by Nancy Martin
The elevator was large and had been designed to mimic a freight elevator in an industrial building. The walls were padded with heavy matting used to cushion cargo. Huge iron rings, also a design choice by a decorator going whole hog with a theme, had been bolted into the corners. I swiped the card again, punched a button. The elevator obeyed.
“Sometimes,” I murmured, “it’s nice to know criminals.”
Once on the top floor, the elevator doors opened and I tucked the access card into my pocket for safekeeping. Then we stepped into Brinker Holt’s loft.
“Wow,” said Rawlins.
The huge empty space stretched before us, gleaming bare wooden floors leading to the exposed brick walls. Giant windows overlooked the seaport. A huge Brinker Bra poster leaned against the wall opposite the elevator, the only art in the place. Brinker’s giant face glowered at us.
Tentatively, I called, “Hello? Anybody home?”
No answer. Orlando sighed heavily. My heartbeat slowed closer to normal.
Rawlins set down his skateboard and wandered into the apartment. Orlando and I followed uneasily.
Brinker had come into a lot of money recently, thanks to his fire insurance, of course, and he’d obviously spent it on electronic equipment, not interior comforts. The biggest television I had ever seen in a private home had been mounted on one wall with a spaghetti tangle of wires hanging down to the floor. Rawlins looked for an “on” switch.
The rest of the furniture amounted to a single black leather sofa and a single floor lamp—a long, arching metal arm with a dish-shaped lamp on the end. No rugs, no art on the walls, no throw pillows for color.
The windows were undraped. I found myself drawn to the magnificent views. To the north I could see the piers. To the west stood the tower of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell Pavilion, and I even glimpsed the trees at Washington Square.
But Brinker appeared to be more focused on the view provided by his enormous television. I walked across the wooden floor, my heels making sharp sounds in the empty space. Orlando followed me closely, his shoes scuffling.
In the kitchen—a space separated from the rest of the loft only by a long marble-topped counter—I made a grim discovery beside the Sub-Zero fridge—a pile of Styrofoam containers that came from a local gourmet diet food delivery service that promised, “Great taste and lose the weight!” The smell of spoiled salad dressing hung in the air.
On the kitchen counter beside the deep-bowled double sinks and heavy brass faucet someone had left a gift basket of flavored olive oils. I looked for a card, but it had been thrown away. Alongside the gift basket stood a cardboard carton emblazoned with the Brinker Bra logo. The box had been opened. It was full of Brinker Bras.
Around the corner from the kitchen lay an unmade bed with red satin sheets. A camera tripod stood beside the bed. I blanched at the sight of it, guessing what Brinker might have recorded there.
Orlando came in behind me and said nothing.
Across from the bed was a whole wall of small televisions. I caught my breath as I saw they were all turned on, no sound. I could see my own live image on two of the screens, two different camera angles.
The other screens showed various views of the apartment. I could see Rawlins on two more screens, and Orlando on another. I glanced around and spotted two cameras mounted high on the walls and constantly recording. Under the window on the floor stood a line of enough VCR machines to keep CNN in business.
I went over to the machines. Turn them off? Take the tapes?
Then I noticed the mountainous stacks of videotapes that leaned against the wall. Hundreds of tapes. Maybe thousands. I bent closer to look.
Here, Brinker had been more meticulous. Two large stacks of action-adventure movies were organized alphabetically. Several more stacks of Brinker’s own work were stacked alongside. Each tape had been marked with names, carefully printed in the same hand.
“What did you find?” Orlando asked.
“The jackpot, thank heaven. You can help, Orlando. Do you see these labels?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re marked with names. Look for ‘Danny’ or ‘Emma,’ okay?”
“Okay.”
We knelt down to sort through the stacks. Spike hopped out of my bag, and I got to work. On the top of the third pile Orlando read Danny, and pulled it out with excitement. There was no time to view it, so I jammed the tape into my bag. Orlando went back to searching, and I returned to my stack. The next tape was marked Sabria.
Sabria Chatterjee?
And three more “Sabria” tapes lay beneath that one. I pulled them out and put them on the floor.
