Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  She couldn’t sleep, and her mind wandered. She looked at the shadows cast by the moon through their open window. Then she was sure she heard the clinking of their ice maker in the kitchen. Finally, she thought she heard someone passing by in the hallway outside of their suite.

  She began to doze off as her thoughts returned to Beck. She wondered if their relationship was damaged beyond repair. All she knew was she now feared the man she needed and still desired.

  30

  As the morning sun cast its shadows on the beach below, the hotel maid propped open the door to begin her daily assignment. She grabbed a stack of towels, clean sheets, and bathroom cleaner from her cart, then turned to enter the hotel room. Walking head down toward the bathroom, a strange odor caught her attention. She looked up.

  Her mouth fell open, and she gasped desperately, trying to catch her breath. Then a wail, like a dying animal, rose from her throat. She dropped her supplies on the carpet and staggered into the hallway and down to the supply closet where another maid was loading a cart with clean towels.

  “The couple, the couple!”

  The second maid ran to the suite.

  She too screamed. There, only a few feet away, lay a man and woman, naked, drenched in dried blood.

  INSPECTOR WAYNE TOMLINSON SCANNED the room for answers as the photographer shot stills of the blood-soaked bodies. The man lay faceup on the bed, a large stab wound right in the middle of his chest and his eyes and mouth wide open. Had he been able to scream?

  Dried tears streaked his cheeks, and dried blood smeared both sides of his jaw, his ears, and his hand, where he must have attempted to grab his chest. He must have grabbed his head as well. Screaming in pain, no doubt, Tomlinson thought. He couldn’t imagine the agony. Poor bastard.

  The gash in the chest would have incapacitated him immediately. The wound would have penetrated the sac surrounding the heart, equalizing the pressure in the heart and the chest cavity. The guy never stood a chance. He had no more than ninety seconds to live with a wound like that, Tomlinson figured.

  The assailant knew what he was doing. Obviously, he attacked the man in his sleep first. That way, the victim couldn’t put up a fight. Blood had spurted all over the body and the bedsheets.

  “Shoot a close-up of the face. Get the dried tears,” he ordered.

  “Why?” asked the photographer.

  “I want to show a judge and jury the poor bastard knew he was dying and was helpless to do anything about it. It might come in handy when we catch the son of a bitch who did this.”

  Murder and violent crime were infrequent on the island, and the sight of the woman made him sick to his stomach. She must have been awakened by her mate’s struggle and attempted to flee. Her body sprawled on the floor. What a beautiful creature, he thought.

  Slash wounds cut across her forearms and both breasts; she obviously attempted to defend herself. She, too, had a stab wound to the heart, but also to the stomach. Blood ran down both legs. She must have been standing when fending off her attacker, he figured.

  Blood splatter also covered the floor and the wall behind the bed where she must have been cornered, having no avenue of escape. And to top it off, the assailant slit her throat from one ear to the other, nearly decapitating her. Part of her trachea was visible. Spite for fighting her assailant? Tomlinson turned away.

  The couple, he figured, were in their late thirties or early forties.

  “Make sure you comb the bathroom. The killer might have left some DNA. He wouldn’t have left here with all of that blood on him. He would have been noticed within minutes,” Tomlinson told the crime scene tech.

  Two officers escorted the maid who had discovered the bodies downstairs to the hotel’s office, where they sat in a staff conference room attempting to question her and calm her down. Tomlinson left the crime scene to the photographer and stationed a guard outside the door. It was time to interrogate the hotel workers. He ordered the manager to gather all staff who had worked in the last twenty-four hours.

  “I need the names of the victims too.”

  The manager nodded.

  Tomlinson took over the manager’s office. He ordered the island’s makeshift forensics team to meet him there. The island’s part-time coroner, a local undertaker, had been called in to examine the bodies. His assistant was the island’s only crime scene technician, and the photographer freelanced for the department. Judging from the degree of rigor mortis, the coroner said, the murders took place sometime between midnight and 4:00 a.m.

