Russian Connection Page 10

  It would be impossible to check every inch of the hotel with all these people around. Glenda could be tied up and stashed in a closet or storage space. He needed a clue confirming her presence on site.

  Judging by the noise coming from one of the conference rooms, a meeting was in full swing. Good. Almost everyone would be in there. Voices from the front entrance caused him to dart into a room and hide behind the door. His heart thudded against his chest. Through the crack, he watched two burly men pass by his hiding place and enter the meeting in progress.

  He slipped out and headed upstairs to the third level. It would take too long to check every room. He looked for do-not-disturb signs, a red flag that the occupants didn’t want anyone to come inside. Using his lock-pick, he checked each one, but found only people in showers, or sleeping. Fortunately, he didn’t walk in on any lovers. His quick in-and-out visits left the guests none the wiser. He followed the same procedure on levels four and five.

  On the sixth floor, Dayd let himself into a center room that was clearly unoccupied, slipped out onto the terrace, and secured his escape ropes to one of the wrought iron rails. Before exiting, he taped the door lock for quick reentry. He knew better than to leave his escape to chance.

  Back in the hallway, he spied a lone do-not-disturb sign about midway down the hall. He approached and listened outside the door. No sounds came from inside. If occupied, the occupants were probably asleep. That would work in his favor. Even if the sleepers awoke, they’d be disoriented, and he was fast enough to get out before they could get a good look at him. With his trusty pick, he had no problem tripping the lock. It was as old as the hotel.

  He eased the door open. The lights were on. His muscles tightened to high-alert mode, then relaxed slightly when saw the two rumpled king-sized beds in the empty room. But he wasn’t home free; the closed bathroom door could mean trouble. He listened. No sounds. Still, the silence didn’t guarantee safety. Just do the damned search and get out, he told himself. The hair on the back of his neck prickled when he spied a matchbook from Vladmir’s Lounge and a lone coin about the size of a nickel on one of nightstands. Splitting his attention between the closed door and the coin, he turned over the well worn, silver, 1962 20 Kopek Russian money. On the back were two stalks of grain joined at the top by a star that encircled a world stamped with a hammer and sickle. Below the insignia were the letters CCCP, Academy of Sciences of the U.S.S.R—U.S.S.R., the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His mouth went dry. It was Godunov’s good luck charm—the one he often flipped when nervous. This proved that Ziyakbusky wasn’t the only Russian Mafia member staying at this hotel, but had they held Glenda here? He needed the answer to that before leaving, he thought as he pocketed the coin.

  The big green plastic bag next to an empty trashcan caught his attention. He rooted through the contents, mostly fast food containers and a large bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Buried at the very bottom of the bag, he discovered an empty bottle of Skyy vodka—Godunov’s favorite.

  Dayd searched the closet and drawers and found nothing to hint that a woman had been in this room. Now what? He looked down. Something glistened at the foot of the bed. He stooped and picked up a gold stud earring. Its simple design lent to the possibility that it could belong to one of Godunov’s men. Its plainness also told him that it was unlikely that it belonged to a spirited extrovert like Glenda. Then he saw the coarse burgundy-black hair clinging to it. His heart pounded.

  As though Nikki were in the room with he murmured, “Maybe we’ve just hit the jackpot, baby.” He wrapped the gold stud in his handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket next to the coin.

  He glanced at the bathroom door again. What if Glenda was tied up and gagged in there? He froze at his next thought—what if one of Godunov’s men was in there with her? The hairs on Dayd’s neck prickled. Perhaps he was meant to find the earring, knowing he wouldn’t leave the room until he checked the bathroom, too. If he walked in on one of Godunov’s goons, he’d be in one hell of a jam.

  He drew his gun. A cold sweat broke out under his arms as he slowly turned the knob and kicked open the door. The room was empty. Used towels lay heaped in the tub.

  He heard footsteps in the hallway. He’d pushed his luck enough. He slipped out of the room and headed for the nearest exit.

  “Hold it, buddy,” a man shouted.

  Dayd broke into a run. Another man rushed toward him from the opposite exit.

