“I’m right here,” he replied. “About eight blocks away. What’s going on?”
“It’s bad,” Florence replied huskily. “Real bad. Two men broke in day before yesterday. But they’re dead and the ambassador is missing. We don’t know if someone took him or he just ran off. You must have seen it. The story was on the news.”
“We’ve been out of touch,” Palmer replied. “But what about you? Are you okay?”
“Luther and I were in Miami when the break-in took place,” the housekeeper answered. “But I’m worried about the ambassador.”
“Do the police have any idea what happened? Or where he went?”
“No,” Florence answered miserably. “But they want to talk to him.”
“I have a friend with me,” Palmer said, as he glanced at Devlin. “We’ll be there in about fifteen-minutes.”
“Okay,” Florence replied dispiritedly. “I’ll make some coffee.”
As they made their way past a row of carefully restored antebellum homes, picking their way around piles of debris, Palmer gave his account of the telephone conversation. Devlin could see that he was genuinely concerned about Quinton and it seemed natural to take his hand. It was warm, slightly callused, and large enough to engulf hers.
Before they could enter Quinton’s trash-strewn front yard the couple had to duck under a long piece of yellow police tape. That served to remind Devlin of the trailer park in Shelton, the tragic deaths of Catherine Harris and her young charge, and the reason for the trip to Key West. Was the Quinton break-in part of a botched robbery attempt? Or something more? The scientist felt something wiggle deep down in the pit of her stomach and wished the feeling would go away.
The doorbell rang, and moments later Florence was there to open the door, and welcome the visitors inside. The burgundy colored rug was missing. And all of the furniture had been moved over to one side. But everything else was as it had been the last time Palmer was there.
Florence wrapped Palmer in a hug. That was followed by a lightning fast evaluation of Devlin as the women were introduced. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sara,” Florence said. “I’m sorry the ambassador isn’t here to greet you himself. He has a soft spot for pretty women! My son Luther is out looking for him—but I doubt it’s gonna do much good.”
A few minutes later Palmer and Devlin were seated at the dining room table where Florence insisted on serving them coffee before pulling out a chair for herself. “Even though I got the back door fixed it’s hard to sleep at night,” Florence confessed. “There wasn’t nothing subtle about it. They kicked it open. There’s no telling what happened next, except that there was a fight, and the ambassador won. Can you imagine that?” she said incredulously. “Mr. Quinton beating two men to death? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“No,” Palmer agreed, with a sidelong glance at Devlin. “It doesn’t. So, if he won the fight, how come he’s missing? Do you think he was abducted?”
“Maybe,” Florence replied uncertainly. “Only trouble is he took a suitcase, clothes, and his shaving kit. Not to mention a lot of money. Of course someone could have forced him to do that—but it doesn’t seem likely.”
Palmer reached out to take the housekeeper’s hand in his. “Don’t worry, Florence, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this.”
“That’s what Luther says,” Florence agreed. “But it’s like I told you on the phone. The ambassador’s been kind of sick lately. And truth be told I don’t know if he’s right in the head.”
Palmer and Devlin made eye contact again and both knew what the other person was thinking. Quinton was quite possibly sick alright—but in a way that Florence couldn’t possibly imagine. Devlin had been mostly silent up to that point, content to let Palmer handle most of the talking, since she didn’t know Florence. But there was one question which begged to be asked. “So, what about the intruders?” she inquired. “Have the police identified them?”
“Yes,” Florence replied. “Both men had long criminal records. Here, it’s all in the paper.” So saying the housekeeper got up to retrieve a newspaper from the stack on the antique sideboard. It was already open to an article about what the sub-head referred to as “A violent home invasion.” And there, right next to a side bar description of the dead men, were mug shots of XL and Speed. Based on what the article said, neither man was especially remarkable.
“Would it be possible to take a look at his study?” Palmer inquired. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll see something the police didn't pay attention to.”
“Sure,” Florence said, without any sign of hesitation. “You know where it is. Help yourself.”
