A Novel Way to Die by Ali Brandon

at the wall
     behind her. When it neither crumbled nor swayed, she figured it was safe to lean against
     it. She’d end up with plaster dust on the back of her sweater, but that was a small
     price to pay for regaining her equilibrium.
    She shoved her hands into her sweater pockets and felt the slim weight of her cell
     phone beneath her fingers. It occurred to her then that they were doing this all wrong.
     Why not simply try to get hold of Curt first and see if he’d been by the brownstone?
     If, as Barry had suggested, he was simply down the street grabbing a late breakfast,
     that would eliminate the other more unsettling possible scenarios regarding the unlocked
     door.
    She pulled out her cell and swiftly scrolled through her contacts. She often used
     her personal phone for business when James was tying up the landline with his negotiations.
     Sure enough, Curt Benedetto was there under the “B’s.” She pressed the dial key and
     listened while the phone rang on his end.
    But while she waited for him to pick up, she abruptly heard a faint but unmistakable
     cha-cha rhythm coming from somewhere below her. It took her a moment to realize what
     that meant. By then, Barry had finished his exploration of the surrounding rooms,
     and the last tinny notes of Santana’s “Smooth” had already faded. The sound of Curt’s
     recorded voice—“
Yeah, too bad, I’m not here, leave a message”
—was now playing in Darla’s ear.
    “What?” Barry asked as she pushed the “End” button and stared at him in dismay. “Who
     are you calling?”
    “Curt,” she choked out. “I forgot until a moment ago that I had his number programmed
     in my cell phone. I called it to see if I could find out where he was, and I heard
     his phone ringing.”
    “Well, did he answer?” he replied with a frown, apparently not understanding her meaning.
    She swallowed hard and clarified, “I meant I heard his phone ringing here . . . somewhere
     downstairs.”
    A look of seeming shock passed over Barry’s face, and he swiveled to look over the
     railing. Then, turning back to her, he snapped, “Quick, call the number again.”
    Fingers trembling, Darla hit the redial button and then strained her ears. Sure enough,
     she could hear Rob Thomas singing his heart out and Carlos Santana strumming away
     somewhere in the distance.
    “Dial it again,” Barry demanded and rushed toward the stairs, flashlight bobbing as
     he started down. “Keep calling it until we find out where the sound is coming from.”
    Darla hit redial once more and then hurried after him, taking the stairs as swiftly
     as she dared and pausing midway down to dial yet again. The familiar tune was far
     louder now, and Barry, who had already reached the ground floor, was looking about
     wildly. Darla joined him a moment later and redialed Curt’s number yet again. The
     rhythm started up once more, and Barry pointed his flashlight at a closed door she
     hadn’t noticed earlier.
    “The basement,” he declared. “He must be down there. But why isn’t he answering?”
    Maybe because he can’t
, Darla thought as her stomach did a small flip-flop. From the grim expression on
     Barry’s face as made his way in that direction, he obviously was thinking the same
     thing as she.
    He yanked open the door, revealing a large area of gloom lit only by what daylight
     was let in by the narrow exterior windows. A workmanlike set of open wooden stairs
     with railings on either side led down into the darkness, where she could make out
     the vague shapes of stacked boxes. Shining his flashlight into the shadows, Barry
     headed down a couple of steps and called, “Curt? Buddy? You down there?”
    When he got no reply, he turned back to Darla. “Call him one more time, would you?”
    She nodded wordlessly and edged her way to the door while pressing the redial. This
     time, it sounded like a concert was happening almost at their feet. Barry swung his
     light down the