The squeaking of the door had awakened her. Good. He didn't want her too comfortable. “Good morning, my dear. Did you spend a comfortable night? No, I don't suppose you did.” He watched as she moved stiffly about. The costume she'd been wearing at the time of her abduction was torn, apparently from her struggles. “I see you're not happy with your accommodations, and I've taken such care too. You always were an ungrateful little wretch. However, I have something new for you to wear. I wouldn't want you to be less than stylishly dressed. After all, this is going to be your film debut."
“My what?"
~ * ~
Lorena Judson walked into the large airy kitchen. Samuels sat at his computer. Eastwood stood at parade rest, his dark eyes seemingly taking in everything. Over in the corner Russell, leaning his elbows on the counter, spoke softly into a cell phone.
She touched Samuels on the shoulder. “I want full dossiers on the deli guy Stuart Hall, her editor Geoffrey McHugh, the shelter guard and the pimp. And I want them yesterday. Don't forget the photographer. Make sure he's still in Europe. Check local and federal records. I want to know anything which points to who might have Miss Prentice. Interview the doctor who brought them into the world, if you have to, but do it."
“Yes, ma'am.” Samuels returned to his computer.
“Eastwood, maintain contact with perimeter surveillance and be available in case there's a ransom demand."
He nodded, never changing his dour expression or position.
“Russell, you're my liaison with Detective Halloran. We need to know everything the police know before they know it."
Russell nodded his understanding, continuing his hushed conversation.
She turned, intending to return to Max's study.
“Ma'am,” Russell spoke. “The shelter guard is Malcolm Dodd. His record is a little dodgy, but—"
“No buts, get on him."
“That's what I'm trying to tell you. He's been in the hospital for the last three days—ruptured appendix. He can't be our guy."
“You're sure he's still there?"
“Talked to the charge nurse. He's still hooked up to I.V's."
“All right, we can eliminate him.” She shrugged. “Didn't fit the description anyway."
~ * ~
Max stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. Even a ransom demand would be preferable to this interminable waiting.
“Max."
He looked up at the sound of Lorena's voice. “Have you heard something?"
She walked over to the sofa and sat down beside him. “No, but we've ruled out the shelter guard. He's been in the hospital for three days."
He nodded. Fatigue had long ago sapped his energy. All that kept him going now was adrenaline and caffeine.
“What about Nikki's editor, Geoff McHugh? Why wasn't he at the gala? I should think he'd be there to see her honored."
Max shrugged. “I'm sure he was invited. I never—you don't think he kidnapped Nikki, do you?"
“How long has he been her editor?"
“I don't know. Nikki already had the initial offer when I came back from Paris, but I don't know if they met before she moved into the townhouse or not."
“I see."
“I didn't care for him, but he didn't strike me as the stalker type.” He shook his head, still doubting the editor was a viable suspect. “On the other hand, if Nikki rejected him..."
“Well, until he's cleared, he's still a suspect."
“Am I still a suspect?"
“Not in my book."
“I guess I should be relieved.” He leaned forward, his head in his hands. “But I'm too worried."
“We're doing everything we can to find her."
“I know. It's not knowing whether she's—” Max's voice broke.
~ * ~
Nikki twisted and turned, attempting to loosen the cords binding her wrists. Every time she felt it give, hope flared ... quickly followed by despair when nothing seemed to work. No matter how hard she tried.
She couldn't see them, but her wrists felt raw. No skin left. Still she had to be making some progress. Sooner or later the bindings give.
The small matter of getting out of where ever the hell he'd taken her could wait at least until her hands were free. One step at a time, she told herself. One step at a time.
~ * ~
Max paced back and forth in his study. Located on the west side of the townhouse, the study was dark, lit by a single lamp. Agent Eastwood had manned the telephone all night, sitting upright, at attention. Lorena Judson sat at one end of the sofa, her head back, eyes closed, but he knew from her tense posture that she wasn't asleep.
