The Ransom

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole thought of the long evening ahead. She was free, all right. “Sure,” she said.

  “There’s a place in West Hollywood, Bernini’s,” he said. “I could meet you there at seven thirty. You need directions?”

  “No, I’ll find it. Bernini’s,” she repeated. “I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

  After they hung up, she considered what he’d said. She couldn’t help thinking there must be a way to reach a deal with the kidnappers without getting killed. All these people wanted was the money. Still, the thought of having someone to spend the evening with was comforting. She wouldn’t have to sit home alone, waiting to hear from the kidnappers.

  A moment later, Nicole found herself typing “Arnault, Greg” into her computer. Under normal circumstances, she was insatiably curious about everyone who came into her life. If she hadn’t been so upset about Steph, she would have checked out Arnault when she first met him.

  When his name came up, she learned he was thirty-five and had never been married. He was a native Angeleno who’d attended local public schools and then her own alma mater, UCLA. In fact, they’d both been there at the same time. It wasn’t surprising she’d never encountered him. The school had more than thirty thousand undergraduates. Arnault had earned a B.A. in art history, then completed his MFA. He’d been teaching at Newhall Community College, when he quit to join the police force.

  Nicole wondered what had happened to make him change direction so completely. He’d been a beat cop for a couple of years before earning several promotions that landed him on the elite Robbery and Homicide squad.

  When she finished reading about Arnault, she thought of David and put in a call to the hospital. They connected her to his room, and he picked up.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on with Steph? Have you gotten the money to the kidnappers yet?” He sounded more clear-headed than he had earlier.

  “David,” she said. “We can’t discuss this on the phone. You never know who might be listening. Everything’s going according to plan. I just have to wire them the money. It’s all working out. Okay?”

  “Yeah. But will you call me when the money is wired? I’m just lying here, going crazy. I don’t mean to be a whiner, but—God, I’m so worried about her.”

  “I know. But I’m sure it’s going to be okay. I’m following the kidnappers’ directions, understand? We should have her home in a day or two.”

  “Thanks,” David’s voice was thick, as if he were crying. “Thank you, Nicole. I knew I could count on you.”

  After they hung up, Nicole felt guilty that she hadn’t called David earlier. In the crush of events, her thoughts had been elsewhere.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up her report on Ashley for Rexton. She was relieved that she’d managed to track down more of Ashley’s past, confirm that Ashley was an identity assumed by someone named Jessica Reese, and furnish proof that Jessica was a criminal. She couldn’t hand the report over to the police because of confidentiality rules. But she was sure Rexton would. Maybe that would get the police focused on locating Ashley.

  She showed the report to Jerry, who leaned back in his chair and read it while she waited. “Great detective work,” he said. “Go ahead and send it to Rexton.”

  It was three in the afternoon when she emailed the report. She was looking over her next assignment when someone tapped on her office door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  It was Joanne. “You got a minute?”

  “Of course,” Nicole said. “What’s up?”

  Joanne sat down and studied Nicole before she spoke. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Anyone can see you’re under a lot of stress. At first I thought it had something to do with techie boy, like you were lovesick or something. But I can see it’s more serious than that. Come on,” she said. “I’m your friend. Maybe I can help.”

  Nicole looked away. It was tempting to pour out the whole story to Joanne. But what would that accomplish? It wouldn’t lighten her burden, nor could Joanne do anything to help. This would be one more person in the loop, worrying about Steph and asking for updates.

  Nicole was quiet, searching around for an explanation that would sound convincing. Finally, she said, “Stephanie’s not well, and they’re doing a bunch of tests. I’ve been worried, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear it,” Joanne said. “Keep me posted, okay?” But her expression suggested she wasn’t buying it. More tellingly, she didn’t ask questions about the nature of Steph’s illness, something she’d normally have done.

  At four o’clock., Nicole shut down her computer and called the number on the card Arnault had given her. She spoke to a woman who said she’d send an unmarked car to Centennial Park immediately. With this out of the way, Nicole left for the long drive to retrieve the bundle of phony cash. It wasn’t until close to six thirty that she pulled into her parking spot in her condo’s garage. She stopped the elevator on the first floor to check her mailbox for a note or notice of a delivery. But there was nothing.

  Ten

  Stephanie dozed fitfully. She woke a little later, feeling worse than before. In addition to her other miseries, her chest hurt from coughing. It was dark, and her watch said seven o’clock, too late for any of her captors to return with more food.

  She had an idea. Maybe she could use the screwdriver to get the door unlocked. She climbed the stairs again, using the flashlight to guide her. She didn’t really think it would work, but it was worth a try.

  She was almost at the top when she noticed that the third step down was different from the others, lighter in color and much more solid when she put her weight on it. It looked new. The original step must have broken and been replaced with this one. Earlier, she’d noticed that the steps were rickety and buckled slightly under her weight. She wondered if she could choose one and jump on it enough to weaken it. This would be tricky. She wouldn’t want to actually break the step, just get it to the point where it would collapse under the next person’s weight. The bigger problem would be figuring out how to lure one of the men downstairs. She’d get to that later.

