Too Close

by Hilary Norman

  The corridor is dimly lit and smells unpleasant. Mustiness topped by air freshener, mixed with old food. Outside three separate rooms, trays of discarded meals stand uncollected on the carpet.

  There’s no one around.

  She finds room 507 easily. Takes from her shoulder bag the card stolen earlier in the day from a chamber maid’s apron pocket, slides it into the electronic door lock, waits for the green light, opens the door and removes the card again.

  And lets herself into Nick’s room.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Nick came out of the deli feeling even better than he had going in. One hefty corned-beef sandwich and a rib-sticking potato pancake, washed down with a cold beer and the decision he’d made to go home, and now he was looking forward to getting past this one last lonely night and heading straight out to LAX first thing in the morning.

  The lobby at the Mistral Inn was almost deserted, but the Muzak was still playing, and shrieks of raucous laughter were filtering through from the Saturday-night crowd in the hotel bar. Nick hesitated for a second or two, wondering if one more beer might be better insurance against insomnia, but then he changed his mind and headed directly for the elevators. He would sleep tonight because he knew he’d made a good decision – perhaps the only decent decision he’d made in weeks – and even if he did toss and turn instead, he had the prospect of new beginnings with Nina and Zoë to fill the night, so who the hell cared about a few hours’ lost sleep?

  He knew the instant the heavy door closed behind him that something was strange in the room.

  Perfume. Jasmine.

  Familiar.

  He flicked the light switch.

  Holly was lying in his bed, under the sheets, looking straight at him.

  Her shoulders were naked.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Nick said, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

  ‘Long time,’ Holly said.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Nick said again. His legs – his whole body – seemed suddenly filled with lead. He couldn’t move. He thought for a moment that he was going to pass out.

  ‘Is that all you have to say, Nick?’

  She sat up a little way and held out her arms to him. The top sheet fell away, exposing her breasts.

  An old memory flashed like lightning through Nick’s mind – Holly holding out her arms to him that same way on that nightmare last night in New York, just after they’d grappled and he’d hit her.

  It was enough to cut through his paralysis.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said, hard and sharp, and headed straight for the phone on the bedside table to her left. He picked up the receiver, his right hand shaking a little, and hit the zero button.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Holly asked.

  He didn’t even glance at her. ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll get security,’ she said, softly.

  Comprehension took another second to dawn. The phone was dead. Nick looked at Holly, and saw that she was holding the end of the cord in her right hand. She was smiling.

  ‘Give me the cord,’ Nick said.

  ‘What’s your rush?’

  ‘Give me the fucking cord.’

  ‘Take it.’ She held it up a little higher, taunting. ‘You could wrestle me for it.’

  Don’t play her game.

  ‘What do you want, Holly?’ He was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘I heard you were looking for me,’ she said.

  ‘Not just me,’ Nick said. ‘The police, too.’

  ‘Aren’t I popular?’

  Nick held out his right hand. ‘Give me the cord, Holly.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and gave it to him. ‘It won’t help. I cut it.’

  He stared at it, saw she was telling the truth.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ she said, soft again. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’ She pushed the covering sheet right down past her thighs. ‘No, don’t look away, Nick.’

  Nick had turned away, was halfway to the door, passing her khaki-coloured clothes folded neatly over the back of the only chair in the room. If he couldn’t call security or the cops from the room, he had no choice but to get back downstairs.

  ‘Don’t look away from our baby, Nick.’

  He stopped in mid-step.

  ‘Please look, Nick,’ her voice said, half cajoling, half pleading. ‘It’s our baby. Your baby.’

  Nick turned around. Both Holly’s hands were resting on her stomach, palms down. He looked away from her stomach, up into her face. The grey eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’ She paused. ‘Our baby.’ She lifted one hand from her belly and reached out towards him. ‘Come and feel it, Nick.’

  He thought he was going to throw up, right there and then on the cheap, stained oatmeal synthetic carpet. He had a great urge to scream.

