Too Lucky to Live

by Annie Hogsett

  My appetite was coming back. I rejected my wrecked eggs and helped myself to a triangle of toast that Tom had abandoned. “I’m taking some toast you left here.”

  “I know.” His smile was warmer. “I may be blind but my hearing is—”

  “Acute. Your reflexes are slow, though. It’s my toast now.”

  I gazed at Tom. Seeing how everything I loved about him was filling the empty spaces of my life. How my heart jumped when he came into view. How my skin tingled when it remembered him doing…well, everything he did to it. But that was not the whole story of me and Tom.

  He was more than his handsome self and his limitless supply of tingle. The part of me that was most satisfied by Tom Bennington III was the sad, lonely, lost, rejected, screwed up part—the part Duane Pathologically Cruel Harper, Esquire, had broken.

  Tom was healing all that, repairing it, by simply loving me the way I was coming to believe I’d always deserved to be loved. Next to that irreplaceable gift, 550 million dollars was an abstract example of pointless excess.

  I blinked away some tears. I needed to keep news of my revelation from Tom. He’d use it as an excuse to donate his millions to a retirement home for seeing eye dogs, and I didn’t want him to do that until we got my car fixed.

  His expression had shifted as I was considering all that and I could tell whatever he was thinking about was a lot more life-and-death than my toast thievery.

  “There’s something else we need to talk about. About our case.”

  Our case. Wow. More progress.

  “Okay. And I can fill you in on what I talked to Valerio about last night.”

  “Valerio?”

  Oops.

  “I saw him yesterday evening before…um…I got to my house. We talked about what happened with Felix, Muff, and Frank.”

  “And?”

  In for a penny.

  “We—Valerio and I—we think they didn’t shoot each other.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  “You don’t.”

  “No. I don’t. There’s a pattern and that scenario doesn’t fit. I sorted some things out while I was worrying about you yesterday and going over everything that’s happened. In order. I think better when I’m terrified. Terror concentrates the mind. I read that somewhere.”

  “And?”

  “The high-rise. It’s ground zero. It’s the Mondo epicenter. Look at the victims. Renata. Felix. Muff. Frank. Ulysses. Renata, again—”

  “Plus, there’s her missing…um—”

  “Plus, there’s that. What happened to Renata’s body is a giant mystery. But it still fits. Count ’em, Allie. Every single person we met up with in that building the first night is dead. The only wildcard dead guy in the whole bunch is Dan from GG&B, and we know exactly how he got involved. That case is wrapped.”

  Whoa there. Wrapped? Tom was getting out ahead of me in the P.I. department.

  “Your big guy from last night? We can’t put him in the high-rise for certain, and I haven’t had time to think about him….”

  I’d had plenty. I suppressed the shudder by biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to cancel out the memory. That wasn’t altogether successful. Tom noticed. I saw it on his face, and it stabbed me right in my guilt. Again.

  He continued, “We can’t be sure he lives there, but, in a pinch, he might be the Renata boyfriend Ulysses told you was after Rune. He fits.”

  Like a scrap of plaid. I thought, but did not say aloud.

  Unaware of my secret hypothesis, he continued. “I bet if you went door to door up there on fourteen….”

  “Oh, let’s not. I don’t plan to ever go back there.”

  “Good. I’m delighted to hear that.” A little sarcasm for my benefit. I accepted it with silent grace.

  “Rune might know, but I don’t want to ask him anything about any of that. Thank God he’s is out of there for good. But look at this, too.” He touched an index finger to the table, marking the “X” spot. I had to remind myself that he couldn’t see the spot except in his imagination and that, in there, it was very likely the ominous tower that loomed sinister in my own memory.

  “Valerio and Bob,” he said and tapped the spot again. “They’re the exceptions. We met them there that night and neither one of them is dead.”

  Yet.

  “No. Not as far as we know. What are you suggesting?”

  “Not sure. Do I suspect them? One or both? I don’t know. I can’t tell whether I should worry for their safety or—I don’t know what.”

