Talk (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 4)

by Laura Van Wormer

  There were no windows. Anywhere. There was an opening that looked as though it might have been some sort of ventilation vent, but it had been blocked with a steel plate.

  The other door from the bedroom led to a large parlor. Jessica didn't know what else to call it. The overstuffed couch and wing-back chairs looked old and smelled musty. There was an old dining table with two chairs. On every available seat and seat arm there was a lace doily. On the walls were several needlepoint pictures in muted colors. Flowers, birds, a hunting scene. Jessica felt as if she had stumbled into some little old lady's apartment.

  There was a small color TV that was not, she discovered, hooked up to anything but a VCR, and she could not bring in any signal at all manually. There was a radio with a built-in tape deck, but like the TV, the radio could not transmit any stations either.

  On the bookshelves were about a hundred books, most of them classics, in those inexpensive hardcover editions one usually finds at garage sales. In the cabinets below she found at least thirty videotapes and perhaps twenty cassettes. The movies were old—Gone With the Wind, Inherit the Wind, Key Largo—(Geez, this guy's big on the weather) and the cassettes ranged from the relatively new to very old: Hootie and the Blowfish to Mozart, LeAnn Rimes to Gregorian chants. There were also some jigsaw puzzles, a deck of cards and a gadget that claimed Jessica could play bridge by herself.

  Off the parlor was a little room, an alcove really, which had been made into a makeshift exercise room. The walls were old bare plaster, on the floor was a rubber mat, and there was a mechanically operated Stepper machine, some free weights and a jump rope. There was also something that, on closer inspection, Jessica realized was a free-standing sunlamp. What the heck did she need a sunlamp for?

  Unless he was planning to keep her here for a very long time.

  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

  Also off the parlor was a little kitchen where she found a sink, microwave, hot plate and refrigerator with freezer. And there was food—an amazingly accurate replica of the food she kept in her own house, everything from Dannon's fat-free vanilla yogurt to Lay's Low-Fat Barbecue Potato Chips to no-fat hazelnut coffee creamer and green olives.

  There were several packages of frozen vegetables, pieces of chicken and fish and some kind of red meat wrapped individually in plastic wrap. There were potatoes and garlic and onions. There was a water cooler of Poland Spring water. Lots of pasta, olive oil, tomato paste and sun-dried tomatoes, Pillsbury French bread dough. Vitamins. Canned goods.

  And there was a small air vent and fan in the ceiling of the kitchen. She thanked God that, so far, there were no surveillance cameras in this prison.

  There was also a clock on the wall that said two-thirty. The only problem was, Jessica didn't know if it was a.m. or p.m. She guessed p.m., making it over eighteen hours since she had eaten anything. That felt about right because she was starving.

  "When was the last time you heard from Eric?" Alexandra asked Mrs. Wright.

  "Oh, I don't know. It was around the time our shepherd died, Soupy. I remember because Soupy used to bite Eric when he came here. Dog had a heck of a lot more sense than Jessica ever did."

  "And this was around when?" Alexandra asked.

  "Oh, eight years, maybe. How old's Poochie Veroogie, Mal?" she asked her husband, referring to the dog that had been locked in the kitchen and hadn't stopped barking since Alexandra and Will arrived.

  "Eight. Nine—no seven years." Dr. Wright screwed his face up, trying to think. "I don't know. Six."

  "Six years then," Mrs. Wright said. "Because we got Poochie before Soupy died." She watched as Alexandra made a note. "I told Jessica from the very start that Eric was trouble."

  "Yes," Alexandra said without looking up.

  "Once drugs get a hold of somebody like that, nothing's sacred." She lowered her voice. "He'll probably rape her again."

  Will had inhaled sharply. "He's assaulted Jessica in the past?"

  "Oh, yes, and it would be just like him to do it again. Get somebody else with brains to kidnap her and get the ransom money, but in the meantime show her he's the big man. He's utter filth, if you ask me."

