The heavy front door to the Dark Angel smashed against the building’s exterior wall when Greg entered with the admiral on his heels. They marched past the negligee clad girl at the front desk who chased after them and into the club.
Greg surveyed the sparsely populated room and put his sights on the bartender. The guy poured a shot of whiskey for a customer at the copper plated bar. Ten long strides brought Greg within striking distance. “Where’s the owner?”
The bartender, a guy with a bald head and gold hooped earring, announcing his preference for men, shrugged his bulky shoulder, but watched them warily.
Greg leaned over the scarred wooden top just enough to show the guy when he jumped over the counter and had him by the throat, there’d be no more asking nicely. “Find her now, or I go to the media and spill the connection between the Victoria Ripper and this club.”
It wasn’t such a longshot. There was a connection. The Ripper had taken Greg’s knife and set him up for Diana’s murder. The killer had probably seen Mattie here the night Montgomery threatened them.
The Victoria Ripper had Mattie, and the warrior in Greg woke up, primed to annihilate the fucker. There was no ‘if’ he found him, left in Greg’s mind. And he wouldn’t leave much for the justice system to prosecute.
A tall blonde dressed in a skin-tight red leather outfit approached from the right side of the bar. “Gentlemen, I’m Anna. If you’d follow me.” She turned, leaving the few gaping guests in the club’s lounge as she walked back the way she’d come.
Thane kept himself strategically positioned between Greg and the lanky owner. A tactic Greg recognized. His wingman thought he might lose his edge and overcompensate with his hands around Anna’s throat.
They followed her down a short, wood panelled hallway and into a sizeable room with décor unlike the Victorian muse slathered over the rest of the club, but instead a brightly painted room with a modern frosted metal desk and glass top. Silver filing cabinets lined the back wall, and a black and white portrait of a man and woman in a naked embrace hung above as the focal point. Windows spilled the waning afternoon sun through the panes, chasing the shadows from the corners.
She motioned to the two guest chairs as she wove around her desk to put a substantial piece of furniture between them.
Her gaze fell to Greg. “You’re a member of this club. Yet, the way you rampaged into my business says you have some of your own.” Thane didn’t take a seat, instead he positioned himself by the door. A move Anna didn’t miss. “Do I need to call in my security?”
“Not if you’ll tell us what we need to know,” Greg said gruffly.
“If this has to do with The Ripper case, I have nothing more to tell you than I did the police. I’ve allowed them to conduct a quiet investigation while my guests remain undisturbed.”
Greg wasn’t playing a longwinded game of words with this woman. “You also don’t want the media to know this club is connected with the Ripper and drive away customers. Regardless of lifestyle, no one wants to be part of a murder investigation.”
She swung one long leg over the other and leaned back in her bright red high-backed swivel chair. “Quite right. And I don’t want you disturbing them either. The BDSM way of life exists on the blade of a shaky sword. Potential customers would steer clear. I don’t know who the Ripper is.”
He leaned forward, wanting to tear the truth from her lying lips. He could see subterfuge in the narrowing of her eyes. “You know the Ripper has been keeping his urges wet by spending time in this club.”
When she reached for the phone, he slammed his hand down on her fingers. Behind him, the lock on the door slid with a snick.
A cruel twist settled on her lips. “You think you’re going to beat the answer out of me?”
“Even if you’re unsure, you have suspicions. You know as well as me, he could come after you. He’s precise in covering his tracks. You’re a track.” Greg released his grip on her hand and settled in the chair. “Tell us what you know, and we’ll leave you out of this.”
For a moment she glared at him, and then wound her slim forearm across her stomach. “Aimee, the first victim, was my friend, we went to UVIC together. Her parents are pillars in this community. Church going, tax paying, straight-laced folks. Aimee played the part, but she had a wild streak. I talked her into coming here to indulge in some of her fantasies.”
“Although some would disagree, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Greg said to show he was listening and not a threat.
“Aimee visited the club in early February. When she disappeared, no one knew she’d been here. After they found her body, I didn’t want her image sullied by those who don’t understand our lifestyle.” Anna sat forward and clasped her hands on the desk. “Sergeant Montgomery was a regular here. I went to him. Told him this was the last place she’d been seen.”
Greg’s stomach churned in anger. “So you both had something to lose if the hours leading up to Aimee’s death became common knowledge.”
“Montgomery said he’d protect the club once we realized Aimee was the first victim in the Ripper’s wave of terror. After another victim was murdered, he brought his men to the club, certain the Ripper was one of my clients.”
A bang at the office door startled the owner.
“It’s alright, Kevin,” she shouted.
