Gavin cut her off. “No bird, no animal, nothing like that.”
She turned slowly. Without a doubt, she knew he was lying about the exercise. Why should she believe anything else he told her? Even so, he was compelled to keep the machine hidden from her, even though he didn’t know why. She was just a maid.
She resumed her work—adjusting the couch cushions, straightening the room—and only paused when emptying the soiled sports coat from the trashcan.
Gavin sat in the desk chair next to the covered typewriter. Maybe she really was only here to clean the room. He studied her reflection in the mirror when it came time to change the bed sheets. Would she discover the story hidden between the mattress and box springs? What would he say? He readied himself to spin around in the chair and run to snatch it from her.
As it turned out, he’d tucked it far enough in that she didn’t find it.
The maid twisted a large beach towel into the form of an origami swan and arranged it on the middle of the bed. Monica Garcia had loved those silly towel animals. Steamy afternoons in hotel rooms were commonplace during their two-month fling. Often after lovemaking, she’d gently attempt to deconstruct the terrycloth creation to learn how it was formed, but she was never able to master the art.
What an awful mistake she had been. Their relationship had been as doomed as a towel swan in a tornado, unable to sustain itself under the weight and strain of real life. All that was left of them was the wadded-up, cautionary reminder of something that should have been avoided from the start.
Gavin decided to officially apologize to Josephine at Billy’s party. He’d approach her in private, maybe by the pool or on Beverly’s patio, and tell her he was sorry for everything he’d put her through. He’d never actually said it before.
The high, shrill sound of the vacuum assaulted Gavin’s brain like a million needles. He made his retreat to the balcony, closing the glass door behind him.
Plopping down into one of the cast-iron chairs, he saw a boy doing bike tricks in the parking lot below. Where was the resort security to stop this hooligan? The kid’s parents were probably on the golf course or at the spa or something.
Gavin leaned his head back. As he rubbed his eyes to relieve the tension in his head, the unwelcome image of drowned Misa Kawaguchi’s yearbook photo crept in.
The biggest question that remained was why. Why would anyone do this? Why would anyone do this to him? Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to orchestrate this. He knew that he had some crazy fans—some real nut jobs, in fact—but this took it to a whole new level. If it were a fan or fans, then why not reenact a Damien Marksman storyline? How would they even have known that he was working on a new story for the first time in months?
No, it was something darker. He was sure of it.
He was being set up.
The idea made his blood boil. Since he obviously wasn’t the killer, someone else must have been. And that someone had set him up, or at least they were trying to implicate him.
It was simply dumb luck that he’d seen the news broadcast about the drowning. The killer—or killers—wouldn’t know that. This gave him an advantage. He’d have to play it smart, though. No more mistakes like almost calling the cops. He blamed that error on his raging headache. He’d need to act more methodically from this point. His career and his life depended on it.
Who knew he was at the resort? It only took a second to realize that anyone with any skill could narrow down where he was staying in Droverton. There simply weren’t a lot of five-star accommodations here. His mind flashed back to the hundred or so faces at the book signing yesterday.
The boy on the bike weaved through the parked cars of the lot below. Who lets their kid bring a bike to a hotel?
The whine of the vacuum faded. A few seconds later, the maid tapped on the sliding door. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Yeah, there’s a kid down there on a bike, in the parking lot.”
“Sir?”
“He’s just riding around and around. It’s not safe.”
“Did he do something to your car?”
“No, but he’s—”
“You just don’t like him riding his bike out there, right?”
“Like I said, it’s not safe.”
She paused. “Okay, I’ll report it.”
“For his sake.”
“Yes, for his sake.”
“Of course.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, I’m good.”
Gavin returned inside. “Wait… who knows I’m in this room?”
She looked puzzled. “Sir?”
“Is there a way for people to find out the guests of the resort, the rooms that they’re in?”
“No, sir. That’s very confidential. Only the front desk would have that, and they don’t release that information, but you could leave a message for someone there if you’re needing to get in touch with—”
Gavin waved off the reply impatiently. “No, no, nothing like that. Me, does anyone know about me, that I’m in this room?”
He attempted to manage his bird’s nest of crazy hair and forced a smile like one of the pictures on the inside flap of his books. “Do you know who I am?”
The woman looked nervous. “Sir?”
“I said, do you know who I am?”
With a saccharine-sweet smile, she answered, “Sure, I do.” The sarcasm was as thick as a two-by-four. “You’re the guy who runs in place in his room for exercise and who definitely doesn’t have an animal hidden under a stack of towels.”
With that, she rolled her cart out of the room.
Gavin unwrapped and ate the mints from his pillow as he peeked into the hall. The end of the maid’s Rubbermaid cart disappeared into a room further down the corridor, the door closing behind it. There was still no sign of cops.
Guess I’m in the clear after all, at least for the moment.
Gavin examined the swing-bar door latch while opening and closing the door to determine whether it could be unhooked from the outside. He was baffled.
There were only two possibilities that came to mind: Either the killer came in while he was passed out or asleep, read the opening of the story, and then went out to re-enact the crime verbatim. Or else the killer committed the act and then snuck into his room to type it up.
