“You got a password?” asked the driver.
“Key in the word Njerku,” he said, and spelled it out.
The grille door gave a shudder as if waking from a deep sleep, then clanked and rattled as it rolled up. As soon as it had risen high enough, the driver eased the car down into the gloom of the basement, tires squealing on the surface as they took the first sharp corner.
After winding around a few bends that led them almost back to the grille again, the driver said, “Where will I park?”
“Over there,” he said, pointing to a slot next to Westrum’s black Cadillac that was huddled in the far corner, Celtics plates clearly visible even from this distance.
The cab turned into the adjacent slot as requested and came to a stop.
“You want me to wait again?”
“Not this time. There’s a button near the exit. Just press that to get out.”
The driver twisted in his seat with his hand out.
Infuriated, he cut a sour look up at him. “How much?”
“Six hundred.” Not even a flinch. The bare-faced audacity of the man.
He flicked the clasps on his briefcase to check the contents, lifted his eyes to the driver, and froze as the amount sank in. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Six hundred is what I have on the meter.”
“You didn’t use the meter.”
“I calculated it in my head. And because I like you, I even gave you a discount.”
The hand was still out. No sign of humor in his face. What was the point in sitting here arguing with this cretin? He dug three hundreds from his pocket and shoved them angrily into the man’s hand.
The driver parted the three notes between his fingers and thumb, counting them, and looked back. “I said six.”
“That’s all I’ve got. Be happy you got that much.”
The greedy asshole gave him a long, bitter stare, then stuffed the crumpled notes into his shirt pocket. “Don’t call me to pick you up.”
“You can be sure I won’t.” Dragging his briefcase along the seat after him, he got out and stood watching, one hand in his coat pocket, briefcase in the other, as the driver swerved the car in a tight circle, missing him by an inch, then floored it back to the grille door. The shriek of the tires cut through the silence and echoed off the concrete walls as he accelerated to the door. Another screech as the car came to an abrupt stop in front of the grille, and a hand came out of the window. He could see the finger stabbing repeatedly at the exit button until the door went up. As soon as the door was high enough, the driver planted his foot on the accelerator, and the car lurched over the grate onto the incline, then shot up the ramp and back out onto the street.
As soon as it was out of sight and the grille was rolling back down, he turned for the elevator with the bitter taste of anger in his mouth. Inevitability pressed down on him like a weight. There were two avenues out of this. Which one he took depended entirely on the fates.
Steeling himself, he pressed the button to the lower basement floor, and waited. Whatever the outcome, by tonight it would be all over. Never would he be swindled by idiots like that driver again. Never would he be manipulated, used like some kind of cheap lackey as he had been over these past months. Never again would he have to answer to this predatory brute he was about to destroy.
He could hardly wait.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
DAY THREE—6:49 PM—ELIZABETH
After directing the driver to a side street, Elizabeth gathered her purse and opened the car door.
“If you can’t find a parking slot, drive around until I come back out. I won’t be long.”
She got out, waited for a couple of cars to pass, then crossed to the hotel, where a sign affixed to the façade advised potential guests there were no vacancies.
“Yeah, sure you don’t,” she muttered as she pushed her way in through the heavy glass front doors and ran a calculating eye over the place. Inside it looked as dreary as it had from the outside—like a four-star hotel in desperate need of a makeover: blue zigzag-patterned carpet, dim overhead lights that shone down on groups of strategically placed brown leather armchairs, shadowed corners in which bouquets of dusty artificial flowers stood on wooden plinths. Overhead, soft music of no specific melody wafted from speakers set in the ceiling; the smell of furniture polish overlaid with a faint whiff of some essential oils, possibly musk, gave the place an even drearier atmosphere.
Apart from the music, the only sound was the click of her heels echoing off the marble floor as she stalked across to the dark wooden reception desk and peered back and forth, searching for an attendant. When no one appeared, she hit the small dome bell set on the side next to a large vase of fresh white lilies and a phone—an old model, Elizabeth noted, with the corkscrew cord from the receiver. As if she’d stepped straight back into the early eighties.
After almost two minutes of her standing there and wondering if the cab driver had brought her to the right place, a girl entered through a door to Elizabeth’s left. The instant she saw Elizabeth, she faltered in surprise and pulled her kimono-style robe tightly in around her. Without speaking, she darted a look out the front window to the street, as if that might offer an explanation as to Elizabeth’s presence.
Still not convinced this was the upmarket brothel and casino it was supposed to be, Elizabeth wondered briefly if the girl was simply a guest who’d inadvertently wandered into the reception area of the hotel, or maybe one of the employees.
She took a cautious step closer to the girl. “Excuse me, I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for—”
But the girl cut her off, saying, “Please wait.” And she quickly retreated back through the door from which she’d come.
“Wait!” Elizabeth called after her, then sighed because she’d already gone.
