Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (30 page)

“You’d trust a hotel concierge with your life? That seems kind of strange.”

He laughed. “Julian wasn’t always a concierge. Once upon a time he was a Navy SEAL, among other things. I strongly suggest you lean on him as much as you possibly can, especially over the next few days. I can’t be with you right now to protect you, so use the resources available to you.”

Protect me.
He wanted to protect me? That seemed ironic given all that had happened. “It’s kind of hard for you to protect me when you’re not here.”

“Nancy, I always protect my
submissives. It’s part of the sacred trust I have with them.”

My
submissives.
The words hit me with a jolt. “So I’m your submissive now? Is that how you think of me?”

“
Nancy, I think of you as a wonderful, beautiful and talented young woman who also just so happens to be my submissive. At least, you were last night. Whether or not you choose to continue in that role in the future is entirely your choice. We can even write up a formal agreement if you like, though I prefer to enter into these arrangements with verbal consent only. Which, mind you, can be revoked at any time with your safeword. Or simply by saying you don’t want to do it anymore. That also works.”

W
ritten agreements, verbal consents.
It sounded like we were talking about real estate contracts, not having sex. “I don’t know what I want right now,” I admitted.

“That’s understandable. I wouldn’t either if I were you.”

On the contrary, I knew I wanted more sex.
Lots
more of it. And quickly. But if I let my thoughts go too far in that direction, I wouldn’t be able to focus on the task at hand. My many, many tasks at hand. Writing those articles. Passing my classes and graduating. Staying alive. “I need some time to think,” I heard myself say.

“Take all the time you need. You can call me anytime.  The number I gave you is forwarded to me no matter where I am, even if I’m on a plane. Call it any time, day or night, for any reason you want. I promise I’ll pick up.”

His tone was gentle, almost fatherly. That comforted me and bothered me at the same time. I didn’t want him to think of me like a father would. I wanted him to think of me as a lover, to protect me as a lover, and to cherish me as a lover. Part of me seemed to think that he already did. “All right, I will,” I replied. But I wasn’t sure I actually would call. My better instincts told me to run for the hills and never speak to this man again. But I wasn’t listening to my instincts.

“
I need to ring off now, Nancy, to take care of some things. But promise me that you’ll delete the email string from your computer right away, and change all your passwords. Better yet, see if you can work on a different machine altogether. The iPad I’m sending over has a full suite of software, including a word processor. If you don’t want to write on a tablet, I can arrange a laptop for you. A top-of-the-line Apple with the latest in security and encryption technology. I can get you a special model that isn’t available to the general public yet, the same model used by the CIA. I have one that I use myself, and I can get another from my source within a few hours, maybe a day at the longest.”

I found this overwhelming. “Why would I need all of that? I’m just a college student and a reporter
, not a programmer or a hacker. I just write papers and surf the Internet.”

“
Bluschencko’s people can hack into anything, Nancy. As I said, they’re probably tracking you already.”

“Then they’re probably bored. I don’t do or say anything interesting, and I don’t have any money, either.” I checked myself. “Well, I have enough for rent and stuff, but that’s it.”

“Bluschencko isn’t after you for money, Nancy. I guarantee you that. At least not the money you already have.”

“Then what does he want?”

“The same thing that I want. Your body. Only Bluschencko intends to profit from it. I don’t.”

Your body.
A lightbulb ignited in my reporter’s brain. “Bluschencko is a human trafficker, isn’t he?”

“You’re a very savvy journalist, Ms. Delaney.”

“So I’m right?”

“You are. And that is exactly why you’re in so much danger.”

TEN
 

The
iPad Rostovich promised arrived about an hour later, along with a two-man security team. My new bodyguards were a pair of German identical twins named Rolf and Wilhelm Werner. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, they had identical crew cuts and matching black suits, mirrored sunglasses, and Secret Service-style earpieces. Rolf stood outside my bedroom door, while Wilhelm insisted upon sitting on my bed and watching me while I played around with the iPad. I’d already decided I hated the tablet’s touchscreen keyboard and stripped-down word processor, so Rolf had radioed Rostovich to inform him I required the fancy CIA laptop. Meanwhile, Wilhelm forbade me from touching my old computer until he could have it “secured.” He hadn’t gone into what that meant, however. Whenever I asked either of them questions, I got either monosyllables or hard stares.

“
Judst pretendt vee are nodt hier,” Rolf had barked at me in his heavy German accent.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where
Rostovich dug the two of you up on a moment’s notice,” I remarked, scrolling through the additional image files he’d sent over. My question was met with stony silence.

I scrolled through this latest set of images from
Rostovich. They were more of the same, drab, nondescript buildings from Sevastopol. I studied them closely, looking for any more strange body-shaped shadows, any more evidence that might clue me in to whether I was really studying a series of crime-scene photos rather than art. But nothing turned up. I wondered if perhaps like the others, the shadows would only show up on analog-style prints. I made a mental note to ask Hannah if she knew of any good old-style photo printers still left in business in the Cleveland area. She’d totally bailed on her earlier promise to work on the magazine layout all day and had instead gone back to sleep shortly before my private security detail arrived. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining that to her when she woke up. I half-expected her to try to jump at least one of the Werner brothers’ bones. That would definitely be her style.

I set the
iPad aside and decided to attack both stories from more of a personal angle.  For that, I’d need to interview some of the people that knew Peter Rostovich best.  There weren’t many of them, of course.  And I probably knew him better than most people did already---which wasn’t saying much. I decided to start with Richard Darling.

