Pulling off the clothes as he walked, he wandered into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator. Twisting the cap off the Perrier made a satisfying hiss, and he practically chugged it down, washing the sour taste of vomit from his mouth. He felt his stomach rumble and a deep belch escaped his lips.
“Excuse me,” he called out.
Gram preferred manners, and he was obliged to display them at all times, even when no one else was present.
Feeling himself slowly recover back into his calm and cool surroundings, he walked toward the back door. The breeze was swaying the trees outside. He slid the door open and stepped onto his balcony. He took a sip of his bubbling water and inhaled slowly. Closing his eyes, he tried to let the ridiculous events of the day drift away into nothingness. The warmth of the sun began to sink into his skin and sweat began to form on his brow. A wolf whistle came from across the street and he jerked his eyes open to see a group of young Latino boys staring at him and pointing. He looked down and realized he was still buck naked.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and jumped back into his apartment and slammed the door behind him. He hurried back away from the huge sliding glass door and into the hall.
He skipped back to the bedroom and walked straight through to the shower. He jerked the knob over and it thankfully ran hot quickly. He took one more sip, laid the bottle on the counter, and stepped in. He let the rushing water run over him. When he was finally pink and pruned, he stepped out. He was ready.
He wrapped his luxurious white Brunello Cucinelli bathrobe around his body and combed his hair back. His hairline was still perfect and his forehead was smooth… no Botox needed here.
Opening the jewelry box on his bedside table, he took out the brass skeleton key.
It was time.
Taz held his breath. The man who’d been following him—that he was now following—had stopped quickly and unexpectedly beside the dumpster in the apartment building’s parking lot. Taz screeched to a halt and jerked the wheel of the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck left into a handicapped parking space at the front of the building. He watched the man fumble around inside the car, then exit the car completely naked, and toss a rumpled pile of clothing into the dumpster. Strange bugger.
The man was definitely paranoid and was constantly turning his head from left and right, watching.
Taz crouched low in the truck seat and stayed motionless. The man hopped back into his car and pulled into the garage under the building. Taz waited a minute and then pulled in after him. Again, he cruised in behind the man at a safe distance, sidled into a space when he saw the man park his car, and watched him—again totally naked—jog up to the elevator door.
He watched as the man entered next to a hideous old hag, have some sort of terse exchange with her, and then the doors closed. The numbers on the door dinged up until they stopped on the third floor. Then after a moment, it continued on up to five.
Third floor or fifth floor, Taz thought. He hopped out of the truck and jogged to the stairwell. He didn’t want to bump into the man coming back down the elevator having forgotten something, or pop out on his floor suddenly with no cover. He took the stairs three at a time and was breathless as he reached the third floor. He peeked out the security window down the dingy hallway. No sign of anyone.
He opened the door and stepped into the hall. There were six doors, three on each side, and he walked to the first one and put his ear near the door. The sound of a muffled television playing some Spanish game show drifted out the door, followed by the spicy smell of tacos, or enchiladas, or burritos, or something like that. His stomach growled.
He stepped to the next door and pressed his ear to it. He jumped when the door suddenly pushed in and opened.
“Oh, shite, sorry,” said Taz, and jumped back and raised his hands up, “ah was just lookin’ for a…”
He stopped when he realized no one was standing at the door.
“Allo?” he called.
No response. Gently, he put a finger on the door and pushed his way in. The apartment was bare; no furniture, no pictures, no television, no people… nothing. Apparently, this unit was vacant. He pulled the door to, but didn’t click it shut. As he got closer to the third door, he heard the elevator ding, but it sailed past the third floor without stopping. Inside the third apartment, he heard a shower being turned on.
A voice called out from behind the door. “Excuse me.”
He had no idea what that meant, but he stepped away from the door. Taz thought the man had somehow figured out he was here. He ran back toward the second door and stepped inside. He pulled the door shut and crouched down, waiting for the man next door to discover him. Through the paper-thin walls of the apartment, he heard the man close a shower curtain and begin humming. Maybe he hadn’t discovered him after all. Taz stood slowly and looked around.
The tile floor echoed as he walked, so he slipped off his shoes and padded toward the back in his socks. He slid the balcony door open and stepped into the balmy heat. He looked to his right and saw a similar balcony outside the other man’s apartment. It was about four feet away. Not an easy jump… but doable. Taz inclined his ear and could still hear the shower flowing.
He climbed the rusty, rickety and wobbly rail, and using his hand against the stucco exterior of the building, he steadied himself for a jump. Just over a meter, he thought, nothing to it. He crouched and heaved his legs up and out. As he did, the railing under him slammed backward, falling completely away from the balcony and grating loudly as it slid down and crashed onto the pavement three stories below him.
“Shit!” Taz yelled as he flailed through the air.
His hands reached out and barely grasped the railing on the man’s balcony; if it was loose like his, he would surely fall. His suddenly sweaty palms slid down the railing as if it was covered with Vaseline. His heart thumped out of his chest as he reached the bottom. His grip was good from all those two-handed backhands, and he managed to hang on to the lower rail. He swung wildly in the air beneath the balcony. Slowly, he began to regain his composure and balance. Swinging there, he waited for the man’s balcony door to open and the dude to come out and discover him hanging there… but it never did.
