Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"We've got a problem." Rush's voice was tight. "The body's gone."
Archer went still. "Gone?"
"Someone removed it. We got to the room, and Lebowitz was gone. No blood. No evidence. Nothing."
Archer started to pace across his office. Ryker sat in one of the visitor chairs and watched his boss, as if waiting to see him blow his cool. That would be a first.
Rush's voice came through the phone. "I got there within ten minutes of your call, and the body wasn't there. I talked to Lady Arabella, but she just said that when she got back to the room, Lebowitz was gone."
Ryker might just get his show. Archer held on to a shred of calm with his fingertips. "He was tied up for fuck's sake. How does she think he escaped?"
"She said she assumed someone came in, untied him, and he left with them. Apparently, it happens."
Archer didn't believe it for one fucking minute.
"They were waiting," Archer said. "There's no way someone got there in under ten minutes and cleaned everything up. Someone had to already be on site. Someone knew it was going to happen and was ready to move the moment it did."
"That's my take as well," Rush said.
"Did you talk to Calliope?" Archer demanded.
"Tried," Rush said. "She refuses to see me. Says she doesn't know anything about a body, doesn't know what I'm talking about."
Archer ground his teeth. "She's lying."
" Obviously."
Archer grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair. "Stay there. I'm on my way."
"Archer—"
"Stay there, Rush. I'll handle this." He ended the call and looked at Ryker. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Back to the club."
Ryker stood and followed him out of the office. His voice was skeptical when he asked, "You think she'll talk to you?"
"She will," Archer said, his voice emotionless. "One way or another."
They rolled up to the club, and the same bouncer let them back in. He seemed to sense there was trouble because he gave Archer a nod of acknowledgment. He might work for Calliope, but he knew who had the real power in this city.
The club had emptied out considerably since they'd left. Not surprising for a Sunday night. What did surprise him, however, was how different it looked when empty. Seedier. Smaller. The magic of writhing bodies and bass stripped away to reveal cracked concrete and peeling paint.
Rush met them just inside the second door, his expression grim.
"She still won't see you," he said.
"We'll see about that." Archer marched past him into the building.
The hallways were empty now, the rooms dark and silent. The heels of his expensive shoes echoed sharply as he strode through the maze of corridors, Ryker and Rush flanking him.
Calliope's office was on the second floor. Two security guards stood outside, big men with thick necks, hired muscle meant to intimidate.
They stepped in front of the door as Archer approached.
"Sorry," one of them said. "Ms. Calliope isn't seeing anyone right now."
"She'll see me," Archer said.
"I don't think so."
Archer didn't slow down.
The first guard reached for him. Archer caught his wrist, twisted, and used the man's momentum to send him stumbling into the wall.
The second guard lunged. Archer sidestepped, drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus, and, with all the rage and frustration seething within him, swept the man’s legs out from under him.
Both men were down in less than five seconds.
Archer straightened his jacket and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly elegant. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they’d actually been read.
An artisan rug covered the floor. The desk was antique mahogany, polished to a high shine.
What appeared to be original artwork hung on the walls, expensive and tasteful.
Calliope sat behind the desk.
She was in her fifties, Archer guessed. Maybe early sixties.
Her hair was silver, cut in a sharp bob that framed high cheekbones and shrewd eyes.
The pearls around her neck were framed beautifully in the open neck of her black silk blouse.
Her hands rested on the desk in front of her, perfectly manicured nails gleaming.
She looked like someone's elegant aunt. Someone who hosted dinner parties and donated to the opera.
Not someone who ran an underground sex club.
"Mr. Gray." Her voice was as smooth and cultured as the rest of her. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. It's been a while."
Archer closed the door behind him, leaving Ryker and Rush in the hallway. This conversation needed to be private.
" It has been a while, Calliope. I believe the last time I was here was to help you with a difficult client."
Calliope inclined her head. "Yes, and I appreciated it at the time. However, I must insist that you leave, Archer. I cannot help you."
Archer studied her. Her posture was rigid. Her hands were folded in front of her in what he suspected was an attempt to stop them from shaking, but the tremor was still visible. Her lips were pressed into a straight line, and real fear sparked in her eyes.
"Where's the body?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
Calliope didn't blink, didn't move a muscle. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play games with me. Timothy Lebowitz was murdered in one of your rooms tonight. And now his body is gone."
She made a show of frowning. "I run a respectable establishment, Mr. Gray. If what you're suggesting had occurred, my employees would have told me, and I would have called the police immediately."
"But you didn't call the police," Archer said. "You got rid of the body."
Calliope sat straighter, if that was possible. "Because there was no body. Nothing occurred here this evening."
Resisting the urge to slap his palm on the antique mahogany, Archer crowded closer to the desk.
"Let's not lie to one another. Someone died here tonight.
Someone cleaned it up. Fast. Professionally.