Both theories had gaping holes in logic. For starters, as loud as it was to type on the machine, how could he have slept through such a racket, no matter how drunk he’d been? That and the fact that someone would’ve had to mimic his writing style at his best. The notion that someone could write Gavin Curtis better than Gavin Curtis was ridiculous. Nobody was as good as he was.
It had to be the alternative, that someone had come in after he had finished writing the opening and used the story as a script.
“Okay, then—motive,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “What would be the motive?” What was the endgame for someone framing him for murder? Was it blackmail? Cold, hard cash? Was someone trying to bag fat cat Gavin Curtis, this generation’s greatest author?
He removed the towels covering the typewriter. Clicking on the desk lamp and squinting, Gavin bent to examine the machine. Were there fingerprints that the police could use to implicate the real killer or killers? He’d have to come up with a better explanation before he involved the police. Even he found his current theories too hard to swallow.
Was someone out for revenge? Sure, he’d made plenty of enemies along the way, even a few “frenemies”—colleagues that would like to take his place on the bestseller lists. But would that have warranted this? Taking away his life and using his own writing as a weapon against him? He seethed with anger at the prospect and determined that whatever was happening here, whoever was doing this, he’d prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law.
One thing was certain: he must act quickly. The time to solve this and exonerate himself was ticking away. At any moment, the culprits could spring the trap. He had to hurry, and
the first thing to do was to get away from this room.
Gavin dressed quickly in a pair of khaki slacks, a golf shirt, tennis shoes, sunglasses, and a blue LA Dodgers ball cap. Before leaving, he took the wadded-up story from under the mattress and stowed it securely in the room safe.
The elevator ride from the seventh floor was quiet, since Gavin was the sole occupant. The reflective panels showed how awful he looked.
He emerged from the elevator and made his way to the concierge station. A slender, uniformed black man, who looked to be in his thirties, finished giving directions at a dizzying pace to a resort guest, a large woman in a pastel muumuu. The concierge disappeared behind the counter and then popped back up a second later with a handful of trifold brochures. “Here you go, miss, and I just sent a copy of your spa itinerary to the printer in your suite. Just call down here if you need anything else.”
Gavin waited, then gave the woman a wide berth as she vacated the area. He moved forward, crossing some invisible boundary that activated the man behind the counter.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you this fine morning?”
Gavin leaned in, lifting his shades to read the man’s nametag. “Listen, Thad? Is that your real name, Thad?”
“Yes, sir, it is. Short for Thaddeus.” He replied as eagerly as a puppy’s wagging tail.
“Your parents must’ve hated you,” Gavin mumbled.
“Sir?”
“Look, in order for us to conduct business here, I’m going to need you to dial the Good Ship Lollypop routine down—I mean, like way, way down, okay?”
“Understood, sir. A little hair of the dog for you this morning?”
“Yeah, but first I need to understand something about your door locks around here.”
Thad looked bewildered with an almost comically pouty expression. “Did somebody lose their door key?”
“No, I didn’t, but can anyone get into a room once the swing-bar latch is closed?”
Thad thought for a second. “No, there’s not really a way around those. That’s why we use them, for the safety and protection of our guests.”
“But there has to be a way to jimmy it, like if a kid was too short to reach it and was locked in a room. What would you do then?”
Thad shook his head, crinkling his brow in the sincerest look of concern. “We’d send a maintenance worker to go through the sliding door on the balcony—very dangerous.” The concierge thought for a moment more and then added with a knowing smile, “But wait, if the child was too short to unlock it, then how could they latch it in the first place?”
“Okay, never mind,” Gavin said in frustration. “I need some help with something. I think someone is trying to… to prank me. Thad, I need your help. Do you have records, like cab call records, of me leaving the resort, or if I left the bar with anyone?”
Thad leaned in discreetly. “Is this about a female guest, Mr. Curtis?”
The question took him by surprise. “Why would you say that? Why did you ask if it was a woman? Did you see me with someone?” Gavin removed the sunglasses to get a better look at the man’s eyes. “And how do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Curtis, I assure you that the Droverton Resort guards your privacy with the utmost care and discretion.”
Gavin noticed that Thad looked away from him as he said this.
Something’s up.
“We go to great lengths to help you avoid troublesome encounters with paparazzi and tabloids during your stay.” Thad’s eyes met Gavin’s again as he showed a mouthful of perfect teeth. “And how do I know you? You’re my favorite author. I’d recognize you anywhere, despite the ball cap and shades.” The man was practically gushing.
Gavin raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, all right, but is there any record of anyone visiting my room or of me going out last night? Or the video cameras in the hallways—can you look at the recordings to see if anyone came into my room? It’s important.”
Thad playfully clicked away at his console keyboard. “Um… yes, uh-huh.”
“What is it?”
Thad raised an index finger, and the clicking resumed. Finally, the concierge stopped and confided, “I’ll have to get with security about video, but I can establish a timeline for everything else for now. You authorized your tab at HWBG at a quarter ‘till ten, then ordered room service from your suite a little after eleven. The tray was picked up on the twelve-thirty sweep.”
