by Cat Connor
“No, he can’t,” Mac replied. “He’s guessing.”
“Tequila? Of all the things it could be. How does someone guess tequila?”
“We’ve talked about tequila before inside the chat room. He’s probably witnessed a conversation or two.”
Good point.
I felt myself topple backwards. Mac caught me and sat me back up. “How do you fall from a sitting position on the floor?”
“I dunno,” I replied. I struggled to sit up and pour another shot. “Fuck him.” I slammed the liquid and refilled my glass.
“Hey!” Mac held out his glass. The bottle wobbled in my hand as I tipped it.
“You know, Gabrielle …”
I peered sideways at him. It was rare for him to use my given name. I considered he may have something astronomically important to impart.
He swallowed another drink. He slurred. “You really are cute.”
Not quite the revelation I’d expected but good to know. “Not as cute as you.” I leaned sideways, resting against his shoulder.
He slipped an arm around me and kissed the top of my head. “What I was going to say before you sidetracked me, by looking like you do ... was if you need to talk about the Carter thing, I’ll listen.”
I held out my glass. Mac refilled it and his own.
“I met him in Chicago at his restaurant about six months ago. I was in town on a job and told him I would be there.” I sucked a lemon, then peered at Mac. “You know all this.”
“I was thinking there might be something you’ve overlooked that might make more sense now.”
Some days it was as if Mac could read my mind, as if he was actually in my head. I hadn’t told Mac everything about Carter and me. An odd incident that occurred a few days after meeting Carter sauntered into my conscious thought.
Mac frowned at me. “What, babe?”
“When I broke my arm.” I started to assemble pieces of disjointed memory together. “I don’t know whether it was an accident.”
Mac’s eyes were on mine. His brow creased. I could tell he remembered me breaking my arm six months ago. He also would have remembered me telling him it was an accident, that I fell. I lied because I didn’t exactly know what the truth was.
“I was out the back of Carter’s restaurant in his office, playing solitaire on his computer, while I waited for him to finish. We were going to see a movie.”
Mac chewed his lip.
“Anyway some guy came through from the restaurant yelling and carrying on at Carter. I couldn’t understand him. None of it made sense. The argument escalated into pushing and shoving, then into an all-out brawl. Somewhere in the middle of that, I broke my arm.”
Okay. I left out a few details. The missing details were blurred, and what I did remember never felt right. I have never known why.
“Then what happened?” he asked, still chewing on his lip. His eyes darkened. He looked furious. I suspected that if Carter weren’t already dead, that he would be seriously hurting if Mac got hold of him.
I took a breath and had another drink. “I left, went back home, and never had anything to do with Carter again.”
“And?”
“And ... one afternoon in the city, I overheard a name that seemed familiar ... this DEA agent mentioned someone called Xeo. The thing that struck me was that the man in Chicago had said the name Xeo.”
“Who is Xeo?”
At least I knew the answer to that question. “He was DEA. It was rumored he had been undercover so long that he was using. I heard he started using ketamine then progressed to ketamine laced with heroin, and eventually heroin alone. He disappeared. Xeo became an urban legend. The agent talking about him didn’t seem familiar at all, until he rolled up his sleeves. I saw his tattoo. It was a mermaid on his inner forearm. The man in the fight had the same tattoo.”
“He was an agent?”
“Yep.”
“Why was he yelling at Carter?”
“I never found out.”
“Did Carter know you were FBI?”
I shook my head. “No. He thought I was a journalist. He made that assumption on his own. I never corrected him.”
“How many times did you see Carter face to face?”
“Five times. He had this annoying habit of turning up. Said he had business in the area and so forth. He turned up in Richmond and located my parents’ home. He appeared in Washington twice. I literally bumped into him in the mall. Then he arrived on my doorstep. I have no idea how he found my house, or how he got a key.”
“Chicago was the first time, and once he came to your home? That was the time he was arrested?”
“Yes.”
“At a guess, I’d say he stole your keys while you were in Chicago and had them copied.” Mac slammed another shot of tequila. “You think the ketamine in his system could have been the reason that agent was at his restaurant?”
“It’s sure a possibility.”
My head played a new tune: “It’s not always as it seems.” I had no idea what that meant, and the tequila meant I didn’t care. I wanted Mac to wrap his arms around me.
“Caine should be told,” he whispered.
“I know. I’ll tell him, just not tonight.”
“Whatever you want, babe.”
“Whatever I want? Really?” I turned my body to face him. I felt mischievous, possibly from the tequila.
Mac grinned at me, as if he knew my thoughts, then appeared to have a sudden attack of sense. “We’re drinking te-kill-ya, that’s dangerous all by itself.” His voice was low, and he chewed his lip. “And yet I get the feeling you’re going to do this anyway.”
I pulled my laptop closer. “Let’s see if he’s still there first,” I said. “I feel a recital coming on.”
Mac leaned his head into mine as we checked. That act alone made my heart race.
“Seems he is, or someone else has hacked the room,” Mac replied. “So what are you going to recite?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged. I typed quickly and semi-coherently into the room to let everyone know my intention to recite. “Oh, I know.” A thought occurred to me. “Remember that poem entitled ‘Welcome home’?”