  I sat there, realizing I had possession of a—possibly deadly—can of worms. Debating whether to crack it open or let it go.

  Okay.

  “There’s another guy from the high-rise that night who’s still alive.”

  “What? Allie. Who?”

  “He was with Ulysses and Frank the first night. They were watching the TV. Together.”

  “Do you think he knows anything?”

  “I actually hope not. Maybe he doesn’t and that’s why he’s still around. As far as we know.”

  “Maybe we should try to get in touch with him.”

  “Are you kidding? What did we just agree? And why am I the smart, sensible one all of a sudden?”

  “Aren’t you enjoying not being the wacky, irresponsible one?”

  I gazed at him, approving the crisp shirt the hotel laundry had done for us and a sliver of white hot tee at the throat. I uncurled my hand and trailed a finger along his life line. “I’m enjoying a lot of stuff.”

  He grinned wide, and the dimple saw the light of day for the first time in recent memory. His face was dear and beloved and all mine again. “Stop that,” he warned. “We’re being detectives right now. This is serious. Don’t distract me.”

  I took my hand away, struggling to arrange my voice for sensibleness. “You’re right. Back to this guy—my other guy with Ulysses and Frank. We don’t know his name. I probably couldn’t pull him out of a lineup. And the ones who were with him that night are both—”

  “Dead. I’m painfully aware.”

  “And Felix and Muff, who could have told us, are also out of the picture.”

  “Nicely put. Aren’t you the sensitive detective? That only leaves two guys who have some working knowledge of who’s who in that deathtrap. And are still alive.”

  “Valerio. And Bob. Which might you trust?”

  “Neither. Both. Who knows?” He sighed. “Let’s count. The first night, I suppose they might have beaten up Renata, but that’s beyond farfetched and, besides, I think we have Felix and Muff for the Tuesday night beatings. Margo’s is Felix, for sure.”

  “Felix, Muff, and Frank. Valerio has evidence they didn’t shoot each other.”

  “Okay. That doesn’t surprise me. Valerio and Bob were both last seen—by us…well I suppose, strictly speaking, only by you. But I was right there—walking into the building after they drove us back up to get the car. That was maybe two, three hours before those three were killed. So we can’t rule out either or both of them for that. I suppose they could have done it. But they don’t compute on the others.”

  “Ulysses?”

  “Hard to get them to him. Yes, they were on duty that night, close enough to answer your 9-1-1 call but far enough away to make them unlikely. Especially since there was no obvious cause of death. In my opinion, natural-looking causes would take more finesse and time. And if both those guys didn’t kill Ulysses, then neither one could have.”

  Finesse and time? Mmm. Mmm.

  “My, my. Associate Professor Bennington the Third. You’re getting good at this.”

  “Stop sucking up. I’m capable of recognizing the obvious. A kid could get this far. Renata, next.”

  I took the ball. “We’re hypothesizing that whoever killed Ulysses killed Renata. Someone who is
good at natural causes and probably body-snatching. We may never find out what happened to her. Or where she’s ended up. I suppose we can’t rule out Valerio or Bob but I can’t make them fit. Not logically. So where are we?”

  “I believe we could, with a reasonable degree of confidence, inquire of Valerio or Bob whether they know who the third guy might have been.”

  “Which one?”

  “I choose Valerio.”

  “Rats. I’m afraid of Valerio. He’s onto me.”

  “That’s why I choose Valerio.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In the beginning, there were three old guys in wheelchairs. Ulysses, Frank, and an unknown old black guy. That unknown guy in the trio—sitting in the middle between Ulysses and Frank, soaking with them in the glow that had emanated from Jimmy Fallon—was the one we were hoping to hear from. He was the one we were on the phone with Officer Valerio about.

  Well, to be precise it wasn’t us on the phone. It was Tom. After we’d abandoned the wreckage of my morning meal—Eggs Benedict Arnold, as I was coming to think of it—we retired to our room to try Valerio. After we left a message for him at the district headquarters, it took him about fifteen minutes to get back to us. Hardly enough time for a decent kiss.

