'I'm in 211,' I said, coming on tired and a little drunk. 'I lost my key someplace. Can you run me off another?'
'I'm sorry sir, I didn't see you check in. I'd need to see ID.'
I kept moving, pretended to fumble in my pocket. 'Oh—that's okay, I found it.'
'Goodnight, sir.'
I hurried up the stairs and down a corridor until I found room 211. I knocked on the door and put my hand in my jacket.
No response. I knocked again, harder. Put my head up close. No sound from the interior. I suddenly started feeling cold inside.
'Carl? It's Ward.'
Nothing. I stood back and gave the door a solid kick. The door barely registered it. I gave it another kick with no more effect. I don't know how to hack that kind of lock and wasn't fool enough to try shooting it out.
I ran back down to reception. 'Some problem with the key,' I said. 'It's not working. I need another one.'
'Then I'd still need to see ID.'
I pulled out the gun. 'Will this do?'
I saw him reaching to his left.
'Don't touch the phone. I'm investigating a homicide in Thornton.'
'You're a cop?'
'No. FBI.'
'You should have said.' With visions of making local news as Owensville's most helpful citizen, he was a different proposition. His fingers rattled over the keyboard in front of him. '211?'
'Yes. Carl Unger.'
He frowned. 'Um, no.'
'I really have to get inside that room.'
He grabbed a card blank from the pile and swiped it but didn't hand it to me. Instead he came out from behind the desk. Evidently he was coming too. I had neither the time nor the inclination for punching him out, so I followed. He was quick up the stairs and went straight to the door. He swiped the card through the lock and opened it.
I walked in. The room was empty. The bed untouched. The bathroom was spotless and the toilet still sanitized for someone's comfort and convenience.
I swore and rounded on the desk jockey. 'Tell me,' I said.
'Mr Unger made a reservation by phone late this afternoon. He called a little before ten o'clock this evening and cancelled it. It was too late and he had to pay but basically he checked out without ever entering the hotel.'
I sat bonelessly down on the end of the bed. I felt too angry and foolish to speak. Unger had separated the two of us effortlessly. He booked a room in the hotel so it looked like he was in situ, and to give him a place to draw me and Nina to the following morning if tonight's business hadn't gone as planned.
But it had. And so now he was gone. And Nina was gone.
Leaving just me.
•••
When I got back to Thornton the parking lot of the Holiday Inn was jammed with police vehicles and two television trucks. A ring of pre-dawn rubberneckers stood on the pavement outside. I drove straight past. There was nothing for me there.
I drove to a place I'd already visited once that evening. The lot above Raynor's Wood. I sat in the car with the windows down, listening to the sounds of the forest. Nina's name kept swimming into my mind and my heart clenched tighter and tighter with panic.
'What do I do, Bobby? How do I find her?'
I asked before I'd realized I was going to, and silence was all that came back. Asking was foolish, but I knew that now was not the time to suddenly comprehend that people dear to me could become actually and permanently dead.
On impulse I got out my phone and hit the speed dial number for Nina's phone. It went straight to voicemail. I knew it would: Monroe had already tried to locate the phone via beacon signals and got nothing. The phone was switched off. There are conspiracy nuts who think you can trace them anyway. Sadly they are wrong.
So then I did the only thing left, and tried another number. I tried it again, and again, at five-minute intervals until finally at 7:03 it was picked up and I heard a voice for the first time in five months.
'What the hell do you want, Ward? I got your SMS and I don't know the guy's name.'
'John, I've got to talk to you.'
'We have nothing to say to each other.'
'They got Nina.'
There was a long pause. 'Who did?'
'I don't know. But they got her.'
'Where are you?'
'Thornton, Virginia. John, get here fast.'
Chapter 20
'It's business as usual. We just do what we do.'
'Man, you're dreaming. Nobody has called me in the last twenty-four. Two parties I know of have been cancelled just this week. People's parents are freaked, big time, and with the cops hassling people left and right…It's just not a party atmosphere, Lee. People are staying home and watching TV.'
