Night of the Living Deb (30 page)

Cissy had agreed to remain in the car, waiting at least fifteen minutes before she phoned the police pretending to be Petrenko’s neighbor. Stephen would be my scout, making sure the coast was clear before I headed in; like a third base coach, he would signal me in when the time was right.

I was supposed to speed-dial Cissy on my cell and cry uncle should anything seem amiss. If that happened, Mother was to contact the cops immediately. Otherwise, once Allie unlocked the back door, I would immediately slip down to the cellar to see if my dude was being held captive.

If Malone wasn’t there . . . Well, I’d think about that later.

For now, I’d believe that we’d find Brian before Mother tipped off Detective Swiercynski (aka Starsky) and his partner to the “disturbance” at Petrenko’s place; which meant we’d be ready for them when they arrived, so Malone could spill all. I had a feeling he’d have a lot to share with them about stolen art and murder.

I could hardly wait.

Seeing Brian alive and well and Petrenko and his goons in handcuffs would be the best birthday present ever, far better than a dinner party with a menu full of food I didn’t want to eat.

Mother went over each step of the plan ad infinitum while Stephen guided the Volvo north of Highland Park, to the wide streets of Preston Hollow. Most of the large residences looked like hulking shadows, silhouetted against the faint glimmer of the moon and the dull glow of street lamps. I saw few windows lit up, attesting to the fact that all the good blue bloods and new bloods had long since gone to bed.

A handful of the mansions were set too far back to glimpse, particularly when hidden by tall brick or wooden fences. Nearly all had metal signs posted with various logos of security firms.

We didn’t pass a single car en route to Petrenko’s place, though Stephen’s dark Volvo sedan blended well enough into the neighborhood so as not to arouse suspicion. If we’d been driving my Jeep Wrangler, on the other hand, someone might’ve dialed the cops, thinking an underage teen, out past curfew, was looking for a yard to trench.

As we rolled through a back alley, as per the printed-out map Stephen had located on an outdated Web page with the property listing, I glanced nervously around us, out the windows into the bleak of midnight, the dim shapes of trees and shrubbery standing sentry on our either side. I kept waiting for someone to jump out, one of Oleksiy’s men armed with an AK-47, but we pulled up to the back gate without incident.

Stephen shut off the engine.

I dialed Allie’s cell, waited for her to pick up, and announced, “We’re in place.”

“Ditto,” she said. “I’m at the gate. Give me five minutes, and if you don’t hear from me, I’m in. Oh, and

Kendricks,” she added. “Looks like you were right all along about Brian not being a dickhead. You’re a better girlfriend to him than I ever was. So, um, good luck. I hope you get your man back in one piece.”

“Um, thanks.”
I think.

I stared at my phone for a moment after, deciding that adversity made for strange bedfellows. In a matter of days, I’d gotten to know Malone’s ex better than I’d ever imagined, and she wasn’t all bad.

In fact, I’d very nearly come to like her.

Damn her skinny blondness.

When five minutes had come and gone without a peep from Ms. Price, Stephen looked over his shoulder into the backseat and said, “You ready, Andrea?”

“Ready.” I felt like the Energizer Bunny with my AA’s full-charged.

Cissy got out of the car with us and all but spit-washed my face and tucked my shirt in before she’d let me go. She tried to foist some pepper spray on me—at least, I thought it was pepper spray—and then I realized it was the travelsized canister of Febreze she kept in her purse to neutralize odors. Did she figure I could neutralize a bad guy if I ran into one?

I understood she was nervous. Not many socialites went on midnight raids to free their daughters’ boyfriends. I’m sure a few had done 2:00
a.m.
trips to the Highland Park police station to bail out drunken teens, however, so rescuing a kidnapped beau from the home of a Ukrainian mobster

wasn’t such a far stretch.

Stephen led the way through the dark, moving with such stealth that I nearly lost his black-clad form several times before we’d made it through the landscaped lawn, past the creek and waterfall, beyond the extensive outdoor patio, and to the back of the house where several sets of French doors loomed.

Thankfully, no barking rottweilers attacked, nor did any motion lights blink on, exposing us in floodlights.