“Yes, with a few alterations, it’s the perfect choice.”
“We’ll change it to suit as we go,” I said, and typed the poem into the chat room:
Welcome home
The sun rose, night fell away
Revealing sadness and mental decay
Bloodstains and body fluid are all that remain
The one who did this was totally insane.
A chandelier sways in the wind
Crystal drops swirl and spin
Rainbows dance upon the walls
Falling on the bloodstained floors
Police tape glistens in the sun
A reminder, forensics aren’t yet done
The body count began at one
We get the feeling there’s more to come
A chandelier sways in the wind
Crystal drops swirl and spin
Rainbows dance upon the walls
Colored patterns on bloodstained floors
Don’t look too closely my distant friend
The picture here is your twisted end.
I finished typing and watched as the bottom of the screen lit up with flashing red instant messages. Both FBI agents demanded to know what I thought I was doing. I ignored them. Dhs messaged me saying he liked the poem. I ignored him too. Several other people in the room sent messages or commented in the chat room. The only comment I found difficult to ignore was one from Pebblerock; he left his response in the chat room: You and I should get together.
I had an urge to scream “Not in this lifetime!” Often, wanting to reply resulted in my yelling like an idiot at my screen, while I typed. This time I resisted, chilled on tequila.
The email alert sounded; it was him. He said: You changed it.
I grinned at Mac. “We need to go home. I kept all the room transcripts o
n disk, and I am sure I haven’t posted that poem in months. I’m also sure I only ever posted it once.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I remember you reciting it about six months ago.” Mac smiled. “We have some searching to do. He may have had a nickname and a profile back then.”
“Hell, yeah,” I replied. “Now what were you saying about te-kill-ya?” I leaned against him.
“I was saying it’s dangerous,” he replied. Mac traced the knife mark on my neck with kisses.
“Really? How so?” I asked. He tugged the tie from my hair and ran his fingers through the entire length.
My cell phone jangled. I saw the name on the screen and answered it. I wondered why the theme to Bonanza ran through my head. Maybe it was because I couldn’t remember the theme song for Starsky and Hutch or perhaps the Cartwright boys’ penchant for trouble caused an association in my mind, turning Caine into their stern father. Or maybe I’d drunk more than enough tequila.
Caine was steaming. “What the hell have you done?”
“Nothing yet, you called too soon,” I replied. I attempted to stifle a giggle as Mac turned his attention to my shoulders and kissed his way down my free arm.
“In the room! What the hell was that?”
“That was a possible break in the case. We are going home tomorrow to search computer files. He remembered that poem and he knew I had changed it. That means he’s been around for at least six months.” I stared at Mac as he neared my waistband. He had a boyish grin on his face as he looked up and mustered a wide-eyed innocent look.
I pressed the phone to my shoulder to muffle my voice. “Stop it,” I whispered, while trying not to giggle.
Mac chuckled. He hooked a finger into my waistband and pulled me. I glared at him, but it didn’t work.
“I’ll have some agents meet you,” Caine said.
“No. Let’s keep this quiet. Call it a gut feeling, but the fewer who know, the better and the safer we will be.”
“You know something!” Caine’s tone reverberated with accusation. “This isn’t the first time I’ve thought you know more about this than you’re saying.”
“No. I just think this needs careful handling. There’s always a possibility that he’s monitoring radio frequencies.” Or that he’s an agent or a cop, and I really don’t want to go there.
Caine grudgingly accepted my answer and told me to get some sleep.
“Oh, I will.” I hung up.
Mac lay on the floor, flat on his back, eyes closed, arms relaxed across his chest. Playing dead or asleep? I wondered. I tossed the cell phone out of reach and went to move. A hand flew out and grabbed me, pulling me on top of him. Mac opened one eye. “Going somewhere?” he slurred.
“Seems like I am already there,” I replied. My lips hovered a fraction from his. I slipped into the depths of the green-flecked-with-golden hue of his eyes. My body burned with the heat from his as our lips met.
Seven
Tequila Sunrise
Unsure of whether it was day or night, I woke slowly. The computer screens glowed from across the room, giving out enough light to see by. My head pounded. The B-complex would’ve worked better if we’d taken it instead of talking about it.
Mac groaned. He held a pillow over his head and groaned some more. He dropped the pillow beside the bed and sat up. “Is it morning?” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat with his head cradled in his hands.
“I think it’s morning,” I said. “What day is it?”
“Jesus, let me think,” he replied. “We were at my place on Tuesday, at the Marriott on Wednesday. It’s Thursday. Definitely Thursday.”
My feet hit the floor. “Okay ... where are my clothes?”
I watched Mac as he peered between his fingers at the floor in front of him. Clothing was scattered everywhere. An empty tequila bottle lay between a rumpled shirt and a left shoe.
“Could be over here.”
“Second question ... any clue what we did last night?”
He turned his head and looked at me. “Ummm …”
I grinned. “Oh, that I remember.”
“Good,” he replied. His voice sounded a little croaky. “As for what else we did – you posted a poem in the chat room.”
