Beyond the glass front doors, a car has pulled up to the curb. A black town car. Identical to the one that Rex Roy left in at the gravesite. Identical to the one that brought me home on Wednesday night.
Maybe this visit wasn’t such a waste after all.
I walk out of Club Empire and around to the driver’s side of the car. The driver rolls down the window as I approach. Shaved head, thick neck. Looks like a bouncer. He’s the same man who brought me home the night I was attacked.
“Ms. Ramos,” he greets me. Between him and the receptionist, it’s jarring to be recognized on sight. “You’re looking for me?”
“Yes.” I hold up my badge. “I have questions for you.”
He hits a button, and the back door pops open. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride, and we can talk.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Henri, but he’s disappeared.
The driver smirks. “You’ll get home safe. I swear on my job.”
I slide into the backseat. The leather holds the faint scent of cologne, the cedar scent I’ve come to associate with Rex Roy. I fight the urge to close my eyes and fall into the memory of our club scenes.
Instead, I glare at the rearview mirror as the driver pulls the car from the curb.
“Ivan Petrov. Nice to meet you.” He has a thick Bronx accent, but the tattoos peeking above his collar look Bratva.
“Where’d you get those tattoos?”
“Prison,” he answers easily. “That was before I got this job. I’m straight now.”
“Where were you Monday night?” The night Gregory Martin was killed.
“At home. In bed.”
“What about Wednesday night? After you witnessed the attack.”
“Same thing as Monday. After I gave my statement to the police, I headed home for some shut-eye. Same as you.” He shrugs in an attempt to show solidarity for that dumpster fire of a night.
I keep my expression blank. “Can anyone corroborate this?”
“My girlfriend.” He grimaces. “Not much of an alibi, I know. But I have my drive logs. And my employer saw me.”
“Your employer?” I get a sinking feeling even before he states the name.
“Mr. Rex Roy. I’m officially employed by Roy Enterprises, but I’m his personal driver.”
Of course he is. Rex has his fingerprints all over this case and my life. I sag back in the seat.
To his credit, Ivan doesn’t look triumphant. He lets the silence stretch between us, letting the car idle at a traffic light. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
“Does Mr. Roy often hire you to take women home?”
He holds up a hand. “Before we continue, I’d like to make it clear. I won’t talk about my employer. He’s a good man.”
The conviction in his voice hits me in the gut. “He’s a prime suspect in the murders of three men.”
Ivan doesn’t bat an eye at this. “I won’t speak against him. But I do have orders to tell you what you want to know.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes.” He stops at a light and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Mr. Roy made it very clear I was to help you in any way I can.”
The bastard. “Then tell me. How many other people has Rex Roy hired you to drive from Club Empire?”
