Foul Play on Words

by Becky Clark

  I heard her take big gulps of air. Quietly I asked, “Viv, has Hanna really been kidnapped, or …”

  “Or what?”

  “Or are you in some sort of financial jam?”

  “Oh my god, Charlee. Seriously? How can you even ask that?”

  “Just answer my question, Viv. Because if this is some sort of scam—”

  “Scam.” The word landed there with a thud.

  “Viv, if this is some sort of scam, then I’m in so much trouble.” She didn’t hear since she’d hung up on me.

  Didn’t matter, because who was I kidding? I was in so much trouble anyway.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and heard a light tapping on the balcony door.

  “Charlee? The door’s stuck.”

  I dropped my phone on the loveseat and turned around. Brad Pitt peered in with his hands cupped around his eyes. When he saw me looking, he quit tapping the glass with his index finger and used it to beckon me over. I reached for the bottle of Malbec on the table, twisted off the screw cap, and tipped a long pull straight from the bottle.

  What should I do now? I would have bet my favorite knock-off Ferragamos that Viv would finally have allowed the police to be involved. And that Detective Kelly would have been at least curious when I’d named names. And didn’t ransom and a threat of murder rise to the level of professional law enforcement intervention? I hadn’t even gotten a chance to talk to them about the SIN website. Did people really call all the time and bother them like this? Were the police immune to people like me?

  I squinched my eyes against Brad Pitt’s renewed tapping. It reminded me too much of that poem by Edgar Allen Poe: “Tapping, tapping … at my chamber door … merely this and nothing more.”

  So instead of solving Hanna’s kidnapping, I’d kidnapped someone of my own.

  I picked up the bottle again. Tipped it back. With a sigh, I stood and moved to the sliding door. But instead of unlocking it, I leaned against the back of the loveseat and looked outside. Tipped the bottle again.

  Brad Pitt removed his cupped hands from the glass and stepped backward, stumbling over one of the chairs. He tried to move it out of his way a couple of times before squatting to see that it was bolted down. He rested his backside against the wrought-iron table. He smiled at me. “Charlee, it seems you’re having second thoughts.” He raised his voice so I could hear. “Perfectly understandable. Protecting yourself. I get it. It’s hard to be a woman these days. We don’t have to do this. I’ll leave right away. Please open the door. I’ll even let you leave the room first, if that’ll make you feel better. Or call housekeeping. Or the concierge. Whatever you need to do to feel safe.”

  I continued to stare at him and sip from the wine bottle. I had no idea what to do.

  Brad Pitt flinched, then looked skyward. Soon, his shirt was spotty with raindrops. He laughed, though. “Hey, it’s starting to rain. This might be the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me. It’ll make a great bar story.” He flashed sad puppy eyes as it rained harder.

  Had I been wrong about everything? Would a kidnapper be so charming about being locked outside in the rain? Or when he’d been expecting some afternoon delight? I’d really thought that Strength in Numbers information was crucial, but now I wasn’t so sure. And I really, really thought Viv would finally see reason and be thankful for the involvement of the police. And I really, really, really thought the police would show at least mild curiosity about my questions and theories.

  What about Jack? Were the things I found suspicious about him simply evidence of him doing his job? And Roz could have any number of reasons for being in contact with Hanna’s rehab place. And I had nothing but gossip that Michael Watanabe was dealing drugs.

  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t all still have something to do with Hanna’s disappearance.

  My head throbbed with indecision and cheap wine.

  “Charlee?” Brad Pitt’s hands were cupped around his face, pressed to the glass again. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about this, if that’s what you’re worried about. It was all a misunderstanding that we’ll laugh about … maybe tomorrow. Just a little rendezvous gone cattywampus. C’mon, please?”

  I stared at him and drained the bottle. I was already in this much trouble, I might as well take it all the way. I wrapped my palm around the door handle but kept the lock engaged.

  “What did you mean when you said you foresaw a windfall in your future?”

