Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  Rumor had it he was getting that promotion to Deputy Chief of the Investigations Division, Shelley was going to marry him at last, her father had practically invited him to come on board at Mitchel, Weston & Sons as a senior trial lawyer (providing, of course, he tied the knot with Shelley), and he’d just had a drink with the New York Attorney General who’d said he liked his opening statement at the McNamara trial last month.

  The Attorney goddamn General!

  Thus, when Shelley came over and tucked her hand around his arm, looking deeply into his eyes, he’d expected something else from her luscious lips besides, “Zach’s in trouble.”

  Swear to God. It was like having a kid brother who didn’t know how to be good for a solid three hours.

  He jammed his hand inside his pocket, seeking out his room key, which he had taken just in case Shelley changed her mind.

  Oh well. Maybe he’d use it himself.

  Riled, he barely paid attention to a voluptuous woman in red from the party riding the elevator with him.

  She’d selected floor 11.

  It should have alarmed him how easily he dismissed everything he’d just done. But Zach had trained himself to forget, to reset the breaker so he could function. At least during the day. It was only at night, in his dreams, that the images flooded him like movie reels strung together. He always awoke at some point with sweat slicking his upper body. But he’d grown used to it. Not that it ever got easier.

  Zach stepped across the threshold of 1121. It was dark inside, and the light from the corridor angled into the room in a swath, outlining his elongated shadow. The drapes were drawn over the windows, and so he flicked on the entryway light, shutting the door quietly.

  The room was a luxurious suite, richly decorated in Louis XV-style with 24-carat-gold fixtures and Central Park-themed flooring.

  Silently, he treaded the elaborate carpet towards the voluminous bed. It was untouched and bloomed with ornate pillows. Reminded him of Shelley, unfortunately. But he brushed her away and continued his inspection.

  There was a silver briefcase on the bed.

  He went closer and saw it had a lock which he wouldn’t be able to open without breaking. And that would render it useless – illegally-obtained evidence.

  Suddenly, he heard someone inserting a key into the door. His nerves fired.

  His eyes darted to the closet in the entry. And he slipped inside the dark space, leaving the door open enough to see into the room.

  A woman entered. “Hello?”

  Her accent told him she wasn’t a national. He couldn’t place it though. But as she moved into view, he saw her wavy blonde hair and glittering cardinal-red gown and thought he remembered seeing her at the reception. Maybe.

  She passed by the bed, sliding her hand across the smooth finish of the briefcase as she headed to the bathroom. The light in there came on, and Zach knew this was his opportunity to get out.

  Just then, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Fumbling with the buttons, he silenced it and then froze, worried she might have heard. But she didn’t emerge.

  A brief rap sounded at the door. Automatically, Zach reached for his gun but left it in its arm holster.

  The woman came out, and he got a good look at her face – high cheekbones, porcelain forehead, sapphire eyes. A worldly beauty. But he still didn’t have the faintest idea who she was. Again, she glanced at the briefcase.

  She went to the door and leaned close. “Who is it?” she called with a distinctive Slavic accent.

  A muffled response came through too quietly for Zach to hear. The door opened, and he felt another presence enter the room. A man.

  Zach’s hopes rose, thinking this was Kazanov himself or an accomplice. But–

  “Alright, Vienna,” said a voice Zach knew all too well. His soul cringed. “You got me up here. What is it?”

  “You sound disappointed, David,” Vienna crooned.

  Blood rushed into Zach’s ears as he cursed himself for his morbid curiosity.

  “My wife’s downstairs. She thinks I’ve gone to the restroom.”

  She giggled. “That’s where Ron thinks I am, too.” Grabbing David’s tie, she drew him towards the bed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him voraciously.

  However, he took her by the arms and set her away. “You’re not listening. I have to get back.”

  But she just smiled and slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders. “Is that what you tell the other girls who bring you money?”

  David’s resolve began to cave.

