You Don't Know Jack Read online

  Yeah, there was that, but it was only part of my nerves. My goal for tonight's investigation: Find out how Stone was using Lars' life partner Bruce to help catch the BBK.

  An awful thought struck me. "What if Stone is here?"

  "Stone? Why would he be here?"

  Oops. "No reason. He wouldn't."

  "You have Stone on the brain."

  Too true.

  "You need to get over that man — or under him."

  Again, too true.

  "It's opening night jitters."

  "You're right. This is my first real undercover investigation. I should be nervous." Especially since there was a real possibility I might rub shoulders — or something — with a serial killer.

  And Stone. Though Stone didn't really bother me. I could handle him. Probably. Maybe.

  Besides, chances he'd be here tonight were fifty/fifty. Thirty/seventy, even.

  Why not zero/zero?

  Apollo grabbed my purse. "You did remember the tools of your trade, yes?"

  "Why don't you check?" As though he weren't already doing that.

  "Digital camera, cell phone, recorder. All here."

  "Too bad you didn't find Valium or chocolate." Or tequila. I reclaimed my clutch. "How am I going to carry this off? With my wits? My experience? My non-existent brass balls?"

  "You'll think of something."

  That was the problem, I would.

  He pulled me inside to a foyer that might have been lifted from a forties movie palace, every detail art deco — in shades of gold and turquoise with marble flooring.

  Lively music and jubilant customers beckoned from the lounge beyond, but Apollo insisted on introducing me to the current performers — via their life-sized publicity posters. Bruce was the only one I recognized because he looked enough like Britney Spears to be her clone.

  "And this is the late Jade Edger." Reverence reverberated in his voice. A whole wall bore framed images encased in glass of the late Jade Edger decked out as Liza, Barbra, Bette, Cher, Madonna, and Tina.

  Apollo said, "Some memorial, huh?"

  I couldn't answer due to a sudden surge of hatred for HIV and AIDS and the damage it inflicts on the lives of so many in the gay community and the world beyond. With a knot in my throat the size of a microphone, I dropped a ten spot in the AIDS research jar beneath the last Jade photo, one taken without makeup and in the late days of his battle to survive the combination of diseases that ravaged his body.

  "Come on, girl, move, move. The fun is calling." Apollo urged me into the main salon, lured by the body-swaying rhythms, the bursts of laughter.

  I don't know what I imagined a gay bar would look like, but certainly not this. Had I been teleported to Vegas? Would the Pussy Cat Dolls materialize before my eyes? The entrance was on the fourth tier of four tiers. Half-moon shaped booths served as seating and a staircase ran through the middle down to a packed dance floor and an open bar. All of it centered around the stage.

  "Isn't it grand?" Apollo gushed.

  "That's an understatement. It's breathtaking."

  "It is the place to be and to be seen."

  Apollo might think this nightspot was the bomb, but to me it was a world of potential heartache, of sexual promise — where one night with the wrong person could change your life forever — leave you emotionally destroyed, or infected with an STD, or bleeding in an alley with a black carnation on your chest.

  Just like any normal bar — except for the being murdered part.

  "Our table's this way." Apollo pulled me down the stairs, toward the stage and bar.

  As we passed one booth after the other I made a discovery. "Hey, I'm not the only Dolly Parton here."

  "I told you no one would notice you."

  "For once in my life, I might blend."

  "As long as you keep your lips zipped."

  "I'll pretend I have laryngitis." And keep my ears and eyes open, my guard up.

  Apollo shuffled down the stairs to the beat, his little fanny gyrating like matched ball bearings, his shoulders shimmying, his head bobbing. "Our table is on the main floor next to the dance area."

  As we descended, I realized beautiful women were everywhere. At tables, on stage, and kicking up their heels to a Barbra Streisand favorite. I caught hold of the tip of the starburst tie and tugged Apollo to me so my mouth was near his ear. I gestured to the room around us. "I had no idea so many men were transvestites."

  Apollo arched an eyebrow and smirked as though I were funnier than Jack Black. "My God, I really must get you out on the town more, girl."

  He pointed to a couple at the table nearest ours. "Husband and wife."

  "No."

  "Yes. A lot of the women here are women. Even heteros enjoy quality entertainment. Dinah Edger puts out great show."

