Thread of Fear (7 page)

I stared at the pile of sticky notes, at the words I'd hastily scribbled, the clues I'd found that looked like they were worth pursuing.

I'd definitely learned one thing while scouring Patrick Dennison's computer files.

Kathleen Dennison didn't have a clue what her husband was really doing.

FOURTEEN

Carina Armstrong was working at the sixth club I went to.

As I'd gone through the files on Patrick Dennison's computer, I'd located several spreadsheets that were tucked away in files that had nothing to do with the files they were located in, as if he'd been hiding them. When I'd gone through the directory, I was able to see that he'd looked at those files as recently as the day before Kathleen said he'd gone missing. They'd been updated as recently as two days prior to that. So they weren't buried from lack of use or misplacement. I figured he put them there because he didn't want anyone to find them.

The spreadsheets were accounting ledgers for a dozen strip clubs in the greater Las Vegas area. A quick search on my phone had pulled up the names listed on the ledger and identified them as such. According to the Internet, they were high-end strip clubs, ones that required patrons to follow dress codes and spend ridiculous amounts on required minimum purchases. They didn't call themselves strip clubs. They were gentlemen's clubs and entertainment venues instead.

The ledgers showed daily, weekly, monthly and quarterly revenue and expenditure numbers. All of them were doing extremely well, based on the numbers I'd read. The gentlemen's club business was thriving in Las Vegas, as one might expect. But there wasn't a single file on his entire computer that said a word about real estate development or tenant rates or property purchases. Because Patrick Dennison wasn't a real estate developer.

It looked to me like he was an accountant.

I hadn't called Anchor yet to verify my conclusion because I wanted to stay as far away from him as I could until I didn't have a choice. However, based on what I'd found, I was fairly certain that Dennison was doing the books for properties that Anchor's organization owned. It all felt very stereotypical and clichéd – the Mob running strip clubs in Vegas – but sometimes stereotypes and clichés existed for a reason.

So I wondered if Dennison was hitting those clubs on a daily basis, either to run their numbers or even collect money. If so, the people who worked in them would be pretty familiar with him. And if he was spending most of his workday in those clubs, I wondered if Carina Armstrong was an employee or a regular customer at one of them.

The first five I hit confirmed that Dennison did spend some time there, as they all acknowledged one way or another that they knew him. No, they hadn't seen him for a few days and, no, they didn't know who Carina Armstrong was, either.

But when I showed my driver's license to the big guy working the door at Ted's, a sizable club with valet parking and a ten dollar cover in the middle of the day on the south side of the city, I also asked if Carina was around that day.

“Like always,” he said, flashing a small penlight at my license before holding it up to the sunlight, just outside of the canopy we were standing under. He handed it back to me. “If she's not behind the bar, she's around somewhere.”

I thanked him, tipped him five bucks, and he unhooked the velvet rope that blocked off the entrance. A dark-haired woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse that glowed pink in the black light of the hallway greeted me from behind a podium.

“Ten dollar cover,” she told me, her teeth glowing an unnatural shade of white. “And fifteen dollar drink minimum once you're inside.”

I handed her a ten and asked about Carina.

“Oh, yeah, she's here,” she said, nodding and tucking the money somewhere down below the podium. “Check with Cindy at the bar.”

A heavy bass beat thumped through the walls and I continued down the black-lit hall until I was in a small foyer. Another woman in a white blouse and black mini-skirt greeted me, wanting to know if I needed to check my coat. Since I wasn't wearing one, I told her I was fine. She smiled and pulled back the heavy black drape and told me to have a good time.

My eyes adjusted to the neon lights as soon as I stepped past the curtain. A huge rectangular stage stood in the middle of the room, a half-naked blond gyrating against the pole as some song I didn't recognize blasted from the speakers. It was more crowded than I'd expected. Most of the tables near the stage were taken up by guys in ties and sport coats, alternately glancing at the blond and talking to their colleagues. Behind the stage, I saw a bar that ran the length of the back wall and I made my down to it.

As soon as I sat, another girl in a white blouse, this one with short dark hair, hustled over to me from behind the bar. “Good afternoon. What can I get you?”

“Something on tap,” I said, looking behind her at the tap handles. “Stella's good.”

She nodded, fetched a pint glass from beneath the bar and expertly filled it, angling it to the side, minimizing the head. She set it on the bar in front of me. “You wanna run a tab?”

I pulled out a twenty and slid it across to her. “Nah, I'm good for now. All yours.”

She smiled and nodded appreciatively, pulling the cash off the bar. “Can I arrange anything for you? Did you have any interest in a private room?”

