Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington)

by Woods, Stuart

  Harry rolled his chair sideways, following the motions of the pistol from behind the desk.

  “Good. Please tape your feet to the bottom of your chair.”

  Harry did so, but not too tightly.

  “Good. Now, please tape your right hand to the arm of the chair.”

  Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do that would not get him shot, so he did so.

  The man got up, walked over to Harry, and placed the silencer to his head. “Now grip the arm of the chair with your left hand.”

  Harry did so, and the man tore off a piece of the tape with his other hand and his teeth, then taped Harry’s left hand to the chair.

  “Now,” the man said. He took a bundle of money from his case and placed it on the desk. “There is twenty thousand dollars,” he said. “I wish some information.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask?” Harry said.

  “Because I feared you would not tell me what I want to know. But now I will give you twenty thousand dollars to tell me where to find Mr. William Burnett.” The man set his pistol on the desk, reached into an inside pocket, and came up with a straight razor. He unfolded it. “And if you do not tell me everything I want to know, I will cut your throat. But not before I have caused you quite a lot of pain.”

  Harry’s insides turned to water, and he reasoned quickly. He might tell the man everything and earn the money, or he might tell him everything and still get his throat cut. It wasn’t much of a choice. “I’ll tell you what I know,” he said.

  The man folded the razor and set it on the desk beside the gun. “Please continue.”

  “There’s a pad and pencil on the desk, if you want to write this down,” Harry said.

  “That will not be necessary. I have an excellent memory. Now, please, I am becoming bored.”

  Harry recited the address in Santa Monica. “Mr. Burnett lives in that building in the penthouse—the top floor.”

  “With Charmaine?”

  “Yes, with Charmaine.”

  “And what security precautions has Mr. Burnett taken?”

  “I know of none. I have not visited the apartment. I found Charmaine shopping in Beverly Hills and followed her home. Later I saw the two of them leave the building. I bribed the superintendent to tell me which apartment they occupied.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “They are married. I found a record of their marriage at the Los Angeles County Clerk’s Office.”

  “Ah, I did not think to look there. You are a good skip tracer. Does Peter Barrington visit Mr. Burnett at his apartment?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that name.”

  The man picked up the razor and opened it.

  “Truly I do not know this Barrington. Who is he?”

  “A producer of movies.”

  “I know nothing of him and Burnett.”

  The man considered that. “Anything else? Last chance.”

  “Ask me anything you like. That is what I discovered in my investigation. I never spoke to Burnett, I just reported my findings to Pete Genaro at the casino.”

  “Please give me a complete physical description of Mr. Burnett and Charmaine.”

  “Charmaine is about thirty-five, five feet, seven inches tall, busty, but with an otherwise trim figure. She had blonde hair when I knew her, but since moving to Santa Monica she has dyed it a dark brown, blue eyes, very pretty.”

  “And Mr. Burnett?”

  “Mr. Burnett is difficult to describe because he is so ordinary-looking. He is between forty-five and fifty-five, about five-eleven, maybe six feet, maybe a hundred and sixty or seventy, fit-looking for his age. He was wearing a hat when I saw him, but I think his hair is dark, but graying. He was wearing sunglasses when I saw him.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Katz, so I will give you your life.” He walked over, the razor still in his hand.

  Harry winced as the man went through his pockets, relieving him of his pistol and cell phone.

  The man pocketed the cell phone and tossed the pistol into the next room. He tore off another piece of the tape and wrapped it securely around Harry’s head, covering his mouth completely, then he reinforced the bindings of his hands and feet. Finally, he unscrewed the silencer and put it and the pistol into his case and pocketed the razor. “There is your money,” he said. “Does a person come to clean your office at night?” he asked.

  Harry nodded.

  “What time?”

  Harry shrugged.

  The man found a sheet of paper and a marking pencil in a drawer and wrote DO NOT DISTURB on it. “I will place this on your outer door,” he said. “If you tell Mr. Burnett or Mr. Genaro of our conversation, I will come back and kill you slowly and painfully. Do you understand?”

  Harry nodded.

  The man reached over, lifted Harry’s glass of whiskey, sniffed it, then poured it slowly down his throat. Then he picked up his suitcase and, with the note in his other hand, left the office.

  Harry started to sweat at the thought of what he had avoided. He tried moving his hands and feet, to no avail. He was securely attached to the chair, and he needed badly to urinate. He would have to wait for the cleaning lady, and he didn’t know what time she came, or if she would ignore the sign on the door. After that, he would decide whether to call Charmaine.

  Harry held it together for nearly an hour, before he peed in his pants. Then he began to cry, softly.

  When he was back on I-15, driving toward Los Angeles, Vlad telephoned Majorov.

  “Yes, Vlad?”

  “I have spoken with Mr. Katz and he has very kindly given me the address of Mr. Burnett.”

  Majorov was suspicious. “He did?” he asked incredulously.

  “He was not forthcoming at first, but after the sight of the money and a brief chat, he told me everything he knows. Believe me, everything.”

  “And where is Burnett?”