  I felt as though I'd thrown open a window blind and discovered daylight where I'd expected night. "Why didn't you tell me I could have come as myself?"

  His hand hit his waist and he cocked his hip, glancing at me as if I'd asked whether or not blood was red. "I thought you didn't want to be recognized. I thought you were working undercover?"

  Oh, sure, throw the obvious at me. "I'm just surprised."

  I'd expected Club Jaded Edge would be exclusively male, a dark, smokey dive. Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, what with current laws prohibiting indoor smoking. But that wasn't the real hiccup in my thinking. Somewhere in my blond head, I'd decided a person as skewed as a serial killer would hang out — as well as choose his victims from — a place that honored, welcomed, and even embraced a slightly off the norm lifestyle.

  As opposed to somewhere I might normally hang.

  This same kind of thinking occurs when we hear of a horrible crime committed against a stranger and think: Thank God, that could never happen to me. But the fact is, anyone can become a victim of violent crime. Ted Bundy, after all, selected his victims at a public lake access, for God's sake, and since Club Jaded Edge was like every other night club in the city, the reminder that we weren't safe anywhere flushed a chill through me.

  "Apollo, maybe this isn't such a great idea. Maybe we should leave."

  "Getting cold feet again?"

  "No, but..." I should have told him about the Black Boutonniere's connection to Club Jaded Edge and how it was at the heart of Lars' reason for hiring me, and how I feared he might end up on the killer's radar, and how I desperately wanted to avoid that. But life was unavoidable. I couldn't bubble wrap Apollo and lock him in his apartment so that nothing bad ever touched him.

  Another chilling thought hit. If the murderer was hunting his next victim at this club, I was also at risk, since I was passing myself off as a gay man.

  "Stop second guessing yourself." Apollo admonished, obviously in reference to my frowny face. "You're on a mission, girl. You signed a contract."

  That contract was the only reason I didn't insist we head back to the exit.

  "This is our table. Sit." Apollo reeked of energy and excitement. "I've got to get out there and participate."

  "You promised to stick to me like Velcro."

  He pointed toward the dance floor. "I'll be right there in sight of God and everyone."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Signal a waiter. Order a bottle of merlot."

  I arched a pointed brow.

  "Oh, you mean the spy thing. Well, honey, I'm not the one who does private inquiries, that's your area. So, do what you always do. Inquire. Just. Don't. Talk."

  Inquire, but don't talk? Order wine, but don't talk? I pondered how to do that as I scanned the room. I spied Frankie near the bar, his thatch of red hair like a flame atop a giant white candle. I shrank back on the booth seat.

  Apollo followed my gaze. "Definitely don't talk to him."

  "I don't see Bruce anywhere."

  "He's probably in his dressing room."

  As Apollo headed out to the dance floor, I signaled a wandering waiter and pointed to the wine menu. I wanted hundred proof tequila sh
ots, but it wasn't on the wine list. Just as well. I needed a clear head. I was officially on duty. Like a cop. Like Stone. My gaze darted as I searched the crowd, half of me praying I wouldn't spot the one face that haunted my dreams, my fantasies.

  The other half hoping I would. The other half ruled itself winner of the tug of war, and fear headed South, chased by my damnable deep-seated yearning for that man.

  No, no, no. I don't do men. Particularly that man. I would not seek him out. I would only watch Bruce. And Apollo. Apollo? Oh, God, where was he? Oh, there. Still dancing, his starburst tie flapping as he hopped to a rap song. Before the relieved breath left my lungs, a throaty laugh to my right tightened my gut. I whipped around. Yikes. Dinah was moving from table to table, greeting her patrons. I lurched to my feet.

  The sooner I found out something on Bruce, the sooner I could get Apollo to leave. I sidled away from Dinah, scooting toward the bar. But Frankie was at the bar. I stopped in my tracks, frozen with indecision, and as I did, something cool seemed to grip my neck as if I'd been grabbed by icy fingers.

  I twisted around. No one staring at me, and yet, the sensation lingered; an evil permeating the immediate air as though I stood next to death. I glanced left, right, and studied the people at the nearest tables as though half expecting to see one of them wearing a sign:

  It's me, Jack B.