It was twenty before nine in the morning and they were sitting in Lee's car outside the Starbucks from the night Pete died, working their way through vanilla lattes again. This morning they seemed sickly and over-sweet. Being there at all was Lee's idea. He had some theory that they should go places that connected with that night, to overlay any memories people might have from then: so the last impression the staff or any patrons might have—assuming they noticed or gave a shit—was of two guys being casual, at one with their world, not two whacked-out people who'd just buried their best friend. Brad didn't know whether this made sense or not. He thought trying to second-guess the cops was a game for people with a lot more experience. Lee's confidence was beginning to worry him a little. Since his one-to-one with this Paul guy, he seemed to be disconnecting from reality just a bit.
'Didn't they realize it was going to be tough?'
'Of course,' Lee said. 'But it's about turnover. Money in, money out. They got a shitload of pills and they don't last forever.'
This sounded like bullshit to Brad. 'I guess I could go check Stacy and Josh,' he said, without any enthusiasm. 'They didn't know Pete so well. They could still be partying.'
Hudek shook his head. 'Not the Reynoldses, no.'
'How come?'
'Just no.'
'Well, Lee, you got me. Take the drugs back to your friends and explain that what with some upstate shithead having blown Sleepy's head off, the market isn't so fucking buoyant right now.'
Lee turned to look at him. 'You okay, bro?'
'No I'm not okay, Lee. And I miss Pete. I really fucking miss him.'
'I know. Me too.'
Brad wasn't sure he believed this. It seemed to him that in Lee's universe Pete had become merely a problem to which a solution was being bought. 'His mom was on the phone to mine yesterday evening, asking if she knew anything.'
'She's calling everyone.'
'I don't care about the general fucking situation, Lee, okay? Right now I don't care about you or Steve or about the man on the street in Baghdad. I'm talking about me. Last night it was my mom she called. And so then Mom comes and sits in my room and—shit, man: you know the score. This is bad.'
'It's going to be fine.'
'No, Lee. I'm really not sure it will.' He hesitated. 'I had Karen on the phone last night too.'
'You guys are fucking. Talking comes with the territory. Deal with it, dude.'
'That's not what I mean.'
'I guessed that. It was a joke.'
'You think this is funny?'
'What are you actually talking about, Brad? I'm smart but I'm not a fucking mind-reader.'
'She keeps asking me things.'
'What kind of things?'
'After they found Pete's body she called me and we were talking, this and that, about how fucked-up it all was, and suddenly she asks me if I know anything about what happened to him.'
'What did you say?'
'I said no, of course. But…she heard something, Lee. I was out the front waiting for you that night, and she was there, remember? When you walked up you said "He'll be here soon", or "in a minute", or something like that. I don't specifically remember it but she sure as hell does. She knows we were waiting for someone and she thinks it was Pete.'
'Christ. So why didn't you say i
t was Jed or Matt or Greg?'
'Because I didn't think fast enough, okay? I just said that we went for burgers alone. Which is the way anybody watching would have seen it when we got back, right? So why bring any of those guys into it, especially if they're just going to say no, we didn't go?'
'Yeah, okay. So what was she saying last night?'
'Nothing else. Except…she said she hoped if anybody did know anything about it, they'd go to the cops. She said the cops seemed serious and it would probably be better for that person in the long run if they just told what they knew, even if it looked kind of bad.'
'You think she was talking about you?'
'I guess so. But I agreed with her and we left it. It just makes me nervous, man. And it makes me feel…guilty.'
'You're not, I'm not. She's just doing what she thinks is right. Our friends are going to make this go away and Karen will see we didn't know anything, and everything will be cool again.'
'They'll do that even if we tell them we can't sell their drugs?'
'This isn't about the drugs. They've got something else in mind. I don't know the details right now. But something's coming up. These guys are connected. They're like the Mafia, or something, but not Italian or Columbian or any of that shit. White guys. They got some big thing up ahead and we're going to help. None of this will matter.'