So Palmer led Devlin back into the living room—and from there to Quinton’s study. Some of the knick knacks were slightly out of place. As if someone had moved things around. But the room was basically intact.
An imposing cherry wood desk sat in front of the room’s only window. It supported a flat screen monitor, a jumble of papers, and some miscellaneous junk. That included a fistful of pens in an antique shaving mug, a magnifying glass, and a scattering of mineral samples.
One of the longer walls was dominated by a large bulletin board while the other was invisible behind floor-to-ceiling book cases. They were filled with books and pictures of Quinton standing next to past presidents and other foreign dignitaries. There were examples of African art too, which hung on the walls and peered out from nooks and crannies.
“Okay,” Devlin said pragmatically, as she appropriated a yellow legal pad. “There’s a whole lot of stuff here. Let’s make a list.”
Palmer smiled. “What’s this? The scientific approach?”
“Yes,” Devlin replied unapologetically. “It is. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” Palmer said, looking into her eyes. “I don’t. I like scientists.”
Chapter Nine
New York, New York
Predators were hiding in the crowd as the newly arrived passengers surged up from the platforms below and made their way into the chaotic world of New York’s Penn Station. The pick pockets, purse snatchers, and con men who lurked near doorways, their faces half-hidden behind magazines, or partially obscured by cell phones, were quick to take notice of the elderly black man who had just surfaced in the middle of their hunting ground. Both because he appeared to be prosperous, and because he was hunched over, and presumably weak. And that was their evolutionary purpose, to prey on the weak and winnow them out. So it wasn’t very long before a young man wearing a bandana, baggy clothing, and a pair of brand new Nike Jumpman shoes sidled up to Quinton. There was a flash of gold as he offered the ex-diplomat a big smile. “Hey, Pops…. Where you headed, man? Damn! That bag look heavy, bro…. Here, let me give you a hand wit dat.”
Quinton felt a surge of adrenaline enter his bloodstream. There was no analysis. No weighing of possible outcomes. Just a speedy reaction. The cane swung around, made violent contact with the predator’s right knee, and shattered his Patella. The street hustler uttered a high-pitched scream, grabbed what hurt, and went down hard.
And that’s where he was, rolling around hugging the broken knee to his chest, when a uniformed cop waddled up. She had dealt with Two-Cent before and was something less than sympathetic as she bent over to speak with him. “What’s the problem Two-Cent? Did you trip and go boom?”
“Hell no!” the hustler answered hotly. “Dat hunchback mother-fucker whacked me wit his cane!”
The cop straightened up to take a look around. There were curious looks from passersby but none paused to gawk. It was rush hour and they had trains to catch. “What the hell are you talking about?” the policewoman demanded contentiously. “I don’t see no hunchback.”
Quinton was entering a cab by then. He had no place to go. A man with no reservations in a city where reservations are a must. So Quinton gave the cabbie the address of a hostelry he had stayed in forty years earlier. Back when he had first been assigned to a minor post at the United Nations and had
arrived in Gotham with less than five-hundred bucks to his name.
It took a full twenty minutes for the taxi to travel twenty blocks. A journey that consisted of brief neck-snapping bursts of speed interspersed with two or three-minute waits as the cabbie continued a seemingly endless cell phone call.
All of which was the latest episode in the strange trip that began with stealing the van Quinton found parked in his driveway. After driving it to Miami he boarded a bus headed for Washington D.C. A city he knew very well. Then, having spent a night in the nation’s capital, Quinton boarded a train for New York city.
By the time the taxi finally pulled up in front of some smart looking apartments the meter read: $12.50. Quinton peeled a twenty off the big roll he kept in his coat pocket and opened the door. The adrenaline had worn off by then. So it was something of a struggle to exit the car. But by the time his feet hit the pavement the driver was there with the suitcase and the correct change.
