by J. K. Kelly
He sensed there was more going on and pressed her on it.
“No, really, I’m good. This guy Tilton is a creep, though. He mocks anything having to do with the environment.”
“A creep?” Matt persisted.
“Yes, a friend of mine out west shot him at another conference, in Vancouver or somewhere. She said he was a little too liberal with his hands and his comments.”
“Ah-ha,” Matt replied. “Now I know why I’m here. You need a bodyguard!” he said with a joking tone in an attempt to get Eve to relax.
“Not necessary. I can kill with my bare hands,” she stated. “I just need you to deal with the rest of the animals if things get weird.”
Matt took in her comments but didn’t respond.
“Hello – I was joking!” Eve said, grabbing Matt’s arm and shaking it. He smiled.
“No really, I can take care of myself,” she assured him. “My father insisted that I learn to take care of myself so he had me trained by the best in the business. Remind me to show you sometime.”
The elevator arrived at the eleventh floor. As the doors opened, Matt laughed and followed Eve into the hallway. Almost immediately, they were both stopped by a lone security person. It was the alpha, the same one that Matt had staged a stumble into on his reconnaissance mission.
Eve stated she was there for a two o’clock appointment and that Matt was her assistant. The guard wasn’t interested in anything but her handbag. He motioned for it, rifled through it, and then returned it without a word.
He looked at Matt. “He’s not going in,” the guard insisted. “You have one camera. I’m sure you can snap a few photos all on your own. You’re a big girl.” She protested, but it was clear from the guard’s demeanor and body language that she, and only she, was getting past him. The alpha turned to Matt.
“What’s it gonna be, Jäger breath?” he asked in a challenging tone.
What’s it been, two days since I had my last fight? Matt thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Standing there in the hall, confronting an armed security staffer for an American diplomat, one word in particular was front and center in his mind. Shit! Matt thought to himself. Now what? I’m not here to start an international incident. His plan was blowing up right in front of him, and he struggled to lay out a Plan B in his mind.
*
Eve thought it would be fun to have her lover along for the shoot, maybe kick the guard’s ass, and perhaps act as a safeguard against any unwanted advances by her subject. But work was work, and she needed to proceed without him. That stuff only happened in the movies.
“Don’t worry, you’ll still get your fee,” she said to Matt, looking at him with a reassuring smile as she dismissed him. “Go back to the lobby bar. I’ll catch up with you there.”
“Okie dokie,” Matt replied. “Good luck.”
He stepped back to the elevator doors and waited for its return and watched as the guard escorted Eve further down the hallway to a door to the Roosevelt Suite. A second guard opened the door for her and then closed it behind her as she disappeared into the room.
A bell sounded, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Matt smiled at the alpha and stepped inside. So much for bugging the bastard. To his own surprise, the next thought went to her: I hope she’ll be alright. Taking a seat at the bar but waving off the attendant, Matt sat patiently and waited, watching the entryway for Eve. Thirty minutes later, he smiled as she entered the room and took the seat next to him.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
Eve placed the Nikon on the bar in front of her and ordered an Aperol spritz, a popular cocktail outside of the United States. She murmured a few words Matt couldn’t discern. They sat together for a few minutes before she said anything else.
“So, the guy is a pig and an environmental nightmare,” she stated loudly.
Matt gestured for her to turn down the volume, but she became even more agitated. “Screw that, buddy boy,” she said. “I’m so pissed I might have to get up in front of a microphone and shout it to the world.” She went on to give a blow-by-blow description of the photoshoot that had just taken place.
“First he told his guard to leave, then he tells me he loves my dress, that I am a classic beauty, and that I’m on the wrong side of the camera. Then he takes my hand as if to shake it, but holds it entirely too long. It was clear he had been drinking. His speech was slurred, and I could smell it on his breath.”
“So, you kneed him in the nuts and got thrown out?” Matt suggested. “You obviously don’t put up with anything you don’t like.”
“No,” she replied, “that fat douche probably would have enjoyed it.”
*
She continued her story. She had indeed pulled her hand back once she felt his grasp turn clammy. She thought the suite was very impressive, but with only the two of them there, she wanted to get the shot and leave before he had the chance to say or do anything else that would result in an even more awkward moment or get her arrested for assaulting a government official.
“The light coming into the room was perfect, so I had him stand near the window as if he was looking out it, and change his expression from one to another. Pensive, smiling, worried – like he actually gave a shit about global warming.”
“You actually said that?”
“Yeah, and it pissed him off.”
“’Oh, Christ, not another overly sensitive environmentalist,’” she replayed for Matt, reflecting Tilton’s condescending tone. “‘So, my dear, you said you were from Montreal. How did you get here? Unless you walked or rode a bike or a horse, or paddled a canoe up the damn St. Lawrence, you burned fossil fuels to get here. Did you drive or fly?’”
Matt was listening to every word as she continued.
“I told him I took the train, only fifteen dollars from Montreal to Quebec. That seemed to piss him off even more.”