  Her dress drizzled to the leafy carpet, and the Marilyn Monroe figure underneath flaunted itself in front of the eminent investment broker. Zach couldn’t help but look at her. She was a work of art. A death trap.

  She pressed close to him. “Make love to me, David,” she crooned in her Slavic inflection.

  The way she said ‘David’ chilled Zach to the core. He felt like turning his nine-mil on himself.

  In no time, she was on the soft bed, moaning and writhing while David laid into her, his clothes still on.

  Agonized, Zach thrashed within himself, burying his face against the wall so he didn’t have to look. He covered his ears and cowered. Just like when he was a kid. His father had tried early on to stop his mother from abusing him. But she hadn’t done it often enough at that point to warrant real concern. After all, Zach wasn’t a saintly child – at least not according to either of them. And so his dad, too busy with making it on Wall Street, ignored the signs except when they were visible. Little Zach didn’t know any better. It was normal to be beaten by your mother. It was normal to get punished that severely when you did something wrong. It was normal to be told everything was his fault. That he was black. But he just couldn’t figure out how to be good. So eventually, he gave up trying.

  When at last the obscene display ended, Zach peeked through the closet opening. David was fixing his shirt and tie while naked Marilyn was still stretched out on the bed, looking only partially satisfied. Zach’s stomach twisted into further knots.

  They made trivial small talk, post-sex talk which told Zach this had certainly been going on for some months.

  “What’s the code?” David asked, turning his attention to the briefcase, which Zach could see from here was all that the man cared about in the first place.

  Vienna turned onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, her breasts touching the elaborate bedspread. “He said it was the same as last time.”

  David punched in six digits and then flipped the locks. Sure enough, inside the case were piles of neatly-bundled cash. He picked one stack up, fanned the bills, and then dropped it back in.

  “He wants it doubled,” she said, glancing towards the door for some reason.

  “Doubled?” David returned, alarm in his voice.

  “You’ll get twelve percent.” Enticingly, she moved towards him like a snake. “Don’t worry. It’s all passed inspection. The money will simply go straight to the club, anyway.”

  David considered this. “Okay. But after this, tell Kazanov I’m out. I can’t take much more of this.”

  She slid off the bed and eased close to him again, a luscious smile on her face. “You do look tired. Why don’t you stay and play a little longer?” Again, she glanced at the door, over his shoulder. David didn’t notice.

  “I’ve been gone too long already.” He snapped the briefcase shut, effectively extinguishing her temptress behavior. “And you should get back down, too. Ron’s going to get suspicious.”

  “What are you worried about, David?” she said, suddenly cold. “He’s just as innocent as you are.”

  He looked at her and raised his hand, almost as if he would slap her.

  “Don’t. Ivan won’t like it,” she threatened, no fear in her voice.

  David lowered his hand, grabbed up the briefcase, and thudded out, footsteps falling heavily against the carpet.

  Zach jerked slightly as the door closed with a louder-than-expecte
d chink.

  Vienna’s façade gave way, and she looked desperate and broken, garnering a sliver of his sympathy. Her mouth quivered for an instant before she set her jaw, snatched up her dress, and slipped it back on. Then, she went to the phone on the side table and punched in a local number, only seven digits plus one for outside the hotel.

  Zach waited, anticipation rising.

  “They didn’t come,” she said. “I don’t know what happened… I tried to detain him… Yes… Alright. I will.” The phone returned to its cradle, and with a quick mirror check, she exited.

  Zach didn’t want to wait to make sure she wasn’t coming back. He emerged from the closet, took swift, silent steps to the phone, and redialed the last number. The digits displayed, and he wrote it down on a pad by the phone. He wasn’t sure, but at first glance it looked like the same number the men in the elevator called. A man answered, but it was a voice he didn’t recognize. He hung up without saying a word and then slipped out of the room.

  Carter was probably ready to kill him by now. And frankly, he was ready to kill himself.

