Pieces of the Puzzle

by Robert Stanek

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “There’s a Benjamin Franklin in it, if I get a name.”

  “The money first.”

  Scott took a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet.

  “If she signed a tip to the bill, the bellhop would’ve signed to claim it.”

  Scott snatched the money away from the cook’s reaching hand. “No name, no game.”

  “What shit is this? That’s the best I can do.”

  Scott waved the hundred-dollar bill like a tiny flag. “You could get a name for me, if you wanted to, couldn’t you?”

  The cook picked up a nearby phone, dialed. “Yeah, I got a customer complaint. Claims someone signed a big tip to the room service bill. I need the bellhop’s name… Friday night, Room 908…” The cook hung up the phone, turned back to Scott, screamed, “Ernie, delivery!”

  Scott handed the cook the money.

  A pimple-faced teenager came running into the kitchen. Scott met the kid halfway, flashed a Ben Franklin at him and walked into the hall. The kid followed.

  “You a cop,” Ernie said, “I hate cops. I won’t talk if you’re a cop.”

  Scott waved the bill in front of Ernie’s dazzled eyes. “No cop.

  Do you remember a delivery you made to Room 908 on Friday?”

  “I make a lot of deliveries.”

  Scott showed him the picture of Helen and Jessica. Ernie’s face flushed red. “You remember something?”

  “I saw her all right.” He reached for the money.

  “There’s more, I know there’s more.”

  Ernie whispered, “There’s two of them in there, right? They’re getting it on. I can hear it through the door. I knock anyway. They ordered food, right?”

  “And?”

  “She tells me to set it outside the door and I do, then I left.

  You going to give me the hundred or not?”

  “And?”

  “I was walking down the hall, right? I hear the door open, so I look back. She opens the door and reaches out to get the food.”

  “And?”

  “What are you, a priest? You want a confession?”

  “If you’ve got something to confess.”

  “She looks at me and smiles this big smile… She isn’t wearing anything at the time. That’s why I remember. All right?”

  Scott pointed to the picture. “And this is the woman you saw?”

  “I wasn’t exactly looking at her face, but yeah, that’s her.”

  Scott gave Ernie the money and turned away.

  Ernie said, “Who is she anyway?”

  “My wife,” Scott shot back, “my wife.”

  Ernie gulped and dashed into the kitchen.

  Scott slowly made his way back to Room 908. He didn’t take the elevator this time. He took the stairs. The exercise was therapeutic and he needed to think.

  Helen was sound asleep when he entered the room. He knew there was nothing he could do until morning, so he lay down on the bed. With his arms crossed behind his head, he stared into the darkness and at the ceiling he could see only vaguely. Sometime after 2 a.m., he fell asleep, must have. But when he awoke, it didn’t seem like he had slept at all. And yet there was sunshine poking through the curtains, so he must have.

  The bed seemed cold. He reached out and found Helen was gone. He jumped out of bed, ran for the door, and was about to open it when he noticed the bathroom light was on. He listened at the door. There was no water running, and it didn’t sound like anyone was on the toilet.

  He called out, “Helen, are you in there?”

  “Yep… I’m here.”

  He said through the closed door, “Who’s Pete? Jessica’s boyfriend?”

  Helen laughed. “The bar where I got drunk on Sunday night.

  Why?”

  “The note in your purse. Was it from Jessica?”

  “You went through my purse?”

  “I was looking for the pictures of Jessica. Look, does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Jessica, a boyfriend?” Helen laughed again. “She doesn’t date men.”

  “Would she have met someone here on Friday night?”

  Silence greeted him.

  “Helen?”

  He opened the door slowly. She was curled up in a corner next to the tub, crying and trembling. He coaxed her out of the corner and into a chair. He opened the curtains so the warm sunshine bathed her face. Later he ordered room service for two—steak, eggs, pancakes, hash browns, a pitcher of orange juice—and of course charged it to the room.

