Sooner or Later (38 page)

“To Victor’s, a club on Abbot Kinney.”

“They know you there?”

“Oh, sure, I go there all the time.” He was sweating now.

“Then someone will have seen you, maybe know exactly what time you were there?”

“Sure, oh, sure …” He surely hoped so.

Someone was hammering on the door, and Farrell swung round, staring at the woman peering through the glass.

“It’s Maya.” Terry got up and unlocked the door for her.

Maya practically fell inside, she was in such a hurry. Her face was still swollen and her eyes were red from crying. She was unmade-up and disheveled, in black tights, boots and an oversized brown sweater. Her short uncombed hair stuck up like fluffy golden chicken feathers.

She grasped Detective Farrell urgently by the shoulder. “Have you found her yet?”

“No, miss, not yet.” He looked her up and down, assessing her. “You are Maya Morris?”

“And who are you?” Maya was impatient, imperious, scared.

Dan took her arm. “Maya, this is Detective Farrell. He’s going to help us look for Ellie.”

She stared at him, then suddenly her face crumpled and she sank into a chair, her hands over her eyes. “Oh God, where is she? I shouldn’t have left her here alone. It was late, I should have stayed with her …”

Dan rested his hand comfortingly on her soft blond hair. “Do you know where Ellie usually parks her car?”

She lifted her head, looked blearily at him. “In the multistory lot, a couple of blocks away. I told her she shouldn’t, it’s too lonely there at night, but there’s only
two parking slots out back and she said they’re for the chef and the help. Usually, if it gets too late, she gets the car out and puts it on a meter, right here on the street. But she didn’t … that night …”

D
AN FELT LIKE A ROOKIE COP AGAIN, DRIVING IN THE
detective’s Ford to the parking lot. It was still early, only eight o’clock and the lot was almost full. People turned their heads to look as the two squad cars squealed to a stop and cops piled out.

Farrell told his men, “We’re looking for a recent-model green Cherokee, license number 3CVB28. You can’t miss it.”

They didn’t. It was there on the third floor, locked and empty, just the way she had left it on Friday. Dan knew then they were in serious trouble.

He had to give Farrell credit, though, he moved fast after that. In minutes, there were cops all over the place, intercepting owners coming to collect their cars, questioning them about who they were, whether they used the lot regularly, had they been here on Friday night? Dan knew the value of the hard slog of police detective work. Disheartened, he left them to it and went and checked into Loews Hotel in Santa Monica.

In the bar, he ordered single malt Scotch, then sat sipping it, gazing at the television screen, oblivious to the other customers. The Lakers were playing but he couldn’t summon up any interest. His mind and his heart were on Ellie as he went over the scenario again. Over, and over.

The good whiskey warmed his stomach, but he felt powerless, wondering what to do next. When the Lakers game finished, the ten o’clock news came on.

“News just breaking of a well-known Santa Monica cafe owner’s disappearance,”
the newsreader said.
“Ellie Parrish Duveen, whose grandmother was brutally murdered at her Montecito home, just weeks ago, has not been seen in more than two days. Police are out searching for her now and foul play is considered a possibility.”

Dan’s stomach clenched as Ellie’s smiling face appeared on the screen, and the announcer described her, then said the police were asking for the public’s cooperation. Anyone who had seen her, or knew her whereabouts, should contact the Santa Monica police at the following number …

Dan drained his glass. He paid the check, went to his room and got Piatowsky on the phone.

“So, what’s new?”

Piatowsky was bored, it was a slow night at the Mid-town South Precinct.

“Ellie’s missing. I believe she’s been abducted.” Dan filled him in quickly on the details.

Piatowsky had never heard him sound like that: bitter, desperate. He thought of Ellie, imagined if it were Angle, or one of his kids … how he would feel.

“You think it’s the same guy?”

“Possibly.”

“I’m getting the red-eye outta here, I’ll be with you tomorrow early.” He hesitated. “Dan …”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not looking good….”

Dan’s heart was tailing like a stack of cards into the pit of his stomach. He knew the truth when he heard it.

“Just hang in there, Cassidy.”

