Claire Stephenson Residence
Park Avenue
New York City
The elevator ride from the lobby took Elliot and Olivia up to Claire Stephenson's abode on the 24th floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal a gray-haired man in his fifties or sixties waiting for them in a small foyer with a closed door behind him. He wore the dark, elegant suit and had the polished manners of a butler, or servant.
"Detectives," he said by way of greeting. "Might I see your ID?"
Elliot and Olivia exchanged an annoyed look as they each dug out their badges and showed it to the man. They had just showed their Ids to the doorman in the lobby, and now were showing it again to this clown.
'The rich,' Elliot thought with distain. 'They bust our balls just because they can. It's easy to see why they chopped off the heads of the ruling class during the French Revolution…'
The man nodded once more after checking their ID. "Thank you, Detective Stabler, and Detective Benson. Ms. Stephenson is expecting you both. If you would please follow me?"
He opened the door and led them into a massive hallway where the walls were decorated in gaily Greco-Roman-inspired frescos of spring and summer scenes. It depressed Elliot to think that this hallway alone probably cost more to decorate than his entire apartment--and that was even after the major redecorating job that Casey did on his place when they had started going steady.
He felt a pang of guilt when he thought of Casey. They had been dating for over a year, now, and yet they were still living in separate apartments. Casey had dropped little hints about moving their relationship to the next level, but Elliot had kept stalling her. It wasn't that he didn't loved Casey; Elliot did, with all his heart. Perhaps Elliot was gun-shy, thanks to his messy divorce, but he felt that moving in with somebody was a major step that was not to be taken lightly.
He snapped his thoughts back to the present as the man led them into a private library with packed bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. "You can wait here," he said. "Ms. Stephenson will be with you shortly."
"I thought you said she was expecting us?" Olivia asked him.
His pleasant smile faded for a second as he regarded Olivia as though she were something that crawled out from under a rock. Then the smile returned as he said, "Ms. Stephenson will be with you very shortly."
When the man turned to leave, Elliot was startled to see a familiar-looking budge in the side of the man's suit jacket. 'He's got a gun!'
As the servant left, Olivia pointed at him, and then gestured at her own side. 'He's packing,' she mouthed to Elliot.
Elliot nodded. Once he was sure the servant was well out of eat shot, he said, "Looks like Ms. Stephenson doesn't have to worry too much about home invasions."
"Not with a pistol-packing butler," Olivia said. "Wanna bust his nut about it when he comes back?"
Elliot shook his head. "Nah. Odds are very good that he's got a permit."
After a minute of waiting, Olivia glanced impatiently at her watch. "Where is she?"
"She'll get here in her own sweet time, just like they always do," Elliot said, as he glanced around the library. This was yet another tactic of the rich; the longer they make people wait for them, the more busy and powerful they made themselves appear. Yet it was also a method of intimidation that often backfired, because Elliot and Olivia always took the time they were made to wait to scope out the place in an effort to gauge the personality of the person whom they were about to meet.
Elliot's attention was drawn to a collection of books within a special, glass-enclosed bookcase. When he walked up for a closer look, he saw why they were treated so special: there were first editions of Edgar Allan Poe here, along with the works of Hammett and other famous mystery writers.
'She's a mystery fan,' Elliot thought. 'Or at least she can afford to be, since there's no evidence that she's actually read this stuff.'
Yet when Elliot saw the framed letter written by Poe on the wall, he realized that Stephenson was a true literary buff. 'Buying that letter must have set Stephenson back a few thousand, if not tens of thousands.'
"El," Olivia called.
When he joined her, Olivia pointed out some books on a shelf to him. Elliot looked at the spine and read the title: 'Hard Core: The Expressions of Desire through Violence In The Mystery Story.' Then his eyebrows went up when he saw who the author was: Charles Beauchamp.
"Didn't know Charlie was so prolific," Elliot muttered, as he looked over the row of nonfiction books that Beauchamp wrote.
"He's a literary critic, in addition to being a college professor," Olivia reminded him. "As well as being a sadistic bastard. But that's not all. Take a look at this."
Olivia pointed out a small bronze statue of a dragon on a rocky crevice, its wings unfolded as if it was about to take flight. Sitting on the bare back of the dragon was a half-naked woman, who held one arm raised up, as if directing the dragon where to go.
"Stephenson's a fantasy fan as well?" Elliot asked, unsure of what Olivia was trying to say by pointing this statue out.
Olivia shook her head. "Don't you get it, El? Who's that woman riding the dragon? She's a dragon lady."
"Oh shit," Elliot whispered, as the realization struck him. The statue could well be proof that Stephenson was not only fully aware of her dragon lady reputation--but that she also reveled in it.
Before Elliot could further process this new piece of information, they were both interrupted when a woman's voice said, "That's an original Michael Bartley piece. He's a friend of mine."
Elliot turned to see a woman in her mid to late thirties standing in the doorway of the library. She was casually clad in a pair of denim shorts with a pale yellow tank top and sandals. Her dark, curly brown hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had an easy smile that seemed to sparkle along with her light green eyes.