  Brad Pitt noticed I’d moved and stood directly in front of me. His shirt was soaked through and his hair dripped rain on to his nose. “What?” He cupped his ear.

  I raised my voice and repeated myself through the glass.

  “When I said what?” He frowned.

  I didn’t respond this time. Just kept staring. He’d heard me. I could see him thinking.

  His face brightened. “Oh. My expense account. I was happy to buy Carl and Mr. Sparkles a drink because I have a high per diem reimbursement.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “I’m a consultant.”

  “What are you consulting in a hotel full of writers and dog show people? You’ve been hanging around the hotel but you’re not either one.”

  “Those are the only two choices?”

  He had me there. I tried a different line of questioning. “What do you know about an organization called Strength in Numbers?”

  Brad Pitt crossed his arms. Stared at his feet. Then met my eyes. “I didn’t have anything to do with that lawsuit. It was my brother Greg who was involved in that annexation fiasco.” He placed one palm on the glass door.

  “Then why was there a comment on the website from B. Pitt?”

  “I don’t know. It was probably my brother Greg. G. Pitt.” He wiped his brow with his arm. “Look at your keyboard. Aren’t G and B next to each other?”

  Were they? I moved to my laptop and opened it. Not next to each other, but the G was just above the B. Oh, fudge. All this because of a typo? My attempt to save Hanna went completely off track because G. Pitt couldn’t type?

  My confidence plummeted. Not sure how I’d explain this if he ratted me out to the cops, I flipped the lock to let in this guy who was only guilty of wanting a tryst. I slid the door open to allow the sodden, miserable-looking man back inside.

  “Brad, I’m sor—”

  He hurled his body at me with a growl.

  Eighteen

  Brad Pitt pounced on me, but stumbled as he crossed the raised threshold.

  I scurried backward, crashing into the loveseat. As I tried to make my way around it, he grabbed my arm and dragged me back. I thrashed and he lost his grip.

  I was in front of the loveseat. Brad Pitt leaped over it. I scrambled toward the hallway door. Every time I broke free, he was there to drag me back. I rolled the desk chair between us and thrust it at him like a lion tamer.

  Grabbing the room service napkin I’d draped over the armoire cabinet last night, I flung it in his face while dodging under the open cabinet door. He was temporarily blinded and the cabinet smacked him in the face. I was within arm’s distance of the suite door and sweet escape when he slammed the rolling chair into me, knocking me off my feet. My shoulder hammered the wall. I sprawled in the alcove, fingernails scrabbling on the tiled floor.

  He was between me and my exit. With calm determination he casually reached up and flicked the security bolt across the door.

  Nobody was coming in until one of us went out.

  I belly-crawled into the bathroom. Heaved myself up using the doorknob, panting, my shoulder screaming for ice. If I could just lock … the … door. I slammed it but it didn’t shut all the way. Brad Pitt had gotten the toe of his boot inside. Rammed it back open. I dove into the tub. He reached for me, grabbing and missing three times as I swam to the opposite end using the craziest non-aquatic stroke ever de
vised. He grabbed my ankle and held tight, a pit bull on a bone. I thrashed and squirmed, pulling him into the tub. He was a third of the way in at one end while I was a third of the way out at the other, but still he held me tight. I writhed to escape his grasp, pulling on the shower curtain for misguided and ineffective help. The curtain rod crashed down, blanketing us with the Mondrian-designed curtain. Flailing to unwrap himself, he let go of my ankle. Before I oozed over the edge of the tub, I tucked the curtain around him in an attempt to slow him down.

  There’s a reason restraints aren’t made from a nylon/polyester blend. It didn’t hold him. He lunged for me. I retreated on hands and knees, but I only made it to the alcove outside the bathroom door before he leapt over me and blocked my exit with the six-foot rolling luggage cart.