  The Black Boutonniere Killer.

  Choosing my next victim.

  Instead I saw an empty chair with an untouched cocktail. Nothing to cause goosebumps, but they rose over my flesh as though the person who'd been sitting there a moment before was the embodiment of malevolence, and all that remained of him now was a wisp of malignant spirit as elusive as smoke rising from an ashtray.

  Apollo! There. Still dancing. I blew out a relieved breath and made up my mind. I was going backstage, spying on Bruce, then taking my friend and getting the hell out of here.

  I stole through the Employees Only door and into a long hallway containing several doors. At the one marked "star," I paused and pressed my ear to the panel. I'd know that whine anywhere. Bruce. Arguing with someone.

  A man resembling Marilyn Monroe caught my arm and whispered in a breathy voice, "Wow, honey, you're the best Parton I've seen in years. You're on in two."

  On in two? On? As in on stage? In two? As in two minutes? I felt the heat leaving my face. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I muttered, "Gotta pee."

  "Be quick about it, honey."

  Yeah, Jack B quick.

  As soon as Marilyn hit the stairs leading to the stage, I spun on my heels and ducked through the door beyond Bruce's. Another dressing room, this one shared by several of the performers judging by the number of costumes and make-up stations.

  Luckily it was empty. Even better, the walls were paper thin, I discovered as I heard Bruce say, "Don't try to—"

  To what? To what? But that was all I got.

  I dug in my purse for the recorder, a high tech gizmo advertised to catch a hummingbird fart at 60 feet. I pressed it to the wall. Who was Bruce arguing with? What were they arguing about? I didn't hear another voice. Maybe he was on the phone.

  Damn. Why didn't this wall have a one-way mirror?

  But on closer examination, I realized it had something almost as good. Coat hooks. Or rather holes where coat hooks had been. Small round holes. Light was coming through the holes. I chose the most eye level one and moved in as close as I could get, given my boobs, and peered at the hole. I feared encountering an eye looking back. Instead, the double long false lashes Apollo insisted finished my outfit created an unexpected obstacle. It was like looking through a pin-striped veil.

  I needed X-ray vision.

  Or a hand drill.

  I pressed my ear to the wall, wanting to hear what the recorder was picking up.

  "You think. Knew. And. Damn."

  I froze. The other voice rivaled the deep timbre of a bass guitar. Stone. Oh, God. Panic flushed through me. First thought: run. Second thought: make up excuse for being here.

  Bump! I spun toward the wall to my back. Eyes wide. The pulse in my throat at a gallop. No one was in my room, but someone was in the room beyond this one. Two someones. I heard scuffling, then a grunt that sounded... sexual... or violent... or violently sexual.

  I grimaced. A moment before I'd been delighted to discover the walls were paper thin. Now, not so much. It was one thing to love sex and quite another to be a voyeur, especially an unwilling voyeur.

  The noises stopped abruptly. A door closed. I stole to the dressing room exit, and peered into the hallway just in time to see the outside door shutting, but not who had gone through it.

  This was too unnerving. The hell with it. I couldn't make out what Bruce and Stone were discussing. I could only hope the recorder had caught it. Nothing I'd signed with Lars obligated me to speak to Stone tonight. Or with Bruce. I'd put in the required appearance. Done the promised snooping. With luck the proof to satisfy Lars was on the recorder. If not, I'd follow Bruce in the daylight. Right now, I wanted to get Apollo and leave before I was discovered. Before Marilyn dragged me on stage.

  I hurried back into the club. Apollo was not on the dance floor. Not at our table. Not anywhere that I could see. I told myself not to panic. I hit speed dial on my cell. No answer. I sent a text. No response. Now I was panicking. Where could he be? The men's room? Of course. God, let him be in the men's room.

  I stopped at the restroom door, my pulse hip-hopping to the beat of the music. I have often thought my Cheatin' Hearts investigations give me the opportunity to observe men in their natural habitats. I have never thought an assignment would find me pretending to be a man — in an actual men's room — there to do what actual men actually did there.

  I braced and shoved inside. I'd been in a couple of men's rooms before, accidentally and not so accidentally, and the accouterments were pretty standard. A couple of sinks, a urinal or three, and some stalls. This one was more elegant. Smelled better, too.