  Will seemed unable to respond to this and so Alexandra picked up the ball. "Mrs. Wright," Alexandra said, "I know you and your husband have no enemies."

  "That's right."

  "I was wondering about your son."

  "Mark is extremely successful and is married and has three children. He lives in Greenwich, Connecticut."

  "Yes, I know," Alexandra said. "He's very nice. I've actually met him several times over the years. I saw him last night, as a matter of fact."

  Mrs. Wright's expression changed entirely, a light coming into her eyes. "It was a lovely party, don't you think? I was so surprised at how many nice people were there."

  Alexandra cut her off. "Is it possible your son has any business rivals or enemies of any kind?"

  "You must be joking," the older woman said.

  "What about any strange things happening around here lately?" Alexandra continued. "Can you think of any unusual phone calls? Strangers hanging around? Anything like that?"

  "Not that I know of," Mrs. Wright said. "But we've only just gotten home from our place on Sea Island."

  "Ah. Yes," Alexandra said. "And when was that? When you came home?"

  "Oh, three weeks ago. We came to make sure we'd be here for Jessica's party." She looked at her husband. "That was a good party."

  "Does anyone stay here while you're down at Sea Island?" Alexandra persisted. "Do you have a house sitter?"

  "Yes, we do. My friend Doris's son, Arno. His name's Arnold but they call him Arno for some ridiculous reason and he seems to like it."

  "Do you think I could have Arno's number?" she asked.

  "I'll give it to you as you leave," she said, sounding as though this better be momentarily if Alexandra knew what was good for her.

  "And what about the family in general, Mrs. Wright?" Will said. "Any bad feelings with anyone, any old family feuds, business misdealings?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "Never."

  "No jealous rivals? Being so successful—and so attractive—your whole family is very successful and very attractive, Mrs. Wright—perhaps there have been some jealous people?"

  "Oh, pooh," she said to Will, rising from her chair to terminate the interview. "I know you have to be going and so we won't detain you any longer."

  As Alexandra and Will departed down the front walk, Alexandra glanced back. "Not the most cheerful pair, are they?"

  "It's very hard to imagine Jessica being related to them."

  "I know." They reached the car and Alexandra went around to the passenger side, saying over the roof of the car, "Jessica always says that whatever her parents did or did not do, they tried their best and now it's her job to make the most of her life."

  They got into the car. Will turned the key in the ignition and started the car. He put it in reverse, but then put his foot firmly on the brake and looked at Alexandra. "Is it true what she said? About what Eric did?"

  Alexandra nodded. "It happened before she came to New York."

  "He raped her."

  "He raped her and then he beat her up," Alexandra confirmed.

  Jessica thought she heard something. She got up from where she had been sitting on the sofa in the parlor, listened again, and decided it was coming from the bedroom. She walked back in there, standing in the middle of the room, and listened. Nothing.

  No, there was something. A scratching?

  Oh, God, she wondered, what if there are rats in here?

  There was definitely some sort of scratching sound. And it was coming from the fireplace. She walked over and knelt down. In the floor of the old fireplace, set on a center hinge, was an ash plate, into which, in the old days, Jessica knew, the fireplace ash would have been swept. There would be a chute down to the ce
llar of this house where, behind a steel door, the ashes would collect until someone emptied it. Her parents had such an ash plate in their living-room fireplace in Essex Fells.

  The scratching sound was coming from the ash grate. Ugh. Probably rats. Jessica went into the living room, selected a stack of books and came back to cover over the grate.

  15

  “What about Will?" Cassy asked Agent Kunsa. "Since he's here and Jessica's kidnapped, I assume you've taken him off your list."

  The agent shrugged. "Maybe."

  "Maybe?"

  "You've got to keep an open mind in these investigations."

  "Oh, brother," Cassy groaned, walking out of her office.

  "You never know," Kunsa murmured to himself.

  Jessica resolved to make the best of the situation and ate some yogurt and fruit, showered, washed her hair and dressed in a pair of khakis, a blouse, socks and the cross trainers. She made up the bed, tidied the room and bathroom a bit, went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water from the cooler and look at the clock.

