"Dean … Dean!"
"Mmmf? What!" He jerked awake crankily, finding Sam standing in front of the bed. The space beside him was empty. Dude, she totally used me, he thought in a sleepy daze. That's kinda hot. "Where'd she go?"
Sam held up the motel notepad. "Had to run to work. Catch up with you tonight." He tossed it to Dean. "She left you her number too."
"She went back to Heavenly Angels?" Dean frowned.
Sam considered pointing out that Madison most likely had a manager that was none too pleased right now, but settled for letting the subject drop. There was no point in getting Dean on the defensive. "So, check out what I found in this picture."
Way to change the subject, Sam. Dean took the champagne photo and saw that he had circled a sign in the background. It was out of focus but … "The Cobra Club?"
"Exactly. I checked it out online, it's an exclusive place downtown that specializes in receptions and engagement parties."
"So let's see if anyone recognizes John Doe." Anything that would take his mind off what Madison was probably doing right now. With a stranger. At least Sam wasn't giving him a sympathy look.
Twenty minutes later and the owner of the glitzy Cobra Club was peering a little too hard at their FBI badges. Sam quickly snapped the wallet shut and assured the man, for the second time, that "No, I never knew your Uncle Vinny."
"But we were wondering if you knew this man," Dean interjected before things got sticky.
The owner smiled as Dean handed over the tuxedo photo. "Oh yeah! That kid. Sure I know him, came in here uhhhh lemme think, about middle of last month. Did an engagement gig."
"Do you remember his name?" Sam got out a pen and prayed for a lead.
"Oh yeah. Rob Nelson. I did about fifty customized invitations with his name on it, pain in my ass, but he paid alright and was pretty damn courteous too. What's he in trouble or somethin'?"
"We can't comment on that. Who was his fiancé?"
"I think her name was Selina Richard? Or Pritchard?"
"Did you notice anything … uh, unusual about their relationship at all?"
He thought for moment, then shrugged. "Normal as anyone else that comes through here. Hey, I don't want to land anyone in jail here, it's bad for business. Can you just quote me on all this as some kind of anonymous tip?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks for your time." Dean rolled his eyes as they left, the Impala parked comfortably between two Mercedes-Benz in the valet spots. The sun was glaring and traffic was at a standstill. He noticed that the rearview mirror needed cleaning. "You sure you didn't know Uncle Vinny?" he couldn't help asking.
"Buried him under the barn out back, in cement," Sam deadpanned.
Dean grinned. "Yeah, I bet."
Dean peered at the laptop screen, flicking through the various engagement articles in the Las Vegas Sun. A piece of tomato from his sub drooped precariously close to the keyboard. "Dude here's one between a midget and a lawyer."
Sam pushed aside the third box of police reports that Larry had sent them and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Trying to get through three weeks of reports in Vegas was the equivalent of reading the Manhattan phonebook. The library was utterly deserted and he was still amazed that one existed within twenty miles. "Rob Neslen was reported missing two weeks ago, by his fiancé."
"Which was … right about the time the murders started. So I'd say it's more like his corpse is missing." Dean clicked past a few more engagements, then suddenly caught himself staring at the imposter Winchester. His stomach flipped. "Woah, woah."
"What?" Sam craned over Dean's shoulder, noticing the announcement for Selina Pritchard.
"That's the chick that macked on me." He paused, then grinned. "Well, I guess I should be more specific, right? The undead one back at Mercy General." He quickly scanned the article. "Says here she's got a sister in Reno and parents in … Milwaukee."
"Dean … " Sam pointed further down.
Jack Pritchard, brother and co-owner of Heavenly Angels Lounge, will generously host the bachelor celebration this weekend.
"Oh, fuck," he breathed. It was that weird feeling that was a combination of top-of-the-roller-coaster and diving into a cold pool, where his stomach would drop for a split second. As he pulled out his phone to call her it was already ringing and he thought for a moment that there had been some kind of bizarre cross-communication. He registered that the ID read Larry and hit the cell to speaker. "Yeah, what's up?"
"Got something different for you, nothing good. Girl over here at The W Bar got gifted a nice set of roses with a pig's heart thrown in. Figured you might want to check it out."
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Great, yeah. Er, no, not great. Sam'll be there. See you in ten."
