House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  "That's why she kidnapped Sally?"

  Reed shrugged. "Evie was never all that clear a thinker."

  "I'm still confused. Why did she come here?"

  "Once things went wrong, all she could think of was to ask her boyfriend for help. But when she got here, he locked her up. She doesn't know what's going on either. She says this is his house, but he's a cop. That doesn't make any sense. How could a cop have a house like this? I mean, no offense, but does that seem likely? And why would a cop hold three people prisoner, including his own girlfriend and a baby?" She stopped talking and remembered Skip.

  "Four."

  The back of Skip's neck prickled; her scalp crawled. She felt cold all over. "A cop? This is a cop's house?" Had she been recognized? Was that why she'd been captured?

  "Well, he told Evie he was a lawyer, but I know him from the restaurant and I know he's a cop. Married too." She sighed. "Poor Evie; she always gets in the worst kind of scrapes."

  "You don't know his name, do you?"

  "Sure. Maurice Gresham."

  Bingo.

  He wasn't just a cop, he was a detective in Skip's platoon. He was the one Cappello thought was dirty.

  "I always did wonder how he could afford to eat at the restaurant so often. Maybe he has family money."

  Right. Marcello family money. The Marcellos were the celebrated South Louisiana arm of the mob.

  This is some kind of mob deal. It's some kind of clubhouse; a meeting place. Maybe Gresham owns it or maybe Garibaldi does—on paper. That's a fine point—the issue here is that a dirty cop and a Dragon have got me taped to a bed. And I'm only one of four.

  She shook her head.

  Reed said, "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Just thinking."

  Just lying. Something's badly wrong. Whoever heard of the mob taking prisoners, one of them a Homicide cop? Whatever's going on here is plain crazy. It's not mob stuff, it's something else.

  Something worse.

  But what?

  Okay, think.

  We're locked up because we know too much. It must be the casino board members. They must be in deep with the mob, and Reed saw them here. So maybe Anna stowed her away till she could think what to do with her, and she had to stow Evie because she knew about Reed.

  Then there's me. I tracked them here, so I'm even more dangerous than they are right now. But how did they know I'm a cop?

  Her mind answered the question almost immediately: The gardener saw the gun in my purse. When I opened it to give him the money. Damn the kid with the ice cream! I wasn't even a little bit nervous about Auntie Anna.

  So what's the deal with her? Reed said Anna had lost some of her self-possession the second time she saw her.

  But who wouldn't? Boy, are we a hot potato!

  Why don't they just kill us?

  She knew the answer to that. It wasn't the mob's way to kill, except for revenge or over money. But they might if they had to.

  The real reason they'd done nothing probably was that they were waiting for orders. Gresham probably didn't count at all, was just an errand boy at the cop shop.

  That left Anna.

  Who was she?

  One thing, she was a woman; that meant she wouldn't have any real power in the mob. But who did?

  The answer hit her like a thunderbolt:

  Gus Lozano.

  The missing Gus Lozano.

  Suppose he was the one whose answer they awaited? What was it likely to be?

  At this point, what could it be?

  Depends how important Gresham is to them. If they let us go, Anna goes down, so does he, and very likely so do their three tame casino boarders.

  But maybe the casino guys don't go. Sure, Reed recognized them, sure there'd be an investigation, but they could probably ride it out—while remaining voting members of the board. Very Louisiana.

  Anna's probably expendable as hell.

  Being a woman.

  So no big deal there.

  Gresham's the problem. Cappello's testimony alone could do him in once his connection came out. If it does, he's a goner.

  So the question is, how much do they need him? Because the answer to that probably determines whether we live or die.

  25

  I have to get us out of this.

  The realization was about a nine and a half on the terror scale. But there was no one else.

  No one outside the house knew where she'd gone, and everyone inside was either another victim or an enemy.

  And something was screwy.

  The setup just wasn't logical. The mob was nothing if not professional. And there was nothing professional about locking up two civilians, a child, and a police officer.