I shook my head. “I don't, but thank you. I'm actually looking for Carina. Guy out front told me she was here.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Can I give her your name?”

“It's Joe,” I said. “But we haven't met before and she's not expecting me.”

“Can I tell her what it's about?”

“Patrick Dennison sent me,” I told her, which was technically true.

If the bartender recognized the name, she didn't show it. She shrugged and said she'd be right back. She walked to the end of the bar, picked up a phone that glowed purple beneath the neon lights and pushed a couple of numbers on it.

I turned back to the stage. The half-naked woman was now fully naked, save for a thong the width of a strand of hair. She writhed on the stage, crawling over to a table near the front. A guy in a dark suit tossed cash in her direction. She snatched it up and slithered to the opposite side of the stage, where another guy did the same thing. She plucked that up, too, then caressed his face before pushing herself up and strutting back to the pole.

I'd never been a strip club guy. A lot of guys on the force used to frequent them in San Diego, often getting comped free drinks when the club found out they were cops. But I'd never understood the mentality of handing over a wad of cash just to watch a girl dance without her clothes on. There was nothing sexy or erotic about it for me. Maybe I was just old-fashioned. Or maybe I'd just been happy with what I'd had at home.

“Are you Joe?” a voice said from behind me.

I swiveled on the stool. A woman in her late twenties with short blond hair stood there. She was about five-ten with a prominent chin and big eyes. She wore a blood red blouse with black buttons up the middle and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. She didn't wear much makeup and she didn't need it. She was far more attractive than the girl on the stage.

“Yeah,” I said. “Are you Carina?”

She nodded, her eyes focused solely on me. “Yeah. Who are you?”

“Joe Tyler,” I said.

“And you said Patrick sent you?”

“Not exactly,” I said, then glanced at the stage, then back at her. “Can we talk somewhere a little quieter?”

“About?”

“Patrick.”

She shrugged. “I don't really have anything to say about him.”

“Can you just answer a few questions for me?”

“I'm super busy.”

I leaned closer to the bar. “John Anchor gave me your name.”

Something flashed quickly through her eyes and her shoulders stiffened. Then she nodded to a hallway at the side of the bar. “Come on.”

She exited the bar area and I followed her down the hallway. The black skirt she wore barely covered her ass and her matching shoes were more stilettos than pumps. An angel tattoo adorned her left calf.

She reached the end of the hall, punched a code into a number pad on the wall and pushed open a door I could barely see. Light exploded behind it and I realized we were stepping outside, behind the building.

She turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Sorry. But my office is small and I figured it would be easier out here.”

I blinked several times, the light about a thousand watts brighter than the inside of the club. “No problem.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I don't know who you are or why you're here, but I'll give you five minutes.”

“I'm looking for Patrick Dennison,” I told her. “Can you tell me where he is?”

She made a face like she was about to vomit. “No. I can't. I have no clue where that asshole is.”

“Why is he an asshole?”

“I guess that's the way God made him.”

“Is he your boss here?”

She snorted. “My boss? No. Hardly.”

I waited.

She didn't say anything.

“So how do you know him?” I asked.

“He does our books,” she said, looking away from me, squinting out toward the front parking lot.

“That's it?”

“I don't know if he does other stuff.”

“I mean, is that the only way you know him?”

“Yes.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Really? Because I'm not sure why you'd tell me he was an asshole if that's the only way you know him.”

She stubbed her toe against the asphalt. “We were friends.”

“Were? Meaning you're not anymore?”

“Definitely not anymore.”

“Why?”

She turned back to me, eyed me. Her face was hard but I thought I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Who exactly are you? Do you know him? Or do you work for Anchor or what?”

“I'm trying to locate Dennison,” I said. “No one has seen him for a week.”

“Well, include me in that group, too. Just tack on a few extra days.”

I pointed at the building. “What exactly do you do here?”

“I'm the food and beverage manager,” she said. She gave me a flat smile. “I'm not a dancer.”

“I didn't say you were.”

She gave me a haughty look. “Graduated UNLV with a hotel and tourism degree. No stripping for me, regardless of what you might have assumed.”

She had me there because that was exactly what I'd thought, at least when I'd started looking at the clubs. I'd seen the name on the card and immediately pegged her for a stripper or waitress or something in that vein. And even though she was telling me she wasn't, I couldn't help but think that she was exactly the package club owners would want. She was beautiful, she had a spectacular body and she had all kinds of attitude.

“I did,” I told her. I offered her an apologetic smile. “My error.”

She frowned at me like she didn't care. “Right.”

“So then you're only dealings with Dennison were here at the club?” She didn't say anything, just stubbed her toe against the ground again. I tried again. “Look, I'm not looking to hang you out to dry here or anything like that,” I said. “I'm just trying to find him.”

