Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(105)

Neil raised his hand. “I have a different idea.”

D.D. studied him. “All right, shoot.”

“Goulding’s car’s GPS. We already used it once, looking through his list of frequent destinations for an area best suitable for hiding a body. What if we did that again, except now we look for the address that best matches our list of housing requirements? Getting a list of frequent callers from a cellular company will take at least twenty-four hours, while running backgrounds and following up with known associates will take yet another day. Whereas I can analyze a list of frequent destinations in”—Neil bobbed his head side to side, considering—“a matter of hours.”

Around the table, the task force members perked up. Standing in front, so did D.D.

“Neil,” she ordered, “you and your squad”—she nodded to Phil and Carol—“are in charge of GPS data. The rest, work on compiling names.” She glanced at her watch. It was 10:00 P.M. now. Which was perfect for her own assignment: tracking manager Jocelyne Ethier, an older, definitely less than honest female who knew all the players involved, had access to the nightclub’s security system, and should even now be roaming the floor at Tonic. When looking at female associates, nothing like starting at the top of the list.

“I’m giving you all two hours,” she announced. “Whoever brings me the address first gets to lead the charge. We’ll go the moment we’re cleared. If Flora’s abduction was a matter of revenge, God only knows how much time she—or any of the women—have left.”





Chapter 40


I KEEP YANKING AT THE LOCKED DOOR. Twisting the knob. Jerking harder. As if this time the heavy metal door will magically swing open. And I will plunge down the stairs, out some side door, and straight into the fresh air of freedom. I’ll find help for Stacey. I’ll call my mom. I’ll get away from an entire corridor of black-painted rooms forever.

The door. The damn door. Why won’t it open? I just want out of here.

I pound at it with the flat of my hand. Another useless motion, waste of effort that does nothing but exhaust me further.

I gotta pull it together. I gotta focus. I’m not a terrified kid anymore. I’m the new and improved Flora, who has training and experience and knows better than this.

The windows. It comes to me as I stand, shoulders slumped, forehead resting against the stairwell door. In my room there had been two blacked-out windows. Break them, and I can get a hand out. Call for help. Isn’t that what the girl in Cleveland did, got part of the front door open and yelled until a neighbor came?

Okay, windows it is. I leave the locked fire door, force myself to walk away from it, past Stacey’s unconscious form, and back into the room I loathe. I snap on the bare bulb, then close my eyes until they adjust.

All my blundering around, roaming from room to room, opening some doors, pounding on others, surely must be broadcasting my newfound freedom upstairs. I don’t know if this is a good idea. At any time, maybe the stairwell door will open. And this time, some hulking beast with a gun, a knife, a Taser will come rushing through, and I’ll find myself locked up all over again. Someone must still be in the house, right? Someone in charge of the care and feeding of the inmates?

Except maybe that’s the point. The person in charge of care and feeding went out for supplies. Hence, no one has been home to respond to all the racket coming from upstairs. Meaning any moment now, said person will return. Walk into his evil lair, catch the first unexpected noise from above, and . . .

I guess I’ll find out.

I open my eyes slowly, still struggling with bright light. Remembering what Stacey had said about the sedative-laced mattress, I cross to its mangled form, grab one corner, and gingerly drag it out into the hall. I’m tired and overwhelmed, but this is no time to sleep. I gotta keep sharp.

I have to get both of us out of here.

In the hallway, Stacey’s fallen form is illuminated by the slash of light from my room. Her side is puffy and red. Her abdomen appears more swollen. She needs medical attention. She needs me to get help.

Deep breath. Back to the room, which under the harsh glare of the bare bulb looks tired and dingy. The black paint covering the walls and ceiling might be new, but that’s about it. And now, more alert, I can catch the faint odor of must and mildew. The house is old. Maybe even abandoned. Makes sense. You can hardly hold prisoners in a bustling neighborhood surrounded by white picket fences and soccer moms. A derelict building, however, in a not-so-great area of town where the residents are already trained not to report any screams . . .

I trace my fingers around the windows, feeling the plasticky nature of the paint. Thicker than regular paint. More like a spray coating. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what. I can dent it with my fingernail, so it’s not a hard shell. More like rubbery. Breakable, I think, with enough force.

Resources. I have the plastic bucket, the wire coil from the mattress. In the end, however, I decide I am my own best tool. My elbow, to be more precise. Driven in a backward strike, the hard point of an elbow can be a very efficient weapon.

I should cover my elbow with something, to protect it from the breaking glass. I’m still dressed in the ragged remains of a silk negligee, the torn hem and thin straps offering little cover. I could take Stacey’s shirt, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s too morbid, like stealing from the dead.