by Lowe, Sheila
Beefy didn’t turn around. He kept staring into the backseat with remorseless eyes, terrifying in their emptiness, until Claudia had the certain feeling that this guy could cut her head off and smile while he did it.
He smirked at her. “Think I oughta hit her again, Mike? A couple more jolts oughta make her shit her pants.”
“Shut up, asshole. We gotta get her up there.”
Beefy barked a loud laugh and stepped out of the car, slinging the gym bag over his shoulder. He opened the back door and ordered Claudia out, not bothering with any pretensions of courtesy. She pushed herself across the seat, still shaking so badly that she feared she might have trouble standing. Beefy grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the car, and Mike took her other arm. They frog-marched her across the lot and through a revolving door into the building.
The lobby was a repository of carpet rolls and wallpaper, spools of electrical wire and PVC pipe. Mountains of paint cans, stacks of drywall, other construction detritus. A lack of heating made it refrigerator cold.
The men wore soft-soled shoes, but the heels of Claudia’s boots echoed between them as they cut across unfinished concrete, past an empty rectangle frame laid out in the middle of the lobby. A reflecting pool, maybe, with narrower rectangles on either side, eventually to serve as planters.
Past a security guard desk waiting for the finish to be applied. If only a guard were there now whom she could signal for help. Into the elevator, where Mike hit the button for the fifth floor. As the elevator car ascended, its glass walls afforded a view of a half-planted atrium that would one day be a lush jungle. But nobody was interested in the view and they rode in silence. Fear and the aftereffects of the stun gun were making it impossible for Claudia to formulate a plan of action. She couldn’t think beyond oh god, oh god, oh god.
The doors opened and she found herself being borne along a corridor of offices whose doors had not yet been hung. From one of the rooms, a woman’s frantic screams broke the silence. Grusha Olinetsky.
Claudia balked, the hair on her arms standing straight up.
Holy shit, what’s he doing to her?
Beefy looked down at her with a nasty grin, enjoying her distress. “You’re next,” he said.
“Give it a rest, wouldja?” said Mike.
“What, all of a sudden you don’t have the stomach?” The thick-necked thug gave a coarse laugh and pulled Claudia in the direction of the screams.
She told herself she had to stay calm, think rationally; that she’d been in tough spots before. But her mind was reeling like a drunk in an alley. Beefy had her arm in a steel grip with his left hand. The stun gun was in his right, and the look on his face said he’d love nothing more than an excuse to use it on her again.
Like the Elite Introductions loft, the front of the office suite was a large, open space. A semicircular reception desk with a granite top had been installed opposite the front doors. There was no furniture, no carpeting, and the ceilings opened onto HVAC duct-work, as if the building were a skeleton with bits of its skin peeled away.
Beefy put the stun gun in the gym bag and set it down near a workman’s tool chest on wheels. The drawers were closed, but the top was open, revealing an assortment of screwdrivers, a pipe wrench, and a drill. He took Claudia’s phone from the bag. “Here’s your gear, boss. And here’s her phone.”
Clean-cut in a banana yellow polo shirt and mole-skin pants, Marcus Bernard didn’t look like a multiple murderer. But the dark stain on the back of his hand and the rust-colored splotches on his shirt looked like blood, and there was a woman audibly whimpering in another room of the office suite.
Marcus smiled in greeting as if this were just any Sunday morning and he was enjoying his day of rest. He slipped Claudia’s cell phone into the pocket of his pants. “Hey, Claudia. Have the boys been taking good care of you?”
Knowing there was nothing she could say that would improve her present situation, Claudia glared back at him in stony silence. Marcus shrugged indifferently and spoke to his thugs. “Get her secured, then take a hike. Go for coffee or something. I’ll get on the horn when I’m ready for you.”
Mike opened a drawer in the tool chest and produced several plastic cable ties. They were not the thick police plasticuffs she had seen Jovanic carry, but were of the type she’d used before to bundle the electrical wires behind her computer. Once it was locked into place, the plastic tie would be virtually impossible to break.
