The Ember Room
Chapter Four
The rain had finally given up by the time I left my apartment the next morning, but the air still carried its ghost. The weather was cool, damp, smelling faintly of asphalt and something metallic. My notebook was tucked under my arm, pages dog-eared and restless, a growing list of questions that never seemed to shrink.
The only solid lead I had was thin: Timothy Cruze had been spotted at The Ember Room more than once in the weeks before his death. A club with a reputation for discretion and the kind of clientele that didn’t get searched at the door. If the harbour was where Timothy’s story ended, maybe this was where it began.
I found the place on a narrow street lined with unmarked doors and blacked-out windows. Subconsciously, I had walked all the way. The only sign was a solid bronze plate beside the entrance with no name, just a curling flame etched into the metal. The kind of branding that says if you don’t know, you don’t belong.
Without as much as a second thought, I decided to walk inside. The huge bouncers at the door barely gave me a glance and continued their unblinking death stares at something I couldn’t see.
Inside, light was an afterthought. Instead, fancy gold fixtures spilled a low glow across velvet booths, mirrored walls, and the glint of highball glasses. The air was heavy with exotic perfumes, bourbon, and the faint static of conversation in the upper range, where deals were being whispered and denials rehearsed.
But still, the club was relatively empty. I guess its more evil and dangerous patrons were still asleep. Anyway, this was as good a time as any to get solid information. In fact, it was better this way. I hated having to deal with crowds and pointless blaring music.
I silently made my way to the bar, sliding onto a stool. The bartender that attended to me was a tall man with neatly slicked blond hair and a smile that had probably earned him more tips than his cocktail skills.
“What’ll it be?” he asked with a light, friendly smile.
“Information,” I said, placing Cruze’s photo on the polished wood. “This man was here about two weeks back. I need to know when, and with who.”
His eyes flicked down to the picture and then back up. “That’s a tall order. We don’t keep guest books; everything that happens here is private. Customer’s confidentiality,” he said as a matter of fact.
“Then maybe you might have a good memory.” I pressed, unwilling to give up without trying.
He studied me without his smile for a moment. “Callum,” he said finally, as if offering his name cost him something. “And maybe I do remember him. Came in a few nights in a row, liked the upstairs rooms. Wasn’t always alone.”
“With who?”
Tyler’s smile came back, strained this time. “A tall guy in a dark suit. He didn’t touch his drink. He just listened to him talk.”
I didn’t have to ask who the man was. Somewhere within me, I could feel the answer before it formed.
“Alexander Cole?” I dared to ask, with a whisper though.
Tyler’s eyes sharpened, his smile evaporating like it was never there, but he didn’t confirm. “Names are bad for business,” he said in a tone that signalled the end of the conversation.
“Depends on whose business,” I said, taking his silence as a positive reply. I slid the photo back into my notebook.
Before I could think of another question to ask the bartender, I felt it: a silent shift in the air, the quiet recalibration of a room when someone important or dangerous enters. I didn’t have to turn to know it was him.
Cole’s reflection appeared in the mirrored wall behind the bar—the sharp line of his jaw, the deliberate pace, the kind of presence that rearranged a space without raising his voice. He wasn’t looking at me, not directly; I wasn’t even sure if he had seen me, but his path through the club was a slow orbit that would bring him close enough if I stayed where I was.
I said to myself I wouldn’t stay put. I stayed put.
When he passed behind me, the scent of that same warm, smoky cologne threaded into the air. He didn’t stop, didn’t speak; he just kept moving toward a private booth in the far corner, a quiet gravity pulling the room’s attention with him.
Callum cleared his throat. “If you’re smart, you’ll leave whatever that is alone.”
“Not my specialty,” I said, slightly pissed he hadn’t noticed me.
I left the club with the low hum of bass still in my chest and the uneasy certainty that The Ember Room wasn’t just a lead. It was more than that; it was a doorway. And Alexander Cole was standing on t
he other side, waiting to see if I’d step through.