Jump the Gun

by Zoe Burke

  Luis pulled up in front of the Royal Opal. “Here we are. How do you want to do this?”

  “Nothing special,” said Mickey. “Let’s just go up to the room and pack, and then come down and check out, and we’ll keep our eyes open for anything.”

  Luis said, “Okay.” Mickey turned to me. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. I sure as hell didn’t want to go back into that hotel. This was a very bad idea and I should have insisted on going to the airport. But Mickey and Luis started getting out of the car, and I didn’t want to stay there by myself. I didn’t want to do anything by myself right then. So I opened the back door and stepped out. Mickey shut the door and took my hand.

  Luis told the bellman that we’d be right back and tipped him so that the taxi could sit there for a while. We headed toward the elevators—a straight shot this time—and breathed a sigh of relief when the doors shut after us. We got out on eighteen and walked down the hall to our suite. Mickey pulled the key card out of his wallet, opened the door, and we walked in.

  My stomach lurched. Not from buffaloes this time. Just pure fear.

  The place was ransacked. Trashed. Furniture turned over. Drawers turned upside down. The fruit basket—which, when I was kidnapped by Jake, had a couple of mangoes, a pear, and lots of strawberries left in it—had been stomped into a gooey mess. The bed looked worse than the morning after the most raucous night of sex I could ever imagine, with the sheets and blankets and pillows all balled up and on the wrong ends. The pictures had been removed from the walls. The stupid little hotel safe had been busted open. My clothes were thrown all over the place. Mickey’s, too. It looked like the wake-up scene in The Hangover, but there was nothing funny about it.

  I lost it. I started shaking so hard I sat down on the nearest sittable thing, which happened to be the coffee table, tipped over on its side. I was hyperventilating and crying at the same time. Apparently, Mickey and Luis didn’t think this response was inappropriate. They simply let me sit there and shake and cry. Mickey went back to the door and engaged the dead bolt. Luis opened closet doors. Then they started drifting around the room like homeless people, picking through stuff, holding up a sock here, a belt there, and dropping the items back on the floor. Eventually they came over and sat on the couch and just kind of watched me. I guess it was a shock thing.

  When you lose it like that, you only have so much to lose, and then it is lost, and you can breathe again. This happened to me. I suddenly took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and swallowed hard. “We should get out of here, right now.”

  Mickey reached his hand out to my knee. “Whoever did this is gone. Let’s get what we need and then split.”

  “To the airport, right?” He squeezed my hand. “Right.”

  So I got up, went over to a pile of my clothes, picked up my khaki pants, a white t-shirt, and clean underwear, and headed for the bathroom. I stripped, got in the shower—even though it had only been about three hours since my last one—stood there for as long as it took for my shoulders to unhunch, turned off the water and dried myself, and got dressed. That’s when I realized I had picked up Mickey’s khakis instead of mine. They were comfy and not so tight around my waist, and that could help the rash situation, so I kept them on and rolled up the legs so I wouldn’t trip on them. I combed my hair straight back, wet, cleaned my glasses and put them on, and walked back out into the suite. I found my SF Giants baseball cap, put it on—bill forward—and sat down with Mickey and Luis. They hadn’t moved an inch.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  Luis got up and headed for the bathroom, and I could hear him running the sink water. Mickey patted my knee. “You will never be able to say that I was not an exciting date.”

  “No, I will never be able to say that. Now change your clothes. Maybe put on your khakis.”

  Mickey stood up, leaned over, and kissed me. The bill of my cap hit his forehead. He turned it ninety degrees and kissed me again. “I’ll be right back, and then we’ll get out of here.”

  A feeling of panic filled me. “Where are you going? The last time you said you’d be right back, you were not right back!”

  Mickey tilted his head toward the bathroom. “I’m going in there to change my clothes, okay?”

  “Okay. But before you do, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “My present. When you left me in this suite before, you were getting me a present at the hotel store. What was it?”

  Mickey hit his head in an oh-right, now-I-remember motion and came back over to me and sat down. He reached in his pants pocket and brought out his hand in a fist, holding it toward me. I opened my hand flat out and held it underneath his. He let go of his fist and a small brown object fell into my hand.

  I examined it closely: a beautiful animal, carved out of some rich brown stone. “A mountain lion?”

  “Yes. It’s a fetish.”

  “It’s wonderful. I love it. Does it mean something special?”

  Mickey laughed then. “Yeah, in fact part of Mountain Lion’s power is to protect you while you’re traveling.”

  I laughed, too. “I’m not so sure he’s doing a very good job.”

  “That depends on your point of view. You’re still safe so far, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t argue with that. Do you give mountain lion fetishes to all your first dates?”

  He put the palm of his hand on my cheek. “Never before. I saw it in the shop window when we came in. I collect them.”

  I gave Mickey a kiss, and he got up and sorted through clothes in a pile on the floor. I watched him find a t-shirt, socks, and boxers, and search for a pair of pants. He finally grabbed his jeans. Then he stood up and kind of looked me over. He turned my cap back around. “Nice pants.” We laughed. Luis came out of the bathroom, and Mickey went in.

