Chapter 9

“She's a stripper.” Blunt. Ryan stopped passing out the food.

“You know this because?”

I took a bite of chicken. “It's on Google. They have an advertisement on the Cat Scratch Club's site for her.”

Ryan laughed. “She's a stripper?”

I nodded. Ryan took his own bite of Thai.

“I think I agree with you now, my dear.”

“With what, my dear?” I mimicked.

“She's hiding something.” He said. I looked up from my dinner.

“You changed your mind because she's a w***e?” I asked incredulously. He shrugged.

“I prefer my women non-exotic.”

I stared at him. “You don't like strippers?”

“Not particularly.”

I shook my head and went back to my dinner. “You're an odd man, Ryan Carr.”

He smiled and grabbed my container of Thai from me. I made a sound in protest. “And you love me for it.”

I didn't argue.

“Can I have that back?” I asked, holding my hand out. He took a bite before picking up his own and offering it to me. I smiled. Ryan took his chopstick, picked a few noodles out of the box, and offered them to me. I leaned over and took them into my mouth. Ryan laughed. I joined in.

We continued to eat, a comfortable silence taking hold of the room. I was still slightly mad at him for his behaviour in interrogation, but I was dealing.

There was one question I just didn't get though.

“Why would she plant her own thong in the bedroom?”

Ryan shrugged. “I don't know. I don't care about why. I care about what.”

“What?”

“Yes, what. I care about what she did, what she's hiding. I don't care why. Not yet.” There was a sort of passion to his tone. Something that showed how much he really cared.

I'd always admired that quality in Ryan. He had a passion for his job. He always needed closure, he'd always get to the bottom of whatever case he was handling. He wanted people to be safe. He cared.

There weren't many men out there like that.

“What?” He asked, looking at me. I smiled.

“Nothing.”

We finished eating, and Ryan dropped me off at my apartment door a few minutes after seven. I thanked him, caught the elevator, and ascended to my home.

All day I had been waiting desperately to get home and jump in the shower. It'd been a hot, sticky day in Oshawa, and my hair and body felt greasy, and just gross in general. I slid into my bathroom, stripped, and turned on the hot water. Before jumping under the stream of water, I glanced in the mirror. I was not fond of what I saw.

Pale blue eyes looked back at me. Dark shadows lined the lower lids. I hadn't slept very well in quite a while. I was constantly bombarded with nightmares of the corpses I examine, family and friends dying, and myself ending up like any one of the victims that had passed into my autopsy room over the years. A pale, oval shaped face tilted to the side, surrounded by stringy, brown hair. I needed to get my highlights re-done.

I sighed. I didn't look twenty five.

I padded into the shower, letting the steaming hot water undo the knot of tension in my back. My neck hurt. Everything really hurt. I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, thoroughly rinsing it and repeating the process again. When my hair was clean as a whistle, I grabbed my body wash and the sponge that lay on the side of my bathtub and lathered up my body. The scent of lavender filled my nostrils and sent a calm, soothing effect over my body.

These were the nights, when I could come home, get in the shower, and just relax. I didn't get those kind of nights very often.

A few minutes later, I shut the water off and slipped out of the shower, wrapping my bath towel around my body. I picked up my brush, my contacts, my toothbrush and my other toiletries and set to work on my face, not before flicking the small stereo in my bathroom on. The Backstreet Boys blared from the tiny speakers.

I stood at the sink, singing along to 'I Want It That Way' as I stared into the mirror. I blew my hair dry, moisturized my skin, put my contacts in, and brushed my teeth. I felt damn good.

I walked out of the bathroom and into the living room, priding myself on my fabulous vocal skills.

“The Backstreet Boys?”

If it were possible, I would've jumped out of my skin. I settled for a high pitched scream.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shrieked. Ryan grinned.

“I'm coming to see you. You're a fantastic singer.”

I shook my head. “No, that's not okay. How the hell did you get in here?”

He shrugged. “I told the landlord you haven't been answering your phone, and that I was worried about you. He gave me a key.” He dangled the piece of metal in front of me. I shook my head in disbelief.

“You are an idiot. Could you not have called?”

“You didn't answer. We already went over this, didn't we?” Ryan took a seat on the couch.

“Okay, well, at least hum a little tune when you're in my home so I know you're here!”

Ryan chuckled. “I don't hum.”

I threw my hands in the air exasperatedly. He grinned.

“What do you want?”

He leaned over and placed his hands on his knees. “Are you up for an adventure, beautiful?”

I blushed before answering. “At 10:20 in the evening?” Ryan nodded.

“Of course. We're headed to La Skratch.”

“The strip club?” I asked hesitantly, “I thought you didn't like strippers.”

“I don't, but we need to have another talk with Ms. Rose, don't you think?”

I pondered this. “Fine.” I gave in, “What am I wearing?” I asked over my shoulder as I walked towards my room.