Over the din of nearby traffic, he could hear the shower still running. Catching his breath, he pulled himself up the railing—thank God it was solid—and onto the balcony. No turning back now; he wasn’t sure he wanted to jump back to his balcony without a railing to hold onto.
He crouched below the level of the window, probably the kitchen, and waited. The shower turned off and he heard the man humming as he moved across the apartment.
He could easily see the man walk past the big sliding glass door, but the man, whose eyes had been darting left and right all day, never turned to look out. He was walking with intent, and had some kind of key in his hand as he stalked through the living room into another room across the apartment. The man walked through the door and closed it behind him. The apartment was empty. Taz reached up and wrapped his fingers around the handle on the door. He tugged. The door slid open.
9
Gram Dolls
Gram, or more specifically, Martha Inez Reginald, had been dead for over fifteen years. Remington had killed her. Of course, he hadn’t meant to kill her… it had been a complete accident, but he was to blame either way. The courts had exonerated him, finding no fault in the inquiry, and sealed the records as he was still technically a minor when it had happened. Remington could remember it like it was yesterday. Sometimes, he’d wake up in a cold sweat, trembling and crying… reliving the nightmare of that fateful day.
He’d heard the story so many times he could almost recite it himself. Gram would finish washing the dishes from Sunday dinner and waddle into the living room, damp dish towel still hanging from her hands.
“Do you want some pie, Remi?” she’d always ask, forgetting that he despised pie.
“No, Gram,” he’d say with a patient smile, wondering if there would come a
day that she wouldn’t remember him at all, “but thank you for offering.”
She’d pat him on the head. “Such a well-mannered young man. Gram loves you so much, Remi.”
And he’d smile as she slumped down into the squeaky armchair by the door. The TV would be on, naturally showing her son’s local televangelist program, but the sound would be down low. Something, something, Gawddd, something, something, Hellfire! Remington hated hearing it, but he got pretty good at tuning it out.
Sunday mornings were always the same, and most of them were good. But not this one. This one would be the worst… the worst one ever.
“Did I ever tell you…” Gram started.
Oh, shit, Remington thought, here it comes again… God, not again, please Gram.
“… about the time I went to Italy?” she continued.
It was the same story. The damn tomato pie story! It literally went on for hours. The same details about the cobblestone streets. The same details about the bicycles they’d been riding. The same details about the roads they’d taken down out of the hills. The same details about searching for the perfect café for lunch. The same damn details… every damn time. And it went on and on and on and on and…
“And we found that café and ordered our lunch,” she droned, beaming at him with a twinkle in her eye, “and ohhh, I wish you could’ve tasted it, Remi. It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Remington felt his anger rising. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t sit here and listen to it anymore. He boiled at the thought of Gram droning on and on with her story. She’d forgotten that she’d told him the story before, of course, but Remi hadn’t forgotten it. No, he knew it all too well.
And the first hundred times or so, he had been interested… and then faked being interested… and then he got completely bored and ignored it. But something snapped in him today. Something about her insistence that he listen. Something about the goddamn story broke him inside. She rocked back and forth in her creaking chair, reaching the part of the story about smashing the grapes with her feet and then drinking the wine from last year’s batch that she’d probably smashed on her last visit and yada, yada, fucking yada.
Oh, God, Remington’s mind screamed at him, just stop. Please make it stop.
And then she reached it, the climax, the punch line, the whole reason for the story. The stunning revelation that you’d been waiting for, for at least two hours. The insight into the universal truth that she’d discovered and just had to let you in on…
“And, wouldn’t you know it Remi,” she said, laugheing as she slapped her knees, “this lunch we ordered, that we thought was so delicious and unlike anything we’d ever had before… it was pizza!”
Okay, that’s it! Remington stood and clenched his fists. I can’t freaking take it anymore.
Gram let it rip. “But we didn’t know it was pizza! Because they called it tomato pie!! She tilted her head back and laughed raucously.
Remington was furious, and leaned over Gram and yelled at her. “How could you not know it was goddamn pizza, Gram?!” he yelled. “If it looks like a pizza, smells like a pizza, and tastes like a pizza, I don’t care if they called it freaking tomato ass sandwiches, I would know it was a freaking PIZZA!!!”
He grabbed her by the arms and slammed her backward into her chair. Her eyes jerked open wide.
“Oh, Remi,” she whimpered, “you’re hurting me.”
But he didn’t hear her. “I’ve heard that story over and over again, Gram. I don’t want to hear the story again… EVER! And I don’t like fucking pie!!”
He threw her backward into the chair so hard it tipped back, struck the wall, and then slid sideways and spilled the old woman into the floor.
She moaned once and then stopped.