  But since somebody had—Gresham and Anna Garibaldi, it would seem—the prognosis was pathetic.

  Skip had a headache and didn't want to think about it. She felt like drowsing off again, but she knew that wasn't wise. A compromise, then. She'd close her eyes for just a few minutes ....

  To her horror, she was awakened by a door slamming. The woman who entered was old enough to be commanding, and she had the longish face Reed had described. But she wasn't a Dragon. She was an older woman in a blue silk robe, a very nice robe, but soft and luxurious, the last thing a Dragon would wear for terrifying the prisoners.

  She was wearing full makeup, and her hair was neat. She looked as if she planned to go somewhere. And she trailed some kind of citrusy scent, as if she were fresh from the shower. She crossed the room and began opening drawers, not even glancing at Skip. There was something frail about her.

  Skip caught Reed's eye. "The Dragon?" she mouthed.

  Reed nodded.

  To speak or keep quiet?

  It was a vain hope, but maybe if Garibaldi didn't know she knew her name . . . ?

  Reed said, "What's happening?" but the Dragon didn't deign to answer. She continued to open drawers, not bothering to close them, until she pulled out Skip's purse.

  As they watched, she rifled it.

  Skip said, "Can I help you with something?" half in sarcasm, mainly just wanting to get Garibaldi's attention. The Dragon's hands shook as she found Skip's wallet and removed money first, then credit cards; then paused, and took out her driver's license. Her face was intent, but Skip could see worry there. She had a sense of ruin, as if the Dragon, scale by scale, were falling apart before her eyes. When she had what she wanted, Garibaldi dropped the purse on the floor and left, closing the door behind her, locking it with a key.

  The purse, falling on soft carpet, failed to make much of a thud, so that there was really no way to tell, but Skip had the impression her gun had been removed. She herself usually had to take it out to find anything, and Garibaldi had rifled freely, as if there were plenty of room in there.

  So probably no gun, and maybe no badge, but there were other things in the purse. Skip went through a mental inventory: pens, cosmetics—lipstick, blusher, that was about it—a notebook, a hairbrush, a tiny manicure kit in a leather case, keys, sunglasses, maybe some tissues with lipstick on them, aspirin, handcuffs—no, they'd probably taken the handcuffs. But there was an extra key, and they probably hadn't found it. Skip kept it in a compartment of her wallet. If she could get it, she could uncuff Reed.

  And there were cuticle scissors in the manicure kit.

  Maybe Reed could reach the purse.

  But she couldn't even see it—she had her back to it, and anyway, Skip couldn't stand to watch if she asked her to try for it. Even if it seemed harder—even if it seemed impossible—Skip had to do it herself.

  She remembered what she had told Steve, about the rarity of detective deaths. She felt far from heroic, but statistics were on her side. Jim had just died, so what were the chances of another Homicide detective getting killed so soon afterward?

  Good.

  Well, it'll certainly happen if you just lie here.

  And yet, what was the choice, given the circumstances?

  Think of something.
>
  Because they had left her legs free, there was a way to get up, she was pretty sure of it. But it was going to be hugely uncomfortable.

  She swung her legs toward the floor. They didn't reach. She tensed her muscles and gave a mighty heave. One foot of the bed, at her head on the right, lifted a little. She tried again, and thought she felt it lift a little farther. She kept trying, and each time got her legs closer to the floor.

  How could she get the bed to come up?

  I don't think I can.

  Truly, it seemed like a losing battle, but she kept trying. Finally, with a great creaking, it came up enough for her to touch the floor. On the next heave, the whole thing began to upend itself.

  Reed watched with eyes like coasters, apparently trying to gauge whether it was going to hit her on the way over. It didn't, however. After about twenty minutes of heaving and wrenching, Skip found herself on the floor with a bed on top of her—mattress, box springs, and frame.

  "Skip, are you all right?"

  "I think so."

  She was a little dazed. It had hit her hard. She hadn't thought it would be so heavy.

