Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (31 page)

Madeline watched the detective’s face carefully as she considered telling him what Steven’s motive had been. As far as anyone else was concerned, it would be supposition on her part, not hardcore facts. But she had to have a reason for implicating Steven in her rape, so she steadied herself and told the detective about the infidelity clause in the prenuptial agreement.

Det. Mitchell set his pen down and crossed his arms. His lips twisted as he let out a cynical huff.

“You realize you don’t have any evidence to back up your assertion that your husband arranged for your rape so he could photograph it and blackmail you into a divorce without giving you a dime…?” Madeline could feel her face turn red.

“Look,” Det. Mitchell continued, “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but you can’t go after someone on rape charges without some corroborating evidence—an eye-witness, semen stains, fingerprints…something…” Hearing what she had suspected all along came as one blow too many to her fragile state of mind.

As she sat there, eyes trained on the detective, something in her snapped. The whole world could consider her crazy, but that didn’t matter to her anymore. Defiance started building inside her. She didn’t even bother to hide her hostility.

“Is this what you tell all the women who come to you claiming to have been raped, who’ve made the huge mistake of not collecting evidence?”

Det. Mitchell coughed and scooted his chair away from the desk. Madeline knew she hadn’t done herself any favors, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. What she should’ve asked was if he could get the footage from The Edgecliff security cameras. But something told her this man had already dismissed her as a crank.

She had an overwhelming desire to flee, but she knew if she left without somehow convincing Detective Mitchell she had been viciously wronged, she would never have another chance to make Steven answer for what he did to her. She tried to speak, but she was still so angry, all she could manage was a raspy croak.

“Would you like some water?” Mitchell asked. Madeline nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he said, placing a box of tissues in front of her. Since she wasn’t crying, the gesture struck her as obligatory and insulting.

Once he was out of the room, Madeline began berating herself. She should’ve never come here. She should’ve never spoken to anyone other than Det. Slovitch. She should’ve stayed in line at the courthouse and gotten copies of all the outstanding trust deeds held by RAM, L.P.

She shook her head in dismay. Burt would’ve been disappointed in her, surely. She wheezed weakly at this strange thought. Burt had a lot more important grievances to hold against her, namely getting him killed.

Burt, what do I do now?

She stared at the walls in Det. Mitchell’s half of the office while she tried to assess what her next move should be. She didn’t see any way to salvage this line of attack. She was anxious to get out of there and back to the last hope of ever bringing Steven to justice. She reached over the desk and retrieved the incriminating photo. No reason for it to sit in a police file if no one was going to take her claims seriously.

She looked at her Guess watch, a reminder that she was still halfway disguised. It seemed like it was taking an awfully long time get a glass of water.
The water cooler must be on the other side of the building,
she mused.
Maybe I should just leave…

All thoughts ceased when her eyes landed on a photo on Det. Mitchell’s credenza. Her heart stopped as she gazed at a group photo including the detective in military garb, surrounded by men similarly attired, all smiling. There was no doubt in her mind that Det. Mitchell was well acquainted with at least two of Steven’s security team, his head man among them.

A palpable fear froze Madeline to her seat. She had tripped one of Steven’s traps, and now she was in deep, deep shit. Not only had she tipped her weak hand—connecting Steven to her rape—but she had stupidly given the enemy a head’s up that she was back on the mainland well before schedule.

“Here you go,” Det. Mitchell said, handing her a paper cup full of water. Madeline drank it down, hoping it would give her time to think. She sighed and set the cup on the desk and smiled sheepishly at the detective.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to come in here and lose it. I never really meant to come here at all. But after Burt’s death, I’ve felt like it was up to me to solve this mystery. I completely understand where you’re coming from. You need compelling evidence, and that’s something we—I—don’t have.” She stood up. “Thanks for hearing me out, at least,” she said, offering her hand. Det. Mitchell shook it, as both covertly tried to read the other’s thoughts.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Mitchell said, hands in his pockets as Madeline hiked her bag onto her shoulder and put on her sunglasses. “If you come across something more substantial, come back and we’ll see what we can do.” Madeline nodded and smiled politely, then left Det. Mitchell standing at his doorway.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Once Madeline was safely out of the building, she called Mike.

“Mad Dog Detective Agency. What’s your problem?” he clowned. The humor was completely wasted on Madeline.

“I’ve just made a horrible mistake,” she said.

