Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Look, pal,” I said, “you’re interfering with an investigation.”

  I had phrased my statement carefully so that while I never claimed to be a cop, that was my inference—and I didn’t lie. He was interfering with an investigation . . . mine!

  “Police?” he said, frowning.

  “Move aside!” I put both hands on his shoulder and shoved, but if I hadn’t had him off balance with my comment, I never would have been able to move him.

  I ran for the back door, but by the time I got outside there was a car pulling out of the rear parking lot onto Lynn Turner. It had to be Ray Cortez. I’d never get to my Caddy in time, so I tried to get as much about the car as I could. It looked like a red Chrysler LeBaron, but it was too far for me to get a plate number.

  “Goddammit!”

  I’d found him, and lost him, all in the span of a minute.

  28

  I tried to get back into Sam’s Gym, but the door had locked behind me. Rather than pound on the door and then be besieged with questions, I chose to run around the building to the front, where I’d left my car.

  After I had hung up on the helpful girl from Ray Cortez’s studio, I had copied the address down on the ever-present hotel pad. I drove through the parking lot so I could also exit on Lynn Turner, then turned and headed in the same direction as Ray Cortez. I had no hope of catching him, of course, but at least I was headed in the same direction.

  With one hand I took the piece of paper with the studio address from my pocket. A fat lot of good it did me, because I had no idea of where in Tampa to start looking for the building.

  When I came to the intersection with Gunn Highway, I pulled into a shopping center to find someone to ask directions of. There was a place called New York’s Finest Pizza, so I took that as an omen and went inside. I showed the man the address, which was on Busch Boulevard.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “Go out here and turn right on Gunn Highway. When you pass Dale Mabry, Gunn becomes Busch. You can’t miss it.”

  I thanked him, went out to my car, and got going again.

  As I drove I tried to figure out why Ray Cortez had run. Even if Rick Delta had called and told him I was looking for him, what reason would he have to bolt? I wasn’t after him, I was after Sandy Meyer—and I wasn’t after her, I was just looking for her.

  What was Ray Cortez so afraid of that he’d run at the sight of a stranger, leaving behind what had to be expensive equipment?

  And would the fact that he was afraid keep him from going back to his studio?

  I had no choice, it was the only address I had for him, the only place I could go. I just had to hope that when I got there the girl I talked to would still be in a helpful mood and tell me where he lived.

  As I had come to expect, Cortez’s studio was in a small shopping plaza. I had managed to divide these shopping areas into three categories—shopping malls, shopping centers, and shopping plazas. The malls were obvious: those big, enclosed collections of stores with two or three major companies like Macy’s, Burdines, or Sears. The shopping centers were the outside collections of stores with the main store a supermarket—like Publix or Kash’n’Karry—along with a Wal-Mart or Kmart. The third category was like the one where Cortez had his office, just a set of about five or six small shops with no major outlet. Most of Florida’s business seemed to be part of one of these three kinds of shopping areas.

  Because the parking lot was so small, it was obvious that Cortez’s red LeBaron was not there. Either that, or he’d parked it around back. I chose to park my car away from his studio, in a parking spot that was apparently “only” for the paperback bookshop I was parking in front of. I hoped the owner wouldn’t take the sign too literally. After all, more spots in the lot were open than occupied.

  I’d caught only a glimpse of Cortez at Sam’s Gym, but I thought I’d recognize him again. He was medium height, dark-complected, with thinning dark hair. He had been wearing a brightly colored short-sleeved shirt and white jeans. He did not resemble the man I had seen with Rick Delta in Longwood.

  I walked to the front door of his studio and entered. I found myself in a small waiting room with a sofa, some metal chairs, and a coffee table with magazines on it. On the wall was a listing of his charges for portraits and such. Apparently, the postcard work was just one part of his repertoire, as were the photos he was taking for Sam’s Gym.

  There was a window in the wall, behind which sat a woman. She appeared to be in her late twenties, dressed casually, her brown hair cut short. I assumed she was the woman I had spoken to on the phone.

  I approached the window and she looked up at me. It was then I noticed the harried look in her eyes.

  “Mr. Cortez is not here,” she told me.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Carol,” she said. “He’s not here, and he won’t be in today, so there’s nothing we can do for you today.”

  “Where is he?”

  She was shuffling papers, but stopped at that moment and took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “Jesus . . . I don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “I have a personal matter to take care of with him,” I said. “Can you tell me where he lives? Or at least give me his home phone number?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and stared at me suspiciously through the glass. I figured the jig was up.

  “You called here this morning, didn’t you?” she demanded. She pointed at me with a pencil. “You made me think you were a model so I’d tell you where he was, and then you went there.”

  “I wanted to talk to him,” I said. “I still do.”

  “You chased him,” she said. “Sam’s Gym called here, wanting to know what was going on. They said you chased him.”

  “I didn’t chase him, Carol,” I said. “He ran when he saw me. Do you know why he would do that?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, looking helpless. “Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “Like I said, I only wanted to talk to him. About Sandra Meyer.”

