“Sycophantic rant?” he gasped, clutching his chest. “How dare you!”
“How dare you?” I countered. “Whether or not you like me, right now, I’m a guest, which means you have to help me. Because it’s your job.”
“You represent all that is wrong with this country,” he lamented, searching the fluorescent canned lights for meaning.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I shook my head, wondering if this man’s downright abhorrence of all things Hollywood may have come from a personal rejection at some point in his weird little life. “Hey! You don’t like me? Fine, great, whatever. You don’t have to like me. But if you don’t help me, it’ll be your fault if there’s another death at the resort.”
“Another death?” he laughed haughtily. “What are you talking about? No one has died at Paix du Rockies!”
“Where have you been for the last twelve hours?” I marveled, shaking my head.
“At a day spa in Durango, not that it’s any of your business,” he snapped, turning his nose up in disgust.
“You’re the night manager?” I deduced, sighing. Pulling out my cell phone, I opened my internet browser and pulled up the website for The Hollywood Minute. As I expected, Trip’s death on set and the death threats on Alson Andrews were still the most relevant stories on the gossip site. There was a myriad of pointless, four sentence articles offering up sensational lies that put the show and everyone involved in the most unfavorable light.
Opening one such article, I showed it to the snobby manager. Although Trip’s name and image were not on the website yet, I feared it wouldn’t be long before some cutthroat, soulless weasel decided to exploit this poor man’s passing even further for a few dollars and ten seconds of fame. Pointing to the picture of the helicopter flying past the resort’s main gate, I added, “Look familiar? That was taken this morning.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” he gasped, covering his mouth with his hand as his eyes widened. Scanning the article, he cried, “What have you done?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ll never be able to live this down!” he wailed, his eyes welling with actual tears. Grinding his teeth, he snapped, “You have destroyed the resort!”
“Calm down, Joan Crawford,” I retorted, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “They don’t mention the resort’s name in those articles because the studio has an agreement with the media about keeping matters like these quiet. I will tell you this, though. We’ve been receiving death threats on our show’s star. That’s why I need your help. I need a few guards to watch his room.”
“Paix du Rockies does not babysit actors.”
“All right, fine,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “Don’t help. But if anything happens to him while he’s here . . . well, there’s no way the media won’t report on that. Look what happened after Whitney Houston passed away. ‘Rabid tourists’ flooded the Beverly Hilton. They still travel there in hopes of seeing the place she spent her final moments. Think about what would happen to this place if Alson Andrews was murdered here.”
Just the mention of his name resulted in several skiers standing beside me in a small crowd to look over with curiosity. The manager noticed this, too, and the ghastly realization made his beady eyes bulge. His Adam’s apple quivering, he turned to a cream-colored, landline phone behind the desk and after punching in a number, tapped his fingers on the desk with impatience. When someone finally answered, he turned away and covered his mouth as he spoke barely above a whisper. Hanging up, he looked at me.
“Someone will be with you shortly.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “I trust our assistance in this matter will allow for our continued protection against bad press.”
“Of course,” I nodded, making a mental note to tell Heather about my agreement with the boorish night manager when I saw her next.
Seconds later, a large man dressed in a dark suit walked into the resort bringing in with him a gust of icy cold air. He smoothed his dark wool overcoat and glanced around the lobby casually before walking up to the desk. At 6’5” with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, bushy black hair resting on his collar and a five o’clock shadow darkening his chiseled features, he looked more like an NFL linebacker on vacation than a security guard. When he and the night manager locked eyes, the manager nodded at me. Taking a few more steps, he stopped in front of me.
“Let’s go,” he muttered before walking to the elevators. I glanced back at the night manager, but he was already happily assisting an older woman dressed in a floor-length turquoise dress and mink shawl.
“If I may, I’d like to help, too,” Dan called, hurrying across the elaborate lobby just as the elevator opened.
“Thank you, but I think we’ve got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. But thank you so much for everything,” I repeated as I climbed inside and the doors shut.
The elevator ride was awkward, exacerbated by my inability to make convincing small talk, yet another instrumental song that should have been reserved for irksome hold music or an early morning infomercial, and the nauseating scent of the guard’s overpowering, fruity cologne. When the doors opened, I took a deep breath of fresh air as the guard exited, taking deliberate yet silent strides as he searched the hallway like a mountain lion on the hunt. After turning a few corners, we stood before Dr. Rosalyn Grace’s door. Unlike the rest of the floor, which was relatively silent, loud noises erupted from her suite.
Whatever doubt the guard may have had in my initial assertions vanished when we heard a scream and a loud bang from inside the suite. Throwing back his coat, he pulled a Glock from a small black holster near his left breast pocket. Holding the firearm with a dexterity suggesting previous military experience or law enforcement training, he took a step back before kicking the door in with his size thirteen shoe. As his tactic caught me off guard, I could only imagine the look on Tox’s face when the stranger first entered that hotel room brandishing a loaded weapon. It was Tox’s reaction, however, that really surprised me.