“What?” Mike asked, his voice now as apprehensive as hers.

“I need you to go online and do a search. We’re looking for anything that brings up the names Stewart Mitchell, Lionel Usherwood, Lance Rombach, Terry…Terry…uh…Linbald. And Rick Yeoman. You got that?” Mike read the names back to her.

“What am I looking for exactly?”

“Anything that connects Mitchell with the others. He’s a detective with the SBPD. He’s the one I just spilled the beans to before I noticed a photo of him with Steven’s security crew.”

“Oh,
shit…”

“I know. I couldn’t have fucked things up better,” she said, retrieving her tousled wig from the hedge. She shook it against her leg to clean it off and tried unsuccessfully to put it back on her head with one hand. “Hang on a sec,” she said, setting her phone and tote down on a thigh-high wall bordering an office building. She got the wig on, but knocked her tote over in the process.

“Damn,” she swore into the phone.

“Are you alright?” Mike asked anxiously.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Madeline took a deep breath, hand to her forehead of foreign fringe, trying to steady herself.

“I have some good news…” Mike said.

“Tell me,” Madeline said as she tried in vain to reach her fallen handbag.

“I located Burt’s son.”

“How did you do that?”

“I called your landlord and told him I was your assistant, and said we needed to get hold of the former tenant’s son—said we’d come across something that might be of interest to him. The kid was a little leery at first, but once I explained your situation, he was very helpful. He thinks his dad only kept personal records at home, but he said I could come over and have a look.”

“That’s great,” Madeline said. It would be a huge relief to find the borrower statements and her missing file among his artifacts. Finally, something seemed to be going in her favor, though it might only lead to another dead end. “I’ll go with you. At this stage, I’d much rather do this the easy way rather than the hard.”

“Want me to come and get you?”

“No, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She was just about to swing her legs over the wall to retrieve her bag when she spotted a black Suburban coming from the direction of Anacapa Street. Even from almost a block away, she recognized the vehicle and the driver.

“Oh shit!” she said. “Never mind about the search—I just got my answer.” She averted her face, then it occurred to her she was back in disguise. All she had to do was act nonchalant and let them pass her by.

“Maddie—what’s going on?” The Suburban passed and Madeline did an about-face and started walking in the opposite direction, abandoning her bag.

“Go get the car and wait by the exit!” she said. Suddenly, she heard the sound of the SUV reversing. She turned in time to see it fishtail as Lionel Usherwood accelerated out of an ungainly U-turn.

Madeline sprinted across Figueroa and onto Santa Barbara, running against the traffic of the one-way street. She looked back in time to see two passengers leap from the vehicle, which was unable to turn left.

“Maddie, what’s going on?” Mike asked frantically.

“Give me ten minutes. If I’m not at the parking lot by then, go see Burt’s son. It’s our only hope now,” Madeline said, darting out into the street between passing cars.

Rick Yeoman and Lance Rombach were already gaining on her. As soon as she leapt to the curb, she tossed her cell phone under a parked car. She ran as fast as she could in unfamiliar shoes, but it was no use. Before she could get past the vacant Hayward’s building, Rick Yeoman had her by the left arm, holding her steady with a blade to her side. Lance caught up with them and held Madeline’s right arm.

“Stay calm and you won’t get hurt,” he said under his breath as the trio passed into the deserted parking lot and took cover behind one of the small rental units. Before Madeline knew what was happening, Rick covered her face with a chloroformed cloth. She was out cold in seconds.

FIFTY-NINE

When Madeline came to, her first thought was she’d been buried alive. As she commanded her body to move, nothing responded. She slowly realized her wrists had been bound tightly behind her. Same with her ankles. She tried to open her mouth, but it was taped shut. The surface she was slumped on face-first was hard and cold. She blinked several times but she could see nothing. Wherever she was, it was as dark as a cave.

Slowly, she became aware of intense pain in her left shoulder and both knees. Whether pushed or dumped, she figured she had lain how she had fallen. With considerable effort, she managed to pitch over onto her side.

There was no way to get even remotely comfortable. The slightest movement caused her head to feel like it was going to shatter. She lay as still as possible, resting her aching body while her brain analyzed what little stimuli surrounded her.

Underneath the hush that made the place feel like a mausoleum, she picked up a soft mechanical purr, like refrigeration or air conditioning. From where she was on the floor, she did not feel any direct breeze blowing on her, but the building was very cold—cold enough to make her shiver and ache all over. It also added to her feelings of despair and desperation. It felt cold enough to cause hypothermia.