  With his heart pounding, Dayd let himself into the room where he’d prepared the door for reentry. He flipped the security lock to slow his pursuers, then dashed out through the French windows to the rear balcony, clasped the escape rope, and put his leg over the railing. Don’t let me get caught now.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday morning blended into afternoon without a call from Dayd. Nikki checked again with Amelia at the bed-and-breakfast. Dayd still hadn’t picked up his message. She checked her own phone to make sure it was working and was relieved to hear the reassuring dial tone. She glanced out the window for the hundredth time, then paced a while. Did he even go to Arrowhead Springs? She wanted to believe he had. He’d agreed to call the minute Glenda was safe.

  When he’d promised to try to find Glenda, Nikki had wondered if maybe she’d misjudged him. Now old doubts spun in her head. She dug her nails into her palms. Her heart wanted to trust him, yet her mind warned it was unwise. She had to count on herself.

  Still, she needed help, someone big and strong to shadow her and watch her back. When she called her neighbor, Jose Mercado, a strapping trucker who feared nothing, his wife said he was on a cross-country haul. She advised Nikki to let the police handle it. That was the trouble—they hadn’t handled it.

  Just as she hung up, Jimmy came to the screened door. She invited him to join her for peanut butter cookies and milk. It was their favorite. When he asked about Glenda, she told him about the phone call from the kidnapper. “I have to meet with him,” Nikki said, “but I want to be smart about it.”

  “The smart thing would be to forget it,” he said, sounding annoyingly grown up. “You’re not trained for stuff like this.”

  “I know.” She bit her lip. “But I have to do something. I keep imagining all these things they could be doing to Glenda.”

  Jimmy frowned. “If you’re set on this, let me help.”

  “The man told me to come alone, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. Be back in a jiffy.”

  Jimmy slammed out the screened door, leaving her to immediately regret involving him. He was just a kid. Sometimes she forgot that because he was so smart.

  She paced some more, listened for the phone, and watched the clock. It was time to get dressed. What did one wear to meet a kidnapper? People would be dressed nicely to see the ballet. She chose a coppery silk jumpsuit and matching low-heeled sandals.

  Nikki had just put the final touches on her makeup when Jimmy returned. “Got this stuff from Radio Shack,” he said, showing her a bunch of unfamiliar gadgets. “We can wire you, like the cops do. I learned all about it on the Net.”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  He laughed. “Trust me. I can do this.”

  It would be good to have someone listening, and to call the police if things got scary. Nikki slipped into her bedroom and taped the wires to her skin, just as Jimmy had instructed. Trembling, she looked in the mirror. Nothing showed.

  She removed a couple of Luke’s disks from the plastic container. It didn’t matter which ones, since she didn’t have the right ones. Nikki slipped the small disks into her pocket. She had to at least pretend to give her contact what he wanted. Unless the Russian brought a laptop to the ballet, he wouldn’t know at first.

  “All set,” Nikki said as she walked into the kitchen and pirouetted around. “Remember, your job is just to keep tabs on me. If things turn bad, call the police. No heroics, got it?”

  Jimmy beamed. “Got it
.” He hoisted his backpack of radio equipment onto his shoulder and they headed for the Orange Show Grounds.

  Nikki hoped she could pull this off and live to tell about it.

  ****

  At the Orange Show Auditorium where the ballet was held, Jimmy said, “Let’s do a test to make sure all the equipment is working.”

  Nikki frowned.

  “Don’t worry, Nikki,” Jimmy said.

  He’d never called her by her first name before. He was trying to be so grown up, so protective. Such a terrific kid.

  Jimmy jogged down the grassy greenbelt toward the rear of the auditorium. She waited by a walkway at the side, keeping him in sight. After he reached the back corner, she spoke into her collar, and he waved a reply. Their plan required him to hang around outside the rear stage door. If she met trouble, he’d find a security guard, or call the police.

  Nikki followed the crowd into the auditorium, trying to ignore the searing knot in her stomach. Was the caller somewhere nearby watching? The roar of voices discussing the ballet reminded her of the concept of safety in numbers—but the theory gave her no comfort.

