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Sheila guided the patrol car into the nearly empty parking lot of the Masquerade Theater. The imposing structure loomed before them, its Art Deco facade sticking out among the modern buildings surrounding it. Moonlight pooled on the cracked asphalt, giving the scene an eerie, almost abandoned feel.
A single vehicle, a sleek black Audi, sat in the parking lot.
"We should run those plates," Sheila told Finn as she cut the engine. The sudden silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.
"And by 'we'," Finn said, "you mean 'me' right?"
"I was trying to be diplomatic, but yes."
While Finn called in the plates, Sheila studied the building. If the killer was involved in the world of theater, what were the chances he was involved inthistheater? It was, as far as she knew, one of the only such places in the city—and certainly the largest—but still…
"Plates are registered to Marcus Holloway," Finn said a moment later. "The theater director."
Sheila nodded, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension coursing through her. "Let's go see if he's inside."
After checking to make sure the Audi was empty, Sheila and Finn approached the theater's grand entrance, its brass doors gleaming in the moonlight. Ornate carvings adorned the frame, telling stories of Greek myths and Shakespearean tragedies. Sheila tugged on the handle, surprised to find it unlocked.
"Hello?" she called out as they stepped into the cavernous lobby. Her voice echoed off the high ceilings and marble floors, seeming to multiply until it filled the space with a chorus of ghostly greetings.
The lobby was a testament to the theater's glory days, with ornate chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and plush red carpets. Faded posters of past productions lined the walls, silent witnesses to decades of performances. Sheila's eyes were drawn to aparticularly striking poster for 'Phantom of the Opera,' the masked figure's eyes seeming to follow her as she moved.
"Mr. Holloway?" Finn called, his voice bouncing off the walls and returning to them unanswered.
They shared a look before proceeding deeper into the theater. Sheila's hand instinctively moved to her holstered weapon, a sense of unease growing with each step. The plush carpet muffled their footsteps, adding to the surreal atmosphere.
They passed through the main auditorium, rows of velvet seats stretching into the darkness like a sea of red waves. The air was thick with the musty scent of old fabric and wood polish. Sheila's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, dancing across the ornate moldings and faded murals on the ceiling.
The stage loomed before them, the heavy curtain half-drawn, revealing glimpses of an elaborate set. It appeared to be for a production of 'Macbeth,' with a foreboding castle facade and gnarled trees creating an ominous backdrop.
"Finn," Sheila whispered, her voice seeming too loud in the oppressive silence, "check the wings. I'll take the backstage area."
Finn nodded, moving off to the left while Sheila headed for the door marked 'Backstage.' She pushed it open slowly, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges.
Backstage was a maze of corridors and small rooms. Racks of costumes lined the walls, a riot of colors and textures in the beam of her flashlight. The air was thick with the scent of grease paint and sawdust, with an underlying mustiness that spoke of age and disuse.
Sheila's eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every nerve on high alert. She passed dressing rooms with stars on the doors, names long faded but still legible.
A sudden crash from somewhere ahead made Sheila freeze. Her heart pounded in her ears as she strained to listen. Another sound—footsteps, quick and light, moving away from her.
"Finn!" she called out, breaking into a run. "Someone's here!"
She rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of a figure darting across the far end of the corridor.
"Hey!" Sheila called out, increasing her speed. "Stop! Police!"
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Finn's head snapped up at the sound of Sheila's shout. "Stop! Police!" Her voice echoed through the cavernous theater, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Sheila?" he called out, but only his own voice bounced back to him.
He started running, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of the lobby. The grand space quickly gave way to a labyrinth of narrow corridors backstage. Finn found himself in a maze of twisting passageways, each turn leading to more options. Props and costume racks lined the walls, creating strange shadows in the dim emergency lighting.
A life-sized mannequin loomed suddenly in front of him, its blank face startling in the gloom. Finn dodged around it, his heart pounding. The air was thick with the musty smell of old fabric and dust.
He paused at an intersection, straining his ears. Was that a footstep? A door closing? The building seemed to swallow sounds, making it impossible to pinpoint their origin.
"Sheila!" he called again, but there was no response.
