The Charmers (17 page)

Duty done, the Russian liked to say to himself, metaphorically washing his hands of whatever nefarious business he had just completed, by request, of course. For himself, he did not care. What he did care about was the money, and now that the Boss was in so deep, he'd decided it was time he collected more. “Enough is never enough,” was the Boss's own motto. Now it was to become the Russian's.

He stood in back of the bar, unobserved. People were watching the fireworks shooting through the night in starbursts and shimmers. The party sounded like a battlefield.

He noticed that the doctor was back, and with Mirabella, who stood out amongst the partygoers in jeans and what looked like a pajama top.

He stamped out the cigarette and waited to see what would go down now that the doc and the girlfriend were here. He looked around but the Boss had disappeared. Seemed like a friggin' disappearing act tonight; everybody was doing it.

He took the crushed pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, shook one out, and with a hand cupped over his old Zippo, lit up again. In his waiter's apron, he fit into the scene perfectly. Nobody would suspect a guy who'd been offering them drinks from a tray all night. That straight-up Colonel, smart-ass that he was, would be looking for a proper kidnapper, a robber with a swag-bag over his shoulder—or else a girl over his shoulder. Easy enough; she hadn't weighed much. Too skinny for his taste, though obviously not the Boss's.

Well, his work was done. Payment would, as usual, be deposited in his bank account, anonymously of course. He'd work for the rest of the evening, serve them drinks, act normal. And see what happened next.

 

31

The Colonel

Holding Mirabella's gloved hand in his, the Colonel had to admit he did not have his entire mind on her supposedly missing friend. He was enjoying holding her hand, though he did wonder about the gloves; some sort of affectation he guessed, or perhaps it was just that her nails were the wrong color for her dress, or any one of a number of feminine reasons. Women were a mystery in themselves, and now this one was insisting her friend had disappeared.

The Colonel had been to many a grand party; he knew that drink—or too much of it anyhow—could loosen morals just a little bit; that a young woman might find herself in an inappropriate situation, sometimes even dangerous. He hoped this was not the case with Verity, though he doubted that at such an elegant event anything like that could have taken place. The Boss had his own security, his men were everywhere, or had been earlier, though he saw none of them around right this minute. Still, they were under the Boss's orders and would do as he asked.

“I'm so worried about her,” Mirabella was saying as they walked through the party crowd to the strip of darkness around the edge, where all light ended.

The Colonel did not let go of her hand. “I think she might have had a little too much to drink. It happens at parties, especially when the champagne is flowing. Trust me, nothing could have happened to her.”

“Not
here,
you mean?” Mirabella stopped. She turned to look at him and took his other hand in hers.

Like a lover would, the Colonel found himself thinking. He caught a hint of her scent on the soft breeze that later would become a strong wind. He knew that because he'd heard the weather forecast. He hoped it would not be strong enough to take down any of the beautiful tents covering the buffets and the bars erected on the terraces and along the beach.

He was a man faithful to the memory of the woman he'd loved above all others. This was the first time she had not come foremost in his thoughts. Mirabella's scent, her warm gloved hand in his, even the giant sapphire ring that cut into him when he gripped tighter, made him want to hold onto her.

Mirabella threw him a quick upward glance, a practiced look to be sure, because obviously he wasn't the first attractive man she'd flirted with, and even under dire circumstances, she was still a flirt at heart.

“You
will
find her for me, Colonel,” she said, resting her head for a moment against his shoulder.

“I promise,” he said. And he meant it.

 

32

Mirabella

I was back in my room, alone. Again. The story of my life. The Colonel had gone with Chad to search for my friend.
Oh God, oh God, let her be alright.
Selfish me, I was thinking only of how
I
was affected, when my poor darling lovely Verity was gone.
Please oh please come home.…

It's odd, how I think of the Villa Romantica as home now. It had been home to my aunt, and before her to Jerusha, the woman who'd built it, who had poured her love, her happiness, her very soul into it, only to be forced to leave.

