Chapter 19: Medical Center

In the Greenwich district villa, Rowan and Darren sat in the study while Lacey, along with another female agent, went to the couple’s bedroom to conduct a preliminary search.

“Mr. Darren,” Rowan said, taking a sip of coffee and nodding toward the clock at the conference table. “Your wife disappeared around six o’clock this morning. It’s now two in the afternoon—eight hours have passed, and yet the kidnappers still haven’t called to demand a ransom. Are you certain that neither you nor your wife have made any enemies in your business dealings?”

“Absolutely not… I really have no idea, Agent,” Darren replied, his face drawn and ashen on the sofa—whether from his wife’s disappearance, or perhaps from concern that her death might mean little money for him, it was hard to tell. He hurried to explain, “Sabina handles the majority of the company’s affairs. I generally focus on maintaining relationships with our partners.”

“I see.” Rowan nodded. It was a rather unconventional division of labor, the wife managing internal affairs, the husband the external. He was about to inquire further when Darren suddenly slapped his thigh as if remembering something. “Wait, Agent! Sabina often goes to a women’s health care center for treatments. Last night, during what turned out to be our final phone call, she mentioned that she’d visited the center during the day. I don’t know if—”

Before Darren could finish, Lacey entered the study holding a pink membership card, which she handed to Rowan. “I found her VIP card for the medical center.”

“Alright.” Rowan took the card and nodded, instructing Darren not to leave the villa for now—two agents would be posted outside to keep watch… for his protection, as he claimed. With that, he and Lacey left for their SUV.

As their black car sped down the street, Lacey examined the pink membership card with keen interest. Noticing this, Rowan asked, “What is it, Lacey? Is there something odd about the card?”

“Not the card itself, but the address printed on it,” she replied, her fingers tracing the card’s surface, an enigmatic smile on her lips. She glanced at Rowan. “The address is in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I’m very familiar with that area—I don’t recall there being any sort of medical center there.”

“Oh?” Rowan quickly caught on. “You’re saying Sabina lied to Darren?”

“Who’s to say?” Lacey shrugged, loading her pistol and tossing the membership card aside, her tone cool. “This couple isn’t nearly as simple as they seem.”

Rowan parked the SUV across from the address indicated on the card, only to see a high-end café on the other side of the street. He glanced at Lacey, who smiled and, with a teasing lilt, held up the card between two fingers. “Come, little boy, let me show you a whole new world.”

Rowan was twenty-five; Lacey was thirty-two. In some ways, the term “little boy” wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

The two crossed the street and entered the café. It was a small place, and at two in the afternoon, only a handful of patrons sat enjoying their tea. Before Rowan could voice his doubts, Lacey slipped her arm through his, half-dragging him toward the kitchen at the back.

“Don’t say a word. Leave this to me,” she whispered close to his ear, leading him forward. As they made their way toward the kitchen, a burly Black man seated before a heavy curtain blocked their path. He looked ready to challenge them, but upon spotting the pink membership card between Lacey’s fingers, he nodded and resumed his seat.

Pulling aside the thick curtain, they discovered a staircase leading downward. At the bottom, a brightly lit door awaited. As they pushed it open, a sultry, provocative melody washed over them.

Under the pulsing colored lights, Rowan saw couples sprawled on sofas, discussing the use of certain toys. When their conversations grew animated, they would disappear into side rooms to put their theories into practice—sweat mingling with laughter, toys in hand.

“Welcome to the new world,” Lacey whispered with a low chuckle at Rowan’s ear, guiding him to the bar in the corner. She rapped on the counter and called out, “Where’s your boss?”

The bartender, a woman, poured them two drinks and nodded toward a pink room in the corner. “Boss is busy. No time.”

Undeterred, Lacey strode toward the pink room with Rowan, not bothering to knock, and simply flung the door open.

“Hey!”
“Fuck—”
“What’s your problem?”

A chorus of curses erupted as the door swung open. Unfazed, Lacey snatched a black whip from behind the door, cracked it smartly, drew her golden FBI badge, and flashed it at the startled occupants. “Boss stays! Everyone else out!”

Rowan was speechless. Was this her usual style?

At the sight of the badge, the room’s scattered occupants froze in mid-action and turned to a heavily made-up, naked middle-aged white woman. She waved a hand, prompting the others to hurriedly dress and rush from the room—one white man was so flustered, he didn’t even bother to remove a certain item before fleeing the bed.

It was a sight that left Rowan both exasperated and aghast. Was it his luck, or was American culture just this wild? Why did he keep running into such bizarre scenes today?

“FBI?” The woman—Avila—sat up, lit a cigarette, and regarded them calmly without bothering to dress, a wry smile on her lips. “What brings you here today? How can I help?”

Lacey wasted no time, taking Sabina’s photograph from Rowan and showing it to Avila. “She’s a member here. I want the staff who’ve served her brought to me—I have questions for them.”

“That’s not possible, Agent,” Avila replied as she rose and began to dress. “This place is built on strict confidentiality. We provide clients with a safe fantasy; sharing their information would violate our principles.”

Lacey showed no sign of anger, instead pulling out her phone. “Then I’ll call the NYPD and see how they feel about your operation.”

“We have all the proper licenses. Everything here is legal. If the FBI wishes to search these premises, you’ll need to get a court order,” Avila replied, exhaling smoke and brushing Lacey’s cheek with a smirk. “Why do you think my business has thrived for so long?”

“You—” Lacey’s expression hardened. Avila’s smile grew broader, but before she could say more, Rowan stepped between them, drew his phone, and smiled. “My boss used to work for the IRS. Would you like to have a chat with him?”

At this, Avila fell silent. She shot them both a venomous glare, then stalked to the door. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll bring the staff you’re looking for.”