Dan put down the phone. He would hang in because he had to. He had to find Ellie.

I
T MUST HAVE BEEN MORNING WHEN HE CAME TO VISIT
again, because this time he brought breakfast.

He smoothed the white cloth, arranged the chair for her. “There’s juice, granóla, low-fat milk, whole wheat toast, butter, and blueberry preserves. Fresh coffee is in the thermos jug.” He looked at her. “Please, enjoy it, Ellie,” he said quietly. Then he left her alone again.

The smell of coffee and toast taunted her. She wanted it so badly, she could almost taste it. Getting up, she opened the bottle of Evian and took a long drink, then she ate the PowerBar in three ferocious gulps, like a child with stolen candy.

Feeling stronger, she did a few yoga stretches, then sat in the pink chair, waiting.

He was back a while later to remove the cart with the uneaten food. Ellie watched him through hooded eyes, but this time he didn’t look at her, didn’t speak.

She lay on the bed, counting off the minutes, trying to figure out what to do. Her head still throbbed and she got up and looked in the mirror. Her hair was a wild
tangle, her eyes blackened, her jaw a swollen blur of purple-yellow bruises. She washed her lace, found the Clinique moisturizer she always used, in the cabinet, and smoothed it on. She brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth and dragged a comb through her tangled hair. She longed for a shower and fresh clothing but balked at the idea of putting on the sexy lace underwear he’d bought.

She was sitting in the pink chair, as usual, when he returned with the room service cart and dinner. At least now she knew approximately what time of day it was.

He removed the silver dome, then turned his masked lace to her. “Chicken soup, Ellie,” he said in that throaty whisper. “I thought you might find it soothing. Some French bread, a green salad. A little wine.”

He waved his hand at the table, showing her the good food, the fresh rose in the silver vase, the fine linen, the crystal and porcelain, and the beautiful sterling flatware. “Please enjoy it, Ellie,” he said again, sounding sincere.

Ellie thought his voice sounded cultured, educated. She remembered her grandmother’s golden rules for life: good manners, consideration for others, unselfish behavior. There was no way she could fight him, but maybe she could play a psychological game with him. Act nice, try to talk her way out.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’re very thoughtful. The soup looks good.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled. He had outsmarted psychiatrists for a couple of decades; reading Ellie was easy.

“I advise you to eat it, you’ll need your strength.” Taking out the corkscrew, he began to open the wine.

“Why are you treating me so well?”

He glanced up. “Why do you think?”

She didn’t want to think about the answer to that. “But you hit me, you hurt me.”

“I told you, I had no choice, you wouldn’t come quietly.”

“How could you expect me to.” She was struggling to keep the tremor from her voice. “I don’t know you, I can’t even see your face.”

“You will, when the time is right. For now, I suggest you eat the food.”

Her eyes followed him to the door. He did not turn around.
“Who are you?”
She was desperate, frantic.
She had to know.

He turned, smiled at her behind the mask. “I’m your friend, Ellie,” he said. Then he locked the door again.

She couldn’t take it any longer, she just couldn’t take it. She was on her feet, banging her fists against the door, howling with rage and fear.

Listening to her, Buck heaved a pleased sigh. It was a small revenge, but nonetheless sweet. He had locked Ellie in a cage, exactly the way he had been locked up, by her grandmother. Now it was her turn to beat the walls, her turn to howl. This time,
he
was the jailer.

Drained, Ellie sank back into the chair. She stared at the food displayed appetizingly in front of her. She was weak and starving, and no longer cared if it was poisoned. Her hand shook as she lifted the glass, took a sip of wine, then a piece of bread. It stuck in her dry throat, choking her. She drank a little more wine, forced down a little of the chicken soup, another piece of the bread. Then she lay back on the bed and waited to see if she was going to die.

Another hour dragged by. She prowled the room restlessly. He should have been back by now, checking on her. Had she been here two days? Or three? Surely Maya must have missed her by now. Dan would be home, he’d
be calling her. And Chan couldn’t run the restaurant on his own, he’d be frantic, trying to contact her …

Angered at her own helplessness, she snatched up the Baccarat goblet and hurled it at the wall. It shattered loudly into a hundred pieces. She hurled the Limoges plates after it, then ran to the closet, grabbed the clothes and flung them to the floor. She tugged an armload of sexy lingerie from the dresser and threw it on top of the clothes, and stomped on them. Then, inspired by rage, she grabbed the bottle of red wine and emptied it over the white satin and lace bed.

