“God dammit!” I pounded my fists against the steering wheel. This was not how it was supposed to go. All I managed to do was kick a pile of leaves and scare off my prey. I got nothing out of Anastasia, except bruises. She didn’t know her sister was dead. No one can fake that kind of pain. I know. I’ve been there. The picture knotted her up inside, dropping her to her knees. That was genuine.
I sat in my unmarked squad car, trying to decide what to do next. I could wait here for Whitton to come home, or I could . . . I don’t know. If Anastasia told Whitton about my visit, what would he do? I never mentioned Jenni. For all Anastasia knew, I was simply looking into Zoya’s death. I had every right to question Whitton’s wife about the death of her sister. Hell, maybe I should barge back in there and demand that she talk to me. I should treat her like any other witness—or suspect.
As I narrowed down my options, settling on a plan to get back inside, a light came on in the garage. After a minute, the garage door rose up and the brake lights of a vehicle shone out of the bay. Then reverse lights. The vehicle backed out of the driveway and headed up the street. I followed. The first few snowflakes of the evening sparkled in front of my headlights. I turned on the radio to an AM station, hoping to catch a weather report.
Anastasia drove her car fast, barely slowing for stop signs, pulling out in front of other cars. I considered the possibility that she was trying to shake me, but at one stoplight where she was forced to halt, I made it in behind her and she never looked in her rearview mirror. Her erratic driving had nothing to do with shaking a tail.
As I followed Anastasia into the city, I caught a weather report saying that they were increasing their snowfall estimation from six inches to eight—even more up north. Anastasia made her way to Hennepin Avenue and into the heart of the city’s entertainment district. She pulled into a parking lot across the street from a block of bars and shops and one upscale strip club called the Caviar Gentlemen’s Club.
I pulled into a tow-away zone near the front of the club and parked. With the snow coming and the cold wind picking up, patrol officers would be too busy with car accidents to pay attention to red zones tonight.
From my vantage point I could see Anastasia getting out of her car. She wore a thick down coat and carried a purse big enough to be a gym bag. She walked with a determined stride, crossing the street less than twenty feet in front of me. She never looked my way. As she neared the entrance to the strip club, she eased a hand into the purse. Whatever she had been reaching for, she found immediately, and she rested her hand in the bag as she opened the door to the club with her other hand.
I didn’t like the look of it. I jumped out of my car, pulling my badge from my belt, and scurried the few feet to the door.
I had never been inside that club before. The guy at the door didn’t ask for an ID; he barely looked at me. He was still watching Anastasia, who walked through the place like she owned it.
I stood in the doorway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. A single stage jutted out into the audience with a pole in the middle of the runway. A young woman in a red thong, and nothing else, swung lazily around the pole to “Wild Thing” by the Troggs. Five or six men lined sniffer’s row with beers at their elbows and dollar bills in their fingers. Tables littered a hardwood floor between the stage and the bar, and four other girls in skimpy, tight-fitting attire roamed between those tables, offering lap dances and other forms of companionship.
At the far end of the room, a staircase with a wrought-iron rail led up to a balcony with what appeared to be private rooms or maybe offices. Anastasia had made it halfway to that staircase before a man from behind the bar scuttled out to intercept her. He stepped in front of her and was shaking his head. They argued. Anastasia still had her hand in her bag, nodding toward the upstairs offices. And the man shook his head with more vigor, not noticing the implicit danger of whatever might be in that bag.
I started making my way to Anastasia, brushing past a woman asking me to buy her a drink. I couldn’t hear the argument, but I could see anger animated on the faces of both Anastasia and the bartender.
In a dark corner, near the bottom of the steps, I saw a man sit up and take notice of the disturbance. It was Whitton. He had a near-naked girl on his lap, and he held her by the arms as she continued to grind. He said something to the girl, and she stopped her act.
That’s when Anastasia pulled her hand out of the purse, a small automatic pistol in her grip. Now the bartender understood the gravity of the situation. He grabbed the gun and pushed her hand up toward the ceiling. The gun fired.
The girl on stage screamed and dropped to the floor. Whitton threw the girl from his lap and stood up but made no further move to advance. I ran to Anastasia, getting there just as the bartender pulled the gun from her hand. I shoved my badge in his face. “Minneapolis PD!” I yelled. “I got this.”
The bartender took a step back, more confused than compliant. I grabbed Anastasia by the arm and yanked her toward the door. Whitton took a step in our direction but stalled there, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.
As I got Anastasia to the door, I saw a man upstairs step out from an office and onto the balcony. He was early-forties, dark hair, and well dressed, with a thin beard. I suspected that he might be the owner of the club, and he too looked on with confusion as I pulled Anastasia out into the night air.
“What are you doing?” Anastasia screamed. “Let me go!”
I dragged her to my car, opened the door, and threw her in. “Stay!” I shouted, pointing my finger at her as if to suggest that I meant business. She nodded her capitulation. Closing the door, I ran to the driver’s side and jumped in. As I pulled away, I could see, in my rearview mirror, both the bouncer and the bartender step out, followed by Whitton.
I headed for my house, a ten-minute drive from downtown. I didn’t know where else to take her. I needed to talk to Anastasia, and if kidnapping was my only option, then so be it. She faced away from me, her forehead resting against the passenger window. I opened my mouth to ask a question but stopped when I heard the sound of her crying. I expected her to lash out at me or attack me, or maybe even to realize her plight and leap from the car. I didn’t expect crying. I held off saying anything until her sobbing had run its course. By that time, we were nearly to my house, and it was Anastasia who spoke first.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You can’t go home,” I said. “You’re in danger. I’m taking you to my house—just for a while, until we can figure something out.”