In her present state—tied up with no way to work up some body heat—she could start to feel the debilitating symptoms of hypothermia fairly rapidly. She was already shivering and stiff, and who knew how long she’d been there. Only her abductors, and they had apparently abandoned her to her fate. She could die there if she didn’t get out soon.

She was on the verge of crying, but she had to use her brainpower while she still had the ability to reason. She mentally steeled herself and focused on saving her life.

With her fingertips, she examined the surface she was laying on. It was very hard, but not uniform in texture. She wiggled sideways to extend her search and discovered more crags and recesses, and then a rough, unbroken trench. Knowing her fingers’ exaggerated sense of proportion, she assigned less significance to the facts they had uncovered and came up with a mental image of stone and grout. She shifted more to the left and found an intersection of grout lines to prove her assumption.

She ran her fingers over the stone surface again. She had spent a lot of time selecting various materials for interior and exterior uses when she and Steven built their house. Though that was several years ago, she had retained a familiarity with different types of stone: granite, marble, travertine, flagstone, sandstone and slate. What she was feeling now was smoother than the last three, but still pitted.

She ran her index finger around the edge of the tile again. It had a slightly irregular shape, due to the porousness of the stone. It was “softer” than most paving stones and not slick, like granite or polished marble. Tumbled marble was her best guess.

She scooted over again, picking up the grout line and following it from the corner of the tile upwards. As she suspected, the tile was large; she had to creep her bound body upwards in order to find the next corner.

Acting as a human inchworm set off painful spasms in her limbs and back. She took a few deep breaths through her nose to relax her knotted muscles enough to do more reconnaissance. This time, she laid her elbow in the groove of the grout intersection and used her forearm as a measuring stick. With her elbow fixed at the top of the tile, she squirmed until she had her forearm flush with the grout line. Using the first joint on her little finger, she rubbed around the grout joint in a circular fashion.

Finding what she had suspected made her ecstatic. What she was laying on were 13-inch square tiles. Fortunately for her, she had gotten in the habit of estimating widths and lengths with arms, hands and feet during the year and a half it had taken to build her dream home. If the tile had stopped at the first knuckle on her hand, it would’ve been a 12-inch tile.

This little kernel of information was helpful; 13-inch pavers hadn’t been phased in until around 2000. To confirm that she hadn’t missed a joint in between, she stretched her arms out as far as they would go, using her trusty finger to locate the next break.

Exhausted by her efforts, Madeline stopped to rest, the left side of her face flush with the cold flooring. As she lay there, her olfactory sense kicked in, picking up a variety of odors she hadn’t noticed earlier. They were harsh smells, but also familiar. They were probably ordinary, everyday smells, but because there were no other scents to blend in with, they stood out more. She figured she was in a confined space with no windows or outside ventilation.

She concentrated on the odors while she breathed in and out. There was the distinct smell of wood—a particular type of wood… She took a deep breath, begging her brain to recall where she had smelled the odor before.

She worked herself into a sitting position and sniffed some more. From this height, she could smell something else…something musty and almost skunk-like.

Madeline sat stock-still as the realization of her most likely location hit home. Before she was frightened; now she was terrified.

Tears of anguish began to trickle down her face. But letting this happen was a big mistake. Unless she wanted to suffocate herself, she had to stop the unbidden tears from making her nose run. The gruesome thought of essentially being asphyxiated by her own snot sobered her instantly. She had to stay in control of her emotions if she wanted any chance of getting out of her own wine cellar alive.

Fear and heartache soon turned to rabid hatred as Madeline thought through the cruel way Steven had expunged her from his life.
How perfect,
she thought.
Steven’s murderous lap dogs toss me in the cellar to die—no smell, no decomposition. Give me a day or two, to be on the safe side, then feed me to a wood chipper.

Almost as soon as she had figured out where she had been stashed, she heard footfalls on the steps leading down to the cellar. She jerked herself up and wriggled in the general direction of where she had started out and slumped to the ground face-first again.

She stiffened as the key entered the lock. A second later, the room was awash in soft daylight that filtered down the steps, making the room plenty bright for Madeline’s light-deprived eyes. She had only a moment to investigate her surroundings and match them to her mental image of where she had ended up.

