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The next morning when I reach out a second time, I still receive no response. It’s a trend that carries on in the coming days as Benji seems intent on ignoring all contact.

“Really, Sigler?” I mutter under my breath. “You think you can ghost me? I don’t think so.”

I’ve had insiders try this before.

They’ll bait you with info they claim to have and then pull a switch when it really matters. The trick is to plan ahead and have the means to track them down once they attempt to hide.

Unfortunately for Benji Sigler, I’m a damn good journalist.

He won’t be disappearing into the ether without an explanation… at least not yet.

I turn up outside a popular nightclub called U4EA.

During the day, without the thumping dance music and strobe lights, it doesn’t feel nearly as exclusive. I waltz in through the front door, glancing around like I’m lost on my way. A man notices me at once from behind the counter.

“How’d you get in here?” he asks. “We’re closed!”

“I’d like a drink if at all possible.”

“Lady, did you just hear me? I said we’re closed!”

“A hundred for one drink.” I retrieve the Benjamin Franklin from inside my shoulder purse and flash the bill enticingly in front of him. “Easiest hundred dollars you’ve probably made in your life, right?”

He thinks on it for a second, then rolls his eyes. “Five minutes. Then you’re getting your ass outta here. If my manager knew I was serving somebody when we were closed…”

I sidle up to the bar counter and slide onto one of the stools, putting on my best and most flirtatious smile. Nudging the hundred dollar bill across the counter, I say, “Can I have a vodka spritzer, please?”

“Coming right up.”

I drum my fingernails against the bar counter, watching as he sets to work on my drink. He grabs a bottle of vodka off the shelf and then reaches for the cranberry juice.

“Here ya go.”

I accept the cool beverage without taking a sip. I’m more focused on the info I need.

“Maybe you can help me. For another Benjamin…”

“Lady…” His gaze drops to the counter as I slide a second hundred dollar bill toward him. “What is it? Quickly.”

“I’m looking for someone. His name’s Benjamin Sigler. Know him?”

“Yeah, yeah… he works here… orworkedhere,” answers the bartender. “Heard he fell into some trouble.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

No less than ten minutes later, I’m riding the subway toward the address the bartender gave me as Sigler’s residence. I pound on the door of the studio apartment to no luck. Either Benji Sigler’s moved or he’s not home.

I sigh, deciding to return at another time.

The sun is setting when I finally make it back to Crosby where I live with Jayla. Some use of my day off from work, but I’ll just have to continue my investigation the next time I have the chance. I shoot off a text to Jayla asking her what she wants to have for dinner.

She’s yet to answer as I come up on the third floor where our apartment’s located.

I stop dead in my tracks, my stomach flipping like I’m about to fall.

The door to our apartment hangs open.

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