“I’ll call Montgomery.” A deep voice seeped through the wood.
She blinked and surveyed both him and Austen. “Not necessary.”
Heavy footsteps receded down the hallway.
The dominatrix’s gaze eclipsed with worry, showing a slice of concern. “I want Aimee’s killer found. If I knew who he was, I’d have told Montgomery.”
Thane took the few steps to sit in the other guest chair. “Did you investigate new customers who’d joined the club before Aimee disappeared?”
She nodded, her bright blue gaze dropping to her laced fingers. “We did that, but we don’t ask for ID at the door. Often, people give another name to protect their identity when they join.”
“That in itself can be a clue,” Greg said.
Austen’s stone-cold features tightened even more. “LaPierre, we need to trust that Montgomery crossed-checked the names with actual people, and if they didn’t jive, he’d have investigated them.”
Worry ate a hole in Greg’s silver thread of hope. Every second that passed, Mattie slid closer to death. “The Ripper could be using his real name.”
“Does anyone have unlimited access to the club? Even when it’s closed?” Austen asked.
“Myself. Kevin, who’s the head of my security. A cleaning company comes in after the club closes. They work from four a.m. until eleven in the morning when we open again. The owner of that company has a key. That’s it.” The pointed toe of her boot tapped on the carpet anxiously. “I’ve been through all of this with Montgomery.”
“Doesn’t mean the Ripper didn’t get to an underpaid cleaner and a copy of the key.” Greg’s internal clock ticked closer to his wits’ end. His gut told him to hurry, unsure whether they were barking up the wrong proverbial tree. “Did Montgomery find any evidence leading to a suspect on the premises?”
“Evidence?” She laughed. “As in DNA? This is a sex club, it’s layered with excretion on a nightly basis.”
Images of Mattie at the mercy of the Ripper streaked through his thoughts. He’d seen too much death in his service. Bodies tortured by ruthless enemy insurgents and left to rot in a vacant building simmering in hundred degree heat. Where would he take Mattie? The Dark Angel was his best guess and he was going to search the place inch by inch.
Greg clenched the armrests of the chair. The uptick in his pulse warned him he’d reached the edge of control. “Listen, the Ripper took someone I care about. I don’t give a shit about your business or Montgomery’s. I care about her. If there’s something you’ve held back, I need to know now.”
Anna stared into his eyes, her brow tightening. She nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip a moment before speaking. “Aimee, professional as she was, had a thing for swashbuckling bodice rippers.”
Greg shook his head, not understanding.
“Romance novels. Historical love on the high seas. Pirates. That kind of thing. Her sexual fantasies played around that.”
Greg shifted forward in his seat. “And that means…what?”
“When she came to the club for the first time, I wanted her to have a positive experience. It was a busy night, and I asked my club host to introduce her to someone who might be interested in being her Dom and fulfilling those fantasies.”
“Did you tell Montgomery this?” Austen shifted forward in his seat as well.
She nodded. “After Aimee disappeared, I found the guy she’d been introduced to. He used to have a permanent Sub. I believe they were married. Then she stopped coming with him. For a while, he stopped as well, but then he returned.”
Greg’s gut soured with alarm. “When?”
“In January. He comes in on a regular basis twice a month.”
Greg blinked. “Twice a month?”
“Yes.” Anna swiveled in her chair and stepped to the filing cabinet behind her and drew out a folder. “I’ve never had any trouble with him. He’s handsome.” She buried a look into Greg. “Tall. Dark. Mysterious. Like you.”
Austen rose from his chair. “Let’s see that file.” When she hesitated, he said. “I’m not asking.”
Anna laid it on the desktop and slid the manila folder across the frosted glass tabletop toward them.
Greg yanked open the file, and Austen read the documents just as quickly when he opened the folder.
“There’s nothing here, other than his name and he’s a Dom.” Greg turned to the second page, and his heart sped up. A list of visits showed he’d come to the club on the 26th and the 12th of each month like clockwork beginning in January. His head turned toward the Admiral, and Austen’s severe expression told him they may be holding the answer in their hands. “Four days before the 1st and 16th.”
“Brett has always played by the house rules,” she said in defense of her client.
Greg closed the folder, but didn’t give it back. “Who is he? If you had suspicions, you must have looked into him.”
“I did, and that’s why I’m telling you, it’s not him.”
A rumble started in Austen’s throat before he said, “It’s him.”
Surprise exploded on her face. “What? Why would you say that? When I spoke to Brett, he told me Aimee enjoyed their experience, but she’d been asked to join another scene afterward. She accepted and that was the last he’d seen of her.”
When the girls had come to the club, hadn’t Mattie mentioned a guy named Brett? “What’s his background?”
