“Did she quit?”
“Don’t know. She would have told us bye if she quit. He probably had one of his managers fire her. Makes my skin crawl, the way he looks at you.”
“What color are his eyes?”
“Greenish, but I try not to look at his eyes.”
“Does he keep an office here?”
“I heard there’s an office above the VIP area, but I can’t say for sure it’s his.”
“How would you know if he’s here?”
“I’ve only seen him twice in the nine months I’ve worked here. There is a private entrance on the other side of the building.”
The music end. I handed her the money and closed her hand around it. “Good luck in your acting.”
“Thanks,” she said, zipping the dress up.
SIXTY-NINE
Ron and I lifted the chain from one of the stanchions on the steps and walked up a flight of stairs to the VIP area. It was darker than the main part of the club. There was a second bar with overstuffed chairs and a small stage on a Plexiglas floor. An NBA game was on one the four large plasma screens. Two men sat at the bar, nursed drinks, and seemed to be reading some kind of contract.
I said, “Let’s see what the private office looks like.”
At the door marked Private, Ron turned the handle. “Locked.”
A man large enough to be a pro linebacker came up behind us. He was dressed in a tuxedo white shirt, bowtie, and dark pants. “That’s private.” His hair was regulation boot camp, face angular, blue eyes hard. “I’m the manager. Nobody goes in there.”
Ron reached in his pocket and pulled out his badge and search warrant. “This tells me we do have a right to go in there. You have a problem with it, go discuss it with circuit court Judge Healy. Now open the door before we kick it down.”
The manager’s face was flush. “I’ll have to get the keys.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
“Downstairs.”
Ron said, “You wouldn’t tip off Santana while you’re down there, would you?”
“Who?” He turned and left.
It took me less than thirty seconds to pick the simple lock and open the door. “Sean, I see you haven’t lost your touch.”
We followed a hall covered with red carpet to another door. There was only one office, and now we stood in front of Miguel Santana’s door. My heart was pounding. Palms sweaty. I tried it. Locked. Pulling out my Glock, I whispered, “It’s show time…” I kicked hard, the heel on my shoe connecting to the left of the lock. The door popped open like a Jack-in-the-box.
We entered the office. Pistols extended.
There was a soft whirr from an ornate paddle fan in the plush office. The desk was clean. I noticed a speck of white on the ridge of a leather coach. I bent down and lifted a sliver of fingernail and said, “Let’s see if we can match this.” I dropped the fingernail into a Ziploc and slowly opened the door leading to an adjacent bathroom. It was spotless, the shower dry. I knelt down and looked at the white tile floor. In the sand-colored grout, I saw what looked like a tiny crack. I pressed the crack with the tip of my finger and the crack disappeared. On the end of my finger was an eyelash, root intact.
“Gottcha…” I said.
“What’d you find?”
“An eyelash.”
As I put the eyelash in a Ziploc, Ron looked in the open toilet. “What do we have here?” He pulled a pencil out of his coat pocket and used the tip of the eraser to lift something floating in the toilet water. “Maybe the reason Santana lost an eyelash is because he took out disposable contacts and flushed them, but this one didn’t go all the way down.” He held it in the light and uttered a slow whistle. “The stripper said he had green eyes. This contact is blue.”
“He really has eyes more on the yellowish gold side, like a cat. If you cover yellow eyes with a blue contact, what do you get?
“Green.”
I heard a noise at the door. Ron and I both spun around at the same instant, guns extended. The GI Joe manager, stood at the door. He raised his hands up. “Don’t shoot! You two crazy or what?”
I smiled lowered my Glock, and walked over to him. “I guess we did get off on the wrong foot earlier.”
“No shit. I see cops in here all the time. You guys are some of the worst womanizers.” He grinned and glanced toward Ron. It was all the time I needed. I wedged the Glock under his chin and shoved him over to the couch. “Listen very carefully, pal. You work for the world’s worse womanizer. Want to know why?”
“Huh?”
“What makes Miguel Santana, the worst womanizer is because he destroys the woman. First he destroys her dignity by beating and raping her. Then he begins with the mind and tries to end with the soul. He asphyxiates her. Want to know how she feels?” I pushed the barrel into his lips and continued, “Of course, Santana pinches the nostrils so hard she can’t breathe as he continues raping her while she’s dying beneath him. Ron, hand me the portable phone on the desk.”
I stood and kept the gun aimed at the bouncer’s round head. “You’re calling Santana. Which line on this phone is private?”
“Line six,” he coughed, the words thick.
“What’s Santana’s cell?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want to know what it’s like when the air passages from the nose are closed? Worst than drowning. What’s the number? I won’t ask you again.”
“He’s got a dozen.”
“The one you know he’ll answer.” I tossed him phone. “Dial it. When Santana answers, tell him it’s urgent and you need him here. There’s been an emergency at the club. One of the girls has been shot in the parking lot. You got it?”
He nodded and started dialing. I said, “As you dial, speak the number you’re dialing. Ron will write it down.”
“And put it on speakerphone,” Ron said.
There was one ring. “Yes,” the voice was above a whisper.
“Mr. Santana, this is Rob at the club. There’s been an emergency down here.”
“We employ managers like you to handle emergencies. What emergency?”
“A shooting, sir. Crazy ex-boyfriend shot one of the girls. We need you here.”
“That’s very odd, Rob. Because I’m watching the club online. Everything appears very normal, inside and outside. And why am I on speaker phone? I will assume it is because of the two detectives I saw in there earlier. I recognized one. Hello, Sean O’Brien. It’s been a few years. I’d heard you retired.”
The bouncer’s eyes went wide. I grabbed the phone and said, “Santana, you recognized me and I recognize your signature murders. So much so that I made a promise to one of the girls you killed. I told her I’d hunt you down.”
Santana chuckled. “Detective, if I ever should resort to violence and have to kill someone, perhaps it would be you.”
Then he was gone.
SEVENTY
After Ron had gone home for the night, I agreed to meet Special Agent Lauren Miles for a late bite and a drink. She had picked the place, Reflections on the Bay. It was more trendy and pricey for my tastes, but I was hungry and the government was buying. Earlier I’d filled her in on the events at Club Xanadu and my conversation with Santana. I had given her Santana’s cell number, and she was working with the phone company for GPS coordinates or cell tower pings.
Lauren said, “No chip and no usage. Looks like it was a throw-away phone. Nice move using the bouncer to get Santana on the phone.”
“Did you find anything else on him?”
“We don’t know the depth of his ownership in Club Xanadu, but it’s owned, or partly owned by a holding company called ShowBiz Productions. They own a half dozen clubs in Florida, one in Atlanta and one in Dallas. Looks like ShowBiz is tied to Exotic Escorts, the online escort service I mentioned. It, of course, is a front for prostitution. All the women go by aliases.”