plain mad.
"Damn it, Matty, where are you?" her voice demanded, and
the phone went dead. Hers were the only calls, beginning at 8:32 Friday
night, ending at 3:14 Saturday morning. By the last one, Melanie had
been more than a little drunk.
One of the apartment's two bedrooms had been made over into an
office, with boxes of forms and sample disks, three computers, and two
filled filing cabinets. Kate flipped open the man's laptop, Al
pulled a chair over to the filing cabinets, and silence fell.
Half an hour later they were startled by a deep male voice in the
next room saying in a plummy English accent, "There is a visitor
at the door, sir." Kate was out of her chair with her gun in her
hand before she realized what she was doing; Al was on his feet almost
as quickly. They both stared at the door expectantly, and Al said in a
loud voice, "We are the police; please identify yourself."
There was no response, not even the sound of startled movement. Kate
held her gun up and edged toward the study door, where she popped her
head out briefly for a cautious glance at the living room. There was no
one visible. She opened her mouth to make her own demand, and another
voice came, this time that of a woman, sultry and slow.
"Open up the door, you sweet thing, you."
Puzzled now, Kate looked at Al, and the two of them made their way
cautiously into the living room, checking out every nook and broom
closet in the intervening space. Bedroom, bath, and kitchen were
cleared, and they stood in the living room between the black leather
sofa and the huge gilt-framed mirror, waiting. When a voice came for
the third time--this one a smarmy-sounding male with a heavy
French accent declaring, "Eh, beeg boy, you have a fren' at
ze door"--Kate whirled and nearly shot out the speaker next
to the front door before she finally registered the mechanical quality
of the sound. A fourth voice sounded immediately on the heels of the
stage Frenchman (this one a Southern belle drawling "Hey there,
honeybun, there's somebody here to see y'all"), and
then a fifth, which was the same English butler's voice they had
first heard. The pounding started as the person with a finger on the
voice-doorbell got tired of waiting.
"Matty," a woman's voice called. "Matty,
come on! I know you're home, your lights are on. And don't
tell me you've got them on some kind of timing device, I'm
just going to stand here with my thumb on the bell until you get sick
of these goddamn voices and--"
It wouldn't take long to get sick of the cycle of
announcements, Kate thought. Under the repetition of the four voices,
coming from a box next to the door where clever-boy Banderas had
adapted the normal chimes to a high-tech version of a doorbell, Kate
slid her gun away and pulled open the door, to find herself
face-to-face with a gorgeous, polished young woman who could have been
a fashion model, dressed in skintight jeans, a low-cut and extremely
well-filled top that did not quite reach a very shapely navel with a
gold ring in it, a black leather bomber jacket, and shiny high-heeled
boots that she might well have bought from one of the shops that Kate
had gone into inquiring about recreational handcuffs. All she needed
was a whip in her hand, but in truth, she seemed quite unconscious of
the dominatrix overtones in her attire. She might have been a
six-year-old dressing up in net stockings, makeup, and a miniskirt for
Halloween, having not the faintest idea why it was incongruous.
As this was going through Kate's mind, the woman was in turn
staring at her, looking surprised at first, then suspicious and
resentful until finally, taking a closer look at Kate's
undistinguished form and uninspired trousers and shirt, surprise again
took precedence.
"Where's Matty?" she demanded.
"Matthew Banderas?"
"Yeah. Of course Matthew Banderas, this is his house. Who the hell are you?"
Kate pulled her ID out of her pocket and showed it to the young
dominatrix. "You're a friend of Mr. Banderas?"
"Damn it, Matty, where are you?" her voice demanded, and
the phone went dead. Hers were the only calls, beginning at 8:32 Friday
night, ending at 3:14 Saturday morning. By the last one, Melanie had
been more than a little drunk.
One of the apartment's two bedrooms had been made over into an
office, with boxes of forms and sample disks, three computers, and two
filled filing cabinets. Kate flipped open the man's laptop, Al
pulled a chair over to the filing cabinets, and silence fell.
Half an hour later they were startled by a deep male voice in the
next room saying in a plummy English accent, "There is a visitor
at the door, sir." Kate was out of her chair with her gun in her
hand before she realized what she was doing; Al was on his feet almost
as quickly. They both stared at the door expectantly, and Al said in a
loud voice, "We are the police; please identify yourself."
There was no response, not even the sound of startled movement. Kate
held her gun up and edged toward the study door, where she popped her
head out briefly for a cautious glance at the living room. There was no
one visible. She opened her mouth to make her own demand, and another
voice came, this time that of a woman, sultry and slow.
"Open up the door, you sweet thing, you."
Puzzled now, Kate looked at Al, and the two of them made their way
cautiously into the living room, checking out every nook and broom
closet in the intervening space. Bedroom, bath, and kitchen were
cleared, and they stood in the living room between the black leather
sofa and the huge gilt-framed mirror, waiting. When a voice came for
the third time--this one a smarmy-sounding male with a heavy
French accent declaring, "Eh, beeg boy, you have a fren' at
ze door"--Kate whirled and nearly shot out the speaker next
to the front door before she finally registered the mechanical quality
of the sound. A fourth voice sounded immediately on the heels of the
stage Frenchman (this one a Southern belle drawling "Hey there,
honeybun, there's somebody here to see y'all"), and
then a fifth, which was the same English butler's voice they had
first heard. The pounding started as the person with a finger on the
voice-doorbell got tired of waiting.
"Matty," a woman's voice called. "Matty,
come on! I know you're home, your lights are on. And don't
tell me you've got them on some kind of timing device, I'm
just going to stand here with my thumb on the bell until you get sick
of these goddamn voices and--"
It wouldn't take long to get sick of the cycle of
announcements, Kate thought. Under the repetition of the four voices,
coming from a box next to the door where clever-boy Banderas had
adapted the normal chimes to a high-tech version of a doorbell, Kate
slid her gun away and pulled open the door, to find herself
face-to-face with a gorgeous, polished young woman who could have been
a fashion model, dressed in skintight jeans, a low-cut and extremely
well-filled top that did not quite reach a very shapely navel with a
gold ring in it, a black leather bomber jacket, and shiny high-heeled
boots that she might well have bought from one of the shops that Kate
had gone into inquiring about recreational handcuffs. All she needed
was a whip in her hand, but in truth, she seemed quite unconscious of
the dominatrix overtones in her attire. She might have been a
six-year-old dressing up in net stockings, makeup, and a miniskirt for
Halloween, having not the faintest idea why it was incongruous.
As this was going through Kate's mind, the woman was in turn
staring at her, looking surprised at first, then suspicious and
resentful until finally, taking a closer look at Kate's
undistinguished form and uninspired trousers and shirt, surprise again
took precedence.
"Where's Matty?" she demanded.
"Matthew Banderas?"
"Yeah. Of course Matthew Banderas, this is his house. Who the hell are you?"
Kate pulled her ID out of her pocket and showed it to the young
dominatrix. "You're a friend of Mr. Banderas?"
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