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But Alix is still in there. She’s got her own lawyer. She’s got her own story. And I’m seriously considering going back into the station, heading down a hallway to use the john, and pulling the fire alarm to get her out of whatever tiny room they’re using to interrogate her.
Bad idea.
My phone rings before I can change my mind and brave the fucking paps. I’m about to ignore it—the only person I want to talk to is Alix—when I see Gage Rider’s name on the screen.
I can’t afford to ignore anyone who was in my dining room that night. “Prince,” I answer.
“Last week,” he says, without fucking around. “On the boat. You mentioned you were trying to get in touch with a couple of guys you used to work with.”
Rider played hockey for six years before back-to-back concussions made him get out. But before that, he went to Dartmouth. And rumor has it that—along with owning his old team, the Atlantic City Aces—he owns entire city blocks in New York City.
He’s smart. And he knows better than to say the Herzog name out loud.
“Yeah, you know them?”
“Their names sounded familiar. I did a little digging. Turns out, they’re members of a club I own.”
“Club?” I know from past Ring outings the guy’s a scratch golfer. Given his storied real estate holdings, it doesn’t surprise me at all that he owns a country club.
“It’s in Brooklyn. Kynk.” He spells it for me.
Well, that’s an entirely different type of club.
“And you say those guys I used to know are members?” I ask.
“VIPs.”
Of course they are. “Sounds like that comes with all sorts of special privileges,” I say.
“We’ve got perks. One of the key ones is a standing invitation to our annual Masquerade.”
“When’s that?”
“It’s short notice. But next Saturday night.”
I close my eyes. Six days, and I can put myself in the same room with Jonas and Ansel Herzog. I realize my fingers are clamped so tight around my phone they hurt. I force myself to take a deep breath, to exhale on a count of ten.
“So,” I ask. “What does it take to become a member at your club?”
“I’ve already added your name to the guest list. Well,aname. I figured you might not want your reputation linked to a sex club.”
Fuck my reputation. But avoiding a record of being there when the Herzogs are present is an excellent idea. “What’s the name?” I ask.
“Jack Strong.”
I waste a moment, trying to figure out why he chose that. Then I realize there isn’t a reason. A random name is best, under the circumstances. Once again, I’m reminded that Gage Rider is smart.
“And where is Mr. Strong going next Saturday night?”
He gives me an address. “Near Industry City. There’s a street-level entrance if you know what you’re looking for. The club’s underground, in an old subway tunnel for the line they never built to Staten Island.”
“Dress code?” That seems like a safer question than whether I can bring a Sig Sauer.
“It’s a masquerade at a club named Kynk. Wear whatever the fuck you want. But club security enforces two rules. Everyone wears a mask. And cell phones go into a vault at the door.” He pauses for barely a second before he adds, “Well, three rules, I guess. Everyone walks through a metal detector before they hit the floor.”
Bingo. That’s the warning I need. “Thanks,” I say, pushing the word hard, so he’ll know I mean it.
“If possible…” he says, and then he trails off.
