wasn’t particularly concerned now about their stumbling across any intruders up there. It was the stairway itself that was doing her in.
Not that the steps were all that narrow or rickety—in fact, the staircase seemed the sturdiest structure in the place—but the balustrade had been removed, and only a ribbon of yellow caution tape now drooped from newel to newel in place of the handrail. She didn’t have much of a head for heights, and that open side did bad things to her sense of balance.
Climbing the open staircase was a test of nerves for her in the low light. To make matters worse, the dim lighting combined with Barry’s moving flashlight beam added a distinct fun-house effect to the whole stairwell. By the time they reached the landing, Darla was sweating despite the house’s chill, while bits of plaster were lodged beneath her fingernails from where she’d been gripping the wall for moral support.
At least the balustrade at the top was intact, she saw in relief. She reached out to take hold while she regained her bearings . . . only to feel herself grabbed by her free arm and pulled back to the middle of the landing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you, it’s a bit wobbly,” Barry said with an apologetic smile. He demonstrated by giving the handrail a gentle shake that caused it to sway, and Darla’s stomach to pitch. “That’s actually on today’s list to repair.”
“Great,” Darla replied. “Any other death traps I should know about?”
“Just the holes in the floor.” He aimed the flashlight toward a pair of sawhorses near the end of the short hallway. They were set across one of the cutouts in the subfloor that she’d seen earlier from her vantage point on the lower level. “Don’t worry, the rest of the floor is sound. Stay clear of the spots we’ve blocked off and you’re perfectly fine.”
“Uh, maybe I’ll wait here while you finish checking out these rooms,” she suggested, earning a sympathetic nod in return.
“Probably a good idea. It won’t take me more than a minute.”
While Barry made his way down the short hall, Darla gave a cautious poke 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,”