That takes planning. That takes resources.
" He leaned forward, hands on the desk. "That takes permission from you. "
Calliope's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. This close, the tremor running through her whole body was unmistakable. She wasn't just afraid. She was terrified.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she repeated.
"Who took the body?" he demanded.
"No one."
"Calliope—"
"I said I don't know." Her voice rose slightly, control slipping. "I don't know anything about a body. I don't know who you think died here. I run a club. That's all."
Archer studied her. The way she fought to hold herself together, the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes. She wasn't refusing to help because she didn't want to. She was refusing because she was genuinely terrified of something far worse than him.
He straightened and softened his approach. "You’re being threatened."
She looked away. Bingo! He’d hit the nail on the head.
"Calliope." His voice was quieter now. "I can help you. But I need to know what's going on."
"You can't help me," she said quietly. "No one can."
"Try me."
She was silent for a long moment, her knuckles white where her fingers were clasped together. "Archer, I cannot help you. I do not know what you're talking about." Her eyes pleaded with him.
It was the first time she'd ever used his first name. She was trying everything she had to get him to back off. He felt for her. But he needed this.
"I'm guessing when you got involved in whatever this is, you knew it would be dangerous and that there would be consequences.
" He leaned over the desk again. "I am one of those consequences.
This can go easy for you, or it can go very badly.
" He let his voice go cold, and he knew his eyes were telling her she was on thin ice.
The only question was who she was more afraid of, him or whoever was behind this.
Her composure crumbled. She licked her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. "I need some guarantees," she started.
"There are no guarantees in life, Calliope."
She swore under her breath.
"They came for him," she said finally. "Right after it happened. They knew exactly where to go, which room, what to do. They cleaned everything. Took the body. Told me to forget I'd seen anything."
"Who?" Archer growled.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Calliope—"
"I don't," she insisted. "They didn't give me names. And I didn't ask."
Archer straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. "You must know something. You wouldn't let someone come in and take a body without knowing who was behind it."
She pursed her lips and then suddenly seemed to deflate, as if the last of her resistance had quietly given out. She slumped in her chair. "I only know a code name. That's it."
Archer's pulse kicked. "Code name?"
She hesitated, visibly weighing the risk. Deciding whether telling him was more dangerous than staying silent.
"The Curator," she said finally.
Archer went still. "The Curator?"
"They said they worked for the Curator. Said if I talked to anyone… the police, other members, anyone at all, the Curator would know. And they'd come back for me."
"Did they say anything else?"
"No." She wrapped her arms around herself. "They just told me to keep my mouth shut and my club clean. Said this was their business and I should stay out of it."
"But you must know more than that." He had the distinct feeling she wasn't telling him everything.
"I don't know anything more." She stared at him, clearly terrified.
He wasn't going to get any further with her tonight. The Curator, whoever it was, had connections. Power. Reach. Enough to make a woman like Calliope, who had survived decades in this world, look like she might shatter.
"How many people came?" Archer asked.
"Three. All in black. All masked. They moved fast. Professional."
"Did you recognize any of them?"
"No." She shook her head. "But the leader, there was something about him." She gave a small shudder. "He was scary, Archer. Not the kind of scary I'm used to."
Archer nodded slowly. "Anything else?"
She ignored the question and looked up at him, fear still etched into every line of her face. "What are you going to do?"
"Find them."
She licked her lips. "And if you can't?"
"I will," Archer said. His voice was flat. Final. "I always do."
He turned and walked out of the office. Ryker and Rush were waiting in the hallway, the two security guards still on the floor, groaning softly.
"We need to go," Archer said.
They moved quickly through the emptied club and out into the early dawn. Archer climbed into the car, his mind already working through what he had.
The Curator.
It wasn't the first time he'd heard it. There had been whispers before, faint ones, the kind that disappeared when you looked directly at them. His gut churned. Calliope had been around a long time. She'd seen everything this city had to offer, and he’d never seen her frightened by anything the way she was unnerved by the night’s activities.
Her violent shaking had told him considerably more than her words had.
Rush slid into the passenger seat. "What did she say?"
"Professional clean-up crew. She's terrified."
"That doesn't bode well," Rush said.
"No. It doesn't."
"Did she give you anything else?" Ryker asked from the back seat.
"She gave me a name. A code name."
"What is it?" Rush asked.
"The Curator."
Rush frowned. "Never heard of it."
Archer glanced in the mirror at Ryker.
"I've heard whispers," Ryker confirmed. "All of them horrific."
Archer started the engine. "Yes. Same here. We need to find out who the Curator is and what exactly is going on. I have a feeling this is considerably bigger than just the Ponzi scheme."
Rush growled. "And once we know who's behind this, then what?"
Archer's jaw tightened as he pulled out into traffic.
"Then we're going to stop them," he said. "Before anyone else dies."