Page 62 of Wild Sentinel

After a few minutes in the office, a special agent darted out, found Hawthorne, and brought him to the office.

Another few minutes passed, then Hawthorne stepped out of the trailer and returned to me. "Looks like your story checks out." He pointed to a security camera mounted on a high pole. "That caught everything." He grinned. "This is going to burn the whole West Beverly Police Department down. I've had my suspicions about them for a long time. Looks like you boys did us a favor.”

I breathed a little easier. “I take it we’re free to go?”

“I need full video statements from both of you.”

We told our stories again, this time for the camera.

Afterward, Hawthorne warned, "Lay off the police work.”

I smiled. "I'm just a citizen asking questions."

I found the medical examiner, gave him a card, and told him to let me know when he determined Molly's cause of death.

Her body was in an advanced stage of decomposition. Not skeletonized, but she had lost a lot of mass. Shriveled and mushy, sloughing skin, with lots of maggots and insect activity. The rank smell soured my face.

Molly was naked, and that told me she was likely in the middle of a sex act with Nick at the time of her demise. Maybe it was consensual, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she OD’d. Maybe Nick had gotten violent.

JD and I left the scene, hustled back to the Ferrari, then headed for downtown.

36

Music pulsed from a warehouse on the edge of downtown. Nomad was a pop-up-after-hours club that was never in the same location twice. Invitation-only. You had to get on a list. The night of the event, you’d get a text message via one of the encrypted apps. The party started at 2:00 AM and went on all night or until the cops showed up.

Nomad was the spot to be after-hours.

With the infamous DJ Zero spinning techno dance tunes, the crowd could bounce around, blitzed out of their minds on ecstasy and other designer drugs until sunrise, which wasn’t far off at this point.

Thousands of people had flooded into the abandoned warehouse—everyone from hard-core ravers to celebrities wanting to be at the epicenter of the underground party scene in Los Angeles.

Security at the door consisted of a couple of big guys who filled out their shirts with rippling pectorals and bulging biceps. Nobody was checking IDs, but you had to have a QR code on your phone. Even then, there was no guarantee you would get in. It was at the bouncer's discretion as usual. Even impromptu after-hours venues wanted a certain type of clientele—young, rich, and pretty.

With a cash cover charge of $20 bucks at the door, these guys were raking in the dough. But the take from the bar and the door weren’t where the real money was. It was from the select dealers who were dispensing fun pills at an inflated markup. I had no doubt that if you weren’t dealing for the organizers, you'd get run out of the venue and beaten up in a back alley. Or worse.

We cut the line, and I flashed my badge to the bouncer. His face tightened, but he waved us in. He squawked on a walkie-talkie, “5-Os in the house.”

The place was a madhouse of people bouncing to the beat. The thunderous sound system boomed. Colorful lights swirled. The DJ whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

The organizers had built a full-on venue in the space. It didn’t feel temporary, but it would all be gone tomorrow.

I texted Autumn. [We’re here. Where are you?]

She’d be tough to find in this sea of people.

JD and I started moving through the crowd, looking for the voluptuous brunette.

The music was so loud, and the bass so deep, it vibrated my body. I wouldn’t be able to feel the phone buzz. I kept checking it, but hadn’t gotten a response.

We kept weaving through the masses. I sent Autumn another text.

Still no reply.

With someone following her, this would be a great place to hide out. Public, lots of people. At the same time, they were all off in their own world, most of them drunk or high on something. This wasn't the kind of place you went to sober. Most sane people were home in bed at this hour.

I was tired, and the time change didn’t help.

Couches against the walls offered a place for people to take a break from the action. There was even a first aid area for people who couldn't handle their high. Caregivers had bottled water, Narcan, and electrolytes. These weren’t bona fide medical professionals. But it was in the best interest of the organizers that nobody died at the event from a drug overdose. I had no doubt that if someone did, they'd end up in an alley or dumpster somewhere, conveniently moved out of the way.