“‘Okay, when was the last time you flew anywhere?’ he asked. I told him I was in Europe recently and he laughed, pointing at my camera. He said something about causing waste by using film instead of a memory card, and then he had the balls to suggest we should get together for a late dinner tonight. What a dick,” she said, taking the last sip of her spritz. “As I left, just as the door was closing behind me, he said something under his breath, I wasn’t sure I heard it correctly, but it rhymes with hunt.”
“What an asshole! So, what now?” Matt asked, watching as Eve dug through her purse for cash. He tried to grab the check holder, but she got to it first.
“Oh no, young man,” she smiled. “This goes on my expense account.” She paid the bill and then asked Matt for his phone. Once he unlocked it, she typed in her name and cell number and then returned it to him.
“I’ve got a five o’clock train back to Montreal, so I’ve got to get moving.” The expression on Matt’s face changed to disappointment, and she acknowledged it.
“Call me the next time you’re in Montreal,” she said, smiling. “We can pick this up where we left off. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant on Crescent Street.” Without leaving him time to respond, Eve stepped off the barstool, leaned in, and kissed Matt on the cheek, and said goodbye, “Au revoir,” and then walked away, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the back of her dress for him to take in.
Minutes later, as he took the first sip of a beer he had ordered, Mercier patted him on the shoulder from behind and asked how his day was going.
“Nothing yet, but who knows what’ll happen once the sun goes down.”
After exchanging very few words, Mercier left Matt to his beer and his thoughts. He ordered a second Labatt and smiled at the bartender, an attractive young woman who had served him the day before. Her look, her French accent, and the tight white blouse buttoned just high enough to make an interested onlooker want for more. Before he could start up a conversation, though, another patron called for service from across the bar. From behind him, something else got his attention. He felt a han
d press hard on his shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?” a raspy voice whispered in Matt’s ear.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was Tilton’s alpha. The man stepped in close, very close, inserting himself between Matt and the patron sitting on the next barstool. When the tourist began to protest, the look the security agent turned and gave him, a war-hardened glare, shut down that train of thought and any further complaints.
“So, who the hell are you really?” the man asked again.
Stealth, discretion, a fast mind, and quick instincts were at the top of Matt’s list of capabilities. While he had taken part in the physical combat and weapons training offered by the FBI, CIA, MI5 and 6, and Israel’s Mossad, he had opted out halfway through the elite Navy SEAL-type training offered to men and women with special talents like his. He had performed at the highest level of physical and mental testing, his only weakness being under the water. He loved the sea. He just had a problem with almost drowning again and again as part of SEAL training. They had found his Achilles. In addition to being able to detect a lie, Matt had the ability to perform flawlessly and serve up lies himself as needed. To help his cause, Matt turned on a touch of timidity to make this alpha think he was not a threat.
“You’re with Tilton’s team,” Matt exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Thanks for getting me out of that photoshoot this afternoon.” The guard wasn’t buying it.
“Let’s take a walk,” the alpha insisted as he stepped away from the bar and gestured for Matt to lead the way out of the room. Matt dropped a twenty, Canadian, on the bar and winked at the bartender, who was coming to retrieve it.
“I’ll be back,” Matt called out as he led the way from the bar, then down a winding marble staircase to a much quieter area underneath the Chateau’s main level. The conferences were finished for the day, the rooms had been cleaned, and there wasn’t a soul in site. If this was going to end badly for the guard, Matt wanted it to end without a crowd around them. “Matt Christopher, freelance travel writer, and occasional chaperone,” he said, turning to extend a hand to the guard.
“Bullshit.” The man ignored Matt’s gesture and leaned in for effect. “I know you. I’ve seen you before this weekend. I’m sure of it, back in D.C. Who are you working for?”
Matt was blown, at least his Canadian cover most probably was. At another time and place, the testosterone and capabilities of the two men would probably have dictated a different outcome. But Matt knew the man was armed. He could see the bulge under his suit coat. The earpiece indicated he was also in communication with either a dispatcher or the other staffers guarding Tilton way up on the eleventh floor. They could be listening. Better to play out the part and defer to the aggressor, this time.
“Okay, you got me,” Matt responded. “I am from D.C. I travel the world and write for magazines and websites. I took a job to do a story on Quebec City for the American Airlines magazine, and so here I am.”
“And the girl? How do you know the girl?”
“Easy. Well, actually she was,” Matt said with a laugh, the look in the guard’s eyes softening slightly. “I met her in the bar, and she said she was doing a photoshoot and asked if I wanted to tag along.”
“But where would I have seen you in D.C.?” the guard wondered aloud.
“Baseball? You go to Nationals games or hang out on the water?” he suggested. “I do a lot.”
“Maybe that’s it,” he responded, his demeanor softening even more.
“Cool.” Matt smiled, extending his hand, “Like I said, I’m Matt.” The guard ignored Matt’s gesture, uttered “State Department Security,” and then turned and began to walk toward the stairway.
“Can I buy you a beer?” Matt called out, but the guard didn’t turn to answer. He simply waved his right arm to acknowledge the gesture and mumbled something that sounded to Matt like, “see you in the States.”