  She went back to the bottom of the stairs and worked her way up, training the flashlight under each step to find the most promising candidate. As she inspected them, she understood why they were in such bad shape. They’d been undermined by termites and dry rot.

  When she reached the one that had been replaced, she saw that—unlike the others—it was fastened with screws to something underneath. Leaning down to inspect it, she saw that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to shore it up. A metal bar, attached to the wall, ran all the way across the bottom. Attached to the bar were three one-inch blocks of wood that supported the step from back to front. The wood pieces were held in place by the screws she’d noticed on top of the step. This explained how the screwdriver had ended up under the stairs. Whoever had repaired this step must have set the screwdriver down. It had rolled off, fallen to the floor, and been forgotten.

  She went to work. Sitting two steps above the newly installed one, she set about removing the screws. There were six of them, screwed in so tight it took enormous effort to get each to start turning. Once the step was loose, she slid it slightly forward so there wasn’t a gap between the loose step and the one above. She pressed down with her hand to see what would happen. The step slid forward onto the one below. She put it back and, tightly gripping the handrail, placed her foot on the loosened step, bearing down. This time it flew out from under her, landing halfway down the stairs. Steph was pleased that she, with so little mechanical ability, had been able to set up a booby trap. She put the step back, making sure it would slide out easily.

  She went downstairs and returned the screwdriver to its hiding place. She told herself that by morning, when someone showed up to feed her, she’d have thought of a way to get her captor to come downstairs. A half hour later, she was surprised to hear someone enter the house.
She wondered if he might be bringing more food. But his footsteps didn’t come near the basement door. Apparently he’d come to pick up something or drop it off. Only a few minutes passed before she heard him head back in the direction he’d entered. He was leaving, and she had to stop him. She started beating on the door, yelling the first thing that came into her head. “Help! A pipe broke down here, and it’s flooding the basement.”

  There was a pause before she heard footsteps hurrying in her direction. The basement door opened just enough for the man to shine a flashlight in. It found her halfway down the steps, its glare almost blinding her. Then the light moved around the basement floor.

  “You’re lying,” The man sounded young—early twenties, perhaps. “I don’t see any water. The floor isn’t even wet.”

  “That’s because the basement floor isn’t level,” she said. “Water is pooling under the stairs. A refrigerator or something is plugged in under there. Before, I could hear it running. Now it’s gone quiet.”

  “Shit!” The man immediately started down the stairs. The loose step worked just as she’d hoped, flying out from beneath his foot. Waving his arms wildly, he tried to recover his balance. With nothing to step back on, he tumbled to the bottom, screaming all the way.

  He was quiet so long that Stephanie wondered if the fall had killed him. Then he started to moan, soon switching to loud complaints. “My arm! Oh, my God, it’s broke! Help! It’s killing me!” Before long, his cries were interspersed with sobs.

  He’d landed several feet from the stairs. Stephanie walked around him and started up to the open door. She stopped halfway, looking down at him. He was clearly in agony. Despite everything, she found herself feeling sorry for him. She couldn’t do anything to help him. But she promised herself that, as soon as she got away, she’d call 911 to get an ambulance, as well as the police, out here to pick him up. This decided, she hurried up the stairs, locked the basement door, and walked out of the house. But before she’d taken more than a few steps, she heard a car door slam, echoed by a second slam a moment later. She froze when she saw that two men had gotten out of a car parked on the street above and were starting toward her. She could only guess that all three men had arrived together, but only one of them had gone into the house while the others waited.

  She turned right and started running, only to be stopped at the edge of the property by a cyclone fence hidden behind overgrown shrubs. She headed in the other direction, but the men were waiting, blocking her path. They grabbed her, each by an arm, and dragged her back in the house. She had no doubt these were partners of the man she’d left on the basement floor. One was medium height with a muscular build and buzz haircut. The other was tall and thin, dressed in a suit and tie.

  “Great,” said Muscles. “Now she’s seen us and can identify us.”

  “So what?” said the guy in the suit. “By the time the police find her, we’ll be long gone.”

  “If you believe that, you’re even dumber than I thought. Let’s see what’s happened to Matt. I thought he was taking too long in there. She must have done something to him.”

  By now they were at the door to the basement, which Muscles unlocked. A moment later, he pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Stephanie. “You lead the way. We’ll follow.” The guy in the suit focused his flashlight on the stairs to guide them. Steph went down, taking care to skip over the missing step. The two men did the same.

  The one called Matt, who’d fallen downstairs, was still moaning, letting out an occasional sob. Muscles ran ahead and bent over him. They were talking when the guy in the suit, still holding onto Stephanie, joined them.

  “She found a way to loosen that new step,” Muscles said. “He came down here because she told him it was flooded under the stairs, and the freezer went off. Well, don’t just stand there.” Muscles sounded profoundly exasperated. “Go and look. I’ll hold onto her.” None too gently, he grabbed Stephanie’s arm.