  A plump woman turned to the sour-faced man beside her and gushed, “I never dreamed a Russian Ballet Troupe would ever perform here.”

  “Some sister city cultural exchange baloney,” the man grumbled. “Before the Mormons settled here, a group of Russian farmers started a village near here. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that a bunch of them foreigners have set their cap for our town again.”

  The woman beamed. “Why not? The more the merrier. Isn’t it amazing—Russians all over town?”

  Nikki shuddered. And one of them is close by, watching me…waiting to pounce. She realized with a start that she’d feel better if she knew where Dayd was. Oddly he made her feel safe.

  Hundreds of feet shuffled across the concrete as the crowd moved forward. Someone pushed her. She managed to stay upright. An unrelenting din rose to the high dome ceiling and swirled down again, bouncing off the lobby walls, increasing the volume to a deafening hum.

  To her surprise, she caught sight of Police Detective Sinclair. Was he following her? The caller had warned her to come alone. She couldn’t let Sinclair foul things up. To lose the detective, Nikki ducked down and darted ahead into the center of a group of tall men. She didn’t know until it was too late that they were all Russian-speaking. Please, don’t let my leap into this band of husky foreigners turn out to be a deadly mistake.

  They flirted with her; at least, that’s what she thought they were doing. They were laughing and joking about something, and gestured with open hands toward her to join the fun.

  Their antics were so endearing that she couldn’t stop a smile. None of them made any moves or signals to suggest that he might be the man she’d come to meet. She waved good-naturedly and ducked away.

  All the good seats were sold out weeks in advance, but her last-minute seat at the rear turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Her location might be poor by most ballet enthusiasts’ standards, but the spot in the shadows couldn’t have been better to elude Sinclair. She scooted low in her seat. Under different circumstances she’d be very excited to see her first ballet. Tonight, she could only think about surviving the meeting with the kidnapper.

  The house lights dimmed and the audience fell silent. Nikki’s tension and the mass expectation in the air intensified as the burgundy velvet drapes slowly rippled open, brushing the stage an inch at a time.

  When the orchestra struck the first cord of Swan Lake, a spotlight caught a male and female dancer gliding onto the stage. Both wore white—he in tights, she in a filmy, mini-handkerchief dress. The muscled dancer lifted his willowy partner over his head and held her arched body with one arm as he circled slowly. After a few turns, she slid down his frame and bowed at his feet with the grace of a swan.

  Every movement of the ballet blended into the next with incredible artistry, yet each gesture brought Nikki closer to the 8:00 P.M. intermission and her meeting with the kidnapper. She inhaled deeply several times. Calm down. It’ll be okay, she thought, fighting tremors. She knew the risk, but she’d never abandon Glenda.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dayd’s stomach knotted. Sheriff deputies from a nearby mountain precinct answered the hotel’s breakin call and the men, with their contrary hick mentality, refused to verify Dayd’s credentials until morning. The huskier of the two lawmen put his meaty hand on Dayd’s shoulder. “When you get caught red-handed trespassing in my jurisdiction, you get to cool your heels in our hotel till mornin’, no matter who you claim to be.”

  The so-called hotel, a cold, makeshift jail in Crestline, turned out to be a converted walk-in food locker, which he shared with a drunk with big-time gastric problems.

  The next morning, he wasted his one phone call. Sinclair had gone to Needles to pick up a prisoner. But by the time the deputies transferred Dayd to the San Bernardino jail, Sinclair had returned and got the charges dropped. Unfortunately, due to all the paperwork, Dayd had lost an entire night and day. He tried telephoning Boris, then Nikki at the B & B. He swore in Russian. She’d gone home. He tried calling her apartment. No live voice and no recorder on. “Get with the communication explosion,” he muttered. Was she there and just not answering?

  He sped to Nikki’s place and found her parking space empty. His heart hammered in his chest. She’d better not have gone to the ballet without him. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight.

