Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  "Besides rum, the drink contained small doses of white wine and triple sec." He paused. "Mind telling me where you got it?"

  "Later. Anything from the lab reports on Jada Davison?"

  "Traces of Xanax. Not enough to kill her."

  "Thanks, brother, I owe you."

  Twenty minutes later, Cole parked in the structure reserved for drivers of department-issued cars and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

  He met Martindale in one of the conference rooms.

  "There’s no uncle even though records show he obtained legal custody after protective services removed the boy from his mother’s home five years ago," Martindale said. "Obviously, bogus.

  "Has the kid been emancipated?"

  "No record of it."

  No uncle or emancipation. How had McGerald River acquired the house? Had Mary Winter helped him? If so, why? Did they know each other from somewhere else? The unanswered questions multiplied like cancer cells. He needed the kid’s prints. Perhaps they could pull something useable from Alex’s fruit juice bottle. Cole placed a quick call to Darrel to let him know he’d be coming by to pick it up.

  "I shot a bullet in Morgan’s alibi," Cole said. "The sister lied after Morgan told her she might be considered a suspect since she discovered the body." He told Martindale what he found out from McMullen.

  Martindale’s face hardened. "So Taryn knew something. Had to get it off her chest. She tells Morgan. Ends up dead," he said huskily. "And Jada ends up in the morgue, too," he added. "Time to bug Mary Winter’s office. Got the green light a few minutes ago."

  "How? We got nothing solid."

  "We want information. Something’s going on behind those doors. I want to know what it is." Martindale smiled slyly. "You and me. Tonight. Before the custodians leave. Anything else?"

  Cole couldn’t fill him in on Jada’s lab results without betraying Darrel’s involvement, but he allotted Martindale the abridged version of Alex’s reaction to the fruit punch at River’s.

  Martindale grinned. "Now that’s an image I can handle. Alex in heat."

  "Sizzling out of control, man," Cole said. His smile segued to a frown. "Think about the subtext, using the same doctored fruit punch on under-aged teens."

  "Business or pleasure, we’re talking felony," Martindale said. "Too bad we can’t get a search warrant."

  *

  If they planned to torture and kill her, why didn’t they do it and get it over with? Were they just playing with her? Did they want her to suffer? Alex, calm down. Think. Why would these people do this? Because she had nosed around? Was hot on their trail? Taryn had to be tied to whatever went on inside this apartment building. But how? A secret life? No, she knew Taryn far too well to buy that piece of nonsense.

  Something soft and feathery touched her hand. It tickled. Not the usual tool for torture. Brushed lightly up one arm to her shoulder, it floated across her breast barely touching her, and down the other arm. Before she had time to react, it swept along her leg, same as before, moving to the V and the other thigh. A tingle deep in her center caught her off guard. Not now, she moaned inwardly. Go away. Desire for more burgeoned with every stroke, especially when it brushed across her most sensitive places. She sucked in her breath, trying not to make a sound. Don’t moan, her head demanded. You don’t know what you’re asking. Don’t react. Impossible. The dusting stopped. She willed it to continue. Nothing happened. That's it? We're done? She hoped so. She hoped not. Ridiculous, of course she wanted it over.

  Something hummed next to her ear. Now what? Oh, I know what that is. She kept a buzzer at home in her bedside stand. It must be dust covered with a dead battery by now. Had other women strapped to this chair been abused? Or had the act been consensual? Some people got off on bondage.

  The object blazed a trail across the tips of her breasts robbing her of the ability to breathe. She writhed on the seat of the chair. Don’t. No matter which way she shifted, the vibration stimulated her body. Heating it up, revving up her juices until they flowed. Stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Don’t stop.

  As though reading her mind, the object of her desire advanced downward. That feels good. Alex’s body gyrated, pushing into it. She spread her knees apart. She wanted more. Keeping it from her incited sheer torture—teaching her that more than one kind of torture could create havoc. Though pleasurable, it messed with her mind. She didn’t want to desire it. She didn’t want to enjoy it. She didn’t want to yearn for it. Her body wanted it. Her mind didn’t. Betrayed, she combated shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and rage. Quelling her body's reaction to the sexual titillation proved to be unrealistic and downright impossible.