Rawlins came around the bed. “We’d better hurry up,” he said, sounding spooked by the empty apartment.
“Look for the fire stairs,” I said to him. “They’re probably behind the kitchen.”
Rawlins nodded and left.
As fast as I could manage, I sorted through all six stacks of tapes looking for names I recognized. Buried in one of the last piles was Fawn.
The tape surely featured Fawn Finehart, budding super-model.
Suddenly the telephone jangled in the silent space, punching a yelp from Orlando. Spike barked.
On the second ring, I said, “Calm down, guys. We’ll just let it ring. Let’s get moving.”
The phone continued to jangle. I got to my feet and so did Orlando. The pile of tapes had grown too large to fit into my handbag. The three of us gathered up all the tapes I had collected.
“Hey,” Rawlins called. “You’d better get the tapes out of these machines. They’ll give us away.”
“You’re right.”
As we hunkered down to figure out how to stop the recording, Brinker’s answering machine clicked on. It was eerie to hear his voice say curtly, “You got me. Leave a message.”
The answering machine beeped, and another louder, more urgent voice suddenly burst into the apartment.
“Hey,” Libby shouted. “It’s me! Get out of there! He’s coming! He’s coming right now!”
Orlando swung around to me, his mouth popping open. Rawlins turned paper white. No time to steal the tapes presently humming in the VCRs. Libby’s hysterical voice continued to shriek at us from the answering machine.
“What do we do?” Orlando cried.
“Come on!”
I ran to the elevator and punched the call button. Too late, I realized it was already on its way. With Brinker in it.
“We gotta hide,” Rawlins said, already backpedaling toward the bedroom area. “We gotta hide now!”
“Find the stairs, Rawlins! There have to be fire stairs!”
Rawlins ran out of the room.
Orlando turned and ran in the opposite direction. He dove into a narrow space beside the refrigerator among the discarded food boxes. Spike scrabbled after him.
With my arms full of videotapes, I glanced around for the stairs. While the boys found an escape route, I needed a place to hide. But in that big, empty loft, there was nowhere to go.
The elevator opened.
From inside, Sabria Chatterjee stared at me without moving. Beside her stood Hemorrhoid.
Behind me, Libby’s voice cried, “Oh, God, I hope I called the right number!”
Finally, Hemorrhoid said, “What’s she doing here?”
Sabria just looked stunned.
“Hi,” I said.
Hemorrhoid held a sleek leather briefcase in one hand, and he fastidiously balanced a cake box on the upturned palm of his other. He wore a slick suit, a festive tie and a cashmere scarf thrown with careful precision around his neck. Sabria was weighed down with plastic bags that bulged with groceries.
“She has Brinker’s tapes,” Sabria said.
Incredibly slow on the uptake, Hemorrhoid said, “I don’t get it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage. “But I don’t have time to explain. I’m having guests tonight, so I’ve got to run. It looks as though you’re having
a party, too. I’m sure you understand if I dash.”
Sabria reacted first. She dropped her bags in the elevator and stepped off, the soft flutter of her sari disguising her purposeful stride. She stopped me with one hand flat against my chest. With her other hand, she grabbed the top tape in my pile. She read her own name on the label. Her dark gaze rose to meet mine and narrowed.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, low-voiced.
“Sabria, I know what they did to you.”
She dropped her hand as if my body had burned her. “What are you talking about?”
Hemorrhoid finally caught on and came out of the elevator, balancing the cake box and looking as ridiculous as a singing waiter at a Mexican restaurant. “Did you break in here? Are you stealing stuff?”
“She has videotapes,” Sabria said. “We have to stop her.”
“Why?” asked Hemorrhoid, eyeing my jeans and leather jacket with the air of a man offended by my unsuitable wardrobe. “Why are you stealing Brinker’s videotapes?”
“She can’t leave,” Sabria said. “We have to do something.”
“Like what?”
“She’s going to the police.”
That newsflash galvanized Hemorrhoid. “Oh, my God.”