“Whatever makes you look the sleaziest.”

My sister would have been proud of the eye roll Ryan received.

~*~*

“That's hot.”

I shook my head. I was wearing a skirt and a black tank top. Nothing too sleazy, but enough to fit in. Ryan didn't look much different.

“Whatever. Come on, lover boy.”

He grinned and we headed down to my parking garage. Time to debate over cars.

“Mine or yours?” He asked, glancing at me. I shrugged.

“I'd go with mine. Less conspicuous.” Ryan nodded and I passed him the keys to my Honda. I slid in the passenger seat and we drove fairly quickly to La Skratch. It wasn't that far away to begin with.

As expected, the parking lot was full. Ryan drove around for a moment before settling on a parking spot as far away from the club as possible. When I got out the the car, he started to speak.

“So, Katie, we're going under cover,” He began, glancing at me, “So we need a cover story. You're my fiancee. We're getting married. Eventually. Anyways, we're here at the bar to celebrate, okay?” I nodded. He stopped me. “Stay with me at all times, Katelyn. I'm not losing you in this bar.”

I scoffed and continued up the parking lot. I wasn't getting lost. As we approached the club, the bouncers waited outside. Ryan flashed them his badge. The rope was pulled open for him, and we entered. As soon as we hit the doors, his arm was around my waist.

I have never realized exactly how much I hate clubs.

Bright, pink flashing lights, steady, pounding music, women hanging from poles. Not my thing. I had to scream in Ryan's ear to be heard.

“Where do we start?” I asked. He leaned down to my ear.

“I want to start with the owner of the club. He's the guy that hires them. I want to know all about our little friend Olivia.”

I nodded and grabbed Ryan's hand, dragging him to the bar. I tapped on the counter to get the bartender's attention. The man turned around and smiled at me.

“What can I get you two lovers?”

I ignored his comment. “I need to see your manager.” I shouted. Still smiling, the man pointed. I glanced in the direction of the finger.

Off in a corner of the club, sitting on a plush sofa, was a man in his mid thirties to forties. A pristine white suit decorated his body, while an offsetting, scarlet, red tie lay limp on his chest. A matching red fedora sat upon dirty blond hair, and black and white checkered shoes accented the feet. Expensive fashion at its best. Three women were draped around him, all sipping glasses of champagne.

I dragged Ryan over to the man. He looked up at us and grinned. A gold tooth flashed in the neon pink lights.

“Hello, friends! Please, sit!”

Ryan sat and pulled my down beside him, draping an arm around my shoulder.

“Now, what can I do for you two?” The man asked. I looked at Ryan, who reached in his pocket for his badge.

“Sir, I'm Special Agent Ryan Carr of the FBI, and this is my fiancee and partner, Dr. Katie Amos. You're the manager of this establishment?”

“The one and only,” The man began. He held out a hand to Ryan. He took it, “Colin Jackson at you service. La Skratch is my pride and joy. My baby, if you will. What can I do for you, Agent Carr?”

Ryan fiddled around in his pockets for a picture of Olivia Rose. He handed it to Jackson.

“This woman works for you, correct?”

Colin looked at the picture hesitantly. He turned to the girls around him.

“Girls, I'd like to have a word in private with Agent Carr and Dr. Amos.”

The three blondes got up and left, flipping their hair in their wake. Colin looked back to us and sighed.

“It's Olivia Rose.”

Ryan nodded. “Yes, sir,” He began, “It is. Did Ms. Rose work here at your club?”

Colin nodded. “Yes. Well, not full time, but yes. She was one of the girls. She's uh...she's performing tonight, actually.”

I piped up. “You seem kind of reluctant to have Ms. Rose performing tonight, Mr. Jackson.”

“Look,” He said, putting his hands up, “Olivia is amazing at what she does here, great dancer, but there's honestly something not right with that woman. She's messed up in the head.”

I looked to Ryan. “Mr. Jackson, is Ms. Rose the type to go home with one of her...customers?”

Jackson nodded. “Definitely. I see her leave with a different man every night.”

I nudged Ryan. He looked at me. I mouthed Pablo Tacolini to him. He nodded and produced a photo of the Mexican from somewhere.

“Did Ms. Rose ever leave with this man?”

Colin studied the photo for a moment.

“Yes, I remember him. Mexican, right?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I remember him. Throwing money around like paper.”

“Money is paper.” Ryan pointed out. I slapped his wrist.

“Anyway, he left with Olivia around one a few days or so ago. Guy's never been back since.”

I took the picture from Ryan. “That's because he's dead.”

Jackson's eyes widened. “You think Olivia may have had something to do with it?”

“She may or may not,” Ryan said. An awkward sort of silence. Ryan placed a hand on mine, “Well, Mr. Jackson, you've been very helpful. We'll be in touch.”

Ryan helped me to my feet. We started our way out of the club. We were just at the doors when someone familiar called out.

“Come for a visit?”