Swipe Right for Murder

by Derek Milman

  Despite the creepiness, I bristle at that. How would he know what I am?

  “You light fires and watch them burn,” he says, knowingly.

  “Uh, no…”

  “Do you have dreams of running?”

  What. The. Fuck.

  I take a deep breath, deciding to play along, because maybe that’s my best option here. “Sometimes I have dreams about tornadoes,” I say, scanning the room, trying to spot the laser sight. I don’t see it anymore.

  There’s a silence that goes on too long. I press the phone into my ear so hard it hurts. “Hello?”

  “Tornadoes are very destructive, Mr. Preston.”

  “That’s not my name.” They definitely think I’m someone else. Shit. What if they don’t believe me?

  “Would you disagree?” he asks.

  “About my name or about tornadoes?”

  “Tornadoes.”

  I clear my throat. “They are. Yeah. Running through a field to escape the funnel. The sky all black and green, upturning like that, sucking everything inside itself.”

  “You can’t even trust the sky. Especially when it’s the color of a bruise. Right?”

  I reach for the door handle. “Right.”

  “Don’t leave the room.”

  My hand freezes on the handle. “Can you see me?”

  Silence.

  I sink to the floor, lying flat on my back again. I still don’t see the laser. “Do you have sights on me or something?”

  “What are those tornado dreams really about, do you think?”

  These random questions are hitting me like stray shrapnel. “Are you, like, a psychologist? I just want to go, man.”

  “Answer the question.”

  I lick my lips, desperate for this to end. Will they kill me if I try and leave? Will they kill me if I stay? “Losing my family. Seeing everything blown to smithereens as I run.” I wipe away tears. I didn’t even realize I was crying.

  I shift my focus out the window in case the laser returns.

  “You wouldn’t talk about what happened… not to me, anyway… that would cheapen everything, right? Your memories of him are all that’s left.”

  What is this?

  His probing questions are so excruciating, my hands start shaking. “Please stop.”

  “Why would you want there to be more loss?” he asks.

  “I don’t!”

  “You care deeply about your family. That’s touching.”

  That’s a threat.

  “I’m trying to tell you I’m not who you think I am!”

  “Did you take the money?”

  “What money?”

  “Is that why you killed him, Mr. Preston?”

  “Who is Mr. Preston?” I spit into the phone. “I’m the only one here.”

  There’s another silence. The room is so eerily quiet. Jesus. They think I killed Benoît. That’s what this is all about. But why would they think I killed him, if they’re the ones who shot him through the window?

  Unless they weren’t the ones who shot him through the window…

  Then who did?

  I keep thinking honesty will somehow get me through all this. “I didn’t kill anyone,” I say in a slow, steady voice. “I don’t know anything about money. Or an item. I’m the wrong guy.”

  “We will fetch you very soon. And this time you will have what we need.”

  He’s not hearing me. He doesn’t believe me.

  “If I’m not him, how could I have what—”

  “You will have what we need,” he repeats. “No more playing around, hun.”

  “But listen, please—”

  “Promise? Otherwise you will have had your last tornado dream.”

  They know about my family.

  “Okay.” I know I’m making impossible promises. This is dangerous. And stupid.

  “I’m willing to give you another chance,” he says. “Because I know your pain.”

  How the hell would he know anything about me?

  “Who are you, please?” My voice sounds like a teakettle that’s been whistling too long.

  “You forget so easily.” He laughs. “We… Mr. Preston… We are the Swans.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “The… Swans? I don’t know what that is.”

  “It all begins with a number.”

  “A number?”

  “That night. When it all began.”

  WHAT.

  “We don’t get played, Mr. Preston.”

  “Please—”

  “Apologies, but I have to smoke you out. I wouldn’t hang around the Mandarin Oriental for too long, hun. A 911 call has already been placed. Looks like somebody just reported a dead body in room 4509.”

