William Diehl - Seven ways to die

Almost on cue, the phone rang. Hue fielded the call and nodded to Cody. “It’s Butch.”

Cody answered it. “Yeah. Where? Okay stay on top of it, call me when you get something.” He signed off and turned to Stinelli. “Ryan says they may have nailed down a spot. They’re scoping it out now.”

“A sex club?”

Cody nodded.

“Amazing,” Kate said.

“It’s what they do,” Cody said. “Nothing sets off their adrenalin like the old needle in a haystack.”

Stinelli shook his head. “Christ, how are you going to keep this one under wraps, Micah? Victor Stembler? Hell, Handley might as well be the mayor’s son-in-law.”

“Victor Stembler doesn’t want the details to leak out.”

“He almost fainted when he came over and made the official ID,” Kate said.

“So far he’s the only one who knows exactly what happened. We treat it as a break-in that went sour. A case in progress. Everybody stays mum as usual.”

“How about the autopsy?”

“Nothing on paper yet.”

“And McKeown? It’s his precinct.”

“He’s working with us. Some of his people are doing the door-to-doors with Frank. He’ll file a normal report with the generic stuff. Name, address, occupation, blah, blah…”

“How about cause of death?”

“Possible homicide during a break-in. He’ll just drop it in the box. No press conference or any of that. He’ll treat it as a normal homicide.”

“A normal homicide. There’s an oxymoron. And you also got that guy Hamilton dogging you about the Cramer murder.”

“Out of town. I’ll worry about that Monday.”

“Sometimes you make me nervous, Micah.”

“Ah, come on, boss. Keeps us on our toes.”

Stinelli shook his head and looked back at the board.

“Y’know what? I’m not even sure what the hell we’re lookin' for,” DeMarco said as the three cops stood under one of the larger trees in the area behind the theater.

It was a pleasant spot but cramped, hardly wider than a city street, its trees and buildings blocking the sounds of the city.

“What were you expecting, a marquee?” Ryan said.

In this quiet island midst the bustling streets, someone had hung a child’s swing from a branch of the tree which struck Ryan as odd considering the licentious nature of the club they were seeking. Huddled in Ansa’s Yankees jacket, which was draped over his shoulders, he sat down on the swing and looked around.

“A marquee would be a help,” said Ansa, staring at the backs of apartments, stores, and the theater.

“Yeah,” DeMarco said with a sweep of his hand. “A big red neon arrow, blinkin’ on and off: ‘Get laid here.’”

Several of the buildings had staircases leading down to rear entrances and there was a deck behind the theater with stairs leading down to their level. The back door opened and a tiny, dark-haired girl who appeared to be in her early twenties came out. She was dressed in a white gossamer dress with wings attached to it. She huddled against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“I got an idea,” Ryan said.

“Aw hell, here we go again,” DeMarco shook his head.

“Just bear with me.”

Ryan climbed the stairs to the deck and gave the young woman his fifty-dollar smile.

“Hi,” he said, looking over the costume. “Halloween party?”

She rolled her eyes. “This is a theater. We’re like doing Midsummer Night’s Dream. ”

“Shakespeare, huh. Who are you playing?”

“Just a walk-on.” Her eyes narrowed a hair as she looked past him at his partners. “I’m one of the fairies.”

“No kidding,” he said. “What’re you gonna do, wave your wand and change me into a warthog?”

“Now there’s a clever pick-up line,” she answered, still squinting over his shoulder at DeMarco and Ansa checking doorways. She looked back at Ryan who was still grinning.

“What are you three up to?” she asked cautiously. “Looks y’know like you’re casing the place or something?”

“In a manner of speaking. We’re looking for a club. Private place. We heard it was back here.”

She sighed and took a drag on her cigarette, turning her head when she exhaled.

“You don’t look the type,” she said with a pinch of arsenic in her tone.

“What type would that be?”

“C’mon.” She looked him over. “Anyway, from what I hear you’ll fail the dress code. The Yank’s jacket alone’ll do you in.”

“How come?”

“Mink coat society.” A shiver wove through her body and she dropped the cigarette in a sand-filled pot nearby.

“Gotta leave,” she said. “I’m like freezing.”

Ryan took off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders with the back facing him.

“Here,” he said. “This won’t squash your wings.”

“So what do you need that kind of thing for anyway? Good looking guy like you.”

“Thank you. That is a great pick-up line. Only…” He took out his I.D. wallet and flashed his gold badge. “We’re working.”

“Oh, m’gosh,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh please don’t bust the place until after rehearsal, okay? Our director’s a real ninny. He’ll like pitch a squirrel.”

“Pitch a squirrel?”

“He y’know totally loses it over anything? You go up on a line? Boom! He’s like a squirrel you just stepped on its tail.”

“I get it.”

“Anyway, you’re way early. Things don’t get started until like ten, ten-thirty?”

“Where is it?”

She nodded toward a staircase leading down to a door at the end of the tiny square.

“What do you know about the place?”

“Just what some of the kids hear. Some of them leave this way and short cut over to Christopher.”

“What do they hear?”

“It’s mainly uptowners and they, uh, y’know…uh, like to, uh…trade partners?”

“Sex club.”

“Well…uh huh, I guess. There’s this bartender named Warren? Should be there now. He comes early to supervise the cleanup crew.”

“You know him?”

“By sight. Some of the kids have talked to him but he won’t like talk about the club.”

“Does it have a name?”

“I think it’s called the Yellow Door.”?

Ryan put his thumb over the peephole in the door and DeMarco knocked on it and they waited.

A minute went by. Two. Three. DeMarco knocked again, this time with a little more authority. They waited again. Then Ansa appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask only it was bright red with spangles around the edge.

“This must be da place,” he said.

“You cover the peephole this time,” Ryan said taking out his badge. “I’ll do the knocking.” He stepped back and kicked the door hard with the toe of his boot. Another minute and a muffled voice inside asked, “Who is it?”

“The Dumpster guy, Warren,” Ryan said. “Open up, we got a problem.”

Inside, the chain clinked, the deadbolt was drawn and a key turned the door lock. The door opened a couple of inches. Warren, startled speechless, backed up as Ryan shoved it open and they walked into a small anteroom with a yellow door facing them. To their left was a heavy door with a thick glass window and a small slot in it. To their right a narrow hallway curved around into darkness.

“You need a warrant,” Warren said so fast the words ran together. He was a short man, five-six, with reddish-brown hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with “It’s my attitude and I like it” printed across the front. “That’s the law,” he added.

“You know what this is?” Ryan asked, holding his badge an inch from Warren’s face.

Warren stared at it for a moment, nodded, and said, “I have to call my boss.”