Quinton uttered a grunt of appreciation, ignored the change, and took the bag in tow. The suitcase got caught in the rotating door. But a passerby was kind enough to help. That allowed the businessman to enter a small but nicely appointed lobby. A pretty young woman of Asian descent sat behind a sleek reception desk. A mirror hung over the nicely upholstered couch across from her which was bracketed by two expensive lamps. “Hello!” the woman said, cheerfully. “May I help you?”
“I need a room,” Quinton stated emotionlessly. “Now.”
“This isn’t a hotel. Not anymore,” the receptionist replied sympathetically. “Are you sure you came to the right place?”
“I want a room,” Quinton insisted. “Number 2210 is nice.”
Having just returned from a bio break, the doorman paused by the desk. “Is everything okay, Kisa? Should I escort this gentleman to the door?”
“No, not yet anyway,” the receptionist replied. “I’ll let you know.”
So the doorman returned to his post and Quinton was invited to sit on a couch while Kisa made a couple of phone calls. Five minutes later she came over to perch next to the old man. “Here,” the receptionist said kindly, as she handed Quinton a slip of paper. “We don’t have any rooms to let—but follow these directions. They will take you to a small residential hotel. A room costs $75.00 a day. Can you afford that?” she asked hopefully.
Quinton nodded.
“Good,” Kisa said, as she stood. “You take care of yourself.”
“You too,” Quinton said woodenly as he peeled a twenty off his roll and handed it to the receptionist. Kisa was still holding the bill, and still watching, as the hunchback pulled the TUMI out through the rotating door and onto the busy street.
It took the old man a full fifteen minutes to complete the two and a half block journey to the Hobley Hotel. The tall rather run down structure was sandwiched between an apartment house and a seedy building that was home to a gym, a dentist, and a Thai deli. Quinton climbed the front stairs one-at-a-time, pulled the grimy door open, and entered the lobby. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke. A huge television monitor hung from one corner. The TV set not only provided what entertainment there was to be had, but half of the room’s illumination as well. The man leaning on the elevated counter had dark, slicked-back hair, and partially hooded eyes. They shifted from the basketball game on the screen down to the elderly hunchback. “Yeah,” the desk clerk said. “What can I do for ya?”
“I need a room,” Quinton replied emotionlessly.
“Sure,” the other man responded. “For the night? The week? Or what?”
“A week.”
“That’ll be $525.00 for seven days. Half in advance. We don’t accept checks.”
Two of the hotel’s residents had chosen to pass part of the evening sitting in the run down lobby rather than the squalor of their own apartments. They watched in bleary-eyed astonishment as the old man produced an enormous wad of bills and began to peel twenties off of it. “There,” the hunchback proclaimed, as he slapped the last bill onto the counter. “I’m all paid up. Give me a key.”
There was something strange about the old man’s demeanor not to mention his appearance. But the clerk made it a rule to mind his own business. “Okay,” he said reasonably. “I have two apartments…. A basement unit, with its own entrance, and one up on the tenth floor. Which would you prefer?”
“The basement unit,” Quinton answered impatiently. “Give me the key now.”
“There’s no need to get your truss in a knot,” the clerk said, as he pushed a sheet of paper across the counter. “I need your home address and a signature.”
The other residents chuckled in appreciation of the clerk’s wit as the old man scribbled some lies onto the registration form and pushed it back. “Your room is out through the front door, down the first set of steps, and a second set of steps to the right. Here's the key.”
Quinton accepted the key, towed the TUMI away, and disappeared into the night. One of the two residents, a grizzled Viet Nam war veteran known to the locals as Shooter, shook his head in amazement. “Now that was one weird sonofabitch.”
“Yeah?” the man next to him inquired. “Look who’s talking!”
All three of them laughed at that, the Sonics missed a block, and the Bulls went up by two points.
