Stepping out of the airport and into the hot Nevada air, it’s like a whole other world away from the light drizzle I left in Seattle.
The sticky-fingered employee fell for our ruse hook, line, and sinker, and Harry and I were able to close the case yesterday with the help of the Seattle PD. Which means there are no loose ends back home to worry about, and no time limit in which to get this Vegas case done.
In fact, the only thing Harry said to me before kicking me out of his car at SeaTac was to take my time acclimatizing and preparing for my job interview on Thursday. Which in Harry-speak means do the research and don't rush it.
My cover is simple. I'm playing myself; a disgraced cop who needs a job to keep a roof over his head and the debt collectors at bay. If everything goes to plan, I'll be on the job come the end of the week. Until then and to pass the time, I play the role of tourist. The apartment the client rented for me is nothing special, but it’s enough to back up the story that I’m trying to stay afloat and need the security job at Marquis in order to keep doing that.
I’ve got a new phone for the duration of the case, it’s cleaner and safer. Then again, it’s not like there’s any risk to my cover. I’m still myself. And of the three people from my past that still live in Vegas, two are undoubtedly living their happily ever after and I’d be the absolute last person they’d ever want to see.
The other person is Marlee and she has stayed true to her last words to me, disappearing from my life completely. She said she'd do it, but part of me never truly believed she'd stay away. More the fool me, I guess.
It’s still strange to be back here, but I can’t dwell on that now because today it's D-Day—the day of my interview at Marquis.
Harry's client delivered a packet of information to my door that contained anything and everything I’d ever need to know about the most exclusive place-to-be-and-be-seen venue on the strip. The club is part of the new Globe entertainment precinct that was still being built when I left last year. The venue's flagship nightclub is touted as one of the best in Vegas and has a VIP waiting list stretching past a year. The general consensus is, if you're seen at Marquis, you've made it. I imagine working there is a coup in itself.
I arrive a little early, wanting to get a feel for the place before my interview. The building itself is modern and slick, bright lights lighting up the night sky and pulsing in time to the music pumping through the speakers outside as well as vibrating the walls from inside. Money drips from every surface and every detail, the whole venue breathing luxury, decadence, hedonism with a promise of sin and debauchery. It teases and tantalizes and whoever is in charge of marketing deserves a raise because one look at the people desperately queuing in line tells me they’ll wait all night if they have to, just for the chance to get inside.
It's clear that there's still far more to the place than what I can see. It makes sense why Harry couldn't tell me how long I'd need to be here. The only plan I have so far is to get the job, earn the trust of those in power, and bide my time until I get the chance to investigate the financials.
I’ve tried scouring the internet for information on the club and its ownership. All I could find was that it’s owned by two shell companies, who in turn are owned by many more, but I’ve come up empty when I try to find who I might be working for and who I’m meant to be investigating. I could press Harry to tell me, but I figure being in the dark could work in my favor.
Despite questions over the money trail, there's no mistake which owner is the face of it--Decker James. From his many adoring admirers giving up their weekly wage for the door charge alone just to catch a glimpse of the man, to his very close, tight-lipped inner circle of friends, one thing is clear. If this man is dirty, he’s Teflon. He’s so clean and there’s so little information about the guy, it’s a giant red flag in itself.
On the surface, he has money—a lot of it—yet despite living in a digital age where everything is online, outside of news stories, there’s nothing to be found about the man. It’s a little suspicious. My years of investigating have me trained to think the worst and hope for the best, and Decker James has a public mask that’s likely hiding some not-so-clean things. My gut instinct is underworld, illegal things.
But knowing not to make assumptions, I used an old contact at the FBI to help me dive a little deeper. What he found confirmed my suspicions. There’s a lot more to Decker James than just being a club owner and ‘man of the people,’ most of it rumor and conjecture but where there’s smoke there is almost always fire.
Before Marquis opened, Decker worked as a fixer for hire for anyone with deep enough pockets to hide their dirty secrets. He was the one person people would pay top dollar to for his services. The agency hasn’t been able to get anything concrete on him and that alone is enough to put the man in my crosshairs.
First I have to get in the door, then it’s just a case of keeping my head down and my eyes and ears open.
Wanting to make a good impression, I approach one of the burly bouncers manning the purple velvet rope outside the double front doors.
“Hey, man,” I say, offering my hand. “I'm here for an interview with Justin.”