  She hesitated. “Who?”

  “Sandra Meyer,” I said. “I believe he’s used her as a model on occasion. Isn’t the name familiar?”

  “No,” she said, “no, it’s not.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “Look,” she said, “I have to go to Sam’s and collect the equipment Ray left behind.”

  “I have to talk to Ray, Carol,” I said.

  “I can’t help you,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “You know where he lives, though.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she said. “I won’t.”

  “You can tell me, or tell the police.”

  She lifted her chin and said, “Then I’ll tell the police.”

  Well, that bluff didn’t work.

  “All right,” I said. “Let me have a slip of paper”

  She hesitated, as if unsure whether or not she should open the glass partition. Finally she did and handed me a piece of paper I wrote my name and the name of my hotel on it and handed it back to her.

  “That’s who I am and where I can be reached,” I said. “Tell Mr. Cortez that I’m looking for Sandra Meyer I don’t know what else he’s into, and I don’t know why he ran from me, but I only want to talk to him. Will you give him that message for me . . . please?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Carol said, “why not? Now I have to leave, though. I have to pick up that equipment.”

  “I’m going,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “I just wish I knew what the hell was going on. I can’t handle this.”

  She wasn’t talking to me there at the end, so I just shrugged my sympathy and left.

  Outside I got into my car and drove it around to the rear, just to check. There was no LeBaron there, though, so I guessed she was telling the truth. Ray Cortez had not gone back to his studio.
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br />   What I wanted to do was go back to Sam’s Gym and ask some questions. Maybe somebody there knew Cortez well enough to know where he lived. I didn’t want to go back too soon, though. I figured I’d let things cool down and let Carol collect the equipment without running into me. Maybe I’d get a call from Cortez.

  So instead of going back to the gym, I drove back to my hotel to check the white pages. Maybe he was listed there, too.

  Maybe I’d grow wings and fly.

  29

  When I got back to my hotel, I asked Patrick if there were any messages.

  “A couple,” he said, handing them to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I went to my room before reading the message slips he’d given me.

  One was from Cathy Merrill. It said: “Busch Gardens is a go, if you’re still interested. Call me after five.” It had come in at noon.

  The second message was from Sarah Connor, and while it wasn’t bad news, it wasn’t good news either: “Haven’t forgotten. Hope to have information soon.” It came in at 1:10. It was now 2:30.

  It was too early to return Cathy’s call, and Sarah’s didn’t require an answer, so when I picked up the phone it was Geneva I dialed at the bar.

  “Packy’s,” she said, answering the phone herself.

  “How’s business?”

  “Better, since you left,” she said. “How’s Florida?”

  “Warm,” I said. “Gen, I need a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “That number you gave me the other day? I need it again.”

  “You lost it?” she said. “That’s a fine way to treat a potential client.”

  “I didn’t lose it,” I said. “Somebody took it.”

  “Yeah. Like who?”

  “It could have been the dead guy,” I said, “but I kind of doubt it.”

  “Dead guy? What dead guy?” she asked quickly.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you about it,” I said, “when I get back. Do you still have that number?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ll have to look around.”

  “Okay, look around,” I said, “or if he calls again, call me and let me know. If I’m not in, leave the number in a message.”

  “Boss, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You runnin’ into bodies out there?”

  “All kinds of bodies, Gen,” I said, “all kinds.”

  “Whataya mean—”

  “Talk to you later,” I said and hung up. I had almost told her that the dead guy was the same guy in the leather jacket I had warned her about, but I’d thought better of it. Just in case she ever got questioned by the Florida police, she wouldn’t know anything.

  Lunch sounded like a good idea, since my breakfast had been so early. I decided to have something simple, something I was familiar with, so I left and went to the nearest Wendy’s. I wasn’t sure Detective Becker’s partner would approve, but then he was home with a bellyache, wasn’t he?

  As I was leaving the room, I spotted a maid’s cart farther down the hall. That reminded me that I wanted to talk to the maid on my former floor.

  I walked down to the cart and looked into the open room it was parked in front of. The TV was on, and I could see a shadow moving as the maid went about doing whatever she did.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “Si?”

  I saw a hand quickly shut the TV off, then her head as she peered outside. I guess she didn’t want to be caught watching television while she was working. I guess she was too late.

  “Hi,” I said, stepping into the room, “I’m in a room down the hall.”

  “Do you wish it cleaned?” she asked in accented English. She was in her fifties, with a gold tooth and gray-streaked black hair that was held tightly in the back in a bun.

  “No, you cleaned it already, and did a fine job, too.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Can you tell me who cleans the third-floor rooms?”

  “That depends, señor.”

  “Room three-oh-four,” I said. “The one where the dead man was found.”

  “Madre de Dios,” she said, quickly crossing herself.

  “Did you clean that room?”

  “No, señor,” she said. “My friend, Consuelo, she cleaned that room after they . . . they took the man away.”