  It wasn’t long before the guy in the suit was back. His hair and shoulders were draped in spiderwebs, which he was attempting to brush off. “There isn’t any flood. The freezer is running fine. It was a trick.”

  Muscles pulled Stephanie toward the staircase. “Okay, bitch. I’m going to throw you down the stairs and see how you like it.”

  The guy in the suit put a hand on Muscle’s shoulder. “Look, Ry—” he stopped himself, but it was easy to figure out Muscle’s name was Ryan. “We’re not to hurt her in any way. She’s our collateral, remember? Our job is to make sure nothing happens to her so we can collect the ransom. You understand that, right?”

  Ryan let go of Stephanie. “Just as long as I get to shoot her after the ransom is paid.”

  “Nobody’s shooting anyone.” Now the guy in the suit sounded out of patience.

  “Let’s tie her up so she doesn’t cause any more trouble,” Ryan said.

  “How am I supposed to get the food you leave or use the bathroom if I’m tied up?” Stephanie interjected.

  “That’s easy,” Ryan said. “We’ll get you a bucket and stop feeding you. We can’t trust you running around loose down here. Who knows what you’ll pull next.”

  “Tying her up will just complicate things,” the guy in the suit said. “We’ll nail the door shut after we lock it and be extra careful whenever we open it. Right now we’ve got to take Matt to Emergency. He’s in a lot of pain.”

  They ordered Stephanie to sit in a far corner while they brought Matt upstairs. He was no lightweight, and he yelled in pain as they half dragged, half carried him up.

  Stephanie was so hungry that her stomach was growling, but she didn’t dare ask for food. She’d been lucky not to get thrown down the stairs or tied up. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself.

  She felt hopeless, trapped. Now that she’d seen the faces of all three men, they’d never let her go.

  Eleven

  With only forty-five minutes before she was to meet Arnault at Bernini’s, Nicole rushed around freshening up, hot-rollering her hair, and repairing her makeup. The whole time she kept telling herself how silly this was. With all that was going on, was she really trying to pretty herself up for Arnault? God, what a mess she was.

  The only reason they were meeting was so he could explain the downside of paying the kidnappers on her own, without help from the police. As she considered this, she couldn’t help thinking there must be a way to reach a deal with the men who’d taken Steph without anyone getting hurt. All these people wanted was money, money she didn’t care about.

  Fighting her way through rush-hour traffic, she was twenty minutes late getting to the restaurant. Bernini’s turned out to be a tiny wine bar in West Hollywood. It was pretty: candles on the tables, white tablecloths, pink napkins, and a handsome bar backed by tilted mirrors that reflected the restaurant’s interior at interesting angles. Arnault was in a small booth at the very back, nursing a glass of red wine. She slid in opposite him. He greeted her, then held up his hand to summon the waiter. She ordered pinot grigio.

  After Nicole’s wine was delivered, Arnault said, “I’m going to explain about hostage negotiations, and then we’re closing the subject. Consider tonight a—” he hesitated—“a way of taking your mind off what you’re going through.”

  “Isn’t it against police regulations to fraternize with ‘civilians’ involved in a case you’re investigating?”

  “A lot of things are against regulations,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Like drinking on duty.”

  “Are you on duty?”

  “No. That’s my point. What I do on my own time—within reason—is nobody’s business. Now, about making a private arrangement with these criminals. Here’s what would happen: They’d insist you deliver the ransom to a secluded location, then they’d take you, too. They’d force you to go to your bank and wire the rest of your money to an offshore account they’ve set up or change it into funny money on the web. After that, they’d have every reason to get rid of yo
u and your sister. They’re already responsible for the death of Brad Rexton, possibly Ashley and the other missing woman. If they’re clever enough—which I doubt, by the way—we might never find out what became of you.

  “As for hiring crisis intervention experts or a private security firm—no way they have the expertise we do. You’d be amazed at the amount of experience and advanced technology at our disposal for such cases.

  “That’s all I have to say about this,” he said. “Subject closed.”

  “I have one more question,” she said. “What about David? Is he still a suspect?”

  Arnault looked down at the table for a moment and then back at her. “I’m not supposed to discuss the case with you. You know that, right?”

  “I know. But still . . . “

  “I’ll say this. He does have alibis for the nights of the first two abductions.”

  “Do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”

  He took a deep breath. “We’re not ruling anybody out just yet. Personally, I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said. “Because I know he didn’t. He’s a really good guy.”

  “Change of subject,” he said. “Let’s talk about you. What made you decide to go into private investigation?”

  “I don’t feel like talking about myself right now,” Nicole said. “But I do have a question for you.”

  “Go ahead.” He smiled and relaxed back in his seat.

  “I did a background check on you and—”

  He chuckled. “Of course, you did. I’d be disappointed in you if you hadn’t.”

  She smiled at him, and they studied each other for a long moment. Finally, Nicole said, “So why did you go into police work? You got an MFA from UCLA and were teaching art history at Newhall Community College. That’s not the usual path into law enforcement.”