Night of the Lions (Lions of Manhattan 1)

“Danielson just witnessed Catherine being hauled into the trunk of a car.”

Oliver Duval drove the Lincoln past Riverside Park and into a seedier part of Harlem. He was busy on his cell while driving, and Cat didn’t have a chance to fire her questions at him. She wondered what Oliver was doing in a place like this. Oliver had said he was meeting his business partner for lunch. He hadn’t said where. Cat silently regretted agreeing to take a ride with Oliver. It was going to be a bitch to get back to his office to get her car. She would have to take the subway and she wasn’t familiar with the area.

Finally, Oliver stopped talking and pulled into the driveway of a building. The façade looked run-down and the pavement was littered with junk and aluminium cans and God knew what else. A crumbling sign graced the entrance, Chantale’s. Live girls and cocktails.

It was a strip club.

Cat gave Oliver a dirty look. “Really?”

Oliver spread his hands. “This is one of my businesses. You think all of those girls sitting in my office make it to the silver screen? It’s tough competition out there. You know what they say—there’s no business like show business.”

“You’re telling me you’re recruiting those poor girls to work as your strippers?”

“Only if they don’t make it as actresses. What’s wrong with being a stripper? It’s honest work and the pay is good.”

Cat was already disgusted by this man. The guy’s attitude matched his appearance. For somebody who was at the same age as Gabriel Larousse, Oliver had definitely let himself go. He’d tried to cover his receding hairline with a pathetic attempt at a comb-over. The paunch in his belly could rival a pregnant woman’s, and his pants would have slid down if it wasn’t for a tight belt. The belt itself seemed to distract his breathing. Oliver sounded like a man on the verge of dying during a marathon. His double chin wobbled each time he spoke, and, most annoyingly of all, he didn’t try to be secretive about appreciating her breasts. Oliver Duval gave her the willies.

Cat stalked Oliver into the establishment.

A dark, claustrophobic room, thick with the stench of stale beer and cigarettes, welcomed her. She followed Oliver, winding her way through masses of cheap aluminium chairs and tables and dingy, vinyl-covered booths, over to the equally dark bar. The stage had been constructed from wood and lit with festive lights. There were three poles on the stage, where the dancers would tease the patrons. But no one was dancing at the moment. No music blared from the speakers. It was lunchtime and Chantale’s didn’t open until late in the evening.

However, there was someone manning the bar. A burly man in his thirties. Tall, muscled, and built like a Mack truck. He also had a pit bull face, with grimness perpetually etched on it. Cat was sure he was popular with the deadbeats and drunken patrons in this joint.

They sat by the bar. The pit bull bartender served them two cold drafts from the tap. Cat eyed the glass with repulsion. It seemed they didn’t bother washing them clean. She could see flecks of dirt smeared on the edge. She would rather skinny-dip in a tar pit than drink the beer.

Oliver thanked the bartender and took a long drag. He belched and patted his belly happily. “Now, Miss Kovac.” His eyes fixed on her chest instead of her face. “Who the hell are you and why are you digging into my past?”

“I’m a private investigator and—”

“No shit,” Oliver exclaimed. “With tits like that, you could easily become one of my girls and be the star of the show.”

Cat wished she was a real detective with a real gun, so she could shove it up Oliver’s ass. On second thoughts, he’d probably like that. “I’m here because I have a few questions about the death of my client’s brother, Cameron Rossi.”

“You’re a cop?”

“No, I told you, I’m a private investigator. Do you know Cameron Rossi?”

“Who? Doesn’t ring a fucking bell.”

Cat flipped open her journal and read from her note. “On October fifteenth, fourteen years ago, you and three of your friends, Judith and Cameron Rossi and Gab

riel Larousse—”

“Did you say Gabriel Larousse?”

“Yes.”

“I know of him, from way back in Cape Town.”

“Were you close?”

“I said I know of him. I didn’t know him personally. Of course, I’ve seen him on TV. The swagger of that bastard, it’s like he owns the world. Hey, every dick with a few billion in his pocket could do the same thing, ya know?”

“My client said you and Gabriel Larousse were students at the University of Cape Town and the two of you were close.”

Oliver laughed. He sounded like a rusty machine that needed a thorough oiling. “Honey, I never went to no stinking university. My da repaired trucks for a living. You think he could send me to a fancy-ass place like that?”

Cat frowned. “You were never a student at the University of Cape Town?”