  When the food came, Helen picked at it. Scott ended up eating more than he should have, and there were still lots of leftovers. The only thing he finished was the pitcher of O.J.,

  which he couldn’t seem to get enough of.

  He waited until Helen looked relaxed, then asked about Jessica’s girlfriends. Jessica had only one, and no, Pattie didn’t live in Miami. She didn’t live in Florida, either. She flew in sometimes on weekends and that was about all Helen knew about Pattie.

  Scott excused himself to make a phone call. He told her not to go anywhere. She promised she wouldn’t.

  The pay phone in the lobby wasn’t his first stop. He bought a newspaper first, scanned the headlines, the obits. No murders, no suicides, no Jane Doe’s. He wasn’t surprised to find that it had happened again. In his mind’s eye, he saw the billions the several-minute-long outage had wiped out. He saw the controlling hands tighten their grip and he was more terrified than when he’d been crawling on his belly with car bombs exploding all around him.

  Surviving Munich had been skill and luck, but things were different now. Now the lines were blurred and he wasn’t sure who was playing who. The only thing he knew for sure was that Glen had brought him back in for a reason and that Glen had given him this assignment for a reason. If he wanted to stay alive—if he wanted those he cared about to stay alive—he’d play the game but knew he was playing for all the wrong reasons.

  He was about to use the phone when he saw a man heading toward the elevators. He recognized the face from somewhere. He took a second look. The man had the skin tone and hair color of a Pacific Islander, was built like a Samoan, but didn’t carry himself like a Samoan. He walked with purpose, not like a man on island time.

  Scott decided to follow. The guy saw him, continued past the elevators and stopped in front of the door to the stairs. Scott came up alongside him. “You deliver pizzas to Miami Beach too?”

  The guy looked at Scott like he was strange. “You thinking of someone else.”

  The guy started to walk off. Scott grabbed him by the shirt, picked him up off the floor and tossed him at the door to the stairs. The door opened. Scott’s momentum carried him through it to the wall of the stairwell. “Who are you and why are you following me?”

  “Keneke Kawena.”

  “Just what is that?”

  “My name, Keneke Kawena.”

  Scott’s nostrils flared.

  “I work for HPD.”

  “HPD?”

  “Honolulu Police Department.” Keneke took out his badge and showed it to Scott.

  Scott felt relief. He let go of the guy’s shirt and took a step back. “Why are you following me, detective? Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction?”

  “You call me Ken, and I’m not a detective, yet. I’m a computer technician assigned to the fraud division.”

  “Fraud? Look, Ken, I’m in a hurry. Are you following me?”

  “The cuckoo’s egg.”

  “Come again?”

  “The cuckoo’s egg.”

  “Look, I’m on vacation. If you’re some kind of nut case, that’s fine by me, but go bother someone else.”

  “I’m gone. You’ll never see me again.”

  Scott said dryly, “That would be wonderful.”

  Ken walked off. Scott sulked for a moment. Wondered if he was getting paranoid. Wondered if Glen had sent Ken to check up on him, then went into the hall.

 
Two pay phones were off the lobby. Someone was using one.

  He could have used the other, but didn’t want to talk while anyone was within earshot. He remembered seeing a phone booth on the street near the hotel. He went outside and walked about half a block. Thankfully no one was using the phone.

  He called Glen at the office. Glen’s secretary told him, “Mr. Hastings is still at home.” He dialed Glen’s home number, but the line was busy. As he waited to try again, it started to rain.

  The second time he tried, he got through. He yelled into the receiver, “Did you send some idiot down here to check up on me?”

  Glen didn’t say anything.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Scott,” Glen said, clear tension in his voice, “I think you should come back to Baltimore.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I should tell you this in person.”

  “Tell me now, Glen. I’m close to something. I can feel it. A few more days, that’s all.”

  “Scott, where are you? Are you sitting?”