  Okay. I did it. Now the question is, can I move?

  I don't have far to go. Four or five feet, probably. Piece of cake. She took a deep breath, and as she did, she smelled smoke.

  Oh, shit.

  She hoped Reed hadn't yet noticed the smell; she'd panic, not knowing where her child was.

  Only one thing to do. Same thing I'd do if there wasn't smoke. Like a hermit crab, its house many times its size on its back, Skip began to make her way toward her own discarded property. She had to move on her elbows, like a soldier slithering through trenches, but it was much harder than it should have been, not only because of the weight, but because her arms were so far apart, taped as they were.

  The carpet smelled of feet, and cigarettes, and some kind of chemical, a cleaner, probably, and the fabric itself. Yet she could smell smoke as well, and it wasn't the sharp scent of tobacco burning.

  Reed said, "Skip, do you smell anything?" and there was a tremor in her voice.

  Skip didn't answer. She was drenched with sweat, she must have blisters on her elbows, and she thought perhaps her back was wrenched beyond usefulness.

  She caught the leather handle of her purse in her teeth and began the painful business of turning toward Reed. If she could just make the turn, she'd only have about three feet to go.

  About half as many as I just went. About as many as I could cover in three centuries. By which time we'll be ashes.

  Still, slowly, like the snail that carries its house, she twisted her body and, with it, the bed. She rested a moment, forehead on the carpet, before beginning the endless slither toward Reed. Sweat poured into the fabric. She gagged against the purse strap.

  "Skip? I think we're on fire."

  Now she not only had no inclination to speak, she could not; or she would have dropped the purse strap.

  Finally, every muscle in her body shaking, most of the liquid in her left on the carpet, she judged she was close enough to attempt the vast problem of upheaval. Reed, being cuffed, couldn't lean down to get the purse; but if Skip could maneuver it close enough to her open hand, she might, in about three or four hours, be able to extract something from it.

  Skip got up on her knees, the bed like a boulder on top of her. Reed stretched her fingers toward the purse. Finally, sweat dripping from Skip, Reed's eyes nearly popping with the effort, they maneuvered the trade.

  Skip made a decision.

  "Cuticle scissors," she managed to gasp. "In the leather case. Cut my tape."

  She heaved onto her right side, which meant slamming the bed onto the floor, on its side, which, judging by the way it felt, probably broke her back.

  Is it my imagination or is it getting hotter in here?

  She really couldn't know, feeling as she did—as if she'd just run a marathon.

  Using her whole body, legs more than arms this time, she slithered toward Reed, close enough for her to cut the tape; but she stayed there a very long time while Reed held the purse awkwardly in one cuffed hand and felt for the case with the other.

  Smoke was beginning to enter the room, curling under the door, only a wisp at first.

  "Goddamn motherfucker. Asshole cocksucker." Reed kept up an impressive litany of swear words while she worked. Finally she had the tape of one hand cut deeply enough for Skip to wrench her hand free. It was dodgy work because she had almost no feeling in the hand. She bent her fingers a few times, waiting for the sensation to return, but her body would not cooperate. Nevertheless, there was no time for recovery.

  She began the operation of freeing her left hand, more sweat pouring.

  I'll die of dehydration if I live long enough.

  "Skip?" said Reed again. "I really think we're on fire."

  One thing at a time, dammit.

  When she had freed her hand, she took no more than a few seconds to rub it. Fumbling, still numb, she found her extra cuff key and freed Reed.

  For which she received only abuse. "You knew that was in there all the time! Why didn't you tell me to get that first? I could have gotten you loose a lot quicker with my hands free."

  "Yes. But would you have?"

  All she knew about these people was what they'd told her—first Dennis, then Reed. She was not about to make herself, immobile in a burning building, vulnerable to yet another stranger.