'Pete will still matter, Lee. Sleepy Pete will always matter.'
'Yeah, of course,' Hudek said, and Brad realized he barely remembered who Pete was.
Hudek's pager went off and he glanced down and read the message. He kicked the engine up.
'That's them,' he said. 'Time to go.'
•••
There was something surreal about walking into the Belle Isle food court. It was a place Brad knew well. Limitless taquitas and egg rolls had been ingested there in the last five years, innumerable sodas and berry smoothies sucked up during slow trawls with the gang or with Pete or lately just him and Karen. Look back far enough and he'd come here with his mom and dad and sister too, withstanding their boring shopping imperatives by asking if he could go to the court and get a chocolate shake and wait, which had generally been allowed.
At this early time of day the food concessions were still being fired up and the seating area was largely empty, just a few housewife kaffeeklatches in progress and a seat-busting monster already hunched over the detritus of enough burgers to feed a small family, fries hanging out of his mouth like the remaining legs of insectile snacks.
And there was a guy.
He was sitting in splendid isolation at a table right in the middle of the floor. This surprised Brad until he happened to look around again. Widely spread around the seating area were three other individuals who didn't look like they were there to hunt for bargain animal calendars in Waldenbooks. None had anything to eat or drink. All were looking his and Lee's way. Casually. Kind of. They ranged from forties down to very early twenties. This youngest was eyeballing them the hardest. There was something about him Brad really didn't like.
Lee had the drug bag with him. Brad didn't like that either—but that was what the pager message had specified. When he got to the main man's table Lee went as if to hand the bag over straightaway. The man shook his head, one single movement.
'In a moment,' he said. 'Take a seat.'
Lee and Brad sat opposite. Funny: the way Lee had described him, Brad had been expecting someone who looked like a famous actor or something, a person you'd notice across a crowded room. Brad thought this guy could fade into background anywhere.
'Brad, right?'
'Yeah.'
'Good to meet you, Brad. I'm Paul.'
'Okay,' Brad said. Thinking: There is something not right about you.
The man turned his attention to Hudek. 'So you're not having much luck with sales.'
'We've done our best, but—with Pete dead it's just not the time.'
'Surely you didn't used to sell only to close friends.'
'No, of course not. But we sold in a controlled area. And to a certain class. Look, we'll keep trying if you want.'
'Don't worry. The Valley's loss is West Hollywood's gain. We'll move them over there instead.'
Hudek felt pained. This didn't feel like it contributed to the upward progression he'd begun to enjoy. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Things are just screwed up at the moment.'
'It's not a big issue,' the man said. 'And it won't affect the Plan, don't worry.' He turned to Brad. 'Do me a favour, would you, Brad? Go get me an espresso?'
Brad's first inclination was to say hell no, he didn't run people's errands. But he got the sense that with this guy, you sort of did. Also, as he opened his mouth, he got derailed by a cramp in his stomach, and winced.
The man watched him closely. 'Not feeling so good?'
'Had this gut ache a few days,' Brad said, feeling abruptly nauseous. 'Just can't seem to shift it.'
'You're under considerable stress.'
'You could say that.'
'What are you taking for it?'
'Oh, you know.' Brad's mom had dosed him with the greatest hits of her medicine chest, as usual leaping at the chance. The man's interest made him feel awkward. 'Pharmaceuticals in depth.'
'You should try something herbal. Scutellaria, maybe.'
Brad nodded, his irritation subsided, and he realized he was going for coffee after all and somehow didn't mind. This was what the guy had. It wasn't looks. He had the quality Lee aspired to and sort of possessed, but multiplied by a factor of a zillion. He was the alpha males' alpha male. You just did what he said.