It was the last time he’d ever go to Gram’s house, because she was moved to intensive care. Her eyes had glazed over, taking on a far-away look, and she didn’t speak for over a year. He visited every day, and apologized every single one of them. He begged her to tell him the story… every single day… for over a year. The only time she ever responded in any meaningful way was when she spotted a girl walking down the hall with a doll. Just a cheesy little baby doll from the hospital gift shop.
That was the day Remington started bringing them to her. A new doll every day. She loved them. He would bring them to her, and she would hug them and rock back and forth. And right until the day that he brought her the last doll, she hadn’t spoken a single word… until the end.
“I love you, Remi,” she had said with tears in her eyes, staring at the new doll.
She rocked it gently, smoothed its hair with her hand, and kissed it on the cheek.
She handed the doll to him after a few minutes. “I want you to have her… something to remember me by.”
And the next day, she was gone. Remington went straight down to Charlie’s Pizza, ordered a large, deep-dish pepperoni with extra sauce, and ate tomato pie with his Gram doll sitting next to him.
He still had the doll… her name was Gram, and he was her Remi. He closed the door behind him and locked it with the skeleton key.
He took off his robe and folded it. Laying it down on the chair beside the bed, he slipped into the nightgown that was hanging on the hook behind the door. It was Gram’s nightgown… the last one she had ever worn. He hadn’t always worn it when he came in here, no, that had only started six months ago or so. It made him feel… closer to her. He put an old John Denver record on the old Victrola that came from her house, turned on the old black and white television set—tuned to nothing in particular—and sat back in the old armchair from her house. It still squeaked something awful, but that reminded him of her too.
He picked up his Gram doll and clutched it close to his chest. He rocked back and forth, and sang John Denver’s Greatest Hits to her.
Taz froze when he heard the music start in the next room. A chair squeaked and he heard a man’s voice warbling to the tune of Rocky Mountain High. This guy’s a freak a’ nature, Taz thought.
When he was certain he was still undiscovered, he crept further into the living room. It was sparse; generic décor, likely purchased from a picture in a European catalog, no photos of any kind, no magazines, nothing personal. The only thing that looked like it could offer any clues as to who this dude was, was the briefcase by the front door.
He tiptoed across the room, convinced he could get away with the briefcase and that the man would never know what—
At that moment, the floorboard he’d stepped on let out an incredibly loud groan. Taz froze. The music in the next room suddenly stopped. He heard the loud creaking of the chair and footsteps toward the door. He heard the key clinking into the lock.
Shit, he thought and bolted toward the door. He grabbed the briefcase and flung the door wide. As he ran through, the edge of the case caught the frame of the door and flew open. Papers shot out and fluttered everywhere. Taz knelt down and shoved several of the loose sheets into the briefcase, and jammed a thick manila folder into his pants. He heard the man behind the door curse and fumble more with the key.
“Who’s there?” the man called out, “I’m calling 911!”
Taz ran into the hall and slammed the man’s apartment door behind him. Twenty steps away, the elevator door was open, but closing too fast. Knowing he’d never make it and that he’d surely be caught by the man if he took the stairs, inspiration hit. He flung the briefcase down the hall. It bumped once on the floor and tumbled end over end, spilling a trail of papers as it went. On its last somersault, it flew in between the sliding doors of the elevator as they whooshed shut. With a quick jump to the side, Taz leapt into the next-door apartment he’d first gone in and closed the door behind him.
He slumped down with his back against the door and fought to slow his breathing. He could hear the muffled thumps of the man opening his own door and running down the hall.
“Dammit!” the man yelled.
Taz was certain he’d
be slamming his fist against the door he was leaning on any second now, certain he was caught. But the echoing footsteps of the man running down the hall approached, got louder, and then passed him by and continued down the hall toward the elevator. Next he heard the furious clicking of the elevator button.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” the man said as fast as he clicked, “slow ass, piece of—”
He was interrupted by the ding of the elevator opening. Taz heard the man get in and start the process of shuffling papers back into the case. The door closed, and Taz was left in silence.
He knew he had just a few seconds to make his escape before the man would be coming back up. Running down the hall, he grabbed a few more of the loose papers and stuffed them into his shirt. He jerked open the stairwell door and clip-clopped his way down as fast as he could. Reaching the bottom, he crouched below the narrow, wire-lined window in the door. He peeked through the bottom of the window just in time to see the elevator door closing and the numbers start counting back up.
He opened the door slowly, still crouching, and stuck his head out. No sign of the guy.
He shuffled across the parking garage, jumped into the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck, and squealed out of the lot. At the first red light, he dug the folders out of his pants, along with the random pages he’d grabbed in the hall. The folder on top, crumpled a bit and damp with his sweat, had a label that read: Gil Dickerson. He had no clue who that was and could care less.
The second folder had no label. He flipped it open and found a yellow legal pad sheet of paper with some scribbled notes in black, perfectly scripted handwriting:
Missing girl—Caroline Colpiller
prob off on bender
check Bonnaroo, Coachella, Burning Man
Father—Jack Colpiller
internet entrepreneur, millionaire
Sister—twin—Mindy Colpiller
no contact with CC, phone off/dead
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 47