I went to our
kitchen-slash-living-area and turned on the TV, searching the DVR for the news segment Hannah had recorded for me the night before. I found it right at the head of the queue and watched it. Only a brief two-minute segment sandwiched between the weather report and a puff piece on a local dog trainer, but it was still plenty telling.

The camera focused
first on a haggard-looking Richard Darling, shot from a distance as he shuffled through some papers and fielded questions from the press. I noticed he was unshaven and wore the same suit he had at the opening. Sweat stains showed under his arms and around his collar, and his eyes were sunken. An impeccably coiffed blonde reporter stood in front of the shuttered storefront, gave a brief intro about what had happened at the Flaming River Gallery opening, noting that misdemeanor public indecency charges were pending against its owner, Richard Darling.

And not against Peter?
I thought.
Hmm, I wonder how he managed that.

The Channel 3 reporter got a close-up and shoved her microphone in Darling’s face, asking for his comment on
Rostovich. “Do you know the artist’s whereabouts at this time?” she asked. “What is next for this exhibit? Will it reopen in a more sanitized and less sexually explicit version?”

“I don’t know where Peter
Rostovich is right now,” Darling seethed. “He’s probably hiding out someplace close, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where. He never tells anyone where he’s staying, and he usually moves from place to place each night. He’s always been a moving target.”

Assuming the segment had been filmed last night,
Rostovich was at the Ritz-Carlton. I’d assumed that everyone knew where he was staying, but of course that assumption had been wrong. Had he been registered under a false name? Did he have an arrangement with the Ritz’ staff to keep things incognito and protect his privacy?  Maybe he registered under an assumed name, like a lot of Hollywood stars did.

“But I
will
find out where he is,” Darling went on, his eyes blazing. “And when I do, he will be one sorry bastard. He’ll live to rue the day he ever met me, let alone what he did at my gallery yesterday. Do you hear me, Peter Rostovich? You will pay for this.
You will pay.”
He had the look of a madman, and I could swear his pupils went a deep fiery red as he spoke.

The reporter took a step back in shock. “Wow, strong words from Flaming River Gallery owner Richard Darling, who again is facing public indecency charges for his controversial art
exhibit. No word as of yet on any charges for the artist, Peter Rostovich of New York City, whose current whereabouts are unknown. I’m Patricia Cone for Channel 3 Action News. Back to you in the studio.”

That was it. No real revelations other than Richard Darling was furious with
Rostovich, and I’d gathered that much myself at the gallery opening. Still, his on-camera behavior was plenty unsettling. My reporter’s nose for news told me there had to be something else to this story. A sane person did not take on the look and manner of a serial killer on television over a simple misdemeanor charge that he could probably settle by paying a $500 fine. But what could it be? Money? A conflict over a woman? Something else? I decided to go straight to the source.

I called Channel 3 and got connected with the weekend
newsdesk. “Hi there, this is Nancy Delaney, I’m a freelance reporter doing a story on the Flaming River Gallery show and Peter Rostovich for the
Plain Dealer.
I saw your segment on Richard Darling last night and was wondering if you had a personal phone number for him. I’ve tried reaching him at the gallery, but that number’s been disconnected.” If his on-camera behavior was any indication, Richard Darling was laying low somewhere, awaiting his opportunity to strike. But when? And why?

There was no response to my request at first, just some background newsroom noise. It was just after noon on a Saturday, which meant they would be preparing for the 5:00 pm weekend broadcast now, in lieu of the midday report usually given at this time on weekdays.
I knew they’d have a skeleton crew there, mostly made up of green interns and semi-retired weekend anchor reporters, the so-called second string of on-air reporting. “Hold please,” came the response, finally. Instead of putting me on hold, though, the unnamed desk jockey just set the receiver down with a
clunk.
I could hear her muttering something in the newsroom din, but couldn’t quite make out what she said.

Finally, another voice came back on the line. “Hi there, I’m Sandy Dowd, I produced the segment on the Flaming River Gallery last night. To whom am I speaking?”

“Nancy Delaney, freelance reporter with the
Plain Dealer.”

“Hi Nancy. Who’s your assignment editor over there? Eric Burgess?”
“Yes.”

She sucked in a breath, blew it out. “You wanted Richard Darling’s home number, right? I really shouldn’t be giving it out without getting the reporter’s permission first, but since it’s the weekend and Eric Burgess is an old friend of mine, I’ll do you the favor just this one time. But if
anyone asks how you got it---including Eric himself---you tell them that you found it yourself. Do we have a deal?”

“Sure.”

She gave me the number, wished me luck with the story, and hung up.

I dialed the number right away, noticing it had a Lakewood exchange. Darling definitely seemed like a Lakewood type---artsy, cheap and confrontational. He picked up on the first ring.

“Richard Darling here.”

“Mr. Darling, this is Nancy Delaney. We met briefly at your opening the other night, when I was there to review the show?”

Stony silence. But at least he didn’t hang up.

“Um, I’m still working on that
Art News Now
review, but I’ve also been assigned a feature story on the artist for the
Plain Dealer
, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.” His voice was like shaved ice, but at least he was willing to talk.
I decided a simple, direct approach was best.

“How long have you known Peter
Rostovich?”

“Over twenty years.”

“When did you two first meet?”

“We lived in the same neighborhood back in New York as teen
agers. Brighton Beach. I lived there with my grandparents. Peter moved there with his mother shortly after he came to the States from Sevastopol. I was from the old German Jewish community there, Peter was from the new wave of Russian Jews who came during the early 90s in droves.”