  “Where would I find Consuelo?”

  “She has gone home, señor.”

  “Maybe you can answer a question for me, then.”

  “Si if I can, señor.”

  “When you clean a room,” I said, “what do you do with the pad of paper?”

  “The pad?” she asked, frowning.

  The room we were in was identical to mine, so I pointed to the night table on the right of the bed and said, “Yes, the small pad of paper that the hotel puts in all the rooms?”

  “Oh, si, the paper.”

  “What do you do with the used ones when you clean the room?” I asked.

  “Señor enor, I throw them away,” she said, but I had the feeling she wasn’t telling the truth.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Rose, señor. Rosa.”

  “Rose, I don’t care if you take the pads home,” I said. “I don’t think the hotel cares either, and I certainly won’t tell them. Do you ever take them home?”

  “Well . . . sometimes I take them home to my grandson.”

  “And does Consuelo do this also?”

  “You will not tell?”

  “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, Rosa,” I said. “I would like to get back the pad that was in room three-oh-four, if it’s possible. I had something written on it.”

  “Señor, when we take the pads we tear off the used pages and throw them away.”

  “I need the page underneath the used page,” I said.

  “Why?” she asked with a frown.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” I said, especially with a language barrier. “If you could call Consuelo and tell her that I would like to have that pad back, I would pay her for it—and you, for your trouble.”

  She thought a moment, then shrugged and said, “Si, señor, I will call her and tell her.”

  “Good,” I said, “very good. I’m in room two-seventeen. If you can get the pad, you have my permission to go into my room and leave it there.”

  “If I get caught—”

  “Just go into the room and leave some extra towels with this pad. I’ll ask the desk for extra towels on my way out. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, with a small shrug.

  “Giacias, Rosa,” I said. As added incentive I gave her five dollars.

  “Gracias, señor,” she said, suitably impressed.

  I left the room, and the hotel, and went to have my lunch at Wendy’s.

  30

  When I got back to the hotel after dinner, Patrick was standing behind the desk. That in itself was not unusual, but he was standing kind of stiff and unnatural, the way he might be if he knew his boss was watching him. I looked around, but didn’t see anyone.

  “Everything okay, Patrick?” I asked as I passed.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he said. “Just fine.”

  He didn’t sound fine, but I let it go and went up to the second floor, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator. After all, I was an athlete at one time.

  On the way back from Wendy’s I had stopped in a shopping center and gone into Kmart, just to pass the time and browse a bit. Always on the alert for pretty girls, I found Florida a wonderful place for girl watching. I had seen a couple of pretty ones in Wendy’s, and there were more in Kmart. The amazing thing to me was that they were all ages. I saw a blond girl of about eighteen in a sundress. She was going out as I was coming in, and I turned to watch her. When she hit the sunlight, it made the golden down on her arms shine like real gold. Inside, I saw a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a red tank top and a pair of jeans. She was dark-haired, dark-skinned, f
ull-bodied, and every bit as alluring as the eighteen-year-old blonde.

  Florida was a sexist, male chauvinist pig’s delight.

  I had bought an Orlando Magic jersey tank top for Geneva—couldn’t wait to see it on her—and a Magic hat for Ed and a Miami Heat hat for Marty. In the book and magazine section I found myself leafing through some of the bodybuilding magazines, so I finally decided to buy some. I bought copies of Muscle & Fitness, Muscular Development, and MuscleMag International.

  Outside I spotted a newsstand, went in, and found copies of Flex, Ironman, and Women’s Physique World. On the cover of Women’s Physique was a photo of Lenda Murray, Ms. Olympia. Geneva’s hero. Or heroine. Or role model. She had biceps and shoulders most men would kill for, but there was something undeniably feminine and sexy about her as well. For one thing she had breasts. I had always labored under the misconception that female bodybuilders had no breasts. If Lenda Murray was any indication—as well as Geneva herself—I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  As I walked down the hall to my room, carrying my purchases, my intention was to call Cathy Merrill, lock up tomorrow at Busch Gardens, and then relax and leaf through the magazines. The bodybuilding aspect of this case had become undeniable, I thought, with my visit to Sam’s Gym and my intention to return there to ask some questions.

  However, we all know what happens to the best intentions. . . .

  Remember that sixth sense I said I didn’t have? Well, it was tingling like crazy when I got to my door. Actually, it wasn’t a sixth sense at all, it was just a healthy dose of self-preservation brought on by having someone dump a body into my first room. That, and Patrick’s odd behavior at the desk, made me stop at my door and press my ear to it. Of course, what I could have been hearing was the maid leaving the extra towels and the pad I asked for, but I sort of doubted it.

  Unmindful of how it might appear to an onlooker, I got down on the floor and peered underneath my door. I couldn’t see much, but I could see shadows moving. More than one person was inside, and they were presumably waiting for me.

  I got to my feet, picked up my purchases from the floor—careful not to rattle my bags—and crept back down the hall.