Page 56 of Unlocked

"That's my take as well," Rush said.

"Did you talk to Calliope?" Archer demanded.

"Tried," Rush said. "She refuses to see me. Says she doesn't know anything about a body, doesn't know what I'm talking about."

Archer ground his teeth. "She's lying."

" Obviously."

Archer grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair. "Stay there. I'm on my way."

"Archer—"

"Stay there, Rush. I'll handle this." He ended the call and looked at Ryker. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the club."

Ryker stood and followed him out of the office. His voice was skeptical when he asked, "You think she'll talk to you?"

"She will," Archer said, his voice emotionless. "One way or another."

They rolled up to the club, and the same bouncer let them back in. He seemed to sense there was trouble because he gave Archer a nod of acknowledgment. He might work for Calliope, but he knew who had the real power in this city.

The club had emptied out considerably since they'd left. Not surprising for a Sunday night. What did surprise him, however, was how different it looked when empty. Seedier. Smaller. The magic of writhing bodies and bass stripped away to reveal cracked concrete and peeling paint.

Rush met them just inside the second door, his expression grim.

"She still won't see you," he said.

"We'll see about that." Archer marched past him into the building.

The hallways were empty now, the rooms dark and silent. The heels of his expensive shoes echoed sharply as he strode through the maze of corridors, Ryker and Rush flanking him.

Calliope's office was on the second floor. Two security guards stood outside, big men with thick necks, hired muscle meant to intimidate.

They stepped in front of the door as Archer approached.

"Sorry," one of them said. "Ms. Calliope isn't seeing anyone right now."

"She'll see me," Archer said.

"I don't think so."

Archer didn't slow down.

The first guard reached for him. Archer caught his wrist, twisted, and used the man's momentum to send him stumbling into the wall. The second guard lunged. Archer sidestepped, drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus, and, with all the rage and frustration seething within him, swept the man’s legs out from under him. Both men were down in less than five seconds.

Archer straightened his jacket and opened the door.

The office was surprisingly elegant. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they’d actually been read. An artisan rug covered the floor. The desk was antique mahogany, polished to a high shine. What appeared to be original artwork hung on the walls, expensive and tasteful.

Calliope sat behind the desk.

She was in her fifties, Archer guessed. Maybe early sixties. Her hair was silver, cut in a sharp bob that framed high cheekbones and shrewd eyes. The pearls around her neck were framed beautifully in the open neck of her black silk blouse. Her hands rested on the desk in front of her, perfectly manicured nails gleaming.

She looked like someone's elegant aunt. Someone who hosted dinner parties and donated to the opera.