  38

  “I can’t believe this,” Carter railed in a whisper, standing with Zach in an alcove on the quiet sixth floor. “Why didn’t you just call for backup like a sane person?”

  Zach remained silent, but not out of contrition. “I had to find out what was going on.”

  “Well, you’ve screwed yourself again,” Carter spat back. He gave his head an exasperated shake, fishing in his pockets. “I told you not to do anything stupid…” His voice trailed off angrily as he withdrew a hotel card key and handed it to Zach. “Here. Take this. Go up to my room and stay there until I can get you a new shirt.”

  Mutely, Zach bucked. All he wanted to do was return to his den and lick his wounds. Make new ones. David Ericson was dead to him.

  “Now, I gotta spend the rest of the night sorting this out,” Carter grumbled. “I called Rick. Police are on their way. But I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to Judge Blankenship.”

  “Those men aren’t dead, Carter. They’re going to talk eventually.”

  “You said they had a gun?”

  “A Russian 5.45mm PSM. It’s still in the elevator.”

  “And you think they’re affiliates of the Brother’s Circle?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Okay then. We might have something solid to work with here.” Excitement thrummed in Carter’s voice, and he started pacing. But then, another thought occurred to him, and he stopped abruptly. “Hold on. What were you even doing headed up in the first place?”

  Zach flicked the plastic card against his slacks, knowing the answer to this point would sink him in court. Unwillingly, he replied, “I got a tip.”

  Carter threw up his hands. “Come on! Cervenka again?! We just talked about this!”

  “He’s giving me legit leads.” Zach looked away. “And besides, if I don’t cooperate…”

  “I know. I know. The security footage. Don’t remind me.” Relenting with a heavy sigh, Carter glanced at the distracting splatters of blood on Zach’s previously perfect tie. “Alright. Forget it. We’ll get them held for questioning. Your dad. That girl. Just get yourself up to my room and wait.” Shaking his head, Carter started walking away as Zach headed in the opposite direction towards the stairwell. “Maybe I’ll add your name to the reservation,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Just shut up, Zach.” Carter glared over his shoulder, still walking. “You’ve lost your say.”

  Shelley’s feet ached, and she just wanted to sit down. In a giant ballroom full of chairs, who could imagine such a simple desire would be so difficult to satiate?

  But at last, she found her way to a table at which Mrs. Weston sat regally, looking like a queen.

  Abigail smiled, wreathing her face in gentle wrinkles. She held out her mildly-gnarled hand. “Come, my dear. Join me.”

  Shelley was all too glad to comply and took Abigail’s hand as she lowered herself into a blue satin-covered seat. She smelled her neighbor’s lilac and ginger fragrance and felt immediate comfort.

  Abigail frowned at Shelley’s fingers. “My dear girl, you’re frigid.”

  Shelley shrugged. “I don’t feel it. It’s a pianist thing… I think.”

  Smiling, Abigail lifted her gaze to the sparkling chandelier beaming flecks of light onto the dance floor.

  Watching her, Shelley suddenly asked, “How come you never moved to Florida? Or returned to England?”

  Abigail’s eyes, so like Zach’s, filled with mirth and a hint of melancholy. “Well. It’s not complicated. I’m the youngest in my family, you know, and really I left to get away from them.” She chuckled. “Plus, I’ve been gone so long. I think it would take a great deal of adjusting to return to Brighton. And as for Florida” – she paused and smiled – “I’m a bit of a rebel at heart. I like to go against the grain.” At Shelley’s sparkling amusement, she said, “Oh, you don’t believe me? Where do you think Zach gets it from?”

  Shelley looked up at the illustrious cove ceilings, a soft smile on her face. “So he’s keeping you here.”

  “That’s a big part of it. But this is where Robert died. I don’t want to be so far from him.”

  Shelley glanced at her, feeling strong empathy well within her. She squeezed Abigail’s hand and said, “I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to go anywhere either.”