Sam shook his head. "I'm not letting you go to the Lounge alone." Vegas was dangerous enough without any supernatural mojo, and the last thing he wanted was a mob hit on Dean. "This Jack Pritchard guy could be in on the murders."
"Shocking."
"So … What, you're not a little concerned that this guy could have murdered ten girls?"
"Sam, I got it. I'll be fine." Dean put on his serious face and sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to confront a modern-day Ted Bundy. "I just need to get in there and make sure she's okay. Let's go, I'll drop you off at The W." Case closed, decision made.
After dealing with gridlocked traffic and a pompous valet attendant, Dean finally gunned the Impala towards Heavenly Angels, practically feeling Sam's cloud of disgruntledness in the empty passenger seat. It's like that old cliché in horror flicks, he thought. Splitting up means someone's gonna get killed or maimed or at the very least left fighting for their life. Thing was, that only happened in the movies. He'd been hunting things a lot worse than vengeful witches without Dad or Sam for years. And he was personally planning on making short order of Jack Pritchard. That in mind, he pealed into a parking space behind the lounge, told the valet to go fuck himself—could no one park their own cars here?—and picked up a few choice items from the trunk.
A slim hostess in a garter and wings greeted him inside, the hulking bouncer from "security" giving him a once-over. Apparently the night-life wasn't exclusive to the night; the lounge was packed for a show in the next room. "Welcome to the premier gentlemen's club--"
"I'm looking for Madison."
She was a little miffed at the interruption and opened up a register book. "I'm sorry, are you a preferred client?"
God, it was like trying to get an insurance quote or something, he thought. "I know her personally. Can you just tell me where I can find her?"
She glanced at a watch. "Onstage in a half hour, sir. Could I get your name and a fifty dollar deposit? No checks, please. The champagne room is available after the performance tonight as well."
"What? Ok, ok, here." He peeled out two precious twenties and a five, already calculating when he could squeeze in the next pool game.
"And your name, sir?"
"Uh, Dave Hope."
"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Hope." The hostess nodded to the bouncer, who moved aside and was no doubt memorizing his face for further mob investigation. Great, he thought.
The current dancer was apparently in the middle of a country-western theme and Dean peered around the stage, trying to make out where the dressing room entrance was. Not surprisingly it was guarded. Well, there goes another hundred. The "security" man raised an eyebrow, then let him through. Dean realized that he should practically be in heaven right now; backstage at a Vegas lounge was on par with winning the lottery. A crowd of girls went by, stilettoes tacking on the floor.
"You look lost." The girl was fastening on a feather headdress.
It was like living in Penthouse, Sam totally should have come—"Sorry, I'm just trying to find Madison, do you know if she's back here?"
"Hey, Mad! You gotta visitor!" she called back, eyeing up Dean as she finished with the headdress.
"Who the fuck—" Madison appeared in the hall, stopped, then slowly folded her arms. "Dean. I said I would call you later. I didn't expect you to … Well, what, are you here for my show?"
He dragged his eyes up from the costume, hell, he guessed it was supposed to be Arabian or something. "You're in trouble. I don't think you're safe here."
She took him aside quickly and glared the other girl away. "Super convenient, huh?" she hissed. "If I'm not out there, I lose my job."
"A helluva lot better than losing your heart," Dean shot back. "Those photos? The guy was Rob Nelson, missing for two weeks, and his fiancé was Selina Pritchard. As in, sister to a Jack Pritchard that works here."
"Shh!" She drew back. "… Are you sure? I mean, you think Jack murdered Em?"
A man poked his head down the corridor from the stage. "Hey! What's going on back here? You two wanna have a fireside chat, do it after the show, Madison."
"It's okay, I'm just gonna be a minute," Dean argued. He turned back. "I don't know yet, but yeah, we think he was involved somehow." He noticed Madison's eyes shift nervously back to the stage hall, where the man was approaching.
He took a minute to notice that the man's manager pin read Jack Pritchard.
Pritchard pointed a finger that was meant to be menacing. "Look, propose or whatever after her show. And I better not find that you're the reason she skipped out last night." He moved back his jacket to reveal a gun.
Dean smiled coldly and brought out his own gun. "Mine's bigger."