Chapter 3: Finding Grotesque

"I can't help you," Agostina said through clenched teeth.

Whitney rose, needing to move. She strode around the small green park. "Can you point me in the direction of someone who can get me on the guest list?"

A sigh came through the phone. "You didn't hear this from me. Okay?"

"Okay," Whitney said, stopping short. "Go ahead." Hopefully, she was on to something. This could be the story that rocketed her out of the society beat and into actual news. Her father couldn't deny her that for much longer—especially if she broke a story no one else had yet.

"I learned about them from my friend, Karen. Karen heard about them from her friend. I don't know how that friend heard."

Whitney wanted to hurry her along. She needed the sauce for this story. "Okay. Can you get me on the guest list?"

"Well, I don't know. It's exclusive and secret," Agostina said, suddenly haughty.

Yes. Whitney knew that. The secretiveness was what intrigued her. How had they kept the nightclub so exclusive in the age of the internet? Were they all sworn to secrecy? Did the bouncers take their phones away? "Can you get me on the guest list?"

"I don't think so."

Whitney wasn't giving up that easily. "What can you tell me about it?"

"That you get a text from an unknown number. It's different every time."

"What's in the text?"

Agostina sighed. "Coordinates. You put them into Google Maps, and you have the location."

Now, she was getting somewhere. She sat on the bench again. "Do you have the number?"

"I have the last number it came from."

Whitney pulled a notepad out of her purse, along with a pen. "Give me the number."

There was silence, and Whitney thought she might have pushed too far. Birds chirped. Horns blared.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable doing that," Agostina said quietly.

"If they change the number every time, then there is nothing to worry about. Besides, how will anyone know you gave me the number?" Whitney said.

The woman rattled off some digits. "That's all I'm saying. I like this place—even if I can't go there anymore. I've had a child, and I don't have time right now. I want to go back soon, though."

"It must be a happening place," Whitney said. Even if her father wouldn't print the story, some other paper would. But now, she had leverage. Proof of what she could do.

"It's a cool place. Dark and twisty."

Dark and twisty? Why did everyone like the macabre lately? "Sounds interesting. Where was the last location?"

Agostina paused. "I guess it doesn't matter."

Whitney wrote down the address. If the phone number didn't net her anything, then the location might give her something. She hung up with Agostina and smiled at the progress she'd made. She called the number directly, but it was disconnected. Probably a burner phone. "That's how I'd do it," she said to herself. She punched the coordinates Agostina had given her into Google Maps and found out the last location.

She knew the building—and more importantly, she knew the guy who owned it.

***

Whitney glanced up at the tall building before she pulled the front door open. Ken Lockwood had agreed to meet her. She had five minutes. That's all he would give her. She wasn't going to waste any of it.

Ken rose when Whitney entered his second-floor office of the building, which housed a mixture of retail and offices. Ken had been the source for a story about how the original owner had illegally raised the rent on tenants to force them out. Not her source, of course—but she'd tagged along when the reporter did the interview. Now, that reporter was doing investigative reporting for a larger newspaper. Whitney had wished the woman well on her dream come true—though she often wondered why her dreams didn't come true.

She'd since made friends with Ken, and he'd helped her from time to time. In this instance, she thought he was being cagier than usual.

"Thanks for meeting me," she said.

"Like I said on the phone, five minutes. I'm truly pressed for time."

She sat on a butter-leather chair that her usual office chair could only dream of being. "I'll get to the point: Recently, your roof hosted a pop-up recently called Grotesque."

Ken shifted in his chair. "How do you know that?"

"That's irrelevant. I know it's true."

He rubbed the whiskers on his chin—a sure sign he was uncomfortable. It was his tell. "What do you want from me?"

"At the very least, I want on the guest list."

"I have no connection to that."

"Then, I want the name and phone number of the person who rented the space."

"I don't have to give you that."

"Corporate secret? Come on, Ken. It isn't as if I'm going to bust them for doing anything illegal. My beat is the society page. I'm interested in it from that angle."

He studied her. "This won't come back and bite me?"

"I won't give up that you gave this to me. I promise." She'd never give up a source. No one would ever speak to her again.

After studying her for a minute more, Ken pulled out his phone. He read off a name and a number.

Sweet! "Thank you, Ken. I'll get out of your hair." She left him in his office. Once she was on the sidewalk, she looked down at her phone.

Deke Turner. What were the chances he would answer an unknown number? She called it anyway and left a message. She hurried back to her office to see if she could find his address.

***

Between the call from the unknown number, and the sense he was being followed, Deke was sure he was losing his touch.

He was the only one of them who wouldn't convert to his gargoyle self to make travel easier. He'd done awful things in that form and had sworn he would never do it again. Of course, this all went back to Brenda—but he pushed away thoughts of her, as he climbed onto the bus that would take him to the latest Grotesque location. Being the first one on the bus, Deke was able to study the people who climbed onto it after him. There was a woman who had not been at the bus stop with him, and she wasn't carrying anything but a purse.

Was he being paranoid?

His days in the Marines had taught him there were no coincidences. He hadn't seen her at the bus station, and yet, here she was. That niggling in his gut told him she'd get off at whatever stop he did. She settled on the seat across from him but seemed more interested in her phone than him.

On a whim, Deke jumped off the bus at the next stop. When he glanced back a block later, there she was, trying to look as if she wasn't following him.

He hopped on another bus at the next stop, but she didn't follow him again. He sat in his seat with a smile.

When he arrived at Grotesque, he sought out Trent, who was holding an unlit cigarette in his mouth. His friend and colleague had quit years ago but still carried one around—his own form of temptation. Or Hell—whichever way you looked at it. Same as Deke, never letting his gargoyle loose.

"Why did we set up a second time this week?" Deke asked.