  The manager returned to the room with the clerk who registered the guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Beck Rikki,” he told Tomlinson. “They’ve been here for three days. My clerk remembers them checking in.”

  The clerk nodded. Tomlinson sat the shaken woman down at the small conference table outside the manager’s office. “I saw them on numerous occasions walking through the lobby, hand in hand,” she said. “They were a handsome American couple and seemed very much in love.”

  “Was there anything unusual about them?” Tomlinson asked. “No. Nothing.”

  “Did they act strange in any way?”

  “No, they just came and went each day like all of the other tourists.”

  One of the officers came to the conference room doorway. “We’ve got the night crew out here.”

  Tomlinson instructed the desk clerk not to leave the building while he interviewed other staff. For two hours, he grilled the evening crew, and they each explained their actions during the last twenty-four hours. It was tedious, and they grew impatient as Tomlinson questioned them over and over about the same points of their nightly routine. Finally, he let them go home and back to bed. It was only then that he called the desk clerk back for more questioning.

  “I’d like to see the hotel registration information,” he told her. “It’s at the desk.”

  Tomlinson followed her to the front desk, and the clerk immediately printed out a page of information.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing him the page with the couple’s information and a copy of their daily hotel charges.

  He glanced over the information. Mr. and Mrs. Beck Rikki, it said. Had been at the hotel three nights so far. Were scheduled to leave today. Had a rental car with the valet. No unusual charges, no room service, not even a movie. Tomlinson thanked the clerk for her help and turned to head back to the manager’s office.

  “Oh my god,” she screamed. “It’s them.”

  Tomlinson swung around. “What?”

  The clerk pointed to a couple exiting the lobby elevator. “It’s them.

  It’s Mr. and Mrs. Rikki.”

  Tomlinson bolted across the lobby in their direction.

  31

  “Stop!” Tomlinson yelled. Everyone in the lobby turned toward his booming voice, including Beck and Geneva. Tomlinson dodged three tourists and grabbed both Geneva and Beck by the arm. “Police. Come with me.”

  “What the hell,” Beck said, pulling away.

  “Police. Please come with me.” Tomlinson held Beck’s arm tightly and led them into the hotel manager’s office.

  Beck kept pulling his arm back. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “You’re Mr. Rikki, right?” asked Tomlinson.

  “Yes. Who the hell are you?”

  “In room five forty-two?”

  “Ahh . . . no. Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Tomlinson, Royal Cayman Islands Police Service.” He showed his badge. “You’re not in room five forty-two?”

  “What’s going on here? We’re in the penthouse.”

  “I don’t understand. Then how . . . who . . . was in five forty-two?” Tomlinson turned to the clerk.

  She shook her head.

  “Where’s that manager?”

  “What’s all of the excitement about?” Geneva asked. “The hotel has you booked in room five forty-two,” Tomlinson said. “We thought you were the couple in five forty-two.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Geneva.
“I think I understand. We were going to check into five forty-two, but I asked if the penthouse was available when we arrived.”

  “That’s right,” Beck said.

  “So I put it on my American Express card instead of on Beck’s credit card. My last name is Kemper. I’m Geneva Kemper.”

  The clerk sat at the manager’s desk and quickly typed into his computer. “That’s right. We have Mr. and Mrs. Kemper in the penthouse and Mr. and Mrs. Rikki in five forty-two.”

  “Same people,” Beck said. “When we arrived several days ago, you were shorthanded at the desk. Must have made the error then.”

  Tomlinson told them about the murders, leaving out the grim details. Just then, the hotel manager stepped back into his own office.

  “Find out who those people were in room five forty-two,” Tomlinson barked. “Clear the room. I need to talk with Mr. Rikki and Ms. Kemper.”

  The office was small and cramped, with too much furniture and a window overlooking the back parking lot. Tomlinson closed the door and sat behind the desk. Beck and Geneva sat on the flowered couch with their backs to the wall.