Standing in the threshold, my mouth dropped at the sight of the two large men attacking each other in the confines of the luxury suite’s fancy albeit restrictive living quarters. As soon as the guard rushed in, Tox began wrestling him until he dropped the gun. The guard made a grab for it, but Tox buried his brawny shoulder in the other man’s massive chest, throwing him against the wall, which caused a thud I felt certain registered on the Richter scale. The guard let out a low groan as his large head made contact with the wall.
Unfazed, he reached over with his right fist and began to punch Tox’s face repeatedly. Tox retaliated by banging the guard’s head into the wall harder, which caused the plaster, already loosened by the initial blow, to cloud the air around them like white smoke. Startled by the scene, I began to back out of the line of fire and my sudden movement caught Tox’s eye. He glanced at me for less than a second, but that was all the guard needed.
Grunting, he sucker-punched Tox with such force I heard the sickening sound of his fist making contact with Tox’s jawbone. The hit stunned Tox and the guard took that moment to grab him by the throat and begin strangling him. He applied such force that even in the dark room, I could see Tox’s face turn beet red. My heart was racing as I realized the entire situation had escalated beyond reason. Swallowing hard, I rushed into the room and grabbed the gun off the floor.
“Let him go,” I ordered, aiming the gun at the security guard as Tox slipped in and out of consciousness. The guard glanced at me, irritated.
“You asked for this,” he growled, tightening his grip.
“No, I didn’t,” I argued, keeping the gun trained on him. “I asked for security in case someone tried to make good on all the death threats Alson’s been receiving.”
“That’s not what I was told.” He shook his head, still choking Tox
. His face was now purple.
“I don’t know what you were told, but I’m telling you right now to let him go!”
The guard stared at me, but finally released Tox. He fell backwards on top of the coffee table and crushed it. Rolling off the splintered wood and onto an ornate area rug saturated by the pungent aroma of the bleach that was used to clean up Alson’s vomit, he clutched his throat and gasped for air. On the couch next to the coffee table, Alson stirred. He rolled onto his side. It looked like he was going to throw up again, but he didn’t. Blinking, he squinted at Tox.
“What happened?” Alson croaked, falling back onto the couch and shutting his eyes.
“Watching the Mayweather/Canelo fight on Pay-Per-View,” Tox gasped, his voice raspy. “Charged it to the room. Guess that was a bad idea.”
“Uhhh.”
“Alson?” Blood trickled from a tiny cut on Tox’s bottom lip and his jaw began to swell. Coughing, he stood up and walked over to Alson. “Hey, kid. You all right?”
“Yeah,” Alson mumbled, his eyes still closed. They flew open and he gagged, “No. Think I’m gonna puke.”
“You’ll be fine,” Tox insisted, cringing. “You need anything?”
“Water,” Alson replied.
Without a word, Tox made his way over to the mini-kitchen. The man was bruised and battered, having received a beating ten times more severe than the one he was watching on television, yet his only concern was Alson’s well-being. At that moment I knew for sure, there was no way Tox had anything to do with the attempts on Alson’s life.
“Give me my gun,” the security guard demanded.
“No way,” I shook my head.
“Don’t make me ask again, princess.”
“Princess?” I tightened my grip on the handle but engaged the gun’s safety and aimed it at the floor. “You’re certifiable if you think I’m just gonna hand you a weapon after that.”
“It’s loaded,” he growled, his large chest heaving as the marks from the brawl appeared on his face. Extending his right hand, he insisted, “Bad things happen when little girls play with guns. Gimme that before someone gets hurt.”
“What part of no don’t you understand?” I backed away, my mind flashing back to the bullet that tore through my arm less than six months earlier, a memory that left me reeling at the very thought.
“I don’t have to ask, you know. I could take it right now if I wanted, but . . . since I’m a nice guy, I’m gonna give you to the count of three,” he replied through gritted teeth. “One.”
I looked around the room. Alson lay on the couch, still suffering the after effects of whatever drugs he ingested, and Tox was using the mini-kitchen’s counter to support himself, agonizing pain visible on his bruised face.
Now, I feel compelled to point out that I’m not an idiot, nor am I delusional. If this savage brute decided to forcibly remove a gun from my hands, there was little the martial arts training I received in college could do to stop him. Especially when there was no one that could offer me any assistance.
I may be smart and strong, but I’m not a warrior princess and I don’t possess any superhuman powers, although sometimes I totally wish I did. Plus, this guy had a good two hundred pounds on me and the adrenaline from his fight with Tox still raced through his steroid-infused veins, so my odds weren’t looking too good.
“Two.”
