The 22 Murders of Madison May

by Max Barry

  “Hi,” Felicity said. “I’m here to see Yvonne Hampson.”

  “Could I have your name, please?”

  “Felicity Staples.”

  “Thank you. Take a seat, Felicity. Can I get you some water?”

  She sat on a white sofa. There was a coffee table with magazines. A minute later, a short man in an open-necked shirt crossed the lobby and said, “Chloe! Where’s my Chloe?” but it was nothing to do with Felicity. The receptionist beckoned. “Yvonne is on her way,” she said, when Felicity approached, but looked troubled, as if this wasn’t a good thing.

  Felicity waited. Eventually a glass door was pushed open by a tall woman with faultless skin. This described every woman Felicity had seen in this building so far. The woman came toward her with her hand out, heels clacking, dark hair shimmering. “Felicity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your boss called,” Yvonne said. “He said it’s important to connect you with Maddie today.”

  Thank you, Brandon. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Felicity. I appreciate that you’re a real reporter with a real newspaper. But we’re tying up a delicate negotiation, and our concern is that you might interfere with that. This morning, you mentioned By the River Blue. But it’s not public knowledge that Maddie is replacing Aria Astwell in that role.”

  Whoops. “I’m just trying to set up an interview.”

  “We may be able to do tomorrow. Would that work for you?”

  Felicity opened her mouth to argue, but the better option was to leverage what she was being offered. “If that’s the soonest you can do.”

  “Can you come to her?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  Yvonne nodded. “We’ll meet at the Waldorf Astoria, then. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.”

  “Do you have them now?”

  Yvonne didn’t answer.

  “I have a photographer with me,” Felicity lied. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, as if he were just out there, beyond the glass. “He likes to know what the environment will be like.”

  “It will be a west-facing room on the eleventh floor.”

  “Thank you.” Her heart began to hammer. “That’s very helpful, thank you so much.”

  * * *

  —

  The man behind the desk at the Waldorf Astoria was trim, balding, and sorry to inform Felicity that there were no rooms available on the eleventh floor. “Or anywhere,” he said. “It’s actually unusual for us to have anything free without a booking.”

  “Mmm,” Felicity said, tapping the counter. She could feel herself developing a sweaty, panicked air. When she was physically moving, it was easier to ignore the fact that time was slipping away, but whenever she stopped, like right now, the sensation crawled up the back of her neck. “The thing is, it’s important.”

  The man looked sympathetic. “I am so sorry.”

  She tried to think. If someone needed a room in a hurry, someone important, she felt like a room would appear. It was probably not especially uncommon, she sensed, for someone important to want a room at short notice, and for the hotel to make something available. “Money isn’t an issue.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “My client doesn’t care about the cost of the room.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You know what, give me a minute and let me see what I can do.”

  The man disappeared through a door. A lot of people had been telling Felicity they would see what they could do today. But she felt guardedly optimistic about this one. She glanced around the lobby. She’d left the gun case in the car, since it was very obviously a gun case, but she felt anxious about that, too. If this was Maddie’s hotel, it was plausible that Clay would be here.

  The man returned. “We can make a room available by five o’clock. Would that work for you?”

  “On the eleventh floor?”

  “Yes.” As she dug out her credit card, he added: “However, it is quite expensive, as we need to expedite a cleaning crew.”

  “How much?”

  “Six thousand and ninety-two dollars per night. With a minimum of two nights.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, as a part of her screamed internally. Twelve thousand dollars. Not only was she torching her future, she was bankrupting it.

  “Thank you so much,” said the man, accepting her card. He tapped at a screen. “Is this associated with another booking?”

  She was distracted. “What?”

  “Are you staying with another party? Never mind. I was thinking that if you’re traveling with another guest, I could put you together.”

  It felt like a leading question, so she said: “Yes. Madison May.” She held her breath as she watched him tap. “It might be under Proximate Artists?”

  “Ah, yes. There we go.”

  “We’re next door?”

  He smiled. “Hotel policy doesn’t permit me to disclose room numbers, but I have you nearby, yes.”

  That was fine. That would do. She would have to wait until the room was ready, but then she could ride to the eleventh floor and knock on doors. She would even have a plausible excuse if someone stopped to ask what she was doing: She would be looking for her friend, Maddie May. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. If you return at five, I’ll have your key ready.”

  She nodded, hoisting her bag.

  “I didn’t think it was a coincidence,” he said.

  She paused. “What’s that?”

  “You’re not the first to request a room on the eleventh floor today. I thought it must be related.”

  Her gut twisted. “Who else?”

  But her expression was wrong and a frown flickered across the man’s brow. “I can’t disclose—”

  “Clay?” she asked. “A young guy? Clayton Hors?” He wasn’t going to tell her and she was leaking panic, putting the whole thing at risk. “That’s fine,” she said, fighting it down. Her gun was in the car and she needed it. “Thank you again.”