  “Shit, listen—”

  “If you get detained by the police, I won’t get what I need.” He laughs a little, amused by his own game. “So do what you do best in all those dreams—”

  “Wait—”

  “Run like there’s a tornado cutting through the sky.”

  “Please—”

  There’s a click.

  “Wait, GODDAMMIT!” I scream into the phone.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I stand in the middle of the room, frozen like a mischievous elf just cast a spell on me in a Nick Jr. movie. I hear my heart drumming in my ears. I’m functioning on pure survival instinct now, every move I make either the right one or a deadly one.

  If this fool really called the cops on me, I probably have only two minutes max left in this room. If the police find me here they’ll definitely detain me. I MEAN THERE’S A DEAD BODY IN THE BED. And if I’m detained, will these Swans actually hurt my family because I couldn’t deliver this item to them? Would they do that?

  Dumbass, I think, you have no time to debate this. GET. OUT.

  I reach for the door, but then I stop.

  One thing I know for sure right now is that I am in some serious trouble. And it might be smart to find out everything I can before it’s too late.

  So I quickly search the room.

  One of the two open suitcases holds just expensive-looking clothes. If I was going to take anything in this room, it might be one of Benoît’s James Perse linen shirts.

  In the other suitcase there’s an accordion folder sticking out. It’s full of cash: thick stacks of bills bound by currency straps—labeled $10,000 each.

  Well, there’s the money.

  I estimate there’s about a hundred grand in the folder. Some major deal was obviously about to go down here. I consider pocketing the cash, or some of it, but that’s playing right into the hands of whoever the Swans obviously think I am: a con man who was supposed to make a deal but instead just killed the middleman and took the dough.

  Plus, I can’t carry this much cash around. Plus, if I leave the money I feel like that’s a measure of good faith—they’ll know I didn’t kill Benoît because I would have taken the money.

  Do I need to worry about being implicated in a murder?

  No, no, no. Any kind of ballistics team will realize in five seconds the bullet was clearly shot through the window from outside, not fired from inside the room.

  But just in case, I grab a towel from the bathroom and do a sweep of the room. I wipe my fingerprints off everything I remember touching, thinking this is probably the most useless action in the world, knowing I’m mucking up a crime scene here. That’s probably bad.

  Well, I mean it definitely is, that’s a crime.

  I should probably just wait here for the cops. Or call them myself and explain what happened. But these goddamn Swans know what room I’m in. What if they just want me dead?

  I decide to pocket one of the stacks—ten grand—because they already think I killed Benoît and I may not be able to use a credit card or get to an ATM if I’m on the run. And fuck, is that what’s about to happen? Am I on the lam here?

  I gulp air raggedly, filling my lungs. THINK.

  The basic facts as I know them: some really
scary guys think I have some kind of item and threatened me and my family unless I give it to them. The real Mr. Preston was supposed to exchange the item with Benoît for the money. Benoît thought I was Preston last night, but got shot before he figured out I wasn’t. The real Preston never showed up. Benoît is dead, so obviously something went very wrong here. Maybe he tried to keep the money? I don’t know.

  I need to find out who this Benoît guy really is.

  I rip the covers off him, wincing at the squish of a used condom as it flies away. Benoît’s skin is waxy, turning a freaky gray color, and his body is already stiffening. I get a sudden punch of nausea but I manage to allay the gagging by bending over, grabbing my knees, and breathing in and out through my nose. Then I straighten up and continue. Benoît has a tattoo I didn’t notice on his upper arm. I lean in: it’s the outline of a swan, with the numbers 6 28 69 curving around the inside of the swan’s throat. A swan.

  It all begins with a number.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a photo, accidentally dropping Benoît’s phone as I do. My hands are sweaty, fumbling. There’s a laptop on the desk. I hurriedly tap a bunch of keys, waking it up—there’s nothing on the screen. No folders, no documents—a blank just like Benoît’s phone. However, there is a flash drive in the USB port. I pocket it.