  But here the women outnumbered the men.

  I recognized an almost Liza, an almost Barbra, and an almost Kathy Griffin, except... Eek! They were heeding nature's call as no women before them had done. It isn't that I'm unfamiliar with full frontal male nudity. There are times when it's my favorite vision. At this moment, however, peeing seemed more intimate than sex.

  New rule: Keep your eyes on faces.

  Addendum to new rule: No matter what, don't look down.

  My cheeks burned, melting my makeup. I resisted the impulse to mop at it. I had bigger worries. If Apollo was here, he had to be in one of the three stalls. I couldn't very well peek under them to see if I recognized his shoes, and since he'd warned me not to talk, I couldn't give him a shout out. No telling who might be in the other stall. Stone?

  But it was a risk I had to take. Apollo was missing.

  My Dolly Parton impersonation notwithstanding, I called in my best Robert De Niro gangster, "eh, Apollo, you in here?"

  That bagged a couple of sideways glances from the three women, er, guys at the urinal, but I kept my gaze high. I moved closer to the stalls. Only the end one, I realized, was occupied. I slipped into the middle one, pretended to drop something, then squatted as if I was picking it up. My gaze was locked on the shoes in the next stall. Black patent, size fourteen fuck-me pumps. Just like Apollo's, except one of the six-inch stilettos had a rusty, gooey smudge. Not Apollo. His shoes wouldn't dare attract goo.

  Damn. Where had he gone? Backstage looking for me? I sent another text. Dialed his number, too. No response. I sneaked backstage again. I could hear the band playing Britney's "Womanizer" and felt certain Bruce was on stage and not in his dressing room, but checked anyway. Empty. I thought about snooping for clues, but the need to find Apollo dragged me to the eavesdrop room. A couple of performers were there changing costumes and repairing makeup. No Apollo.

  As I reached the violent-sex room, I heard someone behind me say, "Has anyone seen Dolly Parton? She missed her number."

 
My heart skipped. I shoved inside the dressing room and pressed my ear to the door. Footsteps nearing. Yikes. Hide! I pivoted away from the door and my mouth dropped open. What the hell? Makeup and brushes were strewn everywhere. Chairs were overturned. Costumes had been tossed into a heap on the floor. If wrecking a room is part of violent sex, count me out. I'm not into pain. Or destruction.

  I bent to right the nearest chair and froze as I realized the swatch caught on one of the metal legs was a starburst tie. Apollo! My heart felt ice-packed. With trembling fingers, I freed the tie — the dead man's tie — praying that wasn't an omen. My lungs ached for a breath I couldn't pull in. I began to stand and bumped my foot against a shoe. My scalp prickled. I wasn't alone. I looked down. A black patent leather heel was attached to a foot which was attached to legs poking from beneath the costumes that had fallen or been dumped onto the floor.

  I whimpered and dropped to my knees, praying it wasn't Apollo. I grabbed at a handful of fabric, but something tacky adhered to my palm, to the costumes. A dark, rusty looking liquid like splattered paint.

  No... blood.

  A scream climbed my throat. Get help! Get help! I scrambled up and wrenched the door open. Another performer, a transvestite, the first ugly one I'd seen, blocked my exit. I yelled, "Help!" At least I meant to. But nothing came out.

  Then I realized the ugly drag queen had very familiar green eyes — eyes that could "cure" a woman of everything but her addiction to him.

  Stone? No. I had to be imagining it. The hysteria making me wish he were here when he wasn't.

  She, er, he said, "What's wrong?"

  Bass guitar voice. It was Stone. My knees buckled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My love/hate relationship with Stone Maddox started when I was five-years-old. He was seven, sure of himself the way a lot of cops' kids are, confident that he could handle whatever situation came along, then proving it by saving my kitten, Buttercup, from a vicious neighborhood dog.

  I've been crazy nuts for Stone ever since. He feels the same about me. Sometimes. Sort of. So, why have I married two guys who aren't Stone?

  Commitment issues. Not his. Mine. According to Stone my incomplete tattoo had nothing to do with lack of pain tolerance. According to Stone the half heart is symbolic of something much deeper: my inability to give my whole heart to anyone. Stone wants my whole heart or nothing. Crazy nuts, huh?