  There was a glimmer of moisture in the corner of Abigail’s eyes. She nodded her agreement, and then wanting to change topics, straightened and surveyed the party. “Where the devil has my grandson gone?”

  Before Shelley could answer, two policemen with NYPD printed boldly on their black jackets appeared with a hotel staff member through one set of doors. Following the police, Carter materialized, pointing to someone across the ballroom. Unconsciously, Shelley held her breath as she watched. The hotel associate, dressed smartly, entered the reception while the police stayed in the foyer. She followed the associate’s path and saw her stop by Zach’s father.

  “What on earth?” Abigail mused. “Are they arresting David?”

  David Ericson gave what Shelley interpreted to be a casual, flippant smile to his nearest friends, amongst which was Ron Hightower III, and then patted Lexi’s powdered arm, departing with the hotel associate.

  They walked out into the foyer, glass doors closing on them. But Shelley and Abigail could see everything through the panes.

  David’s smile went away fast, and if not for the live music, Shelley was sure they would have heard him yelling. He turned red in the face, protesting the cops who seemed to be calm and congenial.

  Shelley couldn’t sit still any longer. “I’m going to find out what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Abigail protested, concern in her voice.

  But Shelley had no intention of being deterred. “No, it’s okay,” she said, already rising. “Carter’s there. I’ll be right back.” She checked for the location of her father – good, he was way over on the north end of the ballroom under one of the balconies occupied with kissing her mother. Shelley rolled her eyes. Oh God. And her brothers were all distracted by their dates. So she hiked up her dress and flurried to the nearest exit, escaping without notice.

  “Shelley, get back in there,” Carter demanded as soon as he spotted her.

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  David’s yelling provided a scathing serenade to their conversation. “This is ridiculous! I have nothing to hide!”

  Carter pulled Shelley to the side. “Listen,” he said in an undertone for her hearing only. “Zach is in room 710.” He pulled out his wallet and gave her his credit card. “I need you to go down and get him a new shirt and tie.”

  Her concern tripled. “Why?!”

  He gripped her arm to silence her. “Just do it, please. And don’t tell anybody. Seven-ten,” he reiterated. “Can you remember that?”

  Irritation
firecrackered. “I don’t know, Carter,” she said acerbically. “Can I?” She pushed him away and tramped towards the stairs which led down to the main lobby. She caught sight of the time on a giant clock and realized it was almost time for her to leave. Carter was supposed to be her ride to the club.

  She sighed tightly and decided she would have to get to the club herself as soon as she fulfilled her lord’s command. Her cheeks flushed with her budding ire. Nevertheless, with grace, she proceeded down the stairs, picturing Zach’s form and estimating what size shirt to get.

  39

  Come on, Carter. Zach paced agitatedly, wearing a tread in the freshly-vacuumed carpet of room 710. He’d taken off his Bloomingdale’s-tailored jacket and discarded his off-duty Glock but still wore the bloodied shirt and tie.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to be there when his dad was questioned. No doubt, other cops would be sensitive to David’s societal position and treat him with commendable tact. But Zach had no qualms about crossing boundaries; he was willing to take jail time in order to make sure his dad suffered.

  There was a tentative knock at the door, and right away, he knew it wasn’t his friend. Tense, he peeked through the eye-level hole. When he saw the warped, fish-eye form of Shelley, he cursed. Was Carter trying to punish him?

  Unwillingly, he opened the door. Cool, fragrant air swept in, mostly filled with her. She was holding a new shirt and tie. “Where’s Carter?”

  Her gaze swept slowly over the now-brown stains on the front of his shirt. She swallowed. “Busy.” Vacillating, she asked, “Do you need my help or do you have everything under control?”

  He would have, should have said no. However, he stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

  She bit the inside of her lip and without meeting his gaze walked in. She didn’t go beyond the foyer, however, holding the plastic-wrapped white shirt like an offering. The tie was a provocative shade of dark teal, neatly folded and tagged J. Ferrar.