  “What does this have to do with us?” Beck protested.

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. I don’t mean to be melodramatic,” Tomlinson said, “but I didn’t want to speak in front of the hotel staff. When we discovered the bodies this morning, I had the manager call in the entire night staff. The night clerk told us that around eight o’clock last night, a man came to the front desk asking for you, Mr. Rikki. The clerk called your room, or what he thought was your room, since the occupants of five forty-two were registered under Mr. and Mrs. Beck Rikki. It is policy here, as in all hotels, not to give out a hotel guest’s room number. No one answered the call, which I assume the man asking about you already knew would be the case.

  “This morning I had the night clerk reenact what took place when the man asked for you. Your room number is your house telephone number. Anyone who was the least bit observant could have picked up the room number when the clerk dialed. The phone is clearly visible to the general public.” Tomlinson stopped and shifted his gaze between them.

  “It is my belief,” he explained, “that the intended victims last night were not the unsuspecting couple who now lie dead, but the two of you.”

  Beck’s jaw dropped, and his eyes glazed. Geneva bent over, looking at the floor, her hand on her forehead.

  “Oh my god,” she said. “Beck, what have you gotten us into?”

  Beck looked away, staring at nothing.

  “Mr. Rikki, we need to discuss why someone would want to kill you and Ms. Kemper.”

  “I just can’t believe this,” Beck said. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  Beck explained why he was in Grand Cayman and gave a cryptic account of his investigation.

  “And you, Ms. Kemper. What are you doing here?” “She came to help me,” Beck said.

  “Do you work for the newspaper too?” Tomlinson faced Geneva.

  “No. I’m a lobbyist in Washington. Beck and I are friends, so I agreed to accompany him.”

  “Very well,” the inspector said. “We will want to search your room, just in case. We need to make copies of your passports and driver’s licenses. We will also need your telephone numbers in the States. Then you will be free to go.”

  He handed them his business card, and they exchanged information.

  “We have a two-thirty flight out this afternoon,” Beck said.

  “I would be on it, if I were you,” Tomlinson said. “We will be in touch if we need more information.”

  The three of them walked over to the lobby elevator and waited. Beck held his arm firmly around Geneva, her head on his shoulder. Tomlinson signaled one of his men to accompany them while he continued his investigation downstairs. After the elevator doors closed behind them, Tomlinson shook his head. He would do his best to keep them safe on Cayman, but he couldn’t assure their safety once they left. He knew all too well the seamier side of powerful financial forces that made up the island’s global business community. If this couple had gotten mixed up with them, leaving Cayman would not protect them, not for long anyway.

  THE MAN IN THE WHITE LINEN SUIT sat in the small cafe looking out at the hotel lobby, drinking his third cup of coffee. Whenever possible, which was often, he liked to hang around after his man had carried out an assignment to assure himself all had gone according to plan. Like his bosses, he hated loose ends.

  So when the hotel clerk screamed and he spied Mr. and Mrs. Rikki exiting the lobby elevator, he jerked to attention, carefully setting down his steaming cup of coffee while never taking his eyes off the pair. Last night he had called his man from the bar and was assured everything was in perfect order. He figured he would never see the couple again— at least not alive. Now the police were here, and so was the couple.

  What had his man gotten wrong?

  TWO HOURS LATER, with tumbling bags and no bellman, Beck and Geneva poured out of the elevator and into the lobby. They wheeled their bags and hefted their carry-ons toward the glass front door where the valet held their car. Beck tossed his bags in the trunk with the help of the valet and then noticed Geneva struggling with her roller bag. It was stuck in the closing hotel door.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” said a tall, thin man to Geneva. He looked vaguely familiar to Beck, but he couldn’t place him.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” Geneva said. She turned to him and nodded appreciation.

  The man helped the valet load the bags into their small trunk and backseat. “I hope you enjoyed your stay, Mrs. Rikki,” the man said. “Be safe.”

  Beck thanked him. There was something about the man that didn’t fit. Beck couldn’t place it and shook it off. He had a plane to catch. He tipped the valet and hopped in the driver’s seat and began to drive away. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the man talking to the driver of the cab in line behind them. Beck said nothing to Geneva as he turned the car onto the street. His eyes were glued to the rearview mirror.

  Then he realized a complete stranger had just called Geneva “Mrs. Rikki.”

  32

  Back again in the first-class section, Beck drank three Bloody Marys while Geneva tried unsuccessfully to sleep. He tried gently to talk to her and assure her they were safe. She turned away and curled into a fetal position with her back to him, facing the window. He thought he heard a soft sob, but when he tried to comfort her, she pushed his hand away. He felt she needed him right now, but he’d been so angry with her, she no longer wanted his comfort. He could not see her face, so he grasped strands of her luscious brown hair and felt guilty he had been so angry. How could he have ever been mad at this enticing woman?

  When they finally arrived at Reagan National Airport late that evening, they stood at the luggage carousel in silence for what seemed like forever. After their bags finally arrived, they walked silently to the cabstand and took separate cabs to their separate homes. Geneva said nothing, not even good-bye, which made him feel even more unsettled.

  Beck did not unpack when he got to his condo. Instead, he went straight for his liquor cabinet and humidor, grabbing a fifth and a cigar. After an hour on the balcony trying to erase the past eighteen hours, he staggered down the hall to bed.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into, but it was now obvious it was much bigger than he had first thought. Whatever Bayard and Kindred were up to, whatever role Oliver or Fahy might play in all of this, Beck was determined to find the truth.

  “YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT,” Nancy said.

  “I feel like it. I didn’t sleep last night.” Beck squinted under the harsh fluorescent lights of the newsroom, waiting for his steaming twenty-ounce Starbucks to cool off. He took a sip—still too hot—and explained what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  “I’m not in the mood to finish this story today,” Beck said. “Those people were perfectly innocent, and they were killed because of my investigation. It�
��s a political corruption story. Nothing more. And they were killed because of me. I can’t deal with that right now.”

  Nancy pulled up a chair next to his desk. “You’ve been going nonstop for days. You’re tired. Take a break. Look, there’s no proof anyone was coming after you. It’s a good story. You’ve got the goods on Bayard. Do you know anything about the couple?”

  “I don’t. I’m afraid to ask.” Beck’s head hung low, his eyes glued to the floor.

  “Go home. Take the day off. Collect your thoughts. Get some sleep.”

  Beck drove home and crawled into bed fully clothed. He thought of Geneva lying naked beside him and finally crashed, sleeping for more than fourteen hours.

  The sun was peering through the blinds when he awoke. He took a long, hot shower, trying to cleanse the memories of the police investigation from his mind and body. It didn’t work. After he toweled off, he sat on his bed and called her.

  “You okay?”

  “No, I’m not,” Geneva said. “I don’t know what to make of all of this. What have I gotten myself into? I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now.”

  The line went dead. He starred blankly at the small object in his hand—his only tether to her. No good-byes. She just hung up. He began to realize the toll the murder was taking on him too. He’d lost control of his story and he’d lost Geneva—the two loves of his life right now.

  His phone rang.

  “Geneva?”

  “Meet me at the restaurant at nine,” said the voice, and hung up. It was Fahy. Beck stared at the silent cell phone, heart pounding. Immediately, he refocused. It was time to find some answers.

  FAHY AGAIN WAITED AT A TABLE IN THE rear of the restaurant, away from the windows, his back against the wall. The smell of strong black coffee and the hint of cigarettes permeated Beck’s nostrils as soft Latin music bounced off the restaurant’s walls. Fahy did not stand to greet him, but kept his gaze downward and fingered his half-empty cup of coffee. Word must travel fast, thought Beck. He was eager to find out what Fahy knew.