“Good evening, everybody,” Tres said softly. “Um, you know I’m not good at speeches, so I’ll just say thank you for coming out to show your support for Ashton. I know she would appreciate it.” There was an awkward silence as he looked toward Rowan, then back at the audience. “So, um, that’s it. Just, thank you.”
He handed the microphone back to Rowan, and everyone applauded politely, the energy of the room momentarily drained. Then Rowan started in about how there was much more entertainment to come and zapped some electricity back into the place. Just like that, Ashton’s shadow disappeared.
“Before Colonoscopy comes back for more sweet indie rock-’n’-roll action,” Rowan announced, “I want to mention some special guests who came all the way up from the South Side.” He looked straight at me. “And the word is they have something very tasty planned to help us celebrate.”
“What’s he talking about?” Audrey asked, and I’m like, “I have no idea. But I think it’s time to pay Nash a visit and find out exactly what goes on down that side corridor.”
As Rowan rambled on about how talent was everywhere—you just needed to know how to find it—Audrey and Randy followed me through the crowd. We didn’t make it into the corridor, though. Big blond Holt blocked our way. “You can’t go back there,” he said, clamping his hand onto my shoulder. “VIPs only.”
Randy stepped up next to me. “Hey, dude, in case you forgot, we’re guests of the main VIP.”
Holt looked down at him. “All that means is you’re just lucky to get in the front door.”
“Yeah?” said Randy. “But how do I know the front door isn’t down that hall?”
“What?” Holt said, consternated.
“All I’m saying is it looked to me like I came in the back door, so if I’m supposed to come in the front door, maybe I need to go down that hall, where the front door really is, and come back in through it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Holt told him.
“Is it? You’re the one who said we were only supposed to come in through the front door. I’m just trying to be official here.”
Holt was getting exasperated, and that was the point, of course. In one of his rare strokes of brilliance, Randy was running the same dumb-ass routine he’d used on Detectives Forehead and Hair Gel. It was perfect. All I had to do now was ease away and sneak down the hall.
The only light was a vague hint of neon that seeped in from the main room, so I had to feel my way along the wall until I came to an open doorway. Running my hand up the wall inside, I found the light switch and flicked it on. The room was about twice the size of my living room at home and appeared to be a combination storage area and dressing room—big cardboard boxes, spare decorations, metal benches and chairs, a long table, empty guitar cases, and backpacks. Nothing mysterious about the place. But I admit I took a little bit of offense over how Colonoscopy could be considered VIP enough to come back here while I wasn’t.
I turned off the light and crept further into the darkness, passing a couple of closed doors along the way until I noticed, at the far end of the corridor, a sliver of light showing beneath what I could just make out as the black shape of a final door. As I crept nearer, I noticed a sign hanging on the door and held up my phone for a light. The sign was obviously hand-painted, and someone had really gone to a lot of trouble with the calligraphy-style lettering:
O-TOWN ELITES A NORTH SIDE MONARCHS ONLY.
ALL OTHERS WILL BE SHOT AT DAWN.
North Side Monarchs? It took me a moment to place where I’d heard that before, but it was the name Hector Maldonado’s cousin Beto dropped on me that day at the funeral. How would he know about that? I wondered. And why did he think I might be involved with them?
Then it hit me—maybe, just maybe, Hector’s death was somehow connected to Ashton’s disappearance. But how? It didn’t seem likely they’d know each other, much less have the same enemies. Unless he was the South Side boyfriend Rowan had mentioned. The image of Hector in the Dumpster flickered in my head along with what Beto had said: If Hector had drugs in him, someone else must’ve dosed him. I couldn’t help Hector then, but this little clue gave me hope that I might be able to help him now. But what could I do, call Detective Hair Gel and get myself placed back on the suspect list? No. There was still too much I had to find out.
Voices burbled vaguely behind the door, but no matter how hard I pressed my ear against the cool wood, I couldn’t understand a word. Then a sliding lock clacked from inside, and I’m like, Holy crap! They’re going to catch me!
It wasn’t like I was breaking into a sacred crypt or anything, but for some reason my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out backward through my shoulder blades. At first I backed away, then I turned to run, then I turned again and froze. Just act natural, I told myself. No need to freak out. These aren’t vampires you’re dealing with.
Then someone shouted from the other end of the hall: “Hey, I told you not to come down here.”
It was Holt. Audrey and Randy followed as he strode toward me. Then the door opened and I was double busted.
Nash, Brett, and Aisling walked out, all three of them grinning in the wash of light from the back room. I wasn’t sure, but my guess was they’d been indulging in some more of the sweet yet evergreeny weed.
Holt’s like, “Sorry, Nash, this character sneaked back here,” and Nash’s all, “Don’t worry about it. That’s cool. Dylan’s my man.” He slapped me on the back. “Isn’t that right, Dylan?”