by Sue Grafton
29
I was lying on a bed, caught up in a confusion of conversations, which seemed to be about me. It reminded me of car trips as a kid, listening to the low, lazy buzz of adults talking in the front seat while I snoozed in the rear. I experienced the same sweet certainty that if I could just remain still, feigning sleep, others would take responsibility for the journey. Something flat and icy cold was pressed against the side of my head, causing a stinging sensation so sharp that I hissed. Someone put the towel-wrapped ice pack in my hand and encouraged me to hold it myself at a pressure I could tolerate.
The hotel doctor arrived and spent an inordinate amount of time checking my vital signs, making sure I still knew my name, the date, and how many fingers he was holding up—a number he varied in an attempt to trick and deceive. There was talk of paramedics, whose services I declined. Next thing I knew, there were two more guys in the room. One I gathered was the head of hotel security, a hefty gentleman in a business suit with a gaping lapel. I caught a glimpse of leather that I hoped was a shoulder holster and not a back brace. The notion of a man with a gun was comforting. He was in his sixties, balding and beefy-faced with a thick gray mustache. The man with him, I was guessing, was part of the hotel-management team. I turned my head slightly. A third man appeared in the doorway with a walkie-talkie in his hand. He was slim, in his forties, sporting what was surely a toupee. He entered and conferred with the other two.
The beefy-faced guy with the mustache introduced himself, saying, “I’m Mr. Fitzgerald, hotel security. This is my associate, Mr. Preston, and the manager, Mr. Shearson. How do you feel?”
I said, “Fine,” which was ridiculous, as I was flat on my back with a very tender lump on my head. Someone had removed my shoes and put a blanket over me that really wasn’t warm enough.
The manager leaned close to Fitzgerald and spoke to him as though I wasn’t there. “I notified corporate. The attorney suggested we have her sign a waiver, releasing us from any liability…” He glanced at me and then lowered his voice.
There was a squawk from the walkie-talkie. Mr. Preston retired to the corridor and conducted his conversation beyond my hearing. When he returned moments later, he chatted with Fitzgerald, but in a tone so subdued I couldn’t pick up the content. The manager excused himself and after a brief conference Mr. Preston left as well.
I struggled to get my bearings. They had apparently settled me in an empty guest room, though I didn’t remember how I’d arrived. For all I knew, they’d dragged me through the halls by my heels. I could see a desk, sofa, two upholstered chairs, and the Art Deco armoire that housed the minibar and TV. I’d never stayed in such an upscale hotel so it was all a revelation to me. The management at the Paradise in Reno could take a lesson from the Neptune when it came to interior design. I adjusted my ice pack and said, “What happened to Marty?”
Fitzgerald said, “We don’t know. They managed to get him out of the building without being seen. I had the parking lot attendant check for his car, but someone had already claimed it and had driven it away. No one remembered the driver so we’re not sure if Mr. Blumberg left on his own or in the company of the men who abducted him.”
“Poor guy.”
“The police are here talking to the woman with you. They’d like to ask you a few questions when you’re up to it.”
“I don’t remember much, but sure,” I said. In truth, I didn’t feel like conversation. I was cold. The knot on the side of my head throbbed sharply with every beat of my pulse. My midsection was sore. I had no idea what Reba was telling them, but I suspected she’d be less than candid. The whole situation was too complicated to explain, especially since I didn’t know how much the feds considered confidential. I was sick about Marty. My last glimpse of him—cheek split, blood running down the side of his face—he’d seemed resigned to his fate, like a man being hauled off to the gas chamber, priest at his side. It was the dread in his eyes I found haunting, as though he knew that something far worse was in store for him. I wanted to rewind the reel of film, let events unfold again so I could find a way to help him.
Fitzgerald said something else, but I wasn’t taking it in. I removed the ice pack and checked the soggy terry cloth with its blush of blood in the loops. I rearranged the fold and laid the fresh cold of a new spot against my poor banged-up head. I was shivering, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for another blanket. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?”
“Had you ever seen these men before?”
“Not to my recollection. I thought they were on their way to meet someone else. They were coming right at us, but it’s like a stranger waving in your direction. You turn around and look back, assuming it isn’t you they mean. Reba might remember more than I do. Can I talk to her?”
He debated, wanting to press for information, trying at the same time to appear compassionate and concerned, hotel liability being what it was. “As soon as the police are finished, I’ll have her come in.”
“Thanks.”
I closed my eyes again. I was tired and I didn’t think I’d ever want to get out of this bed. I felt a touch on my arm. Reba now sat in a chair she’d pulled over close to the bed. Fitzgerald wasn’t in the room.
“Where’d Fitzgerald disappear to?”
“Who knows. I told the cops to call Cheney and he’d fill ’em in. I didn’t want to put my foot in my mouth with the FBI involved. How’s your head?”
“Hurts. Help me up and let’s see if I can sit up without passing out or puking.” She held my outstretched hand and eased me into an upright position. I pushed the blanket aside and placed my other hand on the bed table for stability. It really wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.
“You’re not planning to go anywhere, I hope.”
“Not until I know what kind of shape I’m in. You ever see those guys before?”