  The first order of the day was not to freak out. The idea that she could not get out of these rooms could and would give her claustrophobia if she let her mind run wild. And dwelling on the idea that she had no way of knowing if it was day or night outside would only give her the heebiejeebies. Fire had also crossed her mind, and despite the presence of a fire extinguisher next to the hot plate, the knowledge she would be trapped in the event of one was extremely discomforting. Plain and simple, she would die in here.

  She pushed that thought out of her mind.

  She had been trying to imagine what kind of dwelling she was in. One thing was for sure, it was a house, a Victorian house, probably a brownstone—maybe a town house. Since the ceilings were eight feet high (instead of the ten or higher in standard Victorian houses) and the windows were semi-gabled, Jessica knew she was on the second floor, possibly the third if it was a town house. The strange thing was, she felt no vibration under her feet whatsoever, which led her to believe that not only was she alone in this house, but that it wasn't on a busy street.

  Which meant, she assumed, that she was not in the city proper. Or any city proper. Or town even.

  The walls of the house were very thick, which she could tell from the depth of the windows. She wondered if she might be in one of those abandoned mansions in the Catskills. Leopold had certainly cleaned the place up, but she had still found some ancient cobwebs in the exercise alcove. That seemed to confirm to her that the house was abandoned, or at least had stood empty for quite some time.

  On the other hand, there had been lots and lots of hot water in the shower and there had been plenty of power in the spray, which was not likely the case in most abandoned houses. Also, the wiring seemed very good, the current stable.

  Except for the scratching in the fireplace grate, she hadn't heard anything. No dog, no Leopold, no telephone or TV or radio. She couldn't hear any birds or cars—she heard nothing but an occasional creak of a floorboard as she walked or the clang of a water pipe in the bathroom after she had used it.

  Where the hell was she? What else did she know? She knew damn well what he wanted from her from his notes. She banished that thought from her mind as well He had shown no sign of that, no sign of wanting to hurt her in any way, either.

  She wondered what was happening outside, where they were looking for her, if they might be close by. She knew the gang at DBS had to be frantic. And Will... How could those nights with Will at Alexandra's seem so long ago? How could she be in this mess? For once in her life she was in deep trouble that she had not brought onto herself.

  She thought about what she could do to send a signal to the outside world. She could somehow blow up the water pipes and cause a flood. (The idea of risking her sanitary comforts while being held captive here, however, made her loathe this idea. And what if the house was in the middle of nowhere?) She could set the place on fire (and burn to death). She could burn something under the exhaust fan in the kitchen and send an SOS, the way Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane had in an episode of "Superman."

  Actually, the latter seemed like the best idea. She could make some good, greasy smoke in the skillet so that if she was caught by her kidnapper, she could claim to have forgotten it on the hot plate. .

  Or, she could start working on the bricks in one of the bedroom windows. The brickwork that seemed most susceptible to excavation was in the window between the bed and the closet. The trouble was working on it without Leopold seeing what she had done. But who knew when he was coming back? And if she covered the window with the long curtains, he wouldn't even see it. She had two serrated steak knives and some stainless-steel silverware to work with. She could use one of the heavy metal bookends from the parlor as a hammer, and chisel away at the mortar, eventually pushing out the bricks and escaping.

  And then there was the locked door in the parlor to consider. Certainly it had to lead somewhere. It didn't rattle, making her wonder if there might not be a sliding bolt on the outside of it. Otherwise the door didn't appear to be anything more challenging than an old cypress door with a brass knob. But then, Leopold's note warned of an electric field.

  Decisions to make. How to play this? She had been kidnapped by a man who had murdered Bea. And if he intended on ever letting Jessica go, why had he let her see him? Shouldn't he have worn a mask or a disguise or something? Or maybe he had been wearing a disguise, the glasses and mustache...

  On the other hand, if he was going to kill her, he wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to make her comfortable. Would he?