  I shoved it with all my strength, ramming it into him. He crashed into the wall with a loud OOF, then buckled to the floor. I found my feet and pivoted toward the bedroom—where I found my voice, too. I remembered Scout’s trick with the luggage cart and how the hotel manager had been adamant about the “No Barking” rule this weekend.

  At the top of my lungs I yelled, “Sing, Scout! Sing!” over and over again, banging my fists on the bedroom wall, hoping Scout and Scott were done with their competition and back in their room next door.

  I scrambled across the king-sized bed, trying not to disturb the pillows and give away my location. Dropped down to the floor. I landed hard on the collapsed ironing board and clamped a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out in pain. Maybe Brad Pitt would look in the closet first and I could zig the other direction to safety. I held my breath. Listened for the closet door. Silence.

  Lack of oxygen made me dizzy and I slowly let out my breath. As I inhaled, I felt movement above me on the bed. Slow. Methodical. Again.

  He knew I was down here. Stalking me over the top of the bed.

  My shoulder and knee were shrieking at me to move, to get away, but I had nowhere to go. The bed wasn’t tall enough for me to go under and I knew I couldn’t explode over the top with enough force to knock him out of the way.

  I felt for the iron. I was sure it had to be down here somewhere. Every time I reached in a new direction, I felt the bed give with the weight of his crawling. I’d see his face over the edge any second now.

  I couldn’t find the iron. My only chance was to keep low. If he popped his face over the edge with his Jack Nicholson “Here’s Johnny” macabre grin, I could bolt.

  Crawling low, looking like a super-slo-mo agility dog, I silently made my way toward the foot of the bed. I twisted my head and saw the comforter fluff with his weight.

  Right hand and left knee. Four inches.

  Left hand and right knee. Four more.

  Ninja-like, four more.

  His hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked. I twisted away, flattened on the floor. My hand hit something solid. Fingers slid around the handle. Rising to a kneeling position, I slammed that iron with the full force of my fury into the side of Brad Pitt’s face.

  He collapsed spread-eagle on the bed. Still gripping the iron, I raced for the doorway shrieking my fool head off. I fumbled with the security bolt, sure he was ready to pounce again despite what I’d done to him.

  I finally flung the door open. The Do Not Disturb sign flew off the handle and bounced off Scout’s snout, causing her to briefly pin her ears back in fear. She then sang like a diva at the crescendo of her operatic debut while I shrieked. Behind her stood Scott, pale, eyes wide, every muscle tensed. The hotel manager and Jack hurried toward us.

  Scout bounded into the bedroom, hair raised, ears perked, still singing. Scott followed her.

  I quit shrieking but continued to hold the iron in one hand.

  The hotel manager wrapped his hands around my biceps. “What’s going on? What happened?” When I didn’t answer, he shook me, making the water slosh in the steam reservoir of the iron.

  I looked at the iron, then at Jack, then back at the manager. Horrified at my tight grip on the weapon, I dropped it at my feet. We watched as it landed with a thud, slowly teetering to one side. I raised a shaky finger and pointed into the bedroom. “Kid … napper.”

  The manager and Jack pushed past me. I hung back at the doorway to the bedroom. Brad Pitt was still knocked out. Growling quietly, Scout stood over him. The manager returned to where I stood.

  With halting words, I briefly explained what had happened. “You need to get to Brad Pitt’s room. He might have her tied up in there.”

  The manager looked again at the unconscious man sprawled on the bed, then back to me. The look on his face told me he wasn’t sure who or what to believe.

  “But he’s not checked in under his real name. I don’t know which room—” I was flustered. It hadn’t occurred to me that I still wouldn’t be believed.

  “I know which room it is,” Jack said. “It’s my job.” He scurried out.

  The manager followed him and I followed the manager. I called over my shoulder to Scott, “Guard him!”

  The three of us raced up two flights of stairs to the tenth floor. By the time I made it to the hallway, Jack already had positioned his master key in a door sporting a Do Not Disturb sign.

  Before he could open it, the manager put his hand on Jack’s forearm. “Are you sure?”

