Chapter Eleven

      The distance between the Thirteenth Precinct and the Meatpacking District was almost exactly two miles, but culturally, the neighborhoods were a globe apart. The short drive from the east twenty-something blocks of Manhattan to the far west teens unveiled a dramatic transformation from the sterile and generic high rises of Stuyvesant Town to what was currently the city’s hottest neighborhood.

      The key to the Meatpacking District’s current popularity rested in its unique blend of glamor and grit. All of the upscale requirements were here – high-end boutiques, trendy clubs with signature cocktails, expensive restaurants with tiny portions piled into aesthetically pleasing towers. But they existed in loftlike, pared-down spaces that still had the feel – if not the actual structure – of rehabbed warehouses. The streets outside were narrow, many still cobblestone, adding to the sense of an old neighborhood uncovered, dusted off, and polished by its latest visitor.

      And, of course, there was the name. Not SoHo. Not Tribeca. Not NoLIta. Nothing cutesy, crisp, or clean. This was the Meatpacking District, and, lest you forget it, the distinctly bloody odor emanating from the remaining butchers and beef wholesalers was there to remind you: this was a neighborhood with substance, history, and dirt beneath its blue-collar fingernails. Just ask the Appletini-sipping supermodel taking a load off her Manolo Blahniks on the stool next to yours.

      Ellie had called Pulse from the car on their way to the west side. There had been no answer at the club where Chelsea was last seen – just a recording over techno music with the club’s location and hours – but Rogan figured it was worth a pop-in before trying to track down a manager through business licenses and other paperwork.

      The entrance to the club was underwhelming, at least before sundown. No velvet rope. No bass thumping onto the street outside. No well-dressed revelers lined up in front, eager to be selected for admission. No stone-faced body builders clothed in black to pass judgment on who was worthy and who must remain waiting. Just a set of double wooden doors – tall, heavy, and closed, like the sealed entrance to a fortress.

      A frosted glass banner ran along the top of the threshold, the word Pulse etched discreetly across it. The trendiest establishments always had the least conspicuous signage. Some bars had no signs at all. One hot spot around the corner from here didn’t even have a name. If you were cool enough to be welcome, you’d know it was there, and you’d know where it was.

      As Ellie pulled open the heavy wooden door on the right, the first thing that struck her about the darkened club was its temperature. In the second week of March, it shouldn’t have been colder inside the building than out. ‘Geez. They’re taking the whole meatpacking concept a bit literally,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t you get out, Hatcher?’

      ‘Not to places like this.’ Ellie wondered again about her partner’s off-duty lifestyle. She scanned the lofty space. The club was dark and windowless, but had enough accent lights here and there to provide a general sense of the place. Clean. White. Really white. Swaths of crisp cotton hung from the twenty-foot ceilings to the floor. Ellie’s usual haunts were decorated by dartboards, jukeboxes, and dusty black-and-white photographs of pregentrified New York.

      ‘A few hours from now, bodies will be crammed into this place like a full pack of cigarettes. And trust me, no one will be complaining that it’s cold.’

      ‘Hey, numbnuts.’ A tall, muscular man wearing a fitted black T-shirt and dark blue jeans appeared behind the glass bar. ‘We’re closed.’ His announcement delivered, he continued on with his business of unpacking bottles of Grey Goose vodka from a cardboard box.

      Ellie looked at her partner with amusement. ‘Which of the numbnuts gets to break the news?’

      Rogan flashed a bright white smile, pulled his shield from his waist, and held it beside his face. ‘You say you’re closed, but your door out front’s unlocked. Who’s the numbnut?’

      The man behind the bar emptied his hands of the two bottles he was holding and brushed his palms off on his jeans pockets. ‘Sorry ’bout that. You guys look more like customers than cops.’

      He stepped around the counter and met them halfway, next to an elevated runway extending across the dance floor. A trim of hot pink neon light ran along the runway edge.

      ‘I’m expecting a couple deliveries,’ he said, nodding toward the entrance. ‘But I’m the only one here right now.’

      ‘Not a problem if you’re the person who can help us out,’ Rogan said. ‘And who exactly are you?’

      ‘Oh, sorry.’ Two apologies already. That was good. Rogan was establishing his authority over a guy who was used to lording over the minions who felt blessed to enter this sanctuary. ‘Scott Bell. I’m the assistant club manager. Is there some kind of problem? We’ve been keeping our occupancy down since the last time you guys were out.’

      ‘We’re not here about fire codes. We’re here because of her.’ Rogan removed a sheet of paper from his suit pocket and unfolded it. It was the photograph of Chelsea and her friends that had been taken with Jordan’s iPhone the previous night at the restaurant before dinner. Ellie had cropped it down to a close-up of Chelsea. They were more likely to find people who recognized her using that picture than one taken today.

      Bell the bartender took a two-second glance at the printout. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve got hundreds of girls just like her coming through here every night.’

      ‘Well, this particular girl was here last night,’ Rogan said. ‘Late.’

      ‘So