  She walked into the parlor. Look at the great lengths he had gone to. The food, the clothes, the bathroom, exercise equipment, books, videos and cassettes. The radio did not work; the TV did not work; there were no magazines or newspapers. So the point was clear, she was to amuse herself without knowing what was going on in the outside world.

  But why? What harm could it do?

  "Okay, what do we have?" Will said.

  "A list of Jessica's old boyfriends," Detective Richard O'Neal of the NYPD offered.

  "Table it," Will said. "This guy's someone from the outside. We've got our working profile—it's someone trained in electricity, someone who is or has worked for Con Edison and has access to the layouts of Manhattan buildings. None of Jessica's exes would know anything about that."

  "Craig thinks it's someone Jessica knows," Alexandra said, referring to Craig Scholer, the crime-beat reporter who had come up from his paper in Washington, D.C. "He's tracking that same list, Detective O'Neal, as we speak."

  "Rich," said the NYPD detective. "Call me Rich."

  "Craig's wrong," Will insisted. "Leopold's someone from the outside. Obsessed with Jessica, yes, but he's not someone at DBS. It's not someone she knows."

  "How can you be so sure?" Agent Debbie Cole asked. "Someone she knows may well have hired that stranger to do the actual kidnapping."

  Alexandra looked to Wendy, who was sitting quietly in the comer. "I think the possibility that someone involved with the kidnapping knows Jessica is quite high," the private detective said.

  Silence.

  Will sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Okay, back to the stalker, then, Leopold. Do you agree that he's kidnapped her?"

  "Who can say for sure?" Wendy asked, shrugging. "Anybody could have left that note for Cassy."

  "Hang on, hang on," Detective O'Neal said. "Let's focus on Leopold for the moment, all right? We've got to start somewhere."

  "I think we need to work on the premise that Leopold has kidnapped her," Agent Cole said.

  "And I think Leopold is a complete stranger to Jessica," Will said.

  "Well, whatever," the detective said, leaning forward over the conference-room table to slide some papers over to Will. "Here's the Con Edison employee lists for the last ten years."

  "Good."

  “And I've got the list of every outside technical worker who has ever worked at West End," Alexandra said, h
eaving another pile of paper onto the table.

  "Great," Will said. "Dr. Kessler can start cross-checking the lists."

  Dr. Irwin Kessler, age seventy-four, was the scientific genius behind the Darenbrook Communications expansion into computer and satellite technology in the early 1980s. He was responsible for the two floors beneath the ground of the West End complex that represented the single largest electronic-information depository in the Northeast. From his organization, the conglomerate orchestrated the printing and distribution of one hundred seventy-six newspapers, twelve magazines, seventeen on-line research companies and united two hundred seven affiliate newsrooms across the U.S. and forty-three in foreign countries to form the DBS News and Information Service.

  A refugee from Germany when Hitler took power, Dr. Kessler's most triumphant moment had been returning to East Berlin to cut the ribbon on the DBS News affiliate there after the Wall fell. He was a great man; his health, unfortunately, was not so great. Too much Rhine wine and Wiener schnitzel, Jessica always scolded the roly-poly little man.

  "Dr. Kessler's taking a nap," Detective O'Neal said. "Cassy said he's got a heart condition and we're not supposed to wake him up."

  "Alexandra?" Will said. Alexandra, looking at the Con Edison lists, glanced up. "I'll start scanning them in a minute."

  "I thought no one else was allowed—" Detective O'Neal began.

  "What Cassy doesn't know won't hurt her," Alexandra said, looking up.

  "You know how to run that star-wars rig?" Agent Cole said, amazed. The agent had toured West End, including the floors of technical equipment.

  "Uh-huh," Alexandra said matter-of-factly, standing up. "Sometimes we need to—well, expedite things." She turned. "By the way, Rich, what was with our mailroom clerk? Cassy said you arrested him, but not for anything connected with this."

  "We busted him for dealing dope."

  "The guy with the one arm? Stevie?" Will frowned. "He's been here from the beginning."