  Tom put the call on speaker so I could hear, but I was the mouse in the corner. Small. Silent. Scared of Valerio. Afraid he would hear my big felonious lie in the tone of my voice, no matter what cavalierly nonchalant tone I managed to gin up. Quaking little mousie, I was.

  It was working. Whether it was the blindness of Tom, his PhD, or maybe the gravitas being emitted by his money, Valerio was acting polite. And informative.

  “Sammy R.”

  “I’m sorry? Did you say Sammy Arr?

  Valerio chuckled. A new sound in his repertoire. One I’d never heard in his conversations with me, which featured all those suspicious grunts and snorts.

  “Yes. ‘R’ as in Robinson. That’s Sammy’s last name. Almost everybody in the place has a nickname of some kind or other. Sammy and Ulysses were buddies. Went way back from before they lived up there. He used to play cards with that bunch. Fill in. And he and Ulysses liked to watch late-night TV together. He must be pretty lonesome these days. Why do you want to know, Dr. Bennington?”

  The pitch of this question shifted up into the slightly suspicious.

  Tom’s reply was calibrated for trust. “Just Tom, please. I’m still uneasy about where Allie and I figure in a lot of the violence that’s occurred. Whether there are other threats. To us personally.”

  “The murders?”

  “Yes. And the people who were beaten. Margo Gallucci. And Renata Davis, of course, before—”

  “Before somebody maybe finished the job?”

  “Yes. Is that what you think?”

  “Can’t prove it yet. But, however it goes, it’s murder on somebody. Outcome of the earlier assault. You put her in the hospital? She dies? The crime is yours.”

  Tom cleared his throat and Valerio said, “I’m sorry. Tom. That sounded—I was speaking of the perpetrator of the original offense. Not—”

  “Not me. But I’m sure you get why I feel responsible for a lot that’s happened.”

  “Sure. I get it. But you should give yourself a pass on that one. From what I heard about the circumstances, you meant nothing but the best for the kid when you bought that ticket. The odds—”

  “I know. I know. I’ve been given to understand it’s like a million times more unlikely than being struck by lightning twice in one lifetime.”

  Valerio snorted. My cover was blown. “I can guess who came up with that number.”

  Tom smiled in spite of it all. “I bet you can. But I was wondering if you, in an official capacity, could maybe just check with Mr. Robinson. See if he has any insights at all—”

  “I could do that. It’s good idea, actually. And I’m assuming that the CSI Wannabee won’t be following up. Or mixing in. Or anything.”

  “Not in any capacity. She would want you to know.”

  Geez, that was mean all over the place. Whose side was Tom on, anyhow? But I sat tight.

  “If I find out anything that could point to problems for you and Ms. Harper, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Tom hung up. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had at least four or five issues with Valerio, including me thinking he was maybe a cold-blooded killer and him thinking I was maybe an evidence tamperer and for sure a royal pain in the ass. Our relationship was chock full of pitfalls.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  After that we packed our things and checked out of our Marriott.

  Last night’s attack was the tipping point. We didn’t know exactly where that guy fit into our crimefest, but we were following a trail of suspicion, like bread crumbs, from the infamous tower to my place. It was a short walk. If he lived there, we were almost neighbors. Maybe he’d come back last night, looking for a piece of his shirt.

  “Plaid,” Tom nodded. “Okay. Maybe. You could be right….”

  That was a stretch and we knew it, but Mr. Big & Repulsive kept climbing out of my yard and into my brain. I pictured him prying open my window and heaving his massive, plaid-wrapped torso through, snagging fabric as he went. He was one unknown threat too many, and he was still at large. Not to mention any new or unknown perpetrator or perpetrators we might be annoying with our inexpert-but-improving detective work.

  Creepy Eye was on us everywhere.

