Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, and Cheryl Banks do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are the product of my own unbridled imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally by accident.
This fic was originally written as a virtual season episode, just for fun.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Steve Sloan groused as he fastened the silver buttons on his brocade vest, squirming broad shoulders under the heavy linen shirt as he did so.
Mark Sloan gave his son a critical glance and reached over to readjust the black "gambler's" tie. "Come on, Steve. You mean to tell me you don't enjoy receiving appreciative looks from beautiful young women hoping to attract the attention of their very own version of Wyatt Earp?" Ignoring the rude noise which was his son's response, he continued, "Besides, it's for a good cause, and we get a brand new concert hall/opera house in the process. How can you possibly object to that?"
Steve sighed. "Because every time I go to one of these dress-up functions of yours, costume or otherwise, dead bodies show up. I wouldn't mind admiring glances if I didn't end up having to work." He shrugged on the long black broadcloth frock coat, reached for his hat, and paused to return his father's look with interest. "Sherlock Holmes? I thought we had to be people who actually existed."
"Close, but no cigar," Mark replied smugly. "Arthur Conan Doyle, my boy." He collected the deerstalker hat and caped overcoat waiting on a chair and motioned his son towards the door. "We don't want to keep the others waiting. Don't worry; no one's going to die, and nothing's going to happen except that we're all going to have a good time."
"Hmmpfh," Steve grunted, with understandable skepticism, given his father's existing track record, not even mollified as Amanda came in dressed in Edwardian silks and flounces. The sight of Cheryl coming through the door distracted him, however; she was dressed as the infamous Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, in full nineteenth century finery. He swept off his hat, bowed and offered her his arm, pausing only to give Jesse a mock-threatening look as the latter snickered.
Jesse placed one hand on the dueling pistol stuck in his belt and swept magnificent black ringlets away from his face. "You challenge Henry Morgan, the bane of the Spanish Main?" He turned to Queen Elizabeth, also known as Gillian Tolliver, who was standing next to him, suppressing a smile in a failing attempt to look regal. "Would your Majesty excuse me while I teach this ruffian some manners?"
Gillian fought an unsuccessful battle with hilarity and giggled. "Jesse, I think Steve bows very nicely. How about you?"
Her suitor promptly swept off his own headgear, managing miraculously to keep the wig from sliding, and saluted her appropriately, the effect marred only by the broad grin on his face.
"Children," Mark interjected, laughing, "we'd better get started or we'll miss the party." He offered Amanda his arm. "Miss Langtry, will you join me? Our limousine is waiting."
As they trooped out, Steve made a last-ditch effort to derail his father. "I'm telling you now, Dad -- just one body turns up, and I'm giving these things up for good."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Be thankful I'm not going as Houdini -- I could make someone disappear."
His son shuddered theatrically. "Pass on that one too, Dad. Let's try to have an uneventful evening, okay?"
Glancing at the crowd some minutes later, Steve wondered sourly whether any missing bodies, or dead ones for that matter, would even be noticed. The gala opening for the musical arts center, with the eighteenth-century inspired opera house as the showpiece, was apparently the place to be that night. A bewildering array of costumes, masks and glitter moved about the building as what appeared to be Los Angeles' entire charitable elite mingled happily.
His reverie was rudely interrupted as Cheryl tapped his arm, not particularly gently, with her fan and affected a Creole accent. "M'sieu Earp, I wish to dance. And it is unwise to displease Marie, non?"
"Heaven forfend," Steve replied fervently. "Madame Laveau, may I have the honor?"
His father watched them go complacently. "They make a handsome couple, don't they?"
Amanda nodded, then added wickedly. "And they're dancing."
Her emphasis on the last word did not go unheeded. Mark bowed and invited her to join him for a turn or two around the dance floor, and they moved off into the crowd.
"Not a bad party, is it, son?"
Steve turned from watching the dancers as he and Cheryl enjoyed some refreshments. "No bodies yet, at least. I suppose I should be relieved, Dad."
All three laughed, then Cheryl asked curiously, "Where's Amanda?"
"Powder room," Mark answered. He started to say something else, but stopped.
Steve noticed. "What is it, Dad?"
Mark smoothed his face out hastily. "Nothing, son," he replied, a little too innocently.
Steve wasn't fooled. "Something's up."
His father started to shake his head, then gave up as Steve's expression hardened. "Okay. I'm sure it's nothing -- but she's been gone for a while."
"Couldn't she have stopped to talk to someone?" Cheryl asked. "After all, she does know a lot of the people here."
Mark looked doubtful. "I could have sworn she said she was starving, and was going to come right this way."
Cheryl took pity on him. "I'll go check the powder rooms, just in case," she offered.
