“Yeah?” Dino – sleepy, exhausted.
“Dino, it’s Stone, hang on.” He ran back to the front door. “What address are you taking me to?” he asked the chauffeur.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said, with what seemed to be an Italian accent, “I can’t tell you; it’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not supposed to wait either; I’ve got a schedule to keep. If you can’t come now, I’ll have to leave.”
“I’ll be right with you,” Stone said and ran for the phone again. “Dino.”
“Huh?”
“Listen to me now. I need your help.”
“You listen to me, Stone. I’ve hardly had any sleep for the past three nights, you know? Now, I’m going back to bed; you call me tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow may be too late, Dino. Sasha has invited me to a dinner party.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Dino moaned, “will you ever let go of that? I told you I don’t want to hear about it again.”
“I’ve got some new stuff on Van Fleet, Dino, and he may be mixed up in this thing tonight.”
“I told you, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Dino, I need some backup. I don’t even know where I’m going.”
“I suggest you call nine-one-one when you get there, Stone. I’ll call you when I’m coherent. In the meantime, fuck off!” He slammed down the telephone.
Stone ran back to the front door to see the chauffeur heading for the car. “Wait!” he called out, locking the door behind him. The chauffeur came wearily around the car and opened a door for him.
The limo was an old one, sixties vintage, but well cared for. The upholstery was well-worn velour, and black velvet curtains were drawn over the side and rear windows. “Come on,” he said to the driver, “where are we going?”
“Sorry, sir,” the driver said cheerfully and raised the glass partition between his compartment and the rear seat.
Stone found himself looking into a mirror. He picked at the side curtain; it was sewn or glued down. He immediately felt that he had walked into a nineteen-forties B movie. Bela Lugosi would be waiting for him at his destination. He decided to sit back and enjoy the experience. For a few minutes, he tried counting the left and right turns and estimating his position, but he became disoriented. The car seemed not to stay long on any street, not taking any avenue up or downtown, as far as he could tell. He found a light and glanced at his watch from time to time. They had left his house at eight thirty-two.
At exactly nine o’clock, the car stopped, and Stone could hear a garage door being raised. He was being taken indoors without getting out of the car first, and he didn’t like it. He tore at the side curtain, but by the time it came loose he could hear the garage door winding down again.
The chauffeur opened the left-hand door for him, and, as he got out of the car, Stone saw another door leading off the garage. The chauffeur opened that one for him too, then quickly closed it behind him.
Stone looked around. He was in a nicely decorated vestibule with one other door, probably leading to the street. He tried that door and the one behind him; he was locked in. There was nowhere to go but up. An open elevator awaited him, and there was only one button. He pressed it, and the elevator rose slowly, creaking, reminding him of the one in his own house. Old. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.
Stone stepped out of the car into another vestibule, much like the one downstairs. There was an elegant, gilded mirror and a vase containing a large flower arrangement resting on an antique table. A hallway led away from the vestibule, and from that direction he could hear a murmur of conversation and the tinkle of silver against china. They had apparently started without him. A woman’s laugh rose above the talk, then subsided. Was that voice familiar?
Stone walked slowly down the hallway and emerged into a very large, rectangular room, which had been divided into two areas. Ahead of him was a living area, with two leather sofas facing each other before a fireplace, in which a fire merrily burned. Soft chamber music came from speakers somewhere. There was something familiar about the room. To his left was a dining table set for eight, and, apparently, Stone was not the only one late for dinner, for three places were empty. The conversation was louder now.
A woman in a backless dress sat with her back to him, a man next to her, and a couple faced him from across the table. Both the men were in evening clothes. At the end of the table, to his right, dressed to kill, her elbow resting on the table, her hand holding a glass of wine, her face turned to greet him, smiling invitingly, was Sasha Nijinsky.
Stone took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak. Instead of what he had intended to say, a scream burst from his lips. A searing pain had thudded into his buttocks; his back arched, his knees bent, and he fell heavily onto the polished hardwood floor, his body convulsing.
He had only a moment of consciousness to grasp that Sasha and the other people at the table were immobile; were glassy eyed; were, of course, dead.
Chapter 49
Stone came awake slowly. His first sensation was that his ass was on fire; the second was that every joint, every muscle in his body hurt like hell. His vision was cloudy for a moment, and he blinked his eyes rapidly to clear it. He became aware that he could not move.
He was naked. His shoulders lay on a hard table, his hands were bound behind him, and his feet were tied and suspended from a block and tackle above him, which raised him half in the air. Instinctively, he squirmed, tugging at his bonds, but they were too tight. His hands were numb.
He could move only his head, and he craned his neck to see as much as he could. He was in a long, narrow room; the walls and ceiling were covered in white tiles, aged and cracking. Two overhead bulbs were protected with steel screens. The tabletop was made of metal and sloped from head to foot. There was a faint chemical smell, something he couldn’t identify.
He craned his neck farther. Near the other end of the room, just at the edge of his vision, was a vertical object, but he could not swivel his head and eyes far enough to make it out. He tried the bonds again, trying at least to stretch them enough to allow the flow of blood to return to his hands. No luck.
Minutes passed, and he wracked his brain for some other means of escape. He found that by manipulating his shoulders he could creep sideways on the table, but it became apparent to him that, since his feet were elevated, if he slipped over the edge, his head would strike the floor very hard. He stopped moving and waited.
Perhaps twenty minutes passed before he heard a scraping noise somewhere behind him, followed by hollow footsteps striking the cement floor. The chauffeur appeared, upside-down, the collar of his uniform hanging open. He reached up and ripped the mustache from his upper lip.
“There, thatsa better,” he said in his Italian accent. Then he laughed.
“Herbert?” Stone said.
Van Fleet laughed again. “Didn’t recognize me, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. Listen, Herb, could you loosen whatever you’ve got around my wrists? The circulation has stopped.”
“Sure,” Van Fleet said. He grabbed Stone under the arms, lifted him, and flipped him over on his stomach. He fiddled with the bonds.
Stone’s ankles hurt now, but he could feel the blood flowing back into his hands. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, could you turn me back over, please?”
Van Fleet turned him over on his back again. “Are you cold?” he asked solicitously.
“No, it’s quite warm in here. Where am I, exactly?”
“You are in what used to be part of a kosher meat-processing plant. It runs along one side of my loft, and it is accessed by moving the refrigerator in my kitchen, then removing a panel from the wall.” He laughed again. “Neither you nor the FBI were able to figure it out.”
“It’s very clever, Herb. Now, can we talk about what’s going on here?”
Van Fleet stepped forward and began feeling around Stone’s neck.