  Jack looked at me and nodded.

  “Wait,” the manager said. He reached past Jack and pounded on the door. “Hotel management!” He pounded again. “Hello?” When nobody answered, he stepped back and nodded at Jack.

  The door swung open. Cautiously Jack and the manager stepped in. “Hello? Anyone here?”

  I tiptoed behind, worried I was wrong and we wouldn’t find Hanna. And worried that we would.

  Brad Pitt’s room looked exactly like mine, but his blackout drapes were pulled and I couldn’t see clearly. The manager crept into the living area, Jack to the bedroom. I hit the light panel and flicked every single bulb on, bathing the room in incandescence.

  Neither of the men spoke. I broke in half. I’d kidnapped and assaulted an innocent man. He’d attacked me in self-defense. I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor.

  As soon as Jack and the manager made a thorough search of this room, I would no doubt be arrested.

  A slight rustling of the shower curtain attracted my attention. I glanced toward the others, but they hadn’t heard anything. Maybe it was my imagination. Wishful thinking. I crawled across the bathroom to the edge of the tub. When I reached it, I silently counted to three while methodically gathering the shower curtain and my nerves.

  When I got to three-and-a-half, three-and-three-quarters … four, I yanked my fistful of curtain.

  Hanna Lundquist, bound and blindfolded, a room service napkin jammed in her mouth, cowered in the tub. I reached for her. At my touch, she pitched backward, trembling near the faucet.

  “It’s okay, Hanna. I’m a friend of your mom’s. My name’s Charlee Russo. I’m here to help.”

  Jack helped me untie her and get her out of the tub while the manager rattled off apologies to Hanna.

  “Call the police,” Jack snapped at him, clearly miffed that the manager was worried about potential liability right then rather than Hanna’s well-being. He hugged her, and I remembered they were old friends.

  At first her arms hung limply at her sides, but then she gripped him tight around the neck.

  The manager hurried away, pulling his phone from his pocket. Jack got Hanna a glass of water, which she drank in one long gulp.

  “What else can we get you?” I asked.

  “I gotta pee.” She shut the bathroom door and Jack and I waited uneasily in the alcove.

  She was clearly in shock and I hoped the police would bring paramedics for her. We heard the toilet flush, water in the sink, and then the door flew open.

  “Where is that son of a bitch?” />
  Maybe not shock. Perhaps rage. “He’s in my room. Unconscious, last we saw.”

  In two strides Hanna was in the hallway. “Which way?”

  Jack and I exchanged a glance.

  “On eight. Let’s take the stairs.”

  I wasn’t sure this was a good idea, since the police weren’t here and Brad Pitt could be awake now, but it didn’t seem like Hanna was stoppable right now.

  Jack led the way and I hurried to keep up with them. My shoulder and knee throbbed, but I sure didn’t want to miss a minute of whatever was going to happen next.

  When we got to my room, the door stood open and Hanna stormed in. I reached the bedroom in time to see her haul off and slug Brad Pitt in the jaw. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, Scout snarling at him, and now he flopped backward.

  Jack, Scott, and I all exclaimed at the same time.

  “Dayum.”

  “Oh!”

  “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

  Scout looked up at Hanna, wagged her tail, and sat at her side.

  Hanna rubbed her knuckles and shook some pain from her hand. Seemed she might have some experience with brawls. “Did you call my mom?”

  “On it.”

  When I’d finished talking to Viv, the manager found us and told us the police were on their way.

  Jack rubbed Hanna’s knuckles.

  While we waited for the police and Viv, Scott insisted on getting ice for Hanna’s hand and for my shoulder and knee, even though I told him I was fine. It hurt like the dickens, but I didn’t want any coddling right now. I needed to focus.

  Brad Pitt struggled to sit, then probed his face. I could see discoloration and swelling beginning near his temple. Scout warned him to stay put by growling quietly and shoving her nose into his. Scott called Scout to his side, allowing Brad to sit at the edge of the bed.