The song switched to the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which was exactly the kind of music H.D. listened to when he worked. In the background, Tommy could just make out a series of dull thumping sounds that . . . if it really was Layla’s dad and his new girlfriend . . .
Then again, it was just as likely the mural was ready and Ira had hired a crew to move the furniture back into place. It all made perfect sense, except—why would they have alarmed the place?
There were a thousand different ways this could blow up in his face, but despite having every reason to leave and few to stay, he made for Ira’s office anyway.
He tried the card on the door, but not surprisingly, it didn’t work.
Luckily, it didn’t need to. The door was unlocked.
Ira’s office being left unlocked could only mean one thing—Ira was in the VIP room.
It was as good an excuse as any for Tommy to bolt while he could. Under the circumstances, no one could blame him for playing it safe.
The music and thumping continued, and against his better judgment, Tommy pushed the door open and quickly slipped inside.
With its dark walls and notable lack of windows, it was the drabbest of all Ira’s offices. Unlike the ones he kept at Jewel and Night for Night, it hadn’t received the usual ego makeover. There wasn’t a single framed magazine cover or newspaper article.
Still, this was where Tommy had seen the picture of the cartoon cat, and he was determined to bring it back to his friends, along with any other incriminating piece of evidence he might find.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got to work. The desk was covered in neat stacks of papers that left Tommy wishing he’d brought along help. But they’d all agreed to work separately so they could cover more ground, chase different leads, and not risk the wrath of whoever was watching. Still, it would’ve been nice to have company. Tackling the corner nearest the door, Tommy went to work. He moved quickly, methodically. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked by anything not directly connected to the case.
The plan was to photograph anything even vaguely incriminating, then return it to where he’d found it. His guess was that the desk only appeared disorganized. Knowing Ira, nothing was random. He’d definitely notice if something was misplaced.
So far, it was mostly purchase orders and bills—the everyday bureaucracy of running a string of successful nightclubs. Or at least that was what he thought, until he came across a heavy file titled Unrivaled Finalists.
The first document was a list of their names and contact information, along with a photo of each of them. The date listed at the top left corner was the same date the interviews had taken place.
Had Ira already chosen the finalists before the contest even began?
And if so, did that mean he’d been setting them up from day one?
His fingers trembled with rage. It was one thing to think the worst of his dad. It was another to prove he’d been right all along.
Tommy had always assumed Layla made the cut because of her blog. As a club promoter, her numbers were poor. But her posts about Madison’s disappearance amounted to free publicity for Ira. He’d given her insider access to the Madison scandal, and in return Layla didn’t hesitate to write about it.
Aster was easy. She was beautiful, snooty, spoiled, rich, and willing to do just about anything in pursuit of her dreams. In other words, she was just the sort of girl the whole world would be all too willing to root against.
But that still left Tommy. Up until the moment Ira had offered him the job, Tommy was convinced he’d blown the interview. But with every favor Ira granted, Tommy was sure there was another, darker motivation behind it. Ira never acted from kindness.
He raced through the pages, surprised to find they focused more on the competitors than the contest. While plenty of employers were known to run background checks, the info Ira had collected went much further than that. Ira had kept them under surveillance from the day of their interviews, and he’d collected the photos to prove it.
There was a pic of Tommy and Layla standing outside a restaurant on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Tommy recognized it from the day he’d asked her to meet him at Lemonade. He’d been looking to form an alliance, hoping to pool their talents and work together. Only he’d flubbed the pitch and had ended up alienating her.
He dug deeper. Flipping past a photo of Aster and Ryan embracing in the Night for Night parking lot, he unearthed a separate file buried beneath it, with Madison’s name printed on the front.
Inside was a picture of Madison as a young girl. She was barefoot and bedraggled, dragging an old doll by her side. Along the top someone had written in all caps: MARYDELLA, WV, age 8.
It was the same picture someone had sent Layla—the same one that had covered the walls of Madison’s cell.
Farther in, Tommy found a newspaper article about the fire. Just beneath was another childhood photo of Madison. Only this time her hair was neatly combed, her dress was pressed and clean, and she sat smiling beside a plain, nondescript woman Tommy was sure he’d never seen, and yet something about her seemed vaguely familiar.
He flipped it over. On the back someone had written MaryDella & Eileen. Eileen was Paul Banks’s mother.
Why would Ira even have such a picture?
After photographing both sides, Tommy was about to dig deeper when he noticed footsteps sounding in the hall.
“What’re you doing?” The voice belonged to a girl. Probably one of Ira’s hot assistants—there was no shortage of them.