Say the Word(106)

“True,” Simon chimed in.

“Also, I need a copy of that NDA,” Fae said in a casual voice, her eyes averted.

“What?!”

“I won’t even read it, I swear,” she promised in a bored tone, staring at her cuticles.

“Let me guess…” Simon quirked an eyebrow. “You know a guy?”

Fae shrugged. “I just want to show it to a friend of mine, see what he has to say. He’s a lawyer, he really knows his stuff. Maybe there’s a loophole in that contract. If there is — he’ll find it.”

“If I give you the NDA, do I still have to call Sebastian?”

“Yes,” Fae said.

I sighed.

“It’s the only option that makes any sense,” Simon said, handing me my cellphone. “He’s the only one who can get you inside.”

I grimaced as I accepted the phone, but resigned myself to their plan. After everything we’d learned about Labyrinth since opening that package yesterday, it was more imperative than ever that I get inside that club.

The document had been a manifesto of sorts, containing a detailed history of the exclusive organization as well as a list of members’ names. After we’d scanned through a few pages at the bar last night, we’d headed back to my apartment where we could pour through it with a fine-toothed comb, safe from watchful eyes out in public.

From what we could tell, Labyrinth was more “secret society” than it was “club” — its history was full of tawdry love affairs between famous members, high profile business mergers that had shaped our country’s economy for hundreds of years, and backdoor political deals that had far-reaching effects on our government to this day. The society had been around for so long, no records could pinpoint its exact year of origin. One source claimed that the decision to invade Vietnam had been made in a tea parlor on the second floor of Labyrinth in the early 1960s. Another, that the Constitution itself had been drafted by our country’s forefathers in the front atrium at the original club site, long before the document ever made its way to the Philadelphia Convention in 1787.

Despite those high profile anecdotes, there was one piece of information that captured my attention more than any of the rest. In 1981, a reckless, still-wet-behind-the-ears rookie of the NYPD had stumbled onto something far above his pay grade.

Thomas Monroe, a twenty-six year-old New Jersey native, was on patrol when a transmission went out over the police scanner about a white moving truck parked illegally in an alley outside a new restaurant in the Upper East Side. When the call came in, Monroe responded that he would follow up. His supervisor also heard the call and quickly radioed back that Monroe should stand down, as another officer was already en route to the scene. But Monroe, eager to prove his worth on the force, disregarded that order and arrived at a chic address on E. 65th Street within minutes.

What he saw that night became the source of immense friction within the NYPD. Monroe attested that he’d witnessed three large men dragging what appeared to be a half-dozen bound, listless women from the white truck into the back door of the club next door to the restaurant — a club, according to city records, by the name of Labyrinth. His supervisor contradicted Monroe’s statement, reporting that another officer arrived at the same time as the young recruit and had seen no such thing in that alleyway.

Monroe became the laughingstock of his precinct, the butt of every joke from his fellow officers. He was branded a too-keen rookie, an attention-seeker, and accused of imagining grand scenarios in which he’d be the hero of the force.

But the young man refused to recant his statement, despite immense pressure from his supervisor — and his supervisor’s supervisor. When they switched his patrol route to the heart of the South Bronx in a crime-riddled neighborhood with a murder rate twice that of the rest of the city, it came as no great surprise that Monroe was murdered one night — knifed and left to bleed out in an alleyway, his assailant never brought to justice. With little fanfare, Monroe’s name faded into the annals of NYPD history. And with his death, his far-fetched story about a suspicious club in the Upper East Side also died.

The week following Monroe’s murder, the fledgling restaurant owner who’d placed that call to the police abruptly sold his property and left the city. The building was purchased and demolished within days. As soon as the dust had settled, the new owner broke ground on a fully enclosed parking garage, complete with tunnels connecting to the club next door. No truck would ever be carelessly parked in that alleyway again, and the newly-expanded Labyrinth now sat on a double-plot of land.

I gripped the phone tightly in my right hand as it rang. Once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

Deep breath.

“Hello, is someone there?” Bash repeated.

Fae whacked me on the arm violently. “Say something,” she hissed.

“Hi,” I mumbled into the receiver, rubbing my smarting arm with my free hand. “It’s Lux.”

There was a beat of silence over the line. “Can’t say I was expecting your call, Freckles.” I could hear a teasing smile in his voice. “Does this mean you’re giving in already? I have to admit, I was expecting a bit more of a challenge…”

“Don’t be an ass,” I muttered. “This isn’t about us.”

He laughed. “Oh, so you agree there’s an ‘us’ now?”