesh shirt clung to a body that knew it was meant to be looked at.
“Why don’t you shut your trap?” the bartender snapped, her hands curling into fists.
The boy—another dancer, no doubt—grinned lazily and twirled a keyring around one finger. “Just telling the truth, Tess. You know it.”
“I know you’re a jealous prick,” Tess muttered. Her stare could have cut glass.
Rick straightened.Show no bias. Let the rats eat each other, and you’ll see who crawls out first.“And you are?” he asked.
“Cody Grant,” the dancer said, dragging his gaze over Rick, lingering a beat too long. “But you can call me anything you like, handsome.” His mouth curled into a slow, filthy smile.
Frank snorted under his breath, but the flirt slid off Rick like water. He’d dealt with better charmers and worse liars. He let it pass without reaction, the way you’d sidestep a puddle in the street.
Frank moved them along before Cody could push it further. “Tell us what you saw, Mr. Grant.”
Cody shrugged, loose and slippery. “Oh, it was the usual. Ash danced. Picked someone he liked from the crowd. Slipped out with him.” His grin widened. “Same story every night.”
Tess muttered a curse under her breath and spun away to slam another bottle into place. Rick let the silence stretch.
“You get a good look at the guy?” Frank pressed gently.
Cody scratched at his neck. A tell, or a genuine sign of thought? Rick couldn’t be sure. The boy’s pulse was even, steady. “Nah,” he said. “Not really. He had one of those faces, you know? White, mid-forties, maybe. Real sharp suit. Didn’t see him before. Seemed… outta place.” He shrugged again, like he couldn’t be bothered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rick caught the subtle shift in Tess’s posture, small but loaded. She knew more. Maybe a lot more. If she was working last night, she might’ve been the one who served the man his drinks.
“And Mr. Hunter,” Rick said, returning his focus to the boy, “did he seem… off?”
Cody’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of being listened to. He leaned in. “Ash always seems off. That’s kinda his thing. Makes the mob crazy.”
Tess snorted in the background, her disgust painting the air thicker than the club’s old smoke. “You’re just pissed ‘cause Ash pulls better tips without even trying.”
Cody smirked. “And you’re still hoping he’ll fuck you if you’re nice enough.” His voice sharpened, ugly beneath the sweetness. “Newsflash, honey: he won’t. He’s all about the dick.”
Tess glared at him like she wanted to set him on fire with sheer willpower.
Rick let the argument flare without interruption. People said truer things when they were mad. He caught Frank’s eye—a shared understanding—and turned back to the witnesses. “If youthink of anything else,” he said, sliding two cards across the bar, “give me a call.”
Cody snatched one up, spinning it between his fingers. “Don’t mind if I do, hot stuff.”
Tess picked up the other one like it was coated in acid. “Right,” she said flatly. “Sure.” Rick figured that card wouldn’t make it ten feet past the trash can.
He nodded once, the conversation dead in the water, and looked around the room. “We’ll need to speak to your boss,” he said. “Is he around?”
“Upstairs,” Tess said, jerking her chin toward the spiral staircase at the far edge of the hall. “Knock yourselves out.”
As he and Frank climbed, the stairs groaning under their shoes, Rick caught the muted whispers Tess and Cody exchanged, the kind of argument they didn’t want on the record. Something told him neither one had told them everything. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Five
(12:38 p.m.)
The cell was a concrete reliquary of old sins and older decay, painted in the stark chiaroscuro of a single naked lightbulb fixed on a cracked ceiling. Shadows bloomed in the corners, not so much cast asbred, like fungi in a damp grave. There were no windows, no clocks, only the timeless, ruinous ache of confinement. Day or night might have passed beyond the bolted door, but Ash floated between them, unmoored, counting heartbeats and the steady drip-drip of a leaking pipe somewhere down the silent corridor. The sound of a wound trying to remember how to bleed.
