Brian Freeman - Stripped

Sometimes nothingness was a blessing.

In the Limelight showroom, Blake blinked. He had been gone for too long, not concentrating. The memories did that to him. He blamed it on the seduction of Claire’s voice, which was somehow both lazy and still as sharp as a razor blade on his wrist.

Focus, he thought to himself.

Amira.

Blake had to move quickly. He had been to Claire’s show several times, and he knew there were three songs left in her second set. He had to go now or risk getting caught in the sweaty mass of fans elbowing their way for the exits. In a few minutes, he could use the chaos of the crowd to spring Claire loose from the blanket of security protecting her.

He knew how to do that. With Claire’s help.

When she finished her next song, a searing cover of Mindy Smith’s “One Moment More,” Blake stood up during the applause and picked his way through the tables to the nearest door. He wore a sport coat, shirt and tie, jeans, and dress shoes. Back in the casino, he stubbed out his cigarette at one of the slot machines and proceeded to the glass doors that led to the parking lot. He surveyed the small lot quickly. The Boulder Strip was on his left, and a two-way middle lane in the lot led to a series of rows where the cars parked diagonally. His own brown sedan was in the rear, where he could jump the divider and head straight to the highway.

A plainclothes cop was leaning on the hood of a red Caprice Classic near the middle lane, eyeing the people who came and went from the casino. Blake felt their eyes meet and experienced a moment’s uneasiness, wondering if the man recognized him. With a friendly nod, Blake sauntered past him, heading for his sedan. He didn’t look back, but he listened carefully for the sound of footsteps following him. None did.

He got in his car and took out his cell phone. He waited ten minutes until he saw people flowing out of the casino, exiting the showroom, then dialed a number. Claire answered immediately. Even when she was talking, not singing, he loved her voice.

“This is Detective Jonathan Stride,” he told her. “I work with Serena.”

He could hear her breathing and imagined her still flushed from the show. “I see,” she said calmly.

“We need to get you out of there right away, Claire.”

“Where’s Serena?” she asked. “I thought the two of you were coming to pick me up.”

Blake frowned. He didn’t have much time and had to think quickly. “Serena’s tied up. We don’t think we should wait. I’m outside in the casino parking lot now. It’s a red Caprice Classic in the second row. The sooner you can get here, the better.”

“Is that safe?”

“We’ll have people watching your every move.” He added, “Candidly, if this guy is here, we want to flush him out, not scare him away.”

“In other words, you want to put me on a hook and let me wriggle like a worm?” she asked.

Blake smiled. “Something like that”

Claire waited a few beats before replying. “Okay. If that’s how you guys want to play it I’ll see you in five minutes.”

Stride pulled into the crowded porte cochere in front of the Limelight. He drove past the convoy of cabs and parked at an angle on the sidewalk.

“The show’s out,” he said.

They got out of the Bronco. Stride used his shield to wave off a valet, and they marched inside, pushing past people who were on their way into the hot night air.

“Are you sure about this?” Serena asked him.

Stride knew what she meant. Sawhill had suggested that Claire stay with them while they hunted Blake. He thought: Sure about letting Claire into their home? Sure about letting her seduce his girlfriend in front of his face? No, he wasn’t sure.

“We need to babysit her,” Stride said. “Sawhill’s right. It’ll be easiest to do it at our place.”

“I didn’t think she’d agree,” Serena said. “She’s pretty independent.”

“It must be your charm,” Stride told her, and watched Serena flush.

The showroom was almost empty. Waitresses were gathering half-empty wineglasses and wet napkins from the tables. Serena flagged down Cordy, who was onstage near the performers’ door. He was talking up a member of Claire’s band, a two-tone blonde with a nose ring and a tattoo of an eagle on her upper arm.

“Is Claire in back?” Serena called.

“You got it, mama.”

They clambered up onstage. “Any sign of Blake?” she asked.

Cordy shook his head. “Nada.”

“No one’s been in or out through this door except the band?” Stride asked.

“You got it. I also put guys on the casino door and the emergency exit, checking anyone who tries to get back there. They gave us a staff list. Nobody gets in unless they’re on the list and they got a photo ID to back it up.”

Stride nodded. He and Serena exited through the stage door, winding up on a small landing, and then took a few steps down to a dingy corridor. On his left, he could hear the clatter of china from the kitchen. Serena led him the other way, to a wooden door near the emergency exit. Taped to the door were a crudely cut paper star and a black-and-white publicity still of Claire. Stride had never seen her before, and he was a little disturbed to realize how attractive she was. Like Serena, she was weak-in-the-knees gorgeous, with teasing lips that were all about sex, and haunted eyes that made you want to take care of her.

Serena knocked on the door. “Claire!”

There was no answer. Serena knocked again, louder. “She could be in the shower,” she said, but Stride had a bad feeling. He tried the door handle. It was locked. He thumped heavily with his fist

“Shit,” he murmured.

He crouched down on his hands and knees and put the side of his head on the floor, so he could look through the crack under the door. He didn’t see what he was afraid he would find-a body-but the dressing room looked empty and dark.

“I’ll check the casino,” Stride said.

Serena nodded. “I’ll do the other side. She may have gone out for a smoke.”

Stride took off back down the hallway. He heard Serena bolt through the crash door behind him. He nimbly dodged a cocktail waitress who was emerging with a tray of drinks, then ducked briefly inside the warm, humid kitchen to make sure that Claire wasn’t there. He continued through double doors at the end of the hallway into the pinging noise of the casino.

A house security man barely looked at him. Stride felt sick He grabbed the man’s shoulder.

“Did Claire come through here?” he demanded.

“Who?”

“Claire Belfort The woman we’re all trying to keep alive.”

The man shrugged. “Oh, her. The singer. Yeah, she came through here a minute ago.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, just her.”

“And you didn’t try to stop her?” Stride retorted.

“Hey, no one said to stop anyone going out. I’m just here to make sure some guy doesn’t get in. Besides, she said she was meeting someone from Metro.”

Stride began to sweat. “Who?”

“Some guy named Stride.”

Stride cursed and reached for his gun. “Which way did she go?’

The guard pointed at the glass doors to the parking lot. “Through there.”

Stride hid his gun under his sport coat and ran for the doors, attracting annoyed glances from the gamblers. There was still a crowd of people from the show clustered around the doors, spilling into the parking lot. Safety in numbers , Stride thought. Murder, chaos, an easy escape.

He struggled past people to get to the door, feeling each second stretch out. He knew that seconds were all he had, the difference between life and death. In the glass, his reflection mocked him. He couldn’t see outside and see what was happening.