Page 82 of Make Them Bleed

Three images follow: a glossy print of Arby under string lights, blonde again—jaw tight, smile not touching her eyes; a tight crop of a menu corner with “...reed” in gold font; a zoom on a man’s wrist—all I get is a watchband and a sliver of jaw, turned away.

My scalp prickles. I flick the photos to the big screen at my station and scrub the contrast. The menu typeface is distinctive—thick downstrokes, whimsical curls, the font snapped so youget that broken edge on the “d.” The matchbook on the table catches a lick of gold foil—just enough to see a baroque “G” nested in laurel leaves.

I stand, already moving. “Dean,” I say, at his door. “You got a minute?”

He glances up, flips the pen once between his fingers, and waves me in. “What’d you break?”

“Hopefully nothing.” I airdrop the frame to his office display. He leans back, eyes going forensic.

One glance. Not even a second look. He exhales through his nose, a soft whistle. “Club Greed.”

My brows jump. “Say that again.”

“Club Greed,” he repeats, dead certain. He taps the photo. “Their patio bar—Gilt Garden. See the broken ‘d’? And the matchbook is the old monogram—single G with laurel before they rebranded as just the serif wordmark.”

I blow out a breath. “You’ve been?”

“Consulted,” he says, which is Dean forI have the number of the person who turns the house lights on. “Access control, locker policy, anti-camera protocols. They’re… thorough.”

My neck warms. “We think Arby was there a few weeks before—blonde hair timestamp. The guy with her is turned away. If this is Greed, she wasn’t just at a cocktail bar.”

Dean’s face rearranges intookay, then. “You want in.”

“I want eyes,” I say. “The kind that get receipts.”

He considers, then nods once. “Lucky for you, I know the owner.”

“You are an unending font of gifts.”

He smirks, picks up his phone, and scrolls. “Devereaux Huxley,” he says. “Used to be in nightlife, and then pivoted to ‘members-only wellness and intimacy spaces’ before it was cool. We built them a clean-room device policy. Simple set up. Lockers with Faraday liners, staff trained to spot smart jewelry, the works. He owes me a favor.” He tapsCall, putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on his desk.

On the first ring a man answers, “Hey, Dean.”

“Dev, how’ve you been?”

“Great,” he says with a laugh like they’re old friends. “Tell me your building hasn’t discovered glitter and I won’t have to fake a heart attack.”

He grins. “No glitter. I’m calling for a friend.”

There’s a beat. “You don’t have friends,” he says, amused. “You have clients and strays.”

“Well then, I'm calling for a stray,” he concedes. “High discretion. He needs to observe, not disrupt. One night. Two badges. No phones. They’ll play by your rules.”

“Purpose?” he asks.

“Closure,” he says, and leaves it there, which is why I let Dean make phone calls.

He’s quiet for a heartbeat. “Tonight isSeven, members’ night. Theme is literal—seven rooms, seven cardinal sins painted artfully into the walls. Masks optional. I can tuck your stray andhis guest into thePridegallery. Sit. Watch. Sip. Do not poach. Do not recruit. Do not pretend you’re there to fix the Wi-Fi.”

Dean glances at me. I nod. “He’s not a fixer tonight,” he says.

Dev hums. “Send me legal names for waivers. They’ll sign at the door. Have them look for Adele at the velvet rope.”

“Thanks, Dev.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he says, and hangs up.

Dean leans back, laces his fingers behind his head. “Looks like you’re going to church.”