"Claire Stephenson," she said by way of introduction.
"Detective Elliot Stabler, and my partner Detective Olivia Benson," he said. "NYPD."
Stephenson nodded at them both. Then she gestured at her clothes. "Excuse my casual dress; I was just working in the garden."
"Not a problem," Olivia said.
"May I offer you two something?" Stephenson asked. "Tea? Soda? Water?"
"No thanks," Elliot said. He couldn't help but notice how she had very subtly tried to dominate the conversation. "We're just here to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, I understand you arrested one of my employees," Stephenson said with a slight frown of disapproval. "A Mr. Dayton. May I ask why?"
"He wasn't arrested," Olivia corrected, "we just brought him in for questioning."
"And may I ask why you brought Mr. Dayton in for questioning?" Stephenson asked.
'There she goes again, dominating the conversation,' Elliot realized. 'Enough of this shit…'
"Do you know a Mr. Samuel Childs?" he abruptly asked, ignoring her previous question.
If Stephenson appeared startled by Elliot's deliberate rudeness, she hid it very well. "Yes, Mr. Childs is a friend of the family."
"We're investigating the abduction of Lilly Beauchamp, and Mr. Childs' name has come up," Elliot told her. "When we went to Mr. Childs' home, we found Mr. Dayton there. The super of the building thought he was Childs, because he pays the rent on the apartment."
"I've heard of that poor girl's abduction," Stephenson said sadly. "I do hope you find her safe."
'Now she's dodging the subject,' Elliot realized. 'And all without pulling any airs. Damn, she's good.'
"May I ask what was Mr. Dayton doing paying Mr. Childs' rent?" Olivia pointedly said, keeping the conversation on topic.
"Mr. Childs is an old family friend," Stephenson said with a weary sigh. "He was very close with my mother, and before she died, my mother had asked me to look after him. Therefore, I have…obligations regarding Mr. Childs' continued good health and welfare. You see, Mr. Childs is an alcoholic."
"I'm wondering how Mr. Childs can maintain his good health without the use of a bed," Elliot said. "We didn't find one in his apartment."
For the first time since meeting her, Elliot finally saw a crack in Stephenson's smooth veneer. She glared at him with genuine unease in her eyes. "He's told me that he prefers to sleep on the couch. Why is Mr. Childs under investigation?" she asked. "You said his name came up. How?"
'She's lying,' Elliot thought, as he felt his hackles rise. 'She already knows the answer. She's just fishing for information.'
"Mr. Childs was a frequent visitor to Charles Beauchamp at Riker's Island," Olivia replied. "Do you know anything about their friendship, Ms. Stephenson?"
"I had no idea Sam even knew Mr. Beauchamp," Stephenson said.
"But you know Charles Beauchamp," Elliot told her. He gestured at the bookshelves and added, "You've got just about all of his books."
"I don't know Charles Beauchamp personally," Stephenson said with a shake of her head. "He was a brilliant analyst of the mystery genre, and I greatly appreciated his work. But little did I--or anyone else, for that matter--realize just how well Mr. Beauchamp understood the heart of darkness that lay within us all."
"Tell that to his victims," Olivia said with disgust. "I'm sure they'll be happy to hear that they were brutalized by that monster because he understood the darker side of his nature."
"I don't think I like your tone, Detective Benson," Stephenson said defensively.
'She's getting ready to kick us out,' Elliot realized. It was time to make a final, hard push with her.
"We're searching for a little girl who has been kidnapped just this afternoon," he firmly told her. "We haven't received a ransom note, and without that, the first twenty four hours in a kidnapping become the most important--because, after that amount of time, the chances of finding the kidnap victim dwindle sharply. So if we appear a little abrupt with you, it's nothing personal, it's just that the clock is ticking. Now, I understand you run an advocacy group for convicts called The Friends Of Justice. Has Charles Beauchamp received any assistance from your group?"
"No," Stephenson replied warily. "My group aids either convicts who have just been released from prison, or those who are unjustly jailed. Mr. Beauchamp's situation doesn't meet our criteria."
"Would it be possible for us to receive a list of the convicts that your group is currently helping?" Olivia asked.
"I'm sorry, but that list is private," Stephenson said firmly. The politeness was now completely gone from her manner. "And if there isn't anything else, then I must take my leave. I have an appointment that I must keep."
Elliot knew they had a snow ball's chance in hell of getting a list of names from Stephenson, but he didn't fault Olivia for asking anyway. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Stephenson," he said. "We'll see ourselves out."
When he and Olivia reached the hallway, Elliot knew that his partner was hopping mad. He could tell it in the way Olivia walked, and the subtle manner in which she very slightly shook her head in disgust.
He had an idea why she was so livid, but Elliot waited until they were within the privacy of the elevator before he said anything. "You thinking what I'm thinking, Liv?"
"That bitch is as guilty as sin," Olivia firmly said.
"Yeah, she definitely gives off that vibe," Elliot concurred. "She's a very smooth customer."