Brad headed to the nearest concession which had no one in line. As the woman got the machine whirring he looked back over to Lee. He and the man were deep in conversation. Presumably about this 'Plan' thing, whatever the hell it amounted to—Spring Break? What the fuck? Brad didn't care right now. He wanted to get this meeting over with and maybe head to Karen's and hang out. Things seemed more tethered when he was with her. He noticed that two of the men he'd seen earlier seemed to have disappeared. Only the youngest remained. He looked full of himself and as if he could leap at the chance to do people harm. Brad wondered what on earth he and Lee could help these people with, and couldn't come up with anything that sounded credible: which made him wonder whether it was not help they needed, but cannon fodder. People they could send out on deals that might go bad, like the other night. Drugs were exactly like the film business, for which Brad's father had been careful to inculcate in his son a healthy scepticism. As a battle-weary entertainment lawyer, he had reason to. People seemed to assume their stardom slot was ready and waiting for them, and all they had to do was seize the day and use a little get-up-and-go and all that talk show crapola. Actually both industries were the same as large predators everywhere: you were snackfood to them, naive morsels seasoned with hope and greed. He hoped sooner or later Lee would get this. Brad could suggest it to him ahead of time, but his friend had a way of not really hearing any sentence that hadn't started inside his own head.
He trooped back over to the table, carefully carrying the little cup of coffee. When he got back there, Lee was nodding.
'Whatever way you want it,' he said to Paul.
'You know the big sports store, level two, by the escalator? I forget what it's called.'
Lee knew it. The crew had bought a lot of gear from there over the years. 'Serious,' he said. 'Of course.'
Paul took the coffee from Brad. 'That's the one. There's a rack of bags on the side wall. Hang it there. Near the back, where it won't be noticed. One of our people will swing by for it in a short while.'
Brad frowned. 'Isn't that risky?'
'Not on a morning like this, and not with last season's bag. None of you Valley princes would be seen dead with it, right?'
The man winked and put the cup of coffee to his lips. He drank the contents in one smooth movement. Brad tried not to gape. He'd seen the stuff come steaming out of the machine and had been surprised the cup hadn't melted.
<
br /> Then the man stopped suddenly, cup still at his mouth. He was staring at something. Lee and Brad turned to look.
Outside Branigan's Irish Bar a large flat-screen television was slung from the wall. Though the bar wouldn't be open for hours, the television was on to make sure no one missed a chance to be advertised at. The sound was muted, and it was set to CNN. The picture showed a bunch of cops standing somewhere in what looked like a hotel parking lot. Yes—there was the Holiday Inn sign. Some on-the-spot news monkey was talking sombrely into a microphone. Looked like somebody got killed. Brad found this concept wasn't as empty as it had once been.
Lee turned back from the screen to look at Paul. 'We'll talk later, right?'
The man nodded, still staring unblinkingly at the screen. They were dismissed. Lee seemed like he really wanted to shake hands with the guy, make some concrete gesture of comradeship, but the man's attention had left them, apparently for good.
'Later,' Lee said. There was no reply.
Brad followed Lee across the court and up the escalator. On the second level they went into Serious About Sport. Brad walked over to the desk and busked a long and complex enquiry about snowboard arcana, a matter upon which the clerks were more than happy to lavish the gravity of their slacker intellect.
They were showing him a third board when Lee wandered over, without the bag.
'Got to go,' he said.
Brad shrugged at the sales dudes, and they left.
'Kind of cloak and dagger, isn't it?' Brad said. 'How come we couldn't just hand the bag back over in the court?'
'Guy had his reasons,' Lee said.
Which he probably didn't even have to tell you, Brad thought, as he pushed the door and walked out into the warm lot. Because you are now all about doing whatever he says. I wonder what you think that's going to buy you. I wonder if I'm set to get a cut. And if so, how small it will be.
'So now what?' he said.
'We chill,' Lee said. 'The cops are going to get a tip-off this afternoon. They're going to hear how there was a deal with Pete Voss and a couple of kids from upstate he met at a party on Friday, the night before Karen's. A thousand-dollar deal they killed him for on Saturday night. The kids are set up and ready.'
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