  He did neither.

  Nina came into his mind.

  And Zoë.

  ‘Don’t you want to feel your baby, Nick?’ Holly asked him.

  He looked her right in the eye. ‘Sure I do,’ he said.

  ‘Then come on.’ She patted the bed beside her.

  ‘In a minute,’ he said.

  He went to the door and opened it. He was sweating, and his heart was still hammering in his chest.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To get us a drink,’ he said, fighting to sound convincing. ‘Something to help us celebrate.’

  ‘I can’t drink alcohol,’ Holly said. ‘Not in my condition.’

  ‘Well, I need something,’ Nick said, ‘for the shock.’

  ‘What about the mini-bar?’

  ‘It doesn’t carry my brand.’

  ‘You never used to be so picky,’ Holly said.

  ‘You’re right,’ Nick said. ‘I didn’t. But things change.’

  He started out through the door.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ Holly said.

  ‘I won’t be,’ he said.

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  Nick ran.

  The party was still going on in the bar, but there was no one at the front desk. Nick spotted a brass bell and pounded on it, kept right on hitting it.

  ‘Keep your shorts on.’ A voice came through a door marked PRIVATE. ‘I’ll be right out after I finish this call.’

  ‘No time,’ Nick yelled across the counter. ‘I need Security.’

  A man of about fifty with greying hair and glasses stuck his head around the door. ‘What do you need Security for?’

  ‘And I need you to call the police,’ Nick told him.

  The man’s eyes widened behind his glasses. ‘What’s going on? Have you been robbed?’

  ‘Someone’s broken into my room. They’re still in there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How the fuck do you think I know?’ Nick thought of Holly, knew she was probably already dressed, knew she was maybe getting away while this loser was wasting precious time. ‘Just get a Security guy up to room 507, and do it fast.’

  ‘Right away.’ The man vanished back behind the door.

  ‘And don’t forget the police!’ Nick yelled, sprinting back to the elevators, accidentally pushing two women who were strolling arm in arm through the lobby.

  ‘Hey, mister!’ one of them, a skinny redhead in tight pants, objected. ‘Ever heard of manners?’

  One of the elevators opened its doors. Nick ran right in, jabbed the button for the fifth floor, and the doors slid shut right in the same women’s faces. The elevator seemed slower than before. It stopped on the third floor, though no one got in, and then again on the fourth.

  ‘Kids,’ Nick said, under his breath. ‘Damned kids.’

  The doors slid open. Nick started running again, then made himself stop. The corridor was empty. Either Holly was still in the room, or he was too late. There was an overhead illuminated sign marking a Fire Exit at the far end of the pass
ageway.

  A sick sensation told him, even before he opened the door of 507 again, that if the room was empty, that was probably the route she’d taken.

  It was empty.

  Nothing. Not a trace of her anywhere, neither in the bedroom nor in the bathroom. She’d even tidied the bedclothes.

  The only clues left as to what had gone on were the cut telephone cord and the jasmine fragrance – and Nick couldn’t imagine that making much impression on a cop, let alone a judge.

  He thought about going after her down the fire staircase, but knew there was no point. She’d had ample time to get down five flights, out of the hotel and into a waiting cab or car by now.

  Too late.

  Too fucking late.

  ‘But nothing’s actually been stolen, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you weren’t assaulted, or injured, in any way?’

  ‘No, I told you that already.’

  ‘I know what you told me, Mr Miller. I’m just trying to get a clearer picture of what went on.’

  ‘I don’t know how much clearer you want it.’

  Nick had told Al Klein, the hotel security man, a short, squat man in a shiny brown suit, and LAPD Officers Santo and Leary, exactly what had gone on, together with a rapid, rough account of what lay behind the invasion of his hotel room by a crazy, dangerous woman, but none of the men appeared able or willing to grasp the gravity of the situation.

  So what else was new?