"But not that smooth," Olivia said with another disgusted shake of her head. "We've found our mastermind--this frigging bitch is the one behind it all. I know that in my heart."
"That's not going to be enough to charge her with," Elliot said. "Besides, we're still not sure what her motive is. Why would she do all of this for Beauchamp, anyway?"
"Elliot, don't you know?" Olivia said with disbelief. "Jesus, it's so obvious
------------------------------
Casey was stunned.
She glanced down with a horrified expression at her body, at the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the hard-backed wooden chair that she sat in.
'What the hell is going on?' she frantically thought. 'The last thing I remember, I was just in my office!'
When she heard a muffled cry, Casey glanced over her shoulder and saw Olivia. The detective also sat helplessly bound to a chair, but she was also gagged, as well. Then Olivia's eyes grew as wide as saucers as she stared in terror at something behind Casey.
Casey glanced over at the door and let out a cry of terror when she saw him.
Edward Lister.
He loomed in the shadows, looking for all the world like a vampire. His face was a ghastly pale, and Casey thought he had bloodstains on his mouth. He moved silently and quickly into the room, reaching out for Casey with his hands.
"You're dead!" Casey cried in horror. "No, you're DEAD!"
Just as Lister's hands wrapped themselves around Casey's throat, he smiled, baring a mouthful of glistening fangs--
"CASEY!"
Casey awoke with a start, instantly relieved to find herself on the couch in her office. She looked up and saw her fellow ADA Alexandra Borgia leaning over her with an anxious expression on her face. "Are you all right?"
"Oh Christ," Casey muttered, feeling like an idiot. "Yeah, Alex. I'm fine. I was having a bad dream."
"Must have been a doozy," she said.
Casey abruptly remembered that it had been Alex who had taken over her SVU workload when Casey was in hiding during those dark days, which started when Edward Lister had blown out the window of her office with an automatic weapon.
"Yeah, it was about Lister," Casey replied. "I keep dreaming about him every now and then. It's been more than a year after his death, and I still can't get the bastard out of my head."
"You had been stalked, and then kidnapped," Alex said sympathetically. "It takes time to work through stuff like that."
"Thanks," Casey said, touched. "You had my back once before, and I see you've got it covered once more. I appreciate it, Alex."
Casey frowned when she heard a commotion from outside her office. "What's going on out there?"
"Oh, that's right," Alex said with a smile. "You haven't heard the news yet."
"What news?" Casey asked.
"C'mon," Alex replied with a grin, as she gestured for Casey to join her outside.
Puzzled, Casey went with Alex into the hallway, where she saw Branch standing amidst a crowd of ADAs. Tracy Kibre, Kelly Gaffney, Ron Carver, and even Jack McCoy stood amongst the crowd.
'Was there a meeting called that I didn't hear about?' Casey wondered. Yet departmental meetings weren't held in the hallway, and judging from the jovial banter being tossed about, this gathering was anything but formal.
"Pretzels!" Tracy Kibre said with a laugh. "You're kidding me!"
"I know, who'd thought I'd miss pretzels so much!" a woman responded. Her voice sounded strangely familiar to Casey. "But I swear, I did! And the Chinese food out there, Christ Almighty! The first thing I want to do now that I'm back in the city is get a decent egg roll!"
"It's good to see you've got your priorities straight, Alex," Branch joked, which caused the group to break up into laughter. When he saw Casey, Branch gestured for her to come closer. "Casey! Come and celebrate the return of one of our own!"
Casey was shocked to see Alex Cabot staring back at her with a goofy grin on her face. "You're back?" Casey said, still dumbfounded, as she gave Alex a warm hug in greeting. "What happened?"
"It's over," Alex said joyfully. "I'm officially out of the Witness Protection Program."
Alex had been Casey's predecessor as the ADA for the Special Victim's Unit, before a case involving ruthless drug lords got out of control and forced her to go into hiding. "What about the drug lords?"
"They're dead, at least the ones who were after Alex," Branch told her. "A bomb exploded within the compound they were meeting in. Killed them all."
'Spec-Op-For,' Casey thought with a chill, recalling the name of the secret government black ops agency that Edward Lister was a part of. This bombing sounded like it might be their handiwork. If it was, then she actually had something to be grateful to those bastards for.
"I'd never thought I be so happy to hear about people getting killed by a bomb," Alex ruefully said.
"Given the circumstances, your feelings are understandable," McCoy said.
"Well, what are we doing standing around here?" Branch abruptly said. "We've all gotwork to do--but not before we raise a toast to Alex's return! Somebody get the cups."
As the crowd began walking down the hallway for the toast, Alex Borgia made a face at Casey. "Breaking out the booze," she said distastefully, "how much more 'old boy tradition' can you get?"
Casey just smiled slightly in response. She wasn't sure why--maybe it was the nightmare she just had--but despite the joyful occasion, Casey still couldn't shake the feeling that something very bad was going to happen soon.
'I hope to God I'm wrong,' she anxiously thought.
To Be Continued...