“Oh, yeah.” The events of the evening revealed themselves in my clouded mind. “We need to go home.” I gathered clothes from the floor and pulled a tee shirt over my head.
“Food first, lotsa B-complex and coffee,” Mac said. He straightened up gingerly, reached for the room phone and ordered breakfast.
My head throbbed as I struggled with my jeans. The simple task of dressing was torture. I sort of limped to my laptop, checked emails and dropped into the chat room. It seemed quiet. I checked to see if our phantom visitor was around. It was difficult to tell for sure, but someone was invisible in the room. I left without saying anything.
Someone knocked. Mac pulled out his gun, held it behind his back, and opened the door. A porter entered, rotund, gray-faced and supercilious in his manner. He placed plates of bacon and eggs on the table and swept out.
My email alert sounded several times as we ate. I ignored everything until we had finished. Then I checked the messages.
“Anything?” Mac asked as he poured himself another coffee.
“Uh huh. Another one from him,” I said, ignoring the growing unrest in my gut.
“Read it out.”
“‘Sticks and stones severed his bones. He should have left you alone.’” I pushed away an insistent feeling of unease. “No one knows where we are. We used satellite, not a land-based server. What are the chances of another body turning up here?”
“I don’t know!”
I forwarded the email to Caine and Mac, and sat in silence for a few minutes. We both knew we had to check the car.
I voiced the plan. “We’ll go down to the front desk and speak to the Concierge. They may have surveillance cameras operating in the garage.”
My cell phone rang. I checked the display. It was Caine. Who else would it be? Mac’s mother was always a possibility.
“Hey.” It was my best bright “hey,” they didn’t get any brighter than that.
“You got more trouble?”
I imagined his lips pressed together in a somewhat sour expression. “Don’t know yet. We’re about to take a look at the car.”
“Where are you?”
“Crystal City Marriott.”
“You know how long it’ll take me to get there. Go check the car. If it is a false alarm, call me back.”
“We’re going to pack first, so if everything’s clear we’ll head south right away.”
I ended the call and dropped my phone into my pocket. We repacked our bags and checked we had everything. Satisfied, and with our laptops under our arms, we left the room.
“We’ll go see the concierge and check the surveillance videos from the garage, better than hitting the garage blind,” I said, as the elevator stopped on the ground floor.
“Okay, sounds good to me,” Mac replied. We made our way to the front desk. About a dozen people milled about the lobby.
“Can I help?” the concierge asked, as he smoothed his satin waistcoat over his ample frame.
“I hope so,” I replied. I removed my badge from my belt and flashed it at him. “We need to view surveillance camera footage from the garage.”
The concierge seemed surprised and then recovered his composure. He whispered, “Is there a problem Special Agent Conway?” He indicated for us to come around the desk. He’d managed to read my name from the brief flash of the open wallet I gave him.
Not bad, bet he never missed a damn thing that went on around the hotel.
“I hope not.”
He ushered us through a hallway to a small room several doors down.
“In here, ma’am.” He knocked then opened the door. “Justin, this is Special Agent Conway and her partner. Would you show them the garage cameras and assist them with anything else they need
?”
Justin smiled a baby-faced grin. He sat in front of a bank of security monitors. Some of which were hidden behind his expansive shoulders.
“Sure, Simon,” Justin replied. His voice held a politeness that disguised an underlay of distaste. I didn’t think Justin liked Simon.
Simon left without speaking.
The monitors all showed different locations within the hotel. Justin signaled us to pull up chairs next to him. Mac and I dumped our bags and laptops by the door and pushed two chairs to the screens.
“How many cameras in the garage?” I asked, as we stared at the screens.
“Six,” Justin said. “Three on each level, one pointing into the lot from the elevator door, one from the far end, and we have a camera in the middle which is motion sensitive.”
“The middle camera, can it track across the entire lot?” Mac asked.
“Yes.”
“Great,” I said. I knew we’d arrived around eight p.m., and it was a little after nine a.m. when we left our room. “Can you show us the footage from eight last night ‘til … nine this morning?”
“Which level?”
“P-1.”
We skipped through the video footage. From eleven until six there was no activity at all. After that, people started moving about, but we saw nothing suspicious.
Mac thanked Justin.
Out in the hallway, I called Caine and told him the video was clear.
We waited for a few seconds before going through the glass doors that led into the garage. The walk across the lot turned my gut into a pit of turmoil. Something still didn’t feel right What if the video didn’t show everything? Perhaps Justin was not what he seemed to be. Maybe ... Maybe ... The closer we got to the car, the stronger the feeling became. Standing behind the car, it seemed a long way from the security of the glass doors.
Mac took the keys from my hand, unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid.
There was nothing inside.
“Thank God for small favors,” I hissed.
We dumped our stuff in the trunk then peered through the car windows. The interior seemed clear. Mac pushed the remote to unlock the doors. We flung both backdoors open at the same time.
Nothing.
We settled into the car. Mac turned the key. We looked at each other and frowned. Dammit, we forgot the engine compartment. Mac turned off the ignition and hit the hood release.