Growing up in affluent Highland Park, I’d come to understand that the rich were different. Unlike the masses, relatively few were paranoid enough to douse their homes in nighttime illumination or let loose with attack dogs.

I had a theory that financial security made the wealthy feel secure in general, at least when it came to minding their castles.

My mother had grown up not even locking the doors, and I think some of that carried over, no matter how squirrelly the world had become. Though the house she lived in—the one on Beverly where I’d grown up—was equipped with a complex system of alarms, I knew she rarely set them. Neither did she have a front gate or privacy fence.

Cissy had told me once that living in fear was akin to giving in. “A home shouldn’t be a prison,” she’d remarked, or something to that effect.

Obviously, Oleksiy Petrenko didn’t feel the same, not with his front and back gates, his armed goons, and his wine cellar that might well have doubled as a jail cell.

The jerk.

“Psssst.”

I leaned around the tree I’d been using as camouflage to find Stephen gesticulating madly.

No time for my mind to be wandering
.

I skedaddled, wanting to keep up with him, passing a six-car garage on my left. I didn’t see any vehicles parked outside the closed doors. So I hoped that our buddy Oleksiy hadn’t invited any mobster pals to stay overnight.

Stephen motioned that I follow him right up to Petrenko’s rear doors, and I scurried forward and flattened myself against the rough wood of the wall, a splinter pricking at the soft flesh of my palm.

We crab-walked beneath the eaves of the house toward the door pegged on the real estate map as the kitchen, as that’s the one Allie had been directed to unlock. There was a bathroom near the
cocina,
which gave her a great excuse should Petrenko or his goons catch her wandering.

I held my breath as my peripheral vision caught the flicker of lights going on inside the house, and I figured Allie had made it in.

Step one, accomplished.

What felt like a billion to go.

Stephen gestured for me to sink down, behind the lowcut shrubbery that ran beneath the windows, and I did as he asked, but not without discomfort. The danged bushes were holly, and the thorny leaves poked like tiny knives against the denim of my pants and the cotton of my jacket.

I did my best to keep my bare hands away from the stuff, as well as my chin and cheek as I squatted behind the prickly cover. Stephen had urged me to don gloves, but wearing them made me feel even clumsier than I already was. So I’d tucked them in my pockets.

I didn’t care about fingerprints at this point. I could only think of reaching Brian.

Soon I understood the need for cover, as I spotted a square-shouldered man rounding the corner of the house, crossing the lawn; the faint sliver of moon doing little to erase the menacing hook of his angular features.

I listened to my own hastened breaths, as loud as cowbells in my ears. Every whiff of the breeze that ruffled my hair felt like an ominous hand, pointing out my hiding place.

Then I could see the man no more, and I sighed softly, figuring if one of Oleksiy’s guards was outside, it meant only one indoors. I was hoping the dude inside would be sticking to his boss like glue.

I couldn’t imagine time could move more slowly than it did in the minutes before I heard a rustle from beyond the door, as I crouched beside it like an alley cat hoping for a tuna handout.

My ears pricked up as the lock clicked, the sound clear as breaking glass.

I didn’t even wait for Stephen to signal, but scrambled out of the holly and up the steps, grabbing hold of the door latch and pushing inside.

I saw Allie’s backside disappearing through a doorway as I let myself in and quietly closed the door.

My eyes had already adjusted to the dim, so I was hyper-cognizant of my surroundings as I surveyed the enormous chef ’s kitchen, seeing the gleam of stainless steel appliances and glint of brass cookware dangling from overhead racks. There was even a shiny and rather large George Foreman Grill, perched alongside a fancy toaster-oven and a cappuccino machine, all of which seemed to glow in the dark.

I knew from viewing the realtor’s layout of the house on Stephen’s laptop that the door to my left led into a large butler’s pantry, and the one to my right, beyond a breakfast nook, segued into a large enclosed sun porch.

That meant the door to the cellar lay in between, directly behind where I stood.

Doing the fastest tiptoe ever, my sneakers barely squeaking, I rushed toward it, grabbing for the knob, twisting, and finding resistance.

