Page 15 of Wild Temple (Tyson Wild Thriller #84)

P retty people mixed and mingled. Music thumped through speakers, and scantily clad girls undulated to the beat. It was a meat market for twenty-somethings.

Not a bad place to be.

The club was sleek and elegant, with a touch of island charm.

Skimpy cocktail dresses and high-heel shoes.

Toned, tanned bodies. The air smelled of whiskey, perfume, and coconut.

Tech bros did their best to woo the ladies.

Of course, a slew of local men tried to pick up the hotties as well.

A never-ending smorgasbord of fresh offerings.

JD and I ambled up to the bar with Brooke and ordered a drink. Her blue eyes scanned the club, looking for Bayu or Pete. By that time, I had gotten a sketch of the assailants from one of the artists at the Coconut Key Sheriff's Department. I displayed the images to the bartender.

He was a tall, athletic American with sandy-blond hair, a sharp jaw, and blue eyes. The pay in the service industry around here was barely enough to scrape by on. I figured he might own the bar.

He had the physique of a college quarterback and didn’t look like he was too many years past graduation. The jock gave a quick glance at the sketch, then shrugged. "I don't know. I see hundreds of guys in here like that every day. Why are you interested?”

I flashed my badge. “I’m looking for two missing girls.”

I gave him the names of the two gentlemen we were looking for, but that didn't help much either—they were so common.

I showed him a picture of Isabella.

The bartender’s eyes squinted. "Yeah, I remember her. She was in about a week ago. Good looking," he said, wincing at what could have been.

I had talked to a different bartender here the night before who didn't remember seeing Isabella.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Like I said, it was a week ago. She was sitting right there." He pointed to the end of the bar. "Guys were hitting on her all night. I’m not going to lie. I threw my hat in the ring.”

It was understandable. Isabella had an irresistible quality—sexy, smart, dangerous.

"She didn’t seem like the typical bimbo that comes in here,” the bartender said.

“I told her to watch herself. One of the guys that was talking to her is a real scumbag.

I've seen him drop shit into people's drinks. I’ve kicked him out. And I tell the door guys to keep him out of here, but he keeps getting in. That shit is bad for business.”

"I'd say. Is this your place?”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod.

“I’m Tyson.”

“Josh,” he replied, offering a hand.

We shook, and I introduced him to JD and Brooke.

“Do you know the guy's name?" I asked. “The creep.”

Josh shook his head. "Sorry. I don't. But if you hang out here long enough, I'm sure he'll show up. Might want to talk to one of the door guys. They could probably tell you more than I can.”

“Do you know if my friend left alone the night he was hitting on her?"

"I really don't know. It gets so busy here at times, I lose track. As I recall, one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone.”

"You think somebody could have drugged and abducted her?”

“Around here, anything is possible."

"It is my understanding it's not unusual for people to go missing around here.”

He gave me a cautious look. "It's unusual in this bar. I try to keep that from happening. I don't need that shit.”

"So, it happens a lot? ”

He frowned. "A lot more than it should."

"If I wanted to get to the source of it, where should I look?”

Josh hesitated. "I don't know. I don't deal with those kinds of people.”

Josh knew damn good and well what went on around this town, but he didn't want to get involved. Much like Rex, he had too much to lose.

“I would imagine a guy in your position is under a lot of pressure,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got law enforcement to deal with. The local syndicate. Everybody’s got their hand out. You gotta grease the wheels to stay in business. You’re making good money with a place like this.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t as easy as it looks.”

That was no lie. He’d need a work permit and a local business partner to register the business.

Approvals from the Ministry of Tourism, the local municipality, the liquor control board.

A foreign owner would have to navigate a labyrinth of permits and processing fees.

A local agent or lawyer to help navigate the system.

Monthly payouts to cops, health and safety inspectors, and perhaps the syndicate.

I began to think any foreigner doing business on the strip had to be in bed with the local crime lord.

It was a precarious position for a foreign owner to be in.

One slip up, and you could face a revocation of your visa.

The threat of deportation loomed large. If you wanted to play ball, you had to get in line and make certain concessions.

A guy like Josh probably had to launder money and look the other way when distasteful things happened.

Though I had to admit it, that much went for Rex as well.

I wasn't going to find the truth in a place like this. Nobody who valued their way of life would say anything.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any security footage, would you?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

I dug into my pocket and handed him a card. "Get in touch with me if anything should come to mind.”

With a nod, he took the card and slipped it into his pocket.

I doubted that Bayu and Pete had direct involvement in Isabella’s disappearance, but she may have fallen victim to the same traffickers.

They probably had a network of thugs like Pete and Bayu working the area.

Of course, they’d have to be selective about their targets—girls traveling alone with no one to report them missing until it was too late.

Still, I couldn't help feeling like something was off. Isabella was smart enough to know better. Smart enough to not get caught in some simple scam. But even the best of us make mistakes from time to time.

We hung out at Nomad for a little while, then decided to make a venue change. I talked to the bouncers on the way out, but nobody remembered Isabella or the creeper who’d been banned from the club.

Sunset Row bustled with activity at this time of night. Drunk tourists weaved up and down the boulevard, hopping from bar to bar. The atmosphere was alive with excitement. Pretty people drifted about without a care in the world, unaware of the hidden dangers that lurked in the shadows.

Rafi leaned against his cab, parked at the curb, smoking a cigarette.

I approached, hoping to wrangle answers out of him. But that would be like squeezing juice from a cactus.