Austen’s cell rang and he dug it out of his coat pocket and slid his thumb across the face of the phone to answer. “Sweetheart, I need to call—” After a short pause, he said, “Where?”
Greg vibrated with impatience as he waited.
Austen’s gaze swung toward him. “When does it leave?”
Leave? When does what leave? He tore the phone from Austen’s hand. “What did you find, Kayla?”
“You don’t have much time, Greg. Hurry!” He shot a look at Austen. “I’ll call Montgomery,” she said.
Austen trained his gaze on Anna. “Brett Blackney is the captain of the Coho ferry that runs between Victoria and Port Angeles.”
The dominatrix nodded. “Yes. Why?”
Austen leaned forward, his polar-colored eyes as cold as an iceberg. “Because it’s run by the Black Ball Line.”
Greg handed the phone to Austen because Kayla had already hung up. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Austen took the folder from him and dropped it on the desk. “Kayla found something in Mattie’s notes. When she’d interviewed the old man at Market Square where Diana’s body was found, he told her the Ripper had been humming a sea shanty.” The warrior in the legendary SEAL latched onto the clue with victory in his eyes. “The Black Ball Line.”
Greg slammed his eyes closed and tried to connect the dots. “He’s the fucking captain of the Coho.”
Austen zeroed his attention back on the club owner. “Tall. Dark hair. Green eyes?”
She nodded again, her gaze swerving between him and Austen. “Like I said, he looks like him,” she said, jerking her head at Greg.
Austen marched for the door. “We need to go.”
“Go where?” Greg asked as he followed.
“The ship leaves for Port Angeles in forty minutes. I think Mattie’s on that ferry.”
Once outside the office, they bolted for the car, weaving their way through the parking lot.
“Where am I going?” Austen said while driving well over the speed limit, racing past a line of parked cars.
“Belleville Street. In front of the Pacific Grand Hotel.”
Austen hammered the rental car’s gas pedal to the floor. “Just fucking tell me which way to turn.”
Greg’s heart thumped hard with adrenaline. “Turn right!”
Austen cranked the wheel, cutting off a car as he exited the parking lot in a sideways slide.
* * * *
Kayla thrust open the glass entry door to the Coho Ferry Terminal. Panting, her heart thumping, she swept the sweat from her forehead with a sleeved arm. Greg’s place was a five minute run to the harbour where the ferry berthed. She threaded her way through the people milling in the congested terminal. Before making the sprint, she’d called Montgomery. Without much of an introduction, she quickly wove the clues with her theory and waited. He didn’t waste a second agreeing with her and said he’d send the entire task force to rendezvous at the Black Ball Terminal.
She knew there was only one way to get on the ferry, and charged through the crowd to the ticket booth, digging in the purse strung across her shoulder for some money.
“Ma’am, you’ll need a passport as well,” the attendant said, his hand on a small printer that ejected a ticket in jerky movements into his palm.
“Have one. Where do I go?” Kayla looked behind her through the throng of people for the first uniformed police officer to appear.
The Coho was registered in Seattle, Washington, property of the United States. She wasn’t sure if the police would have any jurisdiction to stop its departure. A large round clock with black iron hands sat high above the glass walls in the terminal. Three-fifty p.m. The ship would sail in ten minutes. In single file, the cars loaded through an open hatch amidships on the hull from the parking lot below. The ferry was over three hundred feet long and carried more than a hundred vehicles.
Following the sign to customs, she waited calmly while her pulse switched into overdrive as an elderly woman hooked her walking cane on her right arm and heaved a large purse onto the counter while the sombre looking customs agent asked something as he perused her passport. Satisfied with her answer, he stamped a slip of paper and gave it to her.
Kayla’s heart banged heavy as she approached the uniformed customs agent standing behind the counter like it was his exalted throne. Her best plan of attack was to get on that ferry where she believed the Ripper, aka Captain Brett Blackney had Mattie hidden somewhere onboard. If she blew the whistle now, she may not stop the ferry from sailing, but if they thought she was a lunatic, they’d stop her from getting on that ship.
“Reason for your visit to the US?” the guy asked, his ball cap pulled low, shielding his eyes.
She offered a smile. “Staying one night. Shopping in Port Angeles.”
“Alone?”
He was one of those customs agents. The kind that took his job seriously and saw everyone as a potential criminal wanting entry into the great US of A. “Yes, alone.”
“You have dual citizenship,” he said, flipping the pages of her passport with a thumb.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
For the love of God! “Hawaii.”
“What are you doing here?
“Visiting with friends.”
“Why aren’t your friends with you?”