  CHAPTER 52

  Martindale buried the bug inside an artificial plant on Mary Winter’s desk, carefully replacing the felt leaves. He waggled the voice-activated tape recorder, the size of a cigarette package. "Now we hide this baby."

  "How many hours?" Cole asked.

  "Eight."

  Cole examined the cobweb-filled space under the locker. "How about here?"

  Martindale nodded. "That’ll work."

  Cole lifted the back of the locker, leaning it forward, and Martindale slid the device into place, trying not to disturb the spider or its snare. In less than five minutes, they finished the job. Martindale replaced a small piece of paper when he closed the door and they proceeded out of the building.

  "How’d you notice it?" Cole asked, back in the car.

  "It’s an old trick. Use it myself sometimes."

  Cole hadn’t thought to look at McGerald River’s place. He gripped the steering wheel. Damn, the toilet seat! He doubted Alex had had the wherewithal to replace it in the upright position. They’d left a calling card, like it or not. If River kept count, he might notice one of his bottles missing. Well, he could just suck it up.

  "Appears Mary Winter's hiding something," Cole said, inserting the key in the ignition.

  "Either that or the woman’s taking precautions." Martindale buckled up and settled into the passenger seat.

  Cole fastened his seatbelt. "After all these years?"

  Martindale shrugged. "Some people never forget. Or forgive."

  "Think she’s covered her tracks well enough?"

  "Depends on their resources."

  "Any more tricks up your sleeve?" Cole merged onto Plymouth Road.

  "You’d be surprised."

  "Dazzle me."

  "Ever find Alex MIA let me know."

  "I’m sure her car’s low-jacked."

  "Don’t need the hassle. I concealed a tracer inside the condom of her lipstick."

  "No guarantee she has it with her."

  "Only one way to find out."

  Cole had worried about Alex ever since he dropped by the school earlier in the day. She should have been in her office. She should have answered her phone. She should have checked in. He’d heard nothing. "Let’s do it."

  *

  Alex felt exhausted, exhausted from trying to suppress her body’s natural tendencies and exhausted from trying to control her emotions. Exhausted, period. Though she’d been given a brief reprieve, her tormentor went at it again, running that thing across her breasts and her crotch. She ached down there, actually physically hurt. Either finish the job or leave me alone.

  The door burst open.

  "Gotta go," Morgan said. "Now!"

  The vibrator landed on the floor with a clunk, the soft buzzing growing louder as the object of her desire shuddered on the floor. The door closed leaving Alex alone— blind, almost naked, strapped to a chair, her heart pounding, with her genitals pulsating.

  But alive.

  CHAPTER 53

  Cole drove Martindale home to use his computer. While the FBI agent used specialized software to track Alex, Cole paced the compact apartment. They located her on Columbia Street downtown, a stone’s throw from Police Headquarters.

  Driving like a maniac, Cole arrived shortly after eleven p.m. He cruised the deserted street to the Roadster, sitting
alone, all dressed up with no place to go. Alex had obviously left her purse behind when she went off to do her sleuthing. He scrutinized the block, searching for the logical place. Lights gleamed from the windows of three buildings. Finding the office building buttoned up for the night, and thinking the shelter made no sense, Cole hustled to the apartment building.

  Scanning the area with his flashlight, he traveled to the rear of the building. With his other hand he felt for the forty-caliber Glock secured in his shoulder holster. The lone car parked in the lot, a Neon, belonged to Morgan. This had to be the place. He cracked his neck to relieve the tension. His adrenaline sped up.

  He tried the back door.

  Locked.

  The options of obtaining a warrant, dropping a dime, or calling for backup flashed through his mind. He had probable cause, Alex could be in danger. If his judgment call proved incorrect, he’d accept the consequences. Drawing his weapon, he aimed at the lock above the doorknob and prayed no innocent stood behind it. The blast echoed into the night.