  I had no reason to think it was anyone but Jake who had ransacked our suite. He’d had enough time while we were locked in the conference room. Clearly, he was looking for something. The question was, what?

  While Mickey was cleaning up and changing his clothes, Luis resumed his wandering around the room, and I picked up my stuff to repack it in my suitcase. This was a problem, because my suitcase was ruined. I found it sliced to shreds. I pulled out three dry-cleaning plastic bags from the closet. I shoved my clothes into them as I gathered them up from the floor, the furniture, the counter top, all the while taking inventory of what I was finding and trying to remember what I wasn’t finding, straining to imagine anything at all that Jake would want to steal from me. That he would want to kidnap me for. I didn’t have any fancy jewelry with me. I’m someone who pretty much wears the same jewelry all the time, so it’s always on me: five rings, three bracelets, and a toe ring when I have sandals on.

  I do like to change my earrings and usually travel with about ten pairs, even when I’m gone on two-day trips. I like choices. But my earrings tend to be costume jewelry—not valuable. The extra pairs I had packed were all there, dumped out on the floor next to my jewelry case.

  I also like interesting pins, and I had brought a stick pin with me to Chicago. I wear it in the lapel of a jacket, now and then I add it to a hat. It has a big fake pearl mounted on a blue enamel square. It was not with my earrings, it was not in my case. I wondered if I left it in Chicago, or if it was stolen. Maybe Jake couldn’t tell a fake pearl from a real one.

  I found my laptop tossed on the floor behind the couch. It didn’t seem damaged. I turned it on and waited for it to boot up, checked the history of the document files—I keep only a few files on my laptop, just those I need with me when traveling—and noticed that each one of them had been opened the previous afternoon. This was an “Aha!” moment. Files. Jake wanted information I had, or thought I had.

  I started mentally going through my current projects at work, all of the books I was promotin
g for the current season. Take It Easy: A Thinking Man’s Approach to Life; What, Me Worry?: A Pictorial History of Mad Magazine; My Father, Who Aren’t in Heaven, Harold Be Thy Name: The Irrelevance of Religion in Post-Vietnam America; and The End of Law and Order: How One Show Changed Television Forever. I couldn’t see how any of these would encourage the wrath of thugs, mobsters, old women, or Las Vegas police. In fact, I doubted that much reading went on at all in Las Vegas, what with everyone gambling. Whatever books were available here probably amounted to fifty percent John Grisham and Sue Grafton, forty-five percent romance novels, and the balance, how to’s and cookbooks. Okay, so maybe the Mad Magazine book would find an audience here, but why would anyone hold anything against Alfred E. Newman?

  I shut down my laptop. Mickey was out of the bathroom, in clean clothes, going about the same business of gathering his belongings. He was checking his computer, too. We looked at each other and he shook his head. “He opened my files, but I don’t know what he was looking for.”

  “Me neither,” I said, “unless he collects unusual pins.”

  “What?”

  “I’m missing a pin from my jewelry case. But it’s not valuable. I probably left it in Chicago.”

  Mickey turned back to his laptop. Luis was still wandering around the room, examining everything like a cop would. He’d squat now and then, pace some more, then look up toward the ceiling at god knows what.

  “Cassie,” I suddenly said aloud. Luis and Mickey looked at me, waiting for more. “Cassie, my friend. She’s staying at my apartment, housesitting Bonkers, my cat. I should call her, tell her I’m coming home today.” They nodded and continued with what they were doing.

  I got an outside line on the hotel phone and dialed my home number. It rang twice, then I heard a man’s voice answer, “Hello?” My heart jumped. I was unnerved.

  “Who is this?” I asked. Mickey and Luis stopped what they were doing, picking up on my weird voice.

  “You’ve reached the Starkey residence. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Who are you and why are you in my apartment?” I wasn’t yelling. I was quiet. I was getting used to being scared, and I got scared a lot sooner than perhaps I would have on any other day.

  “This is Beatrice Starkey?”

  “Yes, yes, it is, where is Cassie?”

  A pause. Oh, the worst pause of my life.

  “Where are you, Ms. Starkey?”

  “Where is Cassie? What is going on?”

  Another pause. Some voices in the background.

  “Ms. Starkey, this is Sergeant Franklin, SFPD. I’m sorry to tell you, Cassie Hobbs is dead. It appears she was murdered.”

  That’s when I yelled something unintelligible, some animal scream buried deep inside me. Mickey leaped over the coffee table in time to catch me before I fell to the floor.

  Chapter Nine

  I was lying on the floor, my head in Mickey’s lap, his face close to mine, his voice repeating my name, and I grabbed onto him for all my life. He drew me up to sit and he held me and rocked me while I cried all over his t-shirt. Luis was on the phone, talking to Sergeant Franklin in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I pushed away from Mickey suddenly and whispered, “Bonkers, my cat. Is my cat okay?”

  Mickey turned toward Luis. “Ask about Annabelle’s cat. Is it there? Is it okay?”

  Luis kept speaking into the phone, then took the receiver away from his face. “The cat is fine. Hiding under the bed. But not harmed.” I went back to my position in Mickey’s arms and eventually stopped crying.

