“I thought your wife cleaned you out.”

“My dad is helping me out.”

Yeah, I bet he’s been doing that all your life.

“All right. I need all the information you got on your wife and daughter—a recent photo, passport number, that sort of thing—plus the contact details for the friend who told you they’re in Amsterdam.”

“All right.”

Heinrich got up to leave. There was only so much Starbucks he could take.

“I’ll be in touch. I’ll get her back for you.”

“Zir. Why can’t you say zir? Zhe’s not a woman.”

Heinrich grinned. “Then why do you call her your wife?”

He walked out of the coffee shop before Murphy could sputter out a response.

CHAPTER TWO

 

The friend who had told Brixton his wife had fled to Amsterdam turned out to be a fellow dominatrix named “Wanda the Whip,” real name Wanda Smith. She had shared a work space called Dark Night Studios with Casey Murphy. It was an old studio loft that twenty years ago had probably been a punk squat or a shooting gallery for junkies. Now it went for top dollar to hedge fund managers and trustafarians.

Before entering, Heinrich took a turn around the block. The neighborhood had been gentrified with pop-up shops, high-end galleries, a chain tattoo parlor, and juice bars. At least the dominatrix joint was something different from this soulless corporate crap. Weird, but different.

He got to the front door half an hour earlier than he had told her. It was best to surprise witnesses and informants, catch them off guard.

But it was Heinrich who was caught off guard.

As he approached the little alcove, he noticed the door was ever-so-slightly ajar. He hadn’t seen that from across the street when he had passed by a little while earlier. No one left their front door ajar in New York, not even in a yuppie neighborhood like this.

Glancing at the name tags on the buzzers, he saw that Dark Night Studios was on the third floor.

He put a hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, where he kept a compact 9mm automatic. Heinrich used his other hand to ease the door open.

It gave way with barely a sound. In front of him, a steep stairway ascended to the next floor. To his left was a door with a sign that told him it was the entrance to a dentist’s office. Heinrich couldn’t help but smile. Why get tortured by two crazy women upstairs when you could get it done on the ground floor by a professional? Hey, you even got your teeth fixed in the bargain.

He closed the door to the street. If someone really had broken in here, they had left the door open for a speedy getaway. Closing it would delay them by a second or two, and that was a long time when chasing a perp.

Stepping quietly to the stairs, he peered up. Nothing. No sound. Hugging the wall so no one looking down would spot him, Heinrich moved up the stairs two at a time.

On the third floor landing he found two doors, one with no sign, perhaps a private residence, and the other with a small black sign with the words “Dark Night Studios” written in red.

As he expected, this door was closed and locked. If someone was giving Wanda the Whip an unwelcome visit, they would want this door closed for privacy.

He had to work fast. No telling what was going on in there, and that door looked thick. The walls in old warehouses like this were usually concrete. Wanda could be screaming her head off and he wouldn’t be able to hear.

Heinrich pulled a little leather bag from his pocket and opened it to reveal a set of lockpicks. Besides being an amateur boxer, a licensed private detective, and an expert on early jazz and blues, Heinrich was an accomplished locksmith.