Mike handed a tie to his partner, who wrenched Claudia’s hands behind her back and started to wrap the plastic around her wrists. She knew she didn’t stand a chance of defending herself that way. Appealing to Marcus for mercy was probably a nonstarter, but it was no act when she cried out, “Hey, that hurts! Do you have to do it like that?”
Marcus’ eyes were bright as they stared at her. From where she stood, the pupils looked enormous, and she guessed he was probably flying. He said, “It’s all right, Ace. You can do ’em in front. She’s not going anywhere.”
Beefy, who now had a name, looked disappointed. He ordered Claudia to put her hands together. “Like you’re praying,” he said, looping the plastic around her wrists. He yanked the tie until it cut into the flesh and she winced. That made him grin.
Marcus watched impassively as Ace shoved her roughly to the floor. With her hands bound she couldn’t break the fall and she landed painfully on her shoulder. Mike pulled her boots off and cinched her ankles with another plastic tie. When they were finished with her, she was lying on her side, only her corduroy jacket and Levi’s between her and the icy cement floor. She’d lost her scarf somewhere along the way.
“Sit her up over there, against the wall,” said Marcus. “The lady and I are gonna have a chat.”
When the two men were gone, Marcus crouched on his heels and grabbed Claudia’s chin, roughly jerking her face to look at him.
“Okay, Claudia, Grusha’s already told me she talked to you. Didn’t take much to get that out of her. I want to know who you’ve talked to about me.”
As if to underscore what he’d said, Grusha shrieked again, begging for help.
Claudia tried to keep the fear out of her voice, but she could hear the breathless quaver and she knew Marcus could, too. “What have you done to her?”
“Baby, you don’t want to know. Now tell me who you’ve blabbed to.”
She tried to wrench out of his grasp but his fingers dug into her jaw until she cried out. “The cops know you and Grusha were involved. Donna Pollard told me about it and I told the detective.”IT
“Pollard knew, too? See, that’s exactly what I mean. Things get out, people know. Next thing, they’re laughing at me.” He slapped her across the face hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. “Goddamn bunch of gasbags.”
“Nobody’s laughing, you sonofabitch. Pollard’s dead. She killed herself this morning.”
Marcus started to laugh. “Well, isn’t that fuckin’ convenient. She saved me the trouble.” Then the laugh fell away and he got deadly serious. “They won’t find any evidence pointing at me. Only your big mouth, and that’s hearsay.”
“So let us go. We can’t do you any harm.”IT
“I don’t think you understand. I’m not letting that bitch get away with what she did to me.”
“She didn’t do anything to you except tell you the truth.”
“The truth?” His face darkened with loathing. “The truth that’s she’s really a man.”
“Marcus, it’s not an affront to your manhood that Grusha had a sex change. It has nothing to do with you.”
He was caught up in his revenge fantasy and wasn’t listening to her. “Her reputation is gone, and now she’s gonna be gone. Poof, disappeared. You’ve just saved me the trouble of making sure the cops know that too many people are dying at Elite Introductions. I would have done it myself, eventually. But now I have to step up the program. Don’t worry, Claudia, my ass is well covered.”
His arrogance was beyond belief. She remember
ed that his handwriting had reminded her of Lyle Menendez’. At the time she hadn’t realized how apropos the comparison was. She struggled to remember what else it contained that might help her now. The terrifying truth was that Marcus Bernard was a sociopath. He had no conscience; he had greater personal wealth than some small countries and, so far, had gotten away with multiple murders. That combination didn’t bode well for her and Grusha. His sense of self-important grandiosity would make him think that he was above the law.
“Marcus, please, you can stop this now. Hasn’t enough damage been done? Too many innocent people are dead.”
“Nobody’s innocent.”IT
“What did Shellee do to hurt you? Or Heather or Ryan? Maybe even Jessica—she’s one of yours, too, isn’t she?”
A look of confusion. “Ryan? Who the hell is Ryan?”