  Luis hung up the phone, walked over and sat down on a chair facing us. “Do you want to hear this now?” I nodded. “Someone broke into your apartment Sunday night. The lock was smashed.”

  “But I have two dead bolts.”

  “Well, either Cassie didn’t lock them, or the perp somehow busted them. The police think that no one was home at the time, and then Cassie unfortunately showed up when the murderer was there. She surprised him. He hit her head with something, and that’s what killed her.”

  “Do they know it was only one guy, not more than that?” Mickey asked.

  “So far, that’s what they think. They don’t have the murder weapon yet. They’re dusting the apartment for prints. They’ve called Cassie’s mother in Philadelphia. She’s on her way to San Francisco.” This piece of information started me weeping again. “The police said they knew you were in Las Vegas, but hadn’t been able to reach you.”

  Mickey kissed the top of my head. “Annabelle, how did they know that?”

  It took me a minute to remember. “I left a message for Cassie on my home phone. Sunday night. Said I was coming here with you but didn’t give her any details, other than I’d be home a couple of days later than I originally planned.”

  “The police heard your message. Said it came in at 10:05 p.m. Also said it had already been picked up.”

  Mickey started. “Wait a minute. Annabelle leaves the message at 10:05, Cassie isn’t there, Cassie comes home…when?”

  “They figure around midnight.”

  “And she’s attacked basically immediately?”

  “It looks that way.”

  I shivered. “Whoever killed Cassie heard that message and found out where I was.”

  “Sunday night. And we got here Monday afternoon.”

  “And that’s when Jake showed up.”

  “You mentioned my name in the message?”

  I closed my eyes. “Yes. He must have checked all the hotels…found us here.”

  I stood up and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Whatever was going on had started with me, in California, and met up with us here in Las Vegas. In the meantime, it got my friend killed. What the hell was so important that someone was hot to get me, or get at me?

  I walked back into the suite’s living room. “Luis, what else? Was my apartment torn up? Things taken?”

  “They won’t know what might have been taken, but, yes, your apartment is a mess. They want you to come home and go through the place with them, answer questions, all that.”

  “Yeah. Of course. Okay. I’d better get out to the airport.”

  Mickey stood up. “We’d better get out to the airport. I’m coming with you.”

  I started weeping again. Luis hugged me while Mickey started gathering up all our stuff. “We need to buy a couple of suitcases downstairs.”

  “Don’t go downstairs, Mickey,” I sobbed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call down and have them brought up.” He picked up the phone.

  A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Mickey opened the door, and a bellman stood there with two new suitcases, probably charged to Mickey’s AmEx. Mickey tipped him, closed the door, then tossed the dry cleaning bags in the suitcases and started gathering up the rest of our things. I got control of my breathing and tears, gave Luis a weak smile, and helped Mickey finish the packing. We were ready to go. Luis said he would take us to the airport.

  “What about all this damage to the room? What about Jake? Shouldn’t we call the police before we leave?” I looked at Luis.

  “I spoke with my partner. I gave him the basics, said there was a break-in here, but that because of a personal emergency you can’t stick around. He’s going to meet me here later. Mickey has the suite booked until tomorrow, so we’ll sort this out with the hotel.”

  Mickey handed me my purse. “What’s your home phone number, or any phone number? Luis needs to reach us, and Jake took our cell phones.”

  I recited it while Luis jotted it down. Then he gave us his card with his home and cell numbers. “I’ll keep checking things out here. We should keep in touch, plan on talking to each other once a day. I recommend that you tell the SFPD everything that has gone on here, and in the meantime, I’ll see what my partner and I can turn up.” He paused. “Remember, please: Chuck Lo
wery, Jake, is a Vegas man. His power and his contacts don’t extend beyond this city, as far as I know. But if all of this is related, and it is too coincidental not to be, then he’s also a man for hire. The connection is what’s missing. The SF-Vegas connection.” He shook his head. “Well, no, amiga, you’re the connection.”

  “Yup. Luis. I know. I just don’t know why. Please believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “Let’s go,” said Mickey, and we grabbed our bags, headed for the elevators, down to the street, and, once again, into Luis’ cab. We didn’t see Jake or anyone else who looked familiar to us in the casino. We didn’t see Mary on the way. The airport ride this time was uneventful. Mickey and I sat in the back seat, holding hands. Every now and then he would squeeze mine, and I would squeeze back, but we were each looking out our respective windows.

  Luis parked at the United curb, got out of the cab, and gave me a hug. He held out his hand to shake Mickey’s. Mickey took it but then drew him close and gave him a man hug. “Thank you.” He pressed some cash into his hand.

  “Not necessary, Mick.”

  “I insist, Luis. Fair is fair.”

  Luis pointed at Mickey with two fingers, like a gunslinger. “I will call you tonight or tomorrow, or you call me any time.”

  We picked up our bags and started walking.

  “Amigos!” Luis shouted. We turned around. “Thank you.”

  I walked a bit toward him. “For what, for chrissakes, Luis?”

  “I’m back on track. You did that.” Luis smiled at me, got in his cab, and pulled away. I stood watching him until Mickey called me, and I turned to head into the airport with him.