I decided that needed air. I went out and walked a short way along the beach. And then I saw the Boss.

He was standing by an odd, square, dark building. In his black turtleneck and pants he almost blended into the background. The man who had everything looked very much alone. Wasn't great wealth said to make you lonely, afraid of friendship because of who might want something from you, who might want to get their hands on your money, to invest in their scheme, or buy a diamond necklace? I thought about going over to talk to him, but he walked quickly away and disappeared.

Chad had told me he didn't think the Boss was a man who would accept scandal without fighting back. In his opinion the offer of a million dollars to find Verity was the Boss's grand gesture, meant to divert attention, even suspicion, from him and any of his guests. He was not about to allow himself to be publicly tainted by that image. Women did not go missing at his villa.

I reached for the coolness of my pearls against my skin, and realized they were gone. I thought quickly back to my movements, remembered when I had tripped and almost fallen, and Chad had hauled me back onto my feet. They must have slipped off then. They were so long, they could easily have gotten lost. They were probably right there now, on the grass in front of the Boss's villa.

I'd promised Chad I would behave myself and stay in my own villa but I wanted my pearls. And I wanted to speak with Chad. I immediately tried his mobile but got no answer. Not that I'd expected one; of course he would have turned it off. Nothing like an earsplitting blast of music on your cell phone to alert anyone to your presence, a bit like “La Marseillaise” on my own doorbell. Got to get that changed. A snatch of Beethoven perhaps, like that which was now soaring loudly over the sea from massive speakers, accompanying the fireworks.

I suddenly realized I was all alone. No one even knew I was here. No one knew where Verity had gone either. Scared, I ran back to my villa, shut the door, and locked it. And then I heard the sound outside the open window.

I refused to be afraid of shadows. I strode to that window, snatched back the cream linen curtain and … nothing. Simply a curtain blowing in the breeze from an open window was all it had been. Only thing is, I had not left that window open.

Somebody
had
been out there. Someone had been here in my room. Maybe he'd waited for Chad to leave, for the noise of the fireworks to cover my screams. Somebody wanted to kill me, I'd felt it before, now I knew it was true.

But why? I was no threat to anybody. I was merely a writer of detective novels, I didn't know about real crime, or real criminals. Mine were simply characters I invented and therefore over whom I had complete control. I had no control over whoever it was that had taken my Verity, and who now was after me.

I wished desperately that Chad would come back.

Angry with myself for being afraid, I tugged my jeans back on, buttoned the pajama top, and tied my sneakers. I would go look for Chad. For Verity. For the Colonel. The Boss. Anyone at all. Just someone to help me.

 

33

The Boss

The Boss thought the timing was perfect. The fireworks would end in approximately five minutes, when the music would change from Beethoven to a Chopin piano etude, soft and sentimental, stopping guests in their tracks as they whispered about the missing girl. Very few of them had left the party, all wanting to know what was going to happen, and about the million-dollar reward. Now he was about to show them.

He had never been a man that sought the limelight. Out of necessity because of his business practices and his sexual desires, both of which sailed a little too close to the wind, he had kept his private life private. Now though, he saw an opportunity to become a man to be reckoned with, a man whose name would be on everybody's lips. He was about to save Verity's life. The allure of becoming a hero won out over his desire to torture and kill Verity. That would come later.

He had dismissed the black-T-shirted guards, sent them around to the front of the villa to keep an eye on any departing guests. “See if anything's up,” he'd said. “See if Verity's come back.” He'd even mentioned it to the Colonel, who was parading around like he was the star of this show, looking solemn and concerned, speaking on the phone to the chief of police, asking for even more men than the half dozen already sent to help in the search. The Boss allowed no one back here, though. They were told this area was off-limits. This was his home, his private place. The Colonel respected that.