Still no ransom call. Nikki could be anywhere. He refused to believe she was dead.
Agent Russell tapped on the door. Max stopped pacing, held his breath, his heart literally pounding in his throat. Lorena sat up, appearing alert and all business.
“Agent Judson, the police have located Stuart Hall. They have him down at the two-eight."
“Does he look good for it?"
Agent Russell shook his head and shrugged. “Dunno, better than the security guard, anyway. He has a rap-sheet—small time stuff and a complaint against him for sexual harassment...” Russell paused, “...but dismissed. Locals are going to have a chat with him anyway."
Lorena stood up. “Russell, we're going down to the precinct where they're holding Stuart Hall. I need to see him, get a feel for his quirks.” She turned to Max. “I'll let you know if I learn anything.” Nodding in Eastwood's direction, she said, “Agent Eastwood will stay here just in case of any contact by the kidnapper. Agent Samuels will continue searching the local and federal data bases."
She frowned. “Anything on the editor?”
“Still no sign of him at his office or condo. Maybe he went out of town for the weekend."
“Or maybe he has Nikki,” Max suggested.
“McHugh's record is clean,” Lorena admitted, “but I don't like loose ends."
“What about the photographer? Still in Europe?"
Russell snickered. “Definitely. He's a guest of the Monegasque authorities ... date rape."
“Dammit!” Max punched the wall with his fist. He should have prosecuted Ian Starr before. How many young women had the photographer raped in the intervening ten years?
Lorena's eyebrows rose. “If you feel that strongly about it, why didn't you prosecute him when he raped her?"
“She wouldn't hear of it,” Max snapped. “I told you that already.”
Again the absolute helplessness of the situation galled him. He hated sitting back, waiting for the FBI or the police to find Nikki. He should be out there turning over every rock, looking for the slug who'd kidnapped her.
Max walked Lorena and Agent Russell to the door. “Just one thing."
She turned. “What?"
“When you find her, I'm going along."
Lorena shook her head. “Not possible. It's against all procedure. We're still eliminating the possibilities."
“Possibilities be damned. I will go."
Maybe it was his determination that changed Lorena's mind, but she relented. “It's not procedure, but I understand. When we have a solid lead, you can ride along."
Fifty
“Now, I'll give you a choice. If you promise to behave, I'll unbind you and allow you to change clothes.” He watched for her reaction, seeing only a sullen shrug of her shoulders. He added, “If you don't behave, I'll be forced to undress you myself."
In spite of himself, he giggled at the thought of touching her flawless ivory skin. Whether she cooperated or not, his pocket contained a syringe filled with a drug which would immobilize her. He hoped she would struggle, just a little. More fun that way. “Which shall it be? Oh, dear. You can't talk, can you? Well, I'll fix that for you.” He eased the duct tape from her cheek and mouth. As her mouth was released, she attempted to bite him.
“Ouch.” He moved away from her. Little hell cat. “You know I warned yo
u to behave. Now I shall have to undress you myself.” Nikki shrank against the wall and shook her head furiously.
He slapped her. “I told you. I am in control here, not you.” He grabbed the neck of her gown and jerked her to her feet. The more she cringed, the better he liked it ... no, he loved it. It was time to teach her exactly who was in charge. He took both hands and gave a savage rip, parting her fragile costume to the waist. Another rip, and the gown lay at his feet. “There, there. Now my viewers will be able to see how lovely you are."
“No, please, no,” Nikki cried as his hands began an intimate exploration of her body. Vertigo overtook her ... and a terrifying memory...
~ * ~
Stumbling in the gloomy darkness on rough cobblestones, she picked up the hem of her tattered gown, ripped off the lace and tossed it aside. The exquisite trim would do her no good in the Temple Prison. The dress would never be the same. Her life would never be the same. Condemned by the Citizens because of her station. It would have been laughable, if she were not so afraid of dying. Maxime had prevailed on her to leave Paris several months before. Now, she wished she had listened to him.
