Mason stood in the street across from Priceless Beauties. Last time he was here, it had been to ask some innocent questions. And now? He was on his guard.
Although confronting this woman head-on would be satisfying, he knew it was counterproductive. With this in mind, he waited long after the sun went down and a couple of women left the building. One of them locked up behind her, but it wasn’t Alison Wendell. At least, he didn’t think so.
The street was now empty, and Mason crossed the road. He checked the door for an alarm system, found none, then broke it in with a forceful shove. It burst right open, and he went inside, propping a nearby chair against it to make it look closed. Who knew if anyone would come by there.
Knowing it was safer than having someone spot a suspicious-looking flashlight, Mason turned the lights on and drew the blinds. The place was his to explore now, but for how long?
His first port of call was the reception desk, where he found plenty of files and invoices, but nothing of substance. Disappointed, he headed through to the back where he found a row of cheap-looking beds with filthy stained sheets. There were curtains to separate them, but they were all drawn back on their rails.
This must be where they do the “massages.”
Mason traipsed over to check the area when he heard a thud from upstairs.
He froze, listening close, hoping it was just his imagination.
But there it was again, loud, like somebody falling out of bed and hitting the floorboards. Mason drew the policeman’s gun from under his coat. He found the staircase, took a deep breath, and crept upstairs.