  Would she chance meeting the kidnapper alone? Glenda’s life hung in the balance—so of course, the answer was yes. With time a factor, he couldn’t risk running in the wrong direction. He needed proof of her destination. He jimmied the door with his trusty lock-pick and entered her apartment. The new locks were the flimsiest on the market. She really needed a better lock.

  Radio Shack wrappings cluttered the kitchen table. Someone had been putting together a wiring set up. The baseball cap on the table had LA Lakers printed across the top. It was the Addison kid’s favorite team.

  Then he knew. Nikki had followed through on her threat. Oh, God, two amateurs—one a mere teenager and the other a woman with more grit than good sense—meeting with one of Godunov’s professional hit men. “Nikki,” he moaned. “You little fool.”

  Dayd pivoted on his heels and tore out of Nikki’s apartment. He dashed to his car, and after gunning the engine to life, he sped south on Del Rosa Avenue, cursing every stoplight, every car in his way. He slammed the steering wheel. He shouldn’t have left her alone.

  Would he get there in time? The freeway loomed a block ahead. He wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving Nikki again until this was over and she was out of danger. He didn’t know how he would manage that, but from now on he was her self-appointed protector.

  After a rolling stop at the red light, he turned right onto the ramp, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor and merged into the traffic. His hands locked on the steering wheel as he immediately swung into the fast lane. Someone cut him off. “Idiot!” he shouted.

  The car vibrated, and wind blasted through the open window, whipping his face. Although he’d warned Nikki about the danger, obviously her sense of urgency was too strong to ignore. If only he hadn’t been caught and jailed he could’ve gone with her, guarded her.

  He passed the Waterman off-ramp. Suddenly the freeway became clogged with cars and big rig trucks. Blast it! He should have taken the last exit. The night skyline of San Bernardino loomed ahead like stair steps of light-strewn dominos. Dayd swung off the freeway at the Fifth Street exit, again cursing the string of stoplights and slow-moving traffic. His neck muscles knotted. Any Russian at the ballet could be the caller, and Nikki wouldn’t know him. Her life hung by a thread, and here he was caught in traffic because he’d taken the wrong blasted route. A detour appeared ahead. He released a string of jailhouse oaths he usually avoided.

  As he crept along behind the traffic, he grabbed the cell phone and tried to reach Boris. Can’t handle much more
of this, he thought. Where are you, Nikki? If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. He was feeling more than protective. Why? Hell, he’d never even kissed her.

  He wrinkled his brow at his odd thought and started dialing again. He tried to reach Sinclair; failing that, he ended up talking to Detective Courtney. Dayd explained the situation and asked the detective to find Nikki and place her in protective custody. Courtney promised only to take a run out to the auditorium. That wasn’t good enough; it was clear he couldn’t count on the police.

  Finally the traffic broke. Dayd sped down “E” Street, hellbent for the Orange Show Grounds. He glanced at his watch. Lord, please delay that meeting.

  ****

  The knot in Nikki’s stomach tightened. Glenda wouldn’t be in this jam if weren’t for Luke. Of course, she had to accept some of the blame. If only she’d refused Glenda’s offer to spend the night. If she hadn’t gone with Dayd… She didn’t care about the international nonsense. She just wanted her friend back.

  What had happened to Dayd? She hoped he was all right. Of course he was all right. Didn’t men like him have nine lives and always land on their feet? Darn him. If he had rescued Glenda, she wouldn’t have to face an unknown Russian. Dayd could’ve at least called. She’d counted on him too much.

  After a spectacular first act, the house lights went up and the happily jabbering audience headed out the double doors to the refreshment stands where quick-moving venders sold them cognac and vodka. In a deafening roar, everyone raved about the performance.

  Nikki headed backstage. A frowning guard stepped in her path and shook his head. “Sir,” she said, “Belinda Petrovna promised me her autograph.”

  He studied her a moment. “And who might you be, pretty lady?” His accent had a Russian flavor.

  She forced a smile. “Nikki Brown.”

  He checked his log, then gestured with his head for her to enter. What? Someone had actually cleared her? Well, good. The caller would be traceable through the ballet personnel. That thought made her feel safer for about two seconds.