  “Don’t play melodrama with me. It’s not you. Spit it out, I’m listening.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Glen said, “There’s been an accident. Cynthia’s in the hospital. I think you should fly back to Baltimore on the next flight.”

  For an instant, Scott saw his father’s face. Heard the snap of the trigger and the explosion of the gun firing.

  “Scott, are you there?”

  “Which hospital?”

  Glen told him.

  Scott hung up and raced to the hotel. Helen seemed to recognize the alarm on his face right away. He didn’t have to tell her he was leaving. She knew. She wanted to go with him. She didn’t want to be alone. She told him that she had proof that Jessica had the gizmo with her and that it was worth a lot more than anyone knew.

  He asked her if she had a safe place to stay, a place that wasn’t in Miami or Boca Raton. She said she knew a place no one would think to look for her. He gave her enough cab fare to take her to the Georgia state line, even though she was only going to Tampa. She wrote down the phone number. He put her in a cab and told her to stay out of sight until he came for her.

  Chapter 7

  Baltimore, Maryland Tuesday,

  4 January

  Glen sank into the folds of the black leather chair, then purposefully plopped his feet onto the top of the massive mahogany desk that dominated his office. He didn’t care that his shoes were caked with mud or that one of the little people would have to clean up the mess. He glanced at the umbrella and the puddle forming beneath it. Damned rain just wouldn’t end.

  The phone rang. Glen snatched it up, then waited for the Christmas tree of indicators on a box attached to the phone to light all the way to the top. Once he was sure he was on a clear, untapped line, he grinned into the video phone and said, “Did you do it?”

  “Is it safe?”

  Glen beaded his eyes.

  “All right, stupid question—”“You’re right, it was. Did you do it?”

  “The money. You said we’d talk money now.”

  “You give me what I want, and by close of business, there’ll be a hundred thousand in your account. Does that make you happy?”

  “I think two is a better number.”

  Glen slammed the phone on the desk a few times. The video screen cracked and blanked out. He whispered into the phone, “Now you listen to me and listen close. That’s the only offer. Try a double cross and they’ll find you wrapped in your intestines. Do we understand each other?”

  “You’re right, absolutely right. One is a fair number. I did it, I have everything you requested.”

  “And the dosages?”

  “All written down, just like you requested.”

  “Is it traceable?”

  “We’re talking pharmaceuticals, not bullets. Traceable to the manufacturer, hell yes. Traceable to you, never.”

  “You haven’t told anyone else about this?”

  “I’m not stupid. I know better than to shoot off my mouth.

  I—”“Make the delivery when and where we discussed. The money will be transferred to your account. You have my word.”

  Glen smiled as he hung up the phone. He took the pistol out of the top desk drawer and sighted it on the door. The gun wasn’t loaded, but he wished it were. He squeezed the trigger. The pull seemed a little heavy. He squeezed the trigger again. Yes, definitely heavy.

  He dismantled the gun, set about adjusting the trigger pull. He liked to think of the act of squeezing the trigger as effortless and that he need only breathe on the gun to make it fire. There was no point making something work that wasn’t.

  Satisfied, he put the gun away and started dialing the phone.

  “On the way,” he said once the Christmas tree lights were full on.

  “What does he know?”

  Glen leaned back in the chair. “I don’t think he knows anything.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “After all we’ve been through, you have to ask?”

  “It’s what I do. I’ll see you this afternoon then?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Glen hung up the phone and dialed another number. He didn’t wait for the lights; the line wasn’t verifiable. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Why do bad things have to happen to good people?”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour, at four. He’ll be there before us.

  I need you to be strong when you see him. Can you do that for me, Janet?”

  “I’m your girl, aren’t I?”

  “That’s my girl. You going to wear the yellow dress?”

  “Glen.”

  “For me.”

  “I will if you want me to, but it’s hardly appropriate.”

  “It’s a long drive.”

  “Okay, you win. Can I ever resist?”

  “See you at four.” Glen hung up the phone and turned to the window.