  I described to Tom my recurring suspicion that someone was lurking, stalking, or flying a damn drone over us wherever we went. “At first I thought I was overreacting, but now I know they’re there. I feel them, Tom. On the back of my neck.”

  Tom smiled. “And you think I don’t?”

  Touché.

  Moreover, there had been last night’s odoriferous scene in the Marriot bar and the possibility that our neighbors up on the concierge floor might have overheard our altercation. Including the make-love-without-bothering-to-make-up encounter. I was more than ready to move on. I was sure our happy memories of the Marriott would overshadow the troublesome ones after a while, but it was time for us to make ourselves scarcer.

  The Wyndham at Playhouse Square is not as big or elaborate as the Marriott. For example, it has a concierge but no concierge floor. I lucked out, however, because Tom had a chat with the desk person and she upgraded us all the way into a corner suite with a king-sized bed and a scenic view of the theater district. It wasn’t two rooms but it had a sitting area, which made it a cut above the ordinary.

  More good news: that king-sized bed had its own fabulous brand identity. The box spring comes with something called “Shock Abzzorber Plus.” I shall not comment on that. I hope no one ever tells Margo.

  A harsh judge of my character might very well assume that I was unforgivably callous, focusing on hotel amenities and other selfish pursuits in the midst of chaos and sorrow. That judge would be correct. Calloused was how I felt. You can only get so sad, so worried, so plain terrified before your soul is anesthetized.

  My antidote to total soul numbness—and possible constant screaming—was to keep my attention on Tom. The bizarre luck of my having met the love of my life at the exact Act-of-God moment when he became both mind-bogglingly wealthy and blood-freezingly hazardous was not going to bring me down. I didn’t care.

  At least Tom had, as far as I could tell, forgiven me for Tuesday’s debacle. It troubled me to consider that, in spite of my recent attempts to reform, he now suspected I was always going to be unreliable. That I had at least one good-sized flaw and he knew about it.

  In exchange, I’d forgiven Tom for not enlightening me any further about the mysterious Diana—even though I suspected he was punishing me with silence for scaring him half to death.

  It was an uneasy truce, but w
hat the heck. The prospect of our lying in each other’s arms on our Shock Abzzorber Plus—me bringing light to his darkness and him sharing his rich, seductive darkness with me—pretty much swept my mind clear of every terrible thing. Callous? Absolutely.

  Sue me.

  I could have been happy at the Wyndham for a long time.

  But there were complications.

  First of all, we’d barely moved in when I got a “Who Are You?” call from a very unhappy man.

  “Miz Harper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to get yourself all the way out of my life. Or I’ll tell that cop of yours what I know ’bout you.”

  “I’m sorry? Who’s this?”

  “You know already who this is. You know about Sammy R. You sicced that cop on me. What you want to kill me for? I ain’t done nothing to you. I need you to leave me alone. Or I’ll tell that cop what I seen. What you done. The night somebody killed Ulysses.

  “I got your number, girl. I seen you. I seen you pick up that paper. That night. Right out of Ulysses’ cold dead hand.”

  I would have begged to differ if I could have talked at all. I would have said, He was still warm when I got there, Sammy. His hand was dead, all right, but not all the way cold. And the paper wasn’t in his hand…exactly. I just…jiggled his arm and it fell out all by itself.

  I settled for a small, involuntary squawk.

  Sammy rolled on. “I seen what I seen.”

  “Did you mention this to Officer Valerio?”

  “Mention it? Are you out of your mind? No. I did not. And you want to know why? Because everybody who mighta ever knew anything about what was in that note—before it was tore or after—is dead. ’Cept me. And you. I’m keeping myself alive by not mentioning about it to anybody. Only reason I’m talking to you right now is to tell you to leave me alone. Whatever happens to you? You probably got it comin’. Don’t call me. Don’t write me no letters. Don’t send me no more police. We’re quits, you ’n me. And good luck to you. Forget you ever heard my name.”

  He hung up before I could voice the one thought in my head.