  * * *

  —

  She transferred the gun to her bag. Then she returned to the lobby and sat in a deep brown chair, the bag in her lap, watching people come and go. Every now and again, when she felt like she was pushing the limits of what the hotel would tolerate, she left and walked around the block. She called Yvonne back twice, just in case, but wasn’t put through either time.

  When at last the room was ready, she was given two plastic keycards in a white envelope. She entered an oak-paneled elevator, which contained a little seat, and pressed 11. The doors closed. She slid her right hand into the bag and made sure she knew where the gun was.

  The hallway was lit by chandeliers. Red carpet swallowed her shoes. She walked to her room and closed the door. She removed the gun, pulled back the slide, and let it go, listening to the soft click of a round entering the chamber.

  From this point onward, she had to be careful not to shoot herself.

  She placed the gun back into her bag. Then she went out into the hallway.

  She moved to the door across the hall and knocked. No answer. She tried the room on the other side, but there was no answer there, either. The third door was answered by a shirtless man who thought she was with the hotel and wanted her to find his dry cleaning. When she finished with that, she tried two more doors on that side, then two on the other.

  As she was approaching a fifth, a bellhop came running toward her. “Ma’am!” he called out, as she raised her hand. “Please don’t do that, ma’am!” He inserted his body between her and the door. “Ma’am, you can’t disturb the other guests.”

  “But . . .” she said, because she was in a kind of mania now, thinking she could save Maddie if only she knocked on enough doors. The reality, though, was that Maddie wasn’t here. She was booked into this hotel, on this floor, but right no
w, she was out, taking in meetings or exploring the city or who knew. So all Felicity could accomplish by knocking on doors was getting herself kicked out of the hotel. She forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I was looking for my friend.”

  The bellhop watched until she returned to her room. She took the gun from her bag, set it on the desk, and pressed her fists against her face.

  Maddie’s with Clay. He found her first because he knows her better than I do.

  She couldn’t sit in a hotel room, waiting to find out whether Maddie would return. She moved to the door and peered through the peephole. The bellhop was still loitering outside. As she eyed him, her phone rang.

  She jumped. “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said Todd. “It’s me. Sorry, I meant to get back to you earlier. You know how I said not to get your hopes up?”

  “Yes?” she said, her hopes rocketing.

  “Well, it didn’t work. I couldn’t find her on a pwned list. And anyway, that idea with the password reset and the map, I think they’ve tightened that up. It only gives you a general area, not a precise location. So it wouldn’t have helped.” Into the silence, he added: “Sorry.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity. I looked everywhere. I even thought of checking her photos for geotags, because sometimes they have a precise location. But they’re anonymized.”

  She blinked. All this talk of computer hacking had blinded her to something very simple. She tapped Todd onto speaker and swiped, bringing up Maddie’s Insta. The feed was full of buildings and angles, as usual, but a few pictures had been added in the last few hours. The most recent was somewhere she didn’t recognize: a plaza, maybe? Tables, chairs, green umbrellas. But in the background, two stores, with names she could read.

  “I think I found her,” she said.

  15

  Neil had told her not to speak to anyone for two days. Those were his exact words. Maddie was taking this seriously, because what had happened at the party between her and Calvin Anderson, the director, had been some fairy-tale magic. Now she needed to stand back and not touch anything while her agent did agent things, until it was sure—as sure as these things could be—that Maddie had the role, and that, therefore, the rest of her life would be so different from what had come before that she couldn’t imagine it.

  On the other hand: She was so excited, if she didn’t tell someone, she might die.

  She ate breakfast alone: room service, delivered by a nice man in blue pants whose every movement was a small, brisk performance, including his exit, which he did walking backward across the carpet to the door, as if Maddie were the queen. The hotel room had a wooden table by the window, and Maddie crunched a bagel while watching palms sway in the wind and cars clump and spread themselves along Santa Monica Boulevard. Her phone sat beside her, but she was good and didn’t touch it.

  At nine, she visited the gym. The only other person present was a woman in her thirties working the elliptical, earbuds in, ponytail bouncing. Maddie hung her towel and stepped up to the treadmill, which had too many controls for her to make sense of. “Need help?” said the elliptical woman, and Maddie said yes, thank you, she was totally lost. The woman came over and stabbed at the buttons. “Speed,” she said, tapping. “Incline.”

  “Thanks.” Maddie climbed onto the treadmill.

  The woman toweled off. “First time at the Astoria?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  The woman smiled. She was older than Maddie had first thought. Quite a lot older. “I hope your visit’s going better than mine.”

  “Oh?” Maddie said, building pace.

  “I work in real estate. Short sales. You know what they are?”

  “No.” She did like houses, though. She had once thought of becoming a real estate agent.

  “It’s when the owner is selling because they’re underwater. Can get messy, because there are banks and creditors involved. I flew in to finalize one that’s been three months in the making and the owner’s backing out. The whole thing was a delaying exercise while he renegotiated other loans. Gigantic waste of my time.”

