by Lakes, Lynde
Chapter Fourteen
Rusti sighed as she watched Razor walk away. She hated to worry him, but she hadn’t spoken to any of the Egyptia’s staff and wanted to thank Mike for the generous spread of flowers. Apparently flowers were the last thing on Mike’s mind. “What the hell are you doing with that hood, Rusti?” he asked.
“Razor? He’s been good to me, Mike. Because of René. He had a stage-door crush on her.”
“Really?” Mike asked, with a surprised tone. “Are you sure?”
“Is it so hard to believe? Half the men who frequent the Egyptia wanted her. Besides, I couldn’t hire a better bodyguard.”
“Sez you.” He sent Razor a dark look. “Well, for crissakes, Rusti, be careful.”
Just then Kirby joined them. “I’m so sorry about your sister, honey,” he said hugging Rusti. “We all loved her.” He cleared his throat. “You gave her a lovely funeral.” He looked down and shifted his feet as though uncomfortable. “I…a…I heard about your best friend. Two loved ones in such a short time… Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” His clear blue eyes searched hers. “I could come by this evening. I’m good at repairing windows, fixing locks, providing a shoulder to cry on.”
Kirby was tall and slim, like the killer who’d escaped through the broken window. On the other hand, he was kind, and René had liked him. Even so, Rusti decided not to take any chances. Besides, she wanted to be alone. “Not tonight,” she said.
“Tomorrow, then?”
His tone was insistent. It didn’t feel right. “I’ll let you know, Kirby,” she said softly. “But thanks.” She turned and walked toward Jerry before either Kirby or Mike could say more. Within minutes, Mike and the rest of the Egyptia crew left the cemetery. The detective and his plainclothes officers left next. Whatever danger they’d anticipated hadn’t materialized, thank God. Only Jerry was still there, and the police had cleared him.
“I’m available anytime, Rusti,” he told her. He paused and dug at the ground with his wing tip shoe. “But I gotta ask, Kiddo. What are you doing with Razor Jones?”
Of course, he had to ask. Everyone did. Including Baxter, whose deep frown had rebuked her for continuing to ignore his advice about Razor.
“He’s okay, Jerry,” she said. “He had a thing for René. I had to let him be here.” She put her arms around the P.I. and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry about the police dragging you downtown and putting you through the ringer. Baxter said Petra called you.”
“She was worried about you. And so am I.” He looked toward the road where Razor waited. “Can I give you a lift home? You should ditch that guy ASAP.”
“He’s with me, Jerry. We came in my car.” She’d insisted, thinking that today of all days she didn’t want to be hurried or controlled by Razor’s demands. He hadn’t liked the idea but gave in when she handed him her keys.
Jerry frowned. “He’s packing, Rusti, and I know how you feel about men with guns.”
“Yes, but I’m scared. And until the cops catch the killer… Besides, he helped me with the funeral—and when he heard about Petra, he came right to the hospital to be with me.”
Jerry looked skeptical. “Yeah. Well, I’m still not sold. And now that the cops have sprung me, I’m available twenty-four seven.”
Rusti smiled and gave him another quick hug. “Thanks, Jerry. You’re the best.” Over his shoulder her gaze fell on the still open grave, and once again she was overcome by sorrow. “Excuse me,” she whispered and turned away, blinded by a blur of tears. “Call me tomorrow.”
“I will,” he said, and before he left he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Razor hurried up to her and grasped her arm. “Let’s go,” he said, and started to lead her toward their car.
Rusti shook him off. “I’m sorry, I can’t go yet. I need a few minutes alone at the graveside.”
He retreated a few feet and waited for her by a solitary oak, looking edgy, ready to jump out of his skin. But even if the killer was waiting to throw her into the open grave with her sister, she couldn’t hurry her goodbye.
****
Terrilla answered the phone and Stretch, his tiresome self-appointed informer, began banging his ear about Razor Jones. “I’m just outside the cemetery,” Stretch said, “and I finally have proof that Razor’s in with law enforcement. He’s probably a narc.”
The old Capo couldn’t get excited. He’d heard it all before. “What proof do you have?” he asked, feeling weary.
“Razor showed up at the funeral hanging onto Rusti like a second skin.”
“So?” Terrilla looked up at the crystal chandelier and counted to ten. “That’s nothing. He’s squiring her around at my orders. And getting close enough to seduce any secrets out of her.”
“I don’t like it,” Stretch said. “Razor was tight with Kincaid and my source at LAPD said Kincaid’s job was to microfilm our papers and accounts.”
Terrilla’s face grew hot. “Show me the proof or shut up!”
“I’ll have it very soon. But what I saw should be enough—it all fits. When I saw Razor tuck a small shiny object into Rusti’s belt, I knew it had to be the microfilm. If we act now, we can stop a copy of our records from ending up in Fed hands. If Razor had already passed it to the Feds, we’d be in jail.”
“There’s nothing to back up your wild-ass story. Get proof or lose your obsession about Razor.” At the sound of banging at the other end of the line, Terrilla shook his head. Stretch was at it again, venting like a jackass, kicking anything handy. “Cut that out!” Terrilla yelled. “My LAPD source said the only cops at the funeral were Baxter and his homicide team. Think about it. A belly dancing Fed killed in the line of duty and no Feds at the funeral?”
“Just more deception.” Stretch’s voice rose, raspy with anger.
Terrilla sensed that his pain-in-the-neck informer was desperate, almost over the edge. He should have caught the danger signs sooner. “You killed Petra Morgan, didn’t you? And right after I said no more killing. What happened? Did she see your face?”
The telephone line went silent. Apparently Stretch wasn’t planning to confirm or deny anything. But Terrilla felt sure he’d guessed right. “You kill for the sake of killing, and that’s dangerous for all of us.” He paused to calm himself, but he didn’t bother to disguise his deadly tone. “Leave Razor and the Collins girl alone. Capice?” Then, to be sure it was crystal clear, he added, “Be careful, Stretch. Small fish trying to own the ocean end up in some bigger fish’s gullet.”
****
A foggy dusk was descending over the cemetery grounds by the time Rusti returned to the car. And just as Razor opened the door for her, two groundskeepers with shovels piled out of the panel truck parked across the road. “Hurry,” Razor said, watching the two men. “Get in. I don’t like this.”
Just she was about to slide into the car, she heard running bootfalls.
Razor whirled around to look. A mistake. From the front of the car, a man in maintenance clothes came at him with a shovel.
“Watch out,” Rusti screamed.
She was too late—the man brought the shovel down on Razor’s head with a powerful blow. He slumped to the ground. Rusti leapt from the car and started to run, but the other man grabbed her and pressed a foul sweetish-smelling sponge over her face. Kicking and struggling, she tried to push the chloroform away. In spite of her efforts, her world turned fuzzy, then black.
****
Rusti awoke shivering in the darkness. Her mouth was dry from the cloth that had been jammed into it. When she tried to reach up and remove it, she discovered her hands were tied behind her back. Not one to give up easily, she tucked her chin down and rubbed her taped mouth against her shoulder until the adhesive came loose. Next, she worked on the cloth, which wasn’t jammed in very tight, and managed to dislodge it with her tongue and spit it out. She attempted to move her legs, but her ankles were bound. “Razor,” she whispered, “are you in here?” There was no answer.
While strugg
ling to loosen her bindings, she heard men arguing in the next room.
“Forget that,” one growled. “We agreed on a C.O.D. deal, and I ain’t leavin’ without my dough.”
The voices came closer. Then she saw three male silhouettes, framed by a hazy doorway light. They entered the room and heaved what looked like a body toward her. It landed with a thud. Rusti stiffened. It had to be Razor!
The door slammed and the shadowy world went pitch black again. She had to get to Razor. She worked her way snakelike for a couple of yards along the cold, concrete floor. He couldn’t be more than another six feet away. Her lightweight jacket offered little protection against the cold, and as she moved across the floor her dress kept bunching up uncomfortably. Ignoring the discomfort, she rolled until she stopped by a mound—a body. Razor’s body. Oh, God, let him be alive.
Razor groaned. “Razor,” she whispered, “are you okay?” She heard another groan and butted him with her head. He rolled away. “If you are all right, roll back toward me.” She heard a rustling in the darkness, then felt Razor bump against her. He made a guttural sound. She sensed that they were now face to face. “Umm,” he said again.
iRusti rubbed her face against his and discovered a tape across Razor’s mouth. She grasped the tape with her teeth, and he moved his face back and forth until the tape came loose. “Now I’m going to try to pull the cloth out,” she said. “Push at it with your tongue. That’s how I got rid of mine.” With her lips she felt for the cloth, clasped it with her teeth, and pulled it free.
“Wow,” he said, in softly. “I always wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”
“You still don’t know,” Rusti said. But if her arms had been free she would have hugged him and given him a real kiss. “Now what?”
“I’m hoping you saw more of this place than I did. How far is it to a wall?”
She’d seen very little, but she could give him her best guess. “I think the closest is about twenty feet to our right.”
“I’ll bet on your teacher instincts any day. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Razor rolled onto his side, and jackknifed his body along the floor, hoping to come across something sharp to cut away the ropes. A brick, broken glass, anything. Inching along was hard going. The pain in his shoulder hurt like hell, and he felt a sticky dampness around his wound. “How are you doing, Rusti?” He could hear the rustle of her movements nearby, keeping pace.
He had a vague idea that they’d traveled nearly fifteen feet already. There were several finger-width cracks in the floor, but the ridges were too smooth and flat to be of any help. In California, concrete structures settled fast, and Razor felt sure he’d find what he needed. “Any idea where we are?” he asked.
“There’s something familiar about it,” Rusti said, “the way it smells—kind of sweet and musty.”
Razor came to a wall and shifted until he was sitting against it, knees pulled up to his chest. He pushed with his feet, keeping his back as close to the wall as his bound hands allowed. Then he pushed up to a standing position and began walking his fingers along, feeling for cracks. After several minutes, he found what he was looking for—a crack in the wall at least three or four inches wide. He began to saw the rope around his wrist against the jagged edges.
****
Rusti snaked herself toward the sawing sound—then suddenly she felt Razor’s arms close around her and herself being drawn to her feet. Relief flooded through her. His hands were free. He untied her hands and they began loosening the ropes around their ankles. She wanted to hug him, but the kidnappers could return any second.
“How do we get out of here?” he asked.
She grabbed his hand. “This way, I think.”
Together, they moved through the darkness, Rusti blindly clutching at air until her hand connected with a heavy, solid door. She slid her fingers over the rough wood and located the latch. It wouldn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” she said.
Razor pulled on it, hard. “It’s not stuck,” he said, “it’s locked.”
“Now what?” Rusti didn’t really expect an answer but was relieved to get one.
“Maybe there’s another way out,” he said, leading her along the wall and off to the right. The wall turned a corner into an alcove bathed in pale moonlight, coming from a window about ten feet above them.
Rusti spotted the huge, wooden vats along the wall—the kind used in the fifties when wineries were still in full operation. “I know where we are. This is an old winery! The musty smell is from the fermented grape residue.”
Razor looked up at the window. “We’re in luck—the glass is missing. You’ll have to stand on my shoulders and hoist yourself up. Think you can make it?”
She had no idea, but wouldn’t admit it. “Sure. Dancer’s bodies are strong.” Razor stooped, and with a grip that made her feel safe, he lifted her up. He groaned as she put her weight on his injured shoulder. “Sorry,” she murmured. She grabbed for the window ledge. It was a couple of inches too high. She stretched to her limit. “Get closer to the wall.” He did, but she still couldn’t reach it. She stiffened her legs. “Grab my ankles and slowly lift me up.” He did as she asked, and she grasped the ledge with her fingers. “Push, Razor, push.”
Razor groaned as he extended his shoulder higher. Sympathy shot through her. But his efforts paid off—Rusti was able to pull herself through the opening.
“Do you always wear black lace panties?” he asked.
She turned and looked back at him. “Thanks for the boost, wiseguy. See you around sometime.” Then she jumped from the window ledge to the damp ground below.
“Rusti? Hey, don’t kid around. Get a rope or something and throw it down to me. Rusti…Rusti?”
****
Razor checked out his concrete “prison” again, looking for something to stand on. He came up with nothing. After a couple of minutes, Rusti came back. “I looked for a rope or ladder to lower to you,” she whispered, “but couldn’t find anything that would do the trick. I’ll circle the outside and open the entry door from the other side.”
“That’s too risky. Just get out of here and send help.”
“Would René do that?”
“René was a trained agent.”
“Well, I’m doing this for her,” she said, and then it got quiet. Too quiet. And he knew she was gone.
Dammit. The spirited schoolteacher had courage, but she’d need luck to sneak down the steps unseen and open the door. And with Murphy’s Law working overtime, he couldn’t count on it. So far everything had gone wrong—except that Terrilla still believed him. Whoever was after the microfilm was operating on their own. Razor knew that for sure. Terrilla would have been more direct, more lethal. But why had these bastards stashed Rusti and him in this abandoned winery?
Buck would wonder why he hadn’t called for instructions about his new contact. At least the microfilm was safe. For now. But Rusti was still out there on her own, and he’d never felt so powerless. He was supposed to keep her safe and bring this operation to a successful conclusion. He couldn’t let some penny-ante hoods stop him now. He had Terrilla cold on microfilm: detailed records of his complete operation, from receiving to distribution, including the money laundering scams—the whole bundle of evil.
If Rusti made it, he wanted to be on the other side of the door waiting when she got there. Razor dragged his hand along the wall, following it around a corner to the room with no windows until he found the door. Then he examined every inch of the rough, splintered wood. The thick, doublewide barrier was reminiscent of doors used in castle dudgeons back in the dark ages. His only hope was that the wood was termite ridden. Getting a running start, he thrust himself against the door. It didn’t budge, but the blow sent a sharp pain to his gunshot wound. He put his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. His freedom depended upon a mere slip of a woman—the woman he was supposed to protect. If she wasn’t able to open the door, he’d be trapped.
/>
But dammit, he couldn’t accept that. He searched along the edges of the door, looking for the hinges. The metal plates and bolts felt rigid, but the old wood around them was soft. If he could find something to dig at it with—like a shard of cement from the crumbling wall, or a heavy-duty construction nail—he might be able to remove the hinges and get the door open.
****
Clouds drifted across the moon and obscured the stars, but there was enough light for Rusti to make her way up the slope to the back of the winery. The only sounds were crickets clicking their nighttime song and the whiz of an occasional car driving by on the highway. Rounding the corner of the building, she passed the unmarked panel truck; it had no license plates.
Where were the men who had kidnapped them? Fear gathered in the pit of her stomach as she crept, crouching and silent, to the cellar stairwell. The odor of cigarettes filled the air, but it was as quiet as a tomb. Beneath her stocking feet, the steps were painfully icy. A cobweb brushed her face and clung to her hair. She bit her lower lip. She hated spiders, but they were the least of her worries.
She trailed her hand along the concrete wall for balance, easing her way. Each step down took her deeper into inky darkness. She paused at the foot of the stairs, then making an intuitive guess, turned left. She came to a wide plain of solid wood. The door! Then disappointment washed over her—an iron bar blocked the way. She struggled to remove it. If dropped, it would clang like a bell.
The thought of Razor somewhere on the other side of that door gave her new strength, new courage. She removed her jacket, folded it around one end of the bar to cushion it, and then pushed the bar up and over. The cushioned end slid to the floor with a muffled thump. Trembling, she shoved up the latch, pulled, and the door creaked open. Rusti let out a small gasp when Razor’s arms closed around her.
“Thank God you’re safe,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ve been going nuts worrying about you.”
She rested in the safety of his embrace for only a moment, then backed out of his arms and retrieved her jacket. “We have to hurry,” she said. “I don’t know where the kidnappers are, but their truck is right outside.”