Feeling like an intruder, she strolled over to a coffee urn sitting on a dated wooden buffet where a visitors’ book lay closed at an angle on the surface. After a quick glance around, she furtively used the nail of her index finger to lift the cover, then peeped inside to find the first two pages blank. With another quick check over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t about to get caught snooping, she lifted the next page. Also blank. It wasn’t until she turned to the final page in the book that she found a column of scribbled names and dates listed from top to bottom. Twisting the book towards her, she leaned over, eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher the squiggled words. Nothing she recognized. Only the dates, the last two of which were today’s. So she started with the most recent and went from one to the next, searching for Laney’s name.
So engrossed was she that when a man’s voice behind her said, “Madam, what can I do for you?” she visibly jumped and spun around guiltily, to find a heavyset man watching her.
His thick black hair, dark eyes, black-rimmed sunglasses set on top of his head, and the tattoo on his inner wrist that disappeared up under his suit jacket sleeve gave him the look of a villain’s henchman in some B-movie spy thriller.
After scrambling to close the book, she straightened to face him and lifted her chin. But as she did so she heard the book fall, the slap of the cover on the floor. Ignoring it, she said, “Yes, I hope you can.”
He smiled as he approached, bent next to her to retrieve the book. Despite the mild manner, confidence and threat radiated as he brushed past her to replace it on the buffet, then remained next to her, uncomfortably close.
“Then what can I do for you?” A heavy accent. Probably Albanian, although Elizabeth wasn’t entirely sure. Conscious of his proximity, she stepped back, giving herself a little distance.
But when the front door opened again and a second man dressed in the same way as the first entered, Elizabeth recognized that one immediately. He was one of Westrum’s hoods. The one who had met her at the door of the previous place. An involuntary swallow tightened her throat while a shiver of fear ran down her spine.
Realization sent a blinding message: She’d made a mon
umental mistake in coming here.
Now she had to get out.
The second guy said nothing. Just stood between her and door with his hands clasped loosely in front, feet astride, head angled. As if ready for action.
With her exit cut off, a second bolt of adrenaline hit her system.
Keeping her composure and gripping her purse tightly to stop her hands from shaking, she addressed the first guy. “I’m wondering if you can you tell me if a girl had come by here?”
A frown, a slight shake of the head. Face set in fake incomprehension. “A girl?”
“Her name is Elaine Donohue. I thought she might come this way.” When he gave a little shrug of denial, she added, “Then clearly, my information was incorrect.”
The two thugs exchanged a glance that Elizabeth couldn’t read and didn’t particularly want to. By now her heart was pounding in her ears. She could feel the blood thudding in her ears and the skin on her face and hands prickling, fear sitting in the pit of her stomach and Delaney’s warning ringing through her head.
Determined to stay calm, she said, “Then if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll be on my way.”
As she went to move towards the front door, the second guy stepped across into her path.
She flicked a questioning look back at the first guy, heard the rise in her voice. “If you don’t mind, I need to leave.”
Instead of ordering the second thug to step aside, the first one strolled casually towards her. “My apologies, Mrs. McClaine, but my boss has given me orders to take you upstairs.”
A blast of terror burst in her chest. “Tell your boss that I have meetings to attend and that I don’t have time right now. Perhaps we can meet another time. Right now, I’d like to leave, thank you.” Even she could hear the tremor in her voice contradicting the self-assured tone.
This time, the second guy moved in, standing so close behind her she could feel the heat of his body under his shirt. Again, her heart surged and her throat contracted as she took one small step aside. Nothing she could do but go with the pretense, fake the confidence until she figured a way out. Because it wasn’t going to be through the front door.
“If you’d please come this way,” the first guy said, stepping back to gesture through the open doorway behind him.
Elizabeth shot a look at the guy behind her. “I find this very irregular,” she said, then kicked herself for coming up with such an absurd line.
Bristling with indignation and fear, she followed him as he ushered her through the doorway to a hallway to the elevator area. She stopped short, determined not to be led on like a lamb to the slaughter. “Where are you taking me?”
Neither of them replied. She had to talk her way out. She had no idea how.
“This is unacceptable. Tell Mr. Westrum I want to see him. Right now.” It was all bluff. Which clearly didn’t work.
The first guy walked a few more steps and paused in front of a door where he gave a gentle knock.
“Yes?” A man’s voice from inside. Westrum. She knew it before she even saw him. The guy in front of her peered into the room, nodded, and stepped back.
Elizabeth wanted to turn and run.
Still running with the front of indignation, she stepped into the room with her head high. A simple desk, set next to a king-sized bed in what must have once been a hotel suite. Now it served as his office.
She strode across to where he was signing documents with an expensive-looking fountain pen, leaving the two thugs at the door. “Mr. Westrum, what is the meaning of this?”
He swiveled on his leather chair to face her. “Mrs. McClaine, I might ask you the same thing.”
“I’ve already told you what I’m doing here. I came here looking for Elaine Donohue. I believe she may have come to this establishment. Now I find myself detained by your…” She flicked a dismissive hand at them, quelling the urge to say something unflattering. “…employees.”
“My employees have orders to bring potential problems to my attention.”