She hesitated. “I think so. In the pickup truck on the way down from Reno. They’re probably Salustio’s goons. Beck must have told him I took his twenty-five grand.”
“But why snatch Marty? He had nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t know what’s going on. Shit, I wish I’d never told Marty the feds were closing in. All that did was scare him into running. He’d have been better off if he were under arrest. At least he’d be safe.”
“What about the claim check he gave you? What was that about?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. I’d forgotten about that.” She rooted through her bag, pulled it out, and turned it over in her hand. “Hotel luggage claim. I should talk to the bell captain and see what this is. Will you be okay? It shouldn’t take me long.”
“Sure. Why don’t you wait for me downstairs? As soon as I’ve talked to the cops, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
She said, “Great.”
I waited until she was gone and then made my way into the bathroom, where I washed my face and ran my head under the faucet to wash away the dried blood that was matted in my hair. I took a bath towel and blotted gingerly until the strands were dry enough to comb. Really, I was doing better than I’d expected, now that I was on my feet.
By the time the uniformed beat officer arrived, I was sitting in a chair, feeling somewhat restored. He was a clean-cut fellow in his twenties with a serious demeanor and a slight, disarming lisp. I repeated what I knew, watching him scribble in his notebook. We went over the sequence of events until he seemed satisfied that he’d wrung as much from me as I was able to remember. I gave him my Santa Teresa address and my phone number, as well as Cheney’s. He gave me a card and said I could request a copy of the crime report if I wrote to the Records Section, though it would take about ten days for processing.
Once the door closed behind him, I slipped on my shoes. Bending down to tie the laces was not a happy occasion, but I managed it. I found my shoulder bag and let myself out into the hall, then located the bank of elevators and went down.
In the lobby, I looked across to the bell captain’s desk, expecting to catch sight of Re
ba. No bell captain and no Reba. I’d been talking to the officer for a good ten minutes, so it didn’t surprise me to think she’d already retrieved whatever Marty had left for her. I circled the area, peering into the cocktail lounge, the ladies’ room, and the corridor near the public phones. I tried the gift boutique and the newsstand next door. Where the hell had she gone? I kept expecting to spot her, and it annoyed me no end that she’d wandered off without leaving me some word. I sat in the lobby for six or seven minutes and then stepped outside. The bell captain was tagging a set of suitcases. When he finished, I said, “I’m looking for a friend…petite, dark hair. She came down a little while ago with a claim check for—”
“Of course. She picked up the rolling bag and then she left.”
“Do you know where she went?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I wish I could help.” He excused himself to tend to an incoming guest and left me standing there perplexed. Now what?
A car pulled up, the parking valet delivering the vehicle to a waiting guest. The driver got out and as the valet closed the door, he caught my eye. I realized he was the same kid we’d seen when we first arrived. “You looking for your friend?”
“Yes.”
“You just missed her,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘missed her’?”
“The doorman whistled her up a cab a few minutes ago.”
“You mean she left the hotel? Going where?”
“I didn’t hear. She gave the driver instructions and then the taxi pulled away.”
“Was she alone?”
“Looked like it. She had her suitcase with her so maybe she was headed for the airport.”
“Thanks.”
Now what?
I couldn’t figure out what she was up to. I was anxious to hit the road, but how could I leave the hotel when I had no idea where she was or if she meant to return? Had she left on an impulse or had she intended to ditch me from the moment we left Reno? Whatever the reality, I felt I had to hang around for a while, at least until I was convinced she was gone for good.
In the meantime, there must be something I could do. I returned to the lobby, where I took a seat in the same chair I’d occupied when we first arrived. I closed my eyes and went back over the entire sequence of events. I pictured Reba crossing to the desk. She’d removed a mailing pouch from her purse, printed something on the face of it, and left it with the concierge. She’d then asked for and received an envelope. Which suggested what?
I got up and approached the concierge’s desk. There was only one man on duty—Carl, according to his name tag—and he was in the process of setting up dinner reservations for a well-dressed older gentleman. I waited. Once the gentleman left, Carl turned a blank look on me, his eyes straying to the side of my head, where I suddenly imagined a bump the size of the Palmdale Bulge. “May I be of assistance?”
“Is the manager available?”
“I can certainly check. Are you a guest of the hotel?”
“Well, no, but I seem to have a little problem and I could use his help.”
“I see. And will he know what this is in reference to?”
“Probably not. You can tell him the name is Millhone.”
He picked up his desk phone and punched in a number, gaze fixed on me. When the line was picked up on the other end, he turned away from me and conducted his conversation with a hand across his mouth like someone trying to be polite while picking his teeth in public. “He’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“Thanks.”
He smiled and his gaze slid past me as he busied himself. For some minutes he was occupied with a ledger and the phone. I started to speak, but he held up a finger—denoting, One minute, please—and then went on with his task. Was I being stonewalled? I remembered the comment the manager had made about the hotel’s liability in light of Marty’s (alleged) abduction and the assault on me. Perhaps he’d put a call through to corporate and his boss, or his boss’s boss, had warned him to avoid any further contact with me. Anything said might be used against the hotel in a court of law. I might as well have had a flashing sign on my forehead: LAWSUIT * LAWSUIT * LAWSUIT. “Excuse me. Sir?”
