Mountains of debris covered crushed hallways and doors. There was no ceiling. Looking past the missing floors, all the way to the roof, she saw the night sky.
Malcolm Fletcher didn't crawl through the vent. He must have come through one of these doorways. To do that, he would have to be familiar with the layout of the basement.
Darby took out her cell phone, relieved when she got a signal.
Her first call was to Tim Bryson. When he didn't answer, she left a message and called Coop.
'I'm inside Sinclair – I'll explain everything when you get here,' Darby said. 'Have you met the two new guys who are working in ID?'
'Mackenzie and Phillips,' Coop said.
'Which one of them is slim and small?'
'That would be Phillips. He's very slim because he watches his girlish figure.'
'Tell him to dress warm and to wear old clothes. It's dirty as hell in here, and I ripped my coat. I'll tell the security people to expect you.'
Darby looked back to the remains. The fear was gone, swallowed by the exhilaration of this new discovery buried deep in the earth. The bouncer who let Fletcher bypass the waiting line had a young face – he was no older than twenty-five, Bryson guessed. Judging by the rolls under the young man's chin, most of the muscle had turned to fat.
Bryson flashed his badge and moved the young man away from the other bouncers.
'Don't be alarmed, you're not in trouble,' Bryson said. 'I just want talk to you alone for a moment. What's your name?'
'Stan Dalton.'
'The guy with the sunglasses you just let in, what did he say to you?'
'He didn't say anything, he just showed me his executive card and I let him through.'
'Executive card?'
'If you're willing to pony up a grand a year, you can apply for an executive card which means you get to bypass the waiting line. You also get free valet service and access to the VIP area with your own waitress and tab.'
'I'm assuming there's a security checkpoint past the front doors.'
'Every place has one.'
'Okay, Stanley, you're going to escort me past the security checkpoint, and then you're going to come back out here and do your job. You're not going to tell anyone about our conversation. Once I'm inside, you're not to get on the horn and call your boss. The guy I'm watching, I don't want to spook him. I need to play this nice and cool. If I go in there and find security hovering all over him, you're going to have a permanent problem with the IRS.'
The front doors opened to a hall blasting heat and techno music pounding behind black walls. Across from the coat check-in room was a security checkpoint consisting of two men with serious expressions holding metal- detection wands to frisk the patrons.
Stan Dalton had a private conversation with the security boys. They nodded and let them into the club without having to go through the ordeal of being frisked.
The dance club seemed like a party taking place in hell. Pounding techno music blasting from speakers, boom-boom-boom, the dance floor packed with pretty young women wearing revealing tank tops and half-shirts showing off their surgically enhanced tits and flat stomachs, tight pants hugging the sweet curves of their asses as they jumped and gyrated under mirrored disco balls, boom-boom-boom, hands waving in the oppressively hot air smelling of sweat and perfume and sex, hands holding drinks, bodies grinding together, men with girls, girls with girls, men with men, boom-boom-boom, everyone happy, smiling, drunk and high.
Set up in the corners, below the laser lights, were cages holding dancing girls in bikinis. One cage held two young muscular men dressed in black bikini briefs, their tanned, perfectly sculpted bodies glistening with oil and glitter to reflect the lasers and coloured lights. Bryson looked away, disgusted, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling where plasma TVs played music videos.
A bar was set up to his right. The counter was covered with Plexiglas, bright white lighting beneath it. Waitresses wearing black leather pants and matching bikini tops placed drinks on their trays and hustled off to a roped-off area behind the bar crammed with black leather couches and chairs – the VIP area. Malcolm Fletcher, still wearing his black-lens sunglasses, stood next to a jaw-dropping young woman wearing a tight black dress. She was tall and had long, dark red hair. She looked like Darby McCormick.
The woman whispered something in Fletcher's ear, then walked away.
A moment later Fletcher stood and followed, swallowed inside the crowd of gyrating bodies and groping hands.
Christ, where did he go? Bryson looked around the club. The techno music was deafening. One song blended into the next, boom-boom-boom, that same hideous beat playing over and over again, vibrating inside his chest.
There; there he was, standing on the opposite side of the dance floor with the redhead, who was talking to a security guard, a pissed-off looking gentleman sporting a long goatee and a lot of jailhouse tattoos inked on both forearms.
The guard nodded and stepped aside. The woman opened a door marked 'Private'. Fletcher followed.
55
So that's why you came here, Tim Bryson thought. Fletcher was heading downstairs to get laid. Perfect.
Bryson put on his earpiece. The lapel mike was already in place.
'Lang, can you hear me?'
'I hear you.'
'Stand by,' Bryson said as he pushed his way through the dance floor.
The bouncer guarding the door marked 'Private' put his hand out and asked for a password. Bryson flashed the badge and had to scream above the music to tell the guy with the goatee not to let anyone else down here.
Bryson descended the black-painted stairwell in the dim light, the shit music shut off by the thick metal door but the same hideous beat pounding inside his head, boom-boom-boom, Watts running behind him. No doors, the stairs kept leading down and down, Christ, how deep was this place buried?
Six flights of stairs and here was an archway leading into a room with a marble floor. Aquarium tanks were built into the walls, packed with bright coral and colourful fish. Standing behind a podium much like the kind in restaurants where they took your dinner reservation was a tall man with a shaved head. He was dressed in a black suit and silver tie.
'Good evening, gentlemen.'
Bryson looked to his right, to a change room with lockers. White terrycloth robes were neatly folded on the shelves.
The man with the shaved head smiled. 'You must be new. Welcome. My name is Noah. You can change into your robes or, if you prefer, you can go directly to a private room. Let me see what's available.' He looked down at the podium. 'Room sixty-two is available. Shall I give you a key? Or would you like to enjoy the bathhouse first?'
Bryson flashed his credentials. Noah cleared his throat.
'Officers, this is a private establishment. Our members pay for their -'
'I'm interested in only one member, a tall man with black-tinted sunglasses,' Bryson said. 'He came through here a few minutes ago with a redhead. Where did they go?'
'They requested a private room – room thirty-three.'
'Is it locked?'
'I would imagine so.'
'Do you have a spare key?'
'It's in the back office. Give me a moment.' Noah disappeared behind a black curtain. Watts followed.