“What is a HWBG?”
“Sorry—Hungry Waters Bar & Grill.” Thad gestured to the bar entrance across the far side of the lobby. “So according to this, you were here all night, but like I said, I’ll get with the security crew to review the video.” A few final punctuated strikes of the keyboard signaled that the search was over.
“But what about after room service? I hate to admit it, but I was pretty zonkered. I need to know if I went anywhere after that.” Gavin spoke in shamed tones. “I can’t really explain why.”
“Oh, but I can vouch for you,” Thad said in the peppy voice that Gavin had warned him about using.
“You saw me after eleven?”
“Heard you.” Thad smiled with glee. After a pregnant pause, he motioned to one of the other workers. “Theresa, cover my station for a moment while I help this guest.”
Thad ushered Gavin behind the counter into a boxy staff break room adorned with federal wage posters and employee-of-the-month memorabilia. When the two were seated in wobbly metal folding chairs, he continued. “Okay, so… I’m a little nervous, because of our privacy policy and all.” Thad closed his eyes as he took in a breath. His eyes popped open like a jack-in-the-box with a smile to match. “Ms. Garner, your publicist, was worried about you when she couldn’t get you on your phone, so Mr. Edwards, the on-duty GM, went by your room. This would’ve been about eleven-thirty. Though you didn’t answer the door, he heard the sound of typing.”
Thad’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “When I came on at midnight, the staff was busy comping the rooms on your floor because of all the noise.” Thad stopped to pantomime typing. “Mr. Edwards made sure that all of the guests knew the noise was Gavin Curtis writing—hopefully another Damien Marksman novel being written… here… at the Droverton Resort, so exciting!”
Gavin’s eyes wandered the small area. It came as no surprise to him that nearly every employee-of-the-month Polaroid on the wall was of the man across from him.
Thad couldn’t be less aware that he was losing his audience. “Everyone on the floor got their stay for free as long as they promised to tell everyone they knew that you were here writing.”
The statement brought Gavin back. “So I’m part of a publicity stunt?”
“Well, it isn’t a stunt. We’re just excited to have you here. It’s like Fitzgerald writing Gatsby at the Seelbach Hotel in Kentucky. It’s an event! It is a novel, right? Please tell me it’s another novel.”
He ignored the question. “So your privacy policy isn’t worth squat.”
Thad stopped smiling. Gavin prodded the man’s chest with his index finger. “This Edwards guy, I oughta bust his ass. I want to talk to him.” Mumbling under his breath, but loud enough to hear, he added, “I should sue the whole lot of you.”
“But… he’s gone. I could get Mr. Templeton if—”
Gavin heaved a sigh. There was no point in fighting about it now. “Screw it. I guess I am Gavin Curtis, after all.”
Thad seemed relieved.
“So, Thad, you came up, too, as a part of the big author-stalking party?”
He eased into the answer as if testing the waters. “Well, yeah, Mr. Curtis. I took an early break. Like I said, you’re my favorite author.” He was back speaking at full speed. “There was a crowd of people in the hallway when I went up, mostly staff, but a few guests standing outside. You were really going at it. Do you always type on a typewriter? You see, I do a bit of writing myself, not anything like you, but—”
Gavin extended his hand again to reel the conversation back in. “You say
there was a bunch of people around. Did anyone—anyone at all—come in while I was writing? Any staff or guest?”
“Uh, no, sir. I don’t think so. I mean, I’ll know from the security tapes, but I don’t think so. That would seem—”
“Did anyone hear me speaking? Were there other voices in the room? I need to know. It’s very important for me to know, Thad. What you say could determine what, if any, action I take against the resort.”
For the second time, he stopped smiling. “I promise I’ll check, Mr. Curtis, but is everything okay?”
“I can’t go into details right now, but something’s going on. I don’t want anyone in my room for any reason. Understood?” Gavin stood and shook Thad’s hand. “I’m counting on you.”
The concierge beamed and acknowledged his new assignment with a nod as they left the break room.
Returning to his post, Thad motioned to Theresa to remove herself from the counter. “Post a Code A-4 on room 719.”
“No one goes near my room until you find out who has been in there. And I’d like to get a printout of all the activities we discussed with timelines, the video notes, everything. When you get that compiled, just slide it under my door in a sealed envelope, okay?”
Gavin turned to head back to the bank of elevators.
“Okay, but Mr. Curtis, I can just—”
“What is it?” Gavin turned to face the man and didn’t attempt to mask his annoyance.
“If you’d prefer, I can just print it to your room. Print it to your printer.”
“The one on the desk in my room, you can send it there?”
“Of course. It’s all connected. I can send a printout directly to it using the network.”
Gavin stopped in his tracks. “Transmitted—that’s it. Thad, you’re wonderful.” He removed his shades and sprinted back to Thad at the counter, laughing. “I need a cab as fast as you can get one!”
Six
“CAN’T YOU GO ANY FASTER?” Gavin asked.
Cruel Devices Page 10