Murder Most Deadly by J S Chapman

Author:J S Chapman [Chapman, J S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Weatherly Books
Published: 2019-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

I FOUND MYSELF in a shipping room.

The concrete floor echoed the light tread of my pumps. Cartons and crates stood at attention. Metal shelving reached to the ceiling. Yellow stripes marked out safety paths. Fluorescent lights lit the cavernous space. My heart fluttered. My knees knocked. My life flashed before my eyes. I turned back and tried to open the door. Just like all the others, this one had automatically locked. Security at the Big Dive was tighter than a streetwalker’s ass.

A tall man appeared. Dressed in black shirt, black tie, black trousers, and shined shoes. He strode my way, his bearing cocksure and his expression inscrutable. Roughly my age, he was built like a boxer, muscular but light on his feet. His eyes were as black as his shirt and his pompadour hair just as black. He reached for my wrists. I balked, but he had the strength of high-gauge wire. He lifted my arms, and with hypercritical eyes, followed the curves of my figure. He liked what he saw. He released my wrists and stood back in thoughtful appraisal, rubbing his chin.

He crooked a finger. I recoiled. He cocked his head to one side, a silent threat. He licked his lips. They were sexy lips outlined in cruelty. He was looking forward to putting me in my place, the easy way or the hard way, it hardly mattered to him. I approached. He combed his hands through my hair, fluffing and primping. Spun me around and assessed my backside. Turned me back and smiled broadly. I returned the smile. He lowered his jaw. I aped him. He stuck out his tongue and said, “Ah.”

“I’m not a goddamn horse.”

“Clean?” he asked.

“I took a bath this morning.”

His snigger lacked humor. He flagged his hand for me to come along.

Concrete steps and a red-painted bannister led upstairs. Upon reaching the top, we passed into a hallway. Around the next corner, the cavernous murk gave way to opulent cheerfulness. Our climb continued on one of two semicircular staircases shooting up through the heart of a four-storey open court. The ground-floor salon was fitted with red velvet furniture, marble columns, a grand piano, and potted palms. A succession of evenly spaced dayrooms protected by curved balustrades encircled each of the upper floors.

“What’s your name?” I said to his back.

“Call me Joe.”

We climbed to the upper floors via an inner staircase. A strong perfume meant to mask the latent essences of pine cleaner, sweat, liquor, and cigarette smoke failed its appointed task. The walls closed in. Each successive footstep took me deeper into a cavern from which escape was but a notion. I wondered where Starr had gotten himself off to and whether he gave a damn about me. I decided he wasn’t the rescuing type. I was in this alone.

When we reached the top floor, Joe opened a door to the inner curving walkway. We followed the balustrade past room after room, some closed and locked, and others left open and available for inspection.

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