“Don’t,” Sarah said. “Be careful about what you eliminate. A pro like Baumann can look older or younger than he is, can dress like a nun or a wheelchair-bound middle-aged man, for all I know. Don’t be too hasty to rule any of them out.”
For some reason she flashed on an image of Jared curled fetus-like on the ground in Central Park, then saw the wispy goatee of her mugger.
She felt a surge of anger and of protectiveness, and thought of how little progress they’d made, really, since she’d arrived here, how much further there was to go before there was even the remotest chance of stopping the Prince of Darkness.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Warren Elkind, chairman and chief executive officer of the Manhattan Bank, had been under intensive FBI surveillance since Operation MINOTAUR had begun its work. Elkind had been unreceptive to repeated FBI inquiries, and therefore Sarah had ordered the surveillance, knowing in time they would find his weak spot.
There were several leading private bondage-and-discipline sex clubs in New York City, and considering his relationship with Valerie Santoro, the odds were great that Elkind frequented at least one of them. He did not, however, turn up at the two best-known ones, Pandora’s Box and the Nutcracker.
At around four o’clock the next afternoon, Elkind left his office in the Manhattan Bancorp Building and began walking north up Lexington. His tails followed him to an office building on East Fifty-sixth Street between First and Second avenues, which was just a few blocks away.
Repeated calls to his office at the same time elicited the information that he was “out of the office,” and then that he had “left for the day.” As soon as surveillance had determined that Elkind’s destination, on the thirteenth floor of the building, was the private and very exclusive Brimstone Club, Sarah’s beeper went off.
She was there within twenty minutes, which, given the traffic, was impressive time.
The elevator took her straight to the thirteenth floor and opened on a small, dark, eucalyptus-scented waiting area with comfortable-looking couches around a black shag rug. On the wall were vast blowups of artistically grainy photographs of women posing provocatively in black leather. Behind a glass window, sitting at a counter, was a fierce-looking middle-aged woman with obviously dyed blond hair, an enormous bosom, and heavy purple eyeshadow. She glanced warily at Sarah and said, “Can I help you?”
Sarah had dressed casually in jeans and a button-down polo shirt rolled up at the sleeves. She looked like an attractive young woman who was perhaps a graduate student, perhaps a professional on a day off. Hard to read, yes, but certainly not someone to beware of.
She had thought long and hard about her approach here, too. Flashing her credentials wouldn’t get her beyond the waiting area, if they wanted to play hardball. If she bluffed her way in, she risked alerting him. Yet she had to get in somehow.
“A friend of mine suggested I check out working here, learn the trade,” she said offhandedly.
“Uh huh,” the blond receptionist said. “And who’s that?”
“I’d rather not say, okay? A friend. I’m sort of into the idea of dominance.”
She looked at Sarah neutrally yet appraisingly. “You have experience?”
“Some. I’ve played a little, with a lover. Done the clubs, the Nutcracker, you know. Now I’m sort of looking to do it professionally.”
“You married?”
“No. My ex-husband’s idea of dominance and submission was more mental than physical, if you know what I’m saying.”
The receptionist gave a short laugh. “What toys are you familiar with?”
“Well… single-tail whips. Floggers. Some knifeplay, electrical play. CBT.” CBT was the argot for cock-and-ball torture.
“We don’t allow the knife,” the receptionist said. “No blood sports.”
“I want a tour,” Sarah said.
“I think one of the rooms is booked,” said the receptionist.
“That’s okay. Everything else, though.”
The receptionist shrugged.
Another woman, this one with jet-black hair, gave the tour. She was stout and even more buxom than the receptionist, dressed entirely in black stretch fabric, and had a hooked nose. She introduced herself as Eva and gave an introductory spiel.
The Brimstone Club was one of New York’s most exclusive houses of D &S, or dominance and submission. Its clientele, she explained, included some of the city’s wealthiest and most powerful men and women. They ranged from corporate lawyers to music executives, from Wall Street tycoons to world-famous academics. No one from the lower or even middle echelons of society. A number of prominent public figures, a few extremely well known, came here regularly.
“Most of our members are men,” Eva explained, “mostly submissives, though not all. Largely heterosexual, but not entirely. We have a staff of fourteen, including two men and twelve exalted mistresses.”
Eva led Sarah down a low-ceilinged, acoustically tiled corridor. “We charge two hundred fifty dollars an hour, two-hour minimum. No sex or drugs allowed, and we’re strict about that.”
“So to speak.”
She smiled. “So to speak. No intercourse or oral sex. No blood sports. Absolutely no hand releases. That’s the law.”
“How much of that five hundred do I get?”
“Forty percent of the hourly fee,” Eva said.
“How many clients a day can I reasonably expect?”
“Look,” Eva said, “there’s always a surplus of mistresses.”
“So how much time am I going to sit, waiting for someone who doesn’t have a favorite?”
“If you’re good, you can do maybe a thousand a day for the house, which means four hundred for yourself.”
“You guys have an arrangement with any of the kinky clothing stores in the city? Any employee discounts or whatever? That stuff’s expensive.”
“Oh, sure. No nice clothes, no clients, simple as that. Yeah, we’ve got arrangements.” She opened a door marked REST ROOM. A man in a maid’s uniform was on his knees, furtively cleaning the tiled floor with a toothbrush and a pail of Lysol. Sarah noticed he was wearing a wedding band.
“That’s not clean enough, Matilda,” she barked. “Do it again!” She closed the door. “Anyway, that’s the rest room. Unisex. His real name is Matthew. Matilda, when he’s in the role. He’s a sissy slave.”
“Good help is hard to find, isn’t it?” Sarah said.
“Not here. All right, now, there are five dungeons, all fully equipped.” She pulled open a heavy steel door labeled DUNGEON TWO. Except that its walls were painted black, it could have been a doctor’s examination room. Its equipment, however, would not have been found in most hospitals. There was a rotating wooden bondage table, a stretch rack, a cross outfitted with leather manacles. Against one wall was a long rack of whips and crops and other equipment Sarah didn’t recognize. Against another wall was a black leather gym horse.
“That’s Two. They’re all pretty similar, with minor variations-suspension equipment, a pin chair, that sort of thing.”
“Can I see the others?”
“Dungeon Three is in use, but I can show you the others if you want. Believe me, it’s all pretty much the same thing.”
“Forget it, that’s all right.”
“Our dominas typically wear leather, patent leather, latex, PVC, or English riding attire. We perform bondage, spanking, flagellation, and humiliation, all mild to severe. Puppy training, infantilism, genital chastisement, nipple torment, foot worship. All the usual.”
When they had returned to the waiting room and Sarah had been handed a three-page form to fill out, she asked to use the rest room.
“Sure,” Eva said, “go ahead. You remember where it is?”
“Yeah.”
“If you want Matilda out of there, just order him out. He’d love it.”
Unescorted, she followed the corridor to the rest room, passed by it, and found the steel door marked Dungeon Three, the one that was occupied. This had to be where she’d find him. She swung it open.