Matt let out a sigh of relief. He could have handled himself if the confrontation hadn’t been defused. But now he was on this man’s radar, even if temporarily. And that was something that could still come back to bite him. With nothing else on the agenda and Mercier’s phone not making a sound, Matt did what was customary whenever he was on the road. He returned to the bar and the pretty bartender he had left working there.
She was gone, though. Perhaps her shift had ended. With last night’s entertainment headed home to Montreal, he debated a long walk through the city, perhaps taking the funicular down and re-exploring the lower city that was built at sea level along the river. Instead, and to his surprise, he ordered room service and opted to binge on two seasons of the Netflix series House of Cards on his laptop. If the guard, or anyone else, was at all curious about him, Matt’s best bet was to lay low, at least for the night.
Enjoying the cool air conditioning in his room, something that hadn’t been needed much in summers past in Northern Canada, he eventually fell asleep around three in the morning. Shortly past nine, a loud knock at his door made him jump up from the bed, still in his clothes from the day before. When he opened the door, Leclerc and Mercier were on the other side. Matt tried to rub the sleep from his face and took a few deep breaths to get his brain engaged quicker.
“Guys, what the hell’s the matter?”
Leclerc looked decidedly unhappy.
Mercier said, “Tilton is dead.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The weight of the words hit him like a ton of bricks. He’s dead? It only took another few seconds for Matt to fully regain clarity as Leclerc briefed him on what had occurred.
“A maid found him in a room on the seventh floor,” Leclerc continued. “She was doing the customary ‘housekeeping’ knock, entered, and found his body.”
“I was surprised to hear from others who were in the hallway at the time that she didn’t scream,” offered Mercier. “Apparently, maids discover deceased guests more often than one might expect.”
“You said the seventh floor?” Matt asked to be sure he’d heard correctly, “He wasn’t in his suite? Whose room was he in?”
Leclerc gestured for Matt to follow them.
They took the fire escape stairway down three floors, they acknowledged a man in a blue suit standing guard outside the hotel room. He was a security specialist with the Canadian state department. As they entered, Matt smirked at what he saw.
There, seated against a closet door, the naked body of a dead American official sat – held in place by a red necktie wrapped around his throat and then extended upward to a brass doorknob. The guard at the door pulled it closed behind them, leaving the three men standing awkwardly near the remains.
“Who have you called?” Matt asked as he stepped closer to examine the area surrounding the body.
“Just you and the man at the door,” Mercier answered. “The maid called her supervisor, who came to the room and alerted hotel security, who in turn informed us that a body had been found. We asked them to keep this information to themselves, and they’ve agreed to wait an hour before calling the Quebec police.”
“Well, they’ll need to send their homicide team. This is definitely a murder,” Matt assured them, his eyes never leaving the body and its surroundings.
“Not an accidental death by asphyxiation?” Leclerc queried. “I’ve read about this behavior. I think a few rock stars have gone out this way, yes?”
“Not this guy,” Matt stated firmly. “Someone staged this.”
“How can you be so sure?” Leclerc persisted.
“Because Tilton is…” Matt paused to correct himself, “…was left-handed. You can see the imprint of his watch on his right wrist. Whoever was involved in this placed his right hand on his junk after he died. I doubt Tilton was a switch hitter.” Matt looked at the two Canadians and regarded their lost expressions.
“He would have been using his left hand, not his right, if he really was jacking off,” Matt explained. “From the looks of things, my bet is someone lured him here, got him into some kinky, erotic beh
avior, maybe did a little dance while he watched and played with himself.”
Leclerc and Mercier looked at each other, and then both checked their watches.
“We don’t have much time until the police arrive,” Leclerc stated. “I understand what you’re saying might have happened here. It makes sense to me.”
“But we need to be sure whether this was a murder or just something that went horribly wrong,” Mercier added.
“The guy’s dead,” Matt said as he looked around the room one last time. “If this was a political act, experience tells me they would have left something on the scene to embarrass him and possibly the United States. Maybe gay or kiddie porn, or something written on the wall. Or his forehead, for that matter. There’s nothing at first glance, none of that. And there are no surveillance cameras in the hallway. So seeing who came and went from this room, and at what time, isn’t possible.”
“True,” Mercier agreed with a worried expression.
Matt gave another quick look around. “I’d leave this to the police. Let them pursue the question of whose room this was, interview the victim’s staffers to see what they know, and then ask the police to say he died of a heart attack to save my government the embarrassment of having him found this way. They’ll be able to put some things together. But, for me, I think I’ve done all I can for you here. The man may have been a pig to some women, but if he was killed for that or his limp stance on climate change, I think the killer needs to be found and prosecuted.”
“I agree,” Leclerc acknowledged, extending his hand to shake Matt’s.
“Oh, and I was never here,” Matt said as the two nodded in agreement.
“I will need our phone back,” Mercier requested, “and the bug.”
Matt rubbed his face again. “Give me a half-hour to get cleaned up, and I’ll be in the lobby bar at 10:30,” he said. “I’m desperate for coffee.”