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t think of any way to get out of this situation with ease. On the flip side, I couldn’t imagine any good coming from my giving this enraged psycho a loaded weapon. Just when I was about to give in, I had an idea. Before he had a chance to say ‘three,’ I disengaged the hammer and removed the magazine. Once I knew it was empty, I tossed him his gun. He glared at me.
“What are you . . . gimme that!” he snapped, lunging for the magazine. I backed further into the room, careful not to trip on the cracked and splintered pile of wood that had once been a fancy coffee table, but now would be considered nothing more than overpriced kindling. His dark eyes narrowed and he growled, “Give me that!”
“Why? So you can shoot me?” Instead of answering, he just stared. “This was a mistake . . . this was my mistake. No one’s going to hurt Alson when he has Tox here. He just proved that. I was wrong. I’ll bring it to the front desk if you leave right now.”
“Who do you think you are to give me orders?” he demanded, pointing the gun at me, which made me flinch despite my holding the magazine in my hand. “I outta beat you until—”
“You touch her, I’ll break your face,” Tox replied, his voice barely above a whisper. We both looked over at him and the guard laughed.
“Stay out of this, blondie.”
“If you touch her, I’ll break your face,” Tox repeated, his voice a little stronger.
“I’d like to see you try,” the guard challenged, laughing smugly. “You can’t even walk.”
“Maybe.” Swallowing hard, Tox released the counter and strode over to where I stood without the slightest hint of pain. Cracking his knuckles then crossing his massive arms, he added, “Or maybe not.”
The security guard stared at Tox. After several long moments, he cursed before warning that if his magazine wasn’t at the front desk in five minutes, he would come looking for me and he wouldn’t be as cordial. Shoving the gun back into its holster, he walked out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Tox grabbed a chair from the table for support.
“Are you all right?”
“What do you care?” he snapped, sitting down and closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I offered, shaking my head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . I mean, I didn’t think—”
“I know what you thought,” he interrupted, massaging his jaw, which was twice its normal size. “You thought I tried to kill Alson.”
“Huh?” Alson opened his eyes and squinted at us, his face still pale.
“Nothing,” Tox assured him, to which Alson groaned and closed his eyes. Wiping blood off his puffy lip and onto his arm, he added, “I knew that little worm was gonna blame me.”
“Who?”
“Perry! Little son of a—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “This is my fault.”
“I know that, girlie,” he snapped. “But, I wasn’t on your suspect list this morning and you don’t bring in the cavalry unless you think you need it. Someone told you to look at me and my money is on that little worm.”
“Look—”
“Did he blame me or not?”
“Well—”
“That’s what I thought,” he frowned. “Kid annoys me to no end, but I’d never hurt him. Perry, on the other hand—”
“Before you decide to commit your first murder, can I ask a question?”
“What?”
“What happened in here? What was that loud noise? That’s what set off the guard. It sounded like someone was getting killed.”
“I was watching the fight,” he scoffed, nodding towards the television. “I put two g’s on Mayweather ‘cause he was favored ten to one, but Canelo’s destroying him! Stupid little fancy footwork ain’t working right now, Mayweather! My sure thing’s a bust and I can’t afford to lose that money!”
“So . . . you were yelling at the TV?”
“Yeah.”
“And that banging sound?”
Taking a deep breath and exhaling it, he lifted my jacket off a nearby chair, revealing the back was cracked in half. Dropping the jacket again and glancing around the room, he muttered, “I may need more than two g’s for this.”
21
Tox was innocent. Of that, I was certain. But, I also knew Perry Holcombe was innocent. While this revelation was good for them, it didn’t help me out much in the way of solving this case. As I tried to go back ove
r what I knew, Tox began to pick up the splintered remnants of the coffee table. He cursed under his breath as he tried to estimate the cost of the damage done to the room. Consumed by guilt, I helped him collect the pieces while Alson lay on the couch, now alert, and very whiny.
“I need a doctor!”
“You’re fine.” Tox groaned as he lifted the large stack of solid wood and carried it to the far corner of the room.
“You don’t know that,” Alson declared. “I could be dying!”
“Dead people don’t talk.” Tox grunted as he dropped the stack.
“I said dying, moron, not dead,” Alson snapped. “I’ve probably puked up ten pounds already . . . well, actually . . . that’s not a bad thing. Hey, check out my abs! I look ripped. Huh . . . this might be the perfect diet. Wonder if she’s got more of those pills.”
“Hold on . . . she?” I repeated, dropping several boards. They clattered to the floor. “You know who drugged you?”
“Drugged me?” he scoffed, putting his hands behind his head. “Please. I took some pills. Why am I surrounded by morons? What do I pay you people for?”
“Alson, this is very important,” I explained, my heart racing as I rushed across the room. “I need you to tell me everything that happened to you after Tox brought you back to your hotel room.”
“Bored,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Where’s my water? I’m feeling parched.”
Bitter Retribution Page 22