  He slowly opened the door into a faintly lit stairwell, his eyes searching the depths above and below. No sign of life. Several yards away, artificial light glowed through the window of the door leading to the hall. Cole crossed the short distance. Hugging the wall, he opened the door just enough to squeeze between it and the doorframe. He cautiously poked his head out to look up and down the deserted corridor, at the doors closed in each direction.

  He proceeded down the hall a short distance and halted. Alex could be anywhere. Morgan knew the hiding places, the routes to take to avoid detection, and the best positions for an ambush. He couldn’t do this alone. Like it or not, he’d have to call for backup.

  Hearing footsteps on the back stairs, Cole wheeled about. The exterior door slammed. He jogged back and burst through the door into the stairwell. A crack of gun fire sounded outside. Cole darted across the landing. Standing to one side, he shoved the door ajar, waited for more shots. None came. Several seconds passed. He peered out. Yolanda Morgan lay facedown on the ground with a gunshot wound to her temple, blood spilling onto the pavement. Using the door as a shield, he flashed his light over the parking lot and up to the roofs and windows of adjacent buildings. No sign of the shooter. He crept to Morgan’s side and knelt to feel for a pulse. Yolanda Morgan was dead.

  CHAPTER 54

  Thursday, February 15

  Burkhart and a team of officers arrived within minutes of Cole’s call. The EMTs and Medical Examiner followed. After securing and surveying the crime scene, Cole barked out orders.

  "Alex is inside," he said to Burkhart afterward.

  "You sure?"

  "Her car’s parked out on the street."

  Burkhart shook his head. "Told you the girl belongs on a leash."

  Cole assigned four uniforms to search for Alex. "Let me know as soon as you find her," he said, working his hands into latex gloves.

  Expensive paintings, vases, and king-size pots of greenery accentuated the cluster of plush sofas and wingback chairs in the lobby. A crystal chandelier hung from the hand painted ceiling. Tapestry drapes dressed long narrow windows. Cole crossed the shiny marble floor to the front desk and slipped behind the counter. No computer. No list of residents. He detected nothing to tell the story behind Foxworth Apartments or why the hit on Morgan.

  Preferring to start at the bottom and work his way up, Cole rode the elevator to the basement. Spotless, stark, cold—the thermostat fixed on sixty-five—it heralded a warehouse atmosphere. He covered the kitchen, dining room, two classrooms and laundry facilities sandwiched between two community baths and dormitories, one at each end of the building.

  Cole opened a wardrobe in one of the dorms. Boy’s white shirts and black pants hung neatly from hangers. In the bottom of the closet, sat a pair of black and white tennis shoes. Filled to capacity, the tidy drawers of the dresser contained white underwear, stacks of black and white socks, gray sweatsuits, and gray nightwear—all boring. No signs of anything personal or decorative in sight. The second dormitory mirrored the first with one exception. The clothes and underwear belonged to the opposite gender.

  The door to each dorm could be bolted from the outside suggesting the occupants were not free to come and go of their own free will. No way of telling who they had been—illegal immigrants, run-away teens, maybe, used as free labor to maintain the quality of services the apartment building promised? Or for something more diabolic? Where is everyone? The place had obviously been evacuated. Had Alex’s surprise visit raised an alarm? Did they take her with them when they fled?

  Cole radioed the techs to dust for fingerprints and took the elevator back to the first floor. The basement had been disturbing enough, but what he discovered next sickened him. The security cameras he’d noticed in the lobby and downstairs hadn’t been a surprise. Most places today used them. What he found in the room adjacent to the registration desk violated people’s privacy in the vilest way. Every apartment, every bedroom, every bathroom, every inch of the building had eyes. Eyes that watched everything. Though some cameras kept the building secure, too many served with the sole purpose of voyeurism.

  His eyes, traveling from one idle screen to another, zoomed in on a teenage girl. Her face looked as if it had been used as a punching bag. She lay in a hospital bed, her chest gently heaving. Eyes closed, she was either asleep or unconscious. The missing Mercedes? He lifted his radio to summon the EMTs.

