Night of the Living Deb Page 24

  “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 aro
und 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.

  It had to be.

  I stood again, steadying myself, before I turned and peered down the depths of that last aisle, between the towering shelves filled with glorified grape juice . . . which is when I did a double take.

  Was that a body, curled against the far wall, wrapped in a tan blanket, nearly blending into the pale oak of the floor?

  “Malone?” I called tentatively.

  In response, I heard a faint but distinctive, “Uuuuuhhh.”

  Dear God.

  My brain buzzed, and a wave of adrenaline propelled me forward. I’ve found him, I told myself, hardly believing, and I rushed as fast as I could on trembling legs toward the source of the pathetic sounds.

  As I strode nearer, I could see a wrist shackled to a pipe along the base of the wall, a crown of tousled mousy hair, but little else except a lump undercover.

  “Malone!”

  His name flew from my lips as I dropped beside the immobile form swathed in tan wool and fumbled to see the familiar face.

  The blanket dropped away, as I gently touched a soft cheek and turned the head toward me.

  “Aaaack!” escaped my lips as dilated brown eyes blinked and looked at me blankly, as if drugged. The tiny nose and thin mouth with the parched lips didn’t belong to Malone . . . didn’t belong to any man.

  This prisoner of Petrenko’s was a woman.

  One I didn’t know from Eve.

  I jerked my hand away, fell back on my heels.

  “Who are you?” I asked, wondering if the resident mobster collected humans as well as wine, further creeping myself out.

  Would I find Jimmy Hoffa next?

  Geez, Louise!

  “Lana,” the woman breathed, a weary-sounding whisper.

  “Lana Petrenko.”

  “What?” Had I heard her right?

  She wet cracked lips and said, “Oleksiy’s wife.”

  I stared at her, dumbly, as more of Lu’s words came back: Trayla mentioned one time that he had a cellar . . . said he kept his wife down there for a week after he found out she’d been shagging his brother.

  Allie had thought Mrs. Petrenko had skipped town.

  Who can blame her for seeking refuge once the shit hit the fan? We’re gonna have to work like hell to get him off as it is, so it’s better for our side if Mrs. Petrenko doesn’t come back to testify.

  But Oleksiy’s wife hadn’t gone anywhere.

  He’d had her all along, bound to a pipe in his basement.

  And I’d wager he didn’t plan to let her go, at least not until after the trial was over. Maybe not even then.

  My fear resurfaced, though it had never been fully submerged, as I wondered, Where in the hell was Malone?

  Lana squinted at me, tried to lift her head.

  I saw a bottle of water nearby and reached for it, but she grimaced as I held it to her lips. I noticed then how murky it appeared, and I figured my guess about her being drugged was correct. Which likely meant Petrenko had Malone doped up, too. If my boyfriend was behind that locked door, it was no wonder he couldn’t answer. He was probably dead to the world . . . figuratively speaking, I meant. I hoped.

  “Please”—tears fluttered from her lashes, splattering on dirty cheeks—“help me.”

  I checked the chain at her left wrist, binding her to the slim black pipe running the brief length of wall between the racks, and I saw the padlock caught between two links, holding her fast.

  “Have you seen anyone else brought here, a young man with brown hair and glasses?” I started babbling, and Lana Petrenko wrinkled her forehead, eyes falling closed, so I hoped she was listening. “His name is Brian Malone, and he’s been missing for several days. He’s one of your

  husband’s lawyers, but we think he might’ve seen something . . . might have witnessed the murder of a girl named Trayla Trash . . . um, Betsy Wren.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, pupils so dark and wide they nearly hid the brown of her iris. “He’s here,” she whispered,

  “in the vault.”

  “The padlocked door?” I asked.

  She nodded weakly. “There was a fight . . . he hit them. . . .”

  “With bottles of wine?”

  She gave another slow jerk of her chin.

  So Brian had tried to macho his way out by grabbing some fancy cabernet and swinging.

  That explained the red stains on the flo
or.

  “Who has the keys to the padlocks?”

  “Bernard,” Lana told me and tried to sit up. The blanket fell from her shoulders, and I saw bruising on her arms, besides the raw red circle from the chain around her wrist.

  “By any chance, is Bernard the goon with the shiny shoes and creased pants?” I asked, all I saw of the dude who’d trapped me in the kitchen, not five minutes before.

  “Yes.” She shivered, and I helped cover her again, wondering how she’d endured being trapped in a basement for weeks and weeks.

  Wasn’t anyone looking for her? Wondering where she was? Or was Oleksiy all she had, and any curiosity about his wife’s absence had been explained away with the excuse that she took off to avoid the heat of her affair and his court appearance?

  I wondered if my mother had called the police yet, because I’d had a change of heart already, figuring the sooner the better.

  Finding Petrenko’s wife chained in the cellar was plenty of reason for them to search the premises, wasn’t it? And they could get keys to the padlocks and pinpoint where Oleksiy had stashed Malone.

  I no longer felt sure that my makeshift posse and I were up to this.

  “Stay here,” I told Lana, and, though she looked panicked, she nodded. “I’ll be right back, and we’ll get you out of here fast, I promise.”

  I left her there, much as I hated to do it, snatching my cell from my pocket and hitting speed dial to call Mother.

  Only I couldn’t even get a bar, not until I’d reached the stairs and started climbing.

  Halfway up, I got two bars and tried again, hearing a muted ring.

  “Hello? Andy?”

  My mother spoke, but it sounded like she was in a tunnel.

  It was the same patchy connection I’d had with Malone when he’d phoned to tell me he needed space.

  “Call the cops,” I told her. “I found a woman chained to a pipe. I think Malone’s locked in a vault. We have to get the keys.”

  “You dropped . . . your pipe . . . chains in a vault . . . what does that mean? It’s been . . . ten minutes . . . should I wait a few minutes . . . need more time?”

  Aw, hell.

  She was only catching every other word, if that, and I was getting about the same back.