  I notice the camera on the laptop isn’t taped over. Maybe that’s how they were watching me? The camera indicator light isn’t on, but I’m not sure it has to be. I quickly take a pic of Benoît’s body and the bullet hole in the window. I search everywhere for his wallet, or any form of ID. I open every drawer using the towel wrapped around my hand—but there’s no wallet, no passport, no credit cards, nothing of any kind. Fuck. All that stuff has gotta be here somewhere, but I don’t have any more time to search.

  I don’t feel safe here. I have to get out NOW.

  I slip out. As the door closes, clicking behind me and locking, I realize I have everything of mine on me. But I forgot Benoît’s phone. It’s still lying on the carpet, and that’s one thing I didn’t wipe my fingerprints off of.

  I also left the condom.

  I almost laugh out loud. I’m really shitty at this.

  I inch along the hallway, flattening myself against the wall, but there’s no one here. The floor is empty and hushed, like the hotel was evacuated and no one told me. For one brief, wild second I think of messaging Darren that I need help, or even knocking on his door, but I don’t think that will get me anywhere; plus he’s probably asleep. So I text Jackson a quick SOS, even though he’s not exactly known for being prompt about answering texts. I wish I could just call the police.

  Is it safe to go back to my room?

  I can’t process the concept quickly enough—where I would be safest right now (what if the sniper who killed Benoît is waiting for me outside the hotel?)—so I decide to go back to my room to recoup: my hands are still shaking badly, and my stomach hurts. I hit the button on the elevator, looking over each shoulder a million times, but when the elevator takes forever I run down the stairs, two at a time, until I get to my floor.

  When I open the staircase door and step out onto my floor, I see only one person, and he’s coming toward me. It’s Blond Bellhop, who delivered the empty silver tray. He stops about midway down the hallway and gives me this lascivious grin, which is so inappropriate for a uniformed hotel bellhop. He has a white cloth napkin draped over his hand, and there’s something bulging underneath. I don’t like that. I back away. He comes toward me at a quickened pace.

  I guess they’re going to try and just kill me.

  I open the door to the staircase and run down the stairs so fast I trip, nearly spraining my ankle, careening down, hearing my footsteps clatter beneath me, the sound of rubber streaking, echoing. When I get to a lower floor, I take an elevator the rest of the way to the lobby, freaking out the whole way down.

  The lobby lounge is actually on the second floor. This hotel is so Fancy Weird. But there are people here, milling about, suitcases stacked next to them—late arrivals checking in, on their phones, gazing longingly at the last gasps of the emptying cocktail lounge. I feel a little safer here, with people around me.

  I look around but don’t spot any obvious threat. Maneuvering around the trippy glass sculpture of a plant or something, I walk up to the check-in desk and calmly wait my turn, keeping my eyes peeled for anything bad.

  “Hi,” says the woman behind the desk.

  “Hi,” I say, and my mind goes blank for a second. Then: “I’m staying here.…”

  She waits for more but then becomes confused when that’s all I can get out. She just starts nodding, her mouth open a little, waiting to pick a rote response from a memorized roster of Hotel Speak for whatever I’m about to throw at her at this late hour. I want to find out if the dead man in room 4509 is actually named Benoît, and if so what his full name is (or was). Any info gleaned about him might be useful, but my mouth isn’t forming words.

  The desk woman, sensing something is off, throws a blank, all-purpose smile my way. “And what can we do for you, Mr. Preston?”

  I have to steady myself by laying my palm flat on the desk.

  “Why… why do you think my name is Mr. Preston?” I stammer.

  Her mouth goes a little crooked. “Well, isn’t it, sir? Room 4509, right?”

  Am I in the fucking Twilight Zone here?

  “We know all our guests.” She flashes a proud smile. “This is the Mandarin Oriental,” she states, like I may have forgotten. “Now, what can we do for you?”