She stared, wild-eyed, at the spreading red stain.
It was her dream come true, the blood seeping through the bed, engulfing her….
She began to scream, thin high-pitched screams of fear and anguish, and helplessness.

Buck came running. He looked at the broken dishes, the spilled wine, the ruined bed, all the pretty things he had bought specially to please her. The guards in the Hudson Sanitarium would have recognized the icy expression in his eyes, the dead chill in his voice, the involuntary flexing of his strong fingers.

He circled the bed toward her. Ellie took a quick step back, her eyes fixed warily on him. He came closer. Another step and her back was against the wall. There was nowhere else to go. He was so close she was breathing his minty breath.

His hands were on her breasts, his body thrusting against hers.
She felt him tremble, felt his excitement. “
No.”
She was pinned against the wall, twisting her face away. “
No, no, no …”

Behind him, she saw a crack of light; he had left the door open. The sudden glimpse of freedom gave her a crazy strength and she slid down through his arms, grabbed his legs and pulled. He crashed down next to
her. Scrambling to her feet, she made a dash for the door. He caught her arm, dragged her back.

The beautiful Christophle silver fork sparkled in the lamplight. In a flash it was in her hand. She felt the soft, sinking sensation as the fork went into his flesh, heard his great roar of pain. He staggered back, blood trickling from his eye socket. She was running.

“Little bitch,” he snarled, agonized, but even wounded, he was still fast. He grabbed her, slapped her hard across the face. Her head slammed back against the wall, but she didn’t cry out this time. She just stood there, looking at him.

She was looking at him just the way her grandmother had. Loathing him, despising him. As though he were nothing.

He looked round for something to tie her up with. Jerking the lamp out of the wall socket, he bound her wrists behind her back with the flex. He stood looking at her for a minute, then he pulled the switchblade from his pocket.

Time stood still as Ellie stared at the cold steel that she expected would destroy her. But instead, he cut the flex from the lamp.

Breathing heavily, he slowly eased the mask over his bloody face.

For a long, horrified second she stared at him. “Ed Jensen,” she whispered, unbelievingly. “But
why?”

Without answering, he turned and walked from the room.

He’d left the door open and she stared blankly at the rectangle of white plaster wall that led to freedom.
Why him? Why? Who was he?

He was back in seconds, with a length of cord. He tied her ankles, then cut away the electrical wire and re-tied her wrists behind her back with the cord.

He looked at her, trussed like a helpless chicken. “Oh, Ellie, Ellie, what a foolish woman you are.” He sighed. “Don’t you know you can’t win?” Then he hefted her in his arms, carried her down the corridor into another room and flung her onto a sofa.

Her face was pressed into the cushions, but she could still hear him close by, panting with the effort. Then his footsteps disappearing.

Cautiously, she turned her tace to the light.

She was in a log cabin. Through the window opposite, she could see a mountain range and a hazy gray sky. There were no other houses, no neighbors, no sound of children playing, no dogs barking. Only trees and silence. She was somewhere in the mountains, somewhere where nobody would ever find her. They wouldn’t even find her body, because she was sure now, Ed Jensen was going to kill her.

He was coming back, dragging something, huffing as he carried it into the room. She watched from the corner of her eye. It was a large wooden crate, the kind used by movers. He came over, picked her up, carried her across and dropped her into it.

Helpless, she folded up in the bottom like a broken doll, knees bent, arms twisted behind her back. Lifting her head, she stared up at his bloodstained face. Their eyes met. Then he fastened down the lid.

Ellie heard the hammer striking on the nails. Heard him walk across the floor. Then the slam of a heavy door. The click of the lock behind him. And then there was only darkness.

D
AN WAS AT THE AIRPORT EARLY, WAITING FOR HIM.

“Am I glad to see you.” He grabbed Piatowsky’s bag.