  ‘What exactly do you want us to do for you, sir?’ Officer Santo asked, sitting down on the only chair in the room – the chair over which Holly had earlier hung her clothes. The smaller of the two cops, dark, slim and young, Santo’s tone was full of exaggerated patience that came close to mockery.

  ‘Arrest Holly Bourne,’ Nick answered.

  ‘What for?’ Al Klein, leaning against the wardrobe, was smirking. ‘Sitting naked in your bed or using jasmine perfume?’

  Nick ignored Klein and kept talking to Santo. ‘How about illegal entry for openers?’ He was trying to stay non-aggressive, but it was becoming more of a struggle by the minute. ‘And how about collecting some evidence?’

  ‘What kind of evidence, sir?’ Officer Leary was tall and overweight, and his skimpy mousy hair was combed sideways over his balding, perspiring scalp, but his manner was direct, and at least he looked as if he was still paying a degree of attention.

  Nick looked around the room. ‘She must have left prints,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t wearing gloves.’

  ‘You could try dusting for butt-prints,’ Klein suggested.

  Nick thought about punching the smart-ass, so-called security man in his mean little mouth, but that would really be playing into Holly’s hands. And in any case, he felt a little like a car running out of gas. He was so sick and tired of people not lifting a finger to help him.

  ‘You could call San Francisco,’ he said, also not for the first time. ‘Speak to Inspectors Capelli or Wilson in Personal Crimes. I already told you they’ve been looking for Holly Bourne.’

  ‘We’ll do that in the morning,’ Officer Santo said.

  Nick looked at his wristwatch, saw that it was after midnight.

  ‘You know she’s going to get away, don’t you?’ he said. ‘If you don’t even put out her description, she’ll be out of LA before morning – she could be at LAX right now.’

  ‘We’ve already reported the incident, sir,’ Leary reminded him. ‘There’s not a whole lot more we can do, not without evidence.’

  ‘What about the telephone?’ Nick nodded his head towards the severed cord. ‘Her prints have to be all over that.’

  ‘Along with yours, the maids’ and at least a dozen other guests,’ Leary pointed out.

  ‘But she’s the one who cut the cord,’ Nick said.

  ‘We only have your word for that,’ Santo said.

  ‘You think I cut it?’

  ‘No one’s saying that,’ Leary said.

  ‘The phone cord’s going to need paying for,’ Al Klein remarked.

  ‘So find Holly Bourne and send her the fucking bill,’ Nick told him.

  ‘It’s your room,’ Klein told him back. ‘Your bill.’

  ‘It’s your goddamned hotel,’ Nick said, his anger mounting again. ‘You’re supposed to take care of goddamned security, not let people walk in off the street and break into rooms.’

  ‘There’s no sign of a break-in,’ Santo said.

  ‘So she probably used one of those cards,’ Nick said.

  ‘They’re definitely going to add the cost of the phone to your bill,’ Klein said.

  ‘Screw the phone,’ Nick told him.

  ‘Take it easy, Mr Miller,’ Officer Leary said.

  ‘Tell him he has to pay for the phone.’ Klein wasn’t giving up.

  ‘Will you tell that fat little jerk’ – Nick focused on Leary – ‘that if he says one more thing about paying for the phone, I’m going to break his nose?’

  ‘You going to let him threaten me?’ Klein demanded, outraged.

  ‘If I were you,’ Officer Leary told him, ‘I’d shut up about the phone.’

  ‘And the hotel bill,’ Nick added.

  ‘That’s gotta be between you and the hotel manager, sir,’ Leary said.

  Officer Santo’s radio squawked unintelligible static into the crowded little room. ‘We’d better wind this up, Mike,’ he said to Leary.

  ‘So how d’you want to handle this, sir?’ Leary asked Nick. ‘You want to come to the station, make a full report?’

  ‘What for?’ Nick said. ‘You’re not going to do anything, are you?’

  ‘It’s your right to make a full report, sir,’ Leary said.