Well, hell’s bells
.

The thing was locked!

My brain sparked, wheels spinning as I tried to come up with a contingency plan. I could always go back outside for Stephen, and maybe he could pry the damned door open with a knife or a screwdriver.

Thinking that was my only shot, I turned and started back, only to spot a set of pegs hanging high beside the door I’d come through seconds earlier.

And what hung on those pegs?

Keys.

A good dozen of them.

I didn’t know which one would open the portal to the wine dungeon, so I grabbed them all and set off a tinkling that I was sure could be heard from one end of the house to the other.

Quiet, Andy, quiet!

Oh, poo, was that footsteps?

The steady
thud-thud
seemed to grow ever closer, as I pondered where to hide, coming up with nothing better than the big chef ’s island in the middle of the room. I crawled beneath, into a hole through which I could see the legs of stools and the empty doorway to the hallway that Allie had vamoosed through.

I held my breath as a pair of legs came into view and then illumination filled every space that had been dark.

If I’d been less freaked out, I would’ve closed my eyes and prayed to be made invisible; only I had to watch the progression of the legs as they moved around me. I concentrated on the gray slacks with neat creases, polished black oxfords peeking out below the cuffs. Obviously, this was a thug who cared about his appearance.

I started, nearly hitting my head on the bottom of the island, as a throaty voice said, “Anybody here?”

Um, yeah, like I was going to answer?

Nuts.

I counted almost thirty Mississippis before the legs ceased their patrol around the king-sized kitchen and headed back toward the door. They paused there for a moment before the lights went off and a hard shade of gray settled around me again.

I exhaled deeply.

Yeesh.

I’d call that too close for comfort.

I exited my hiding place and rose on shaky legs, my stomach rolling like the giant wheel on a Zamboni as I hurried to the cellar door and, with trembling fingers, shoved each of the dozen keys into the lock until I found the one that turned it.

Bingo!

It was number eleven.

I carefully shut the door behind me and felt for a

switch, my hands running over smooth plaster before I found it and flicked.

I blinked as the stairs turned bright, track lighting leading me down and down some more, where the air turned suddenly cool, enough to make me shiver.

As a certified claustrophobic, I felt a tingle of panic the deeper I went below ground level, though I kept reassuring myself that I was all right, that I’d be out of there in no time. When I finally hit bottom, there was plenty to distract me besides.

Dark-stained wood shelves went from floor to ceiling, all holding bottle after bottle of wine. I approached and ran my fingers over a half-dozen Italian cabernets.

I heard a click succeeded by a slow hum, and I glanced up to see something that looked very much like an airconditioning unit, set into the far wall.

WhisperKOOL
, its label read.

That was the whirring sound I’d picked up when Malone had called.

No question in my mind.

My heart smacked against my ribs, beating way too quickly.

“Brian?” I called out, louder this time, remembering what Lu had said about the soundproofing, trying not to dwell on the fact that I was surrounded by concrete walls a yard thick. “Malone?” I called a bit louder, wishing my knees weren’t practically knocking together so I could move faster, exploring Oleksiy Petrenko’s massive underground wine library.

I paused to poke my head down each row, and there were at least a dozen of them, sprouting off both to my left and my right. The only thing beyond was a heavy-looking wooden door, closed and bolted with an old-fashioned padlock. When I’d checked row after row, seeing nothing but bottles, I had few places left to look. Just the final aisle that cut off to the right of the massive door, which I walked up to, set a palm against, and pressed my mouth as close between door and jamb as I could, croaking out,

“Malone, are you in there?”

I pushed my ear to the crack and listened.

Nothing.

Maybe that’s where Oleksiy kept the really expensive stuff,
I told myself. Maybe he had Brian upstairs in a nice, warm bedroom as opposed to this chilly, dusty place.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turned away and glanced down at my feet, my knees ready to buckle when I saw the stain of dark red on the blond oak floor.

Was it blood?

I grabbed the nearest wooden rack and braced myself as I slid down on my haunches, looking closely at the discoloration and feeling relief flood my system when I realized it had the purplish tint of red wine.