Why had she been so stubborn? To stay near him? No, that was not the real truth. The real truth was that she had truly believed the Royal Guards and the King's Army would handily defeat the riffraff clogging the streets of Paris. She wanted to stay in Paris and enjoy the balls as if nothing were happening outside the gates.
Now, she was truly up the Seine without a paddle. Her mother had fled their country home at Maxime's suggestion, but at the last minute, Nicole had changed her mind. She had decided to remain with her Tante Céline, unaware that her beloved aunt was already on her way to England. Maxime had been duty bound to defend the king. All alone, she had been thrown into prison and condemned.
Granted there were other aristocrats in the Temple Prison, even the King and Queen, who reportedly had comfortable apartments, not like the pest-ridden cell into which she had been confined. Something skittered in a corner, and a cold chill passed through her. Rats, no doubt. She folded her arms and backed away from the sound. She bumped into a rude cot and sat down on it, drawing her feet up off the floor. Almost immediately, she began to itch. The bedding was infested with heaven only knew what kind of vermin.
Tears stung her eyes. She huddled on the cot for what seemed like hours listening to the skittering sounds, fending off the rats’ exploratory excursions, until she heard the key in the door. Freedom? She knew Maxime would try to free her. Had he not promised in his last note? She had only to be brave. He would save her.
The rough door scraped open. She held her breath. Two figures entered.
“Bonjour, Citizeness,” one of them said in guttural street patois.
“Bonjour, M'sieur,” she replied politely, standing.
A vicious backhand knocked her back on the bed, and one of the figures advanced toward her. “Your fine manners won't do you any good in this place, royalist whore."
Unable to speak for the pain, she touched her lip and felt the blood as it welled. Why me?
“Quiet. You have no voice in this place,” the larger of the two men shouted.
She withdrew into the farthest corner of the cell, but the men advanced again. The taller man grasped the front of her gown and ripped it, exposing her breasts. “No. Please,” she moaned. “No!"
~ * ~
“No. No, no. Not this time. Never again.” Nikki screamed at her captor. An adrenaline-induced rage pumped through her. Summoning all her strength, she kicked him backward, causing him to stumble. At the same time, she broke the last strand of her bonds.
“Stupid bitch!” He came at her again, his fist drawn back.
“No!"
Surrender? Never. She drew her hands into claws and raked down his face.
“Bitch!” he screamed, coming at her with a fluid-filled syringe.
She scanned the room for a weapon.
Nothing. She pummeled his head with her fists and kneed him in the groin.
“Umph.” He collapsed, moaning and clutching his genitals.
Nikki jumped off the cot and headed for the steel door, praying he hadn't locked it. Damn thing was heavy, but no matter. She had to get out. She could hear him already scrambling to his feet behind her.
“Come back here, bitch,” he screamed.
She gave a final jerk on the door and it opened. Freedom. She struggled up the steps, stumble, then caught herself.
It was only a second's delay, but one she couldn't afford. “Ugh!”
Nikki felt the bite of a needle jabbed into her shoulder. She elbowed him in the abdomen—too late—the stinging of the drug told her. Using the last of her strength, she kicked backward and sent him sprawling down the stairs.
Her breath caught in her throat. What had he given her? Panic flared as she collapsed. I can't breathe.
Fifty-one
Max looked up as Lorena and Agent Russell returned from the twenty-eighth precinct. “Well?"
Lorena's cell phone rang. “I need to get this,” she said, then answered, “Okay. Okay. I'm on the way."
He jumped up. “I'm coming too.” He said reminding her of her earlier decision.
She frowned. “You'll be in the way.” She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Stay here. I'll let you know as soon as we know something definite."
“Like hell. This is it. I know it.” He grabbed his jacket and ran after her. “I'm following. You can't stop me."
“I can, but I won't. Come on."
Together they ran to her government-issue car.
“Buckle up,” she ordered.
“Where are we going? Who is he?” He tightened the seatbelt across his midsection. He didn't want to risk her changing her mind again.