  Cole’s gaze continued its journey along the queue of monitors until they came to rest on another screen. His hands clenched. A woman wearing nothing but her underwear —similar to that of Alex's the night before—lay strapped to a chair, her identity hidden beneath a hood. The milk-white skin and size fit Alex. She didn’t stir. Eyes trained on her chest, he waited. Very slightly, it moved. Up, down. Relief swept over him like a welcome breeze. His eyes zeroed in on the sex paraphernalia on the walls—everything imaginable from S&M to sex toys. To what had she been subjected? Torture? Molestation?

  Cole calculated her location and contacted Officer Drew. Cautioning her to keep a low profile, he advised her to take a blanket along. Alex must never know he’d seen her at her most vulnerable. She'd be mortified, especially after last night.

  CHAPTER 55

  Wrapped in her coat, Alex lounged on a sofa in the lobby. Her emotions tangled in a knot. She refused to pry them apart, finding one big lump easier to manage than addressing them individually.

  Officer Drew had questioned her already though Alex hadn’t been very helpful. "Not raped." . . . "Yes, molested." . . . "I don’t know by whom." . . . "No, don't know whether male or female."

  She mentally paused. Something nagged at her, something important. Come on, come on. It failed to emerge even after heavy-duty concentration. With a name at least, she could go through the alphabet. Nine times out of ten, if it lay dormant inside her head, no matter how deeply, it would eventually surface. Having no basis from which to begin, a thought or concept didn’t have the same success rate.

  Alex’s mind drifted back to her rescue. Left alone, she had struggled to loosen the bindings, the straps digging into her wrists and ankles. When she felt blood trickling down her hands and feet, she stopped fighting. Soon the wicked wounds began to throb. Clenching her teeth, she stifled a moan even though no one could hear her.

  The door opened.

  She tensed. Had they returned to subject her to more? Or to kill her?

  "I’m Officer Nancy Drew."

  Alex wouldn't appreciate the comic relief her savior's name contributed to the situation until much later. At the moment, she only reveled in the fact she'd been rescued. And, thankfully, by a woman, considering her state of dress, or undress, as the case may be.

  "I’m going to place a blanket over you."

  Soft, warm, welcome.

  "Now I’ll remove the hood."

  Alex blinked in the light. The officer, about her age, scrutinized her with a kind face and sympathetic eyes.

  "Let’
s get you out of this contraption," she said, undoing the bindings.

  Alex inhaled the fresh air. Before leaving the chamber, she scanned the closet-size room. Sex objects plastered the black walls. Back in its sheath, the knife used to cut off her clothes dangled from a hook and the feather duster—that’s what it resembled—also in its place. Every kind of vibrator imaginable, chains, whips, and other S&M paraphernalia, looking like they could cause more pain than pleasure, hung from the walls. Would the pervert have used them if Morgan hadn’t interrupted? Alex shuddered at the thought.

  The vibrator, with which she’d been tortured, still buzzed on the floor. Officer Drew picked it up with a gloved hand, shut it off, and bagged it for evidence.

  Her wounds cleaned and bandaged, Alex now waited for clearance to go home. After making a fool of herself last night and disobeying Cole's order today, she didn’t know how she’d face him. On the other hand, maybe she’d propelled the investigation closer to a resolution. She still had no idea what this place had to do with Taryn.

  Officer Drew approached. "You can leave now. Are you okay to drive?"

  "I’m good," Alex said, trying to stand. She fell back onto the cushion, a hard object jabbing her in the back.

  "Maybe not," Officer Drew said.

  "I’m fine. Just lost my balance." She shoved the item between the cushions and stood. "See, I’m okay."

  "A squad car can follow you home."

  Alex waited until the woman left before digging out her prize. She shoved Morgan's taser into the pocket of her coat. A girl never knew when one might come in handy—especially in this new line of work.

  CHAPTER 56

  Though Cole hadn’t gotten to bed until past five, after winding things up at the crime scene and reading the rest of Art of War, he awoke at seven-thirty and arrived downtown by nine ready to work. The events of last night produced more questions than answers. Again. Still, Alex had once more opened a door that would have remained closed had she not disobeyed his orders.