He slowed, took their measure. Wide as chest freezers, sure, but shorter than him by a good inch or two, and not as fit, their bulk as much beef as it was thew. Together, they made the hallway feel narrower than it was, a chokehold waiting to happen.
One of them stepped forward, eyes flat and unblinking. “This is a private area. Staff only. Beat it.”
Rick kept walking until he stood toe-to-toe with the guy, close enough to smell the aftershave and ego. “That a fact?”
The twin didn’t flinch, but his fingers flexed, itching, maybe hoping for trouble.
Frank stepped up beside Rick, flashing his badge. “We’re with the department.”
“No one said nothin’ ‘bout cops,” the other twin cut in. “Boss is busy.”
Rick smiled without warmth. “If we waited for an invite, half the crooks in Calgrave would be on vacation.”
From inside the office, a voice barked: “What’s going on out there?”
“Detectives Slade and Burton, CMPD,” Rick called. “Got a few questions.”
A pause thickened, taut with smoke and tension. Then the voice oiled itself into something smooth and welcoming. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Let ‘em in, boys. Don’t be rude.”
The twins exchanged a look, then grudgingly peeled aside like stage curtains.
Rick nodded once and strode past them, calm and unbothered.
The office could have passed for a banker’s den: tufted club chairs, a gleaming liquor cart, polished brass fixtures. Daylight sliced past Venetian blinds, striping the walls and the flabby man behind the desk in stark, broken bands.
“Forgive Tito and Nino,” he said, leaning forward. “They can be a bit overzealous at times.” He was bald, short, with a thin mustache, a sharp pinstripe suit, and the calculating gleam in his wet-stone eyes. A cigar smoldered between his chunky fingers, trailing smoke in lazy spirals.
“You the owner of the club?” Rick asked.
“In the flesh,” the man drawled, gold cufflinks flashing when he tipped back in his big leather chair. His smile was all pearly teeth and bad faith. “Was wonderin’ when you boys’d come sniffin’ around. Name’s Vincent Rossi, but you can call me Vinny.” He gestured lazily at the chairs across from him. “Have a seat.”
Rick stepped closer but remained standing. Frank closed the door behind them with a soft click. Let Vinny feel caged in. Ricklogged the gleam of sweat at the man’s temples, the faint tremor threading through his pulse, the metallic tang of hidden fear. Charm on the surface, animal distrust underneath.
“We appreciate your time, Mr. Rossi,” Frank said, laying it on smooth.
Vinny flicked ash into a heavy crystal ashtray and chuckled, low and hollow. “Always happy to help the officers of the law.”
Rick almost snorted, glancing around. The walls were crowded with framed photos—Vinny grinning among beautiful boys and big money, always at the center, always the king. No cameras. No microphones. At least none obvious.
Vinny puffed on the cigar and exhaled a drifting cloud. “So. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Rick wandered the room slowly, soaking all the details in. The slow jazz from downstairs curled around him, soft as gossamer. “Ash Hunter. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
Vinny’s grin faltered, just a hairline crack. “Yeah, Tess told me he got hauled in. Messy business.” He smoothed his tie, the gesture too precise to be casual. “I sent my lawyer as soon as I heard. We’ll get him sorted.”
Rick didn’t miss the wording. A boss who sent his personal attorney at two in the morning either cared a hell of a lot… or needed Ash back onstage before the weekend crowds.
“When did he start working for you?” Frank chipped in.
Vinny scratched his chin, ratty eyes skittering. “Been about five years now. Found him in the slums by the Blue Bridge, half-starved and turning tricks just to eat. Homeless, living in squalor with hookers and junkies. Didn’t even blink when I pulled up. Just stared at me, calm as anything, like he already knew I’d stop.”
Rick felt something shift, low in his gut. The Blue Bridge. A slab of concrete where dispossessedkids sold themselves forwarmth and strangers’ coins. He tried to picture Ash there: hollow-cheeked, bone-thin, with that same melancholic gaze he’d worn in the interrogation room. It didn’t fit—and somehow, that made it worse.
Vinny chuckled, the sound slick and oily. “I knew right then he was gonna be a star. The kid had that glow. That hunger. Like the world owed him something, and he meant to collect.”
Glow.Rick’s eyes narrowed. Was that just a figure of speech, or had Vinny seen it too, the way Ash’s irises caught the light like wet mercury? He said nothing.
The nightclub owner took an unhurried drag from his cigar, smoke wreathing his face. “So I gave him a shot. Offered him a job, a stage, and thirty percent. Kid didn’t even flinch. Looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Forty. I’ll make it worth your while.’ Next thing I knew, I had him signed—and now he’s my headliner. You ever seen him dance? Jesus. He’s art. Brings in more dough than the rest of ‘em combined. Girls, guys, everyone. Even the damn bartender tips him.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers, embers shifting but never falling. “Kid’s got a past, sure. But a killer?” He shook his head, tone turning grave. “Not a chance. He still gives half his earnings to the beggars he used to live among. Now you tell me, does that sound like a murderer?”