“We have to tie her up. Go get Brinker’s cord.” When Hemorrhoid didn’t react, Sabria pushed his shoulder and yelled, “Go get some cord!”
Hemorrhoid flinched and turned toward the kitchen. But his right foot came down on the skateboard Rawlins had left on the floor. The skateboard shot out from under him, and Hemorrhoid went down like a stone, cake box and all. The box hit his lap and burst open. The frosting flew upward and splattered all over Hemorrhoid’s suit. He looked down at himself and shrieked.
At that instant, Spike came tearing out from behind the kitchen counter and made a furious beeline for Hemorrhoid. Maybe it was the smell of fresh cake. Or maybe it was the smell of fear that launched Spike directly at Hemorrhoid’s throat. Hemorrhoid threw up his arm to save himself, and Spike sank his teeth deeply into his sleeve—penetrating clothing to soft flesh. Hemorrhoid screamed even louder than before.
Sabria cursed. As Hemorrhoid scuttled crablike in our direction, she stepped forward and kicked Spike in the head, stunning him. I cried out and bent to grab Spike with one hand, spilling half the videotapes onto the floor. I slipped in the smeared frosting and nearly fell.
Sabria grabbed Hemorrhoid by his lapels and jerked him to his feet.
“Oh, my God,” he cried. “My suit is ruined!”
“Shut up,” Sabria snapped. “Shut up and give me your tie!”
“Why my tie?”
“I need to tie her up. Get it off!”
“This is Hermès!”
“I don’t care. Get it off!”
Sabria wrestled the tie off Hemorrhoid’s neck.
While they grappled, I made a dash for the open elevator. With Spike in one arm and half the videotapes in the other, I jumped in and punched the button. I had to give the boys enough time to escape. Snatching the tie free at last, Sabria jumped on the elevator behind me. With a field-hockey body slam, she pinned me against the rear wall. The rest of the videotapes exploded from my grip and scattered on the floor at my feet. Sabria was shorter than me, and used her lower center of gravity to hold me fast. I fought her, and if I hadn’t been worried about Spike, I could have shoved her off. But the puppy was limp against my chest.
To Hemorrhoid, Sabria shouted, “Get in here! I need your help! Tie her wrists to the rings.”
“I can’t! There’s a rat in there! It bit me!”
“It’s a dog, you idiot. Hurry up. I need you.”
I struggled against her hold, and Hemorrhoid finally saw that Sabria couldn’t overpower me alone. With whining curses, he got onto the elevator with us.
As the two of them closed in on me, the elevator doors began to close. Backed against the rear wall of the elevator, I saw Orlando’s head pop up from behind the kitchen counter. He looked terrified. As the doors came together, I shouted, “Find the stairs! Get out of there!”
The elevator started down.
“Shut up,” Sabria hissed. “Hold still.”
“Don’t,” I said, trying to push out of her capture. “You don’t need to tie me.”
The three of us struggled, panting and pushing as the elevator dropped floor by floor. Despite the slime of cake frosting, Hemorrhoid managed to pin my wrist against the padding of the elevator wall. Gasping from exertion, Sabria wrapped the tie once around my arm. While they concentrated, I finally worked one leg loose, and with all my strength I slammed my knee upward. Hemorrhoid gasped, and his eyes rolled up in his head. He dropped to my feet.
“Get up, get up,” Sabria shouted at him. “Quit being such a priss!”
“Sabria,” I gasped. “I’m not the enemy here. They’re using you, don’t you see?”
“You don’t know anything,” she said, breathing hard in my face. “I got the Brinker account, and I’m going to keep it. Clientec’s going to make me a vice president. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Even let them hurt you? It was you screaming in this very elevator a few nights ago, wasn’t it?”
“I can stand it,” she snapped.
“They’re just using you to entertain themselves.”
“I get what I want in the end. You’re a silly woman,” she said. “Your clothes, your sisters—you know nothing about what’s important. All that social shit. It ruins careers.”
Everything made sense at once. “It was you, wasn’t it? You wanted Kitty dead!”
“She was going to spoil everything,” Sabria panted.