As soon as she was able to orient herself, the overhead lights were switched on to their full wattage, temporarily blinding her. As she squinted against the glare, she heard the sound of soft leather soles coming closer.

“Hello, Madeline,” Steven said casually, as he set an empty wine box on the dining table that ran through the center of the room. Madeline instinctively cowered away from him, bumping against the fully loaded wine shelving that bordered the wall. Steven bent down to get a better look at her face, pulling away in mild disgust at the sight of her.

“Haven’t been taking very good care of yourself, have you?” he said, his voice light and playful. Madeline felt a sharp pain in her chest, a sign that her heart had just broken in half again. She began snuffling, unable to control her emotions any longer. At this point, she didn’t even care that her death was imminent.

“Too bad you didn’t stay in Guam like you were supposed to. You could’ve gotten some more R and R and fulfilled your half of the bargain we made. Now look at you—trussed up like an elk, close to dying on my wine cellar floor.” Steven consulted his list and went about collecting wine.

“You know, Madeline, you only have yourself to blame for the way things turned out,” he said as he deposited two bottles of wine in the carton. “Had you just done what you were told, you’d be safe and sound and able to enjoy the half a million I so generously gave you. That was a gift, you know. I had to go to significant trouble to come up with that kind of cash. Not that you seem to care… Looks like you wanted to have it both ways—take the money, then sic your bloodhound on me. That was a serious miscalculation on your part.”

Steven looked over at Madeline. Her pathetic condition took him away from the task at hand. He went over and hauled her into an upright position with her back up against the wine rack. He may have thought he was doing her a small kindness, but it didn’t feel any more comfortable to Madeline. But then again, maybe he did it for his own sense of aesthetics.

“I thought hanging out a coyote pelt would discourage you from sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I guess I can’t begrudge you for hiring someone to figure out who set you up for the photo shoot—not that anybody could ever,
ever
trace that back to me, or anyone else, for that matter. It was a waste of his time and your money, not to mention his life. But that was solely because someone had the bright idea to snoop around in my business affairs.” Steven checked his list again.

“Oh, right—champagne!” he said, walking past her to the far wall rack that held his bubbly. “Can’t have a celebration without champagne,” he gloated. “Oh, you’ve been out of the loop—I’m going to ask my new girlfriend to marry me. I think she’s pretty keen on the idea. Of course, your early departure from Guam has cost me more money. But I’ve been assured that ‘Madeline Ridley’ has completed her residency requirement, so it’s just a matter of time before Elizabeth and I can make it official.” He looked over his shoulder at his current wife.

“Poor Madeline—you just royally fucked things up for yourself. Okay, the set up was difficult on you—I get that. But I had no choice. I ran into financial difficulties and had to find a way out. You weren’t ever going to come into any money, and besides, I needed a quick fix.”

Steven went back to perusing his list. “So, there you have it. I’m just bringing in provisions so Hughes won’t have any reason to come down here until…” He let out a semi-amused huff.

“I don’t suppose you named me as beneficiary on your bank accounts, did you?” he asked hopefully. “Oh well, I still have the insurance policy, though that won’t pay off for a long time, seeing as how your remains will never be found.”

Madeline just stared blankly at him. He had killed what little spirit she still possessed with his mercenary thoughts. She closed her eyes, willing him to leave so she could die in peace.

Madeline’s defeated demeanor stirred what passed for compassion in Steven’s limited emotional range. She opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her, regarding her almost ruefully.

“For what it’s worth, I never wanted it to end up like this.” Madeline’s throat closed as she looked at the man she had honestly loved and had hoped to spend the rest of her life with. The only bright spot she could find in this horrific scenario was that she had never been able to have children. The very thought of such a thing almost did her in.

Without another word to her, Steven carried the box out of the wine cellar and deposited it on the ledge. He came back down and flipped off the overhead light, then closed and locked the door behind him.

Being back in the blinding darkness caused a ripple of panic to surge through Madeline’s body. She didn’t want to die like this, not in here, not at the mercy of Steven and his ghouls. She started to shake as great sobs fought against the silver tape across her mouth.

I will not let him do this to me!
she thought, doing her best to control her breathing and relax the tightness in her throat muscles that ached so painfully.
I will get out of here, I will get out of here…
she repeated to herself. The more she heard the words in her mind, the more focused she became.