***
Unlike Key West, which Devlin had never been to until a few days before, she was quite familiar with New York. Both because her family had taken her there as a teenager and because later, while working on her Master's degree, she’d had been part of a special program at NYU’s School of Medicine. A period during which she and a select group of other grad students studied Medical and Molecular Parasitology during the day and partied all night. A rather heady, if poverty stricken, period that she had enjoyed very much. All of which explained why it had been she, rather than Palmer, who had chosen the Paramount Hotel as a place to stay.
Though not one of the city’s great hotels the Paramount continued to be popular with people who enjoyed its aura of fading hipness, and an absolutely fabulous location right off Times Square in the middle of the theatre district. A black clad doorman came out to open the door as the cab pulled in. Cold air flooded inside. That was a problem because the decision to come to New York had been made on the fly and neither one of them had warm clothes.
The lobby was unusual. Small living room style lamps sat next to colorful modernistic furniture, which conspired to bring human scale to what would otherwise have been a huge cave. Beyond them, against the far wall, a flight of sculptural stairs angled up to the second floor gallery-style restaurant. And, judging from the diversity of the guests who were milling round in the lobby, the hotel was popular with a broad cross section of travelers.
The reception desks were off to the right. By the time Palmer arrived Devlin was more than half-way through the check-in process. Devlin’s familiarity with the city, and the confidence with which she handled herself, served to remind Palmer that Doctor Devlin was a woman of the world. A fact that helped explain why he was both attracted to and afraid of her at the same time. Devlin wasn't bookish exactly. But very interested in ideas and wickedly intelligent. So what if she found him wanting? What if he failed to make the grade based on criteria he wasn’t even aware of? It was hard to know what mattered and what didn’t.
“Here,” Devlin said, as she turned to hand Palmer a key card. “This is yours.”
But it wasn’t until they were getting off the dimly lit elevator, and making their way down a long narrow hallway, that Palmer began to suspect the extent to which Devlin had taken charge. A hunch that was confirmed when the bellman hauled both bags into the tiny room, collected his tip, and left. “Well,” Devlin said, as she gestured to the room. “What do you think?”
The bed, which was on the floor, was covered with crisp white linen, and pushed up against a huge print on fabric, which functioned as both a piece of art and a headboard. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a tiny table, a couple of chairs, and a tall skinn
y storage cabinet that was home to a small TV and tape player. All of which worked in an Andy Warhol sort of way. But that was of very little import when compared to the fact that they were in the room together. And, even more astonishing, by her choice. “What?” Devlin demanded. “You don’t like it?”
“Oh, I like it,” Palmer responded. “I like it very much…. Especially this part of it.”
Devlin not only allowed herself to be kissed, but had been looking forward to it, and wasn’t disappointed. The chemistry was there, pheromones and all, just as it was supposed to be. Finally, as they came up for air, she looked into Palmer’s eyes. “Let’s take it slow,” she said huskily. And they did.
***
In spite of the fact that Mickey D’s was not only crowded, but pretty well trashed after a long day of serving up fast food, it felt like an oasis of safety to fourteen-year old Crystal Morgan. Because Crystal was well aware of the dangers that lurked beyond the restaurant’s grimy windows. Especially for young females. And Crystal had a pretty face plus a figure that had already started to attract the wrong sort of attention.
The problem was that ever since the man named Toby James had moved in with her mother it was dangerous to go home. Because Toby had what one of Crystal’s aunts referred to as “feely hands,” and liked to grope the teenager whenever he got the chance. Especially during the evening when Crystal’s mother was at work. But what to do? Because repugnant though Toby was, the teenager’s mother clearly enjoyed the man’s company, and Crystal didn’t want to make her mom unhappy.
So there the youngster was, trying to make her soft drink last a bit longer, when the old man with the hunched back sat down at the table next to her. He had two bags of food—one of which he plopped down on the table in front of her. “There,” Quinton said, “tuck into that.”
And because the old man was old, Crystal felt safe. She knew she wasn’t supposed to accept things from strangers. But it was way past dinner time and she was hungry. So Crystal said, “Thank you,” and opened the bag. She was pleased to discover that it contained a box of chicken McNuggets and an order of fries.
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