  “Living in an apartment building in Santa Monica.” Vlad gave him the address. “In the penthouse apartment, no less. I am on my way there now.”

  “Good. Report to me after your visit, and may it be successful.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear,” Vlad replied, then hung up. Using the GPS unit supplied with his rental car, Vlad had no difficulty finding the apartment building. It was now just past eleven PM. He parked his rental car on the street, went to the trunk, opened his case, and removed what he needed, secreting the implements on his person. He noted the building’s garage, but did not enter it. He did not know, after all, what kind of car Burnett drove.

  He walked into the building’s lobby, which was deserted, and examined the elevator buttons; there were eight of them, plus one marked PH. He pressed that button and got on an elevator, which rose quickly, then he stepped out of the car into a hallway. The elevator door closed silently behind him.

  He examined the edges of the penthouse apartment’s double door: no light escaped from the apartment. He removed the silenced pistol from its holster, then rang the bell. He waited a minute, put an ear to the door, heard nothing, then rang it again. There was no response.

  Vlad knelt by the doorknob and examined the lock. Very ordinary; no problem. He took a small leather case from an inside pocket, selected a pair of lock picks, and went to work. In under a minute the lock turned. Vlad stood up, put away his tools, and, holding his pistol in one hand and a small flashlight in the other, slipped inside and closed the door gently behind him.

  He stood in the dark for a minute or so, listening for any sign of life: a television set, someone breathing or turning over in bed, a toilet flushing. Dead quiet. There was enough light from outside filtering in so he didn’t need the flashlight. First, he found the bedroom, its door wide open; no one there. He checked the living room and the kitchen: no one.

  Then he turned on the flashlight and went to work. A few clothes, not many, both male and female, in the closets. Not much in the bathroom, either. He searched for a computer, but did not find one; there was no liq
uor in the bar. The refrigerator held milk, orange juice, and not much else. Very unsatisfying. Had his quarry moved? He went into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and urinated, then flushed. It had been a long drive.

  He let himself out of the apartment, rode down to the lobby, left the building, and got into his car. He was not going to wait there all night.

  As he turned the corner, two people came out of the restaurant across the street from the building, but Vlad did not see them.

  • • •

  Teddy and Betsy crossed the street, entered the building, and rode up to the penthouse. “That was the best dinner Michael’s has given us yet,” Betsy said. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Not too much to be stuffed again,” Teddy said, leering a little.

  “We’ll see.”

  Teddy let them into the apartment and switched on the living room light, while Betsy went into the bedroom.

  Teddy opened the sliding door to the terrace to let in the cool night air, then he heard a shriek from the bathroom and ran toward it. Betsy was struggling to her feet, her panties around her ankles.

  “What’s wrong?” Teddy asked.

  “You left the toilet seat up again, and I fell in,” she said crossly.

  “I didn’t do that,” he protested. “At least, I don’t remember doing it.”

  “You’re the only one who lives here who lifts the seat to pee,” she said, lowering the seat and sitting down.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I guess it was just automatic.”

  “You have to break yourself of that habit, Billy, there’s a woman living here now.”

  “I promise, I’ll break the habit.”

  They went to bed, but there was no sex that night.

  • • •

  Majorov was sill up, watching TV, when Vlad returned to the suite at the Bel-Air. “Is the work done?” he asked.

  “No. I got into the apartment, but there was no one there, just some clothes and things.”

  “Why didn’t you wait?”

  “Because I’ve been traveling all day, and I’m tired,” Vlad said, with the air of a man who didn’t want to be questioned. “I’ll call on them again tomorrow.”

  “See that you do.”

  “Yuri,” Vlad said irritably, “don’t annoy me again, otherwise you’ll have to do this job yourself. Now I am going to bed.”

  And he did, while Majorov smoldered.

  Teddy got up early and shaved and showered, while Betsy slept on. He got dressed, and by that time she was showing signs of life. He leaned over and kissed her awake.

  She glanced at the clock. “Why so early?”

  “It’s my first day on a movie set,” Teddy said. “They start early. What’s your plan for the day?”

  “I’m going to take a few more things to the hangar,” she said, “and buy some better towels for the apartment there.”

  “See you later, then.” Teddy took the elevator down to the garage, got into the Speedster, and drove to the studio. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t bring it into his frontal lobe; it just festered, somewhere in his brain.

  • • •

  Vlad woke early, as usual, and planned his day. First, he would visit Mr. and Mrs. Burnett and complete his business with them, then he would drive to Universal City and take the studio tour. He had already looked it up on the Internet and reserved a ticket.

  Majorov was breakfasting in the Bel-Air’s outdoor restaurant, and Vlad ignored him as he passed. He ordered his rental car from the valet, got into it, and drove toward Sunset. It was only after he had turned onto the boulevard that he realized his error: rush hour. It took twenty minutes just to get on the freeway, which had pretty much become a parking lot.

  • • •

  Teddy was very impressed with what he found on the soundstage: Peter’s production designer had constructed a Century City apartment inside the huge space, and as he walked around it, he wished he lived there. It was complete in every way, down to the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.