The elevator bottomed out at last and I braced to make my last stand. All I needed to do was keep her fighting until Orlando and Rawlins got out safely.
The doors opened.
And Brinker stood there, waiting to get on.
In one hand he carried a bottle of vodka decorated with Christmas ribbon. In the other hand was his camera.
“Well,” he said, startled but not stunned by the tableau we made. “Who invited you to my party?”
I couldn’t wipe the terror off my face in time. And Brinker saw it.
He smiled and raised the camera to his eye. He flicked the “record” button, then stepped over Hemorrhoid and onto the elevator.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you want us to tie you?”
“Let me go,” I said, summoning a stern voice.
Brinker dropped the vodka into Hemorrhoid’s lap. He whimpered as it landed. To Sabria, Brinker said, “Hold her.”
I dropped Spike’s boneless body to the floor and fought them with all my strength. I struggled and kicked, trying to claw Brinker’s face behind the camera. But Sabria was faster than I expected, and Brinker stronger. Locked together, we plunged against the back wall of the elevator, slamming into the padding. I tried to stomp Brinker’s foot with my heel, but he evaded that and slapped me.
The elevator door closed as we struggled. While Hemorrhoid moaned beneath us, Sabria wrapped three loops of Hermès around my wrist and yanked. I cried out as the pain shot up my arm. Brinker laughed, watching the action through his lens as Sabria slammed me again. She threaded the tie through one of the rings set into the elevator wall, then, breath coming hard, crushed me tight with her shoulder.
The elevator began to rise. It was headed back to the boys upstairs.
“Don’t,” I heard myself say, though I tried to bite off the word. “Please.”
Sabria hauled on the tie until my right arm slapped high on the elevator wall. For an instant, I thought she’d dislocated my shoulder. Immediately she began to knot the restraint. Brinker crushed the whole left side of my body against the elevator wall. With my right arm tied, I was trapped.
“Take it easy,” Brinker said, still filming. “You’re going to like this.”
On the floor, Hemorrhoid was still curled in a fetal position. I heard Spike start to pant.
I gasp
ed. “Let me go before you get yourselves into worse trouble.”
“Fat chance.” Brinker reached out with his free hand and pinched my nipple so hard I cried out. “See? Aren’t we going to have a good time?”
I tried to choke down a second cry of pain.
“You like it rough.” He rested his thumb against the bruise on my face. “Don’t you?”
I twisted my face away from his fingers. “You’re sick.”
“Tell me how sick,” he coaxed. “How sick do you want me to be?”
“You pushed her to do it, Brinker. Maybe you didn’t hire Kitty’s killer yourself, but you did everything to make Sabria your puppet. You coerced her.”
“And she loved every minute. Same as you. I’m just sorry we didn’t get to see the bitch die. That would have been the film to watch.”
Suddenly Hemorrhoid screamed. Spike had come back to life and latched his jaws around Hemorrhoid’s nose, snarling wildly. Hemorrhoid curled into a tighter ball, batting at my dog.
At that moment the elevator doors parted on Brinker’s floor. Hemorrhoid tried to escape Spike by crawling halfway out of the elevator. But he made it only partway and lay there, fighting off the dog and blocking the elevator doors open.
Brinker cursed and tried to kick Hemorrhoid out of the way. Then he stepped over Hem’s body and onto the hardwood floor.
Instantly, a horrific explosion of gunfire ripped through the loft, accompanied by high-spirited orchestral music and Mel Gibson’s voice yelling, “Get down, get down!”
“What the hell?”
Brinker’s foot hit a lake of olive oil on the floor, and he executed a desperate pirouette before crashing flat-out on his stomach. His camera skittered on the floor. In the next instant, Rawlins popped up from behind the kitchen counter and began throwing the remains of Hemorrhoid’s cake directly into Brinker’s face. Handful after handful, he pelted Brinker, keeping him pinned to the floor like a soldier without a foxhole. The terrifying sound of gunfire erupted from the television again, volume on the highest, earsplitting setting.
A heartbeat later, Orlando leaped into the elevator, headed straight for Sabria. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he held aloft the wriggling body of a life-sized snake.