  I’m starting to really lose it. “I’m not Mr. Preston. My name is Aidan Jamison… and I’m in room 3715.” I take out my wallet (thank God I still have it) and slide my driver’s license, as well as my school ID and my room keycard, over to her. “I think… I’m in some sort of trouble. I don’t know.…”

  What are you doing, dumbass, what are you doing.…

  I’m so freaked out I’m not thinking clearly, yet I’m also cruelly aware of that fact. “I think… maybe you need to call the police actually.”

  “Is everything all right, sir?” She looks concerned.

  “There’s been a mix-up. I’m getting… uh… harassing calls… and knocks on my door… from people who think I’m Mr. Preston. How, uh, was this mistake made?”

  I have no idea what I’m even saying. They are random words just pouring out of my mouth.

  She frowns at the ID cards in her hands and checks her computer, tapping the keys. There’s a pause, then a deeper frown. “One moment, please,” she says, not making eye contact, leaving her place behind the desk and disappearing inside an interior office.

  Now I’m just standing at the check-in desk waiting for her to come back. The longer I stand here, the more panicky I’m getting. Something is seriously wrong. I want to get out of here now, like right now, but the lady took both my ID cards.

  I look behind me. Oh, shit…

  Blond Bellhop is standing at the bottom of a staircase, with that napkin still wrapped around his hand. He licks his lips. He looks positively murderous. But his expression changes when the elevator doors open, on the other side of me, and my eyes follow his. About twenty police officers pour out of the elevators.

  Oh, God, that guy on the phone was not kidding around.

  Blond Bellhop slowly shakes his head at me, a finger pressed to his lips. And then he runs off.

  The Swans may be trying to kill me, but if the police get me first, the Swans won’t get what they think I owe them.

  And then they could go after my family.

  They have all those photos of me; they seem to know a lot of personal shit about my life.

  There’s a cacophony of voices in my head right now, arguing with one another about what the hell I should do, like my consciousness was contained within a fragile vase all this time, and it just got atomized by a mortar shell.

  Is this what pure panic sounds like? The voices rise and blend into a humming chant. But then one vo
ice carries over the rest and it’s telling me, in no uncertain terms, to get as far away from the Mandarin Oriental as fast as I can.

  So, shit, yeah.

  I take a step away from the desk just as the police crowd it, muscling me aside. Everyone in the lobby turns to watch them. Their radios crackle.

  I make a break for it—sprinting, hurtling myself inside one of the still-open elevators. The last thing I see before the doors close is the check-in clerk pointing at me, and twenty police officers turning their heads in unison just in time to watch me disappear.

  I fly out into the night, potentially a fugitive now. I’m hit with the whole city at once: the humidity, car horns, sirens, slick streets, blinking traffic lights reflecting off the windshields of idling Ubers, and the sweet rot of European perfume mixed with curbside garbage.

  I run toward Central Park, past the Maine Monument—Columbia and her seahorses bronze and unfazed, rising gloriously from their pylon. I’m thinking: trees, darkness. I just want cover. I look behind me. I’m not being chased (yet) and I see only one thing that’s curious, because it’s the only thing besides Columbia that isn’t active in some way.

  It’s a guy on a vintage Yamaha café racer motorcycle—shiny gold front forks and a leather seat the color of a baseball glove; hard to miss. He’s dressed all in black leather, right in front of the Time Warner Center next to the hotel. He’s wearing a black helmet with a mirrored visor that mimics the iridescence of a green bottle fly.

  His head seems to be tracking my movements—very, very slowly—and I have a sick feeling that he’s one of them.

  As I hit the edge of the park and begin running as far and as fast into it as I can, I hear the motorcycle starting up behind me. But I just keep running. My pocket vibrates.

  Someone’s calling me.

  “Hello,” I gasp into the phone.

  “Whassssup!” says Jackson, and I know immediately he didn’t see my text. It’s so annoying when he does this. But hell, I don’t know what it’s like to be him and receive four thousand text messages and nine hundred e-mails an hour—his phone is just a mess of red notification bubbles with numbers so high it gives me anxiety every time I happen to see his screen.