“And I’m a problem? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Certainly not. However, I have already told you we haven’t seen this girl. Your repeated questioning and your appearance here may change that.”
“I wouldn’t be a problem if you’d let me leave.”
A half-smile. “Ah, but if you leave right now, then I would have a greater problem.” He casually reached over to place the fountain pen to the side of a document on his desk. “And now what am I to do with you?”
“May I remind you that Charles McClaine is my father-in-law.” She let that one sit for a while, watching for a reaction.
The smile widened. “I know who you are, Mrs. McClaine. And as such, you will be my guest for a short while. Take her upstairs,” he told Thug One.
Thug One went to take her arm but she shook him off. “You’re holding me against my will?”
“Please, Mrs. McClaine. I am simply offering you my hospitality until I speak with Charles.” The smile dropped. “Room 409,” he told the guy to her left.
This time, both thugs moved in on each side of her. Not touching her. Just close enough for discomfort. One opened the door and gestured. So she lifted her head and walked out.
***
The Associate
No matter what Westrum eventually did to refurbish the upper levels of the North City Hotel, it was down here in the bowels of the building that the structure showed its age. Down here was the detritus of decades of good times and bad: discarded furniture and building materials, paint pails, and tools. All from a bygone age and left down here to rot.
He followed the path through the labyrinth of dust-covered shelves with the constant hum of boilers and machinery throbbing through the thick concrete walls like a heartbeat, until he came to the recently installed server room.
Shiny and new among the decrepit surroundings, it hummed and blinked with activity. He tried the door and it opened. Hot air wafted out to meet him while inside, lights flashed on and off in red, blue, and green. This was the internal hub of the building. All communications flowed through here. But before he started work here, he had to ensure he could get to the target area.
Exiting the server room, he followed the concrete path past the old wooden reception desk, stacks of battered sofas and furniture, all ripped out during the last renovation and stored down here to collect dust. Shaking his head at the stupidity and waste, he continued on until he came to a set of four concrete steps leading down to a plain wooden door set into the east-facing concrete wall.
A quick glance around to ensure he was alone. Stepping down to the lower stair, he tried the door handle. It creaked under pressure, until he pushed the door open.
Perfect, he thought as he stepped into the gloom. Beside the doorway inside, he felt down the wall until he found the switch and clicked it on.
In here, the air was hot and thick with the smell of damp and mold.
And there, sitting alongside the throbbing machinery of the internal workings of the building, was what he came for.
At a business party some years ago, one of their contractors had told him he could bring down a thirty-story building with a minimum of strategically placed explosives. That had always stayed with him.
At such short notice, there was no way he could get his hands on such explosives. And besides, why would he let anyone else know his plan? After all, that’s how he got into this mess in the first place.
But he had a variation on the same theme. Right here in the basement of the old ’60s hotel Westrum had turned into a high-class brothel was an old gasoline-powered backup generator. He’d seen it on his first visit and questioned the wisdom of storing such large quantities of gasoline on-site.
Westrum had arrogantly brushed off the notion of potential danger, saying that in his country having no generator meant no power for most of the night. And that gasoline in America was so cheap, why would you use anything else?
Just the dismissive way Westrum had
spoken to him still brought bile in the back of his throat. After all their business dealings. After all the lies and subterfuges he’d had to carry out. Just to keep this bastard safe.
If only he could be around to see the look on Westrum’s face when the whole building went up in flames. If only he could say, “Didn’t I tell you that those tanks of gasoline were a bad idea?”
He could just see him hammering his fists at that locked freezer door, knowing that a raging inferno was about to engulf him from the basement up.
By that time, he’d be miles away. And he’d be with Katarina. And all this would be behind him.
First, however, he had one vital task to complete. Because of the specific construction that had gone into the Studio, cellphone communication from up there had been compromised. To overcome the problem, a signal booster had been set inside the room, all connected to and controlled from down here. The last thing he wanted was for Westrum to call for help. One thing he did know was that despite the inferno, one of his loyal thugs would almost certainly rush to his aid.
So, he made his way back to the server room and stepped inside, leaving the door open.
Despite the cool breeze circulating through the room from the AC unit high on the wall, sweat beaded on his forehead and his underarms felt wet. Heat radiated from high racks of computers as he moved between them. Finally, he saw what he’d been aiming for—the main server cabinet with cables sprouting from it and leading up the walls, though holes, and disappearing throughout the building like a network of arteries.
For the briefest moment, he hesitated. Up until now, if he was discovered, perhaps he could have explained his way out. Once he embarked on his plan, however, there was no turning back. This very act would tar him as Westrum’s enemy—something he’d turned his life upside down to avoid.
Until now.
Swallowing hard, he splayed both hands in front of him to find them trembling. Redoubling his resolve, he clenched both fists briefly, then reached for the first cable. Holding his breath, he jerked hard on the cable, felt the release as he yanked it out. The tiny light adjacent turned red, so he moved to the next and yanked it out. Again, the light switched to red so he moved on, wrenching out cables one after the other until loose ends dangled like severed blood vessels.
[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman Page 25