“If you’d care to have a seat, the manager will be with you.” His tone was pleasant, but this time he didn’t look at me at all. He picked up a sheaf of papers, rapped them against the counter to align the edges, and moved into the inner office as though on a mission related to national security.
Irritated, I noticed that my bad angel was now perched on my shoulder, pointing mutely. I could see the manila mailing pouch Reba’d left earlier. It was still lying on the credenza less than five feet away. From where I stood, Marty’s name was visible, printed in bold black ink. Here we go…I moved down the counter and caught the attention of an idle desk clerk, a kid about twenty, probably still in training for the job. He said, “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Mrs. Blumberg. My husband and I are guests of the hotel. He said he was leaving a package for me and I believe that’s it.” I pointed at the pouch.
The clerk picked it up. “You’re Marty?”
“Yes, I am.”
He handed it over, happy to be of service.
I was happy, too. “Thank you.”
I made my way to the ladies’ room, where I shut myself in a stall. I perched on the toilet seat despite the fact that it had no lid. In correctional facilities, lids are removed to prevent suicide attempts, though offhand it’s hard to imagine the procedure whereby one would hang oneself with a toilet seat, especially with that cunning gap in the middle separating the two halves. In some institutions, there’s no toilet seat at all, just a tankless one-piece commode, fashioned out of stainless steel. I propped my feet on the door, worried the clerk would burst in and raise a hue and cry about unlawful possession. The pouch had the bulk and heft of a couple of paperbacks. The flap was self-sealed, but I picked at it until the two lines of adhesive loosened their grip. I peered in.
Now this was the perfect example of why it’s so impossible to cure me of the naughty lies I tell. Fibs and related forms of deception often have the most remarkable rewards. Inside I found the following:
A United States passport, issued to one Garrisen Randolph, with a two-by-two photograph of Martin Blumberg.
A California driver’s license issued to Garrisen Randolph, with a slightly shrunken version of the same photograph. His residence address was listed in Los Angeles, 90024 zip code, which was actually Westwood. Sex: M HAIR: Brn EYES: Brn HT: 5-11 WT: 272 DOB: 08-25-42, this latter printed in red. Above the picture, also in red, was the license expiration date: 08-25-90.
In addition, there was an American Express card, a Visa credit card, and a MasterCard issued to the same Garrisen Randolph, plus a birth certificate from Inyo County, California, detailing the particulars of Garrisen Randolph’s birth.
These were, of course, versions of the phony documents Reba’d stolen from the hidden drawer in Alan Beckwith’s desk. The name on these documents was a variation on the name Garrison Randell, probably to ensure that a computer search wouldn’t pick up a match. Technically, Marty could leave the country anytime he liked and no one would be the wiser. There was no doubt in my mind that Misty Raine had done the work. I remembered Reba’s telling me Misty’s newly discovered forging talents had netted her the bucks to pay for that bodacious set of tits. The fellow she’d met in the lounge at the Silverado was probably supplying counterfeit paper, seals, or credit card blanks.
But what did it mean?
Phony documents of this caliber cost plenty. Reba was the one who’d made all the arrangements, but in exchange for what? Clearly she and Marty had a deal. I could see what he was getting out of it, but what was the benefit to her? I thought about the envelope she’d received at the desk. Maybe he’d given her the twenty-five thousand dollars she needed to pay Salustio. Which left the issue of the suitcase, which contained god knows what. I glanced at my watch. It was now clos
e to 6:00. I shoved the manila pouch in my shoulder bag and left the ladies’ room.
I took the elevator up to 8. As I’d hoped, there were maid’s carts parked at intervals along the corridor. Many guests had departed for the evening, on their way to dinner. The maids were now going room by room, emptying the trash, replacing towels, replenishing amenities, and turning down the beds. I waited until the maid had entered Marty’s room and then I scurried down the hall. I paused near her cart, where I spotted a box of disposable latex gloves. I slipped a pair in my shoulder bag and rapped on the open door. I wondered if the cop had been through Marty’s room. Perhaps not, as there wasn’t any crime scene tape.
The maid looked up from the bed where she was folding the heavy quilted spread into something the size and shape of a giant Tootsie Roll.
I said, “Sorry to interrupt, but is there any way you can come back and finish this later? I have a dinner date in twenty minutes and I have to get dressed.”
She murmured her apologies, picked up her plastic carrier of supplies, and exited.
I hung the Privacy Please sign on the outside knob, pulled on my gloves, and did a thorough search. Marty must have had his wallet, room key, and other items on his person when his assailants hurried him away. I went through the hard-sided suitcase he’d left open on the luggage rack. Underwear, shirts, socks, a few toiletries he hadn’t transferred to the bathroom counter. I opened the closet door and ran a hand into the pockets of the pants he’d left. Empty. I made a systematic search of the hanging garment bag, but there was just what you’d expect: suits, trousers, belts, shoes. Aside from the hotel robe, there was no other clothing in the closet and no sign of the usual hotel safe with its four-digit combination lock.