“He's Donald Stanley, a Brit with a long history of pandering, supposedly retired. Started out as a college professor, but he ran afoul of authorities for rape."
“Mon Dieu"” Max shuddered. A rapist. “You don't think he's already...?"
She cast him a quick, pitying glance. “Who knows? He's had plenty of time.” She maneuvered the car swiftly and expertly through the early morning traffic.
“Where are we going?"
“Queens."
“You think he's the one?"
“Best lead we have. You get a feeling sometimes."
“Do you have it now?"
“Yes. My stomach is tied in knots."
“Shit."
Lorena shot him another look of pity, but ignored his fears. “We'll hit the Queensborough Bridge in another twenty minutes if traffic doesn't get any worse.” She spoke into her com unit. “Charley-Robert-X-ray ten, we're heading east on Sixty-fifth Street. Our ETA is thirty-five or forty minutes. I want Stanley's house surrounded, clear the entire block, I don't want a milkman or a paperboy stumbling into this operation. I want it done now."
If the agent's stomach was tied in knots, Max could see no indication of it. On the other hand, his gut twisted and turned worse than the route of the Tour de France. The very idea—powerless to protect Nikki.
Helpless. Dammit. He'd been warned, but he'd failed to prevent fate's latest blow to their relationship. One more chance, he prayed. Just give me one more chance.
~ * ~
Forty long minutes later, Max and Lorena reached Stanley's quiet neighborhood. She opened the door and jumped out. “Stay here,” she ordered.
“No.” Right behind her, his long strides quickly caught up with the agent.
She flashed her badge at the patrolman on perimeter control. “He's with me."
The patrolman nodded and allowed them through.
She turned toward him, her face stern. “You will stay outside. You will not go past this point. I've allowed you inside the crime scene tape, as a favor. Do you understand?"
“Of course.” Like hell, he'd play a tame dog, but only until it was verified that Nikki was inside. After that, they'd have to handcuff and chain him to keep him out.
M
ax marveled at her swift personality change. She was certainly all business now. He followed behind her as she made her way over to an unmarked van. It was filled with high-tech surveillance equipment—multiple viewing screens, each with a different display. He could make neither head nor tail of it. He listened, hoping he'd hear they'd found Nikki.
She gestured toward one of the screens with two yellow glowing dots. “Heat sensors picking up anything, Detective?"
“Two heat signatures, neither moving,” Halloran said. “Could be he knows we're here."
“What about the floor plan?"
“City records show he built a new basement. My guess is that's where he has her stashed."
“Any sound from the microphones?"
“Nothing."
Max eased away from the two of them. Neither moving? No sound. It was early. Maybe the kidnapper was asleep. Maybe Nikki was hurt or ... He straightened his shoulders, tried to look like he belonged—no mean feat in a tux. Why the hell hadn't he changed clothes?
“Hey you, where do you think you're going?"
“Interpol,” Max bluffed. “I've been after Stanley for over a year.” He stared the patrolman straight in the eye ... and held his breath.
“Okay, just stay back. Full-scale assault about to go down. Wouldn't want your fancy suit mussed up."
Max cursed the light. Daylight made it damned difficult to sneak around to the back of the house. If Nikki were in the basement, then perhaps he'd find a small window for access.
A commotion sprang up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Someone was attempting to cross the crime scene tape.
Taking advantage of the diversion, he streaked for the rear of the house, his heart hammering in his chest. She had to be nearby. He could sense her presence.
He crept along the rear of the small one story cottage. One small window in the back. That had to be it. He grabbed a rusting lawn chair and hit the window with it. So much for being quiet.
No good. He kicked the window.
It cracked.
Crouching he kicked out the rest of the glass. Slipping his legs and hips through the window didn't pose a problem, but his chest and shoulders did. Damn. There had to be a better way to get inside than turning himself into a human pretzel, but he didn't have time to find it.
See You In My Dreams Page 38
