J. Black - The Shop

“Power party. Did he say where this power party was?”

“Didn’t Jeter tell you? You didn’t see his report?”

Guy was smart. “I’d like to hear your story, from you. No filters.”

“Okay, he said San Blas. That’s really it.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

“He said I wasn’t invited.”

“You asked to go with him?”

“Oh no. I’m not the least bit interested in that kind of scene. He volunteered that little piece of information. Let me know that this was an exclusive party. He wanted me to be impressed that he was something special.”

“Was he? Special?”

“He was—is—a good person. Too impressed by people with money, but he grew up poor in Alabama. Father was a steel worker or a drywall installer or a tire-banger, I forget exactly what. Nate was obsessed with ‘making it.’”

Jolie asked him how he planned to do that.

“He was looking for a sugar daddy. He said he wanted to be someone’s little pet. A ‘beloved, cosseted pet,’ he said. He wanted someone to take care of him.”

“Did he ever mention a man named Luke Perdue?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Amy Perdue?”

“Wait a minute. Luke Perdue does sound familiar. Oh, I know. That was the guy who got shot up in that motel room, took the woman hostage, am I right?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think Nathan would have ever met that guy. Different circles entirely .”

Jolie tried him on Riley Haddox. Threw in Zoe Haddox. Nothing.

“What do you think happened to him?” Jolie asked.

“You really want to know? I think that big guy, the one who lured him to that party? I think he had his way with him—then killed him.”

Later that day, Scott took Jolie on a guided tour of Cove Bar. He insisted. She understood why. He wanted to be part of it, because he cared about his roommate, because he wanted to do the right thing, or just because he just wanted in. Jolie understood his need to do something . Jolie was like that, and she recognized a kindred soul in Scott Emerson, hair extensions notwithstanding.

She wanted to find out who killed Maddy and nearly killed Amy. This was the only way she could see to move the ball down the field. So in a way, she and Scott were on the same mission.

Cove Bar was as retro inside as out. A low white ceiling with mica-sparkles, black walls, black lights, a neon martini glass above the George Jetson bar. Pulsing alternative rock at odds with the time warp decor.

They must have rounded up every Formica chrome dinette set in the twenty counties.

“Technically, those tables and chairs are from the fifties,” Scott said. “But why quibble?”

He’d scrubbed off the makeup and transformed himself into a very good-looking man. Maybe a little slender, but if Jolie was fourteen, she would have had a crush on him. He wore a madras shirt, cargo shorts, boat shoes without socks: “My Two and a Half Men Charlie look.” His fashion statement didn’t quite fit with this crowd (not a lot of this crowd appreciated Charlie Sheen), but clearly, he didn’t care. “I hate this place,” he said.

“Well, try to hide it.”

“My mama always said, you get more flies with honey than vinegar. But I always asked her, ‘Why would you want flies?’”

They sat at the bar and ordered drinks, a shot and a beer for Scott, a Diet Coke for Jolie. She paid.

The bartender had a salt-and-pepper crew cut and the physique of a dead lifter. He said to Jolie, “I don’t drink either. Eighteen years sober, how about you?”

“Thirty-three years.”

“But when she was a baby she could really put it away,” said Scott. “You remember me?”

“How could I forget? Take it Nate still hasn’t made it home?”

“I don’t think he will, do you?”

The bartender wiped a glass and set it in the rack. “Nope.” He looked at Jolie, saw the shield on her belt. “Why don’t we go on in back? Wait here.”

“Wow,” Jolie said. “He’s cooperative.”

“He’s good people.”

A woman took over the bar, and the man with the crew cut, Darrell, led them to a tiny room off the back. He prefaced their conversation by saying, “I don’t want any trouble.”

Jolie introduced herself. “Just a few questions.”

“Okay.” Darrell turned to Scott. “I’m sincerely hoping this will be the last time.” He looked at Jolie, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. “All’s I can do is tell you what I know. Nate was kind of a regular here. Enough so I knew what he liked to drink. He was hot for older men, especially if they looked like they had money. I’ve heard some stories, but I won’t bore you with them. Let’s just say Nate had a healthy view of sexuality. A very healthy view. You could say he was inclusive. You with me so far?”

“We’re good.”

“That’s pretty much all I know personally about him. This place is a rumor mill—you don’t see a lot of gay bars in the south—and the general consensus seemed to be that Nate was pretty hot. Appealed to a certain type, the kind who wants promiscuous but vulnerable. I don’t spend a lot of my time babysitting customers, so a lot of this stuff I heard secondhand.” He leaned back and folded his arms.

“That’s it?” Scott asked. “I thought you said he talked to a guy named Rick.”

“That’s what I heard. I didn’t actually see them talking.”

Jolie asked, “You didn’t see this guy Rick?”

“I didn’t see them together. Heard later that this guy, Rick, picked Nate up. And I thought, Good for him .”

“Did you see them together at all?”

“Might have. But it’s hard to remember. I see a lot of stuff. This bar is a hotbed of horny young guys looking for other horny young guys. That’s the clientele.” He looked at Scott. “Most of what I know about Rick and Nate, I heard from Scott in our numerous conversations.”

Jolie ignored this. “What about his car?”

“Didn’t know it was his. I don’t sell a lot of drinks in the parking lot.”

“Did you call to have it towed?”

“The owner did. He’s out of the country at the moment. Mexico. I can give you his cell, but he’ll just tell you what I’m telling you. The car was out there for three days, so he had it towed.”

Jolie said, “What does Rick look like?”

“Big guy. Short hair. Very butch. He wore nice clothes, but you could see he was ripped.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“No. Only saw him that weekend. I’d remember a big guy like him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. He looked kind of out of place, like he wasn’t from around here. Just an impression I got.” He added, “Blazer, slacks, nice shoes. You know what he reminded me of? A bodyguard.”

“Anything else you can remember?” Jolie asked.

He thought about it. “Only that he kind of worked the room. He was everywhere. Hung out with a lot of guys. Come to think of it, they were all pretty boys. I think he was trolling for a young one.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“No. But I heard someone call him Rick.”

“You think he was looking for a boy—a particular type?”

“Looked that way to me.” He added, “I guess he found one.”

30

Cyril Landry was ninety-eight percent certain Franklin Haddox would tell him the truth. Landry had five IV bags of triptascoline—what Dennis Ngo at the Shop lab termed “scopolamine on steroids.” Like scopolamine, triptascoline was an anesthetic. Like scopolamine, it was an amnesic drug, only more so. Three times more so. It had been used effectively around the world as an interrogation tool. Landry had complete confidence in the drug. His only concern was the man’s fear level. Excessive adrenaline could burn the drug up in a hurry, so Landry wanted Franklin calm, happy, and stoned. It would take a minimum of forty-five minutes to get a baseline. Forty-five minutes at least before he could start the actual interrogation.