Free Fatal Circle by Linda Robertson Page B

They’re over there,” Seven said, pointing at a row of boxes that, according to the labels, held large flat-screen display monitors. “The rest of the crew has gone to the Blood Culture. They should be back any minute.”
    The Blood Culture was a bar for vampires, and its owner, Heldridge, could’ve been the poster boy for the “Vampire Executive” PR campaign. I’d met him at the Eximuim and he definitely had the bloodsucking-lawyer-type persona.
    As I understood it, the blood bars paid cash to donors. Around here, many of the donors were nurses and staff from the Cleveland Clinic and University Hospitals—who enjoyed the supplemental income. The bar then resold the blood like any other retail operation.
    Seven guided us into the stage-right offstage wing and through a maze of stacked lumber, stage lights, and other material. She opened a door in a cinderblock wall that opened into a rectangular space. The far wall soared up two stories. Two doors pierced it. One at floor level, the other opened onto a small landing atop a flight of metal stairs.
    “This area was used as the green room when they did live shows here.” Seven indicated the space around us. The room was gray. Floor and walls. She started up the stairs to the upper door. We followed. “I know, it’s not green. That’s just the theatrical term for any room used by the performers as a sort of lounge area close to the stage.
    “Here we are,” she said from the landing. She tapped in numbers for the keyless electronic lock and opened the plain steel door, went in and hit the light switch.
    The first thing I saw was a broad stone fireplace centered in the finished room. Finished. I almost cheered. Seven had said “not finished”; she’d meant “not furnished.” The walls were solid, the ceiling and floor complete. I allowed a small sigh of relief to escape my lips. Seven could take it for appreciation.
    The stacked stone rose up fifteen feet, like a giant support column. The bottom was open to the front and back. To the right of it, a black-granite-topped bar separated a small kitchen with stainless steel appliances and pale cabinetry from the rest of the space. The opposite side, except for a pair of dark mahogany tables and wrought-iron lamps, was empty. There were black-lacquered doors in the wall to my left, leading, I guessed, to a bathroom and a closet.
    Small spotlights focused on a large empty steel security frame attached to the leathery brown, textured wall. A perfect location for Ariadne. Too perfect.
    How long does he think I’m staying here?
    The floor throughout was pale oak. Glossy black molding gleamed at the top and bottom of the walls. The ceiling was painted a soft wheat. I moved further into the room and noticed a circular portion of the ceiling behind the fireplace was recessed. Intrigued, I drew closer. After leaning my broom against the stone fireplace column, I discovered the interior was a dome painted like a night sky with wispy clouds.
    Not a hovel at all. So much more than a hotel room. My “chambers” were a very comfortable apartment.
    Beside me, Seven flipped another switch. Pinpoints of light began to glow in the dome “sky,” little fiber optics twinkling like stars. “Wow.”
    “I was thinking this for the furniture,” Seven said, offering me a design board she’d picked up off the kitchen bar. Pictures of furniture, swatches of fabric, and a pair of professional sketches suggesting layout were all fastened to the board. A large black four-poster bed would be placed under the dome, with sheer black curtains hung around it. Curtains of a heavy opaque fabric would hang from burnished brass rods running from the side walls to the centered stone stack of the fireplace, effectively dividing a sitting area with two chairs and a black leather sectional angled around an entertainment center. She’d accented the black and brown theme with blues that would rival her eyes for brightness.
    “What do you think?”