“Ryan Turner, the doctor who drowned scuba diving.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Enough—”
“Wait—there’s a detective in Stowe who’s got video of you and Heather Lloyd at the ski lodge.” Stalling for as long as possible; exploring the room with her eyes for something to cut her bindings if he left her alone for a while. She blenched as Grusha sobbed for help again. Her cries were getting weaker.
“You’re bluffing,” Marcus said, sounding sure of himself. “There’s no way I can be identified from any video. I wore a hat and I made sure to look away from the camera. Besides, McAllister prescribed Heather cold medication, which made things easier for me. So you see, Claudia baby, the fingers point at him more than they do me. And like I told you, he was in the restaurant, just before poor Shellee had her allergic reaction. That was a very lucky coincidence. You gotta admit, it’s not looking too good for the doc.”
“You’ve been setting him up? What motive would Ian have to kill those women?” But of course, she had already been over that ground in her own head and found a possible motive. It seemed that Marcus had reached the same conclusion as Claudia.
“Easy one. His poor little daughter’s suicide deranged him and he’s taking it out on the dating club because she was a member.”
He spoke so offhandedly that Claudia had a feeling her time was getting short and she hadn’t come up with a means of escape. “Was it really suicide, Marcus?” she asked, desperate to stretch things out and buy a little more time. “Did Jessica really kill herself?” As she spoke, her brain suddenly shifted into gear. She remembered that her Bluetooth headset was still in her jeans pocket. Her cell phone was in Marcus’, but if she could get to the headset, she could call for help.
“It all works out so well, doesn’t it?” Marcus was saying. “At least, for me. The doc looks good for all of it. The cops will see that.”
“You can’t possibly get away with it, Marcus. Don’t make it any worse than it already is.”
He laughed. “You don’t know me, Claudia. I’m golden. Look how it went at the party last night. Shit, that worked out better than I ever could have imagined. That Nicholson dude looked like a big bird going over the wall. Splat!” A wide grin split his face. “I couldn’t have planned it so well. And the doc was there, too. See how it goes? It all points to him.”
“But what about Grusha and me? You can’t pin us on him, too.”
“Says who? Think about it, Claudia. If the cops think he looks good for Shellee and Heather, you and that gender-bender in the good doc’s examining room aren’t gonna be such a stretch. He’s gonna have a lot tougher time explaining it all away than I will.”
He was either delusional or drug-addled, and it was bad news for Claudia when Marcus straightened. “Okay, enough talk. Get—”
There was movement in the doorway. Claudia looked up, expecting to see Mike and Ace returning early, but it was Ian McAllister who stood framed there, murder in his eyes.
Chapter 33
The hatred that suffused Ian’s face made the crease between his brows even more pronounced. “You killed Jessica? You killed my daughter?” An animal roar of rage and pain tore from his throat as he charged across the room, tackling Marcus, knocking him to the ground.
Claudia pulled her legs up out of the way as he grabbed Marcus’ shoulders and slammed his head against the concrete floor. The impact should have knocked him senseless, but Marcus only grunted and shoved him off. They were matched for size, but Marcus had a slight weight edge.
This was Claudia’s chance to go for the Bluetooth. The plastic ties had bit into her wrists and cut off the blood supply, leaving her hands as useless as dead meat. She twisted her arms, grunting against the pain, and dug her fingers into her pocket, hooked onto the little earpiece and pulled it out. She pressed the button and brought the headset to her ear, her mind racing: tool chest, gym bag, stun gun.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I’ve been kidnapped.” She brought her knees up, scooting on her butt, using the wall to help propel her around to the gym bag. “Please get Detective Perez. Izzy Perez. My name is Claudia Rose, and Grusha Olinetsky is here, too. We’re in an office building under construction on Fifty-fourth near the river. I don’t know the address. Tell him Marcus Bernard is the one.” It all came out in a rush, her voice high-pitched.
“Are you injured, ma’am?”
Claudia could hear the dispatcher typing as she spoke.
“Grusha needs an ambulance. Please, get somebody over here!”
Ian and Marcus were breathing hard, still punching, but beginning to tire. Not like in the movies, when fights lasted several minutes and everyone walked away intact.