The man with a guarded gaze and gruff voice stares at my hand for a second before looking me up and down before switching his attention to the large tablet in his hand. “Name?”
“Aiden Lawrence.” He grunts as he glances from the tablet to my face and back again, pressing something on the screen. “He's on his way.” He cracks a small smile and holds his hand out, shaking mine. “The name's Hawk. Do me a favor till J turns up, stand aside, and stay clear. You may be one of us soon but believe me, you don't want to cause problems before you start. You don't seem the type to do me wrong like that.” His arched brow and twitching lips have me smirking back at him. I jerk my chin up, already relaxing a bit.
As asked, I step aside and watch as the bouncers expertly handle the crowd, turning away those who don't meet the dress code--something that's strict and formal, only the best of the best will do, it seems--as well as those who are too drunk or high to function. It may be early on a Thursday night, but it is still Vegas.
What I do like is the way Hawk and the two other bouncers work together. They're the first line of defense and gatekeepers of the club and they operate like they live and breathe it. I can tell that they've seen it all before and they're not swayed by anyone or anything. From the way they just kicked out a young actor with three strippers hanging off his arm for trying to bribe them with a few Benjamins--they're not impressed by any of it. It’s a good start.
I switch my focus to the crowd, watching as they hustle and bustle to get inside, their eagerness to experience the lavishness of the club is palpable and hangs in the air like static electricity. Just the thought of Marquis and what’s inside has people willing to wait in line for hours.
Lost in thought, a voice behind me snaps me back to reality. “Lawrence?”
I turn around to see a sharply dressed man with a well-groomed beard and a sleek black suit. He extends his hand for me to shake, and I notice the expensive watch on his wrist, and it's not a brand you pick up from Walmart. It's money--and a lot of it. I know this guy…
“Justin?” I say shaking my head to make sure I'm not seeing things. Alarm bells ring but I’m here now, so I have to go with it. Justin Howell was working patrol when I made detective in San Francisco. That would've been at least six years ago though. “I had no idea you'd left the force.” My only hope right now is that he's believing the smile on my face. Never have I been more grateful for coming into this case as myself.
“Yeah, man. Had enough of the rules and regs, you know?” He laughs. “Well of course you do, that's why you’re here,” he replies. “Let's get inside and we'll grab a drink and get started.”
“I don't drink on the job,” I state.
“Way to make a good impression, Lawrence. But don't worry, this interview is just a formality. I knew it was you when your CV crossed my desk. I haven't even called anyone else.”
“Had I known that I wouldn't have dressed up,” I shoot back with a chuckle. Justin looks me up and down and shoulder bumps me. “Sorry to say, but if that's you dressing up, then thank god we've got a uniform for you.”
“Uniform?”
“Gotta look the part and Decker doesn’t skimp on anything. So just take it and say thanks, yeah? Who knows, it might actually help you get laid around here. Call it a bonus.”
I follow him through the double doors that lead into the lobby of the club. There's a large coat check to the left with smartly dressed attendants working the registration desk. On the other side is a sleek black counter manned by two black-suited security guards. They both have earpieces in, and I hazard a guess that they're likely armed too, side and ankle if they're thorough.
A quick scan of the periphery and I spot cameras covering every inch of the area, meaning I'm going to have to be smart about this. With eyes everywhere, it means there's very little chance of going where you're not supposed to be, to find things you're not supposed to find. Where there's a will, there's a way though.
“It's a lot to take in, am I right?” Justin asks with an easy-knowing smile. “Wait till you see behind the purple curtain.” And he's not lying, there's a huge purple velvet covering over the wide arch entry to the club proper.
“Definitely a lot different to the clubs I used to go to.”
He smacks my shoulder with a laugh and I remember why I never became friends with the guy. He was always very loose and casual—with patrol, the law, orders, all of it. I’m not surprised that the cop life wasn’t for him. I do feel at ease with him though, at least enough to get the job done. Doesn’t mean I trust him, but he could easily come in useful later. The key to acclimatizing and ingraining yourself when you’re undercover is to make friends and collect favors because you never know when they'll come in handy.
As soon as we enter the club, I stop dead in my tracks and take in the scene in front of me, because believe me, there’s a lot to take in. The photos online were very few and far between—probably adding to the intrigue and interest in the place. Even the promise of this place didn’t do it justice. It’s so much more than I could have ever imagined.