  ***

  Scott sucked at the air in short, rapid puffs, his hand on the door handle. He promised himself he wanted to go in, promised himself he was ready to go in, but felt like he was suffocating. His chest was tight. His head was about to explode. Old and painful memories haunted his thoughts. The cab ride from the airport to the hospital in bumper-to-bumper traffic hadn’t helped anything.

  The cab’s meter, a testament to how long he had been trapped in the back seat, read one hundred ninety-six dollars. In the last half hour, it seemed the cab moved only inches, and all he could think about the entire time was Cynthia and the baby.

  He was angry, and mashing his fist into the armrest didn’t help. He didn’t understand why anyone’d go after Cynthia and the baby. He was playing the game. He’d come back in. He’d done the right thing. There could be no doubt about loyalty.

  He called the hospital more than a dozen times from the Miami airport, from the Sky Phone, and upon arrival in Baltimore. Cynthia’s attending physician was Dr. Maureen Fitzpatrick. He still hadn’t been able to speak with her personally, but he knew both the family physician, Dr. Emery Haskins, and Cynthia’s gynecologist, Dr. William Brown, had been consulted.

  Cynthia had been moved from intensive care to a private monitored room. Her condition, serious and marginally stable as of a few hours ago, was critical before he departed Miami. But he knew from experience that the difference between marginally stable and worse was a few heartbeats and that the difference between life and death was but a single heartbeat.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture Cynthia as he had seen her last. He could recall every detail vividly. Her long brown hair cast over her left shoulder. Her brown eyes, sad. Her lipstick, a shade less than rose. Her perfume, flowery, sweet and exotic. But the face before his eyes was his father’s and not Cynthia’s. The doctors had been full of hope then, too. “The bullet went through clean, Scott. There’s no hemorrhaging. It’s a miracle.” If it was a miracle, then why was he at a funeral for
ty-eight hours later?

  He exhaled, was about to open the door, when he heard a woman’s voice calling his name. At first he thought he imagined the voice, but then he heard it again.

  “Mr. Evers, Dr. Maureen Fitzpatrick. I came as soon as Mr. Simons told me you had arrived. Can we talk a moment before you go in? Has anyone told you about your wife’s condition?”

  He released his grip on the door handle, felt the blood rush back into his hand. “Dr. Fitzpatrick?”

  He turned. There was an awkward moment as Scott wondered if he should shake her extended hand or not, then he shook her hand.

  Dr. Fitzpatrick said, “You look exhausted. Come with me.

  We’ll sit and talk for a moment.”

  “Why is it that everyone knows about my wife’s condition but me?”

  “I think it best if we go sit.”

  “Why did they move her to a private room if her condition is still serious?”

  “Mr. Simons requested it.”

  “Is Mr. Simons her husband?”

  She glanced at her watch. “I believe we’re getting off to a bad start. Your wife was in a terrible accident. Her air bag didn’t open. She’s lucky to be alive. I think we should go down to the lounge.”

  Despite his training, his knees started to buckle under his weight. “I think that would be good.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick led Scott to a private lounge. She started to pull out charts, he stopped her.

  He said, “Just give it to me straight.”

  She suggested he sit. He didn’t but he did prepare to hear something he didn’t want to hear. For a moment it was as if he were reliving high school. His freshman year had been full of ups and downs. His father had retired from the military that June, blew his brains out with a shotgun that August.

  Everything changed after that. The extrovert, the jock and the guy everyone liked went away. An introvert, a rebel, a guy no one wanted to know took his place. Truancy records and police reports replaced honor roll lists and martial arts trophies. A one-way ticket to Pendleton Military School followed. But Pendleton wasn’t his saving grace. It only taught him that weapons and tactics could resolve things he couldn’t hope to resolve otherwise.

  As Dr. Fitzpatrick spoke, he heard but didn’t truly hear. “We tried to save them both, but couldn’t. The trauma of the impact was too much.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “We lost the baby.”