Claudia described for the operator what she could remember from the neighborhood, recalling some of the landmarks they’d passed. There were units on the way, the dispatcher assured her; they would have to locate the building.
The dispatcher kept talking and Claudia kept getting close to the tool chest; then she was in reach of the gym bag, awkwardly tugging at the zipper with her bloodless hands. Stuck. Tugged some more. Halfway open.
Both Ian and Marcus were bleeding from the mouth and nose. They were behind her now, struggling. Claudia tensed over the bag, hunching her shoulders, protecting herself. There was the stun gun. Lying on top of a neatly folded sweatshirt, it was the size of an electric razor, with a safety switch on one side, an on-off on the other.
From the corner of her eye, Claudia saw Marcus grab something from the tool box and she tensed, waiting for the blow. But it was Ian who staggered under the impact from the pipe wrench and went down without a sound.
The stun gun was in her hands now, the safety off. Marcus was turning toward her, still holding the wrench, when she reached out and connected with his calf muscle. He let out a loud yell, dropped to the floor. For a couple of seconds he rolled around; then he stopped moving.
Mike had said the weapon wasn’t fully charged. The effects on Claudia had lasted maybe five or six minutes. Pushing herself against the wall to a standing position, she scanned the open tool box for a box cutter or utility knife to cut the plastic bindings. She found nothing sharp, but there was a plastic disposable cigarette lighter.
Thank god the top was designed to open one-handed, making lighting it easy enough. Holding the flame steady against the ties that bound her ankles without setting her jeans on fire was harder. A thin stream of smoke appeared quickly and the welcome odor of melting plastic galvanized her. As the tie softened, Claudia pulled her feet apart. The tie stretched, thinned to a thread, snapped.
Marcus’ legs began to move. She dropped the lighter and gave him another jolt with the stun gun. “You deserve it, you bastard.”
In her ear, the 911 dispatcher was asking what was happening.
“I have to find a knife. Shit, my hands . . . It hurts. . . . Where are the cops?”
“They’re in the area; they’re looking for the building.”
Ian was still unconscious, and Claudia suddenly became aware that Grusha had stopped crying. The hell with getting her hands free. She ran to the doorway at t
he far end of the office space—the room Marcus had referred to as Ian’s examining room. More than thirty feet away from her phone, which was still in Marcus’ pocket, she lost the call and the 911 dispatcher.
Grusha lay on the cold examination table, her wrists cruelly cinched above her head with the same plastic ties they had used on Claudia. The ties had been looped and connected to more ties, then connected to drawer handles on the back of the table. Her ankles were lashed to the metal stirrups, the plastic cutting into her swollen skin. Her clothing lay in a heap on the floor.
Blood oozed and dripped from dozens of cuts on the inside of her thighs, her abdomen, her chest, her face. Her eyes were closed against pasty white skin, her lips blue. Shallow breaths. Shivering.
She’s going into shock.
On the unfinished sink cabinet was the tool Marcus had used to torture her—a bloody scalpel. Another clue he would have planted to point fingers at Ian, Claudia felt sure as she got it between her hands.
The matchmaker’s eyes fluttered open. Her voice was weak. “Help me, Claudia! Get me out of here!”
“I’m going to cut the ties off you; then you can do my hands. You’ll have to hold very still.”
Grusha flinched as Claudia brought the razor-sharp scalpel near, but it made short work of the plastic. She sat up, gasping in pain. “Where is he? Where are those men?”
“We have to get out of here,” Claudia said urgently, rubbing her hands to get the circulation going. Gritting her teeth when it hurt like hell. “The police are coming, but we have to hurry.” Grusha was trembling from head to toe, but she did her best to help Claudia get her into her clothes, despite the blood that rapidly striped her shirt and pants.
Marcus was beginning to stir again. Another hit with the stun gun kept him immobilized, but the electrical charge was running down. Ian was still unconscious and the gash on his forehead looked bad. Claudia was worried about his condition, but there was nothing she could do about it now. They had to get out of the office. If Marcus recovered, or his goons returned, she and Grusha and Ian would all be dead.