  A loud buzzer went off, and an amplified voice announced, “All quiet on the set. Cell phones off.” Teddy switched off his phone. A red light over the entrance to the stage went on, signifying that they were now sealed inside the huge space.

  Then Teddy’s frontal lobe lit up, and he knew what had bothered him: the toilet seat. He had a clear memory of visiting the bathroom before they left the apartment for dinner, and of closing the seat, reminding himself that he no longer lived alone. Another man had been in their penthouse.

  He stepped into a corner and switched his cell phone on again, waiting impatiently for it to boot up. He pressed the favorites button and selected Betsy’s number, pressing it to his ear and waiting for her to pick up. Nothing happened. He looked at the screen and found a “call failed” message. He tried again, to no avail. The studio, in spite of the earlier announcement, was jamming cell calls from the soundstage, just in case.

  • • •

  Betsy struggled out of bed and into the shower. She shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine after dinner, she now realized. Coffee would fix her, though. Then, as she got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself, she heard the doorbell. At least, she thought it was the doorbell; it had never rung before.

  She padded to the front door in her bare feet and peered through the peephole. A man stood outside, his back to the door; he was dressed in a black suit and a black fedora. Then he turned toward the door and rang the bell again. There was a gun in his hand.

  Oh, shit, she thought. As silently as she could, she slipped the security chain into its receptacle, then ran for the bedroom. She struggled into some clothes and looked for her handbag. Where the hell was it? She had her driver’s license and passport and car keys in the bag, and she couldn’t leave it here.

  • • •

  Vlad knelt and began using his lock picks.

  • • •

  Inside, Betsy heard the lock being tampered with. She looked around, panicked, and saw her handbag on the living room coffee table. She grabbed a pair of shoes, not bothering to put them on, ran into the living room, and snatched her handbag from the coffee table, knocking over a martini glass left there from the cocktail hour the evening before, and smashing it.

  • • •

  Outside, Vlad heard the glass break and put his ear to the door.

  • • •

  Betsy took the longest leap she could, trying to clear the broken glass, and failed. A sharp stab flashed through her foot and up her leg, but she ran anyway, ignoring the pain, past the front door and toward the kitchen and the service elevator. She pressed the button and waited, fidgeting with anxiety. The overhead light was on B. That meant the super could be holding the elevator in the basement. She thought about the stairs, but, remembering her foot, now bleeding copiously, she continued to watch the light. It began to move up. Please, she thought, no stops! As the elevator neared the penthouse, she heard the front door unlatch and open, then she heard a banging noise and what sounded like the screws of the chain lock tearing out of the doorjamb.

  • • •

  Vlad stepped inside and saw the broken glass on the floor next to the coffee table and, running away from it, a trail of blood leading toward the kitchen. He racked the silenced pistol and moved in that direction.

  • • •

  The elevator door finally opened, and Betsy pushed the G button. Seconds elapsed, and the door began to close. Through the remaining six inches of closure, she saw the little man enter the kitchen and turn toward her, raising his gun.

  She flattened herself against the elevator wall, and as it began to move, a small hole appeared in the door.

  • • •

  Vlad swore to himself. He watched the elevator light as it moved downward. Should he wait for it to return, or use the main elevator or the fire stairs? He opted for the main elevator, hoping the car would still be waiting.

  • • •

  Betsy struggled into
her shoes as the service elevator descended, then began looking through her handbag for something. As the elevator door opened in the garage, she found a pack of tissues and crammed it into the elevator door, hoping that would prevent its closing, then she ran for her car, keys at the ready.

  • • •

  The main elevator was still at the penthouse level, and Vlad pressed the G button, gambling that there was a car involved in the woman’s escape plan. The elevator started down.

  Betsy got the car started and backed hurriedly out of her parking space, narrowly missing a concrete column in the process. She got the thing into gear and drove as quickly as she could through the garage and up to the street, turning toward the boulevard.

  • • •

  Vlad ran out of the elevator and began searching the garage for the woman. She couldn’t have gotten away this quickly; she must be in her car, somewhere in this space.

  • • •

  Peter Barrington yelled, “Cut,” and the red light over the soundstage door went out. Teddy ran outside, got a signal on his phone, and tried Betsy again.

  • • •

  As she turned onto Bundy, toward the airport, Betsy heard her phone ringing in her handbag. She managed to get it out without wrecking the car. “Billy?”

  “Get out of the apartment now,” Teddy said. “Don’t take anything, just get out.”

  “I am out,” Betsy said.

  “The toilet seat was left up by someone else.”

  “That evil little man got into the apartment,” she said. “I barely made it to the service elevator.”

  “Is anyone following you?”

  “I don’t believe so. I think I made it out of the garage before he could get downstairs.”

  “Make a few turns, and watch your rearview mirror. If he’s following you, he’ll be a couple of cars back. If you spot him, find a policeman. If you don’t, continue to the airport, and call me the minute you get inside the hangar. I’m on my way.”

  • • •

  Vlad got to his car and started it, but he didn’t know what she was driving. He searched the boulevard for a woman driving erratically, but saw nothing.

  • • •

  Betsy pulled into the hangar, and called Teddy.