“You got a warrant?” Sean, the manager, asked as he finally unlocked the door. Then he leaned against it rather than opening it and waited for Tony to answer.
Sean Waldrop. Twenty-five. Shoulder-length hair badly in need of a wash. A few curly hairs that looked more like they belonged somewhere in the vicinity of his balls sprouted from his chin. Tony felt reasonably confident the tight, ripped jeans were cutting off the blood supply to his upper body and, more important, his brain. With the heavy metal band T-shirt, worn leather jacket and combat boots, he had the 90s grunge look down. So not the kind of joint he would have wanted his niece to patronize. Something else his sister didn’t need to know.
Apparently Tony didn’t respond quickly enough since Waldrop lifted his skinny shoulders in a shrug and warned, “No warrant, no entrance, man.”
If he didn’t have one hell of an ongoing hangover from the past week—maybe month—Tony would have taken that punk-ass attitude down a notch or two. Instead, he smiled and said, “I showed you my credentials already.” What was one more flash of his invalid creds? “The owner, Kenneth Jonas—you might recognize the name from your paychecks—gave me permission to look to my heart’s desire. You want to call him?” Tony offered his cell. “I’m certain he’d be interested in learning why your bartenders are selling alcohol to minors.”
Waldrop stared at him a moment before relenting. He opened the door. “Make yourself at home, Mr. Fed. I got shit to do.”
Tony waited for Waldrop to go inside first. The stench of nicotine had infused the air, the dark paneled walls as well as the worn upholstery, all of which was underscored by the smell of countless spilled beers emanating from the cheap carpet. Waldrop flipped on the lights, which only confirmed Tony’s assessment. Tables filled most of the space. A small tiled dance floor butted up to an even smaller stage while a long bar stretched across the far side of the space. A door behind the bar probably led to the kitchen and/or the office. Between the bar and the stage, a narrow hall disappeared into the darkness. A sign directing patrons to the bathrooms pointed in that direction.
“What’s the lighting like during business hours?” Tony asked.
Waldrop plopped a rack of glasses on the counter. “We keep the lights you see now on behind the bar and the stage.” He gestured to the stage. “The rest that stay on during opening hours are along the baseboards and under the tables—ambience lighting, they call it.”
In other words it was basically dark in the place during operating hours. The one camera Tony had spotted was above the mirrored wall behind the bar. “Is this the only camera inside?”
Waldrop picked up a rag and set his hands on his hips. “That’s it. Old man Jonas is a cheap motherfucker. I see that when I look at my paycheck, too.”
Tony decided it wasn’t worth the effort to point out that the owner was likely getting exactly what he paid for. The rows of liquor bottles behind the bar had his mouth watering. “Is the video recorder in the office?”
The manager hitched his head. “Follow me.”
The door behind the bar led into a small kitchen, as Tony suspected. The grill was blackened with use and the sink was stacked high with beer glasses and mugs. The rest of the counter space was cluttered with cans, boxes and utensils.
“Told you I had shit to do,” Waldrop said.
Tony doubted the regulars showed up every night for the health department rating. “Hopefully this won’t take long,” he offered. “I have shit to do, too.”
Waldrop opened the office door and gestured for Tony to go on in. “The system’s set up in that coat closet.”
The office had the same tired, dingy decorating scheme as the rest of the place. Papers were stacked in reasonably tidy piles on the desk. Part of a calculator stuck out from under one of the piles. An ashtray full of cigarette butts was jammed amid the stacks as if the smoker hoped it would all go up in flames so he wouldn’t have to file it. An oscillating fan sat on one of three file cabinets. Judging by the dust on the blades it hadn’t been turned on in years.
He opened the closet door. The VCR sat on top of a safe. The machine was off and covered with about as much dust as the fan blades. Frustration ground in Tony’s gut. He turned back to the asshole watching him. “When was the last time this thing worked?”
“Mmm.” He pursed his lips as if in deep thought. “About two months after they put it in. I think that was three years ago.”
Tony grabbed him by his shitty T-shirt. “Listen to me, asshole.” He put his face close to Waldrop’s. “I’m in a really bad mood. Someone I care deeply about is missing. I drove all this way hoping you were going to be my big lead. Turns out, you’re just a piece of shit with an attitude. Now I got no choice but to call in backup and show you just how unhappy you’ve made me.”
Shit-for-brains shook his head. “I don’t want any trouble. Tell me how I can help you, man. Seriously. Anything.”
Tony released him. He reached into his pocket for his cell and the man’s eyes widened. He held up his phone to relieve his tension and then showed him a photo of Tiffany. “Have you seen her? She was here with a dark-haired, older man about a month ago.”
Waldrop squinted at the pic. “She’s been here a few times. I don’t know the guy you’re talking about though. The chick’s usually with Hailey.”
“Hailey? Who’s Hailey?”
Waldrop snickered. “I don’t know her last name. She’s this older chick who comes around sometimes. I think she digs on younger girls. Know what I mean?”
Tony grabbed him by the throat. “I know what you mean. Now, how do I find this Hailey?”
He held up his hands, fear back in his eyes. “I don’t know, man.”
Tony tightened his grip on the scrawny bastard’s throat.
“Kayla knows her,” he squeaked. “She works here. She...she can tell you all about Hailey.”
Tony shoved him loose. “Take me to Kayla. Now.”
Clinton Road, 5:50 p.m.
Kayla Maples opened the door of her shabby duplex and immediately tried to close it. Tony used Waldrop as a doorstop.
Waldrop squealed. “Goddamn, man, you trying to kill me?”
Kayla screamed and ran for the kitchen. Tony shoved Waldrop aside and rushed after her.
“He’s a fucking fed!” Waldrop shouted from where he’d landed on the floor.
Kayla stopped and held up her hands. “I swear to God, I didn’t do whatever you think I did.”
Almost as good as a confession. Tony ordered, “Sit down.”
She inched her way back toward him but didn’t sit. Kayla was maybe twenty. She had short, curly red hair. She might be five feet tall and weigh all of a hundred pounds. Her face was clear; her skin looked healthy. Not the first visible tattoo. Since she wore shorts and a tee, he spotted no visible needle tracks either. But then there were a million ways to get high that didn’t show.
“I swear to God the pot’s not mine. It’s my brother’s. He lives here, too.” She turned big round eyes up to Tony. “Please, I’m a nursing student. Any trouble could get me tossed out of the program.”
“I don’t care about your brother or his pot.” Tony pointed to the sofa. “Sit. Tell me about Hailey.”
The girl frowned. “Why do you want to know about Hailey?”
“That girl she’s been hanging out with,” Waldrop piped up, “is missing.”
Kayla’s eyes rounded. “Tiffany? Tiffany Durand?”
Tony nodded. “You a friend of hers?”
“Not really.” Kayla shrugged. “I’ve seen her around the campus. I’m a sophomore at the same college. She started coming to the club last month.” She frowned. “I thought she was going to the beach or something for the weekend.”
“She’s missing.”
“Oh my God.” Kayla clasped her hand over her mouth.
Tony followed her gaze to the silenced television screen. The alert for Tiffany and Vickie Parton flashed on the screen.
“Tell me about Hailey,” Tony repeated. “Tiffany was hanging out with her?”