Steve smiled down at her. "Don't be long," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
She laughed, and blew him a kiss. "You are very amusing, M'sieu Earp," she declared, scooting off before he could refute her claim.
Grinning himself, Mark watched her go, then turned to his son, who was staring after her with an interestingly besotted expression. "Come on, Romeo Earp, let's get something else to drink."
They had been waiting for about five minutes, and Mark was starting to get anxious once again, when the lights in the enormous chandeliers flickered twice and abruptly went out. Chaos ensued for a few minutes as voices clamored, then ended just as rapidly as the lights came back on and excited partygoers calmed. Looking around, Steve spotted Cheryl returning, heading for them as quickly as she could given the limitations of her full skirts. She was holding something in one hand, and she looked perturbed. "This was in the powder room. It's Amanda's purse."
Mark looked grave. "She wouldn't have just left it. Something's wrong."
Steve made a sound of exasperation. "Dad -- you two didn't just decide to pull my leg --?"
"What kind of crazy --" Mark started angrily, breaking off as he guiltily remembered discussing just such a potential prank with Amanda earlier. "Honest, Steve. This wasn't our idea. This is serious."
Steve sighed. "All right. We'll organize a search."
Organize a search, Steve thought with considerable irritation, as he watched the light from his flashlight dance across dark grey walls. Organize was supposed to be the operative word, but half of the nearest contingent of police had been called out on a major crisis on the other side of the precinct. Consequently, he had not only had to enlist some volunteers from the attendees, but here he was, dressed to the nines, mucking around in one of the surprising multitude of passageways in the opera house. And apparently underneath as well, he thought, revising his initial impression as he came upon a long, curving stairway heading down to some unknown depth. Had this all been built as part of the new center, he wondered, or had there been an original structure, and how old would it have been?
His musing was interrupted by something flickering to his right. He reached automatically for his gun, and swore as he remembered he had opted for his antique Colts to coordinate with his costume. He'd just have to get close enough to ensure putting a large hole in whomever it was. "LAPD. Show yourself," he commanded, sweeping his flashlight across the area in question.
It came bursting out at him suddenly, catching him off guard; he had a brief glimpse of flying black cloak, gloved hands, and an impossibly white face -- a mask? -- as he stepped back involuntarily. His descending foot met empty air before realization sank in, and he tried to correct his misstep, turning almost in mid-air. A hard shove from his assailant, however, was enough to knock him further off balance, and he fell, rolling the length of the staircase, to subside in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
He experienced a strange feeling of weightlessness for a time; his eyes refused to cooperate, and the blurry images passing by made no sense, leaving him disoriented and confused. At one point, he suspected he was hanging upside down, but the throbbing in his head and ringing in his ears made it impossible for him to be sure, and he finally gave up, allowing the lurking greyness to take over. This not too-uncomfortable half-life came to an abrupt end, however, when he was dumped unceremoniously onto a hard, stone surface. He lost consciousness as his already abused head made contact with it, thereby failing to notice the other, also unconscious, occupant of the room.
Ironically, it was his aching head which brought him back. Steve groaned involuntarily as attempted movement sent small tremors of misery through his temples, and grabbed for them automatically. Or thought he did; startled investigation showed that his arms were stretched above his head, his wrists secured to chains fastened to the wall. Without thinking, revolted by his discovery, he seized the chains above his hands and yanked, setting his feet firmly, and collapsed in shock as new, vicious pain shrieked through his right ankle.
The rattling chains and Steve's bitten-off yelp disturbed the reverie of the woman huddled in the corner, and she sat up, staring as the identity of her new roommate registered. "Steve! Are you hurt?"
Silly question, he thought fuzzily, until he recognized the voice and forced his eyes open. "Amanda? Are you all right? What happened?" Then, his own voice getting stronger as the world stopped spinning, he demanded, "What the hell's going on here? Why am I chained to the wall like someone's bad imitation of a Vincent Price movie?"
"I don't know."
She hadn't moved from where she sat, and the peculiarity of this sank in as the pain continued to rage through his ankle. "Amanda -- I hate to sound self-absorbed, but, if you're okay, I think my ankle's broken."
Fury crossed her face, and she uttered a very unladylike word. "I can't move more than a foot in any direction." She lifted her long skirt high enough for him to see the shackle around her own ankle.
"Matching set?" he wondered crazily, tugging experimentally at his own. "Who is this lunatic?" For the first time, he took note of the furnishings of the chamber: candles everywhere, draperies, elegant furniture, at least on Amanda's side of the room, and -- "A piano? What the hell --?"
"He keeps calling me Christine," Amanda said grumpily.
Steve stared at her. "And that means?"
"And asking me to sing."
The penny dropped, and he started to laugh in spite of himself. "Don't tell me -- this nutcase thinks he's the Phantom of the Opera?"