Back at the bunker, he pressed the electronic button that slid the section of wall with the ivy to one side. He took his key from the niche and opened the door.

The place was in semi darkness, only one lamp lit. The giant TV screen that took up almost the whole wall was on, though the sound was muted. It was showing an old Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy movie. To any unsuspecting visitor, all would look normal. Unless, that is, they stepped behind that large TV screen and into his world.

He'd had this room designed by a Hollywood movie decorator, telling him he was going to use it for a TV program. The walls were covered in padded black silk, studded with inch-thick bullet-shaped silver nuggets. The ceiling was black too, but when he pressed the remote it slid back to reveal a smoky mirror, edged all around with a thin strip of lights. The custom-made bed looked simple enough, though extra large. The sheet covering it was a deep burgundy and it was piled with long pillows, where right now Verity's blond head rested.

She was, of course, still “asleep.”

He stood for a while, watching her. Her complete vulnerability gave him a thrill. He could do anything he wanted, touch her, feel her warmth, smell her secret woman scent.… But he wanted none of that. He had decided that now Verity was to be used for a different purpose. Her role would be amplified.

He checked the monitors that showed the grounds immediately outside the bunker. The shadows were deep and for a second he thought he saw a movement under the jacaranda tree. He pressed the pause button, stared hard at that area. The wind had gotten up and all the trees were bending under it. He saw no one there.

He decided that the wind was not a bad thing, since it would hide any noise he'd make when he carried Verity down to the beach. First though he had to prepare her. After all, she was going to be on camera tonight, so the better she looked—or perhaps the worse—the better for him.

He walked over to take another look, stood for a minute assessing her again, then slid his arms under her and lifted her off the bed. He was shocked by how cold she felt. Had he left her too long? Was it too late? She couldn't just die on him now, not yet, at least not until he had “saved” her. He must warm her up, get her into a hot bath.…

She was unexpectedly heavy. He put her down, took her by the feet, and dragged her across the marble floor. Her dress ruffled up. Her panties were white satin, edged with black lace. He thought she looked like a dumb young bride on her wedding night, except this was not going to be the marriage culmination that would have been expected.

She seemed to be getting heavier by the minute as he lifted her over the step at the edge of the tub and slid her legs into the hot water.

Startled, he heard her sigh. Could the drug be wearing off? God knows she'd been given enough to take care of her for the entire night, but still she was reacting.

He stood over her, waiting to see what would happen. Her eyelids fluttered and for a second it seemed she was looking at him, then she slid away again. Her head thunked on the marble step. Jesus. He did not want any marks on her; she must appear intact, unharmed, except by the tide from where, as the valiant rescuer, he would pull her. He had better hurry.

He left her lying on the floor and went to the cupboard where he kept the stretcher. He returned, knelt beside her, lifted her shoulders, and got the stretcher under them. Then he lifted her body and her legs onto it. He jacked up the lever, the wheels emerged, and the stretcher rose up off the ground. Now he was in business.

He went back to look at the bank of TVs showing the exterior of the bunker. Lights still glared from the house where he knew the Colonel would be doing his job of grilling his guests, while his half-dozen men combed the grounds. Nobody would come here though. He was safe.

He rechecked Verity on the stretcher. He didn't want her to slide off at the crucial moment. She looked so pretty, just a girl sleeping, long blond hair mussed, cheap diamante earrings glittering. She was all his to show the world.

The secret door leading directly onto the beach opened at his command. He pushed the stretcher through, cursing as her arm slid off and scraped along the floor. Now she would have bruises and he did not want that. Still, it could be assumed she had been bruised when she was swept against the rocks in the sea.

There was no light where he was walking but he knew the path, knew every step of the way, he'd traversed it so often. Pushing the stretcher in front of him, he walked steadily down the slope to the beach. Once there, he got her—with some effort because she was dead weight now—off the stretcher and lay her down on the sand. Then he folded the stretcher and carried it back to the house where he returned it to the cupboard.