If I’m going to get out of here alive, I first have to cut these restraints,
she thought. But how? She wished she had spent more time refreshing her memory of the wine cellar layout while she had the chance. She’d have to go off memory until—if she were very lucky—she could get the lights turned on again.

Now that her mind was geared to its mission, Madeline’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in. If she could get over to the light switch, could she get it turned on?
Yeah,
she thought,
I could do that…
Being able to see would be a tremendous comfort. She had always feared impenetrable darkness. If she could see, it would make a possible escape more plausible.

She used the wine shelving to pull herself to her feet, which had become so numb she could barely stand on them. She lost her balance and tottered into the wine rack, creating a din of jostling bottles. Her heart pounded against her chest and she had to steady herself before she could concentrate on moving her feet. It was no use; her ankles were too tightly bound. She leaned against the wine shelving and lowered herself back to the ground.

Once she was lying down again, she reached her hands down toward her feet, where her fingertips just barely grazed the backs of her shoes. She arched her back as much as possible and was able to push one shoe off.

Exhausted but exhilarated, she freed her other foot. She could already tell she had more wiggle room with the shoes out of the way. She got back to her feet and was able to make half-inch shuffling steps. The process was excruciatingly slow, but it worked. She used her fingers as a rudder and a means of staying in contact with the wine bins as she worked her way to the far wall.

Once she hit the end of this section of wine racks, she would have a space of about four feet to navigate in order to reach the wall where the light controls were located. While she shuffled her feet, she used her right elbow to mark and keep track of the number of bins she passed. Though she had not been paying much attention to where she’d been situated, she had a vague idea that she had been roughly halfway into the room, which if memory served her well, was about 30 feet long. Each bin width was 20 inches wide.

Her mind was too frazzled to do the math, but she guesstimated that she had five cubbyholes to pass before she would reach the void.
One…
she counted. It seemed to take forever to reach the second divider.
Two…

On it went, tiny gains of distance from an incredible use of energy and willpower.
Five!
Her fingers fluttered, searching for wine bottle necks to prove her theory wrong. Nothing. She rested against the flat edge of the shelving frame while she collected herself. Now she would be without a map for the four feet of space before she’d encounter more shelving—four feet that would normally be two strides. She’d have to go slow and straight to not lose her course or her balance.

The slow shuffling of her feet was accompanied by toneless humming as she scooted toward her target. Her head reached it before her feet, receiving a rude welcoming with a bump on the forehead. She groaned but wasted no time reverting to the process of letting her hands guide her to the end of this row of wine bins. She didn’t bother to count or calculate this time; her goal was in reach and her anxiety demanded that she get the lights turned on before she lost what was left of her mind.

This time it was her right foot that took the impact as it collided against the step off the landing. She grasped at the side panel to secure herself while she contemplated how to maneuver up the step so she could get to the controls. The only way to do it was to sit down and swing her feet up, then lie down and get to her knees. Once she had done that, she was stuck. She had used the shelves and wine bottles behind where she had been tossed to act as handholds. There was nothing like that on the flat surface of the wine rack frame.

Having come so far and being faced with defeat, Madeline began to wail—a horrible, mournful sound that was all the more hideous because her mouth couldn’t give vent to it.
Please God! Please God!
The refrain played over and over in her head, a comfort, a blanket to smother out her despair.
Keep trying, keep trying,
came the answer.

She rolled off her knees and back onto her butt, then scooted her back up against the end of the shelving. She tottered on the edge of the step while her hands grasped at the edge of the frame. Having more or less established a connection, she used every fiber in her being to scale up the side. She almost capsized, but righted herself and pushed for the last gain, ending up in a standing position against the wall.

She began to whimper, out of relief this time. She had done it. She rested against the shelving unit until she had worked up enough stamina to tackle the next step: finding and turning on the light switch. To do this, she inched her way to the corner, where the shelving unit met the wall. The controls were on the entrance wall, just before the door frame. She visualized walking in the door, usually in high heels, as hostess to a cozy dinner for five or six couples. She envisioned lifting her left arm to about elbow-height to flip on the switch for the chandelier over the dining table.

Madeline used her upper arm to locate the switch plate. She found it, but couldn’t bring her hands up that high. Instead, she had to use her elbow, which was as hard as trying to pick up a dime with fireplace tongs. On the fourth attempt, she connected with the switch, her reward being the most beautiful, blinding sparkle of the crystal chandelier. If she hadn’t been gagged, she would’ve laughed with joy.