“It’s okay,” I told Esmeralda as soon as Tox was out of earshot. I reached toward her to offer comfort. She recoiled in fear, crying harder. I turned to Heather in desperation.
“Hey.” Esmeralda continued to cry. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’re really sorry he freaked out like that. It was wrong. Really wrong. Are you all right?”
After a long pause, the maid nodded. Heather smiled. Glancing around, she noticed a few bottles had fallen to the ground during Tox’s tirade. Leaning over, she picked them up and handed them to her.
“Gracias,” Esmeralda muttered.
“De nada,” Heather replied. She was about to say something else when I motioned for her to follow me. She excused herself in Spanish before walking with me down the hallway.
“Since when do you speak Spanish?”
“Since my church group went on that mission trip to Mexico last year. Remember? I invited you.” When I stared at her blankly, she rolled her eyes. “Jordan, you seriously need to work on something called active listening. Anyway, give me a minute with her, okay?”
“What? Why?”
“I think I may be able to get through to her.” She glanced back at the maid. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t know—”
“Hey, I’m the client here,” she retorted. “I call the shots.”
“Paying clients call the shots.” When she reached into her jacket for what I could only assume was money, I shook my head. “All right, all right! Fine. Maybe you can get through to her. The sooner we find out what she knows, the closer we’ll be to finding Alson.”
“Right.” She hurried back to Esmeralda. With nothing else to do, I found myself walking over to Tox. He was leaning against the wall just past the elevators with his arms crossed, staring down at the carpet’s ornate design as if he believed with enough concentration, he could convince it to reveal the meaning of life or something.
“Her job,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Who knows where he is or what’s going on, and she’s worried about her freakin’ job. I know the kid’s a total jerk, but . . . if anybody hurts him, I swear to God, I’ll—”
“We’ll find him.” When he offered up a skeptical frown, I nodded. “We will. But . . . you can’t go off like that again. Someone may call the police and with the media out there . . . it wouldn’t help, you know? If we want to find Alson and figure out who’s after him, we’ve gotta work together. Okay?”
He stared past me, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. I waited for him to reply, but he just continued to stare. “Do we have a deal?”
“Whatever,” he muttered, staring past me again. I realized Heather was walking toward us and Esmeralda was hurrying away, pushing her cart so fast the wheels squeaked.
“Where the hell’s she going?” Tox demanded through gritted teeth.
“Chill.”
“Chill? Who the hell—”
“What’d she say?” I interrupted. Tox glared at me as he cracked his knuckles. I ignored him, although the intense stare he sent made me wary.
“Not much. Well . . . I didn’t . . . I didn’t understand much.”
“What? You said you spoke Spanish!”
“Yeah, I do. But she was crying! Have you ever tried to listen to someone talk when they’re like that? It’s really hard, and when they’re speaking a foreign language—”
I sighed. “Just tell me what you understood.”
“Someone stole her keys—”
“We already know that,” Tox barked.
“Hey!” I snapped, whipping around to face him. “Dial it down a notch, all right? What else?”
“She stepped away from her cart to check a message on her phone . . . or maybe take a call . . . I don’t know. Anyway, when she came back, she saw some guy with dark hair grab her keys off the cart and run down the hall. She chased him and when she turned a corner—”
“What?” I asked after she had trailed off. “Heather?”
“Look, she was crying the whole time.”
“Just tell me what you thought you heard.”
“When she turned a corner, she saw him,” she trailed off again. Staring at the ground, she thought for a moment. “She saw him carrying . . . something.”
“Something?” Tox repeated, his agitation mounting. “What the hell does that mean? That’s it. I’m going after her.”
“No, you’re not,” I exclaimed. “Remember what we talked about? Cops? Media?”
“Screw you.” Pointing in the direction Esmeralda had run, Tox added, “Alson needs my help. And the only lead I’ve got is some freakin’ maid you two thought it best to sweet talk. No surprise, it didn’t work. I’m gonna handle this my way.”
Before I could say another word, Tox was gone. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I noticed the look on Heather’s face. We were in serious trouble. The only thing I could think about was finding Jon. I just knew if he were here, we could figure this out together. Suddenly, an elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Heather’s writer friends, Charlotte and Tom, walked out.
“I’m telling you, they’re going to vote Charlie off next,” Charlotte insisted, shifting her computer bag as she reached into her coat pocket for her room key. “There’s no way anybody’s going to fall for his sob story.”
“No, man, no.” Using his hands for emphasis, Tom said, “He’s genuine, man. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it?” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Tom, we’re talking about Survive This. Nothing about that show is genuine. It’s just another stupid reality . . . Heather! Did you hear about Trip? It’s all over the internet, but I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s really gone . . . what are you doing here? I thought you’d be with Nancy, especially considering what’s happened.”
“We’re, uh, well—”
“Alson ran off,” I interrupted. “Heather was going to go over some . . . rewrites and . . . he bailed. You know . . . actors.”
