“You didn’t call the cops?”
“I was going to . . . but the alarm never went off. I checked the system . . . it was still set. I began wondering if I was dreaming.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“No.”
“Why are you so sure?”
She fished in her purse and produced a pink cell phone. She flipped it open and pressed a few buttons to call up her text messages. She pointed to the number and then handed me the phone.
“That’s David’s cell number.”
The text read: Tonight.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“What can you do?” she asked.
“Well, the best first thing to do is go have a talk with him. See if I can convince him to back off.”
“And if he won’t?”
“I can be pretty convincing.”
“But what if he won’t? What if he’s . . . I don’t know . . . too crazy to listen to reason?”
I smiled. “Then we’ll explore other options.”
The Crypt is a big ugly building on the corner of South and Fourth in Philadelphia. Once upon a time it was a coffin factory—which I think would have been a cooler name. Less trendy and obvious. The light snow did nothing to make it look less ugly. When we pulled to the corner, Mrs. Skye pointed to a sleek, silver Lexus parked on the side street.
“That’s his.”
I jotted down the license plate and used my digital camera to take photos of it and the exterior of the building. You never know.
“Okay,” I said, “I want you to wait here. I’ll go have a talk with David and see if we can sort this out.”
“What if something happens? What if you don’t come out?”
“Just sit tight. You have a cell phone and I’ll give you the keys. If I’m not out of there in fifteen minutes, drive somewhere safe and call the name on the back of my card.” I gave her my business card. She turned it over and saw a name and number. Before she could ask, I said, “Ray’s a friend. One of my pack.”
“Another private investigator?”
“A bodyguard. I use him for certain jobs, but I don’t think we’ll need to bring him in on this. From what you’ve told me I have a pretty good sense of what to expect in there.”
As I got out my jacket flap opened and she spotted the handle of my Glock.
“You’re not . . . going to hurt him,” she asked, wide eyed.
I shook my head. “I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, Mrs. Skye. I haven’t had to pull my gun once. I don’t expect I’ll break that streak tonight.”
The breeze was coming from the west and the snow was just about done. I squinted up past the streetlights. The cloud cover was thin and I could already see the white outline of the moon. Nope, no accumulation. Typical Philly winter.
I crossed the street and tried the front door. Place didn’t do much business before late evening, but the doors were unlocked. The doors opened with an exhalation of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. There was probably an anti-smoking violation in that. Something else to use later if I needed to go the route of making life difficult for him.
It was too early for a doorman, and I walked a short hallway that was empty and painted black. Heavy black velvet curtains at the end. Cute. I pushed them aside and entered the club. Place was huge. David Skye must have taken out the second floor and knocked out everything but the retaining walls of the adjoining properties. The red and white maximum occupancy sign said that it shouldn’t exceed four hundred, but the place looked capable of taking twice that number. Bandstand was empty, so someone had put quarters in to play the tuneless junk that was beating the shit out of the woofers and tweeters. Whoever the group was on the record they subscribed to the philosophy that if you can’t play well, you should play real goddamn loud.
There were maybe twenty people in the place, scattered around at tables. A few at the bar. Everyone looked like extras from a direct-to-video vampire flick. The motif was black on black with occasional splashes of blood red. White skin that probably never saw the sun. Eyeliner and black lipstick, even on the guys. I was in jeans and a Vikings warm-up jacket. At least my sneakers and my leather porkpie hat were black. Handle of my gun was black, too, but they couldn’t see that. Better for everyone if nobody did.
The bartender was giving me the look, so I strolled over to him. He knew I wasn’t there for a beer and didn’t waste either of our time by asking.
“David Skye,” I said, having to bend forward and shout over the music.
“Badge me,” he said.
I flipped open my PI license. “Private.”
“Fuck off,” he suggested.
“Not a chance.”
“I can call the cops.”
“Bet I can have L-and-I—Licenses and Inspections—here before they show. Smoking in a public restaurant?”
Another smartass remark was on his lips, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He was paid by the hour and this had to be a slow shift for tips. I took a twenty from my wallet and put it on the bar.
“This isn’t your shit, kid,” I said. “Call your boss.”
He didn’t like it, but he took the twenty and made the call.
“He says come up.” The bartender pointed to another curtained doorway beside the bar. I gave him a sunny day smile and went inside.
There was a long hallway with bathrooms on both sides and a set of stairs at the end. I took the stairs two at a time. The stairs went straight up to his office and the door was open. I knocked anyway.
“It’s open,” he yelled. I went inside; and as I looked around I hoped like hell that the office décor was not modeled after the interior landscape of David Skye’s mind. The walls were painted a dark red, the trim was gloss black. Instead of the band posters and framed “look at who I’m shaking hands with” eight-by-tens, the walls were hung with torture devices and S-and-M clothes. Spiked harnesses, leather zippered masks, thumbscrews, photos from Abu Graib, diagrams of dissected bodies. A full-sized rack occupied one corner of the room and an iron maiden stood in the other, one door open to reveal rows of tarnished metal spikes. The only other furniture was a big desk made from some dark wood, a black file cabinet, and the leather swivel chair in which David Skye sat. He wore a black poet’s shirt, leather wristbands, and a smile that was already belligerent.
“The fuck are you and the fuck you want?”
The man was a charmer. I could just taste the charisma his wife had mentioned flowing like sweetness from his pores.
I flipped my ID case open. “We need to have a chat. It can be friendly or not. Your call.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
So much for friendly.
“That whore send you?” he demanded.
I smiled but didn’t answer.
He had a handsome face, but his wife was right when she said that he’d lost weight. His skin looked thin and loose, and he had the complexion of a mushroom. More gray than white.
“Did my wife send you?” he said, pronouncing the words slowly as if I’d come here on the short bus.
“Why would your ex-wife send me?”
His eyes flickered for a second at “ex-wife.” I strolled across the room and stood in front of his desk. He didn’t get up; neither of us offered a hand to the other.
“She makes up stories,” he said.
“What kind of stories?”
“Bullshit. Lies. Says I slapped her around.”
“Who’d she say that to?”
He didn’t answer. He did, however, give me the ninja secret death stare, but I manned my way through it.