“If Anchor's looking for him, that's not good,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Please. If you're working for him, you know why.”

“Patrick's wife actually hired me,” I said. I didn't like lying but it was technically true. “I was just at their home this morning. So I'm just trying to find him.”

She studied me for a second. “Well, I haven't seen him for a week and a half. When he told me to get lost.”

“He wanted to fire you?”

She shook her head.

“So you had... another relationship with him?”

She nodded.

“Romantic?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Let's call it that. Sounds better than mistress.”

“He broke it off?”

She dropped her arms to her sides, then folded them across her body again. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

She sighed and tucked a strand of the short blond hair behind her ear. It promptly shifted and fell back toward her face. “Probably because I knew everything.”

FIFTEEN

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Carina brushed her hand against her forehead. We were in the shadow of the building, protected from direct sun, but it was still warm. “It means I overheard a couple of conversations. And when he got a little drunk, he talked a lot.”

“About?”

“Things,” she said. She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not getting into it because I still don't really know who the hell you are.”

“I told you. I'm just trying to locate him.”

“Yeah, but you said for his wife. And you also said Anchor gave you my name.”

“In a roundabout way, yeah, he did,” I said, trying to appease her. She was the only solid lead I'd come across and I needed to keep her talking. But part of me was tempted to walk away, to pretend I'd never met her, that the lead Anchor had given me had gone dry. Because following it would probably mean finding Dennison. And I wasn't prepared for where that would lead me.

“Yeah, well, nothing good ever happens when that guy is involved,” she said, referring to Anchor. “So I don't know who you are or what you're doing, but I have no idea where Patrick is. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'd be the last person he'd contact at this point.”

“Okay.” I resisted the urge to thank her and walk away. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and continued. “So where might he go?”

“Hell if I know,” she said, frowning. “I've got no idea.”

“Okay. How about why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would Dennison take off?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“What are the things you say you know that made him break it off?”

She sighed. “I already told you, man. I'm not getting into it with you. You aren't a cop and I've got a meeting in ten minutes that I need to get back inside for.”

She seemed pretty hell-bent on stonewalling me and while it was pretty clear that she didn't like Anchor, using his name hadn't intimidated her. She was either really tough or she had no idea what he was capable of.

I stared at her for a moment. I could end it right there. Stop the questioning and follow another trail and hope it ended at a dead-end. I knew Anchor wanted Dennison dead but I wasn't sure how long he'd be willing to wait, especially if the clues I followed turned up nothing. And if I could prove due diligence, if I could show him that I'd played my part and came up empty-handed, maybe I'd be off the hook. I could tell him I questioned Carina and got nothing. Because I hadn't, at least not enough to follow a new trail.

“Thanks for your time,” I told her.

She eyed me suspiciously. “That's it? You're done.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Relief flooded her eyes but it quickly disappeared. She chewed on her lip and her eyes roamed everywhere before they eventually landed back on me. “Do me a favor?”

I arched an eyebrow. “What's that?”

“Can you...not mention my relationship with Patrick?”

“To his wife?”

She shook her head. “No. I don't care about her.” Her cheeks colored as she realized her words. “I mean Anchor.”

“He didn't know about your relationship?”

“I don't know,” she said. “That wouldn't have been good.”

“Why not?”

“Because we work together,” she said. “We...we aren't supposed to do that. Fraternize. And it's more about the dancers and stuff, but it applies to us, too. Even though Patrick didn't work here full-time, we still work for the same people.” She shook her head. “So I don't want Anchor to know.”

I wasn't sure if that was just paranoia on her part, but I wasn't sure why Anchor would care all that much about an accountant and a bar manager hooking up. It seemed way down the chain for him, too far for him to care. But maybe it was an organizational message designed to minimize conflict and sharing information. Or maybe there was more there, more that I wasn't seeing.

“I have to go,” Carina said. “I really do have a meeting.”

I hesitated for a moment, then pulled one of my cards from my pocket and held it out to her. “My name and number. In case anything changes.”

She hesitated, then took it. “Like what?”

“Like anything.”

She looked at it again and I was pretty sure it was going right in the trash can as soon as she saw one. And I would have been one hundred percent okay with that. “Yeah, sure,” she said.

I turned to go, headed toward the alley. I knew it would eventually lead to the parking lot of the club. I heard the door to the club open and I turned back around. Carina was watching me, a worried expression on her face.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

“Did you know about Dennison's son?”

Even from where I was standing, I could see her expression change. “Yeah,” she said, pulling the door open wider. “I knew about him.”

I couldn't ask her anything else because she disappeared inside.