  ‘Though all we’re talking about here is an alleged illegal entry,’ Santo pointed out, ‘a damaged telephone cord—’

  ‘Don’t start again about the phone,’ Leary reminded him.

  ‘– and an alleged naked woman in your bed,’ Santo finished.

  ‘Shit,’ Nick said, in disgust.

  ‘Feel free to come to the station, sir,’ Officer Leary said.

  Nick thought about it. ‘You have to make your own report anyhow, don’t you?’

  ‘We do,’ Leary confirmed.

  ‘So if I go back to San Francisco in the morning and tell the guys I know in Personal Crimes what happened here, they’ll be able to access your report?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Leary said.

  ‘No one’s going to claim nothing happened here?’ Nick checked.

  ‘No, sir, no one’s going to claim that.’

  ‘Tell him he has to pay for the damage,’ Al Klein perked up again.

  Santo’s radio screeched again.

  Nick looked at Leary. ‘Would you please do one thing for me?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Get this little sleaze out of my room before I deck him.’

  ‘No problem, sir,’ Leary said.

  Nick was out of the hotel an hour later and in a cab en route to LAX. His hotel bill had been cancelled – thanks to his threats to the night manager to publicize the hotel’s lack of security – and Nick had had the minor satisfaction of witnessing Al Klein being told, for the second time that night, to shut up. Other than that, there was nothing on earth to be satisfied about.

  For once in his life, Nick needed a stiff drink. He was pretty sure there would be no flights to San Francisco before around six a.m., and with the strict California liquor laws he doubted there would be any bars open at that time on a Sunday morning at the airport. But there was no way he was going to spend another hour – let alone the rest of the night – at the godforsaken Mistral Inn, and anyway, he might as well get himself checked in for his flight before he lost his nerve and changed his mind.

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t longing to get home to Nina and Zoë.

  That longing was greater than ever.

  But he was going to have to tell Nina what had happened this night.

  That Holly Bourne had been in his
hotel bed. Naked.

  Talking crazy stuff about having his baby.

  Their baby.

  And if he’d thought that telling Nina about any of the other stuff from the past had been hell, he had no words for how he felt about telling her this.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  ‘Didn’t you enjoy it? Having Holly naked in your bed again?’

  That’s the first question Nina asks after I’ve finished my humiliating tale. I was mortified before I began. Now I’m in ruins.

  I figure the question should not be dignified with an answer. Not that I have much dignity left.

  ‘When are you calling Wilson or Capelli to share this with them?’

  That one I can answer.

  ‘Later. I want to be at home with you and Zoë for a while first.’

  ‘You needn’t have bothered coming home,’ Nina tells me.

  It’s around noon. Teresa is out, and the baby’s asleep in the nursery. Nina and I are in the kitchen. I’m sitting at the table, feeling sorry for myself because my head aches from lack of sleep and because my wife hates me – feeling like a fucking idiot, if you really want to know. Nina, wearing jeans and a white cotton shirt, is pacing between the oven and the refrigerator, her hair swinging as she paces.

  I look into her face when it comes into my view, though she won’t stand still for long enough for me to really nail down what she’s feeling or thinking. But I see enough. More than enough.

  Nina’s in pain again. And I’m the cause of it.

  I hate myself more than she possibly can.

  She stops pacing.

  ‘I want you to go,’ she says.

  She has that pinched look she gets when things are really bad and twisted up in her mind. If I weren’t in here, she would probably break down and cry, and maybe that would be good, though I’m not sure of that. Nina’s rare tears always torment me.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say.

  I’ve heard what she said, but I’m choosing to believe she doesn’t really mean it.

  ‘I want you to go.’ There’s something approaching hysteria in her voice.

  I think this shock is worse than anything I have experienced in my entire life. Worse than being set up by Holly with the drug pushers in New York. Worse than discovering that I was capable of hitting a woman. Worse than having the house wrecked by Abbott’s and Riley’s cohorts, or being dragged in for questioning by Capelli and Wilson.