She felt like screaming at the guy, but he knew what time the ferry departed. He wouldn’t hold her up longer than he had to, but no one waited behind her so he took his sweet-ass time while getting his rocks off asking fifty questions.
“He’s with my husband. They’re not fond of shopping.”
He chuffed a compliant sound, but the next sound was the one she wanted to hear, when he stamped the slip of paper and handed it back to her.
“Thank you.” She tucked the paper into her jacket pocket. Strolling, because she didn’t want to attract attention to herself, she headed toward a sign posted for foot passengers to follow.
Kayla darted a glance over her shoulder before leaving the main terminal. The wailing siren in the distance could be an ambulance, but she prayed it was Montgomery and the Task Force. If the Coho sailed, or if red tape got in the way, Kayla was prepared to call in a bomb threat to the Coast Guard.
Whatever it took she’d do it, but first she had to find Mattie.
Security took the customs slip before allowing her to walk across the gangway joining the terminal to the main deck of the ship. As she boarded, she stared up toward the darkened window of the bridge. December brought an early sunset, and there was little light left.
The Ripper thought he’d get away with this. He could have already killed Mattie, but Kayla had her doubts. The handsome gentleman who’d escorted Mattie into the Dark Angel that night was a psychopath, and he’d want to torment her before he ended her life.
Or maybe his twisted mind already decided Mattie was the woman he’d been looking for. Abducting her had been nothing but dark luck on his part, but he still had to keep up his professional appearance to the world he slithered through.
Kayla quickly scooted down the starboard hand side of the ship. She dug in her purse for her phone and called Thane.
“Almost there, Kayla. Are you at Greg’s?”
“No.”
“Kayla,” he yelled and she squinted. “Are you on the fucking Coho?”
“Yes, hurry the hell up.” Looking toward Belleville Street, the red and blue flash of police lights gave her a reason to breathe a little easier. They slowed and made the turn into the ferry parking lot. The whine of a motor caught her attention and the white metal foot passenger gangway rose. “They’re taking up the gangway.”
Her husband wasn’t talking to her when he said, “Go, man. Get on that ship!”
Kayla ran to the railing and looked over as the last cars slowly boarded. Jesus, Greg, where the hell are you?
Her eyes darted across the paved lot, now empty of cars. Crewmen stood near the vehicle ramp, preparing to take it up.
There! After knowing Greg for so many years, she recognized his stride, even though he wore a crew uniform as a disguise. He approached from the left, behind a building where the customs officers cleared the vehicle passengers. Greg waved at someone, and then he disappeared just before the sound of grinding gears raised the vehicle ramp.
She’d forgotten her husband was still hanging on the phone and lifted the cell to her ear. “Greg made it onboard.”
“Kayla, for the love of God,” Thane begged. “For the love of our children, let Greg take him down. Don’t put yourself in danger.”
Striding past the passengers as they leaned against the railing waiting to watch the Victoria waterfront slip by, she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the heavy lifting to him. What’s Montgomery doing?”
“He’s surrounded by customs officers.” Thane paused. “Telling them they suspect the Ripper is a crewmember onboard the ship. He’s keeping his hand tight to his chest. Don’t think he wants to accuse the captain of the ship. He wants the ferry to stop her departure.” Thane went silent for a few seconds. “Shit! Doesn’t look like they’re complying.”
“You think this is chest beating between agencies?”
“Don’t think so. Only the Coast Guard can stop that ship.”
“The Canadian Vessel Traffic Services can’t stop her, only Transport Canada can, and they’d have to have a good reason. Once the ship is halfway across Juan de Fuca Strait, she’ll be in
American waters.”
“Kayla.” His voice turned hard as granite. “A trapped man is lethal. Don’t go near him.”
Her pulse thrummed, seeing the last line released on the dock. Three long blasts of the ship’s whistle echoed through her hope. Even with Greg on the ship, she missed her husband’s presence. Was it the Ripper’s hand that sounded the signal and what he thought was his freedom?
The ship slid away from the dock as the Coho went astern. The police couldn’t stop the ship’s departure, but she knew who could take command of this ship—and Greg would—but first they had to find Mattie.
Kayla gripped the cold handle on the steel door to get out of the icy blast of winter wind. Her instincts told her to look up, and she did. On the bridge wing, where the captain of the ship could steer from a secondary set of controls and get a better visual from the small platform attached to the main bridge, she saw a daunting figure in a dark coat with a white cap, and binoculars aimed toward the parking lot and the police cars.
Shit.
As if he’d heard her, which was impossible, he dropped the binoculars and turned his gaze toward her. Kayla yarded the door open and rushed inside.