  “That sucks,” Maddie said, feeling strong, like she could run all day.

  “Not a single man in this town says what he means,” the woman said. “I shouldn’t be sexist. The women are the same.”

  “City of dreams.”

  “City of fucking nightmares.” The woman sighed. “Anyway, I hope you get what you came for.”

  “Thank you.” And then, because she couldn’t resist, Maddie added: “It’s going well so far.”

  The woman’s eyes traveled down her body. “I’m sure it is.” She flopped her towel over her shoulder and turned away. “Enjoy it while you can.” The door wheezed shut behind her.

  * * *

  —

  Neil called as Maddie was stepping out of the shower. “Have you spoken to anybody?”

  “No,” she said, wrapping herself in a towel. “Morning, Neil.”

  “Good morning, Maddie. How are you today?”

  “I’m pretty good.”

  “Me, too,” Neil said. “I’m pretty fucking good myself. Look, you don’t need me to tell you this, but you knocked it out of the park last night. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” she said, clutching the phone, really squeezing it.

  “Now, let me warn you: This will not make you rich. We’ll go back and forth and I’ll get you what I can, but we’re probably going to land somewhere around twelve grand for a two-week shoot. This is the one you do for peanuts because everyone will see it. Two or three pics from now, that’s when I can start getting you what you’re worth.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. That makes me happy. Because, to be honest, Maddie, I’m more excited about this shit-money deal than anything I’ve worked on all year.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Neil.”

  “Their lawyer is calling back. Stay where you are. We’ll talk again soon.”

  “What do I do with the earrings?” She’d locked them in her room’s safe when she returned last night. “I’m nervous having them in the hotel room.”

  “Relax. You’re the poorest person at the Astoria right now.”

  That made her feel better. “Can I tell my parents about last night?”

  A pause. “Did you not tell your parents?”

  “You told me not to talk to anyone.”

  He laughed. “You’re fantastic. Tell your parents. But don’t leave town. Talk soon.”

  “Bye,” she said, and hung up, delighted. She dressed in one of her three outfits: a gray-check miniskirt and a long-sleeved black top. Not very West Coast. Kind of incredibly stereotypical New York, actually. Neil said to stay in town, not in her room: She could go shopping and spend some of her film riches. Twelve thousand dollars before taxes and Neil’s commission would leave eight or so afterward: not a lot of money, but, at the same time, an unexpected fortune. And she would have done this role for nothing, would have clawed her way through mud for the privilege. So, yes, riches.

  Her parents lived outside of Concord, New Hampshire. They’d moved four years earlier following a health scare: Maddie’s father had complained of not being able to catch his breath and Maddie’s mother had basically driven him straight to the ER, ignoring his objections, and they found a clot in his right leg preparing to make its way to his brain. Now he chewed four pink tablets a day to thin his blood, and walked to work, a small accounting practice where no one ever got too worked up about anything.

  Her mother answered on the third ring. “Maddie?”

  “Hey, Mom,” she said. “Guess where I am?”

  * * *

  —

  Around noon, she was unable to resist the promise of sunshine and ventured out for lunch. The hotel concierge
offered her a car, and maybe that was a good idea, but she couldn’t really fathom exploring the neighborhood from inside a vehicle. She walked a couple of blocks east, passing concrete walls and closed blinds. A lot of Los Angeles was inside, she was discovering. You had to pass through a doorway to see it. She took a few pictures anyway, mainly of an apartment block on Brighton Way that had a roof shape she found interesting, and eventually reached something that was recognizably a deli, with outdoor seating. While she was processing an omelet, her phone rang.

  “Hello, Maddie,” said Yvonne. “How are you? Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, really great,” she said, although, in reality, she had woken up a bunch of times, thinking about the night before.

  “Do you have a minute? Something’s come up. Don’t worry; it’s nothing. I’m just being hassled by a reporter who wants to interview you. In retrospect, something about it feels a little off, and I’m worried I might have told her too much.”

  “Oh?” Maddie said. She hadn’t been interviewed before, not by anyone out of college.

  “It’s possible she’s with the studio. They like to do their due diligence, and occasionally they unearth something that throws a spanner into the works as we’re trying to close. I’m sure you have no skeletons in the closet, but it’s best to be cautious. Where are you now?”

  “I’m having lunch at a deli.” She peered at a street sign. “North Roxbury Drive.”

  “Would you mind staying out for a few hours? Just avoid the hotel, in case she’s stalking it.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Is that all right? I’ll call you in a few hours and let you know when it’s all clear.”

  “That’s no . . .” She trailed off, because someone was staring at her from across the street: a man in a cap and sunglasses and, despite the weather, a hoodie. He was standing by the light as if waiting to cross, but, Maddie could clearly see, he already had the signal. Abruptly, he turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner.