“Need a thin blade,” she says. “My bag is in the main room.”
Lynch walks over to the red metal tool cabinet. He returns a moment later with a slender silver probe, about the size of her forefinger.
Nikki inspects the tool, smiles and says, “Thanks.” She looks at me. “Apollo, I need my computer.”
“I’m on it.” I leave the garage.
I walk into the living room and see Nikki’s bag on the black leather sofa. I glance at the TV as I walk over to the sofa and the news story stops me cold. Breaking News is in big bold letters at the bottom of the screen. The top right corner of the TV displays a still shot of a hotel door A4T. The title below the door reads Bombay Plaza, New York. The very room Nikki and I had scrambled from about thirty minutes ago. The dove white face of a thin woman with perfect fluffy blonde hair occupies the rest of the TV screen. She speaks with a generous mouth full of bright white teeth. “I’m Anne Cannon and you’re watching INN. Real news for a real world. This smashing news story, Fury Randell is dead. Her bloody body discovered less than an hour ago in a posh room of the luxurious Bombay Plaza hotel. Ms. Randell’s death comes as a shock to the world. Her father, former US president Denson Weller Randell, has offered a twenty million dollar reward for the capture, leading to conviction, for Fury’s killer. Unconfirmed sources state that the twenty-four year old fashionista was strangled to death. The police are known to be in the process of questioning male model and budding actor, Bobby Grant. He was last seen entering the Bombay Plaza last night accompanied by Fury Randell.”
I stare at the TV and realize that Fury’s corpse had been in the room while we were there. The cops were not there for Nikki and me, but to check out the room because Fury had been traced there.
Fury Randell was a faux-pretty socialite. She had an ultra thin and shapeless physique complete with an unformed brain. Her father had been an amazing President. He led the charge for space exploration. He increased spending on education. The manufacturing sectors and small businesses returned with vigor on his watch. America was built anew during his eight-year term. He also survived four assassination attempts.
I grab Nikki’s bag and return to the garage.
#
I enter the garage and see Lynch looking down at Nikki.
They both turn to look at me as I approach. Nikki has the handle off, exposing the brain of the platform. I pass the canvas bag to her.
“Thank you,” she says as she takes the bag from me.
I decide to stay quiet until this task is over.
She pulls her computer from her bag and opens the unit. As it awakens, she fishes around in her bag and pulls out about a half dozen wires with male jacks at each end. Finding the wire with a compatible jack for the platform, she plugs one end of the wire into her computer and the other end into the tiny port on the platform.
“I see you’ve done this type of thing before,” Lynch says.
“Yeah,” replies Nikki with a flat sigh and a smile.
Nikki’s computer monitor displays the platform’s schematic. Nikki types on the keypad. Then the owner information appears on the monitor. Nikki opens a few folders, then deletes the platform’s work history and erases Lynch’s ID code. She makes St. Mary’s General Hospital the owner of the platform and rigs the travel log to show that the platform has always been on site. Then she closes the system.
She disconnects the plugs.
She secures her computer.
Nikki fits the cover back in place on the platform’s handle. She engages the platform, setting its dimensions to normal. Which is big enough to support a body.
I get it. I walk over and pick up Barry. I place him on the platform.
Lynch offers me a thick blanket. I lay the blanket over the recovery agent.
Lynch grabs a clear spray bottle from his workbench. With blue rag in hand, he sprays and wipes clean the exposed metal of the platform. Then he walks over to the far wall and opens the garage door.
Nikki sends Barry to the hospital. The platform exits the garage and turns right on the avenue.
Lynch closes the garage.
“Pretty smart for a mob girl,” Lynch says as he places the spray bottle back and rag on the shelf.
“Yeah, who do you think keeps my husband out of jail?” Nikki replies with confidence.
Lynch nods his approval. “Now let’s take care of your trunk,” he says to me.
We tear out the blood-saturated fabric that lines the trunk.
Lynch wraps the thin bloody carpet in plastic. Then he dumps his messy plastic smock in the same plastic bag as the red stained carpet.
Nikki leans against Lynch’s workbench as she smokes a cigarette and watches us work.
Lynch eases up next to Nikki, they share a smile, and he reaches up and grabs the clear spray bottle from a shelf above his workbench. He hands me the spray bottle and I see Disinfectant written in black marker upon on it. The plastic bottle feels cool. He tosses a blue rag at me.
I spray the bare metal and find the disinfectant odorless. I wipe away the blood and note it doesn’t smear or spread. Even the cleaning rag has only minute traces of blood. I assume the cleanser has tek-mites that consume blood.
Done with the trunk, I set the spray bottle and rag on his workbench. I remove my plastic smock and stuff it into the same plastic bag.
“I’ll burn this junk,” Lynch states as he secures the plastic bag.
“Let’s go get drunk,” Nikki says.
“Damn straight,” I reply like a shotgun.
“Right, party’s on me, but first, I gotta talk to you about something. I got a problem. At first, I thought you were part of the deal. I mean a phone call out of the blue after two years? I found the worst-case scenarios very easy to be true. Yet, this whole thing suggests you have your own problems and I was a last resort.”
I nod. Well, I had thought something was wrong with Lynch since that phone call. And here it is.
Lynch pulls out a pack of cigarettes, snaps one free and sparks up.
He exhales then says, “I gotta find a flash drive.”
“Oh yeah? You lost it or you want to acquire it?” I ask.
“I lost it.”
“I’m with you.”
He takes a long drag off his smoke. “I think I know where it is, but getting it back may prove tricky and I can’t afford to get dirty on this one.”
“Can’t negotiate in good faith?” I ask.
“No. If he doesn’t know what he has, then ignorance is bliss. But to accuse him of possession would lead to confrontation. I would have to search him, his mot, and apartment. That would not set well with this person. And a heated conversation with this person may force me, as you had earlier, to strike in anger. And you know what happens after that.” He rests his hand atop the metal workbench.
Yeah, I got it. I can see that Nikki’s up to speed. She’s quiet, just smokes and studies us.
“I take it this is a public figure. Well placed and private but would have no problem getting vocal,” I say.
He takes a long time with his reply; he smokes, looks me in the eyes.
“He’s a well known male model, and he just signed a big movie deal. It behooves him to stay in the closet. The trouble is, his brother is a lawyer and knows of our relationship.”
Now I’m the one taking a long time to speak. All I can say is, “Shit.”
“Yeah, a big fat-river of it. We were together last night. After playtime, I showered. When I came out, he was gone. I thought nothing of it because that’s our usual thing. Then, for some reason, I checked my stuff and that’s when I found the flash drive wasn’t there. The flash drive is yellow with a metal band. It’s very distinctive and one of a kind. The damn thing belongs to my boss. And I’m short on time. Space expects me to give him that flash drive tonight.”
“So where does this guy live?”
“Ernest Landing complex on the West Side. End of one hundred and Seventy-fifth Street, apartment six-C.”
<
br /> I know the area. “What if he’s not there? Where does he hang out?”
“He likes a bar called The Hump. It’s at Seventy-second and Mankin.”
I let the obvious smart-ass remark go by the wayside. “Let’s go have that drink,” I say.
We leave the garage with Lynch in the lead.
Nikki pinches my arm behind Lynch’s back. I glance at her and receive a wide-eyed ‘Holy Jumping Jesus’ face.
I respond with raised eyebrows and a half head tilt.
12
We head straight for the small wet bar. I glance up at the monitor above the bar and watch bloodied feet pound upon sea and glass.
In the living room, the TV volume is low but audible and this news is not going away so I don’t have to tell Nikki about why the cops were coming to visit us at the Bombay Plaza. The same thin dove-white-faced woman with perfect fluffy blonde hair and a generous mouth full of bright white teeth speaks. “Repeating our top story, Fury Randell is dead. The lifeless body of the daughter of former US President Denson Weller Randell was discovered earlier today at the posh Bombay Plaza hotel. Her father has offered a twenty million-dollar reward for the capture, leading to conviction, of Fury’s killer. The police are known to be in the process of questioning male model and budding actor, Bobby Grant. He was last seen entering the Bombay Plaza last night accompanied by Ms. Randell. It is believed they shared the room where her severely beaten and bloodied corpse was found. Ms. Randell was twenty-four.” The TV displays a still shot of the door of the murder scene. Room A4T.
Nikki looks at me with an off smile. I nod in return. Okay, she’s on track.
I look over to Lynch and see that he’s in the grip of a mild panic attack. He doesn’t blink and I don’t think he’s even breathing.
Nikki notes that something is amiss. I see her eyes narrow and her head tilt just a touch. She looks to me with her forefingers interlocked then her eyes dart to Lynch then to the TV.
I confirm her suspicions with a slight nod: Bobby Grant and Lynch are very friendly.
We listen to the newscaster talk about a protest over the removal of the Origin of Man exhibit at the National Museum in DC.
“How you doing, Lynch?” I ask.
“Simply peachy,” is his snap fire reply.
At least he’s breathing.
Then he asks us, “You two seem to have just shared something. Want to cut me in on the joke?”
“Just a big Fury fan.” Nikki says as she lights a smoke. “I envied her shoe collection.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Lynch replies with a hooked grin. He looks at me. “You got a shoe fetish too?”
“Truth tells, yes. Tall stiletto heels get my dick hard every time.”
“I’ll remember that,” says Nikki with a sharp smile.
“Comedians,” Lynch says. He lights a cigarette.
“I’m not joking. Fishnet stockings and high heels and it’s a party.”
“Buy me a pair of Christian Louboutin’s and I’ll fuck up your mind,” Nikki coos.
“Both of you shut up!” Lynch spits the words at us. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from the rack and spins off the cap. He takes a long swig of the brown liquid.
I reach for the whiskey bottle and Lynch passes it to me. I look at him square as I hit the bottle.
And then it hits me. Bobby Grant is the lover with the flash drive I’ve been asked to collect. The same Bobby the cops are looking to talk to about Fury’s death.
Lynch stares at me. I guess a light bulb is shining above my head. He knows I know that Bobby is his boy. He then glances over Nikki.
Nikki looks at Lynch. Her eyes pull away from him and come to rest on me. Then she searches both our faces. “What’d I do?” she asks.
“Nothing. This is still about the Fury Randell story,” I say. I look at Lynch.
“Okay, we lied to you with the ‘Damsel in Distress’ tale. Just under an hour ago, Nikki and I were in that very room. The room where they found Fury’s body.”
“And my question is where was her body?” Nikki interjects.
“Well, the rooms are supposed to be cleaned after check out. And they wouldn’t have given us the room if someone else had booked it.” I say. I take another swig of whiskey and pass the bottle back to Lynch. I don’t offer the bottle to Nikki because she’s refilling her glass with vodka, straight, no ice or chaser.
“So where was the body hidden that a maid couldn’t find it?” I ask.
“The bed was huge,” Nikki states. “She could have been under it.”
I nod and pushing my point home, I say, “So it comes down to a sloppy housekeeping. It would seem that no one cleaned under the bed or maybe even checked the closets.”
I hear an audible beep. I look at Lynch.
He glances at me as she walks away from the bar. “Only one person has this number.”
“Space,” I state.
He nods. “And I ain’t getting none.”
Over my shoulder I see Lynch tap the unit in his ear.
Nikki speaks clear and strong. Her breath is sweet. Then I notice her vodka is strawberry-infused. “It’s only a matter of time before they place us in the room,” she says. “And when they check the garage vids they’ll see you take down that recovery agent. We’re going to be high on their catch list.”
“Your logic is solid but for two things. One, since they turned the cameras off in the stairwell, we can assume the cameras were off in the garage as well. If not, well, they’ll only going to have your image on playback. I am a ghost.” I say and watch her eyes twitch.
She takes a long minute then says, “Explain.”
“Call it a gift from your Uncle Sam. Skin grafts allow me to blend into black or induce white noise.”
She studies me for a moment. “So you’re a blur in photos and live,” she concludes.
I nod.
She hits her smoke. “I read about that somewhere but I didn’t believe it. Yet, won’t they then realize that the blur is a military unit?”
“Not necessarily. Skin suits with the same properties can be had on the black market.”
“Of course, so it’s only my ass on the line. Great. So what’s the second thing?”
“Since the hotel went out of their way to get us out of the room, they’ve probably erased your log-in. Check your bank account. I bet you got your money back.”
She picks up her bag and retrieves her phone. She punches a few digits. A moment later she looks at me, nods and says, “Like it never happened.”
I nod and say, “Gotta love free champagne.”
Smiling, she puts her phone away and says, “I was loving the warm shower.”
“So was I. Can you imagine if we had been on the bed?”
“Ow, that’s sick,” she says, and then punches my bicep.
We look over at Lynch, who is engaged in a spirited conversation, albeit in hushed tones.
“So what else am I missing?” she asks, then sips her strawberry vodka.
“Bobby Grant is Lynch’s boy-toy. He’s the one with Space’s flash drive.”
She shakes her head and lets a soft laugh escape. “‘This is a safe place,’ you said. ‘Let’s go hang out and relax,’ you said.”
“How was I supposed to know that my old buddy was sleeping with pretty boys with sticky fingers?”
Nikki smiles. Takes a hit off her cigarette.
I continue to drink and watch glass spider-crack beneath a pair of bloody feet as off-blue water swirls in and away.
“What’s our next play?” she asks.
“Working on it,” I reply. Then take another swig of whiskey.
“By the by, I know we went over this before but did you say you thought the recovery agent was there solo, working without police?” she asks, swirling the liquid around in her glass.
“I think so.” I reply. I can’t take my mind off Lynch. His body language suggests he’s way over his head, and he can’t see a way clear.
“Big trouble with t
he boss.” Nikki states, casting a quick eye at Lynch.
“Oh hell yeah.” I reply.
“So we gotta find a flash drive, right?”
“Yep. Basically the same job you hired me for. ‘Apollo,’ you said, ‘I need a favor. I need you to help me find something.’”
“Yes I did. And thank you for helping me find it.”
“You’re welcome.”
13
Lynch taps the unit in his ear.
He roars over to the bar. I hand him the bottle. He kills the remaining four fingers of whiskey without pause. He grabs another bottle of whiskey from the rack and cracks it open. He has generous swig then passes the bottle to me.
Lynch reaches beneath the bar then produces a large square mirror and a rock of coke. He sets the mirror on the bar.
“It’s gonna be one of those nights?” I say.
“Long before you got here,” he replies.
“I like these nights,” Nikki states.
“You still need me to find the flash drive?”
He nods. “I need that flash drive. You want me to have that flash drive. You hit the city. I’ll dispose of that stuff in the garage. I’ll call you when I’m city bound.”
“So you want me to crack him open?”
“I need the drive more than I need his love,” he states. “But if I tried to muscle him, he’d clam up until I’d be forced to kill him. He’d do it as a challenge at first, then out of spite until the bitter end. He’s a little bitch but god can he suck dick.”
Lynch sets up a fat pinky line and, nose to glass, whiffs it in one rail. No straw or rolled bill for this maniac.
“Dammit Bobby,” Lynch sighs, a sour look screwed on his face. He sets up another fat line and passes it to Nikki. Nikki accepts the coke without a hint of hesitation. She also performs the task sans paraphernalia. It’s all about focus and strong lungs.
“Oh, this is nice,” Nikki says. She wrinkles her face. Performs the ritual of fingers to nose – sniff.
“Were you with him last night? Will he use you as his alibi?” Nikki asks Lynch the questions like an old friend. “What, is he a kleptomaniac? Did he just steal it outright?”
Lynch looks at me for help. I smile and with an easy wave of my hand, invite him to address the lady. He lines up another rail then slides the mirror my way. I decline.
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