“He bailed?” Charlotte groaned. “After all that’s happened today . . . Nancy must be beside herself. Alson is such a . . . I swear, he is the least professional actor I’ve ever seen! I don’t know why Nancy keeps him around.”
“No, man, no,” Tom shook his head. “He’s working, man. Working hard.”
“You’ve . . . seen Alson?” Heather asked, glancing at me. “Tom, when did you see Alson?”
“Yeah, man.”
“When?” Heather pressed.
“I don’t live my life within the confines of societal conventions like time,” he scoffed. Glancing at me, he added, “Ask your friend. They were rehearsing.”
“My friend?” I repeated. “Hold on . . . do you mean Jon? Alson’s with Jon?”
“They were rehearsing.”
“Rehearsing what exactly?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know, man. Must’ve been one of your rewrites. It was raw, edgy. I didn’t know we could do that stuff with this show.”
“What stuff?” Heather demanded, shooting me a confused look.
“He was, like, dragging Alson with his hand over the kid’s mouth, man, and Alson was, like, flailing and stuff.” Nodding at Heather, he marveled, “That’s hard core. That’s real.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she grabbed my arm and yanked me away from them. As soon as we were a safe distance, she let me go and hissed, “What is going on here, Jordan? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing!” I insisted. “I have no idea why—”
“I need to know what you know,” she interrupted. “All of it. I’m serious! If there’s a reason your friend did . . . whatever . . . fine, but I need to know what’s going on right now.”
“You think I’d keep things from you? After everything we’ve been through, d
o you really think—”
“Cut the dramatics. I can’t handle one more thing today. Just tell me what you know, okay?”
“All right, fine.” Her lack of trust in me was beginning to get on my nerves. “You got me. I’m the kidnapper. It’s all me. Jon’s hiding Alson until I have a chance to write out my ransom demands.”
“Jordan!”
“I’m sorry. Look, I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” I felt my face flushing. “I’ve told you everything I know. But, if Jon is with Alson, that’s good. I know everything’s crazy right now, but it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure this out, we just need to—”
I stopped as the elevator doors chimed once more. When they opened, out stepped Rosalyn Grace dressed like she was on her way to New York’s Fashion Week. She stared at me, a curious smile on her face, as she removed her glasses and proceeded to clean the lenses on the left sleeve of her bright-red, silk blouse. Placing them back on her face, she purred, “Please . . . don’t stop on my account.”
“Dr. Rosie, what are you doing here?” Heather asked, taking deep breaths to compose herself. “If . . . if you’re looking for Alson, he’s, uh—”
“He’s fine.” She smiled.
“Fine?” Heather repeated, glancing at me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Rosalyn interjected, her brown eyes focused on me. Blinking, she smiled at Heather. “Both of you, actually. I was on my way to meet Nancy. She called me. Just as I left my room, I saw your friend and our dear Mr. Andrews.”
“You saw Alson?” Heather exclaimed, her eyes filled with excitement. “Is he okay?”
“He’s going to be fine,” she replied, her melodious voice both soothing and upbeat. “They’re both in my suite right now with Nancy.”
“Nancy’s there, too?” Heather swallowed hard as the color drained from her cheeks. Rosalyn squeezed her shoulder affectionately.
“It’s all right, dear. Everything’s all right, I promise.”
“What’s wrong with Alson?” I demanded, irritated this woman was interjecting herself into my case and my friendships.
“I think it best we discuss this in a more . . . private venue.” Rosalyn smiled slyly. Glancing at Tom and Charlotte, who had walked over, she called back, “Come with me.”
She turned on her red stiletto heels, her blonde hair swooshing with a model-like grace, and pressed the button beside the elevators. Without hesitation, Heather, Charlotte and Tom followed her. I didn’t move. Instead, I stared at them, especially Heather. Something was wrong.
Although I couldn’t put my finger on it, there was something very unsettling about Dr. Rosalyn Grace. Behind her calming, helpful demeanor and movie star good looks, I sensed there lurked something dark, something sinister. Nothing about her seemed genuine. The elevator to the right chimed and the doors opened. Rosalyn walked inside and the others followed. I stood there, watching her warily. As the doors began to close, Rosalyn reached out her manicured fingers and holding the door, nodded at me.
“Care to join us?” she called, her serene smile never wavering.
I continued to stare at her, my suspicion mounting. I knew that was something off, but I couldn’t figure it out. Before I could refuse, I saw Heather pop her head out. She gave me a pleading look and I relented. I made it inside just as the doors began to close.
17
No one spoke during the elevator ride. And I could tell by the way she stood at the far end of the elevator that Heather was still mad at me. But I didn’t care. I was annoyed with her, too. Today had been an emotional, stressful day for all of us. And it was barely after noon. I knew that of everyone involved, Heather was the most stressed out because she had the most to lose. And, if I were to take my irrational, illogical emotions out of the equation, I could totally understand why she would be mad at me for adding to her stress. But I really didn’t feel like taking anything out of any equation. For one reason.