The interior is dark to go along with the ambience, an array of purple and blue lights flashing up the walls and over the crowd. There are holograms of scantily dressed men and women dancing provocatively in cages hung from the ceiling. Below them is a thick throng of clubgoers dancing shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor in front of a dimly lit DJ booth like they don't have a care in the world. The combination of lights and music are almost disorientating, especially with the polished floors reflecting everything happening above them like mirrors.
There’s marble, glass, and steel everywhere else. Frosted windows with thick chrome panes. Shiny black counters front well-stocked bars on both sides of the large room, bottles of liquor that cost more than my paycheck stacked high and lit up like the Empire State Building.
Justin ushers me toward the closest bar, the chairs looking more like thrones than the dingy stools from the bars I’m used to. He waves to a bouncy blonde bartender and holds up two fingers and thirty seconds later, whisky sours are placed in front of us.
He nods down at the drink. “Said I didn’t drink on the job, Howell.”
“Thought that was just lip service,” he says, arching a brow as he takes a sip.
“Nope. Gotta stay sharp to be sharp. Learned my lesson the hard way.”
“Yeah, heard about all that,” he says as he ushers the bartender over again and orders me a sealed bottle of water. When she delivers it, I offer my thanks and turn back to the man next to me.
“Surprised you didn’t file my CV in the trash then. Are you sure you don’t drink on the job?” I muse.
“Nah. I'm hiring you on name alone, Lawrence. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what you've done or not done. I'm a people person. Got a good read on you back on the force and pegged you as a straight arrow. Then that shit went down with the Sovereign Hotel and the shooting last year. I tell you, no one would’ve been more shocked than me when your name was mentioned.”
“Yet you’re still giving me a job.” It’s not a question, it’s more of a statement. I make a note in my head to look into Justin later, but the fact I already have an in is definitely making this part of the care a lot easier.
“So, what do you think of the place? Pretty wow, right?” he says, looking out over the club.
“It’s something for sure. A lot bigger than I expected.”
“Let me guess. You tried doing your research and came up empty? That’ll be cause patrons aren’t allowed their phones inside.”
My head jerks back as I stare at him in surprise. “Really?” I pat my pocket out of habit, finding my cell still there. Justin catches the movement.
“You’re fine, Lawrence. I don’t see you snapping pics and posting them online,” he replies with a snicker. “The coat check is also a phone check. There are also individual lockers for every person who pays the door charge and steps through those doors. Outside, Hawk and the guys are the first line of defense, their job is to make sure the right kind of people get in. Then in the lobby we’ve also got scanners.”
“Scanners?” I think back to when we walked in and I can’t recall walking through any type of monitoring equipment. “Are we talking visual scanning or…”
Justin's smile turns devilish. “Nope. Scanners up in the arch everyone has to walk through. Gives us a full body view which is then fed to the monitors at the front desk and the control room. I can show you all of that tomorrow night.”
I school my expression because this ‘easy’ case just got a hell of a lot harder and intriguing all at the same time. Why would a club need such a high level of security?
“So why didn't they take my phone away from me?”
“Cause you're with me. I'd already flagged you as being safe before I came and got you.”
“Guess it pays to be old cops who were lucky to escape the force.” The words pain me to say but I remind myself that this is a role, a ruse, a mask I'm wearing. And it’s true, I am an ex-cop. A disgraced one who was lucky to keep his pension at that.
It's the right thing to say because Justin lifts his tumbler, taps it against my still-untouched water bottle, and downs the rest of his glass before checking his watch and looking over his shoulder and up. Following his gaze, I catch the camera he’s jerking his chin up at.
“Hate to cut this short but I've got another meeting I must get to. You're welcome to stay and soak all of this in if you're so inclined, or I can take you to the staff locker room and get you fitted for a suit and then we'll catch up tomorrow night for your first shift.”
Why does this all seem a little too straightforward? Almost easy?
As Justin leads me through the club, I can't help but feel a sense of unease as I see the place a little differently now. The dim lighting and thumping bass of the music make me feel like I'm walking through a different world. Everywhere I turn, people are dancing, drinking, and laughing, but I can't ignore that there's also a sense of purpose to the allure of the club.
It's that thought that plagues me as I’m given a suit that looks like it costs more than the annual salary they’re paying me, and a staff app is set up on my phone. Then I’m sent on my way with promises to catch up with me before my first shift the next night.
It's not until I'm back at the apartment and sitting on the couch with a beer in hand that Harry messages me.
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.