Asylum

Chapter 3: We Have a Problem

Thursday early morning

I checked my watch again as I scurried into the parking garage: 5:12am. Fuck.

It couldn't be helped; I had checked out as quickly as I could, but there had been an incident near the front of the club as it was closing – a fistfight between two drunken patrons had resulted in a woman getting slugged in the face when she'd tried to break it up. Bouncers rushed in, cops were called, a bag of ice culled from Bruno's well was gently applied to a swelling cheek, and it was almost 4:30am by the time things were under sufficient control that Stefano felt comfortable calling us out of the break room to close down our tills. As late as I was, I was still the first of the six bartenders at the main bar to leave Asylum.

The garage wasn't huge, but it still took up a good portion of the block and was several stories high. Even at this hour, there were a couple hundred cars parked inside, and I had no idea which one housed my lieutenant. Hopefully he was watching for me.

The headlights on a white Chevy Impala parked on the second floor flashed briefly as I neared the top of the ramp. I hurried over, thankful for the voluminous sweatpants I'd worn over my shorts and the knit cap jammed over my braids. The frozen clouds of my breath formed a moving fog bank under the garage's fluorescent lights.

DiMarco's car wasn't much warmer, which meant he'd probably been here a while.

"Sorry, sir," I began as I slammed the passenger door behind me. "There was a fight as we were closing; everybody was late getting out tonight."

"And you're weekly report? Why is that late?"

Ouch; he sounded pissed. Calm, but pissed.

"I mailed it today ... yesterday; you should have it by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I came down with some nasty 72-hour bug on Saturday – vomiting, diarrhea ... nothing was staying in. I barely left the bathroom until last night." Hopefully there were enough off-putting details in that excuse, but I had more ready in case he asked.

"So you missed work on Saturday night?" he asked after an uncomfortable silence.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Not that Ivan was at Asylum that night anyway; however, I shouldn't know that. "But the report I mailed today included Alkaev's arrivals and departures on Thursday and Friday. Did you receive my special report about the meeting with Hector Castillo on Wednesday night? I mailed it out on Thursday."

"I got it. That was useful. Our guys spotted Hector entering and exiting the club, but Tomás blended right in with the regular patrons, so surveillance didn't clock him as part of the meet. That was good work."

"Thank you, sir."

"I doubt you would have seen anything on Saturday night anyway," he conceded begrudgingly. It seemed that he was softening; at least, I hoped he was. "We followed Alkaev to Asylum shortly before it opened. He went in through the back and only stayed for about an hour before heading back to his apartment, so you probably would have missed him, even if you'd shown up."

Marshall had done his job well, I reflected. DiMarco – or rather, whichever OCCB officers had been inside the surveillance vehicle – had no sense that Ivan himself had not been anywhere near Asylum on Saturday. My sigh of relief stayed safely bottled in my brain.

"What about tonight? What did you see?"

I rubbed my arms vigorously before shoving my gloved hands back in my pockets. "He and his two security guards entered through the front of the club at 10:47pm. They went straight into the back. About an hour later, Alkaev and the shorter guard went up into the owner's box; the taller guard stayed at the base of the stairs as usual." As usual, I left out the part about Ivan watching me from on high. My shiver had nothing to do with the intense cold.