Heather didn’t believe me. This nagging thought plagued my mind as the elevator slowly ascended, each long second punctuated by a painful, instrumental version of a sappy Barry Manilow hit from the 1970s. What made it worse was that this shrink, this woman Heather barely knew, had said everything that I said, but for some reason, when she said it, Heather believed it. Glancing around the elevator, I knew everyone felt the tension, but no one said a word. It was Tom who finally broke the silence. Rubbing his nose with his sleeve, he muttered, “Charlie’s genuine, man. He’s genuine.”
“Tom,” Charlotte whispered. “Drop it.”
“But—”
“We’re here,” Rosalyn declared as the elevator chimed. The doors opened to a hallway identical to the one we had just left. We followed as she turned left. She walked with remarkable speed and determination, which made it difficult for me to keep up due to my sore, swollen feet. Finally, after two more hallways, she paused in front of a door marked 415.
Gracefully, she extracted a room key card from the back pocket of her tight black pants. She unlocked the door. Instead of hurrying inside, she held the door, motioning for us to enter. I was the last and when I passed her, she winked. It took everything in me to not roll my eyes. In a suite very similar to our own I found Nancy, Jon, and Alson. Nancy was pacing the living room with her cell phone. Jon sat in an armchair staring at what appeared to be a muted soap opera, but clearly not watching it. On the couch lay Alson, asleep, looking like he was suffering from a terrible flu virus.
He looked bad. Sweat matted his hair and his tan skin had a grayish tint to it. Chapped lips hung open and he shivered every so often. While the rest of us stood in the doorway in shock, Rosalyn breezed into the room. At the sight of her, Nancy slammed the phone down on the table.
“Nothing,” she groaned, massaging her temples. “I can’t find a single doctor in the area who’ll come here. We’re going to have to bring him to the hospital. Oh my God, all that media—”
“That may not be necessary,” Rosalyn replied calmly, staring down at Alson. Nancy gaped at her.
“What would you recommend we do? Let him sleep it off?” Her face reddened. “Rosie, this isn’t like last time. We’re not dealing with a bad hangover! I swear, he took drugs! Hard drugs—”
“Yes, it does appear that way.”
“He could die!” Nancy shook her head. “First Trip. Now—”
Suddenly, Alson’s eyes flew open. Leaning over, he vomited. Everyone recoiled at the sight. Then he passed out again.
Rosalyn, unaffected, said, “Whatever he took is working its way out of his system. His body is handling that. We just need to deal with the rest. Tell me, have you called his mother?”
“His mother?” Nancy repeated, her eyes widening. “What do you want me to tell her? Our incompetence has resulted in her son consuming hardcore narcotics and now he’s having a toxic reaction? I can just see the lawsuit now.”
“You need to relax,” Rosalyn insisted as she made her way toward the mini-kitchen. She took several porcelain mugs from an overhead cabinet. “You must contact his mother to determine what his possible allergies may be. Also, see if he’s currently taking any form of medication. This will help me decide how to approach his recovery.”
She opened a leather bag that was on the counter and rummaging around, pulled out a handful of little square packets. Nancy sat down and stared up at the ceiling’s bright-white crown molding. Sighing, she shook her head. “She’ll know something’s wrong. With everything that kid does, if I call her, she’ll know.”
“Maybe David knows,” Heather muttered. Nancy’s eyes widened again, but this time in excitement.
“Yes! Good. Call him.”
“While she does that,” Rosalyn called out, her back to us as she filled the mugs. “I think there’s another issue that needs resolving.”
Nancy frowned. “And that wo
uld be?”
“The script.” Rosalyn turned around and carrying three mugs filled with piping hot cocoa came toward us.
“Rosie, I appreciate your concern,” Nancy shook her head as she accepted the mug. “But . . . first Trip and now Alson . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . maybe this episode is a wash. Maybe . . . we should just run a clip show.”
“Nonsense. The show must go on,” Rosalyn insisted, handing Tom and Charlotte the other two mugs. When they looked at the mugs then at her, she smiled. “My grandmother always said there’s nothing a little cocoa can’t fix.” She then turned and walking back to the mini-kitchen, grabbed three more mugs and carried one to Heather. “Listen, I don’t know much about producing a television show, but if there is anyone who can salvage this mess, it’s you.”
“I don’t know, Rosie,” Nancy frowned, taking a sip of cocoa. “It feels like the fates are against us on this.”
“You shouldn’t subscribe to such foolish notions.” Rosalyn shook her head. “You will film this episode. All you need to do is alter the script a little. Kind of like how you switched up that scene Roch was supposed to be in this morning. You need to make the central focus of this episode Roch. And the girls. Forget Alson’s character for once. Writing Alson out could teach him a much-needed lesson about putting the show first. Just make it about Roch and the girls at the holidays.”
“You’re right,” Nancy nodded, taking another sip. “That could work . . . that would work. It wouldn’t be that hard at all. What do you think, Heather?”
“I . . . I suppose if we started right now,” she trailed off and took a sip of cocoa. Turning to Charlotte and Tom, she nodded. “You’re right. This could work. We can do this!”
Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 18