Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

The parking lot was well lit and, thankfully, there was no tree cover, just a chain-link fence. There. The Jag was parked in a corner on the far right.

Bryson looked past the Jag to Lansdowne Street. The dingy area – horse barns at the turn of the century that were later converted to warehouses – was now home to a string of popular bars and dance clubs set up inside brick buildings. Lines of young men and women stood behind velvet ropes in the freezing cold, waiting for the bouncers to usher them through.

'What the hell is he doing down here?' Watts asked.

Good question, Bryson thought. The Jag door opened.

Malcolm Fletcher was dressed in a dark wool overcoat. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like a character from The Matrix. He didn't look around, just shut the door and jogged across the street.

The people in line stared at him, wondering if he was some sort of celebrity. He stepped up to a bouncer with a big, round head. The bouncer leaned forward to listen.

Bryson read the sign above the door: Instant Karma.

'I can't believe it,' Watts said. 'The son of a bitch is going dancing.'

Bryson's phone rang as he watched the bouncer pull back the velvet rope to let Fletcher pass.

'You think he spotted us?' Lang asked.

'If he did, the smart move would have been to try to shake us off,' Bryson said. 'He wouldn't lead us to a dance club. Have you ever been inside Instant Karma?'

'Hitting the clubs isn't my scene any more. I'm way too old.'

'We broke up an ecstasy ring about two years ago. The bottom level connects to other clubs. I'm going to head inside with Watts. I want you to coordinate the surveillance. Who else is with you?'

'Martinez and Washington,' Lang said. 'Tim, this guy attacked three federal agents.'

'He did it in the privacy of his own home, and he took his sweet time. Move your boys to the front. There's an alley around the back, near the fire exits. Park there. I'll escort Fletcher out through the alley.'

From the glove compartment Bryson pulled out a surveillance rig – an earpiece and lapel mike with encryption that allowed him to keep in constant communication with his team without the possibility of eavesdropping.

'I'll contact you once I'm inside,' Bryson said.

A small, portable Sony radio shaped like a bubble was set up on the floor. A cassette was playing, the reels going around and around as a woman screamed in pain.

Not wanting to disturb any fingerprints, Darby used the tip of her pen to press the player's stop button. The only sound she heard was the wind howling above her.

The remains resting against the debris were skeletonized; no muscle or skin. All that was left were bones inside women's clothing: jeans, a black shirt and a long winter jacket covered in dust. The jeans were bundled down around the ankles, the white underwear inside them stained black with dried blood.

Darby peeled back the jacket to reveal a lab coat with 'Sinclair Hospital' embroidered on the breast pocket.

A grey winter scarf was wrapped around the woman's neck. Strips of duct tape had been used to secure the wrists and ankles.

Behind the skull was a hair mat – long, blonde hair covered in dust. The skull, with its sharp eye orbits, tapered chin and smooth cranium, were that of a female. The vertical teeth confirmed that the woman was Caucasian.

There were no breaks on the skull to indicate a head injury. Hopefully Carter, the state's forensic anthropologist, would be able to determine a cause of death. That wasn't always the case with skeletal remains.

Darby found maggot husks scattered inside the remains. Entomology would use the husks to pinpoint the time of death. She wondered how long the remains had been here.

A red purse lay next to the body. Darby looked inside. The purse was empty. She checked the jean pockets. Empty.

Darby moved the beam of her tactical light around the area. It was impossible to tell what this place was. 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.