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Thirteen

Madison parked a few blocks away from Club Sophisticated. It was a downtown bar that had attracted people affiliated with the Russian Mafia in the past, and she was quite certain some previously unknown associates were still regulars, along with newfound corrupt cops. At least she had it on good authority.

About three weeks ago, she’d enlisted the help of friend and renowned reporter, Leland King, to investigate one cop she suspected of corruption. Dustin Phelps. King had captured photos inside the club of Phelps with another Stiles PD officer, Garrett Murphy. With them was Jonathan Wright, who was the right-hand man to Marcus Randall, a business tycoon in town suspected of crooked dealings, and a mystery woman. King bowed out after handing over the images because his mother’s life was threatened. If he knew who the woman was, he hadn’t said, and Madison had let it go, figuring she’d find it out for herself. She’d keep at it for a while longer, respecting King’s decision, but uncovering the woman’s identity was proving a bit difficult.

It was part of the reason why she was here after eleven at night, instead of being home with Troy and Hershey. It was also why she was dressed in black jeans, black shirt, and black hoodie—all of which she kept in the trunk of her Mazda. She’d checked her appearance in the pitted and smeared mirror of a gas station restroom after she changed, and it showed a woman about to commit a crime. After all, if duct tape, rope, and a knife were a murder kit, a black hoodie, shirt, and jeans were in the criminal handbook on what to wear. But she wasn’t the one doing anything illegal.

She gave herself one last look in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. Some of her short blond hair was poking out around her ears, and she tucked the strands out of sight. Now it was just her light complexion against the dark clothing.

She grabbed her camera from the trunk and set out for the rear of the club. Her reasoning was anyone involved with the Russians wouldn’t leave by the front door. She’d find a spot to hide and snap pictures of anyone exiting.

She walked past other bars, and they appeared to be doing a good business. Looking through their windows, bodies were crammed and gyrating, and music thumped out to the sidewalk. She ducked down an alley that ran along the side of a jazz club. It ended at another alley that butted up to Club Sophisticated.

She ducked left, and the farther she walked, the stronger the stench of rotting garbage. She passed an overflowing dumpster. Its lid cocked, black bags hoisting it up. The reek had bile shooting up her throat. She snapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed roughly as she looked around for a good place to hide and take pictures. Most of the alley was exposed. Bags were piled next to the dumpster, and if she wedged herself behind them—

Fuck me, she thought, but the spot would offer the most concealment, and it was quite close to the back door.

She mumbled to herself as she set about getting into position. The garbage had her gagging again.

“Hey.” It was a woman’s voice. One Madison recognized—but from where? Regardless, maybe if she ignored her, she’d go away.

“I said, ‘Hey,’” the woman repeated.

All wishful thinking apparently! She turned and wished she hadn’t. She knew exactly who the woman was now. She’d clawed Madison during a previous investigation, and the woman also claimed to have “a gift” for seeing the future. And things just keep getting better.

The woman’s gnarled face relaxed with seeming recognition but then contorted again. “You’re that cop.”

She resisted the urge to point out that for someone who could “see” things, the woman should have known who she was before Madison faced her. But she needed this woman’s cooperation. She closed the distance between them. “I need you to keep quiet.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Shh.” The woman recoiled, and Madison held up her hands. “I won’t hurt you.” Really, if anyone should be afraid—if history had a say—it was Madison.

“You homeless now?” The woman jutted out her chin and sneered. Even in the pale light, Madison noted that she had no teeth on the bottom, very few on top.

“No, but I’m—”

The back door of the club opened, and a woman came out. Slender, a few inches taller than Madison, probably about five eight. She had a swiftness to her steps and pulled the hood of her coat over her head and tucked her hands into her pockets. She didn’t give the impression she saw Madison or the other woman. That could be what she wanted them to think, or it could be a matter of the homeless or perceived homeless being invisible to some.

But Madison noticed her. The mystery woman. Madison slammed the heel of her left boot into the ground. If she hadn’t been stuck talking to “Claws,” she’d have had another picture.

Madison felt a jabbing finger in her arm and pulled back.

“Why are you here?”

“Listen…” Madison took a few more steps closer to her intended roost—as disgusting as it was—and the woman moved with her. “I’m working a case, and I need you to leave.”

“Oh, really. Not what I’m sensing.”

“Then your senses are off.”

The woman smacked her gums.

“Please, can you go somewhere else while I work? Just for a bit.”

“For how long?”

Madison’s gaze drifted to the door of the club. She prayed that no one else would come out while she was dealing with this impossible woman. “A couple hours at the most.”

“’K, but then I’m back. That’s where I sleep. Shelters me from the wind.” She flicked a finger toward the area that Madison was going to use for concealment.

There were certainly people with far worse luck than she had.