  She let Reed chew on that a few minutes while she pulled futilely at the locked door, her throat starting to burn from the smoke. Since it opened from the inside, she couldn't kick it in. Reed was starting to lose it. She was standing in the middle of the room, wringing her freed hands. "Sally," she said. "Please be safe. Please God, let her be safe."

  Her eyes were wild.

  And Skip felt something more than smoke clutch at her throat. If she did get the door open, she might find an inferno behind it—flames that would race through this room, killing her and Reed in minutes. The door might be the only reason she and Reed had survived this long—she'd once heard a fireman call hollow doors "twenty-minute doors"; solid ones would last about an hour, and from what she knew about this place, with its soundproofing, this was probably a solid one.

  She battled the thing in her throat. I couldn't lose it. This is no fucking time to lose it.

  She pulled the heavy gold curtains.

  Light flooded the room. The window was huge, a single pane of glass set into the wall, not meant to be opened. Since the house appeared to be soundproofed, it was probably freakishly thick. They were on the second floor. There was grass below, but they were too high up to jump. The smoke showed up much better in the light. There was a thickening cloud in the room.

  Skip realized there was an advantage to the unbroken expanse of glass with no tiny panes, no sliding mechanism.

  Reed said, "Oh, God. Sally. What are we going to do?"

  Skip picked up a chair. "Stand back." She swung the chair at the window, but nothing happened.

  What was heavier?

  She wished she had her gun.

  The television might work, she realized. She tried to pick it up, didn't succeed.

  "Reed, help me throw this at the window."

  Reed was beyond arguing. She picked up an end. It sagged, but that wouldn't matter much.

  "Now let's go. Heave."

  Reed coughed from the smoke, and dropped her end.

  That caused Skip to drop hers. It landed on her foot.

  "Owwww. Goddamn, motherfucker."

  The outburst calmed Reed, somehow brought her to her senses.

  "Come on. Let's try it again."

  Sweat popped out on Skip's forehead, from the pain. But she managed to hoist the machine once again, and Reed got her end in the air.

  The television crashed through, sending glass splinters back into the room. One caught Reed on the arm. Blood ran.

  Skip picked up the chair again and bashed out the rest of the window, but the glass was
very thick. It was maddeningly slow work.

  Reed tried to tear a sheet, to tie up her wound. "What are we going to do?" she said. "It's too high to jump."

  The smoke was getting worse. Skip was starting to cough. She wished she had some water, to wet down a sheet or something.

  "Come on. Help me pick up this mattress." The one on the bed that was still standing.

  Once again she thought she felt the room getting hotter, but there was no way to tell. The air from outside was hotter than inside, and anyway, the fire could have caused the AC to go off long ago.

  As they worked the mattress off the bed and onto the window-sill, Skip wondered why the firemen weren't there, why there were no sirens in the distance.

  Maybe it's just a small fire.

  But she knew better.

  They let the mattress go, and it landed well, spread out under the window, one end on top of the television set, but that was the breaks. It was as good a cushion as they were going to get.

  "Let's go," said Skip. "You first."

  "Let's push the other mattress out." For a double cushion. Skip had thought of it, but discarded the idea as frivolous. They were going to die of smoke inhalation if they stayed much longer, and so were Evie and Sally.

  There was something else as well.

  If Reed wanted to, she could remove both mattresses after she jumped, effectively trapping Skip in the burning house.

  She said, "No. Go."

  Reed glanced wistfully at the other mattress.

  "Think of Sally."

  She climbed up on the sill and hung there.

  Skip pushed her.

  She wasn't quite ready, and landed slightly short, half off the mattress.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I don't know." Her voice was small and panicky.

  "Well, roll to the side. I'm coming."

  "I think my ankle's broken."

  Shit!

  "Reed, get up, go next door and call 911. Sally's in here."

  No answer.

  "Crawl if you have to."

  Reed began to crawl, propelling herself on her elbows. As soon as she had clearance, Skip climbed up on the sill, but she didn't jump right away. It occurred to her at the last second to gather up her purse and its contents. She climbed down and then back up.