“Take all the time you need. You can call me anytime. The number I gave you is forwarded to me no matter where I am, even if I’m on a plane. Call it any time, day or night, for any reason you want. I promise I’ll pick up.”
His tone was gentle, almost fatherly. That comforted me and bothered me at the same time. I didn’t want him to think of me like a father would. I wanted him to think of me as a lover, to protect me as a lover, and to cherish me as a lover. Part of me seemed to think that he already did. “All right, I will,” I replied. But I wasn’t sure I actually would call. My better instincts told me to run for the hills and never speak to this man again. But I wasn’t listening to my instincts.
“I need to ring off now, Nancy, to take care of some things. But promise me that you’ll delete the email string from your computer right away, and change all your passwords. Better yet, see if you can work on a different machine altogether. The iPad I’m sending over has a full suite of software, including a word processor. If you don’t want to write on a tablet, I can arrange a laptop for you. A top-of-the-line Apple with the latest in security and encryption technology. I can get you a special model that isn’t available to the general public yet, the same model used by the CIA. I have one that I use myself, and I can get another from my source within a few hours, maybe a day at the longest.”
I found this overwhelming. “Why would I need all of that? I’m just a college student and a reporter, not a programmer or a hacker. I just write papers and surf the Internet.”
“Bluschencko’s people can hack into anything, Nancy. As I said, they’re probably tracking you already.”
“Then they’re probably bored. I don’t do or say anything interesting, and I don’t have any money, either.” I checked myself. “Well, I have enough for rent and stuff, but that’s it.”
“Bluschencko isn’t after you for money, Nancy. I guarantee you that. At least not the money you already have.”
“Then what does he want?”
“The same thing that I want. Your body. Only Bluschencko intends to profit from it. I don’t.”
Your body. A lightbulb ignited in my reporter’s brain. “Bluschencko is a human trafficker, isn’t he?”
“You’re a very savvy journalist, Ms. Delaney.”
“So I’m right?”
“You are. And that is exactly why you’re in so much danger.”
TEN
The iPad Rostovich promised arrived about an hour later, along with a two-man security team. My new bodyguards were a pair of German identical twins named Rolf and Wilhelm Werner. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, they had identical crew cuts and matching black suits, mirrored sunglasses, and Secret Service-style earpieces. Rolf stood outside my bedroom door, while Wilhelm insisted upon sitting on my bed and watching me while I played around with the iPad. I’d already decided I hated the tablet’s touchscreen keyboard and stripped-down word processor, so Rolf had radioed Rostovich to inform him I required the fancy CIA laptop. Meanwhile, Wilhelm forbade me from touching my old computer until he could have it “secured.” He hadn’t gone into what that meant, however. Whenever I asked either of them questions, I got either monosyllables or hard stares.
“Judst pretendt vee are nodt hier,” Rolf had barked at me in his heavy German accent.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where Rostovich dug the two of you up on a moment’s notice,” I remarked, scrolling through the additional image files he’d sent over. My question was met with stony silence.
I scrolled through this latest set of images from Rostovich. They were more of the same, drab, nondescript buildings from Sevastopol. I studied them closely, looking for any more strange body-shaped shadows, any more evidence that might clue me in to whether I was really studying a series of crime-scene photos rather than art. But nothing turned up. I wondered if perhaps like the others, the shadows would only show up on analog-style prints. I made a mental note to ask Hannah if she knew of any good old-style photo printers still left in business in the Cleveland area. She’d totally bailed on her earlier promise to work on the magazine layout all day and had instead gone back to sleep shortly before my private security detail arrived. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining that to her when she woke up. I half-expected her to try to jump at least one of the Werner brothers’ bones. That would definitely be her style.
I set the iPad aside and decided to attack both stories from more of a personal angle. For that, I’d need to interview some of the people that knew Peter Rostovich best. There weren’t many of them, of course. And I probably knew him better than most people did already---which wasn’t saying much. I decided to start with Richard Darling.
I went to our kitchen-slash-living-area and turned on the TV, searching the DVR for the news segment Hannah had recorded for me the night before. I found it right at the head of the queue and watched it. Only a brief two-minute segment sandwiched between the weather report and a puff piece on a local dog trainer, but it was still plenty telling.
The camera focused first on a haggard-looking Richard Darling, shot from a distance as he shuffled through some papers and fielded questions from the press. I noticed he was unshaven and wore the same suit he had at the opening. Sweat stains showed under his arms and around his collar, and his eyes were sunken. An impeccably coiffed blonde reporter stood in front of the shuttered storefront, gave a brief intro about what had happened at the Flaming River Gallery opening, noting that misdemeanor public indecency charges were pending against its owner, Richard Darling.
And not against Peter? I thought. Hmm, I wonder how he managed that.
The Channel 3 reporter got a close-up and shoved her microphone in Darling’s face, asking for his comment on Rostovich. “Do you know the artist’s whereabouts at this time?” she asked. “What is next for this exhibit? Will it reopen in a more sanitized and less sexually explicit version?”
“I don’t know where Peter Rostovich is right now,” Darling seethed. “He’s probably hiding out someplace close, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where. He never tells anyone where he’s staying, and he usually moves from place to place each night. He’s always been a moving target.”
Assuming the segment had been filmed last night, Rostovich was at the Ritz-Carlton. I’d assumed that everyone knew where he was staying, but of course that assumption had been wrong. Had he been registered under a false name? Did he have an arrangement with the Ritz’ staff to keep things incognito and protect his privacy? Maybe he registered under an assumed name, like a lot of Hollywood stars did.
“But I will find out where he is,” Darling went on, his eyes blazing. “And when I do, he will be one sorry bastard. He’ll live to rue the day he ever met me, let alone what he did at my gallery yesterday. Do you hear me, Peter Rostovich? You will pay for this. You will pay.” He had the look of a madman, and I could swear his pupils went a deep fiery red as he spoke.
The reporter took a step back in shock. “Wow, strong words from Flaming River Gallery owner Richard Darling, who again is facing public indecency charges for his controversial art exhibit. No word as of yet on any charges for the artist, Peter Rostovich of New York City, whose current whereabouts are unknown. I’m Patricia Cone for Channel 3 Action News. Back to you in the studio.”
That was it. No real revelations other than Richard Darling was furious with Rostovich, and I’d gathered that much myself at the gallery opening. Still, his on-camera behavior was plenty unsettling. My reporter’s nose for news told me there had to be something else to this story. A sane person did not take on the look and manner of a serial killer on television over a simple misdemeanor charge that he could probably settle by paying a $500 fine. But what could it be? Money? A conflict over a woman? Something else? I decided to go straight to the source.
I called Channel 3 and got connected with the weekend newsdesk. “Hi there, this is Nancy Delaney, I’m a freelance reporter doing a story on the Flaming River Gallery show and Peter Rostovich for the Plain Dealer.
I saw your segment on Richard Darling last night and was wondering if you had a personal phone number for him. I’ve tried reaching him at the gallery, but that number’s been disconnected.” If his on-camera behavior was any indication, Richard Darling was laying low somewhere, awaiting his opportunity to strike. But when? And why?
There was no response to my request at first, just some background newsroom noise. It was just after noon on a Saturday, which meant they would be preparing for the 5:00 pm weekend broadcast now, in lieu of the midday report usually given at this time on weekdays. I knew they’d have a skeleton crew there, mostly made up of green interns and semi-retired weekend anchor reporters, the so-called second string of on-air reporting. “Hold please,” came the response, finally. Instead of putting me on hold, though, the unnamed desk jockey just set the receiver down with a clunk. I could hear her muttering something in the newsroom din, but couldn’t quite make out what she said.
Finally, another voice came back on the line. “Hi there, I’m Sandy Dowd, I produced the segment on the Flaming River Gallery last night. To whom am I speaking?”
“Nancy Delaney, freelance reporter with the Plain Dealer.”
“Hi Nancy. Who’s your assignment editor over there? Eric Burgess?”
“Yes.”
She sucked in a breath, blew it out. “You wanted Richard Darling’s home number, right? I really shouldn’t be giving it out without getting the reporter’s permission first, but since it’s the weekend and Eric Burgess is an old friend of mine, I’ll do you the favor just this one time. But if anyone asks how you got it---including Eric himself---you tell them that you found it yourself. Do we have a deal?”
“Sure.”
She gave me the number, wished me luck with the story, and hung up.
I dialed the number right away, noticing it had a Lakewood exchange. Darling definitely seemed like a Lakewood type---artsy, cheap and confrontational. He picked up on the first ring.
“Richard Darling here.”
“Mr. Darling, this is Nancy Delaney. We met briefly at your opening the other night, when I was there to review the show?”
Stony silence. But at least he didn’t hang up.
“Um, I’m still working on that Art News Now review, but I’ve also been assigned a feature story on the artist for the Plain Dealer, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
“Go ahead.” His voice was like shaved ice, but at least he was willing to talk. I decided a simple, direct approach was best.
“How long have you known Peter Rostovich?”
“Over twenty years.”
“When did you two first meet?”
“We lived in the same neighborhood back in New York as teenagers. Brighton Beach. I lived there with my grandparents. Peter moved there with his mother shortly after he came to the States from Sevastopol. I was from the old German Jewish community there, Peter was from the new wave of Russian Jews who came during the early 90s in droves.”
“Rostovich is Ukrainian.”
“Russian, Ukrainian, same difference.”
Not if you ask Peter, I thought, but figured that wouldn’t add anything to the conversation. “So you hung out as teens, then. What originally drew you to one another?”
“We were both interested in art,” Darling replied. His tone softened and he seemed to relax a bit. “Peter liked to draw and take pictures with an old Polaroid camera. I was more of a connoisseur. I was a student at Stuyvesant High School in Manhattan and wrote an arts column for the paper. Peter was a dropout who basically spent all his time wandering around the city drawing and taking pictures, and engaging in his side businesses. I met him hanging around the neighborhood and then profiled him for a story I wrote on New York teens who were leading unconventional lives. We just sort of hit it off from there.”
“So you’ve stayed in touch for all of these years, then? Tell me a bit about that.”
“We stayed in touch off and on. Not always, but we managed to connect at least once a year. Peter’s work took him off to a lot of exotic places, and sometimes he just likes to disappear and be unconnected. Though he has a large circle of acquaintances, he doesn’t have many close friends. He’s a loner. It’s part of his personality, and also a big part of his creative process.”
“Would you consider yourself one of Peter’s close friends, then?”
A pause. “I did once. I’m not sure I do anymore.”
“Why?”
Another pause, longer this time. “Because I no longer feel that I can trust him.”
“Go on.”
He heaved a sigh that blew static across the phone lines. “Once upon a time, Peter Rostovich was one of the very few truly authentic people I ever met,” Darling said, which surprised me. “Even back when we were kids, he lived life entirely on his own terms, and refused to let anyone else dictate what decisions he made or what path he chose. He was true to himself, always. And because of that, I knew I could rely on his honesty. He wasn’t forthcoming like most people I knew, he held a lot back---but what he did give you was always solid gold genuine. I respected that. Still do. But I don’t respect what happened at my gallery last week. Not at all.”
“Would you say the, ahem, incident was out of character for Rostovich then?”
“Yes. Completely out of character. Peter never loses control of anything. Everything he does has a distinct purpose. That’s why I don’t believe him when he says those two models did what they did entirely on their own.”
“I see. So you really believe that the, ahem, public sex act was planned?”
“I do.”
So now we were getting somewhere. This was plenty juicy, and in more ways than one---assuming I could actually print it in a family newspaper publication. “And what makes you think that? Besides Rostovich’s past history of honesty, I mean.”
“Because it’s classic Peter. He’s always been about pulling stunts, ever since we were kids. This was just another stunt, he did it for attention. Only it brought attention to the wrong person. Namely, me.”
“How is the incident going to cost you and your gallery?”
“Well, it got us shut down, obviously. I’ll have to pay a fine. And I won’t be able to court buyers for the works. I was really depending on this show to turn the gallery’s fortunes around. Cleveland’s economy isn’t exactly very good at the moment, and the art scene here is practically nonexistent.”
That led me to another question I’d been antsy to ask. “Why open an art gallery in Cleveland in the first place? You’re from New York, what drew you out here?”
“That’s kind of a long story.”
I wasn’t letting him off the hook. “So tell it. I’ve got all day.”
“Aren’t you the girl that Peter tied up at the opening and then passed out?”
Oh, so he was trying to take control of the interview now. He must have been taking media-handling lessons from Peter. “Why is that relevant to our conversation?”
“Just answer the question. I won’t give you the information you’re looking for unless you do.”
“Fair enough. I was indeed tied up by Mr. Rostovich and I did indeed pass out at the opening. But that has no bearing on how I’m approaching my story. I’m a professional.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe.”
That jolted me. Just like Peter had, Richard Darling was taking control of the interview and making it about me instead of him. But I humored him, because I thought it might help me get the information I was really after. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Peter Rostovich doesn’t take that kind of interest in just any woman, let alone a woman he’s just met.”
“Oh? Do you know a lot about Mr. Rostovich’s personal life, then?”
“More than most.”
“Tell me what you know.” I wanted to know for myself even more than I did for the article.
“Peter is a man of unusual tastes,” Darling said. I heard classical music switch on in t
he background, and the whistle of a teakettle. Both good signs---it meant he was settling in for what would hopefully be a long and productive interview. But I wasn’t sure I’d want to know what he had to say. “I’m guessing you’ve already found out more about just what those tastes are on your own. Am I right?”
My stomach did a little flip-flop. “What exactly are you implying?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Peter Rostovich over the years, it’s that whenever he goes directly for something----especially if that something is a woman----it means he wants it, wants it badly, and will do anything to possess it.”
I really did not appreciate being referred to as an it, but for the sake of reporting I let it go. “I see. And what does he typically do to possess these, ahem, things that he wants?”
“Well, I think what he did to you at the gallery opening is a prime example. He makes it impossible to escape.”
I mulled that over for a moment. “So you’re saying he’s done this sort of thing many times?”
“Not exactly. Honestly, I was very surprised when I saw that he’d captured you with the cable ties, for lack of a better term. I’ve never seen him do anything quite so literally before. No, usually when Rostovich wants control over someone or something, he uses a much more subtle approach. But it’s just as effective as what he did to you. Trust me.”
Aha. And now I knew we were getting to the crux of what made Rostovich tick. “Give me an example of what you mean.”
“Many years ago, when I was still in college and just getting my career off the ground, Peter did me a favor. A rather large favor. Ever since then, he’s used that to great effect whenever he wants something from me.”
“Such as?”
“It was two things, really. One, I was in the spring semester of my senior year at Sarah Lawrence. My grandparents had fallen on hard times and found they couldn’t pay for my last semester. Sarah Lawrence is a very expensive college, one of the most expensive in the country. I was facing the very real possibility of dropping out of school with one semester to go, which would have jeopardized any chance I had of finding a job on graduation. I’d been hoping to get an assistant curatorship at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, but that wasn’t looking promising at the time. My grandparents bounced my tuition check and my trust fund allowance dried up in the same month, and I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. On a whim, I called Peter up. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year because he’d been travelling. But he got right back to me. And he bailed me out.”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 22